Jean-Jacques returned to his humanoid form, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. The usual carnage was arrayed before him, Chloé's timeless enemies left to lie but unable to rot, awaiting their inevitable resurrection.

He kicked the disembodied torso of one of the corpses, watching as stinking, twisted organs slipped through the gashes his claws had made. Despite his own knowledge of anatomy he couldn't actually tell which organs he had dislodged. They were too warped, covered in too much blood and other foul-smelling liquids for him to compare them to pictures he'd seen in books.

He imagined he'd be able to identify them better by taste than sight anyway. He'd eaten enough of them over the years. Disgusting, every one of them. But he didn't devour them for the taste. It was for power, dominance and hate. Those were sweet enough.

He reached a hand into the mess of gore, pulling a lump of something free. It was still warm. From the smell he knew which of the dragoons it was, even if the corpse itself was unrecognisable.

He'd learned to discern between all of them. He even hated some of them more than others. Although he wasn't sure if he'd invented the reasons why he considered some to be more despicable along the way. He might have been projecting personalities onto what could barely be called puppets.

Salivia gathered in his mouth and he swallowed thickly. He always felt hungrier after the day's hunt, it was hard to resist. Even so, there was no point in eating something he'd already killed. He licked his lips but dropped it back into the snow.

He'd wondered before if cannibalising the immortal men was the same as cannibalising a part of Chloé. He knew that they came from her in some vague, distant sense. He found the idea troubling, though he understood himself to be poorly suited for contemplating such things. Jean-Jacques was no fool but he'd always preferred to cut straight to what he found important. Chloé handled enough involute concepts and ideas for the both of them. He didn't have the inclination to ponder metaphysics in place of acting decisively.

As it happened his priorities started and ended with Chloé. As did his moral compass. Any values he might otherwise hold could immediately and without resistance be abandoned in service of her. That was just how he was. Nothing was capable of outweighing his devotion. If Chloé wanted to burn the entire world to the ground he'd gladly light the match for her. He wouldn't even think about it.

It wasn't far off from what he was actually enabling anyway. Chloé wanted to erase Gévaudan. A normal man might try to talk her down from such extreme action. A normal man wouldn't think her merciful. In truth Jean-Jacques was far more brutal than she was. He thought she should go further for her revenge. Though he wouldn't deign to tell Chloé the right course of action. Her vengeance belonged to her.

He would never be satisfied if it were up to him. There wasn't enough blood to spill in the world to repay what he knew had been done to Chloé and himself. He had an endless well of hate to draw from and a willingness to act on it. He was fairly confident no one in the world was angrier than him. So the only thing worth doing was following Chloé's lead. Once she was content, once she stopped suffering, he'd find it in himself to set aside his grudges at her behest.

If that day ever came.

Jean-Jacques knew erasing Gévaudan was insane; if it ever came to pass his chances of survival were almost non-existent. The same went for Chloé. They were probably going to die together.

He felt warm inside, a tiny smile twisting his lips even as he fought it. What a terrible thing to smile about. He wasn't suicidal and he certainly didn't want Chloé to die either.

Yet making their last stand together seemed romantic. If he had to die to grant Chloé's wish he would. There could be no more honourable way to go.

A scraping sound pricked his ears and Jean-Jacques whirled to see a dragoon dragging his broken body through the snow. He pointed a shaking gun towards Jean-Jacques, determination colouring his ugly face.

"Die... monster..."

Before he could pull the trigger Jean-Jacques kicked the gun away with so much force that something cracked. The man howled in pain and clutched his hand to himself.

"The Lord... will punish you..." The dragoon panted as he bared his yellowed teeth.

Jean-Jacques blinked at him, disinterested in his babbling but quietly irritated by his own carelessness. He so rarely allowed any of them to draw breath after he laid eyes upon them. It was a dreadful mistake to leave one of the things with enough energy to speak.

"You cannot... protect... that... foul witch forever."

In the blink of an eye his boot was pressed upon the man's head, pushing it into the snow. He gasped and gurgled pathetically. Jean-Jacques watched as his eyes bugged out, his skin warping beneath his heel, mouth contorting wide as he tried to swallow air beyond the snow that was choking him. Wrinkling his nose in disgust Jean-Jacques slammed his foot straight down.

The skin tore with little more resistance than an overripe fruit, splitting violently and sending bright pink chunks of flesh flying. Some blood splashed high enough to hit Jean-Jacques's cheek.

He lifted his foot dispassionately from the muck. Lumps of grey matter slid sickeningly from his shoe and landed with muted splats onto the ice. Jean-Jacques's stomach growled.

He turned from the scene, wiping his stained cheek with the back of his hand, and began his slow trek back to the castle.

There was no fanfare on his return, only a yawning hallway met him when he pushed open the castle's heavy doors. The emptiness was expected though still gloomy. The castle was simply too big, too grey and too barren.

He was hungry, and he was sure Chloé would be too. It only made sense to head to the kitchen, one of the few rooms that got used every day.

He was surprised when, upon entry, he discover Chloé there before him. She rarely had need of the kitchen herself, and almost never if he wasn't there already. Even more surprising was the large carcass on one of the wooden tables. She looked up as he entered.

"This wolf was shot and died today. I thought we might eat it."

Jean-Jacques nodded as he slowly made his way to her side. They had on occasion enjoyed wolf meat. Neither Chloé nor himself were particularly inclined to kill them unnecessarily, but if one died they hadn't any qualms about making it into a meal. There were only so many foods within their closed world to begin with and meat was scarce. Non-human meat at any rate.

Jean-Jacques ran his hand over the wolf's fur, a phantom of its freshly extinguished life warming his skin. It was certainly fresh.

He turned to Chloé. "I'm going to drain its blood. Do you wish to help?"

"I'll leave it to you. I will be returning to work. Call for me when you've a meal prepared."

Then she swept away and was gone.

Jean-Jacques returned his attention to the wolf. Traditionally, when preparing an animal, one would slit its throat to drain the blood. Being a vampire, there was a much cleaner method available to Jean-Jacques.

He cradled the wolf's head in one hand, meeting the gaze of one glassy eye, then hunched over to bite directly into its neck.

Animal blood didn't taste quite as good as human or vampire, particularly when it had already started to cool and lose vitality. The blood was salty, almost acidic on Jean-Jacques's tongue, thick and heavy to swallow. He continued to gulp it down regardless, even when he began to draw dry mouthfuls of mostly fur he still continued. Until he was certain he had drained every drop he reasonably could.

When he had finished he detached from the wolf with a gasp, drawing in great lungfuls of stagnant air. His stomach was full to bursting from the exsanguination, roiling with how much he had drunk.

With a shudder he turned to the small basin in the corner of the kitchen and pulled the water pump to gather just enough liquid to splash across his face and clean away any remaining blood. He hated to use water frivolously, though there was no dearth of it. The cistern connected to the pump would never go dry, as much as part of the loop as anything else, and there was plenty of snow that could be boiled if the need arose.

Jean-Jacques moved across the kitchen, tugging his coat off as he went. He set it aside on some spare benchspace then found the knives he'd need for skinning and butchering. After setting them down beside the wolf carcass he rolled his sleeves up past his elbows and breathed.

He took up the small, slightly curved skinning knife and make the first tentative incision. His hand was steady as he drew the knife down the wolf's throat. The cut was exceedingly shallow, intended to gauge just how far Jean-Jacques would have to press without breaking through the meat and fat. The wolf's fur was thick and tough so he cut deeper and more confidently on the next pass of the knife.

He sliced from the throat all the way down to the tail. Then he proceeded to make cuts along the inner seams of the wolf's legs. With that Jean-Jacques forced his hand inside the openings and peeled the skin from the white-pink meat, using his knife to slice through stubborn bits of fat where his hand wasn't enough.

The skin came off with minimal force, stripping from its clammy, shining contents with satisfying ease. When all but the head of the wolf had been liberated of epidermal tissue Jean-Jacques swapped his small knife for a large, wicked cleaver. In one swift movement the wolf was decapitated.

Then, methodically, he sliced the creature's abdomen open to properly access its organs. Jean-Jacques pulled each one free barehanded, delicately placing them aside based on whether they were edible or not.

Then came the butchering, splitting the wolf apart and separating the cuts. Jean-Jacques laboured over it for the better part of half an hour as he carved everything up, from legs to shoulders to ribs to neck.

Laid out it was clearly far more than two people could reasonably be expected to finish in a single meal. So Jean-Jacques decided upon preparing steaks from the best parts of the loins. The rest of the wolf could be stored and eaten another day.

He charged about the kitchen, simultaneously cooking his wolf steaks and vegetables to accompany them, curing and storing the unused meat, and cleaning up. When everything was prepared he summoned the servant automaton Chloé had built to carry plates and dishes for them.

Once he had loaded up the automaton he set off in search of Chloé. It would probably reach the dining room at about the same time as they did, with how slow it trundled along.

Chloé was where he had expected her to be, tinkering with her alteration machine.

"Are you ready to accompany me to the dining room?" He said, voice reverberating powerfully around the room despite how softly he had spoken.

Chloé stood up from her place at the pipe organ's bench and skipped her way across the tangle of pipes and books that cluttered the floor. She came to a stop inches from him, rocking back on heels impishly.

"Only if you carry me."

And, of course, he did. As expected they entered the dining room almost exactly when the food did. Jean-Jacques brought Chloé to her chair at the head of the table and set her down upon it before setting out all the food and cutlery at their places. Other than his and Chloé's chairs almost the entire table was occupied already, though these diners did not require food. The automatons thoroughly satisfied themselves stoically plucking out their baleful tunes. They had no need of anything else.

Jean-Jacques slid into his chair on Chloé's right when all was arranged correctly. Chloé beamed at the food he had prepared then proceeded to turn her left.

"Hasn't Jean-Jacques done a wonderful job, Herman?"

The automaton didn't answer, or have any reaction at all. He simply continued to let his haunting notes echo through his brass bell. Jean-Jacques stared at where Herman sat across from him, a machine that was both beautiful and chilling. A truly amazing work of craftsmanship, subtle and delicate in its construction, but a deeply uncomfortable one. Herman and the others were impressions of warped memories, made of Chloé's direst instability.

Jean-Jacques thought Herman might've been the worst to be opposite. Because of his curved brass neck Herman's head stuck out across the table, menacing the air between them. At eye-level was the wide maw of his bell, contantly drawing Jean-Jacques's eyes into its abyss. Herman's emptiness couldn't be hidden by all his adornments.

He was also the one Chloé most often addressed, as though looking for guidance from the old head of the d'Apchiers. She didn't expect Jean-Jacques to speak to them, for which he was relieved. Chloé knew they weren't real, she was simply playing some distorted game of house, at least before the end. And it was fast approaching, the automatons' construction itself proved so.

Chloé's cutlery pinged against the porcelain of her plate and Jean-Jacques turned his eyes to her just in time to watch her eat the first bite of her steak. She chewed slowly, lips pressed together delicately as she apparently savoured the taste. After swallowing subtly she took a small sip of her wine before looking to Jean-Jacques.

"Are you not hungry?"

With a start he realised he had yet to take a bite of his food. Slightly abashed he cut up a mouthful of his own steak and placed it in his mouth. He could feel Chloé watching as he tasted the meat. It was tender and juicy, an earthy flavour hiding just beneath the oily marinade.

"How is it?" Chloé asked.

"I might have undercooked it somewhat."

She smiled at him, raising her eyebrows in amusement. "That so? I rather like it myself. It tastes like something only you could make."

"Yes. I suppose so."

As Chloé took another bite of the beast so did he.