Author: Anna
email: anna@gateworld.net
Distribution: just ask.
Disclaimer: You know which ones are mine, and which ones belong to Joss, ME, and so on.
Notes: In Angel, S1 of BtVS, Angel says to Darla "Last time I saw you it was kimonos." Now, kimonos are only worn in Japan (I have a sinking feeling the China episodes covered the kimono comment). So I wrote this story set in early 1920s Japan. If there are inaccuracies, forgive me. At least I know where they wear kimonos. :) Also, Angel is called Angelus here not because he actually is his evil alter ego, but because I don't think he'd have been called Angel yet. He probably wasn't called anything by anybody.
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Pontocho-dori was quiet. Now and then the silence was disturbed by a muffled laugh or a creaking door as the evening wore into night. It did not look like much, this little alley between the Kamogawa River and Kiyamachi-dori. It was wide enough for perhaps three people walking abreast, or a sedan chair, but little else. Since most visitors to this little street arrived in sedan chairs, that was just wide enough. Gion was just across the river, and the whole area was known for being the pleasure quarter of the old capital. Even though Kyoto had not been the Imperial Capital for over 200 years, the city still had enough in the way of business and beaurocracy to keep Gion and its surrounds very busy.
And Darla never went hungry.
She owned an extremely exclusive teahouse on the river side of Pontocho-dori. Like every such teahouse, its exterior was unassuming to the point of anonymity. Wooden-fronted, an old wooden sliding door, and two flaps of cloth hanging over the door. The cloth was the only indication that this was not a private house. Her girls lived in a separate building at the back of the teahouse. It was an old wooden place, with a courtyard, where the girls slept late in the day, then spent the rest of the day indoors preparing for the evening. Not because they were vampires did they live by such hours, but because they were geisha. White faces, living at night, preying off men; to Darla it didn't seem that great a leap.
She sighed as her servant adjusted her wig. It was an intricate affair, black lacquered hair with beautiful wood and paper hair decorations, each one of which would have fed a peasant for a month. Soon her face would be white, her lips a rosebud of red, her eyelids also red, and not a soul would know that her hair was not her own.
Her face completed, Darla stood to dress. Her servant took an exquisite kimono which had been laid out, and placed it over the layers Darla was already wearing. It was predominantly red shot with gold, with gold and silver embroidery depicting beautiful mountain scenes around the hem. Her obi was also red, but no gold. Red as blood.
She was ready. Darla had always loved the ritual of dressing; ever since she was human, female clothing had always required at least one servant to help don it to perfection. Kimonos demanded more preparation than any clothing Darla had ever worn, and she enjoyed this ritual all the more because of it.
Her kimono hung low at the nape of her neck, exposing the very top of her back. White paint covered her skin, except for a tiny line around her hairline. How men would follow that line with their eyes as they spoke to her! It made Darla laugh. In Europe - well, in Europe before those dreadful middle-class revolutions - one could flaunt one's breasts, even an ankle, and no one took any notice. Here, one showed the nape of one's neck and a tiny line of unpainted skin, and men fell over themselves to have you pour their tea.
She met Yoshida in the courtyard. The sky hung heavy with stars, and the air was the light yet still warm air of a Japanese autumn.
"Ah, Yoshida-kun, isn't it a beautiful night?"
"Yes, Darla. It is." He did not take his eyes from her face.
Darla stood close to the young man. She ran a finger over his cheek, noting again the perfection of the cheekbone. Japanese men, she silently mused, have perfect bone structure.
"You work too hard, Seiji," she said, using his personal name in the intimacy of the moment. "Your eyes look tired."
Yoshida allowed himself a smile.
"If I work hard, Darla, it is for you. And if my eyes are tired, you make them sparkle again."
"That would be trite if it weren't so touching," replied Darla.
Yoshida bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement. "It sounds better in my language." He paused for a moment.
"Tonight is Fujisawa-san, of the Imperial Agency, and his party," he continued.
"Ah, Fujisawa-san," repeated Darla. She smiled. "He always brings me such pretty ones!"
"Everything is arranged as usual."
"Thank you, Seiji. You always do everything so well." She took his face in her hands.
"Thank you, Mistress," he replied in a whisper.
She leant close to his face, until her mouth all but touched his. She felt his breath on her lips, and used her body's memories to breathe cold breath into his mouth. He closed his eyes, and inhaled this breath devoid of life. Then she was gone into the teahouse. He stood in the courtyard under the stars, imagining what more there could be.
Darla smiled as she walked away from him, the paint on her lips intact. It was so easy, she thought, but satisfying, nevertheless. The satisfaction nearly overpowered the strange, disquieting feeling she'd had in her breast all evening, but not quite. It worried her. She knew that feeling. She wished it would go away.
The girls soon followed her into the teahouse, ready for the evening ahead. Darla had four girls, all trained from youth to be the best geisha in Kyoto. They had been raised in Gion since before they could remember. They were pure geisha. And they had to be. Darla's price for an evening with them was high.
Yoshida had been a gift. He had begun his career in the Kyoto palace, holding some menial position in the palace's labyrinthine beaurocracy. One night a superior invited him along with a party to visit the most exclusive teahouse in Kyoto. He couldn't believe his luck. He must have been noticed, he thought. He must have been marked for an important position. In fact, he learned later, he had been marked for death. Yoshida had been part of the price his superior had been willing to pay for an evening with the famed Darla and her girls. Darla had told him everything when she killed his superior. He had enjoyed watching her do that.
So he had begun to work for her, to be one of her day people. It was now he who arranged prices. He personally saw each payment before the evening's entertainment. If the man was unacceptable, Yoshida turned down the client.
No one tried to pay with handsome young clerks anymore.
Yoshida returned to the house. He undressed in his room, and slipped on a plain cotton yukata. He slid back his paper door, and made his way down the narrow stairs and out to the bathhouse. His yukata neatly folded and placed on a wooden shelf, he washed, and slid into the bath. It was the only time of day he could be sure none of the girls would be around the bathhouse. It was fine with him. Like everyone, he bathed at night. The girls just had a later bedtime than he did. He lay against the wooden side of the bath. He rested his head back and closed his eyes. Thoughts of Darla made their way to the front of his mind, as they always did at this quiet time. Every time he thought, no, I won't do it. It wasn't right, he told himself. Still, every time, he did. This time was no different. He slid his hand under the water, and began to stroke his already erect penis.
"Darla," he whispered at every stroke.
Angelus watched through a crack between the wooden slats. He watched the boy become more fevered in his stroking, more fervent in his whispering, until his face creased, his body tightened, and Angelus could smell semen in the bathwater. It made him hungry.
Everything made him hungry. He sat back into the darkness of the little nook where he was hiding. He heard Yoshida empty the bath, then leave the bathhouse to return to his rooms. Angelus could only laugh. The boy obviously had no idea what Darla really was. He probably knew she was a vampire, but, like most humans, until he had witnessed the ferocity of a vampire, he could have no idea what that meant. Angelus smiled bitterly. A hundred and fifty years witnessing and participating in the most brutal acts of cruelty, and here he was crawling back. Again. How could he blame the boy?
He sat back to wait. He could hear her voice. He heard male voices, slurring as they drank more and more sake. He heard the clear tones of a shamisen, played delicately by one of the painted things he had seen cross the courtyard earlier. Then, after hours of simply listening, Angelus saw a dark figure stumble into the courtyard. He looked lost. He peered around, trying to make out shapes in the murky darkness. As he turned, he saw a white face appear in the shadows. Angelus could hear the man's heartbeat speed up at the sight, though, at this distance, whether it was from fear or excitement, he could not tell. He could hear the conversation easily.
"Are you lost?" asked Darla, her girlish accents coming through in her perfect Japanese.
"Yes… no… I thought Fujisawa-san said this was the way. Is it?" The man was confused, but, Angelus could now hear, not yet afraid.
"Is it the way? Depends on where you're going," replied Darla, taking a few sinuous steps towards the man.
"I was…" His voice faded as Darla wound her way slowly towards him. Her pale face was ghostly in the gloom. "I was leaving, or trying to leave. Fujisawa-san said this was the way – I must be mistaken…"
There it was. Angelus recognized it in an instant. Fear.
Darla could feel it too.
"You're not mistaken," she crooned.
The man gasped as the benign white face became a demonic mask.
"You're right where you're supposed to be." Darla smiled, then sank her fangs into the man's neck. She took her time, pulling on his blood in a measured fashion. Angelus watched his body spasm just before the heart stopped beating. At least it was a pleasant death. He'd seen much worse.
Darla let the body drop. Her face became smooth again. She looked into the shadows. He could feel her eyes on his skin.
"Angelus." It was not an order, or a request; she simply said his name.
He stood, stumbling, unable to look at her. "Darla."
She stared at him for a moment. Then she turned and swept into the teahouse. He followed her.