by
Aethyl
Disclaimer: I don't own this world; Joss Whedon does. Being scrupulous,
I would also like to mention that, a long time ago, I read a story by Mercedes
Lackey in which she featured a Japanese soul-sucking vampire. That must
have been my unconscious inspiration for Drusilla's "shadowy man." I'll
post the name of the story in question, if I can find it, in the final
chapter. If you know the one I mean, post a review and tell me, please!
Los Angeles was the perfect hunting ground for a creature that lived half its life as a shadow; the pollution of thousands of cars that hung in the air made discrete travel an easy task. Drusilla's "shadowy man" poured itself through the air, looking for an unsound soul from which to feed, and found such a being in the form of a frightened youth, no more than sixteen, talking to himself behind a decrepit theatre.
"You there, you shouldn't sleep here. It's not safe for mousies," the boy was telling a rat, as the shadowy figure of a man began to solidify behind him.
The boy threw trash at the rodent, causing it to scurry off into the darkness, and then settled into his cardboard box, watching the entrance suspiciously. The demon waited until the boy was asleep, and then half-flowed, half-walked over the trash and other waste to block the boy's escape from his shelter. He dissolved into dark particles and enveloped the boy, and then began to feed.
No one heard the screams.
***
Drusilla heard voices. They seemed to be getting louder. Several people were approaching the heavy wooden door of her chamber.
"--told you we would take care of it," said an angry male voice.
"You will not want to begin your meeting until she is sated," said another, deeper voice, and Drusilla knew it was the shadow demon.
"Holland, perhaps Okugare has a point," a feminine voice said, clearly now.
"I will not permit blood to be spilled in my home, Mr. Manners. I must live discretely. We do not require your . . . offering. Send it away, and wait for but a moment," the demon said.
Drusilla could hear the sounds of retreating footsteps, and the sound of something, or someone, being dragged away. She watched the door with interest. There were still two humans at the door; they would be the humans who wanted to meet her.
The door swung open, making surprisingly little noise, and a dark figure walked toward her. Her shadowy man seemed . . . heavier somehow. He was carrying a cut crystal decanter and a goblet of the same design on a silver tray. The decanter was empty.
"And how will you feed me with air, Okugare?" Drusilla asked.
"Only watch, clear one," the demon said. He set the tray on the edge of the bed, removed the stopper from the decanter, and hovered a hand over the opening. His hand seemed to darken and dissolve all at once, and then bright red blood trickled slowly down the sides of the glass. The scent of terror, and of blood hung heavy in the room. Drusilla's nostrils flared. She wanted to rush the tray, but didn't; she had been hungry before. She could wait.
The demon before her laughed. "Your self-control, like your hearing, is admirable." He withdrew his now reformed hand from the edge of the filled decanter, and poured a goblet of blood. "From one hunter to another," he said, as he handed the goblet to Drusilla.
Drusilla all but snatched the goblet from her "host." She drank quickly, lapping at the dregs with her tongue, and extended the goblet as a request for more. "That's lovely," Drusilla said. "So fresh. And the scent of terror . . . ."
"I like a little spice with my meals, as well," said the demon. He allowed Drusilla to drink until the decanter was empty, and then refilled it. He refilled it several times before she was no longer hungry.
"Thank you," Drusilla said. She indicated the open door with a quizzical nod of her head.
"You will want to meet my employers now," Okugare said. "Having achieved my task, I will withdraw." He picked up the tray, and walked from the room. Drusilla felt a shimmer in the air, and heard an almost imperceptible pop, as the demon crossed the room's threshold. She noticed that the bloody bespelled cords that had been holding the bed curtains back had lost their stains; they were now as white as the dress she was wearing. Drusilla smiled. "Thank you," she whispered.
"You are most welcome," a voice echoed on the walls.
***