He talks on the way, as though this is all a whimsical little local quirk. Parasitic blood bees, under the skin; yes, really; they make a hive of the bones and seem to feed on Blood Pollution, which is genuinely fascinating and the subject of much current study. By him and the few other researchers not too unsettled by parasitic blood bees.

God does not mention that he had a nasty case of blood bees, when they first came on. In those first furious days of May. Could've ended badly, if he hadn't found a way to evict them from the raw bone and chitin of his warped body; if he hadn't needed them gone to skin himself over looking human again. No one knows, and no one will know, and if he ever meets the wacky werewolf patron they will have words.

"It's a hell of a procedure," he says, sympathetically, when they lay her down bleeding onto the familiar study couch. "Can't be fun to have me picking bugs out of somebody's marrow. Maybe best you keep her tied up for this bit."