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I need to get out of here.

I look down at Sisi's sleeping form, even now her body searching for mine, a small sigh escaping her lips, and I'm reminded again of what I'm fighting for. I promised I'd never leave her and I'm not going to disappoint her again.

Even if I have to kill a part of myself to ensure that happens.

I already feel myself slipping, and my hands feel sticky with blood. Opening up my palms in front of me, it takes me a few tries before my eyes can see the reality and not another phantasm borne out of my sick mind. I blink, and empty hands become bloody, before they're back to normal and bloody again.

Damn it!

My sight becomes foggy, and even though I know what I'm seeing is false—a mirage—I can't help but doubt myself.

My hands are clammy, and the sweat clinging to my fingers resembles the oozing blood staining them after each kill.

Recognizing that I'm headed down the road of no return, I quickly leave the room, hoping Sisi won't notice my absence for a while.

I may not want to admit it, but I'm still a danger to her, and I would never do anything that might harm her again.

I've already caused her enough pain to last her a lifetime and it's a true wonder that she's forgiven me. I'm not about to jeopardize any of that.

Since I left Peru sooner than expected, I'd had to forgo some of the thingsEl Viejohad prescribed. Instead, he'd given me a few guidelines on how to get my episodes under control.

"Understand the source and you will know the answer," he'd said cryptically.

But understanding the source is not that easy when onecannotremember it.

The dreams and flashbacks I've been having from my time with Miles have given me some insight into what went on there. He was trying to make me into a perfect killing machine, and as such, I can only imagine the training, both mentally and physically, he'd subjected me to.

Surely, my scars show one side of the story, and given what I do remember now, I'm convinced most of them are from his attempts to desensitize me to pain.

I close my eyes, trying to push the memories away. Seeing myself pinned down under the weight of some slimy human had definitely not helped improve my mood. If anything, the flashback's only served to heighten my blood lust, the need to kill enveloping my senses.

I force one foot in front of the other as I make my way to the basement. I barely manage to call Maxim and ask him to ensure the room is ready for me. But with the way I'm teetering from wall to wall, my movements uncoordinated and sluggish as my sight betrays me, my mind slipping from me, he'll have enough time to get things in order.

To putEl Viejo's teachings to use, I'd had to improvise a little. Certainly, his advice to understand the origin of my trigger and to face it instead of trying to avoid it had given me quite the dilemma.

Since I'd seen what my episodes do to my surroundings I'd always sought to control them, avoiding looking at blood to the best of my ability — even if that has proven a bit difficult in my profession.

Still, I'd become inventive, using all sorts of torture techniques that ensured my prisoners spilled their secrets butnottheir blood. From venomous spiders, snakes, to bullet ants and flesh eating maggots, I'd found multiple ways to get what I wanted from a target without succumbing to an episode.

Still, staying away from my trigger hadn't been all that efficient, and I've noticed that in the last few years. Whereas before it would have taken quite a lot of blood to make me lose myself, nowadays I only have to see a couple of droplets and I'm gone.

The more I'd tried to suppress myself, the more I'd lost control. And it's become so bad thatno oneis safe around me.

Understand the source.

I can't understand the source if I have no recollection of it. So the safest course of action for now is to give in to my episodes. Fully embrace them as they come and let myself wreck everything around me — in a controlled environment of course.

So I'd resorted to building my own slaughter room. If my beast wants blood, then blood it shall have.

I finally make it to the basement, and punching in a code, I make my way inside the room.

Built in the style of a Roman bath, the room is made entirely out of white marble. Two columns are on each side of the room, holding together an arcade with a painted ceiling — scenes of warfare and bloodshed. In the middle, there is only a circular pool filled with fresh water from the Mississippi. The entire room has a draining system meant to collect all liquids in the pool.

And of course, like the pagan I am, I cannot commence my ritual without a sacrifice. As soon as I enter the room, I'm tackled by five burly men, all shouting and yelling obscenities at me — probably because Maxim had kidnapped and locked them in here.

As soon as I have a target in sight, though, I no longer hear or see anything, but a river of blood awaiting me, their corpses the ultimate offering.

And so I move.