I do not answer his question of why. Why do I ever do anything, except for my own ends? But when he says he is a monster my mouth curves into a smile, and I deliver the final blow.

"Westin Sagert loved monsters," I say. "He collected them, after a fashion. He might have loved you for your monstrosity." I stroke a fingertip across his cheek. "Imagine what that might have been like. But instead," and my voice is all regret, "he was butchered, and left in a shallow grave." I smile. "You may leave now, Foxton Manqueller. I do not think we will meet again. But I thank you for the work you have done, and will do."