Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Angel the series, or Criminal Minds, and I'm making no money of this story.
Warning: Crazy Drusilla talk.
Author's notes: It's probably best if you read the first two stories ("Make a Wish" and "Put it in Your Pocket") in this series first. This will make much more sense if you do. Of course, it's mostly in Drusilla-speak, so it might not make much sense either way.
The night was loud, and quiet, too. Too much, too little, too soon…Yes, too soon
. Drusilla pouted, a high whine at the back of her throat, building, the steady stream of frustration shaking her body. Just before it became too much, she stopped, the fit ending, her wide, wet eyes drifting skyward.
Because, there, just below the shape of the big bad bear, someone was singing her another tune. Too soon, yes, she'd made her move too soon. Scared her little fallen star away. Naughty, naughty, Princess Drusilla
, she chided, slapping her wrist. You'll never catch her now. Not without a special helper.
The fallen star had found the prince, she did. Found her Spike, who could pick up the pieces and put her together again. But she'd never reach the sky. Never be what she was. And so long as the little star stayed away from heaven, Dru could catch her.
Would catch her.
The vampire gave a firm, single nod.
"Not to fret, not to fret, my sweet pet," she cooed, and spun. When the laugh left her mouth, her dance stopped, and she caught her balance by grasping the pole of the money bars.
How she loved an evening in the park. Her knight, he used to take her. Her daddy, he never would.
Soon, though, soon, her family would be whole again. And they'd, each of them, dance in the park and in the garden and in the salon. Dance and rip and drink and ride and…Drusilla pressed her spine against the metal ladder, a deep, hungry growl of delight at the back of her throat.
And when the pleasure reached its peak, she sucked in the cool night air, tasting the moisture, tasting his scent. It was sweet with fear.
"Shhh, duckling," she called, "grandmummy is coming."
Drusilla strolled back to the swings. No babies here, none after dark, and not even a homeless old smelly to pick off. But her pet was here, where she'd brought him.
It hadn't been hard to choose. The hungry lioness, she dipped low into the grass and stalked and waited and jumped on the one who'd separated off from the rest. The one who didn't go straight home. He was perfect and so ripe with guilt when she sung her Elle's name.
Drusilla had been delighted when she'd given him a little kiss and heard all the whispering voices in his head singing right back, in perfect tune. What a choir! They'd been so happy to be heard…
"What did you do to Elle?" he asked. Even though his brain, so full, asked different questions. Why, When , How? Is the devil dancing here? Can evil really taste my fear?
His voice was high and lovely. Dru would make him read her dolls a fairytale before bed. They'd be delighted.
A boy. Dru wasn't sure if she wanted another boy in her family. She liked it when things were in pairs, but Drusilla wasn't selfish. If it would make her fallen star happy, she'd bring her a pet to play with. Dru would hold him out and make him bark and make him whine until Elle came crawling out to comb his coat.
The trip of the trap.
Dead little Elle would make the singing boy hers. And what a bunch they'd be then. The more the merrier.
Drusilla crouched down on her knees, putting her clawed hands on his long thighs. Her dress would be dirty, and she liked the idea. His arms were held high, tied to the swing's chains, and turning such a lovely shade of purple from her pinches. She leaned down, pressed her ear against the inside of his leg. He twitched and whimpered and wanted to run.
"None of that now," she snapped.
And he stilled. Such a good boy. She listened to the beat of his heart in that long pumping hose down his thigh. It was lovely. Saliva pooled in her mouth, and she snapped her teeth, pretending to tear the flesh.
He jumped at the noise.
Drusilla frowned up at him, cupped her fingers around his smooth chin. "Don't fret, my song bird," she said, "Grandmummy is saving you for later."
His mouth opened. Things he'd said once already: I'm an FBI agent. My name is Spencer Reid. You don't want to do this.
Sing me another song, she'd requested, after each one.
"What are you?" he whispered.
She tapped his nose with one finger, a giggle at her lips, and leaned forward with a kiss. "You know," she said, with a lover's softness, "you already know."