Art demands sacrifice. And with the help of the jewel-encrusted ceremonial dagger concealed in the roomy pocket of her bathrobe, Rebecca Wade was about to make her eleventh sacrifice in as many months.

He'd only been in the hotel shower a minute or two. The hiss of the spray sounded like static, a television station beyond tuning. Her hands trembled as she reached into the canvas carryall for the bottle of champagne.

Art demands sacrifice. She couldn't allow her yearlong mantra to fail her now. Nothing had changed yet, but soon everything would. The end would mark a new beginning for her. But first Steve had to go. Yes, she thought, because art demands sacrifice.

She wrapped a white hand towel around the top of the bottle to muffle the pop of the cork. Removing the sanitary paper caps from two tumblers, she filled only one with the sparkling liquid. The long neck of the bottle clinked against the rim of the glass.

"How long you plan on keeping me in suspense?"

Startled by Steve's raspy voice, Rebecca spilled a dollop of champagne across the narrow mahogany desk. She dabbed at it with the wet towel. "Not too long!" she called to the bathroom's open door.

"To be honest," he called above the rush of water, "I was surprised you had time to see me today, with the premiere and all..."

Three hours away from the red carpet premiere of Zombie Island Princess at Mann's Chinese Theatre, the twenty-seven-year-old actress was in danger of becoming a scream queen-or worse, a has-been. Plenty in the industry had already counted her out. From her debut, the Oscar-nominated supporting role in Wisteria Way, through a series of bad film choices leading to the current 140-minute pretentious schlock-fest about to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting public, Rebecca Wade's once-promising career had fallen from the stratosphere to near-obscurity in a dizzying five-year descent. In that time, she'd fired her first agent, been released by her second, and had little regard for her third. When she demanded perfection, the gossip rags portrayed her as being difficult. As her reputation for on-set tirades had grown, the roles she'd been offered had diminished, spiraling down from the inconsequential to the ludicrous. And it had all culminated in the title role of a film marketed via incoherent trailers and unimaginative black-and-white posters with the unfortunate shorthand title ZIP. She could already imagine the critics having a field day with that one.

That was the danger. Remain passive, and she would live down to the popular perception of her career arc. But Rebecca Wade had other plans. A year ago, she'd decided to be the proactive heroine in the script of her life. To turn back now would be unconscionable.

"Don't worry," she said. "I have my priorities in order."

In typical Hollywood fashion, the last sacrifice would be the most difficult. No more nameless, homeless strangers to dispatch without guilt or remorse. A small part of her continued to believe she had been merciful to end the suffering of those unfortunates. Of course, her offerings would have disagreed, but the quality of their lives had been so dreadful-they were riddled with disease and vermin-an objective eye would have admitted they were, in fact, better off dead. Their mortality rate was no doubt a crime against nature and the miracles of modern medicine they could never afford. At least she gave their deaths meaning. And really, who could find fault with that?

Steve McKay, unfortunately, was fit and healthy. Riddled with scars, maybe, but unequivocally and unrepentantly healthy. And thus she found it more difficult to rationalize his untimely exit at her hands. She took a deep breath and exhaled through her nose. More difficult, she thought, is not the same as impossible. "If you can't make the tough choices," she whispered to herself, "then act like someone who can."

After all, Steve had his faults. He was reckless and fearless, qualities that served him well as a Hollywood stuntman but also placed his life at risk on a regular basis. He was someone who braced himself for the possibility of death or dismemberment every day on the job. Therefore, she assumed, he must be at peace with the idea of his own mortality. More than most people, he would be aware of the inevitability of his own ending.

Lastly, wouldn't it be wrong for her to demand perfection from others before she was willing to make the ultimate commitment herself? Her art demanded no less. She reached into her carryall again and, this time, withdrew a small leather pouch containing a single precious object.

She unscrewed the black cap of a tiny glass vial containing a potent draft with a greenish hue, a viscous texture, and an exotically unpronounceable name. She liked to think of it as the essence of distilled commitment. Upending the vial, she drizzled its contents into the champagne-filled tumbler, then mixed the fizzy concoction with a plastic coffee stirrer until all traces of the green color had vanished.

"Ready or not," she said, "here I come."

A testament to Steve's penchant for scalding showers, clouds of steam billowed across the bathroom floor and rose to obscure the mirror. Rebecca almost felt as if she were stepping onto a gothic movie set. That image would prove helpful. After all, she had her part to play.

"Oh, I'm definitely ready," Steve said, grinning at her from around the shower curtain. His close-cropped blond hair was plastered to his scalp, and the diagonal scar on his cheek seemed more livid, pale against his heat-flushed face.

"I'm talking about the surprise," she said, nodding toward the glasses she held. "I have an announcement that requires a champagne toast."

Flashing an expectant smile, he said, "Let's hear it."

She was momentarily nonplussed. For someone who faced his own death on a daily basis, someone who had accepted the inevitability of his ultimate fade-out, Steve McKay seemed entirely too carefree. "The results are in," she said. "And it would appear, Mr. McKay, that I am carrying your child."

Steve's eyes went wide. "Wow," he said with a disbelieving shake of his drenched head.

"Could've fooled me, young lady."

"I only just found out."

After a bark of laughter, he said, "I'll be damned!"

Quite possibly, she thought. I'm a little fuzzy on that part of the ceremony.

"Well, that news is definitely worthy of a toast," Steve said. He nodded toward the empty tumbler. "Looks like you've had yours already."

"I'm abstaining," Rebecca said as she handed him his filled glass. "You know what they say, 'A pregnant woman never drinks alone.'"

"Gimme," Steve said, snatching the empty glass from her hand before she could protest. He splashed a bit of his champagne into her empty glass before returning it to her. "C'mon, one sip won't hurt."

Rebecca stared at the liquid pooling in the bottom of her glass. She could almost imagine the toxic fumes wafting upward toward her flared nostrils. "Why-why take unnecessary chances?"

It probably wasn't the best argument when dealing with a stuntman, but Steve shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "But I choose to celebrate in style. Down the hatch!" He drank the contents of the glass in one long pull, then covered a belch.

Rebecca sighed with relief.

"Any rules against you joining me in here?" Steve asked as he handed her his empty tumbler.

With her back turned, she rinsed both glasses in the sink and said, "Give it-me-a minute."

"Fair enough," he said. "I'll even turn the heat down a notch."

He released the shower curtain and adjusted the scalding spray. Rebecca removed towels from the metal rack over the toilet tank and placed them on the counter, arranging things, then rearranging them, as the seconds ticked by.

She heard something thud against the wall behind the shower curtain. "Steve?"

"Better... hurry, babe," he said, slurring his words. "I'm... little woozy from the heat."

She took a quick peek behind the curtain and saw him standing with his back to her, leaning against the wall, arm raised with his palm braced against the tile. His head was hanging to the side, the powerful spray from the nozzle blasting against his cheek. Perfect, she thought.

She reached into her bathrobe pocket and gripped the ornate hilt of the ceremonial dagger. A moment later, she shrugged out of the robe, letting it fall to the floor around her feet. She stepped over the edge of the bathtub, joining Steve in his last shower. "One surprise left," she whispered. "Close your eyes."

He shook his head at the suggestion, then groaned slightly, as if that small movement had caused him discomfort. Before he could turn to face her, she pressed her naked body against his and covered his eyes with her left hand. "No peeking!"

"Okay," he said, but his raspy voice had dropped to a whisper.

He dropped his arm and, so that she could whisper in his ear, let her tilt his head back with the hand covering his eyes. "Steve... "

"Yes?"

"No hard feelings."

She tightened her grip on his face-

"What -?"

- and slashed the edge of the dagger across his exposed throat, left to right, cutting deep.

Crimson splashed on the tiles, turning pink and running in rivulets down, down, down to the drain, swirling into oblivion. Steve's strength abandoned him quickly, gone without a struggle. His body sagged against her-dead weight. "It's done," she whispered, stepping back, letting gravity have its way now that she was done with him. He slumped to a sitting position, supported by her legs long enough for her to rinse the blood from her outstretched arms. She was careful to leave some blood on the blade of the dagger for the rest of the ceremony.

As she scrambled out of the bathtub, Steve's body fell back with a dull double-thump, his pale forearm flopping over the edge, almost like a half-hearted wave good-bye.

She turned off the water and shoved the shower curtain aside to admire her commitment. Her gaze settled on his wide open eyes, unseeing now. But even with beads of water standing on the gray-blue irises, they seemed surprised by his fate. "Your life had meaning, Steve," she assured him solemnly. "You served a purpose."

After a moment of silence, she smiled, feeling the first stirring of excitement. She'd made the last sacrifice for her art. The hardest part was over. Time to reap her reward. Without bothering to towel herself dry, Rebecca slipped into her robe, belted it around her narrow waist, and strode across the hotel room, pausing at the door to the adjoining room. She took a deep breath to calm herself, then threw back the bolt and opened the door. Across the narrow gap separating the rooms, the other door was already open.

A tall, cadaverous man dressed in layers of black stood before her in the doorway. Bald, he had craggy brows over sunken eyes, a hooked nose, wide bloodless lips, and a deeply cleft chin. Though his features were harsh, his gaunt face wore a pleased look. His long, spidery fingers were steepled beneath his chin, a ruminative pose at odds with the anticipatory gleam in those dark eyes. "Yes?" he said, pronouncing the sibilant with a sepulchral rumble.

"Sehjenkhai," Rebecca said, beaming with accomplishment. "It is done."