So much power.  So little ability.

Doctor Hoffman has employed a level of rank incompetence that is rare even for her; the notebook she kept on our experiment has been allowed to fall into the hands of David Woodard.

I will never know which is deadlier — the evil of my enemies or the inanity of my allies.  The beast is supposedly a predator, but all it forces me to do is to flee.

There are those such as Young Loomis who accuse me of evil.  How very, very little they know.  Have they any idea of the force I could unleash were I to allow even a scintilla of my feral instinct to break through my self control?  The sea below Widow’s Hill would grow thick with the foul flavors of their blood.  I would not rest until every last person in Collinsport were dead, and then no force, not even the sun itself, could stop the thunder of my vengeance from cracking asunder the very rocks of my home and casting them into churning maw of Neptune for all eternity.

It is in arrogant defiance of Angelique and to all those who dare call me monster that I reign in my righteous fury.  Any greater show of humanity ever manifested is a wan mockery compared to the benevolence I demonstrate by keeping the beast at bay.

If that means that I am destroyed, so be it.  Angelique will receive no satisfaction, and my so-called “friends” will never know the inferno of torment from which I spared them.

To shatter the continuum between their torment and my own is the simple death of an inquisitive man who drew conclusions but no understanding. Doctor Woodard, the rewards of hasty knowledge are in the offing.



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