There was only a silent pall cast over the palace for days. They were waiting for the storm to break. Something terrible had happened and they could feel the air crackling with Dechaerrim's barely subdued rage. No one spoke to the master, and their master did not speak to anyone, but loomed in isolation within the observatory tower.

Then the thunder pealed in enraged screams and roars and overturned bookshelves and decimated furniture and battered walls. The demon was on a rampage of anguish. Everyone went to the furthest corners of the building to hide as the typhoon basted its way through the palace. They had never seen Dech throw a tantrum of such magnitude before, and only a handful of them had any idea what may have caused this fury. Monica was the only one who knew the whole story. She didn't know if she should feel satisfied or sad. She didn't want to feel sorry for Dech; a part of her thought that the demon had gotten what it deserved.

In all likelihood, the self-loathing beast probably thought the same thing.

The fit was over quickly, or it seemed to be: then they realized Dech wasn't being quiet, but had simply disappeared.

Back on Earth, Richard got a call to come to the restaurant NOW. The panic in the waiter's voice and the sirens in the background had Richard springing across town as quickly as he could to see what was happening.

It was taking him too long to get there, because it was the precise time of day when the streets were most congested, but he heard later what had happened.

A man had appeared in the middle of the restaurant -- no walking in, no coming in from some hidden doorway, just one moment the space was empty and the next moment a clearly drunk, clearly sick man with red hair and disheveled, dusty clothes was standing there. His eyes were wild and feral, but sometimes dead and distant. Blood oozed steadily from his mouth, and more blood was streaked on his sleeves where he kept wiping it off of his chin.

Just after everyone had turned to look at him and just before anyone had time to ask him what was going on, he had picked up a chair and started beating the nearest person with it. The chair and victim both went up in spontaneous flames. The man's face was not eager nor angry, but deadened again, almost as if he weren't fully aware of what he was doing. Then he bent over and hoarsely vomited blood and for a moment seemed ready to fall down sobbing, but instead he composed himself back to that preternatural calmness. He slowly picked up a bottle of wine, and then chucked it into the fire.

People were already screaming, jumping up, and running. The man stumbled from table to table, setting each on fire with his bare hands, and occasionally wiping his mouth off with his sleeve again. At one point, he stopped and stared at the blood dazedly, then was overtaken with an expression of horrible utmost sadness, that then was replaced by rage.

And so it went, the man going through the building as it quickly emptied of all its patrons and employees, and he waded through the growing conflagration without suffering a single burn, and in one stroke he destroyed the one thing that Richard Lauder had ever truly loved.

Richard arrived after the mysterious man had already left the scene. Nothing was left but ashes, and a wine cellar robbed of its contents. Nothing else was left. Richard felt more pain in that moment than he had ever felt over any other loss before: no person that had left his life had ever meant as much to him as this, his restaurant, his livelihood, his everything. And it was gone.

He had a terrible feeling that he knew who was responsible, and he asked the witnesses what had happened, what did they see, why did this have to happen?! He realized he was crying, and he didn't bother hiding it; quite a few other people were crying too, for they too had lost loved ones in the fire. Dieu malveillant, pourquoi avez-vous pris de moi?!

But no, Karen had never been seen -- no one had seen her in days, Richard, hasn't she been at your house? And he had to awkwardly explain that no, they had broken off their relationship; and the listeners nodded in understanding as they came to comprehend his jumpy conclusions. But unfortunately, this was no act of scorned lover's revenge, it was only an insane redheaded man coughing up blood with fire all over his hands. They guessed it wasn't human, really; he had, after all, appeared out of thin air. Probably just a demon or other malevolent spirit. Or just a magician who had used illusions -- look, they didn't really know what had happened, it all happened so fast, and --

But Richard had a strange new realization come over him. That man Monica had been seen with, Decker or something...and then Monica had disappeared...hadn't Kenneth been spending a lot of time with that same fellow? A strange, charismatic redhead...come upon them suddenly, then just as suddenly gone in a wake of mysterious deaths and disappearances...Come to think of it, that man and Karen did resemble each other, didn't they?

No, no, it couldn't be true...the very idea was abhorrent. But what if...

Richard didn't know. He didn't care. All he knew is that he had played his last game. He'd break it off with the blonde girl immediately. He'd stay away from them, from the loose ones. Maybe he'd settle down again. Maybe he'd move back home and try to start a new business. All he knew is that he had to get out of this country and away from anywhere that succubus could find him or take from him again. He realized now that she must have murdered Elizabeth -- and then had the damn gall to seduce him afterwards!

But he knew it was all his own fault. He'd gotten mixed up with that belle dame sans merci entirely of his own free will.