“Just what do you think you’re doing, young lady?” the rabbit-haired man says over her head.
Damn. He’s caught her. Well let him watch as she squeezes the life out of…
Flamina sticks her hands in the goo in front of her, feeling the beating of wings in every bump of flesh as the lumpy mass squirms beneath her hands. Dark red oozes out between her fingers, crawling in waves of soft, thick petals over her skin. Reveling, she draws in closer and closer, until the bloody mess writhes and shakes, a dead rabbit prostrate and dripping, pooling wet sounds onto the packed floor tiles from her fingertips.
“If you want to kill me, shouldn’t you start with that one first?” he quips, reaching around her to grab the beating heart from her grasp. He points with it across the white of the hallway, toward another cloched object, a folded card, sitting quietly beneath the glass on the cool white chalk pedestal.
Her white hair tilts across her forehead, spreading out and around her vaguely heart-shaped face like a pure Arabian’s wild, creamy forelock. Her fingers scrape against the smoothed squares of his features, the bridge of his thick nose, the petulant quirking lips curved as the ribbons on presents. She wants to run away from him. Flaring her nostrils just as she has read in his great library a real horse would do, she pushes off his thin chest and, holding fast to his tweed lapels, she shoves at him, scratching and biting and fighting in a cloud of long nails and bearded skin and failed attempts at escaping.