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    Summary

    For all that Angelus had liked to crow about it - his long and artful destruction of everything she was - Drusilla knew the truth. She had been there, after all. Funny how Angelus seemed so often to forget.

    No. Her dear Angelus was a pretty painter, but the canvas was not his. The day it had begun, the day she had first seen them - seen terrible flashes of all that was to come unspooling in her mind - it had been Darla’s face, creased in idle mirth. Darla’s slender hand, pointing Angelus in her direction.

    Series
    Language:
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    Words:
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