Darla’s lips are candy red, her eyes pitiless blue. She has a little girl’s voice, but she wears the night.
“Never trust a beautiful woman,” she purrs against the nape of Angelus’s neck, so close that he can’t help but shiver.
Later, he watches her lure beautiful boys and girls to her like a spider taking in prey. She hardly has to work: all she has to do is be beautiful, waiting. She doesn’t look like death, not to them, but he can see it now, glistening all over her like a veneer, like a candy coating.
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