Death had worn red to the Masque, and so, beneath her golden mask, Drusilla wore a gown as red as flowing blood. Dancing past fantasies and chimeras and untold desires, Drusilla drank in the carnage to come: the coppery tang that would fill the air when fingernails slit through necks; fangs piercing skin; the sharp snap of leg-bones and then the poor puppies, fantasies no longer, overcoming their agony to drag themselves away as she, stepping slowly between, would pick them off one-by-one.

Beneath her mask was a human face but beneath that was Death, and Death enjoyed the anticipation.