A few hours later, when he awoke to find Angela gone, a grim realization gripped Evans' heart. Something about the female of the species... but surely their coupling had been a poetic one, a metaphor of the black idol's gift. Why then was he unable to move, stifled by a stick mass of ropey ichor...? The whole of the dusty room was filled with Angela's sticky, vibrant web. Evans began to scream, but his mouth only emitted a pulsation of machine-like whimpers.
—The Black Idol, by Stephen Sennitt
Ignore the dangling ones, sweetling. The twitching silken cocoons. The muffled moans. Is that a smartphone, vibrating and glowing beneath the sticky strands? Their story is over.
—The Buzzing, The Secret World
