Friday, December 21, 2007


Gillian lay back against the chaise-longue and dropped a tidbit into the mouth of the silver-grey wolf at her side. Harold turned away, reluctant to see his would-be wife lick the red stain from her fingertips before selecting another morsel from the bloody bowl at her side. She was interested in the meat only as a means for transferring the viscous, still-warm liquid to her mouth, much as a soup-eater might use bread to eat his soup without consuming the bread itself. “Really, Gillian,” he said. “I find it difficult to ignore your unsociable desires when you take blood in such a fashion. Can’t you take it from a glass like everyone else?”

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