Free Saffron and Brimstone: Strange Stories by Elizabeth Hand

its frail wing spurs wouldn’t be damaged. She did this by positioning the jar on its side and placing a gooseneck lamp directly behind it, so that the bare bulb shone through the glass. After about fifteen minutes, the moth landed on top of the jar, its tiny legs slipping as it struggled on the smooth curved surface. Another few minutes and it had crawled inside, nestled on the wad of tissues Jane had set there, moist with ethyl alcohol. She screwed the lid on tightly, left the jar on its side, and waited for it to die.
    —
    Over the next week she acquired three more specimens. Papilio demetrius , a Japanese swallowtail with elegant orange eyespots on a velvety black ground; a scarce copper, not scarce at all, really, but with lovely pumpkin-colored wings; and Graphium agamemnon , a Malaysian species with vivid green spots and chrome-yellow strips on its somber brown wings. She’d ventured away from Camden Town, capturing the swallowtail in a private room in an SM club in Islington and the Graphium agamemnon in a parked car behind a noisy pub in Crouch End. The scarce copper came from a vacant lot near the Tottenham Court Road tube station very late one night, where the wreckage of a chainlink fence stood in for her bedposts. She found the morphine to be useful, although she had to wait until immediately after the man ejaculated before pressing the ampule against his throat, aiming for the carotid artery. This way the butterflies emerged already sedated, and in minutes died with no damage to their wings. Leftover clothing was easily disposed of, but she had to be more careful with wallets, stuffing them deep within rubbish bins, when she could, or burying them in her own trash bags and then watching as the waste trucks came by on their rounds.
    In South Kensington she discovered an entomological supply store. There she bought more mounting supplies, and inquired casually as to whether the owner might be interested in purchasing some specimens.
    He shrugged. “Depends. What you got?”
    “Well, right now I have only one Argema mittrei .” Jane adjusted her glasses and glanced around the shop. A lot of morphos, an Atlas moth: nothing too unusual. “But I might be getting another, in which case . . . ”
    “Moon moth, eh? How’d you come by that, I wonder?” The man raised his eyebrows, and Jane flushed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn you in. Christ, I’d go out of business. Well, obviously I can’t display those in the shop, but if you want to part with one, let me know. I’m always scouting for my customers.”
    She began volunteering three days a week at the insect zoo. One Wednesday, the night after she’d gotten a gorgeous Urania leilus , its wings sadly damaged by rain, she arrived to see David Bierce reading that morning’s Camden New Journal . He peered above the newspaper and frowned.
    “You still going out alone at night?”
    She froze, her mouth dry; turned and hurried over to the coffeemaker . “Why?” she said, fighting to keep her tone even.
    “Because there’s an article about some of the clubs around here.
    Apparently a few people have gone missing.”
    “Really?” Jane got her coffee, wiping up a spill with the side of her hand. “What happened?”
    “Nobody knows. Two blokes reported gone, family frantic, sort of thing. Probably just runaways. Camden Town eats them alive, kids.” He handed the paper to Jane. “Although one of them was last seen near Highbury Fields, some sex club there.”
    She scanned the article. There was no mention of any suspects . And no bodies had been found, although foul play was suspected. (“ Ken would never have gone away without notifying us or his employe r . . . .” )
    Anyone with any information was urged to contact the police.
    “I don’t go to sex clubs,” Jane said flatly. “Plus those are both guys.”
    “Mmm.” David leaned back in his chair, regarding her coolly. “You’re the one hitting Hive your first weekend in