Secret Slasha – The Buffy the Vampire Slayer & Angel Slash Fanfiction Secret Santa Project
Secret Slasha – The Buffy the Vampire Slayer & Angel Slash Fanfiction Secret Santa Project

To Serve In Hell
By Isabeau
For A Secret Slasha Dropout

Cordelia Chase always figured she was safe.

Sure, there were warnings all around, things to do and things not to do, places to go and places not to go, things to wear and things not to wear--

(except the things you were supposed to wear were so boring, neutral colors that weren't at all fashionable, and so Cordelia wore what amount of color she dared, because she'd rather be dead than boringly dressed)

--and sure, the number of students in her class dwindled, not entirely slowly, as each year progressed. But Cordelia always knew, with a confidence born of never being wrong (if only by definition), that the vampires would never come for her. The disappearances, the deaths, the pain and suffering-- that all was a fate reserved for the freaks, the losers, the outcasts. People whose names she wouldn't remember five minutes later (if it weren't for the list, long and growing longer each day, taped to one of the walls of the school; she never intends to look at the list, but she finds herself drawn to it sometimes, reading the list of names, a high-school version of a veteran's memorial wall).

Cordelia Chase was not a nobody, and so she had no reason to fear the vampires.

And then one day she sees a girl, about her own age, with white-blonde hair and a white even smile. The girl's dressed in clothes that look simple, but to Cordelia's eye they look expensive also, the sort of expensive that can afford to look simple; and she carries herself with the air of someone of class, someone who has as little reason to fear the vampires as Cordelia does; and (perhaps most important of all) she's someone that Cordelia hasn't seen around, and that's new enough that Cordelia comes up to her and smiles (it's a smile she's perfected, a sweetly predatory one that says 'you want to be friends with me if you know what's good for you') and says, "Hey, there, you new in town?"

"Kinda." The girl looks at her, unintimidated, measuring her the way Cordelia's measuring the girl. It's like two alpha wolves circling each other, pacing and snarling and waiting for the other to show submission. Cordelia knows it, and the girl knows it; and what's more, the girl is relaxed, not even somewhat threatened by Cordelia's vibrant personality. "I'm visiting... friends."

"I can show you around if you want," Cordelia says, and her smile says, 'You don't want me as an enemy. Be one of mine, and I'll take care of you. Refuse, and you'll regret it.' "I mean, if you're looking for somewhere in particular."

"Somewhere, no. Some thing..." The girl eyes her again, and a smile plays at the edges of her lips. "Yes, you'll do, you'll do nicely."

She smiles, sweetly, and it's not the smile of a submissive wolf.


Cordelia shows her a bit around Sunnydale, but gradually notices that the girl's spending most of her attention on Cordelia rather than the town; a part of Cordelia approves, because of course she's worth the attention, but a part of her is uneasy. She also notices (can't help but notice!) that she only sees the girl after sundown; they're both breaking curfew, technically, but Cordelia likes the thrill of breaking the rules (and getting away with it-- not that it's particularly hard, as there's pretty much no one that bothers enforcing the curfew).

When she says something to the girl about how it's always after sundown, the girl gives her a sharp look but smiles (more like the bared teeth of a hunting wolf than a true smile, which does nothing to settle Cordelia's unease) and says, with an easy laugh, "It's my family-- they like me around during the day, but at night I can sneak out and they don't notice I'm gone."

Cordelia makes a noncommittal noise, but she doesn't quite trust the story (even if there's a confidence behind it that comes only from something that's true), and the girl seems to know that, because it isn't long before she takes Cordelia's wrist and tugs her aside and says, "Hey... There's something I wanted to tell you."

Her hand is cold against Cordelia's wrist, like she's nervous, and Cordelia frowns. She doesn't really care, but she says anyway, "What?", impatiently.

It doesn't occur to her that the girl's a lesbo until she leans in close (Cordelia can barely feel the flutter of her breath) and presses her lips against Cordelia's (cool and soft with the wet flick of a tongue behind it). Cordelia freezes for a moment, unable to move or think or breathe, and by the time she recovers, the girl's pulled back, and says, in a low breathless voice that sounds like she's about to laugh, "--I want you."

Cordelia is still somewhat paralyzed, even though her mind is screaming that she doesn't do that, that she's not that sort of person-- except that she notices that the girl's gazing at her with amused animal-gold eyes under an inhuman forehead ridge, and her smile is too pointed, and Cordelia feels a thrum of fear. "You're a vampire," she says, surprisingly calm; and when the girl smiles acknowledgment and dips her gaze in pretend modesty, Cordelia wheels and runs.

There is laughter behind her, and a cold hand on her wrist, jerking her to a none-too-gentle stop. "Nice try," the girl says, mockingly, and she takes Cordelia's other wrist and holds both above her head, ignoring Cordelia's struggles. "But not good enough." She cocks her head, and adds, somberly, "Sorry."

Cordelia knows it makes her look desperate, but damn it all, she's too popular and pretty and elegant to die; and so she fights, knowing it's futile and knowing she has to try. The girl just holds her, surprisingly strong, and laughs at her, and finally Cordelia stops struggling. She doesn't show her throat (literally or metaphorically) as she looks at the girl and says, "You can't kill me."

"Oh I can," and the girl sounds amused. "But I'm not going to-- not if you cooperate."

She easily holds Cordelia's wrists with one hand, and her other hands runs in a caress down the side of Cordelia's face and neck, hovering for a moment at the pulse point before drifting lower. There's something in her expression (easier to read now that her face has slid back to human) that says she's doing this just for amusement, just to watch Cordelia freak, and so Cordelia holds herself very still and makes sure she doesn't freak, even when the cool light touch drifts over her breast and down the curve of one hip.

"Yes," the girl murmurs, almost to herself. "You'll do." She leans forward. "I've always liked dark-haired girls," she whispers.

Cordelia expects to feel, at any moment, the sharp stinging pain of a bite-- but the sting comes, not at her neck, where the girl's cool breath flutters lightly, but at her upper arm. She looks over-- or tries to; her motions are sluggish, muscles growing quickly numb, and her vision is doubling and wavering-- and the girl steps back from her, an empty syringe in one hand.

"Don't worry," the girl says, "it's just--" but the rest of her words are lost in the growing darkness.

Cordelia doesn't even remember falling.


The first thing Cordelia becomes aware of, waking, is a fuzzy headache pounding just behind her eyes as she opens them; the second is that there is mud on her dress; the third, that that she is lying on a (not terribly comfortable) wooden floor with close-set iron bars caging her in, like an animal in a zoo; and fourth, that there is someone watching her.

That last realization takes a little longer than the others, as the watcher is silent, unmoving. But his dark eyes are open, watching her intently. Under the fringe of hair, dark fine hair just on the shaggy on the side of long, his face is one Cordelia remembers, very vaguely, from school. One of the loners, except that right now a loner's better than nothing, and he is human and uncaged. "Hey," she says in a hissed whisper, "you there." A name trickles down into her memory. "Xander."

He stirs and steps closer, moving with a cautious grace. "Yeah?"

With her best winning smile, the sort that drove boys to follow her like eager puppies, Cordelia says, "Can you get me out of here?"

Xander is just outside the bars of her cage, now; his eyes are full of a hungry confidence that makes Cordelia's heart flip over, although she isn't sure whether it's excitement or fear on her part. There's a long moment of silence, and then he licks his lower lip thoughtfully and says, "Cordelia, right?"

"Yeah." She slams one hand against one of the bars of the cage, impatient. "Can you get me out of here?"

"Lemme think about that," he says, with the syrupy false seriousness of one who knows in advance what the answer will be. "Nah. I don't think so." He gives her a look that's almost a leer, and turns away.

"Xander!" she cries, desperate. He turns--

(too late, she remembers the list of names on the wall of the school, and among that list, Alexander Harris, a name she had little reason to pay attention to until now)

--and his smile is sharp, with pointed teeth and gold eyes. "Sorry," he says with a complete lack of sincerity. "You're hers now."


"Mine," says a new voice, smug and confident. The blonde-haired girl Cordelia had befriended steps into the room, a couple of boxes of chinese takeout dangling loosely from one hand. She dismisses Xander with a gesture, and smiles sweetly at Cordelia. "My name is Darla-- but you may call me Mistress, if you wish."

There is something in her expression that says it isn't just an if-you-wish, but Cordelia can't bring herself to even be nice to her, let alone call her by any such title, so she narrows her eyes and says nothing.

Darla's head tilts, and she smiles. "All right, if you want it that way." She sets the two boxes of food down, and opens them, so that Cordelia can see (and smell) what's inside.

Cordelia can't, however, reach it; it's just beyond her grasp even when she wriggles so that her shoulder's wedged between two of the bars and her hand is stretched as far as she can force it. Darla watches her struggle for a moment, a wide predatory smile on her face, and then leaves.


It is hours before anyone comes back; Cordelia has given up on trying to reach the food, and is curled in a corner, several times finding herself wishing that she were back at school (it's a realm she's used to, popularity and fashion and attention).

Darla comes to see her, finally; she is dressed in a schoolgirl uniform, white ruffled blouse and short plaid skirt and white knee-high stockings, a costume that makes her look cheerfully innocent. "Hi," she purrs.

Cordelia just looks at her, sullen. Darla crouches by the side of the cage, head cocked, looking at her. "Are you ready to behave?"

No, says something inside Cordelia, defiant, but she whispers, "yes."

One eyebrow arches: "Yes what?"

Oh, how it grates Cordelia's sensibilities to grovel before this creature, who isn't anything compared to Cordelia Chase (except that Cordelia's on the inside of the cage and Darla's on the outside), but more than that she is hungry, so very hungry, and she forces the words out. "Yes... mistress."

Darla laughs, the clear light laugh of a delighted child. "Very nice! Very nice." With the toe of one shiny black buckled shoe, she nudges the food closer to Cordelia, who grabs it as soon as it's in reach. The contents -- an unidentifiable meat (possibly chicken) in a spicy red sauce, and what looks like beef chow mein -- have congealed somewhat, and under normal circumstances it would be unappetizing, but Cordelia is hungry enough that she breaks apart the cheap wooden chopsticks and gulps it down.

It occurs to her, halfway through the chow mein, that it might be poisoned, but by then she's eaten enough of it that it doesn't particularly matter.

When she's done, Darla is still watching her. Cordelia licks some of the red sauce off of one finger, and asks, carefully, "What is it you want from me?"

"Nothing much." Darla smiles. "Just your life."

Cordelia shivers at that, and scoots away, as if the four feet of cage can protect her in any way, but curiosity (which killed the cat, but when the cat's going to die anyway, it might as well be from that) drives her to speak. "I don't understand-- why me?"

Darla's smile widens. "Because you were there. Because I needed a companion. And because--" A touch of bitterness creeps into her voice, sour and sharp. "Many years ago, my-- son-- Angelus-- sired a dark-haired girl. I've always resented him for that."

"Because it took him away from you?" Cordelia guesses.

"Not quite." Darla's expression turns predatory. "Because I wanted to be the one to take her." She takes out a small silver key, unlocks the door to Cordelia's cage, and walks inside. "And now, I can be."

"I'm not her," Cordelia says shakily. "Whoever it is that you wanted, I'm not her."

"No, you're not." Darla circles around behind her. "But that doesn't matter. You're close enough."

The door to Cordelia's cage has been left open, and for a moment she entertains the wild concept of knocking Darla out (how?) and escaping (where?), but it was most likely a deliberate action on Darla's part, and attempts to escape would be met with punishment. She stays still, even when one of Darla's hands slides over her stomach.

"Turn around," Darla whispers; and when Cordelia complies, trying not to show fear of any sort, Darla kisses her. Her lips (and, even through the fabric of Cordelia's dress, the touch of her hands) are warmer than they were before, and Cordelia wonders vaguely whether it's because Darla's warmer than she was, or Cordelia's colder. Or whether it matters.

"I want to make you happy." Darla's voice is barely audible, a whisper that slides silkily over Cordelia's skin. "Are you happy?"

"No," Cordelia said. There was more she wanted to say -- of course I'm not happy, duh! I've been kidnapped by a raving loonie who just happens to be a lesbo vampire that seems to have a thing for girls with dark hair, if you'll give me five minutes I can bleach it and dye it a nice red and then maybe you'll leave me alone -- but she bites her tongue so that the babbling in her mind doesn't spill out.


Darla sways against her, kissing softly, stroking her; and slowly Cordelia realizes that, hey, maybe this isn't so bad after all. If Darla doesn't kill her-- if all Darla wants is a little sex now and then-- Cordelia has put up with worse, from clumsy pawing high school boys that want to score with her--

And, really (she thinks, a bit muddily, as the vampire's touch starts a warm burn inside her), this could actually be quite nice.

Darla gives a purring laugh, and nuzzles against Cordelia's neck; for a moment, Cordelia almost doesn't notice the sting of entry as Darla's fangs sink into her neck. "What--" she says, and tries to pull away, but Darla is holding her too tightly, and her neck starts to burn, and it becomes suddenly hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to do anything but feel the pain. "Don't," Cordelia gasps, "please," but Darla doesn't stop, and, oh, how it hurts...

Cordelia is only vaguely aware of Darla pulling out (with a long lick to get the last drops of blood) and looking at her with a flushed face and bright eyes; when Darla presses something to Cordelia's mouth, body-warm and wet, Cordelia's lick-and-swallow is almost reflexive--

(although there is a part of her that knows what's happening, and she almost refuses to swallow the metallic-sharp tang that fills her mouth, because she knows she'll be dead either way)

--until she has swallowed just enough, and Cordelia loses herself.


(and Darla smiles.

Angelus is broken, a simpering pathetic souled weakling in the Master's possession. He is the pet -- puppy, she calls him -- of the Master's new favourite, a red-haired child vampire who makes up in enthusiasm what she lacks in brains. Darla resents that, because Angelus should be hers!, but she can't lift a hand against the red-haired child without earning the wrath of the Master.

Drusilla is dead now, according to rumors, killed in Prague a few decades back. And Darla has found a dark-haired girl to replace her; and, more, the dark-haired girl is hers, hers alone, and cannot be taken by the Master or his red-haired favourite.

It is time, Darla thinks, to move on.

Vampires are not, as a rule, pack animals. Most hunt alone, or in pairs; larger groups are composed not of vampires of equal rank, but a single powerful vampire as leader with other, weaker vampires as his servants. Darla is not the equal of the Master, but still she has been chafing under his hand. She is not one of the brainless hordes that follow him because they cannot conceive of doing otherwise.

And now-- now, she has one who will hunt with her. It may be folly to think that she can survive outside the Master's pack, particularly with a fledgling vampire as her second, but Darla has never been one to take the safe road. It is better to reign in hell, after all, than serve in a better hell. She kept Angelus safe, when he was a hot-headed fledgling vampire with more temper than sense. She can keep this girl safe.

She will keep both of them safe.)


There is blood on her mouth. Cordelia can taste it (though how she knows it's blood, when she's never before tasted blood, she isn't quite sure), coppery and sour and by far the best-tasting thing she's had in a while. She looks up at Darla; there is still a smear of blood across the pale skin below her throat, but the wound itself, where Cordelia (she knows somehow) had been drinking, is almost healed.

Darla looks at Cordelia, eyes glittering with amusement and hunger. "Are you happy?" she asks, meaning as much happy serving her as happy in general.

Cordelia runs her tongue along the razor-sharp jagged edge of her teeth, and smiles ferally and says, "Yes, Mistress."