Again, the long, keening note, to complete the shortened "Luciana." Over it, he whispered, "Three."
The note transformed into something sharper, then descended into blood and pain -- a composition he'd entitled "Mazenderan." In music, Erik unfolded those rosy days he spent in Persia, during the times when his talent turned macabre. All his dark genius had been poured into the art of interesting assassination.... of artful, amusing murder. The music was violent, visceral. One could feel the blood, feel the descent into a hatred for all humanity. This was forbidden music, music that burned, that destroyed. Unholy, cursed.
And he was ever the more cursed for knowing this tune so very, very well. With a cascade of notes, he ended it. Mr. Northman had asked for something haunted, something powerful. He had it, now - in a variety of flavors.
Erik turned and pulled a square of silk from the case. After polishing off the places where he'd touched the instrument, he set the bit of wood and strings into its velvet bed. Closed the lid. Turned and waited.