It was dark. The mid-November cold bit into Gackt’s skin as he moved among the shadows. Overhead, the sky was that ominous pinkish color that presages a snowstorm. That was one thing Gackt hated about the Midwest—all the goddamn snow. The house—mansion, more like—was up ahead.

Carefully, aware of the possibility for alarms or dogs, he went to work picking the locks on the back door. There was no sound from within, no outcry or lights... So why was his stomach full of nervous butterflies?

Dammit, it’s not like this is going to be hard… What can a young, unarmed woman possibly do? But the feeling only heightened as he slipped inside, shutting the door silently.

The floor plan had said the master bedroom was on the second floor, toward the rear of the house. Deftly avoiding heavy furniture in the dark, Gackt made a beeline for the staircase. Keeping to the edges to avoid potential creaks, he made it to the second floor.

So far, so good… His heart was beating too fast. Irritated by his own sense of unease, Gackt slipped his gun from its holster as he approached the bedroom door.

His hand had just grazed the doorknob when he heard the voice from within. “Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

For one wild moment, panic seized him, and he almost dropped his gun. Impossible! I know I didn’t make any noise! Could it have been a silent alarm...?

But wait. What woman would invite a housebreaker into her bedroom? She must be expecting someone else, perhaps a lover, he reassured himself. Pity. She was going to get quite an unpleasant surprise. Now he felt almost sorry for her...

Shaking the foolish emotion aside, he opened the door and strode in, gun leveled at where he expected her to be, the bed.

She wasn’t there.

He almost missed the tiny young woman on the floor by the window. She sat with her legs folded under her, her long white nightgown pooled around her on the carpet. Her chin-length hair was pale blonde and framed a pretty, almost childlike face.

Neither her large dark eyes nor her expression revealed any surprise or fear.

Gackt froze, staring at her over the barrel of the gun. This wasn’t right. What the hell was going on?

He whetted his lips. “I’m here to kill you.” His voice sounded as disoriented as he felt.

She smiled, radiant and empty. “I know. I dreamed of you. I’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”

This was getting weirder by the second. Gackt didn’t normally engage his targets in idle chitchat, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger just yet. Something told him that this was important, somehow.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

She cocked her head to one side, still smiling. “Of you? No. You’re not going to kill me.”

Anger curled in the pit of his stomach, and he scowled. “What gives you that idea?” His finger tightened on the trigger, despite his misgivings.

Her smile grew, and then she lifted her hands from her lap. Held carefully, almost reverently, was a long, ornate dagger.

Gackt snorted his contempt of the weapon, and its wielder. “I have a gun. I can shoot you twice before you even think to move.”

She turned the dagger’s point inward and laid it against her breast. Her smile was serene, almost joyous.

Gackt’s eyes widened.

“I know I’m supposed to die tonight,” she said, “but it won’t be by your hand. This dagger... It demands its sacrifice at long last. I only wanted to wait for you so I could explain it. I wanted you to understand.”

“What the fuck are you saying?” Gackt snarled. Was the woman insane?

Her eyes grew distant, no longer seeing him or the gun or this room. “The one who wants the dagger will stop at nothing to get it. That’s why he wanted you to kill me. But he doesn’t understand that the thing has a mind of its own. It chooses its own possessor. My time may be over, but it doesn’t choose him.” Her eyes snapped to his face, and Gackt was startled by the sudden intensity of her gaze. “Do you understand?”

Gackt shook his head, knowing that this was crazy, this was wrong, he should either kill Anna Kroller or get the hell out—but he couldn’t bring himself to pull the trigger, and his feet seemed rooted to the spot.

Her eyes grew sad, and she looked down at the blade with an expression usually reserved for an estranged lover. “I’m sorry you had to get involved in this. It’s my problem, but now it’s going to be your burden to bear. Such are the whims of Fate, I suppose...” Her voice trailed off, and she seemed to lose touch for a moment.

Then her eyes brightened with that fearful intensity again, and she looked at him. “They’re coming. The ones who want the dagger. They’re coming.”

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway startled Gackt. He cursed loudly in Japanese and went to the nearest window. A black Mercedes had just parked, and four men in dark clothes were getting out.

“You’d better go,” Anna said, voice distant, dreamy. Gackt glanced at her only to find that she’d cut herself. Blood ran in a thin scarlet ribbon from a tiny nick above her left breast.

Gackt made a disgusted noise. “What are you trying to do? That cut’s too shallow to—“ He broke off with a hiss of surprise as blood began soaking into the material, blossoming like a huge red flower. In a matter of seconds she was positively soaked with it, so that it appeared as if her nightgown were no longer white, but was now a deep, visceral scarlet. And still the blood continued to flow, impossibly fast, soaking into the cream-colored carpeting where she sat, pooling around her legs in an ever-widening circle.

“How...?” Gackt’s voice came out small and choked.

Her smile was far away, and her voice was almost a laugh as she whispered, “The dagger takes what it is owed.” She was beginning to slump now as the loss of so much blood weakened her.

Downstairs, the door slammed. Gackt heard heavy footsteps.

Run! Get the hell out! She’s dying anyway, so move before you’re caught! Gackt’s mind screamed at him, and still he couldn’t move. He looked down at the woman, at Anna, and met her eyes. They were growing dim, but there was still an intensity there, almost a compulsion. Gackt found that he couldn’t look away.

“Take the knife,” she whispered. “Take it. Don’t let them get to it.” And then she collapsed, although collapse implies something graceless, and watching her fall was almost beautiful, like a dance.

Feet were pounding up the stairs, down the hall.

Gackt stared down at the woman, and then, almost without thinking, bent down and retrieved the dagger.

The hilt was strangely electric in his hands, as though it hummed with energy like a tuning fork. Gackt tried not to notice how the entire length of the blade was free from blood, pristine and shining as though it had never once been used.

He tucked it into his belt. Then he took a deep breath and turned just as the four men burst into the room.

He noticed the suits, the dark glasses, the guns. They were aiming at him, would fire in another moment.

Gackt threw himself over the bed, opening fire before he even hit the floor on the other side.

Two went down immediately; the others ducked and started shooting. The bed protected him somewhat, but in another second would fail to do so as the panicked gunmen regained control and actually started to aim. Desperate, Gackt grabbed the nearest object—a stuffed animal—and threw it across the room.

The distraction worked, but only for a split second. It didn’t matter. It was all Gackt needed.

Pulling a second gun from his underarm holster, Gackt sat up, leaning over the bed, and opened fire once again.

Breathing hard, Gackt rose slowly to his feet. The last two gunners lay still on the floor, their tasteful suits now riddled with holes. There was blood everywhere, splattered across the walls and carpet, and thicker things, bits of brain and bone scattered about. The stench of so much sudden death in so small a space was nearly overwhelming, and it mingled noxiously with the smells of gunpowder and, far beneath that, the dainty scent of a woman’s perfume.

Gackt decided he would never be able to fuck a woman wearing Chanel No. 5 again.