"Is that what they all want, you think?" the red-haired stranger said as Joey

stared, transfixed, at his reflection in the minor.

He slowly brought his hand up to his face, staring as the handsome image

reflected in the mirror did the same. He shook his head slowly as he traced

his

jawline and felt the smooth skin of his cheek.

"That isn't me," he said, and he gasped with surprise at the sound of his own

voice. It had become deep and melodiously masculine, the diction perfect, a

voice that spoke of elegance and breeding. "It doesn't even sound like me,"

he

said. He shook his head and stared at the red-haired stranger with awe and

disbelief. "You're a wizard!" he said. "I've never met a real wizard. Who are

you? What do you want from me?"

The red-haired stranger smiled. "What does it matter who I am or what I want?

The important thing, Joey, is what you want."

"You're no wizard," Joey whispered. "You're the Devil!"

The red-haired stranger chuckled. "Suppose I were," he said. "At least I

understand you, Joey. At least I care. What has God ever done for you?"

Joey mouth was dry. "It's my soul you're after, isn't it?"

"No, Joey," the red-haired stranger said. "Not yours." He glanced down at the

unconscious prostitute. "Hers."

He made another graceful gesture, slowly sweeping his arm out, palm open, and

Joey saw an array of lethal-looking steel blades appear upon the ground,

razor-sharp and gleaming, spread out upon a soft, black leather roll-up case.

Mary Spring moaned softly and began to stir.

"She deserves it, Joey," said the red-haired stranger softly. "She and all

the

others like her. All the ones who've hurt you. All the ones who spread their

filth, preying like parasites on all those who are unloved, on all the poor

souls who did not receive the gift of beauty and must live alone and unwanted

in

the world. They've already made their choice. They chose hell, Joey. And

you're

the one who's going to send them there."

"I'm the one," said Joey in a dull voice.

The red-haired stranger was no longer there, but his words came to Joey like

a

whisper on the wind.

"Give her to me, Joey. Send her black soul straight to hell."

Joey suddenly found himself holding the smooth, ebony handle of a long,

sharp,

gleaming blade.

Mary Spring moaned once again, and her eyelids fluttered open. She saw the

blade

descending and she screamed—