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by
Anne Rice
waiting, waiting for the slowing of the heart which would mean death,
the Erebus in which we live must have its aristocracy.’
She lay like a Botticelli angel beside the unharmed boy. The other’s body already withered, the neck like a fractured stem,
But she flashed at me a virulency I’d never seen in her face, and as I stood there paralyzed, she gashed his throat, and he let out a sharp, choking cry.
It was almost weightless, as limp as something made of knots and
cords,
looking at the amorphous form of the white sheet beneath the slimy surface.
