Full Circle

WARNING! WARNING! WARNING! The following chapter is rated “R” due to graphic and highly disturbing imagery. This chapter contains detailed depictions of rape and gore. The events contained herein are based on historical accounts. I’ve merely tweaked and embellished certain aspects to fit the context of this story. If you are easily disturbed by such imagery, I advise you to forgo the read. Consider yourselves hereby warned! And now, without further ado, I present for your reading pleasure:


Chapter One Hundred-nine: Beauty and the Beasts



“Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” said a manly voice, sounding somewhat hazy to the Slayer’s ears.

Stirring, she let out a throaty moan, as she began to come to her senses.

The blood-curdling screams rang out again, causing Buffy’s eyes to dart open in alarm. She gasped.

“Hello, Mother,” said the man crouching beside her. He smiled warmly.

Her breathing quickened, as she pushed herself into a sitting position. Did he just call me mother? Her mind was racing. She had no recollection of the ruggedly handsome face studying her own in the rapidly dimming light. Her eyes frantically searched his face, hoping that something would jog her memory. How was it possible that she could not recognize her own son?

Noticing the blank expression on her pale face, the man chuckled softly, pushing part of his long, dark hair behind his ear. “Damn!” he said. “Here I thought I was your favorite, but you don’t even recognize me! Jeez! I can feel the love!” he mumbled sarcastically. “But never you mind. Must be because I’m wearing my ‘street face’.”

The man’s face instantly morphed into that of a demon. His smooth skin turned grayish in color. It looked dry, wrinkly. She shifted her eyes to his. The iris had gone from hazel to grey. His pupils, which had appeared human-like before, now resembled slits, much like a feline’s. Over his left eye, etched into the flesh of his forehead was some sort of symbol - its significance held no meaning to the Slayer. At an angle, starting above his right eye ran a long, dark scar that crossed the bridge of his nose and ended in a swooping stroke along his left jaw line, a couple of inches below the ear. She knew, intuitively, that it was a painful reminder of a battle lost.

In this form, he seemed oddly familiar. It took a few moments for her to sense that they had one thing in common - blood. Her essence ran through his veins. He was a part of her, and Melkor. He was one of their beloved offspring brought into the world in ages past.

“Sah - Sahjhan?” she queried hesitantly, unsure if her guess was correct or not.

“Bingo! I thought that my true visage would jolt your memory.”

With a trembling hand, Buffy reached out, wanting to touch the damaged tissue with her fingertips. When her hand went through his phantom face, she quickly pulled it back. Sahjhan’s fey looked so life-like, resembling his bodily form in every detail that she could remember that she was stunned that he was not in his hröa.

“What happened to you?” she queried, confused more than ever. “Are you a ghost?” she continued, pulling herself to her feet.

He then transformed back into his human-like façade. “No, no. I’m no ghost,” he answered, rising to his feet as well. “We all have enemies, Mother. Mine have made me this way when I happen to enter this world. I can only come into this dimension in non-corporeal form. But I still have my time-shifting abilities. They couldn‘t take that away from me.”

“You’re a Time-shifter?” she repeated, her confusion not lessening in the slightest.

“I can watch this world from a multiple of dimensions. Thanks to you, of course,” he added with a quick smile.

She looked up and down the alleyway. It was empty, except for her and her demonic offspring. The only sounds were the continuous tormented cries that rang out in the ever-darkening sky, and the jeering roars of delight that seemed to accompany them.

“Why am I here?” she asked in hope that Sahjhan would be able to give her the answers she desperately wanted. “Only a few minutes ago, I was in the Ring of Doom, in Valinor, and… ” she stopped mid-sentence, turning her gaze back to the demon. “Did you bring me here? You said you were a Time-shifter. Are you behind all this?”

“I’m afraid not. Your brethren are the ones responsible, not me. But I knew you’d be coming, so I took it upon myself to be here when you arrived, to guide you, to show you what you must do.”

Still puzzled, she shook her head. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand any of this. Why here? Why now?”

“Because you’re the only one with the balls to get things done. And I say that in the most complimentary of ways. You have the guts to do the right thing, to see things through, unlike most of your kinfolk. The Valar don’t give a crap about what goes on in this world, about the evil creatures wreaking havoc on these poor, unfortunate, lost souls.”

“But you’re a demon! You like chaos and bloodshed,” she rebuked, recalling more clearly how her offspring had behaved in the First Age of Middle-earth.

“True, true. But only if I’m an active participant. It’s just not the same when I have to sit on the sidelines, acting as a bystander. Takes all the fun out of it, you know.”

The Slayer rolled her eyes. “Oh, God. This is crazy. I’ve gotta be dreaming.”

“I’d pinch you, but, you know - can’t touch.”

“Why am I here, Sahjhan?” she asked, demanding an answer once and for all. “And no more beating around the bush. I’m not in the mood for your mind games.”

“Simmer down, Mom,” he replied, seemingly amused by the whole situation. “I’m getting to that.” He studied her for a moment before continuing. “What do you know about the French Revolution?”

Buffy stood there for a moment, staring incredulously at her offspring.

“Come on, now,” he continued. “I know that you remember what led to this most historic of uprisings.”

“Not much,” she snapped. The Slayer wasn’t in the mood to think about history or battles, past or present. Hell, to her, the War of Wrath had only just ended, and that was a fifty year battle. All she wanted was a one-way ticket back to Lindecoa where she could surround herself with those whom she loved. She didn’t want to be here any more and still didn’t have a clue as to why. “I just want to go home.”

“Why, you are home,” Sahjhan laughed. “War’s taking place and you are the Goddess of War. This is where you’re meant to be… ”

“No!” she protested, shaking her head. The heaviness in the air only added to her growing uneasiness. “I don’t wanna be here!”

“Then just smite these vermin like you did those in Jericho and you can be on your merry way.”

“Jericho? What the hell is Jericho?”

“Christ! Don’t you remember anything? Did the Valar wipe your memories yet again?”

Buffy stared blankly at the demon. With the Valar thrusting her forward in time to the Fourth Age, she had no memories of the things that had taken place from the second year of the Second Age to now.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about! I just want to go home!” Her eyes began to well with tears. “I don’t like it here.”

“Tough!” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “I’m disappointed that you’ve gone all soft on me. You were once a fearless warrior. The enemy trembled when they saw you on the battlefield.” He began to circle her. “What happened? Why have you gone all princess on me? Is it the clothing? ‘Cause if it is, we can do something about that.”

The Slayer remained frozen, as darkness settled upon the city. The oil lamp at the intersection of the main street cast the alley in shadows. The air felt cooler, chilling her.

“I can sense that your magics have been stifled? Why? What evil have you done to bring that about, again? Or do the Valar get their jollies by fuckin’ with you?” Sahjhan let out a derisive snort. “Hindering your magics and then throwing you into a frenzied mob? Mm-mmm… What the hell did you do to piss them off?”

“I killed Thorondor,” she answered, staring ahead.

“Thorondor? The Eagle? But that’s been millennia ago.”

“I told you that I was in the Ring of Doom right before I came here,” she said between gritted teeth.

“Geesh, no need to be so testy. I’m your ally, Mother, not your enemy,” said Sahjhan, stopping before her. He cocked his head, listening to the chorus of screams that shattered the night. “Listen to that. Howls of pain. It’s music to my hears.”

Buffy frowned, but made no reply.

“We all know how history can be manipulated, re-written. Hell, we’ve both done it to serve our purpose.” He leaned forward, smiling. “You know, show us in a better light,” he chortled. “But now, at this moment, in this place - there’s an uprising taking place by those that have seized power that will change history forever - if - you let it. They will re-write these events, making it palatable to the masses of later generations, who will look upon these events as one of the noblest of battles. But that’s not true, Mother. The cup overfloweth, and the dregs have risen to the top.”

“The peasants,” Buffy began, recalling what she remembered about the French Revolution, “the peasants rose against the monarchy.”

Sahjhan laughed. “The peasants are being slaughtered along with everyone else. And this is just the beginning, the beginning of the Reign of Terror, the likes that haven’t been seen in centuries. At least, not in the ‘civilized’ world.”

The Slayer’s heart was racing. The hair that covered her body continued to stand on end. Danger and death lurked around every corner. She could feel it in every fiber of her being. Oh, how she longed to return to the safety of her Halls.

“Why do you care?” she asked, her mouth dry from the impending doom that she felt awaited her.

“Why do I care?” he repeated. “Because my sworn enemy is here. And even if you don’t possess great magics - you’re still the Slayer. So slay! Do what you were born to do. Kill the barbarians. Kill them all.”

“You’re trying to trick me, just like Melkor did,” she said faintly. “I’m not gonna let that happen again.”

“Ah, daddy dearest. He’s here, you know. Like me, he has no body, but his spirit is alive and calling the shots.”

Buffy swallowed hard. Her body began to perspire upon hearing that Morgoth was in Paris. “He’s… he’s here,” she stammered.

“Oh, yes. And he has summoned his servants from far and wide. All have congregated here. Paris is the hub of evil.” Sahjhan fixed his eyes on his mother. “His goal is to wipe out your allies, so that you are alone. Religion is being mocked, and those that profess love for the Allfather… well, let’s just say, it’s no picnic for them.”

“What?” Buffy could feel the blood draining from her face. Her skin was sticky with sweat. Her slayer senses were kicking into overdrive and her stomach was churning most uncomfortably.

“Let me open your eyes to a world you haven’t seen for quite a while. Then, you can see whether you feel that these monsters deserve to be shown your mercy… or your wrath.” He smiled. “I’m sure hoping it’s the latter of the two.”

One moment, Buffy and Sahjhan were standing in the darkened alleyway, the next they were both standing atop the roof of some building. The horrific screams and drunken shouts that she had heard earlier became clearer, louder. They were close, so very close.

“We’re standing atop the Abbay de St. Germain des Prés, a noble institution,” began Sahjhan, turning to his mother. “This church houses your devotees, the ones that carry out your laws. Look!” he said, pointing behind her.

She turned to see a cross affixed onto the structure behind her.

“Your symbol still. But now, they make a mockery of it.” With his head, he motioned towards the ruckus coming from below. “They loathe it, as much as they do you. This war is about your destruction. Look down, Mother. Look down into the courtyard and see what the monsters are doing to your people, to your priests, to your loyal acolytes.”

“I’m afraid,” she whispered. The noise from below was more than enough. She could imagine what horrors were taking place, and didn’t want to see them firsthand.

“You must. That’s the only way you can truly grasp what’s going on, and what shall continue, unless you stop it.”

Buffy felt her blood go cold. She slowly crept forward, taking a few deep breaths in hope that that would help prepare her for what she was about to see. She peered over the edge. Her stomach instantly became queasy, her eyes widened to twice their normal size, as she looked down upon the atrocities taking place below.

The orangey-blue light of the scattered bonfires illuminated the grisly scene within the garden’s courtyard. Ruffians, dozens of them by her count, were brutalizing the holy men of the church in the most horrific of ways. They savagely pummeled the good men, using both their fists and shovels. The wailing cries of the holy men caused Buffy to shudder, as some of the hooligans sodomized the priests with not only their own sex organs, but also with blunt-tipped objects and the severed limbs of those that had been dismembered.

Of the four men that were being heinously tortured, one in particular caught her eye. Perhaps it was seeing him naked, on all fours, with a severed arm protruding from his anus, in which one of the villains took great pleasure in ramming the bloody appendage in and out the man’s rectum, thrusting a bit deeper each time, so that the old man cried out in agony. He was an elderly man, probably in his seventies. His nude body was bruised, gashed, and streaked with blood. He was held in place by three other savages, who, along with their comrades, cheered and howled with glee with each pitiful cry that came from their quarry.

Standing before the old priest was a tall man with greasy black hair under his red cap. He was a menacing figure, even by Buffy’s standards, one whom you wouldn’t want to meet on a deserted street. The sleeves of his dark shirt had been torn at the shoulder, revealing muscular arms that glistened with both sweat and blood. His erect penis had been freed from his breeches. He looked on at the old man’s abuse with a lasciviousness, which, in itself, should have bought him a one-way ticket into the pits of Hell. The brute’s excitement was growing with every second. Nearing his climax, he grabbed a handful of the priest’s hair with one hand, forcing the old man’s head upward, as the other continued to rapidly stroke his shaft. When the elderly priest screamed out in pain, the fiend unleashed his load onto the holy man’s face. The villain’s seed ran down the old man’s nose, dripping off the tip.

“Now, that’s amore!” snickered Sahjhan.

Buffy ignored Sahjahn’s most inappropriate comment, but found herself unable to take her eyes off the scene below.

Once the masturbator’s moment of bliss had passed, and he had caught his breath, he looked down upon the priest whom he still had in his clutches. “Where is your God now?” he bellowed in a thick Eastern European accent. “Renounce Him and I shall let you live another day.”

In an act of defiance, but of unwavering loyalty to the Allfather, the elderly priest’s demeanor changed. He no longer cried or whimpered, nor struggled with his captors. He looked the barbarian in the eye and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer in a broken voice. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy will… ”

That’s as far as he got before the savage kicked the old man in the mouth, knocking out several teeth. He then snatched an axe from one of his companions, raising it over his head. “God is dead!” he spat, before cleaving the priest’s head in two. Like rabid beasts, his fellow hoodlums began to tear the old man apart. The scene was vile. Wicked. And one that made Buffy sick.

When she went to turn away, she noticed that hundreds of other people that lived within the Abbaye were lined up beside the church, forced to watch the cruelty inflicted upon those whom they loved, until it was their turn to face their doom. Their silent prayers were lost amongst the din.

Degenerates that had been wandering the streets, drunken on drink and the acts of blasphemy and brutality that they found most erotic, began to pour through the gates, joining the revelry. The butchery would go nonstop until dawn the following morning.

As Buffy backed away from the roof’s edge, she heard another thug demand of the next victim, “Do you renounce your God or will you die in His name?”

She vomited, the bile spewing from her mouth, since there was nothing else in her stomach. Although she could sense that there were demons amongst those down below, most were human, a thought that made her wretch all the more.

“This is but the beginning of what’s to come. Destroy them. I know you have it in you. Let this scum pay from their blasphemy.”

The Slayer wiped the stream of saliva from her lips, trembling from head to toe. The carnage was reminiscent of what she had encountered in Bâb-edh-Dhrâ and Numeira long ago. She had thought that man was beyond that, that they had found Eru Ilúvatar, and clung to His godly ways. But that proved far from the truth. For when one is brainwashed with heresy, snubbing the divine laws that govern Man, then evil follows, for they no longer believe that there are consequences for the evil deeds which they commit.

“These are lies,” she said faintly, spitting out the remnants of the bitter bile in her mouth. Narrowing her eyes, she looked up at Sahjhan. “Your father would be proud of your trickery and guile. But, I won’t be fooled again.”

“You wish to live in a bubble just like the rest of your kindred, refusing to see what’s really going on,” he retorted. “Why live in the real world where wickedness runs rampant, when you can hide yourself in your Blessed Realm, turning a blind eye to the torments that plague mankind… ”

“Don’t tell me you give a shit about them!” she interjected with a snarl. “There’s more behind this that you’re not telling me. Evil is as evil does!”

Buffy was too traumatized to notice the malicious glint in Sahjhan’s eye.

Seeing now the perfect opportunity to put his plan in motion, Sahjhan continued with a sneer, “Mmm, that is true. Evil is as evil does - I like that! Let us see how you fare when confronted by one whom you have professed your love for, doing just that! One unspeakable act leads to another.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” she spat, still feeling her stomach twisting and turning from the sickening sight she had witnessed only moments before.

“Evil is as evil does. Don’t forget that, most benevolent, Inanna Ishtar. For you’re about to get a taste of it.”

With a wave of his hands, the Slayer instantly vanished from the rooftop. She reappeared only a moment later in a different section of Paris. An unruly mob had descended upon some building, (which turned out to be the La Force Prison, though she didn’t know that at the time), dragging out the inmates that had been housed inside. To her dismay, many were women and children who were judged to be lawbreakers, when in reality, they weren’t. They were condemned to a fate worse than death, as paranoia had seized hold of those in power, and in fear of losing the power they had gained, sought to destroy all that stood in their way.

There were no police in the crowd, no armed militia, no guards from the prison, only ‘ordinary’ people, garbed in the fashion of that time. These were the ‘peasants’ that Buffy had read about in history, but the fiendish acts they were committing had never made it into modern history books, and she saw such horrors that frightened her beyond belief.

The prisoners were being ripped apart, their heads paraded around the court on pikes, as the frenzied mob danced and sang. The women, who were no noblewomen indeed!, bared their breasts for all to fondle, presenting themselves to any that had the nerve to stick their private parts into such a creatures hole. Some wore the entrails of their victims as though they were some lavish shawl or boa, chewing on the ends as they danced. Blood and the contents of the intestine ran down their chins, heightening their excitement.

Men molested the boys, some that looked as young as six. As they violated these children, others hacked away at their bodies, the violators not caring that their victims were no longer alive. The monsters’ goal was to find release, and they didn’t stop with the raping until that had happened.

And while that seemed vile enough, other men took their pleasure with the severed heads, ramming their penis’ into the mouths of the slain until they reached their climaxes. And the women were just as bad. Many masturbated with the severed hands of men, women and children.

It was despicable. Deplorable. Evil. Yet, sadly, humans made up most of the crowd. They had sunk to a new low, a low that Buffy found unfathomable.

As she slowly backed away, she nearly lost her footing. The street was slick with blood and the visceral fluid of the dead. The shouting, the screaming. It was bone-chilling. The stench of death in the air mingled with that of sex and brandy, which flowed as freely as the blood of the slain.

She then noticed a gang of men brutalizing the body of a woman. The headless corpse was being raped and sodomized at the same time. While those two fiends did the deed, others carefully cut off the breasts with their sharp knives. They then hollowed out the tissue, using the breasts as drinking vessels for their alcohol.

Men’s testicles were severed from their bodies by women, who then placed them on fishhooks and dangled them from their earlobes as though they were making some gruesome fashion statement. Some sliced off the men’s flaccid sex organs, licking them as if it were some sweet treat.

A fight broke out over that one female corpse, the one which the Slayer had seen the breasts removed from. Her body was horribly mutilated, eviscerated, cut in half above the waist. She had no idea that that had once been the Princess de Lamballe, a loyal friend and confidante to Marie-Antoinette. The Princess had fled Paris earlier, seeking help from her aristocratic kin outside of France, only to return out of loyalty to the Queen, to be at her side until the end. How cruel fate was to her, and what pain she must have endured before her fey finally fled its hröa.

No words could truly capture what Buffy was witnessing. No words could describe the stench that lingered in the air. It was putrid. Vile. Yes, vile seemed to be the closest word she could think of to use in her descriptions. Sahjhan was right. If she had had her magical powers, she wouldn’t have hesitated to smite Paris from the face of the earth. And though innocents would die, it would be a better death than what she was seeing before her very eyes. How wretched a creature Man can become. Was this their version of freedom? Was this what they envisioned as a republic? How quickly these people allowed the darkness within them to manifest itself into the most heinous of beasts! That Man had so easily been corrupted into committing such acts of revulsion would earn them a one-way ticket to Hell. She hoped they’d pay dearly for their sins. And if they were to ever set foot in her Hall of Judgment - she would doom them with the same fate that they had delivered unto their victims for all of eternity. That was just! A befitting punishment that fit the crime. Damn them all. Damn them all to Hell!

With her head spinning, her stomach churning, and her heart aching for those victims, the Slayer continued to back away from the spectacle. She had no idea if it was still Monday, the third of September, or if Sahjhan had sent her forward in time. In reality, he had not. It was still the same day, or rather night.

A thought then occurred to her. She noticed that she was dressed in garments more reminiscent of those being slain than those doing the slaying. How long before they noticed her? And Eru only knows whether she’d meet the same fate of those that had been ripped apart by the frenzied rabble.

“Sahjhan,” she called, continuing to ease her way backward, praying that no one spotted her before she could flee. “Get me outta here.”

Nothing. No response. No demon coming in to rescue her.

“Sargon,” she then whimpered, hoping that her mortal lover had the power to teleport her to Folkvang.

Nothing.

“Oh, God,” she said, becoming teary-eyed. “Help me!”

She then felt two hands seize her roughly by the shoulders; the heavy stench of booze engulfed her. “Why, I’ll help you, mon chérie.” The thug standing behind her was rubbing his erection along the small of her back, as he tightened his hold on her, his hands swiftly finding their way to her chest.

Buffy freaked, but was momentarily paralyzed with fear. The brute kissed her neck, the stubble on his face scratching her delicate, soft skin.

Feeling a surge of strength run through her limbs, she murmured, “Fuck this!” before delivering a reverse head butt to her captor. The hairclip flew from her head, her long, dark hair fell in waves over her face, obscuring her vision. The crack of their skulls meeting only caused the brute to lower his arms to her stomach, squeezing her tighter, expelling what breath she held within her. She then resorted to digging her fingernails into his hairy arms, drawing blood as she ran them along his leathery skin.

He moaned, a deep throaty moan that sent shivers down her spine.

She then brought her head forward, nearly to her chest, before flinging it back, nailing him in the nose. That time, he eased his grip, allowing her the opportunity to deliver a kick to his knee, which finally granted her freedom. Seeing as there were hundreds, if not thousands, congregated in the streets, the Slayer did the only logical thing - she ran. She ran as fast as her little legs would take her, knocking aside all in her way.

She had no idea which way she was going. But she turned right at the first street she came to, running as the sounds of the fiendish hordes became less and less. Buffy turned again and again, not really paying attention to where she was going. Her goal was to put as much distance between her and the mortal dregs that she could.

When the cramps in her side became unbearable, she glanced over her shoulder to see if any still followed. None were. Grateful that she was able to escape, she stopped, attempting to catch her breath. The sudden adrenaline rush had caused her to perspire, the cool night air, chilling her. Her heart was pumping so fast and loud, that it nearly drowned out the noise from the lunatics, blocks away.

The Slayer tried to get her bearings, to take in her surroundings. Realizing that she was in another alleyway, she was about to turn and leave, when she heard the sudden sound of a bottle rolling along the bricked street. She froze, listening hard. She was not alone. She heard grunting coming from the end of the alley. Was someone hurt? Was some innocent passerby lying near death, alone, in the darkness? Perhaps, someone, like herself, had managed to escape the rioting crowd, and found their way here, to the deserted alley. She had to investigate. If they were hurt, she could help. If they were evil, she could deal with that too. But to be on the safe side, she wanted a weapon. If she encountered a demon in mortal form, she wanted to beat it with more than her fists.

As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she searched the debris scattered about the alley for something that could be used as a weapon. Something shiny caught her eye. She quickly ran toward it. Sticking out from beneath a crumpled up pamphlet was a piece of metal pipe about eighteen inches long. It was perfect. She tightly clutched the cool metal in her hand before turning her attention to the groaning sounds that continued to come from the depth of the alleyway. Slowly, and cautiously, she stepped toward the sounds, unsure whether she’d encounter friend or foe, but prepared for either.

Her vision became clearer, sharper. She was able to make out a man standing near the back wall. His head was bent over; his dark hair fell over his face, concealing his identity. He was moving, doing something, grunting all the while.

Buffy’s eyes shifted lower. When she saw what he was doing, she stopped dead in her tracks, horrified by what she saw. Immediately, she recognized the clothing - he was one of those men fighting over the corpse of that woman that turned out to be the Princess. Apparently, he had won the gruesome tug of war match.

Vomiting a little in her mouth, she saw that the man was fornicating with what was left of the Princess’s body. His fingers dug into the flesh of her bloodied hips, since there was nothing else of her trunk left that he could grab hold of. Her only intact leg dangled at an odd angle, having been broken in several places. It was the only way Buffy recognized that it was the same woman that she had seen earlier outside the prison. Her other leg had been cut off at the knee. The man was thrusting the remnants of the corpse faster and faster on his manhood. Buffy swallowed that bile that made it to her mouth, shocked and horrified that she had happened to come upon yet another ghastly scene.

The man let out a deep growl when he climaxed, letting the mutilated remains fall to ground when his deed was done.

Perceiving that he was not alone, he flung back his head, revealing his demonic visage.

Buffy gasped. Her body went numb. The pipe slid from her fingers, landing onto the road with a clatter. Then silence.

“Angel,” she uttered breathlessly. She stared at the vampire in shocked disbelief.

A twisted grin came to his face, as he slipped his member back into his breeches. “Heard of me, huh?” he said with his very pronounced Irish accent. “Although I do prefer Angelus - sounds less… angelic.”

The Slayer remained frozen. She couldn’t believe that she was standing face to face with Angelus and that she had just witnessed her ‘former’ lover fucking an honest to goodness dead body. Her eyes darted to the mangled carcass on the ground.

Angelus followed her gaze. “Always wanted to do a princess,” he said amusedly. “Me thinks she’s like the rest of her noble kind - a dead fuck.” He laughed a creepy sort of laugh that made the Slayer shudder.

“Brings new meaning to the phrase, ‘piece of ass’,” quipped Buffy, finding her voice.

The vampire fixed his gaze back on the Slayer, looking her up and down. “Why, you are a pretty thing, aren’t ya?” he began, slowly approaching her like a predator stalking its prey. “How is it that such a fair lass, such as yourself, has survived the violent masses?” He came to a sudden stop, deeply inhaling the air. “Ahh! A Slayer. I feel your power, missy. How tragic that your time has come to an end. One Slayer dies, next one Called.”

Buffy shifted her stance slightly, holding up her balled fists, ready to take on Angelus. The shock was beginning to wear off. She had to remember that this was Angelus, not Angel. “Don’t count me out just yet.”

WHAM!

Buffy’s eyes rolled backward as she fell to the street in a heap - out cold from a single blow. She had been so focused on Angelus that she hadn’t sensed his partner in crime’s approach from behind, nor the fact that the weapon she had dropped earlier had been picked up by said evildoer.

“I beg to differ,” said Darla, dressed in her fineries, even down to the powdered wig that was in vogue at the time. She looked down at the woman sprawled on the ground. “A Slayer. Master will be most pleased!” She shifted her bright eyes to her vampire lover. “He’ll surely forgive you and welcome you into the Order for bringing him such a gift.” She smiled. Her eyes twinkling with delight as she discarded the pipe. She stepped forward, onto the unconscious form of Buffy, closing the gap between her and her lover.

Angelus looked lustily at Darla. “I don’t seek forgiveness from your Master. He can rot in Hell for all I care.” He wrapped his arms around his beloved, pulling her close before nibbling at her neck.

“This is Hell, lover. Our Hell to command as we like,” she purred, her excitement growing with his touch. “Settle your differences with my father and I’ll make it well worth your while.”

“Promise?” he cooed in reply, morphing back into his human-like façade.

“Have I ever broken my word to you?”

Angelus chuckled. “There was that time in 1765, when Holtz and his gang of hunters chased us from Arles… ”

“Oh, but, my sweet boy, I didn’t lie to you. I left you. Just for a while, any way.” She placed her hands lovingly on his cheeks. “And that’s in the past.” She licked her lips provocatively before adding in her most seductive voice, “There’ll be chains… and whips… ”

“Ooh, I like the sound of that.” He turned his gaze to the unconscious Slayer. “Such a pity to turn a creature of such beauty over to the Order.”

“You think she’s beautiful? Really?” queried Darla, lifting a brow in disbelief. “I wouldn’t take her as your type.”

“Just a figure of speech, love.” He looked lasciviously at his partner, eyeing her breasts, which seemed to be struggling to pop out of the top of her low-cut gown. “I prefer me women blonde… and with a little bite.” He caressed her cheek with his blood-stained fingers. “But it would be such a shame to hand over a Slayer without so much as a taste, don’t ya think?”

“Aurelius would be most displeased if she were fed upon,” she replied, turning her gaze to Buffy. “He gave his orders.” She looked back at Angelus. “She is to be brought to him, alive and unspoiled.”

“Ah, but a little taste won’t do no harm. How ‘bout it, Darla? Never tasted the blood of a Slayer before.” His dark eyes looked pleadingly at her.

She sighed. “Alright, but just a taste.”

“That’s my girl,” he smiled, giving her a quick kiss on the lips before turning his attention to the knocked out Slayer.

Angelus knelt between Buffy’s legs. Placing his hands on her flesh, he slowly eased up her dress as Darla looked on with amused interest. “Her skin is smooth. Warm, so warm. I can feel the strength coursing through her body.” He continued to hike her gown up, using his knee to spread her legs wider apart.

The smile quickly faded from his lover’s face. “Just hurry it up, Angelus,” she said, slightly annoyed by his commentary. “At this rate, dawn will be approaching before we know it.”

The vampire ignored her. He was instantly smitten by Buffy, and was savoring the moment. “So much power. So much strength. So soft. She will taste sweet. I can tell already.”

“Yeah, yeah. Sweet as honey. Get on with it already, Angelus. Time’s ticking away here!” barked Darla, no longer attempting to conceal her displeasure.

With a wry smile, he glanced over his shoulder. “Now, don’t tell me that my Darla’s jealous, jealous over a Slayer.”

“My patience is running thin, my dear boy,” she threatened in her ever-sweet voice. “If you do not hurry up, I’ll change my mind and will take her back to the Order without your having so much as a nibble.”

“Then I best get on with it.” His face turned back into its vampiric form. Leaning over, he sank his fangs into Buffy’s femoral artery. She didn’t so much as flinch from the deep punctures to her leg, but remained perfectly still, insentient to all.

He found her blood intoxicating as it rushed down the back of his throat. Angelus had never tasted any blood that came close to that of a Slayer. It was beyond delicious, unrivaled by anything that he had ever eaten, whether as a human or most certainly as a vampire. He felt as one with her. He could feel her heart beating, feel the blood gushing through her veins.

“That’s enough,” said a fuming Darla, placing her hands on her hips, frowning indignantly at her lover.

Angelus couldn’t help himself. The beating heart of the Slayer drowned out his companion’s words. He wanted her, to turn her, to make her complete - like him.

“I said, enough!” spat Darla, grabbing hold of the vampire’s shoulder, jerking him away from Buffy. Angered by his insolence, she tossed him across the alley with ease.

Angelus collided with the stone wall of the building before landing on his back, beside the remnants of the Princess. He was dazed, not from the impact, but from Buffy’s blood.

“One little taste and you’re on your way to draining the girl,” mumbled Darla under her breath. She pulled Buffy’s gown down before heaving the knocked out woman over her shoulder. “If there’s hell to pay for this - it’s on you, Angelus. I’m not taking the fall for you. Not this time.”

With the Slayer in tow, she began to storm out of the alleyway, livid at her lover.

Angelus turned his gaze to the remains of the Princess. “See, this is why I was attracted to you, Mademoiselle. You gave me no lip, unlike that one there.” He leapt to his feet in one swift motion, licking the blood from his lips, watching as Darla stomped down the alley. He sighed, glancing down at the remains once again. “Farewell to ya, Princess. It’s been nice knowing ya. Gotta fix things with me Darla now.” He started after his lover, mumbling, “Hell to pay, my arse.”