'Random laid plans,
40 days of one night stands,
And when you go, you go alone,
You walk the cross, you made your own.'
Joyce Summers had just finished cleaning the kitchen and was preparing to go out to the porch, book in one hand and a drink in the other, when the phone rang. She paused, debating whether or not to answer it. During the last three months, she and Buffy had begun communicating sporadically, the Slayer calling in to check on her mother at least once a month. Through their talks the Summer's women had begun to work out their differences and had even discussed tentative plans for the blonde to visit this Christmas season.
Deciding that she would regret it if the caller turned to be Buffy, Joyce made her way back into the kitchen, and on the fourth ring, picked up the phone, "Hello?"
"Mom?" The troubled notes in Buffy's voice caused Joyce to instantly forget her earlier plans and she seated herself on at the kitchen island, her attention riveted on her daughter's voice, "Buffy? Is that you? Are you all right?"
"Yea," the relief in Buffy's voice transmitted itself over the phone, and Joyce sighed, "I just needed to talk to you."
"Buffy, what's going on?"
"Something big is happening on the Slayer front, Mom. I need to come back to Sunnydale. I was just calling to let you know that it looks like Spike and I will be in town for Christmas after all."
"Oh, Buffy," Joyce took a drink of her lemonade, "Will you two be okay getting here?"
"Yea, Mom," Buffy smiled against the phone, "You know us. We're always okay."
"Is there anything else?"
"Yea," Buffy drew in a deep breath, "Is the number for the library the same? I need to talk to Giles."
'I wash the streets from your skin,
When you come home.
I wash the streets from your skin,
When you come home.'
Pedra da Gavea, Rio de Janero, Brazil
The mountain known as Pedra da Gavea had developed a reputation in the last two hundred years for the supernatural. It was claimed that strange lights and beings could be seen around the mountain after nightfall, and that inside the mountain was a series of tunnels and pathways leading all over the area and even onto a few tiny, offshore islands. Expedition after expedition ventured to Pedra da Gavea, each searching for proof of the rumors but, aside from some Phoenician writing, none were able to unlock the mountain's secrets.
Drusilla smiled, watching as the bright stars danced above her in the black sky. She stood atop the mountain, her hands outstretched, her head tilted back, her long, black hair flowing in her wind, "Mm, they call to me."
She spun around, each time raising her hands higher, until she stopped, facing the bound and gagged man before her, "But what are the saying, hm?"
She stalked over to the man, watching as he trembled on the ground, "Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle like a little worm. You be the bait, and I'll be the fish." She snapped her jaws at him for good measure and danced away again, inhaling the scent of his fear.
Slowly, she knelt on the ground, pressing her ear to the barth, "But what are they saying to me? 'Psst, psst, psst ...' They're too silent. Weak. They need to feed."
She rose and turned back towards the man, smoothing the folds in her long red dress, "But we all think better when our tummies are full." Carelessly, she yanked the man up by the hair, his pleading louder through the oilcloth she had wrapped around his mouth. She pulled it away now, letting his pleas fill the night. Her eyes drifted up towards the stars and she pulled the man closer, pushing his head aside so that his neck was exposed to her.
"Sorry, love," she murmured, her face taking on the visage of the demon, "But I don't speak Portuguese."
She bit into him viscously, letting the blood spill sloppily over the side of her mouth and down onto the parched ground, he shook and then his body became taut, his eyes widening until finally they turned glassy and he stilled completely. With a sound of disgust she dropped him to the floor, letting the excess blood run down his throat and into the ground, "I hate it when the die before I'm done feeding. It ruins the taste."
She closed her eyes once more, concentrating on the voices whispering into her ears. With every drop of blood the man bled into the ground, they grew stronger until finally their message was clear. She opened her eyes and her face broke out into a wide, toothy smile. She squatted on the ground next to the dead man, turning him over so that his unseeing eyes stared straight at her, "They're saying to go back to the Hellmouth. My Spike is coming and he's bringing me a present."
When the dead man gave no response she pouted, pushing him away from her before rocking backwards on her heels, the vibrations from the mountain running rampant through her until she opened her mouth and laughed.
40 days of one night stands,
And when you go, you go alone,
You walk the cross, you made your own.'
Joyce Summers had just finished cleaning the kitchen and was preparing to go out to the porch, book in one hand and a drink in the other, when the phone rang. She paused, debating whether or not to answer it. During the last three months, she and Buffy had begun communicating sporadically, the Slayer calling in to check on her mother at least once a month. Through their talks the Summer's women had begun to work out their differences and had even discussed tentative plans for the blonde to visit this Christmas season.
Deciding that she would regret it if the caller turned to be Buffy, Joyce made her way back into the kitchen, and on the fourth ring, picked up the phone, "Hello?"
"Mom?" The troubled notes in Buffy's voice caused Joyce to instantly forget her earlier plans and she seated herself on at the kitchen island, her attention riveted on her daughter's voice, "Buffy? Is that you? Are you all right?"
"Yea," the relief in Buffy's voice transmitted itself over the phone, and Joyce sighed, "I just needed to talk to you."
"Buffy, what's going on?"
"Something big is happening on the Slayer front, Mom. I need to come back to Sunnydale. I was just calling to let you know that it looks like Spike and I will be in town for Christmas after all."
"Oh, Buffy," Joyce took a drink of her lemonade, "Will you two be okay getting here?"
"Yea, Mom," Buffy smiled against the phone, "You know us. We're always okay."
"Is there anything else?"
"Yea," Buffy drew in a deep breath, "Is the number for the library the same? I need to talk to Giles."
'I wash the streets from your skin,
When you come home.
I wash the streets from your skin,
When you come home.'
Pedra da Gavea, Rio de Janero, Brazil
The mountain known as Pedra da Gavea had developed a reputation in the last two hundred years for the supernatural. It was claimed that strange lights and beings could be seen around the mountain after nightfall, and that inside the mountain was a series of tunnels and pathways leading all over the area and even onto a few tiny, offshore islands. Expedition after expedition ventured to Pedra da Gavea, each searching for proof of the rumors but, aside from some Phoenician writing, none were able to unlock the mountain's secrets.
Drusilla smiled, watching as the bright stars danced above her in the black sky. She stood atop the mountain, her hands outstretched, her head tilted back, her long, black hair flowing in her wind, "Mm, they call to me."
She spun around, each time raising her hands higher, until she stopped, facing the bound and gagged man before her, "But what are the saying, hm?"
She stalked over to the man, watching as he trembled on the ground, "Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle like a little worm. You be the bait, and I'll be the fish." She snapped her jaws at him for good measure and danced away again, inhaling the scent of his fear.
Slowly, she knelt on the ground, pressing her ear to the barth, "But what are they saying to me? 'Psst, psst, psst ...' They're too silent. Weak. They need to feed."
She rose and turned back towards the man, smoothing the folds in her long red dress, "But we all think better when our tummies are full." Carelessly, she yanked the man up by the hair, his pleading louder through the oilcloth she had wrapped around his mouth. She pulled it away now, letting his pleas fill the night. Her eyes drifted up towards the stars and she pulled the man closer, pushing his head aside so that his neck was exposed to her.
"Sorry, love," she murmured, her face taking on the visage of the demon, "But I don't speak Portuguese."
She bit into him viscously, letting the blood spill sloppily over the side of her mouth and down onto the parched ground, he shook and then his body became taut, his eyes widening until finally they turned glassy and he stilled completely. With a sound of disgust she dropped him to the floor, letting the excess blood run down his throat and into the ground, "I hate it when the die before I'm done feeding. It ruins the taste."
She closed her eyes once more, concentrating on the voices whispering into her ears. With every drop of blood the man bled into the ground, they grew stronger until finally their message was clear. She opened her eyes and her face broke out into a wide, toothy smile. She squatted on the ground next to the dead man, turning him over so that his unseeing eyes stared straight at her, "They're saying to go back to the Hellmouth. My Spike is coming and he's bringing me a present."
When the dead man gave no response she pouted, pushing him away from her before rocking backwards on her heels, the vibrations from the mountain running rampant through her until she opened her mouth and laughed.