Lord Falsworth awoke in his native London at 6:00 am that morning. The weather was foul - cool and overcast, but his spirits were high nonetheless. As he entered the bathroom and began preparing for the day, he contemplated with great anticipation what lay ahead.
     It was June sixth. His birthday, and also the day he was to be knighted by Her Majesty at Buckingham Palace. He had spent the last few years in Rome, serving his country as Ambassador to the Vatican, where he'd been remarkably successful in strengthening diplomatic ties, despite the increasing violence in Northern Ireland.
     Once he'd obtained his knighthood, Falsworth planned to run for Prime Minister in the next election, which he was sure to win due to his ever-increasing popularity, not to mention his vast wealth and political allies. From there, he would be able to gain control of the European Union, and through it, Europe itself. From there it would be just a matter of time...
     He stepped from the shower and began shaving. The sound of his hotel suite door opening and closing came from the next room. He presumed it to be Franz, his manservant and bodyguard.
     "Franz?" he called. "We've a splendid day before us. I hope you've prepared that press release."
     "Yes, Milord." came the muffled reply.
     "Today I will climb the first rung on the ladder of Destiny!" exclaimed Falsworth. "The world is slowly coming to a boil. Consider the signs, my boy: widespread war, famine, chaos, and epidemic. And now, this 'Devastation' thing in Cuba..."
     Falsworth finished shaving and opened the bathroom door.
     "Indeed," he said, "soon the prophecies will all come to pass, and things will be as they should!"
     "But some of us, Lord Falsworth, like things just as they are."
     The ambassador gasped as he stood in the doorway. Before him stood a man in a trnechcoat of black leather. The intruder was tall and athletic, with long black hair, white at the temples. His dark eyes gleamed with malice.
     "What have you done with Franz?" demanded Falsworth. "Who are you?" He slowly stepped back, reaching for the .38 he'd left by the sink.
     "Your... beast" answered the stranger, "has returned to his maker. As for who I am," he smiled, "the architect of what the media has dubbed 'The Devastation'."
     "The Devastation?" replied Falsworth. "B-but I assumed that was merely a part of the prophecy!"
     "Well, you know what they say about assumptions, Ambassador."
     "What do you want?" asked Falswoth, stalling for time. His left hand, unseen by the intruder, now firmly gripped the revolver.
     "Oh, I think your head will do nicely." said the man. He reached beneath his trenchcoat and pulled out a long, finely crafted sword of Germanic design. He moved toward the ambassador.
     "I think not, assassin!" roared Falsworth, revealing the pistol and shooting the man square in the chest.
     The stranger clutched his chest and staggered as blood poured from the wound.
     "That... hurt!" exclaimed the intruder.
     Falsworth fired five more times. Still the man did not fall.
     "Who... what are you?" asked the bewildered statesman.
     "One whom even your sire cannot touch." the stranger replied. "Look closely."
     Falsworth's eyes lit up with recognition.
     "No. It cannot be!" he gasped. "You're supposed to be dead!"
     "Don't believe everything you read." said the intruder, lunging at his prey.
     The blade whistled through the air as the assassin swung it in a wide arc.
     "No..." pleaded Lord Falsworth.
     The blade cut deep into the ambassador's neck, severing the head completely. The body stumbled, blindly grasping at empty air. Blood spurted everywhere, dying the room a deep shade of crimson. Falsworth's body tumbled to the floor. His head lay nearby on its side, mouthing words that were not forthcoming.
     The man wiped the sword on the satin bedsheets, then returned the blade to its scabbard. He reached down and picked up the head. Peeling back the toupe, he breathed a sigh of contentment.
     "Finally." he said. "A shame so many more had to die before this one."
     The man cradled Falsworth's head under his arm and exited the suite. He could hear sirens in the distance. The hallway was empty, mostly due to the fact that the stairwell and elevator doors had been barricaded, and that all the other occupants of the hotel's top floor, most of them Falsworth's entourage, had also been slain.
     He made his way to the roof of the hotel. He opened the rooftop door and walked toward the young raven-haired woman mounted upon her winged horse. Her pale skin was covered in blood, yet she bore a sensual smile.
     "I take it you enjoyed yourself, Valerie." he said to the woman.
     "Oh, yesss." she said dreamily, "It's been many years since last I fought such a battle. Thank you, Alexander."
     "Are you wounded?" he asked.
     "Only slightly." she replied. "Yourself?"
     "I took some lead, but it'll heal in a few days."
     "We finished here?" she asked.
     "See for yourself." he said, tossing her the head.
     "Indeed." she said, inspecting it. "What now."
     "Now," he said pulling himself into the saddle, "we return to the states and recuperate for a few days. Then we enact the next phase of my plan."
     "That should be easy." she said cynicly. "Finding a virgin in New York."

COMMENTARY: See Chapter Three for commentary on Chapter Two.