On The Altar Of Hecate And Hebe
Anywhere he's not, Darla repeated to herself as she looked around the dirty hovel she was forced to stay in. The carpet was wretched orange shag and the off-white walls were filled with little holes where portraits had been hung and taken down. The cooling bodies of the former inhabitants lay in the doorway, their limbs splayed out. Grabbing onto their legs, Darla pulled them into the house and closed the door. The lightening sky pressed in through the curtains, casting shadows across plaid furniture.
Room to room Darla walked, waiting, anticipating the miserable little soul that had inhabited her body to show itself, leave some murmur of compassion or love. But she didn't feel a thing, not one whisper of regret or pity. Her mind was blissfully silent but for the constant refrain of "how dare he."
The sun rose, the warmth of it filled the small home. Angry and tired, Darla lay on one of the stained beds and tried to gather her thoughts. Make some sort of plan. No Master, no Angel, and she hadn't been alone in centuries. She could do this. She'd figure something out.
Hours later Darla fell asleep, Angel's scent still clinging to her body.
Darla was moving south. A different her, a foolish her, had planned on going back across the ocean to England. Angelus had always loved it there. The cloudy skies and drizzling rain appealed to them in a way the blazing heat of the Southwest couldn't compare. Which was why she was avoiding Europe.
She had no destination, just a feeling. So she drifted south to Tijuana, then Santa Ana, and further still to Aguacalientes. The language turned to Spanish and skins darkened the deeper she went into Mexico. No memories were built there, just a wasteland of tequila, drugs, and the dispossessed. She could have lived for decades bathing in rich pools and living in large haciendas with a never-ending supply of blood; decadent in ways she hadn't been since China.
This should've made her happy, but no matter how much blood she drank, how many men she took into her bed, or how many people she killed, there was something missing. Hunger was consuming her, turning every drop of blood sour and strange.
She was living on a large piece of land just outside of Toluca when she felt her; scream in the back of her mind, infecting her with memories of Angelus and Spike. A plague of fire licked streets and darkened alleyways. She wanted to scream at Dru that this was her chance to get away from Angelus, to not come here with her dark eyes and smelling of his blood, but the walls had started to expand from the moment Drusilla had invaded her dreams. Everything was too large and foreign, reminding her that she wasn't supposed to be here. She was ashes and dust.
It was two hours past sunset when Darla heard her. Dru's voice was sweet and childlike, as fragile as the porcelain dolls she'd carried with her after Angelus left.
"The Destroyer is already thirsty, isn't he? He's sleeping, but he'll come to us. Blood, and tears, and angels falling from heaven." The words were spoken with a religious fervor, Dru's non-breath cooling the light sheen of sweat that clung to Darla's neck.
Dropping the body she'd had pressed against the wall, Darla turned toward Drusilla, still able to feel the few stray drops of blood clinging to her lips. She was about to speak when Dru pressed thin fingers against her mouth and leaned in, licking off the last of the blood.
"We've been forsaken, cast aside with our poisoned robes. But the seasons change," Dru said, her pale skin glowing in the darkness. "And we are the sorceresses."
Destroyer, forsaken, poison, all the meanings were lost. But the ramblings...the mere presence of them was comfortingly familiar for Darla to hear.
It was nearly dusk when the two of them made their way through the winding streets and back to their new home. Drusilla's long black skirt was tattered at the hem, the film of dust just light enough to give her a disheveled appearance rather than a homeless one. Darla was vaguely curious how Dru had survived so long without someone to take care of her.
Darla opened the door and walked inside, hardly making it past the doorway before her arms were filled with Drusilla's thin body.
The first kiss was sweet, the taste of blood overwhelming everything else. Their lips moved savagely against each other, searching out traces of the name Darla refused to even think. This was what she needed. No chaste, loving touches from a conflicted lawyer, or embraces that promised things they never delivered. No, she wanted the cool familiarity. The girl that had brought her back, saved her from death and sickness and simpering morality.
Hands grasped at clothing, sharp nails digging into skin as they ripped blouses and skirts. Dru moved her mouth down Darla's throat, leaving a trail of marks that didn't quite break the skin. Pointy, vicious little teeth didn't stop until they reached Darla's nipple, biting down hard enough to draw blood.
Drusilla's soft, wet mouth sucked at the wound, her teeth lightly scraping the sensitive skin. Darla wrapped her hands in Dru's hair, forcing her head down further. She wanted more. Sensations were overwhelming, a passion she hadn't felt since the last disastrous night she'd spent in His bed.
"Harder," Darla said, her voice strained and unfamiliar as she tightened her hold on Dru. "Make it hurt."
She wasn't Angel. She could take the pain.
Drusilla's teeth sank into soft flesh beside her nipple, brutally parting the skin. Hands shredded what remained of Darla's skirt and fingers moved into her. Pressed against the wall, Darla threw her head back, lips parted. Animalistic growls emanated from her chest. No human moans. No human cries.
Her lower body moved of its own volition, demanding a faster pace. Close, so close, her body shivered and arched until a particularly clever flick of the Dru's tongue sent her over. Sensation overwhelmed her for a moment before she looked down at Dru.
Huge, deceptively guileless eyes stared at her, belying the wanton look of Drusilla's torn dress and swollen lips.
Darla pushed Dru back, hearing a loud painful sounding thump as back hit tile. Darla's moved between Dru's parted legs, smelling the familiar scent. With too hard nibbling and moans echoing off the hacienda's stone walls, Darla teased her, tongue working with quick, inconstant flicks. She felt Dru getting close and turned her head, biting into the pale thigh. Dru's blood still tasted of Angelus.
Darla looked over the devastation with some pleasure, but found it hard to maintain any emotion but disgust and frustration. Her body was swollen and ungainly. A mockery of what she was, a farce that infuriated her more each day. The hunger was so strong she needed twice the amount of blood, but she had less energy. Her heavy and graceless limbs could stick snap necks and suffocate. Death and sex were her only pleasures since her body had become polluted.
"Where is he, Dru?" Darla asked, turning to the swaying girl, her tone more acidic with each passing day.
"There is no he," Dru sang as she danced closer. "The Destroyer must come. Nothing can stop him. The stars are afraid and hide. The Destroyer of Worlds, the Devourer of Flesh, they must come."
Turning away in disgust, Darla sat down on the table, refusing to look at the stirrups. It had been months -- how many she refused to count, but more than a few. Months of searching and finding nothing; no explanation for the obscenity growing inside her and no way to rid herself of it.
Moving beside her, Dru settled her head on Darla's shoulder, her body sliding catlike against Darla's back. "Creusa shall fall, and we will have him." Dru's hand stroked Darla's stomach, lovingly. "This is his heel. Ripe and wicked he will be for this boy. Blood and pain, a sheep in wolves' clothing."
Darla closed her eyes and imagined a boy child, evil and wicked, bearing Angelus' face. Angel would be weak for a child, vulnerable. A few father-son moments...
The heartbeat pounded in her stomach, unnaturally loud, fighting to overpower her thoughts. Darla held Dru's hand tightly, the only sign of her discomfort, and leaned over to kiss her. The word came to her mind unbidden, something familiar that Angel would recognize. "We'll name him Connor."