Eight

WHISPERS

Drusilla wasn’t certain how long she had been there, in the dark...how long she had been praying, and crying. She didn’t know if it was day or night. She had fallen asleep at some point, and lost track of time.

“Our Father, which art in Heaven,” Drusilla whispered. “Hallowed be thy name.”

She didn’t know how long she had been praying, but she knew she had prayed a lot. And it hadn’t helped. She was still in the closet. The two monsters were still in the house. No one had come to help...

No angel had come to save her.

The ropes around her wrists and ankles weren’t too tight, but they were nevertheless starting to hurt again now. Darla had come to check on her a few times, at indeterminate points in the past--Drusilla couldn’t remember how long ago it was now, it was hard to keep track of time, all the moments got lost somewhere back there in the dark--letting her out of the closet to use the toilet. The last time Darla had come to check on her, Drusilla had been in the closet long enough by that point for the ropes to affect her circulation and she couldn’t stand; Darla had to carry her to the bathroom. Other than those brief respites, Drusilla had lain in the same position in the closet, curled up in a ball, since they’d put her in there. She thought it had been perhaps two days; she was hungry, and very thirsty, and she felt she needed a bath. She tried to turn over, and just barely managed it in the small, cramped closet, but it didn’t help much. She wondered if she could possibly untie the knots binding her ankles. She thought she might be able to curl herself up into an even tighter ball, moving her legs up behind her until she could reach her ankles with her hands. But her hands were still tied behind her back, and without them she wouldn’t be able to work the doorknob to open the door...

“Thy kingdom come,” Drusilla whispered. “Thy will be done, in Earth as it is in Heaven.”

Sometimes, she’d heard screams...they sounded like Veronica.

If she untied her legs she might kick the door open, or perhaps work the doorknob with her mouth. But that would still leave her with her hands tied behind her back, and Angelus and Darla were strong; Darla alone had overpowered her father and the rest of her family with ease. They were monsters...

Drusilla knew she had brought them there. She knew they were right...that she had been marked by the Devil, that her visions were his stamp on her, and that she was a monster. Didn’t monsters belong with monsters?

But she didn’t want to be a monster. She had always tried to be a good person...she hadn’t asked for the visions, hadn’t asked to be what she was...

She started to cry again. The screams she’d heard...Veronica was paying the price, now...first her mother had paid, and now Veronica was paying...paying for the evil Drusilla knew was a part of her, somehow.

Could an evil thing be redeemed?

“Give us this day our daily bread, and...and forgive us our trespasses... forgive us our trespasses...” Drusilla whispered, as she cried. “Forgive us, Lord. As we forgive them that trespass against us.”

Whenever Angelus or Darla has closed the closet door, it had sounded like they had propped her desk chair up against it afterwards. It was likely that she wouldn’t be able to kick it open. And with her hands bound, she wouldn’t be able to use her father’s revolver. She knew the revolver was their only chance against the monsters. She had to find some way to get her hands free, and get to the revolver...

She knew she would. She’d seen it, in a vision. And, for better or worse, her visions had always come true before.

“And lead us not into temptation...” Drusilla whispered.

She knew she just had to wait...and, eventually, her chance would come. She just had to hold on...

She wondered where Cassie was.

The closet was black as pitch and her bedroom outside was dark; there was no light coming in through the keyhole. She felt the pillow Darla had left her, and the floor beneath her; they were the only things that gave a clue to where she was. If it weren’t for them, she might have been floating in a void... adrift in nothingness. There were moments when the closet, the void, seemed to be all that existed; moments when it seemed her world had been reduced to nothing. The closet was so dark she couldn’t even see herself.

There were moments she wasn’t sure she existed anymore.

She had seen darkness, in her visions...not just the darkness of the closet but another darkness as well, deeper and more terrifying. After she pointed the revolver at Angelus in the vision, there was only darkness after that...she wondered what it meant. Her visions were sometimes ambiguous things.

Whatever it meant, whatever that darkness portended...she was going to fight. She was going to be strong, for Cassie. She was going to be as strong as she could. She was going to show the Lord that she could be a good person...that she didn’t belong in the darkness.

“But deliver us from evil,” Drusilla whispered into the darkness.

“He can’t hear you, blackbird,” the darkness whispered back...

Drusilla gasped, and shuddered.

“He just isn’t listening, I’m afraid,” Drusilla heard Angelus whisper, from the other side of the door. “He would never listen to an evil, depraved thing like you. But I’m listening, Dru. I’ll always listen.”

“What...do you want?” Drusilla said. She couldn’t wipe her tears away; her hands were tied. Her tears dripped down her cheeks, and off her chin, onto her dress.

“Just to be with you, darlin’,” Angelus said. “To comfort you. I’m your father, after all.”

“I heard...screams before.”

“That? That was just me raping Veronica. Girl’s a screamer.” Drusilla heard Angelus chuckle.

“But you said...that you wouldn’t,” Drusilla whimpered. “You said...if I was with you...”

“I said we’d try it out for awhile,” Angelus said. “And we did. But then Veronica got on my nerves.”

Angelus had tried to force Veronica to disown Drusilla, to tell her that she hated her; it’s what he wanted them all to do. But Veronica refused to say the words, no matter how much he beat her, or raped her. He was going to give her one more chance, but he didn’t think she’d give in to him. He’d had to alter his plan because of Veronica, but it didn’t really matter. Olivia and Cassandra weren’t anywhere near as strong as Veronica and he knew they could be made to do what he wanted. And altering his plan had inspired him to come up with something really special to do with the father...something that he knew would take Drusilla right to the brink.

“Have you...hurt Cassie?” Drusilla whispered.

“No,” Angelus said. “She’s been a good girl.”

“I want you to be a good girl now, Cassie,” Darla said.

She was sitting with Cassandra, on the bed in her room. She’d spent most of her time with Cassandra the past two days, ever since they had put Drusilla in the closet; it was part of Angelus’ plan. The room was decorated like Drusilla’s, with the same painted furniture, and the bed was a sleigh bed like Drusilla’s too. There was a draughts board on the writing desk, with all the red and white pieces set in their positions, ready for a new game, and there was a dollhouse, just like Drusilla’s, sitting on the floor next to it. But there were no porcelain dolls on shelves lining the walls; instead, Cassandra’s walls were covered with paintings. Landscapes, and portraits of her family. Darla thought the paintings were still somewhat rough, the work of an artist mastering her craft, but the portraits were splendid nevertheless, capturing the likenesses with a keen eye; Darla noticed that Drusilla’s portrait predominated. In all her portraits, Drusilla was smiling. Unlike the painting in the parlor, Drusilla’s smiles in these paintings looked genuine.

Cassandra had done the paintings; Darla saw an easel by the window. There was a canvas on the easel with another portrait of Drusilla, half-completed: Drusilla sitting in a wicker chair on the veranda, laughing and fussing with her hair, with the garden seeming to go on forever behind her, a universe of green, dotted with flowers as bright as stars.

Cassandra’s paintings weren’t as polished as the family portrait in the parlor, that one was obviously the work of a more experienced artist. But Cassandra captured likenesses extremely well and her paintings had more spirit to them: they were explosions of life and warmth and color, often eschewing fine detail or strict adherence to the rules of composition or perspective in order to emphasize some aspect of their subject that, while not necessarily accurate to life, was nevertheless perfectly accurate to the subject’s inner life. The paintings seemed impatient things, created in haste; the short, broad, thick brushstrokes seemed the work of an artist in a hurry, as if the work was burning inside her and needed to get out. The family portrait in the parlor was technically flawless, but it was so formal, so posed, that it drained the life from its subjects; they may as well have been mannequins. Cassandra’s paintings had life; they had beating hearts.

The family portrait in the parlor may have been more acceptable, but it was a drab thing; it may have been more valuable, but it was like dull, faded silver compared to Cassandra’s vibrant, lustrous gems. Darla wondered why the Morgans hadn’t hung one of Cassandra’s paintings in the parlor instead, or anywhere else in the house for that matter. Darla found that she wanted to hurt Olivia and her husband, now; they were just prey before, the means to an end. But now she realized she actually hated them. She found that interesting. She found it interesting that she could actually hate someone.

Darla held Cassandra’s hands in hers, and watched her eyes, as they darted around the room, looking everywhere but at her: even though Darla had spent almost all of her time with Cassandra these past two days, she knew the girl was still afraid of her. She found herself thinking of those flowers in the glass domes on the mantle in the parlor, as she looked at Cassandra. Beautiful things, trapped, locked away.

“You have to promise to be a good girl for me now that I’ve untied you,” Darla said.

“I’ll be good,” Cassandra said, looking down at the floor. There were oil paint stains on the floor, ingrained in the wood.

“Look at me,” Darla said.

Flinching, Cassandra looked up at her, without looking in her eyes.

Darla realized she had come to like this girl. It was strange...the girl was weak, the weakest of the three sisters, weaker even than the mother. And she was appallingly naive. But for some reason, Darla liked her. There was something bright and beautiful, and fragile, inside of her, that came out in her paintings. The fragility added to its beauty. The girl was soft and skittish, like a deer, and her green eyes were like sun-dappled leaves, and she smelled like flowers.

In her human life, Darla had always wanted a daughter...but she was a whore, and that kind of love was denied her. And she was finding now that the tenderness with which she treated Cassandra, though it was all part of Angelus’ plan, wasn’t feigned. Tenderness came easily to her, when she was with Cassandra. She could hardly believe, it, but she didn’t want to hurt her...she wanted to protect her.

Of course Darla knew she didn’t actually care about the girl; that would be preposterous. But still...there was something about Cassandra...something that brought out the mother in her.

Darla thought she might turn her. If they were going to have a daughter, why not two?

“And there are some things you need to do for me if you’re going to be a good girl,” Darla said. “All right?”

“All right,” Cassandra said. She spoke in a flat, languid monotone. She sat very still, her hands folded in her lap.

“First, from now on, I want you to call me ‘mother’,” Darla said, and smiled, and touched Cassandra’s cheek. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Cassandra said.

Darla raised her eyebrows expectantly.

“Yes...mother,” Cassandra said.

“Good girl,” Darla said, and kissed her cheek.

Cassandra seemed to relax a bit. But she was still tense; she sat rigidly upright on the bed, looking at Darla without really looking at her, because she was afraid to. Looking in her eyes, Darla knew Cassandra was somewhere else... hiding from her.

“Draughts,” Darla said, looking over at the draughts board. “Where I come from, we call it checkers.”

“Checkers?” Cassandra said.

“Because of the checkered board, dear,” Darla said.

“Oh,” Cassandra said.

“Do you like to play?”

“Yes...I play sometimes. Drusilla and I...we...”

Cassandra started to cry. Darla hugged her. She knew Cassandra was here, now...she had stopped hiding, for the moment.

“It’s all right,” Darla whispered. “Mother’s here now. Mother will protect you.”

“Drusilla,” Cassandra whispered. “Is she...?”

“She’s perfectly fine, Cassie,” Darla said. “We would never hurt her. I promise. She’s part of our family now. I’m her mother too, and I’d never hurt one of my daughters. All right?”

Cassandra nodded. She didn’t hug Darla back, but Darla could feel Cassandra’s body relaxing a little.

Darla looked her in her eyes again, and this time, Cassandra really looked back.

“But you need to be a good girl, and be strong for your sister,” Darla said. “Can you be strong for Drusilla?”

“I can,” Cassandra said. “I’ll be strong. I’ll be strong for Dru.”

“Good. You know, I was quite a hand at checkers...draughts, in my day,” Darla said. “Are you up for a match?”

“All right,” Cassandra said.

Darla got up and brought the draughts board to the bed, and set it between them. “Do you play often?” she said.

“I play Dru a lot,” Cassandra said. “We have tournaments every week.”

“Doesn’t Veronica join you?”

“No...she doesn’t like draughts. She’s always out with father.”

“I bet you win the tournaments all the time.”

“I win a lot,” Cassandra said, and smiled, a small smile. “I’m very good at draughts.”

“Well it’s been awhile since I’ve played,” Darla said, and smiled back. “The last time was in Barcelona, a very long while ago; I bested an old Moorish soldier three games out of five and won a bottle of rum and some excellent cigars. But I bet I can still show you a thing or two.”

“You’ve...been to Spain?”

“Oh my yes, many times. You haven’t?”

“No. I haven’t...really been many places.”

“Why on earth not? You have the means, certainly you could travel.”

Cassandra shrugged her shoulders, and looked down at the draughts board.

“What color do you want?” Cassandra said. “White always moves first. Do you want to be white?”

“I’m always the red,” Darla said, and smiled. “You can move first. I rather think you’ll need the advantage.”

Cassandra smiled again, a bigger smile this time.

“We’ll see,” she said.

Cassandra made her move, quickly and confidently. Darla countered.

“What’s Barcelona like?” Cassandra said.

“Since they ousted the French, Spain has been unstable, with bands of revolutionaries controlling large areas of the country,” Darla said. “I don’t think Isabella will be on the throne much longer. But it’s a lovely country, and Barcelona is my favorite place there; it’s where I always go when I visit. It’s right by the sea, and it’s wonderful there in the summer and even the winters are mild. England is gray and dreary and wet but Spain is absolutely vibrant, especially in summer. It’s very warm, but it’s dry, not appallingly humid like it can be here. The days are bright and beautiful and the nights are even moreso; Barcelona never seems to have a cloud, and you can see the stars go on forever there at night. The factories haven’t blotted out the sky there yet.”

“My father travels sometimes,” Cassandra said. “He takes Veronica with him sometimes. She’s been to France and Italy with him. He doesn’t take me or Dru. I don’t think...I don’t think he likes Dru.”

“Why not?” Darla said.

Cassandra moved.

“She’s sensitive about things,” Cassandra said. “She doesn’t want to go hunting with him or go to cricket matches like Veronica does. And her dreams frighten him.”

Darla countered.

“They should,” Darla said. “They’re true.”

Cassandra moved, a defensive move, to block Darla’s advance.

“How...do you know that?” Cassandra said. “True how?”

Darla brought another piece up and neatly skirted around it.

“Dru dreamed of me, and Angelus,” Darla said. “She dreamed we would be her new family...and that we would always love her and take care of her, because your father and the dog never did. Your father should be frightened; we’re taking Dru away with us so he can never hurt her again.”

Cassandra grew pale, when Darla referred to her mother as a dog. But it soon passed. Darla had spent two days with her, and she always referred to Olivia as the dog; Darla could see Cassandra was getting used to it now. Cassandra wasn’t close to her father but she was close to her mother; Darla knew separating them would take time. It began with Olivia on a leash.

Cassandra moved, tentatively; it was an error.

Darla advanced a piece. She caressed Cassandra’s hair, and smiled at her.

“But Dru’s dreams don’t always tell her everything, Cassie,” Darla said. “She didn’t see you in her vision of us; she doesn’t know where you fit. She doesn’t know if you’re going to be with her...she’s afraid you won’t. That you’ll choose to stay here, with your father and the dog, and not come with her, when we all leave. She’s desperately frightened she’ll lose you.”

Cassandra countered, a good, strong move this time, and looked up at her.

“She won’t lose me,” Cassandra said.

Darla moved; she saw a weak spot in Cassandra’s line and moved to exploit it.

“Even if that means you have to come with me?” Darla said. “But you’d have to endure such dreadful things, Cassie. Why, I’d take you and Dru to Barcelona with me and we’d drink rum and laugh and show those hot-headed Spaniards how draughts is played. I’d show you the canals of Venice, and the Sistine Chapel. I’d see to it your marvelous paintings escaped this dreary house and hung in a proper gallery in Paris. Do you really think you could tolerate such unremitting tedium?”

“You’d really...take me to those places?” Cassandra said, and moved, not paying attention; Darla immediately saw her error.

“Yes, you and Dru together,” Darla said, and moved a piece, and laid her trap. “I suppose you’d find it all terribly trying.”

Cassandra giggled.

“It does all sound rather trying, but I suppose I might muddle through,” Cassandra said, and smiled.

Cassandra moved, and made an error; she didn’t notice Darla’s gambit and she fell into the trap; it put three of her pieces in the wolf’s jaws.

“I’ve got three jumps,” Darla said, and took the three pieces off the board. “Where is that pretty little head of yours?”

“I can’t believe I didn’t see that,” Cassandra said. Darla thought she had the most precious little pouty look on her face, when she said it.

“I told you, I’m quite the hand,” Darla said, and grinned. “And I even gave you the first move, too. Are you certain you’ve won all those tournaments, dear?”

“Just watch,” Cassandra said, and concentrated on the board, and Darla thought her brow furrowed in the most adorable way, as she thought carefully about her next move.

“The proof’s in the pudding, dear,” Darla said.

Cassandra moved.

“Tell me more about Spain?” she said.

Darla countered; she sacrificed a piece to open the board.

“Aha,” Cassandra said, and smiled, as she took Darla’s piece. “Told you. I’m paying attention now.”

“We’ll see, dear,” Darla said, and moved again, leaving another of her pieces vulnerable.

“Where is that pretty head of yours?” Cassandra said, and giggled, and took the piece. Darla giggled too.

Everything was going according to plan...

“Go on about Spain,” Cassandra said.

Darla moved.

“There are people, especially English people, who think of Spain as a backward country,” Darla said. “I suppose because there are so many beautiful little out of the way towns there that don’t have quite the modern amenities they’re used to when they travel. English people go to Spain and they see illiterate peasants. But I go there and I see people who are alive: people who laugh, and argue, and drink, and have passion, have fire. I’ll take one Spanish bullfight over a dozen English cricket matches. I’d rather sit all day long in a tiny little bar in Barcelona drinking rum and playing cards with a wild group of drunk old Spaniards than have to attend yet another dull English banquet. There’s a Spanish painter I think you’d like, Francisco Goya. Have you heard of him?”

Darla smiled as they traded moves; she was making steady progress through Cassandra’s ranks now, attacking Cassandra’s pieces and sacrificing some of her own to draw Cassandra’s attention where she wanted it; away from the two red pieces that were heading, inexorably, toward Cassandra’s king’s row.

“I’ve heard of him, but I haven’t seen his work,” Cassandra said. Darla thought she looked worried now; she’d finally noticed what Darla was doing. Cassandra saw the two pieces heading for king’s row and knew she wouldn’t be able to stop them both...

Cassandra moved, trying to head off one of Darla’s pieces.

Darla countered.

“You’d love his work, it has fire, like yours does,” Darla said. “In fact yours reminds me very much of his. You have the same wonderful grasp of light and shadow as he did, and you have the same passion; you capture the intensity of moments the way he did. Someday, if you’d like, I’ll take you to see his work.”

“I’d like that,” Cassandra said, and blocked one of Darla’s pieces from reaching king’s row. But it left the way open for the other piece.

Darla moved the piece, one rank away from king’s row now, and none of Cassandra’s pieces were in position to stop it.

“I’ll take you and Dru,” Darla said. “We’ll all go, the whole family.”

Cassandra regrouped. She needed to reach Darla’s king’s row with one of her own pieces as soon as possible now. She considered the board.

“Would you like that?” Darla said. “You and me and Dru, in Spain, looking at Goya’s paintings?

Darla had considered her strategy well, Cassandra thought. She saw no way through Darla’s ranks, not without sacrificing too many of her pieces and leaving the rest vulnerable; those initial three losses had hurt her more badly than she thought. She moved a piece, but she knew it didn’t matter now; most of her pieces were blocked and she was outnumbered, and Darla had a clear path to king’s row...

Cassandra realized the game was lost; Darla was too good a player not to press this advantage. Darla wouldn’t make a mistake now.

“Yes...I think I’d like that,” Cassandra said. “If...if Dru was with us.”

“She will be, Cassie,” Darla said.

Darla moved her red piece into king’s row.

“King me,” Darla said, and smiled.

“The game is lost,” Cassandra said, as she capped Darla’s piece. “Perhaps I’m not so good as I think.”

“I’ve lived a very long time, Cassie. I’m very old and I’ve seen many things and played quite a lot of checkers...draughts. We can play three out of five. You’ll have every chance to redeem yourself and give me a right thumping.”

“All right. You’re not old. You’re pretty.”

“You think I’m pretty?”

Cassandra nodded.

Darla hugged her. This time, Cassandra hugged her back. Cassandra was tentative when she hugged Darla back, and she only did it for a couple of seconds, but she did it.

Darla looked at her. Cassandra had a beautiful neck; it was long and white, like a swan.

“You’re such a little angel,” Darla whispered, and decided she would begin taking Cassandra’s blood soon. She knew Cassandra would come to like it in time, and it would bring them closer. “But trust me Cassie, I’m much older than I look.”

“Really?” Cassandra said, and looked at Darla, studying her face. “But you don’t look much older than Dru.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Darla said.

Veronica slept on the floor in her bedroom, huddled in the corner where Angelus had left her the night before, tied up and bloody and beaten, and dreamed of cigar smoke.

Her father’s cigars were such smelly, awful things, they stunk up the whole house...

Her pain woke her up again.

She wondered how long she had managed to sleep this time. She looked toward the window. Angelus had drawn the heavy curtains, but she could tell it was still day outside. The ropes were cutting into her wrists and her ankles, cutting off her circulation; Angelus had tied them very tight. Her wrists and ankles felt numb now, and they were drained of color, except where they were lacerated from the ropes.

The pain was all flowing back now, from every part of her. It never went away for long. One of her arms was broken, and her left eye was swollen shut. Her lips were swollen so large that she could hardly speak through them anymore; Angelus had punched her in the mouth, and she had lost two of her front teeth. Breathing through her nose felt strange; it still throbbed, and she thought it was probably broken. She was hungry and thirsty and nauseous and tired; she had slept, a little, but not nearly enough. Angelus had come in and roughly awakened her every few hours, and raped her again. Each time, the beating was worse. Each time, he asked her the same question. Each time, she had said, “no”.

Her body shook sometimes, all on its own. The pain in her broken arm was an insistent pounding, like a heartbeat, and getting worse. The bruise on her arm looked black now. She needed to go to the bathroom, badly; she had told Angelus a few hours before and he had just smiled and told her to piss herself. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. But she knew she couldn’t hold it much longer, and she would give in to him soon...first in the small ways, and then, eventually, in the larger ways. She would piss herself, soon. And he would come in again to rape her, and when he told her to spread her legs for him like he always did, she wondered if she would have the strength to resist him, this time...the other times, she had always fought him, always made him force her...and he beat her. And she didn’t know if she could take another beating...she didn’t know if she was strong enough.

The funny thing was, she agreed with him. She knew this was all Drusilla’s fault. She had never much liked her daft, moonstruck older sister, with her bleak poems and her babbling talk and her ridiculous porcelain dolls, never really felt a kinship with her. And she hated her now, for what she’d brought down on them. And all Angelus wanted her to do was tell Drusilla that. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Veronica knew that Drusilla and her blasphemous visions had brought all this down on them. Her father should have sent her away, sent her to that convent forever and washed his hands of her....

She knew Angelus would be there soon, to rape her, and beat her, and ask the question again...and he had said he would ask only one more time. Veronica knew if she refused to do what he bid, if she refused to disown Drusilla, he would kill her this time.

She cried, as her bladder, stressed beyond its limits, finally emptied itself. She felt her urine, warm, filling up her drawers, and soaking them through, and then soaking through her petticoats, and her dress...it puddled a dark, golden yellow on the floor beneath her, and filled the room with a putrid smell.

She wriggled her way out of the urine, and leaned her head against the wall, and cried.

She heard Angelus laughing.

She looked up. He was leaning in the doorway.

She didn’t avoid his eyes, didn’t flinch, didn’t look away from him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Get it over with,” she hissed, through cracked, swollen lips.

“You need a bath, darlin’,” Angelus said. “You smell like piss. You smell like some filthy whore I found in an alley.”

She didn’t respond. She knew he wanted her to say something, to become angry, or outraged...to show him he was getting to her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“I could let you have a bath,” Angelus said. “And I could tend to your wounds, fix that broken arm up. And I could even stop hurting you. It all depends on how you answer my question.”

He crouched down beside her.

“It’s just four words, Veronica,” Angelus said. “Say those four words to Drusilla, and I won’t hurt you anymore...I won’t rape you anymore.”

His breath stank of blood. His eyes had nothing in them.

Veronica thought about the words. She saw herself, saying them.

You’re not my sister.

The funny thing was, she wanted to say them. For what Drusilla had brought down on them all, she wanted to say them...

“Will you say the words?” Angelus said.

Veronica remembered her father, and trips to the seaside...he always took her with him, because she was his favorite. They went horseback riding together, and he had even let her hunt pheasant with him. She didn’t know where her father was, now. After Darla had burst in and somehow overpowered them all and then tied them up, she’d dragged her father away...she didn’t know where she’d taken him.

The last time she saw him, he was bleeding, bound and gagged and straining ferociously against his bonds, being dragged away upstairs by Darla like some captured animal...as if beating him near to death in front of his family had been sport for her...

Angelus was waiting for his answer...

Her father always smelled like cigar smoke...she always badgered him about them, those horrible obnoxious cigars, told him the things were smelly and awful, and he would always just laugh, and muss his fingers through her hair, and kiss her cheek...his moustache always tickled, and she always laughed and rolled her eyes...

Looking back on it all now, she didn’t think his cigars smelled so bad.

“No,” Veronica whispered.

And then she whimpered and squealed, like some captured animal, as Angelus grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out of the room.

Drusilla heard a commotion in the room; it was the first sound she’d heard in hours.

She heard someone whimpering...it sounded like they were gagged. It sounded like a woman...

She moved her head against the closet door, and listened as hard as she could in the dark. A light came on in her room; she saw it through the keyhole, like a shaft of sunlight stealing through storm clouds.

She heard the chair being pulled away from the other side of the door.

A moment later, the door opened and blinding light assailed her. She shrank away from it and squeezed her eyes shut.

“Come on out, blackbird,” she heard Angelus say. “I’ve something to show you.”

Drusilla tried to look, tried to see, but the light was too bright...it hurt too much. She squinted into it as best she could.

“I bet you’re having trouble walking,” Angelus said. “Darla told me she had to carry you before. Let me help you, darlin’.”

She felt his hands around her, gently lifting her up. The room was a hazy jumble of half-glimpsed shapes and colors. A sea of rough brown flitted through her field of vision, and was gone; she assumed it was the hardwood floor. Something flat and roughly square rushed by, and there was something blue on it. She thought it might be her bed. Then, everything was yellow, and her body brushed up against her writing desk. She suddenly felt the desk’s wooden chair beneath her, and then she was sitting. Her legs felt numb. She had some feeling in her hands, but they were tingling. The room was beginning to cohere into something recognizable, the discrete objects and colors coming together now to form connected patterns, objects she could recognize. The things in the room started falling into place like puzzle pieces, as the light became tolerable. She heard the whimpering again, and looked around. She couldn’t find its source yet. The square thing turned out to be her bed after all, the blue thing on it looked like a blanket, and the whimpering was coming from there.

“It’ll take a moment to adjust to the light,” Angelus said. He was standing in front of her, running his cold hand through her hair. “Are you thirsty, or hungry? Darla said she gave you a drink when she let you out of the closet to go to the toilet, but that was awhile ago.”

“I’m...thirsty,” Drusilla said. She could see much better now. She looked up at him. He was smiling down at her, and Darla was beside him now; she hadn’t noticed her before. Darla held a glass of milk and a plate of cranberry muffins in her hands.

“I made this for you, precious,” Darla said. “You must be absolutely famished.” Darla placed the food on the writing table, and knelt down and untied Drusilla’s hands. When Drusilla’s hands were free she found it hard to move her arms much, and they were still tingling from her wrists down to the tips of her fingers. Darla gently took Drusilla’s hands in hers, and slowly unbent Drusilla’s arms, and then she rubbed them with her hands to get the blood flowing in them again. She looked up at Drusilla while she was doing this, and smiled.

Drusilla heard the whimpering sound again, and she knew it was coming from the bed. But she couldn’t see the bed; Angelus was standing directly in front of her, blocking her view.

When Darla was done rubbing the life back into Drusilla’s wrists and hands, she kissed her cheek.

“There. All better now,” Darla said. “Now have something to eat, dear. I made you cranberry muffins.”

“Cranberry muffins?” Angelus said, glancing at Darla with a hint of amusement in his dark eyes.

“I’ll have you know that in my day I was an excellent cook, Angelus,” Darla said. “I still know my way around a stove.”

“You’re always full of surprises, love,” Angelus said.

Drusilla gulped down the entire glass of milk, drinking it so quickly some of it dribbled down her chin.

“Easy, precious, easy,” Darla said, and dabbed her chin with a napkin. “You don’t have to wolf it down. If you want more mother will bring you some, all you have to do is ask me, all right?”

“Where is my mother?” Drusilla said.

“Why, I’m right here, Dru,” Darla said, pretending not to understand her question, her smile not wavering in the slightest.

“I mean...I mean...Olivia,” Drusilla said. “Where is she?”

“You mean the dog?” Darla said. “She’s in her room, on her leash. Would you like to take her for a walk tonight? She should go for a walk soon, or she might end up peeing on the floor. I’ve been walking her, but I think she’d like it if you came along.”

Drusilla wanted to cry. But she just didn’t have the energy anymore.

“Have a muffin, Dru,” Darla said. “I know you’re hungry.”

Drusilla took one of the muffins from the plate, and took a tentative bite. It tasted good. She ate the rest of it almost as quickly as she’d drank the milk, and started in on another.

She heard the whimpering sound again.

“What’s...who is that?” Drusilla said.

“That’s what I wanted to show you,” Angelus said, and chuckled, and stepped aside, so she could see...

She saw the blue thing on the bed. It was Veronica. She was wearing the same blue dress she’d had on the last time Drusilla saw her...when Darla had come in, and taken them all...

Veronica was tied up, and gagged. She was bruised and bloody; she had been beaten. Her arm looked broken. Her face was flushed, and she drooled a little out of one side of her mouth.

Drusilla had seen a fox hunt, once. Her father had brought her to see, on one of the very few occasions he had deigned to bring her anywhere with him at all. She was ten years old, and she hadn’t yet told anyone of her visions, and she didn’t think he hated her then like he did now. She’d rode with him, one cold, drizzly day in a covert in the countryside, watching all the horses as her father’s men rode ahead and whipped the hounds onward: the horses trampled the grass with thundering hooves, their legs working like pistons; their long, beautiful, muscular necks strained against their bridles, and their breath made little puffs of smoke that rose up into the air and disappeared into the iron-gray sky. The hounds harried the poor beleaguered fox, running it ragged, coursing after it as it darted through the wet brush; everywhere it turned, the hounds were there, and the whippers-in after them, and Drusilla and her father were right behind. In the end, the hounds cornered the fox, and hemmed it in, growling and baring their fangs, and Drusilla watched the fox, as it lay there in the dirt, exhausted and defeated, and waiting for death.

It had reddish-golden fur and a white underbelly and a long, bushy tail with a white tip. The fox looked up at Drusilla...for a second, their eyes met. Its eyes were golden, with pupils like a cat...

Her father raised his rifle, and put a bullet through its right eye. Drusilla spent the rest of the day crying, and didn’t say a word to him.

When their eyes met, Veronica was looking back at Drusilla the way the fox had.

Drusilla started to cry again.

“Daddy’s going to put on a show for you, dear,” Darla said, and put her arm around her. “Isn’t it grand?”

“Aye, that it is,” Angelus said, and chuckled, and unbuttoned his pants, and took out his dick. Veronica whimpered again. Drusilla looked away.

Darla wiped Drusilla’s tears away, and gently turned her head back toward the bed.

“No, Dru,” Darla said. “Mother wants you to see this. Be a good girl for me and watch.”

Drusilla watched. She could do nothing else.

She would get to the revolver. But not now...not yet. She had to wait for her time...

“Where’s Cassie?” Drusilla whispered.

“In her room, working on her latest masterpiece,” Darla said. “Our Cassie’s really wondrously talented, isn’t she?”

“Is she all right?” Drusilla whispered.

Darla kissed her cheek again. “Not a scarlet hair out of place, precious,” she said. “I locked her door. We don’t want her finding her way here and seeing this. It would upset her, and our Cassie’s such an excitable girl.”

Drusilla watched as Angelus untied Veronica, and then took her gag off. When he took her gag off, Veronica coughed, and spit up a little blood. She didn’t move her arms, even though they were free now; Drusilla knew they must have been numb, and she could see a large black bruise on the one that looked broken. They were white and colorless, save for the bruise and the spots where the rope cut through, leaving ugly red welts on her wrists, and on her ankles too. Angelus hiked Veronica’s dress up to her waist, and ripped her petticoats and drawers down, and then he stood above her, with his dick, now fully erect, jutting out of his pants like a rifle. He smiled down at her, baring his teeth like the hounds.

“Spread your legs for me,” he said.

Veronica looked away from him, as tears filled her eyes, and she opened her legs for him.

“No foreplay this time, eh?” he said, as he climbed on top of her, and roughly entered her. She whimpered, and started crying now. “Probably for the best. You’re looking pretty rough. But at least you don’t smell like piss anymore now that we cleaned you up a little. I can barely tolerate plugging your dirty hole as it is.” He chuckled.

He grabbed Veronica’s unbroken arm in one hand, and held it to the bed as he began thrusting into her in earnest. Veronica squealed with every thrust, and began wailing and screaming as she cried. Angelus chuckled again.

Drusilla closed her eyes, as her tears flowed down her cheeks.

“I said I want you to watch, Dru,” she heard Darla whispering in her ear. “Veronica was a bad girl, so she’s being punished. You and Cassie have been very good girls so far...I don’t want that to change.”

Fear knifed through Drusilla’s stomach when Darla mentioned Cassandra. She opened her eyes, and made herself look at Veronica again.

Darla took Drusilla’s hand as they watched Angelus raping Veronica, as if they were two ladies watching a cricket match.

Angelus took his time. He raped Veronica for a full half hour, while Darla held Drusilla’s hand, and made her watch.

The worst thing about it, Drusilla thought, was that by the end, it had gotten boring. She’d cried throughout the entire ordeal, but the initial intensity of emotion she’d felt when she first saw her sister being violated was too difficult to keep up; it had exhausted her after only a little while. Angelus was brutal with Veronica, relishing her pain and reveling in her tears, and to Drusilla it seemed to go on forever, and by the end, she’d felt like all the emotion she could possibly feel, all the tears she could possibly spill, had been wrung out of her...she didn’t think she had anything left to give.

Veronica didn’t once look back at her.

But then Angelus looked back at Drusilla, as if he had sensed what she was thinking...and sprang one final surprise.

His face changed to vampire form, and he smiled...

...And he sank his fangs into Veronica’s neck, and tore her throat out in front of Drusilla’s eyes.

Blood exploded from Veronica’s neck like a geyser, and her body spasmed. She made a small gurgling sound, and then she died.

Darla clapped and laughed. Drusilla screamed. The moment she did, Darla covered her mouth with her hand.

“We wouldn’t want to alarm Cassie, dear,” Darla said.

Drusilla kept screaming under Darla’s hand anyway. She screamed, and screamed, screamed until she was out of breath, screamed until her throat burned...screamed until there was nothing left in her, until the revulsion and the horror and the despair she felt were no longer inside her, no longer in her heart, but out of her now, out in the room, polluting the air like those terrible reeking plumes of smoke the factories spewed into the sky...

When it was all outside of her, Drusilla caught her breath, and cried.

Darla hugged her.

“It’s all right, precious, it’s all right,” Darla cooed in her ear. “The bad girl’s gone, and all we have now are our two beautiful daughters. Our two beautiful daughters.”

Drusilla tried to pull away but Darla’s grip was strong as steel. She wailed into Darla’s dress, as Darla held her close, and wouldn’t let her pull away.

“Mother’s here now,” Darla whispered. “Mother’s here.”

After Drusilla had calmed down a little, Darla let go of her, and made her look at her sister’s corpse. Drusilla tried not to, but Darla said, “Just one little peek, precious, and then you won’t have to look anymore, all right?”

Drusilla opened her eyes, for just a second, and saw what was left of her sister. Veronica was staring up at the ceiling, her skin white as snow, her neck covered with blood, gathering in thick, dark pools above her breasts. Her blue eyes were flat and dull. Her mouth was open, her last screams frozen there. She didn’t look like Veronica anymore; her face looked like a mask. She lay still.

“All right. That’s enough,” Darla said, and kissed Drusilla’s cheek. “You’re a good girl, Dru. You and Cassie are my good girls. Now put your hands behind your back for me, and then you can go give Daddy a kiss goodnight.”

Drusilla put her hands behind her back. Darla took the rope from the writing desk and tied them again, careful, like the last time, not to make the ropes too tight. Then she helped Drusilla up, and led her back to the closet. Angelus joined them there. His face was still in vampire form, and it mocked Drusilla, leered down at her like a demon. His mouth was caked with Veronica’s blood. Drusilla looked away from him.

“Look at me, darlin’,” Angelus said.

Drusilla looked at him. She felt Darla’s cold hand running through her hair.

“I raped your sister,” Angelus said. “I raped her and then I killed her. She was a virgin, you know. The first time I raped her last night, she was so tight she screamed as I stuffed it into her. Her little cunny loosened up some after that but she was always pretty tight; it hurt her every time. Made her bleed every time, even after I took her cherry.”

Drusilla tried to look away from him again, but she couldn’t...he held her in his eyes...she was cornered, run to ground...like a fox.

“And all the things I did to her? They were your fault,” Angelus said, and smiled. “You saw them in your blasphemous visions, you brought them down on poor Veronica. Because you hated her, didn’t you?”

“No, no...” Drusilla whimpered, and shook her head, and started crying again. “I didn’t...I loved my sister.”

“You hated her, you hate the old man too. The only one you really give a fig about is Cassie.”

His eyes held Drusilla...she tried to look away, but she couldn’t.

“You killed Veronica, Dru,” Angelus said. “Your hatred killed her. Your depravity killed her. You brought me here to kill her because you wanted her dead. You wanted to escape this house, escape this family, this life, and you were willing to kill to do it. You killed Veronica and you’re gonna kill the rest too...all save Cassie. You’ll protect her, because even a monstrous thing like you can feel love...you love Cassie. You don’t want to harm a hair on her pretty little head, so I won’t either. You brought me here, Dru. I’m only doing what you want, after all.”

He laughed.

“I’m your humble servant, darlin’,” he said, still laughing, and bowed to her.

Drusilla held her head in her hands, and shook, and nearly collapsed; Angelus grabbed her arm, and held her up. Darla caressed her hair.

“Darlin’,” Angelus whispered, and caressed Drusilla’s cheek, and tilted her chin, so she was looking up at him...so his eyes could hunt her down, and bring her to bay. His face looked normal again, now...handsome. But he still had Veronica’s blood on his lips.

“The old man and the dog and Veronica never cared for you,” he said. “But Darla and I do.”

He wiped her tears away. His hand was gentle.

“We’re your family now, blackbird,” Angelus said.

She couldn’t look away from him. She felt like she was collapsing inside, falling...his gaze, and the nothingness it contained, was a black abyss now, and Drusilla felt herself being sucked down into it...she felt herself falling into endless cold, endless dark...

“Kiss Daddy goodnight, now,” Angelus said.

“Be a good girl, Dru,” Darla said. “Give your father a kiss goodnight. Show us that you and Cassie are our good girls, and you don’t need to be punished. It would be so terrible if Cassie had to be punished, wouldn’t it?”

Drusilla wanted to close her eyes...but she couldn’t. Angelus still held her, in his eyes...

Drusilla kissed him. He kissed her back, softly. His lips tasted like blood.

“Good night, blackbird,” Angelus said, and gently lifted Drusilla in his arms, and set her down in the closet, and shut the door.

Drusilla heard the chair being propped against the closet door again. She heard Angelus and Darla laughing.

“I’m a damned rooster over here,” she heard Angelus say.

“Let me take care of that,” she heard Darla say. “And you better not play any of your malicious games with me this time. I’ve been very supportive of this over-complicated scheme of yours and I expect to be treated like a lady.”

“Of course, love,” she heard Angelus say. “The finest lady in the world.”

The light went out in the room outside, snuffing out the gossamer-thin beam that stole into the closet through the keyhole, and Drusilla heard the bedroom door close. She was alone again...the closet was black as pitch again.

Darkness surrounded Drusilla again...

She felt it crawling over her skin, like a living thing now. It insinuated itself into her.

She felt it filling her up.

Angel stood with Darla...or the ghost of Darla, or the illusion of Darla...in a room he used as a study. She’d said she was tired of the jasmine flowers, tired of being surrounded by Buffy’s scent, and she wanted to go somewhere else. The walls and floor and ceiling of the room were cold granite, but Angel liked the spartan quality it had. It lent itself to thinking...to considering things carefully. He’d put some furniture in there; a leather couch and leather chairs and an antique mahogany desk, and a bookcase that had once been in Theodore Roosevelt’s house. It had vases and statuettes and old books and candles on the shelves, things Angel had collected in his travels; he liked collecting things now. He’d spent decades living on the streets with nothing, subsisting on rats; shortly after that he’d spent nearly a century in a hell dimension. It gave him an urge to have things. So he collected knick-knacks. The room was dim, lit by a brass chandelier in the shape of a crown, the light turned down low. There was a big fireplace, with a fire going now, and an alabaster statue of Aphrodite stood in a corner.

“You always did have fabulous taste, Angelus,” Darla said. “I taught you well.”

She wasn’t wearing the cheerleader outfit anymore; it had suddenly changed as they walked into the room. Now she was wearing a simple black dress, and nothing else. She looked beautiful in it.

She sat on the couch. Angel thought it was strange, watching her sit; for a moment she didn’t seem to be touching the cushions. She almost seemed like an image, a projection of a person, rather than a person. But Angel supposed the rules were different for ghosts...or whatever she was.

“Sit with me,” Darla said, and smiled.

He sat next to her. She crossed her legs. She wore nothing else other than the dress; she was barefoot. She had great legs; she always had. He felt an old, familiar longing.

Darla...what are you doing here?” Angel said. “I saw Leah Maguire tonight, just before you arrived. You remember her?”

“Hmm...no, I don’t think I recall her,” Darla said. “She was a girl you killed, of course? The name sounds Scottish.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Why should I?” Darla said, and giggled, and looked at him like he was just slightly out of his mind. “She was food. She was a rabbit.”

“We raped her,” Angel said. “The same night I first saw Dru.”

“Ah, yes, now I remember. The girl looked like Little Red Riding Hood. And you took a fancy to her, so I brought her home for you and you fucked her up the ass and killed her.”

Angel looked away from her, toward the fireplace.

“Or perhaps you’d like to remember it some other way?” Darla said, and laughed. “How about...you took her out for a romantic evening, and gave her flowers, and when she offered herself to you, like all the girls do, you refused because you’re so honorable and noble and heroic, and you gave her only a single, chaste kiss. Better?”

Angel looked at the fire.

“Perhaps we could embellish this fairy tale further,” Darla said. “Perhaps after the chaste kiss, you two embarked upon an epic romance. You swept her off her feet, and she swooned for you. All the girls do; none of them can resist my darling boy.”

Darla got up, and paced around the room.

“Perhaps we could even replace Leah in this fairy tale with a new character,” Darla said. “How about...a naive young girl with the weight of the world on her shoulders. A pretty blonde cheerleader.” Darla stopped in front of the statue of Aphrodite, and leaned against it, and smiled down at Angel...smiled like a wolf.

“And the cheerleader, who also happens to be a Slayer, meets my darling boy, and falls under his spell...like all the girls do,” Darla said. “Like I did. And even when she found out he was a vampire, the thing she was put here to destroy, she couldn’t resist him...and they fell in love. What a wonderful fairy tale.”

“It’s not a fairy tale,” Angel said, still looking at the fire.

“Ah, but it is, Angelus,” Darla said. “Not from her perspective of course. I have no doubt that Buffy loved you, and gave you what there was of her; gave you whatever it is a sixteen-year old blonde twit who knows nothing about life or the world could possibly have to offer. Something meager and thin and cold, I’d think, compared to what we had. We burned.”

Angel looked at her.

“You didn’t know her,” Angel said. “You don’t know what she had to give. She loved me.”

“Past tense?” Darla said, her eyes stabbing into him, her smile distorted into a cruel leer. “Aw, baby. Is the fairy tale over already?”

Angel looked away from her, into the fire again.

“Did you become bored with her, Angelus? Or did she leave?”

He looked into the fire, and didn’t respond.

“She left,” Darla said. “Well I’ll say this much for the cheerleader; she may be the first woman in history to ever leave you first. How does it feel? Are you absolutely heartbroken that you won’t be able to take her to the prom? Who’s the next girl? Have you picked her out yet? How about that new Slayer, Faith? Now she’s interesting. Not all prissy and prim and pipe-up-the-ass proper like the cheerleader. She reminds me of myself, awhile ago...I bet she could show you some things in the bedroom.”

“I love Buffy,” Angel said.

Darla laughed.

“Love?” she said. “Love? That soul really has made you dim-witted. You don’t love her, you never did. Oh, you were smitten with her for awhile. She was new, for awhile, a fresh young thing. And I suppose you were fond of her, in your way, though I shudder to think what you and her could possibly have talked about. Music videos, perhaps? Hairstyling tips?”

Angel looked at her again, met her eyes...looked into her nothingness.

“Remember Cassandra?” Darla said. “I wanted her. She was a little thing, but she made me happy. And you denied her to me.”

She sat on the couch with him again, and looked into the fire.

“I wondered about that, about why you did that to me, for a long time afterwards. Years,” Darla said. “Giving me Cassie wouldn’t have interfered with your plans for Dru. You could’ve let me have her and still broken Dru. But you didn’t. You arranged your plan to take Cassie from me. At first I thought you did it because you were jealous...you were my lover but you were also my son, and maybe you didn’t want me to have a daughter; maybe you didn’t want to share me with anyone else. But that wasn’t it. Eventually I realized the answer was much simpler than that. You took Cassie from me because you wanted to hurt me.”

She was right, Angel knew.

“She made me happy, happy in a way I had never been,” Darla said. “And you relished the thought of hurting me in a way I hadn’t been hurt before. So you did. Because, although you doted on me and followed me, although I was always in your thoughts, although you were a devoted son and an ardent lover, you never really loved me. You were fond of me, as you were fond of the cheerleader. But not enough to keep from hurting me...or her. You knew taking her cherry might activate your curse and you didn’t care. So you took her. Because that’s what you do, Angelus. You take what you want. It’s what you always do.”

“I didn’t know you felt so close to Cassandra,” Angel said.

“Oh, I didn’t love her, or even care about her really,” Darla said. “But I was very fond of her, she made me happy, and I would have cared about her, cared for her, perhaps even loved her, in time. You never gave me a chance.”

“I’m sorry,” Angel said.

“Oh, please,” Darla said, and got up again, and moved to the fire. “Grow a dick, dear. If I was alive I might throw myself in the fire and have done with it rather than have to listen to anymore of your craven-hearted mewling.”

She looked down into the fire. A tear ran down her cheek.

“You’re grown cold, Angelus,” Darla said. “And it breaks my heart.”

He stood up, and moved beside her.

“Did you ever love me, my angel, even a little?” she said, crying now. “Did you ever care for me?”

“I...cared for you,” he said, and tried to wipe her tears away. His hand went through her.

“I want you to hold me and you can’t,” Darla said. “Doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t love me. I thought...for years I thought that perhaps you could never love. That the darkness in you, the darkness that caught my eye, was too strong even for me to live in. That you simply didn’t have it in you to love...but you did. You just didn’t love me. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve seen it...when you were with her, the look in your eyes...I should’ve realized then who it was you truly loved...who you still love, even now.”

“Buffy,” Angel said. “I love Buffy.”

Darla smiled, as she cried.

“No,” she said. “And Buffy doesn’t love you...not anymore.”

“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing with Drusilla, Angelus,” Darla said. “You could lose her. We could lose them both.”

Darla lay in Angelus’ arms. They were naked together on the couch in the parlor. They had dumped Veronica’s body in the horse stable along with the bodies of the servants and then they had come back in and had some spectacular fucking, and Darla was content now: Angelus had given it to her hard and painfully, hurting her just the way she liked.

“Both?” Angelus said. “You’re not gettin’ attached to that little red-headed thing, are you? Girl’s the runt of the litter.”

“Don’t say that,” Darla said.

“She’s weak, Darla. She’s the weakest of the whole lot, she can’t even look at us. She’s hiding inside herself, somewhere.”

“No. I mean, don’t say I’m getting attached.” She turned over, and caressed his long, dark hair, and smiled. “I’ve only ever gotten attached to one person.”

“Aye, and a drunken bore he was, for a fact. You should’ve been more careful, darlin’. Fallin’ for an Irish rogue like me.”

“You have your charms,” Darla murmured, and kissed him.

“Well I have heard it told I’ve somewhat of a way with the ladies,” Angelus said.

“Mmm, you do, my angel. You can see right through us...penetrate us, right through to our hearts.”

“I penetrate you in other ways too. Penetratin’s rather my thing.”

“Ah, now there’s the drunken bore who made me swoon a century ago,” Darla said, and giggled. “I’ve been wondering where he’d got to. I was worried he might have gotten buried. Lost beneath a veneer of gentility. That would have been tragic; to become so distastefully common. London has a way of corrupting people...even the best. Even the very worst.”

“God damned Englishmen,” Angelus growled. “Napoleon should’ve just invaded the damn island and had done with it.”

“Well the food would have been better at least. But getting back to my point, do you really think it wise to allow Dru to escape? She’s not broken yet, I can see she’s still fighting us. The moment she realizes she can leave that closet then she will.”

“And we could lose her. That’s what makes the game, darlin’. Gotta be some risk or it’s not a game worth playin’, now is it?”

“She and Cassie are very close. And I wouldn’t like it if I lost Cassie, Angelus.”

“You do have a thing for that girl. I could tell you were putting a lot of extra effort in with her. What do you see in her?”

“She’s...fragile,” Darla said. “I like her fragility; she’s a soft, beautiful little thing. I want her. You want Drusilla. I want Cassie.”

He turned and looked curiously at her. She always could surprise him...

“You’re serious, aren’t you?” he said. “You really want to turn that girl. Spend eternity with her.”

“I always wanted a daughter, when I was in Virginia,” she said. “And she feels like a daughter, for some reason... she smells like a daughter to me. And besides, it can only help with Drusilla, she’d be lonely without her sister.”

“More than that, if I don’t kill Cassie I can use her to get what I want from Dru, break her down faster. Dru’s trying to protect her...our dear Cassie’s the most important thing to her. More important even than her own life. I can use that, when Dru escapes from the closet.”

A thought occurred to Angelus...he knew Cassandra was more important to his plan than any other member of the family, and he’d been trying to determine how best to use her. He had planned to force Cassandra to reject Drusilla, but now he realized that doing just the opposite could be even more effective...

He smiled. He saw it all in front of him, saw the endgame now. He saw all the moves and countermoves; like an expert chess player, he was thinking a dozen moves ahead.

He knew Darla would be hurt, and furious with him. That would make it even better. It had been awhile since he had really hurt her...since he had hurt her in a way that was really special.

“So you still intend to allow her to escape?” Darla said. “It’s a risk, Cassie or no. What about that gun? If Dru knows about it...”

“Don’t you worry your pretty head about that,” Angelus said, and smiled his wolfish smile. “It’s all part of the plan.”

Drusilla managed to sleep, for awhile, in the closet. She’d cried so much and for so long that it exhausted her, left her utterly spent. She slept, and dreamed.

She dreamed of Veronica...

She dreamed Veronica was in the closet with her. They were lying together, curled up side by side in the dark. Veronica’s neck was bloody, and her skin was pale. But her eyes...her eyes burned.

“You did this,” Veronica said.

For some reason, even though the closet was completely dark, Drusilla could see Veronica perfectly. Veronica had lost two of her front teeth, and her arm was broken, and her lips were swollen. When Veronica talked, her voice came out in a hiss.

“I’m sorry,” Drusilla whispered.

“You’re the Devil’s spawn, Drusilla,” Veronica said.

Drusilla started crying, and turned away from her.

“Father should have sent you away,” Veronica said, and grabbed Drusilla by the neck with hands like claws, wrenching her head around and forcing her to look at her, to look into her burning eyes.

Veronica wrapped her legs around Drusilla, coiling them around her body like a snake and holding her fast. When Drusilla looked at her again, Veronica had a face like a demon’s, and long, pointed teeth.

“You’re not my sister,” Veronica said.

And Drusilla could suddenly hear other voices too...dozens of voices... whispering...

Veronica smiled like a wolf...like Angelus. Drusilla screamed...

And the other voices, the dozens, the hundreds of voices, screamed and cackled and gibbered and hissed at Drusilla, mocking her...

“You belong to the Devil, you always have,” Veronica whispered, but Drusilla could barely hear her now over the other whispers, the hundreds of whispers that filled the little black closet until she thought it would burst. “And he has sent his dark angel to take you to him, to drag you down to Hell where you belong.”

“No...NO!” Drusilla screamed, and shook her head. “I’m good, I’m good...I don’t, I don’t, I don’t, I don’t...”

“Of course you belong in Hell,” Veronica said, her voice a single distant whisper nearly lost in the cacophony of whispers assaulting Drusilla’s ears. “You’re there right now. Can you not hear the voices? The voices of the damned, whispering in your ear? All those damned souls, they’re calling out to you, Drusilla...they know you belong with them.”

Veronica grabbed Drusilla’s hair in one long claw, and held her still. She growled at Drusilla, as Drusilla shrank away from her, and tried to escape...but there was nowhere to go...

“They’re calling,” Veronica snarled, and smiled, showing Drusilla her fangs, as the voices all turned to animal sounds now, snarling and growling and roaring. “They’re calling...”

Veronica sank her teeth into Drusilla’s neck, as Drusilla screamed...

Angel sat on the granite bench in the courtyard again, looking up at the stars, surrounded by jasmine. He’d gone back to the courtyard after Darla left him. He didn’t want to be alone, and he didn’t feel so alone when he was in the courtyard. He felt like he was part of the world, when he was there; part of the living world, instead of some dead thing; a walking corpse who should have been left rotting in the earth more than two-hundred years before.

Darla had simply disappeared, like Leah had. When Angel had pressed her for answers, asked her what she was really doing there and what she wanted, she had simply said, “For you to see.”

Then she had smiled, with tears in her eyes, and disappeared.

So Angel sat in the courtyard now, surrounded by jasmine, and looked up at the stars.

He wondered where Buffy was. He wondered if she had finally left him.

“Run away, count to ten,” a woman’s voice sang.

It was a sweet voice; a jasmine voice. It echoed softly through the black night air, a whisper on honey wings, flitting around the courtyard and lingering a moment, before it flew away on the breeze.

Angel knew the voice.

Drusilla stepped out of the darkness, a wolf stalking toward him.

“I’m looking for you again,” she sang, and smiled her little girl’s smile, and looked down at him. Angel couldn’t see worlds anymore, in those ice-blue eyes; they had been hollowed out. The light in them had been extinguished. But he still thought they were beautiful.

Drusilla was wearing a pretty red satin dress, and long, black gloves. Angel had bought the dress for her, a few months after he’d broken her and killed her and turned her...when he was still soulless...when he was Angelus.

Angel remembered they had passed a dressmaker’s shop in Marseille, and Drusilla had seen the dress in the window, and just had to have it...

“Please, Daddy?” she had said. She always looked beautiful in red. And he never could say no to her.

“Hello, Dru,” Angel said. Her scent came to him. She was there, physically. But her scent hadn’t been there a moment before. He hadn’t heard her approach. Like Leah and Darla, she had simply, suddenly just appeared...

“I missed you, Daddy,” Drusilla said.

Drusilla woke up in the closet, screaming hysterically. For a long while, all she could hear were her own screams...

Eventually, she forced herself to calm down. Screaming wouldn’t help...it wouldn’t help Cassie.

Then, she thought she heard voices...

First, just a few...then dozens, hundreds...

Whispering...

Calling to her.