“Each one signifies a target, a life that he has taken. I would wear his kills on my body. He was an artist, he said. He was like the old masters who would paint their great imaginings on canvas – though he preferred to tattoo his kills on my body. Caravaggio was a natural artist. I taught him my skills and he would tattoo them himself, using my needles and inks. Eventually, he became my equal.”
“Oh, my God!” said Eunice in disgust, her eyes absorbing what she was seeing. “And you let him do this to you, willingly?”
She nodded. “I was conditioned to accept whatever he wanted. I was brainwashed. It is my shame.”
“So what changed?”
Thallia pointed to a tattoo on her left breast. The artwork was of a small bear and a date. She covered herself once more with her dress, suddenly aware of he
