“Just asking,” he lied. Since their divorce, John hadn’t been in any meaningful relationship. Not that he wasn’t attractive, though. His size usually got women’s attention. It was hard for him not to be noticed, actually. He was fairly tall and well built – 6 feet 3 for 220 pounds. Most of it, lean muscle mass; the results of fifteen years of discipline at the gym and inside a boxing ring.

The problem wasn’t a lack of demand. The problem was internal. John didn’t believe in relationships anymore. He wasn’t ready to trust again. His relationship with Julie had been passionate with lots of ups and downs, and he hadn’t completely moved on. He was stuck in the past, in what he believed were the best years of his life.

But apparently, his ex-wife didn’t share the same struggles.

“Kiss Claire goodnight for me,” he said before hanging up.

John decided to go to the gym. A quick forty-minute session of resistance training followed by twenty minutes of cardio would cheer him up. It was also his social networking time. Many dealers, hustlers and ex-convicts trained at the same gym. All ethnicities were represented: whites, blacks, Arabics, Asians. It was a French melting pot due to France’s colonial past and influence in many African and South East Asian countries.

John knew many of the guys out there. Most of them knew him as well. He had recruited the majority of his snitches there, either by building trust over time or by using force. He nodded at a few familiar faces, shook a few hands and started lifting. When he was done, he took a shower and went to a small Thai restaurant. The owner was an old friend. John had his habits. A bachelor’s routine, as his friend liked to tease him. Always the same table. The same dish. The same beverage. It was already dark outside and the streets were empty. People were home, getting ready for another week of work, eagerly waiting for the next week-end. An average Sunday night in Paris.

On the way home, John stopped at a boulangerie – a bakery. He bought a baguette and looked at the cakes. Claire loved strawberry cakes. Next week-end, he thought. As he stepped out, his cell-phone rang. It was his partner, Detective Sovann Yim. Sovann was the same age as John, a little shorter but with broad shoulders. He lived with his girlfriend, a woman whose parents were immigrants from Morocco. No children. His parents were Cambodian refugees but he was born in France and had never been to Asia. He was what they called a banana – yellow outside, white inside.

“What’s going on?” John said.

“Man, you have to come here,” Sovann said.

“What happened?”

“White woman. Middle-aged. I’d say early forties. Attractive. Quite wealthy. She was supposed to have dinner with her sister but didn’t show up. So the sister went to her apartment and found her body.”

“Shit,” John said, pressing his fingers against his eyes. Work. He had expected to spend the night reading a good book in bed. “Where are you?”

“Bastille,” Sovann said, referring to the metro station. “Roquette Street. It’s a mess, you’ll see the police cars and the ambulance. Where are you?”

“At home. I’ll take the metro, it should be fast,” John said as he walked to the station. He lived at Place d’Italie, just a few stations away from Bastille. “What happened to her?”

“Asphyxia.”

“Suicide?”

“Murdered. But not the way you might imagine.”

“What am I supposed to imagine?”

“There was no violence. No sign of obvious struggle. Most likely, she was consenting when it happened…”

“Sexual games?”

“Something like that. Her body is covered with candle wax.”

“She was living alone?”

“Yep. Divorced. Took an apartment on her own.”

“Did you call the ex-husband?”

“Yes. He was out of town for the whole week end, gambling. We checked with his hotel, he’s telling the truth.”

“Anyone else we can call? Children?”

“Nope. But apparently, she was trying to adopt. We found some documentation.”

John took a bite of baguette and gave half of it to a homeless man. He wasn’t going to have time to finish it.

“Okay… I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

2

The Dark Stallion was walking in the streets and smiling. A young woman, probably a student, caught his eyes and smiled back. Women usually smiled at him. Women liked him. Women found him charming and entertaining.

Despite being nearly forty, he looked exceptionally young for his age. No more than thirty, according to all his female friends. He took great care of his appearance because he liked it and because he could afford to. His professional situation allowed him a lot of flexibility and it paid pretty well. An important part of his budget was dedicated to his wardrobe and his many “accessories”. The bag he was carrying was full of these “accessories” and he no longer needed them. He tossed the bag in an empty bin and kept walking without looking around.

He was satisfied. Proud of himself. Fulfilled. He was strolling along the pavement with no particular destination in mind. He didn’t want to go home. Not yet. He needed to fill his lungs with the cold air of Paris, the city of love.

He could still smell Liliane Genet’s perfume. She was a beautiful and successful manager for a big bank at La Défense, Europe’s largest business center. He could still see her green eyes filled with lust when he manacled her in her bed, completely naked except for her red high heels. She was so delicious. He had been fantasizing about her for weeks. And today, he had finally taken her.

He had been attracted to her physique, but not only that. The Dark Stallion needed more stimulation. There were hundreds and hundreds of beautiful women out there but many of them were dumb. He needed some kind of connection. His sexual arousal was at its peak when he was also stimulated intellectually. It was part of the challenge.

The Dark Stallion loved beautiful and powerful women. Independent women. Strong women with authority and successful careers. It made them more unattainable, more desirable. And whenever they finally gave in and opened up to him, it made him feel even more powerful. There was no thrill in picking the low-hanging fruits. Only the rare ones were worth his time.

Liliane was extremely hungry sexually. She was divorced and had been too busy with work to find any really interesting partner. The Dark Stallion spotted her immediately as his type the first time they met. He knew she was seeing other men. But she wasn’t satisfied. He knew instantly that she was a rare one. He felt it deep in his guts.

Liliane was a screamer. She begged at lot in bed, and he absolutely loved that. He loved it when women begged and moaned for his mercy. Especially when they were the ones giving orders outside of the bedroom. There was nothing more exciting.

The Dark Stallion could rarely climax without seeing some sort of pain and confusion in his victim’s eyes. But recently, he’d changed his method. Looking into women’s eyes as they were dying of asphyxia under the firm pressure of his fingers was divine but it was also distracting. A few times, his orgasms had been ruined by the dull look in the eyes of his victims. It was a big turn-off. Now, he preferred to have them lying on their stomach, arms manacled behind their backs, and slowly slide his hand beneath their throat. It was more subtle. That way, he could feel them jerking and thrashing under him, fighting for their life.

He liked to take his time. He usually allowed the women to have more pleasure than he did before killing them. After all, it was their very last time. He was offering them a gift, something very few people could afford – dying in the middle of an orgasm. It was the most beautiful and honorable way to die. Pleasure until the very last minute.