Well, here it is. A few days later than I would have liked, but I hope you enjoy the length of it. I've outlined the next two chapters, and I hope to have the next one up in a week or so (more likely to me 'or so' based on past trends, but give a girl credit for effort). Thanks again to my reviewers, particularly those who are kind enough to review nearly every chapter. That's tremendously encouraging.
There was something almost sinister in the yellow patterned wallpaper that decorated the Chases' parlor, a kind of creeping malevolence that slowly suffocated one's will to live. The oppressive feeling in the room made Buffy glance anxiously at the grandfather clock, sure that time could not be sliding by so slowly. Then again, that sensation might merely have been due the presence of Harmony Kendall.
Cordelia's sometime friend, and longtime disciple, a fixture on the London social scene had joined Buffy, Cordelia, Cordelia's mother, Mrs. Chase, and Cordelia's aunt, Lady Marlowe for afternoon tea. And worse, she had brought her own mother.
Buffy suffered the other girl on occasion, and could admit, at times, to being considerably more shallow and frivolous than her current state permitted, but that did not do much to dispose her more kindly to the other girl. With her sleek blonde hair, bright eyes, and ample bosom, Harmony was a particular kind of English beauty that, possessed with a different sort of temperament, might have already been affianced. Her mother was much the same, only further encumbered with two extra decades of mind-numbing stories. Buffy had wondered once how the Baroness had managed to marry. Willow had helpfully informed her the Baron was her cousin. Buffy thought it explained rather a lot.
She might have been able to tolerate them better, had it not been for their repeated and tactless expressions of sympathy for her loss. Even Mrs. Chase, who was hardly a subtle creature herself, had the grace to look a bit embarrassed on behalf of her guests.
"It's just so tragic," Lady Kendall sighed again, peering over Buffy's shoulder to get a better look at her reflection in the glass of the windows. Buffy wondered idly how tragic it would be if she threw her cup at the woman's head and struck her permanently dumb. Sinking a little further into the plush velvet of her chair, she instead fixed the woman with an inscrutable stare that she'd found useful in the face of such expressions of sympathy.
Grief, she had found, was a private sort of animal. Like a cat, it would enter one's home and nest among the intimate parts of their daily lives. Buffy could hardly see a dress without thinking about how she cajoled her father into buying it for her, could hardly look at the fish on the dinner table without becoming almost tearful at the memory of her mother's aversion to it. Each day, each hour, each infinite minute would bring strange new associations. Yet eventually, things became a little tamer, a little easier to bear. The tears in the fabric of one's life became ordinary, and no longer provoked fresh emotion when one saw them again.
Buffy found comfort in the shared grief of a few close friends, people who either knew Hank and Joyce, or else knew her well enough to empathize and mourn with her. Giles had proved surprisingly, mysteriously empathetic and kind, breaching the Englishman's characteristic reserve to speak with her frankly and emotionally. She wondered even more what the real extent of her mother's relationship with her old friend was, particularly since he had been entrusted with her future, albeit, by slightly unusual circumstances.
Buffy returned back to the present to find Mrs. Chase giving her a look of concern, which embarrassed her slightly, as it indicated she'd been lost in thought for much longer than was normal, and even hinted that her countenance might have been a little disturbing. Oliva Chase was dressed elegantly in a cream colored gown that should have looked out of place on a woman of her years, but which she managed to pull off with her characteristic confidence and grace, traits she had passed down to her daughter. The daughter of a prosperous manufacturer from a less than exalted background, she had nonetheless not only managed to marry into an old English family, but also managed to avoid any of the indignities characteristically heaped on American women of her background. Her husband had actually followed her back to Boston and though Buffy wasn't particularly impressed with the man, his respect for his wife was clear. Most of the marriages between American heiresses and penniless English aristocrats did not end up nearly as successfully as theirs had.
"Have you seen young Mr. Fordham lately," Mrs. Chase asked her, and Buffy shot Cordelia a quick look before she answered.
"Not for some time," she said, keeping her tone light. "I've had a dearth of chaperones lately, though we did manage a stroll in Hyde Park a week or so ago." Mrs. Chase nodded, no doubt added the information to her mental encyclopedia of gossip.
"A nice enough young man," she conceded, which was high praise indeed from her. "He's quite handsome too, don't you agree."
"Oh yes," Harmony jumped in. Cordelia shot her a quelling look. The dynamic between the two girls shifted frequently enough that Buffy was never quite sure where they stood. The same was true enough of her own relationship with Cordelia, for that matter.
"I suppose," Buffy demurred. She'd hardly thought of him recently, she realized.
"Or course," Mrs. Kendall added knowingly, "not quite so attractive as Lord Pimplington."
Buffy frowned. The name (unfortunate as it was) was not one with which she was familiar.
"Oh!" Mrs. Kendall said, affecting a little laugh, "Naturally, I forgot that you haven't been with us much lately, Buffy. He's newly arrived back from India, and ever so in high demand. We really were quite lucky to have him to dinner. Fortunately, my husband's cousin's son was on the same assignment, and when he passed on the invitation Henry was only too charmed to say no. I found him quite impressive, don't you agree?"
Mrs. Chase nodded in agreement. "Quite the dashing young hero."
Cordelia rolled her eyes, clearly impatient with the topic of conversation, and mentioned some other piece of gossip that soon had them all distracted.
Later, as Buffy and Cordelia were saying their goodbyes, Cordelia caught her wrist gently and leaned in. Buffy's eyes widened in surprise and she looked around carefully, but no one was paying the pair any attention.
"I didn't know the others would be here today," she hissed. Buffy continued to look at her, nonplussed. Cordelia rolled her eyes impatiently, tossing neat curls over her shoulder.
"I need to talk to you," she said, and then, moderating her tone, "about Xander."
Buffy nodded quickly, her mind whirling. With all excitement first discovering magicks, and then with Angelus, she had hardly given a thought to the once world-shattering notion that Cordelia Chase was harboring affections for the relatively penniless Captain Harris, who, his rank in the army notwithstanding, was hardy a social success. Her lack of consideration for the matter had meant that she hadn't even given much thought to where her loyalties lied- for who would she support, Cordelia or Willow? Willow had been infatuated with Xander since they were children, but he had always viewed her, at least as far as Buffy could tell with brotherly affection (and Willow often complained about it) . In fact, Xander had indicated to Buffy when the two had first been introduced that he had gained some measure of regard for her, though she did her best to gently discourage his feelings.
"Shall we meet at Burlington Arcade?" Buffy suggested. "Or I could call around two and we could go together." Cordelia nodded. Even if others joined them on a shopping expedition, it was easy enough to carry on a discreet conversation in the midst of so many other persons. And they both enjoyed the pursuit for its own merits, besides.
"I'll wait for you here," Cordelia decided. With a quick smile, Buffy departed, and as she settled back into her cab and the driver set the horses off, she considered all the dramatic events that seemed to be piling up. It seemed so long ago she had longed for adventure, for excitement. The last year, and even the last few weeks had brought more intrigue, grief, and mystery than she knew what to do with. Exhausted, she decided to close her eyes, and somehow managed to doze lightly as the cab bounced gently down the London streets that led to Giles' house.
Davis, back to his usual self after his strange absentmindedness on the eve of Angelus' visit, opened the door the moment Buffy set foot on the steps to the front entrance, and she gratefully hurried in out of the rain. The day had started out promisingly enough, with some weak sunlight threatening to break through the clouds, but as was so common in England, it had turned fair and then foul by turns. Despite the relative lack of time Buffy had been exposed to the rain she found herself rather damp, and shook her hair out with an expression of wry amusement.
"Welcome back, Miss Summers," she was greeted.
"Thank you, Davis," she replied, wiping her neat leather boots on the rough carpet designed to catch dirt. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.
"Sir Giles requested that you meet him in his study, Miss," he added, and Buffy nodded in response, handing him her umbrella and making her way up to Giles' preferred sanctuary. He had been away on business in Yorkshire, though what he was doing there she hadn't the faintest idea. Like so many gentlemen of his generation, he had inherited a good deal of money, but found that his returns were diminishing, and so deigned to dip his hands into the grubby world of business. The aristocrats who had so long turned up their noses at merchants had insisted that their forays into industry were mere hobbies, but at the same time many of them had relented and gradually let that particular form of snobbery begin what was sure to be a prolonged and fitful death.
Giles' father, who he had only spoken of in passing, had invested in publishing or something of that sort, and his son, as far as Buffy could tell, did something that was peripheral to hobby of collecting rare books and other antiquities. He certainly seemed to have a great number of connections at the British Museum.
This particular trip had seen him gone the better part of the week, and as Buffy entered the comfortably appointed room, with its mahogany bookcases and curious mementos, he apologized for it.
"I only meant to be away for half a week, at most," he assured her, peering over his spectacles with concern. Buffy smiled reassuringly at him, touched at his concern.
"I do hope you haven't felt neglected," he added, frowning briefly at his desk.
"I've been keeping busy," she told him. "Seeing friend and the like." Giles nodded.
"Hmm, yes. The Chases are still in town, aren't they?" he remarked, "And I understand you and Miss Rosenburg are on good terms?" Buffy nodded.
"Her father's quite a remarkable mathematician," he continued. "Not particularly interested in engaging with societies or giving talks at universities, mind you, but his theoretical mathematics are really quite brilliant, particularly once one takes into account the amount of time he must spend running his business."
Buffy had only met the man in passing. Her opinion of his worth as a parent wasn't characterized by any amount of esteem.
"How was your trip?" she asked. Giles immediately looked more animated.
"Oh, very fruitful," he said, his pale eyes lighting up in excitement. "I came across some of the most remarkable manuscripts from the 15th century I've seen outside a museum. Some of those old country houses have truly remarkable collections, and are all the more remarkable because the inhabitants haven't disturbed them in centuries. Do you know, I met a country squire who, despite his relatively modest seat, had a very ancient lineage, and the man had some very early editions of Marlowe's plays? The man had no idea who the playwright even was! I must say, if that's the way that men of his generation are being educated then it's no wonder this country is going to the," and here he broke off, looking embarrassed, "well, no matter. I managed to convince him to part with the texts, but it took the better part of the week, and I was comfortably enough entertained while I was there. I was visiting an old friend from my Oxford days. I must introduce him to you sometime. His name is John Barrington, and he's wonderful company, in addition to being a talented critic. You might have come across some of his work in various journals, and he'd just completed a treatise on The Tempest which is really quite good."
Buffy nodded and smiled.
"I've told him he must come up to London soon," Giles added. "I know I'm not the most sociable man in town, and that many of my companions are of more interest to an old bachelor like myself than a young girl, but I don't want to see you cut off or isolated. Your mother-" And here he broke of, and became silent for a moment before coughing.
"Well, I hope to have a few dinner parties now that the true season has more or less ended. I prefer the more informal affairs, and I hope that I won't be imposing on you if I ask you to act as hostess."
Buffy blushed, pleased with the measure of regard and responsibility he had granted her, and also at the notion of hosting a few parties. It wasn't uncommon for a girl her age to do so for a widowed father or bachelor uncle, but it was still a mark of respect, and an acknowledgement that she was a woman ready to be married, rather than a silly girl too young to pay much mind to.
Inexplicably, her mind drifted to Angelus, and she wondered if his name would appear on Giles' guest list, or if she could see to it that it was added there.
"I thought we would have an informal dinner tonight," Giles added, glancing at the clock. "I fear I run the risk of growing rotund should I spend another evening enjoying someone else's hospitality. But I thought that tomorrow we might go to my club and I can introduce you to some of the gentlemen there. Women are allowed in for lunch on certain days and no one much objects to their presence anymore." His smile was wry.
"That would be nice," Buffy allowed.
They continued talking for some time, before realizing that the hour for dinner was approaching, and Buffy excused herself to her room to put away some of her things before they ate.
As she took the stairs to her room she paused halfway up, suddenly guilty. If the spell she had cast earlier had worked, she should know it when she entered her room. That should have been a matter of excitement. Yet she couldn't help think that while her guardian was away, she had been practicing something dangerous and somehow illicit under his roof. She was half tempted to rush back down the stairs and confess everything to him. But what would he say? He might very well think her mad- for the presence of books about magicks did not indicate, on their own, that he gave any weight to their contents. Giles had all kinds of books, among them ancient and absurd bestiaries, collections of myths, and lots of rare and delicate bibles. He'd certainly never given her any indication he believed in anything at all, which, though not as scandalous or uncommon as it would have been a century ago, still raised eyebrows in polite society. This was, after all, still England. From pejorative remarks made in her presence, Buffy understood that the French intellectual set had rather different views and values.
Shaking off her speculations, Buffy entered her room with baited breath, feeling slightly absurd as she stepped softly to the center of her room. Immediately, she felt suffused with warmth, and she laughed in delight. She rotated slowly on her heel, beaming. She hadn't lied to Angelus when she'd told him that the spell she'd chosen wasn't dangerous- or at least, wasn't compared to some of the stories he'd told her. Summoning and conjuring could be dangerous, if one was summoning spirits or demons or something awful. Elements were apparently easier to handle, though still risky. But warmth- the sensation of sunlight on one's skin- well, that she had managed.
She longed to tell Willow, and resolved that after she met with Cordelia, she would make sure to see her other friend in private. Then, perhaps, she could gauge the depths of Willow's affections for Xander and appraise the other girl of her own recent success. Furthermore, Willow was the only person Buffy felt she could confide in with regards to her new relationship with Angelus. She wondered if she should ask the man to help her friend as well, and if Willow would even want to learn from him.
Willow was so incredibly clever that Buffy thought she could be a rather poor student at times- she never wanted to listen to what anyone else had to tell her and preferred to figure things out on her own. She couldn't, even based on the little she knew of him, see Angelus taking very kindly to that. But if anyone was capable of learning something difficult and dangerous on their own, it was her shy and clever friend, and Buffy resolved to tell her everything that she was taught so the other girl would still benefit from her own luck in having a knowledgeable neighbor.
Still, Buffy could also admit that a part of her wanted to keep Angelus to herself. Walking slowly to her wardrobe, she put away her reticle, and contemplated what her true intentions were. She couldn't deny that she found the man incredibly attractive. He had a kind of compelling, masculine beauty that made her heart beat faster every time she saw him. He was certainly a few years older than she was- he looked to be in his mid-twenties, though she thought he was probably older than that. Yet she couldn't see him courting her for marriage. And that was really the only acceptable sort of romantic relationship she could have.
She chastised herself of even thinking of romance, yet it did seem that he was taken with her. He had sent her the roses the night after they had first met, had he not? Shaking herself, she hastened to the door. She'd dallied too long, and needed to get to dinner. But she would definitely be sure to try to get a better read on Angelus the next time she saw him. Shivering at the thought, she went to join Giles.
The scene was something out a gothic novel: a young girl, tall, slim, and elegant, stood alone in the middle of a deserted street. The moon was out, and it lit her face, emphasizing her pallor and the fine lines of her features. She was obviously well bred, yet her dress was ill fitting, too tight and short despite the almost shocking slenderness of the girl.
Angelus took in the picture with pleasure, already contemplating how some of the lines might look sketched out in charcoal. She shivered, and wrapped her arms around her body, utterly alone and friendless.
Well, the latter was true.
Two men, ruffians by the looks of them, stole out from one of the nearby alleys and approached the girl. She watched them warily, first shrinking back, and then, as if unable to help herself, stepping lightly forward to meet them.
"I fear I am lost," she began, interjecting the right note of panic and hopefulness into her voice.
"Lost, is ye?" one of the men asked. "Well where do ye need to be?" The girl looked at him gratefully, less wary than before.
"Kensington," she said. "Is it far?" Her luminous eyes were full of hope. Only the curve of her mouth hinted at hidden amusement.
"Aye," the larger man said, "far enough." He lunged for her and only half a beat passed before his companion followed suit. But before the second man could take more than a step forward, he found himself caught by the throat, and his bark of alarm prompted the other man, his hands already on Drusilla's shoulders, to turn.
What he saw shocked him into stillness. Before he could recover, nimble fingers gouged his eyes, and he let out a strangled scream. His vision thus stolen, he was unable to watch as a handsome man with wild curls beat his companion, before draining him of blood. But for several excruciating minutes he could hear it.
He tried to scream, but a large hand more than adequately forced his jaw shut, and little more than muffled moans escaped despite his best efforts.
"Looks like you're next," a low baritone murmured after his friend had ceased to make noise. He was tossed into a wall and had the wind knocked out of him. As he gasped for breath, his attacker ended him, tearing deeply into his throat and draining him in a matter of minutes.
Angelus grinned at Will and Drusilla, who had watched him finish the second thug with varying degrees of interest. Drusilla was sucking at the tips of her bloody fingers, as she stared at the moon. England always seemed to make her a little madder, as though the effects of what he'd done to her were more potent in the country where she'd lived and died.
Angelus and William each dragged a body to an alley, dumping them carelessly on the ground. They would be discovered tomorrow by the locals who, more than used to violence in this neighborhood, would likely dispose of them with little fuss. The disappearance of two ruffians would be unlikely to trouble the police or catch the attention of the authorities.
William's eyes were still glinting gold as they walked back to Drusilla, and Angelus felt a rush of amusement to see the other man so eager. No doubt the 'rescue' they'd mounted appealed to those lingering romantic sensibilities of his.
Drusilla kissed him deeply, licking the blood from his mouth as Angelus watched them with a certain kind of affection. He'd felt more mellow since his meeting with Buffy, and though he was eager to see her again, he was distracted enough that tormenting the pair didn't really appeal to him. He found that he was taking more pleasure in their company than he had in nearly a year. Drusilla parted from Will to sway up to her maker, and he favored her with a wicked smile.
"Mmm, you're thinking about someone else," she said, eyes far away. She pouted momentarily, but brightened and focused on his eyes as Will hovered behind her.
"She's going to be delicious," Drusilla assured him, and Angelus smiled.
"I'm sure she will be," he replied, "but let's keep her a secret for now." Drusilla giggled, pleased at the thought.
"Naughty," she said, "But I suppose that will make her even sweeter. Like honey in the sun."
"Hmm?" Will asked, burying his face in her neck.
"Effulgent," Drusilla added, and she and Angelus exchanged amused smiles.
"You heard the lady," Angelus said, mock stern. "Let's move on. She still needs her supper."
"I want a little girl with pretty curls," Drusilla said, batting her eyes coquettishly. Will spun her around and she smiled at him. Angelus shook his head indulgently.
"Whatever you like," he replied.
The former owners of the house Angelus currently occupied had possessed a decent collection of books. Evidently, the man of the house had access to one of the better purveyors of illicit books that the city had to offer, and like many of the other men who indulged their darker desired, he had purchased a few tomes about black magicks. Only two of the books had any real power, and they weren't the sort he was planning on introducing to Buffy, or at least, not before he had taught her some self-control.
He chuckled at the thought, his mind quickly changing the already pleasant scene of his own self and Buffy alone, the girl with a book in hand, into a decidedly sexual one. That might take a few weeks, or even months to accomplish, but he had every confidence in his ability to make it so. He ran through a few bookstores in his mind, trying to recall which might have the sort of thing he was looking for. But before he was able to dismiss more than a handful as out of business or unsuitable, Darla strode in, looking more disheveled than he had seen her in a decade.
Angelus looked at her ragged appearance in surprise. She snarled at him, shifting into her vampiric visage, and he instantly tensed up. But she made no move to attack him.
"Where the hell have you been?" she hissed. He paused a beat, and then replied.
"Here and there. More here than there." His tone was light, but he watched her carefully, wary of her rage. "Where have you been?"
"I," Darla replied, striding further into the library before collapsing on an out of date armchair, glowering up at him, "have been hiding from fucking vampire hunters in a goddamn sewer."
Well, that explained the smell. Angelus frowned.
"Here, in London? Why didn't you just kill them?" She let out a hair-raising snarl in response.
"I would have, you idiot, if I could have. These weren't the bungling fools who practically fall on the fangs of anyone older than a decade- they were smart, they were prepared. They had clothes drenched in holy water and devices that fired stakes. I couldn't just kill them. I tried, and got this for my trouble," she snapped, holding up red palms with the distinctive look of skin healing from burns.
Angelus winced, but figuring the likelihood of an attack was no longer high, he turned his back momentarily, to look at the fire.
"Could they have been from the Council?" he asked.
"I doubt it," Darla replied, "they didn't seem to have any idea who I was. And they weren't spouting the usual religious rubbish. They didn't have anything to say to me at all." Angelus scowled. Vampire hunters were bad enough, but those who lacked the connections to concrete bases would be the most difficult to eliminate. The Watcher's Council moved locations several times throughout their history in London, but their current headquarters, though heavily warded, had been pinpointed within the vicinity of a block by some more enterprising types. The Church was generally less of a threat in Britain, since the Anglicans put less credence in demons as a rule. There were still some remnants of ancient orders, but all in all, the island was relatively safe compared with other parts of Europe. One had to be a bit more discreet of course, in order to keep it that way, but all in all, Darla's discovery of a new threat was as surprising as it was unwelcome.
"I assume you were gone for so long in order to make sure they couldn't follow you here," he said. She nodded, still disgruntled.
"I see you made no move to find me," she accused. Angelus turned back to face her and rolled his eyes.
"I assumed you'd found something to amuse you," he replied. "And in any event, I generally assume you're capable of looking after yourself."
"Would you even care if I died?" she snapped. Angelus avoided the question.
"Well Darla, I must confess that's a bit much coming from you. Or do you not recall leaving me to burn after running away?"
She scowled, but couldn't deny what she'd done.
"We need to leave," she said instead. Angelus turned to face her, slightly incredulous.
"Leave," he said, "on behalf of a pair of trumped-up hunters? I don't think so." Darla sneered at him. Angelus had rarely been the sort to run away from a fight, a fact which had caused them trouble on more than one occasion.
"I don't think that's your decision to make," she snapped. He raised an eyebrow sardonically.
"Well, I certainly won't be making it for you," he replied. She frowned, but understood the implications in his phrasing.
"I want to go to Rome," she said instead. Angelus shrugged. The city had its charms, it was true. He wouldn't be opposed to going there after his business in London was finished.
"So go," he said. It would hardly be the first time he and Darla went their separate ways. Actually, having Darla out of the way for a few months would make the whole business with Buffy considerably easier. He could have his way with the girl and turn her without any interference from his temperamental sire. More than once she'd tired of his dalliances and put an end to them by permanently ending the life of whichever hapless mortal or self-assured demoness had caught his attention.
She scowled at him again, but was apparently resigned that he wouldn't be joining her.
"When will you be done here?" she asked, clearly regarding the question as a matter beneath her dignity. Angelus shrugged.
"Hard to say. I'd like to find those hunters of yours."
"I'd like to see you find them," she muttered. He grinned in response.
"I won't have Drusilla or her little poet with me," Darla warned. Angelus shrugged. That was fine with him. They could fend for themselves well enough, and if they were truly concerned with the danger he might send them elsewhere, but for now he thought it might suit him to have them nearby.
As he watched her, Darla slowly relaxed before his eyes. She still smelled a bit though. As he smirked a little at the thought, she stood and shrugged out of her dress. His gaze immediately became hooded, and he watched with pleasure as she stripped out of her dirty clothing. She slinked over to his side and ran an arm down his chest, her hand resting just above his trousers.
"I'll leave at next nightfall," she said, taking a step closer. Her gaze was coy, and Angelus smiled to see it.
"I suppose you'll be busy packing and the like," he suggested, but made to move to walk away from her.
"Not too busy for a proper goodbye," she assured him, and ripped off his shirt. He laughed, amused and a little angry and they made quick work of the rest of his clothing before they tumbled to the floor, battling for dominance. They mated savagely, their maneuverings from the past years forgotten as they found equilibrium.
Darla groaned as he bucked beneath her, scratching his chest with her nails. She leaned in suddenly and he opened his eyes to see her gaze fixed on him.
"Leave with me," she moaned. "You'll miss this." Angelus gave a laugh which quickly turned into a low growl as they continued their frenzied pace.
"Not as much as you will," he taunted. She hissed and drew blood. He sucked in an unnecessary breath and rolled them over, the force of it sending Darla into orgasm, where he immediately followed.
He nipped at her neck and licked up the small amount of stolen blood he'd drawn. Darla let out a satisfied sigh before she opened her eyes.
"Leave with me," she urged for a final time, her blue eyes burning brightly. She had rarely looked so beautiful to him in the last few years as she did in that moment, and he almost agreed. But then he thought of Buffy, lovely and clever and teasing and innocent. He thought of what she would look like lying beneath him as Darla had been scant moments ago.
"No," he said, and smiled at her in amusement as her eyes narrowed. She rolled them over, pushing his shoulders to the ground with more force than was strictly needed and climbed off of him.
He remained recumbent on the carpet, watching her as she decided her dress couldn't be salvaged. Her ice blue eyes met his own, their determination and cunning apparent, and he felt another irrepressible rush of appreciation for her. Perhaps he had forgotten too much of their history together in the aftermath of that disastrous fire. He would never trust her again, or return to that devotion she'd inspired when she'd first made him, but Darla would always be his sire.
"Rome in six months," she reminded him, glaring at his lazy position. His head, propped up by an errant arm, dipped in acknowledgement. Her gaze swept over his nude form for a final time, and they each gave each other a mocking smirk before she swept out of the library, not bothering with her dress or underthings.
Angelus wrinkled his nose in disgust and got off the floor. As he fed her things to the fire, he thought about what had just transpired. On the whole, he was pleased. Six months ought to be more than enough time to amuse himself with Buffy, and while Darla might not be pleased to see him with a new companion when he met her in Rome, what of it?
She'd accepted Drusilla, though Angelus' childe had more of his attention than she did for nearly a decade. Of course, Drusilla was mad, and hardly a threat to the other vampiress' position. Still, Darla would learn to tolerate Buffy. She wouldn't have much of a choice.
The threat of the vampire hunters was concerning. He would have to see to it that Drusilla and William were properly warned of the danger. He would make it clear to them that they were to abide by his rules, and that they wouldn't draw too much attention to themselves until he was ready to go. When that would be depended largely upon Buffy. He resolved to write her a note that night, and see to it that it appeared in her room by morning. Her first lesson in magicks would be as soon as he could manage it.