Drusilla had threaded a may-bug onto a length of silk. It whirred and waved its legs like a jerky actor, gesticulating to the air. Spun around on the thick black bar piercing its body. Snapping the thread taut as it churred its wings.
And it sickened him.
The previous night he had taken a small child and ripped its throat out, painted the blood about the walls and onto chubby cheeks, displayed the corpse like a crumpled whore dressed in its mamma’s dress. Then at Dru’s suggestion he had brought the mother to see. They had laughed and kissed while the mother wept, swopping the baby’s juices between them on their tongues. And he had felt all vampire. All Dru’s man.
Yet still he could see something grotesque about the bug with its futile clockworks efforts to be free.
She smiled and hung the thread about her neck for a necklace.
The bug scrabbled and scratched against her perfect white skin. And he dared make no answer.