Sascha stood over the old gravestone, her hands clenched tightly into fists. The stick in her left hand, its smaller branches angrily snapped off, began to crack under the pressure. The thorns of fresh roses pierced her right, drawing droplets of blood. Minutes later, she relaxed and gently placed the flowers in front of the memorial.

She looked down at her hand, studying the way the crimson ran like rivers across the lines of her palms. Sascha took the stick and smeared her blood up and down its length, then set it with equal care at the edge of the burial plot.

Behind her large sunglasses, her eyes widened as a voice came from outside her vision. "Do you know the best thing about a cemetery? Every corner of a grave is a crossroads."

Sascha wheeled around to meet the wolfish golden eyes of a tall, attractive man in a solid black suit. "You can lose those garish shades. This isn't a drug deal," he said with a snarl. "You look like Elton John."

She removed the glasses, allowing him to see the fire in her own predatory stare. "How do I know you're the one I've been waiting for?"

The man took the glasses and waved a hand in front of them. The lens tint turned claret and the rims were adorned with gaudy, bright pink palm trees. He shrugged. "A parlor trick, but I assure you they are his. Now this on the other hand..." He bent to pick up the stick. "Such a simple, yet powerful offering. It must have hurt so much to find this perfect one. The same size and length. The same heft. And girth."

Sascha didn't want lose control, but she bared her teeth involuntarily at him.

He stepped back and held out his hands. "No, no. I admire the dedication. It takes a forceful will to gain audience with me. I assume this grave is important, too?" He gestured to the headstone. Sascha stood in silence. The man knelt and ran his fingers over the monument's inscription.

"Ah, Pierre Picaud! They say he was the inspiration for Edmond Dantes, The Count of Monte Cristo. I remember him well, for we once reached a similar... arrangement, just over three hundred years ago. If there were such a thing as the patron saint of revenge, it would be he. And that's what you're here for, right?" The man traced his finger across the blood on the branch, then put it to his lips. "You know, just recently, there was this Irish hitman–"

She cut him off. "I'm not here for stories."

"Of course not. You have one of your own. But what I want to know is your desire."

"Brodie Standford," Sascha spat the name with venom. "I want him to suffer. And not just him, I want every person who thought it was okay..." She trailed off for a moment before speaking again, this time with a more forceful anger. "Who thought it was okay to take what wasn't given because their victim couldn't speak. Couldn't consent. Every entitled little prick..." She lost it again, breaking down into tears of rage and falling to her knees.

The man placed a hand on her shoulder. "Who knew an athletic scholarship trumped another person's trauma. Who hid behind the legs of a powerful daddy who could buy a judge."

Sascha looked up at him, and he cradled her chin in his hand. "Anyone who ever got away with it," she finished.

Again, the man flashed brilliant white teeth."I think I have just the thing. Do you know what a nemesis is? Most people use it for the common synonym of opponent or archenemy. But truly, it means the inescapable agent of someone or something's downfall. It is divine retribution. It is Judgement."

"I want to be their judgement," Sascha whispered.

"You do understand your part of the deal?"

She answered, "I don't mind not going to heaven, as long as they've got cigarettes in hell."

The man chuckled. "As many as you want, without repercussion. You'll find it's very different from everything you've heard. At least it will be for you."

He reached behind his back and produced an iron mask, the facial features grotesquely exaggerated except for the holes where the eyes could be seen. "It's only fitting, I feel."

She bowed her head and let him slip the metal gear around it, keeping it in place with a series of bolts around the seam. The man knelt to her level and clasped her hands in his.

"Sascha, may I?"

The mask nodded slowly.

He placed his hands around the bolts and brought her face to his. The man planted a kiss against the cold iron lips, an intense heat from his fingers welding the bolts to seal.

A chill crept through her, freezing the blood in her veins and leaving a veil of frost on her skin. Still, she was able to rise when the man stood.

Dead, powder blue eyes glared back at the man from deep within the mask. He presented her with a pair of long, icy daggers.

"No weapon shall ever kill you, for you are undying. No matter how fast they run, you will always be a single step behind them. You will be the noise in their empty houses and the shadow in every corner. This is your justice."

She plucked the blades from him with vicious dexterity.

"Go forth and penetrate."

Sascha turned away and stalked toward the tree line at the edge of the cemetery. She disappeared into the dense foliage without a sound.

The man lit a cigarette and spoke to the headstone bearing the name Pierre Picaud.

"This is how you make a monster."