Epilogue
Darla paces the hard marble floor of the mansion and looks again at the clock.
Six o'clock. Dawn would be coming in minutes, and Angelus was still abroad.
The days when he was afraid of her are long gone. He has rapidly gathered strength and cunning, and is her equal, or perhaps the more dangerous of the two, since he seems to have a skill for cruelty that she never taught him, and a naturally reckless nature where she is all caution.
There are sounds, and she hastens towards them. Through the hall, opening doors and running through corridors that get narrower, her silk-slippered feet pound the floors until the marble gives way to wood, and she finds herself deep in the servant's part of the house.
He is in the kitchen. Through a half-opened door, she sees him throw his coat and hat on the table. He has company; he's conversing lowly with a girl who stands shyly a few feet away.
She has long, wild, auburn hair and speaks English with a pronounced Irish lilt.
"I don't understand, Sir. That's all you want me to do?"
"That's all."
"You're sure now? Because if there's any more it'll be extra."
"I understand. We'll settle up when we're finished."
"Angelus!"
He doesn't answer her so she enters the room and comes to stand between him and the girl.
"Another one?"
He smiles and bends his neck so he can see past her to the wench.
Darla tuts in exasperation. "You cut it too fine, Angelus. It's almost light. Why do you risk your pretty skin like this?"
The girl pipes up. "If she's going to stay, it'll cost you more."
Ignoring her, Darla raises an eyebrow at Angelus. "I thought you were going to try gypsies for a change. There's a camp of very handsome-looking Romanies just outside the town." She reaches over to straighten his collar affectionately. "I could fetch you one later."
"Listen," the girl is getting nervous, "I don't work with the Romanies. They aren't god-fearing people. And more people is extra. That price was for the gentleman."
"Don't worry, sweet. It'll be just the two of us. Darla is leaving."
She flashes him an angry look as he mentions her name. "This is a sickness, Angelus. The third this week. I don't mind you having certain tastes, we all do. But you pass up perfectly decent meals in your search for them. Then bring them here, which puts us both in danger. Why can't you do it in the streets like everyone else? Why do you have to play these sick games? If I didn't know better..."
He smiles at her throughout this tirade, and her voice peters out. She can't fathom him. It's been some months since he became closed to her; he is his own little world now, and she can't penetrate the fog that surrounds him. What is worse, he realises her impotence in the matter. He no longer bothers to hide the evidence, and she regularly comes across them, always dressed as servant girls, always the hair, always in similar poses, always bitten in the same way.
She marches out, flinging "Don't make a mess!" over her shoulder as a parting shot.
Later, after he has come to bed and is sleeping soundly, she makes herself go into the scullery and look. The girl is draped over a washing tub. Her hair floats in the soapy water and a slick of blood is spreading from her throat.