#1910s.

And the bullseye to which Claudia pins that shrug, of course, is the fattest glazed donut of status of the night, mustached from his perusals of the chocolate fountain; drain-necked from Claudia’s of him.

❝That’s the mayor.❞

Stay: the scruff of her dress chokes her back at a stammer like a wicked idiot wind-up toy.

Were he a mother, he’d smother her in kisses. For the journey. The ribbons of pain slid into the girlish braids she’s been told to sit still for by Louis. And what was it Louis said after? Oh, well?

He knuckles along the sacred space of secrets by her pear-shaped earring, coiling her forelock into an intimate complement to his ring. He yanks to the root. A Magnus anger has him.

does it have to be with his underbelly under lestat’s spidered hand?

❛ i didn’t mean it. ❜

lestat’s hipbone sticks him like a knife. home, it says. the cogs of their ankles are locked into each other and the coffin’s pried open, lid to the side and off the longitudinal stars running his ceiling view.