20 minutes with Darla
Disclaimer: I own nothing, except the written words on this page, but as I don’t own the characters, nor the location, I doubt I would get far.
A/N: 20 minutes with Darla, crossed over with The Scarlet Pimpernel. Haven’t you wondered what happens with Citoyen Chauvelin, especially after reading the last paragraph in the novel?
Oh, I know there are sequels to it, but this was just too perfect.
Vampires thrived on chaos. It made it so easy for someone to disappear – without creating the fuss that would happen had it been a peaceful period.
Darla adored revolutions.
Sure, she couldn’t wear her fancy gowns – as loosing her head was not an option. Especially since that would be the end of Darla, and she hadn’t survived this long as a vampire without picking up some tricks. Dress plainly, like everybody else, and if people mistook her for an aristo they were clearly mad.
Darla could sing la Marseillaise with the best of them.
And the best of them often ended up bloodless in an alley when she was done celebrating liberté, égalité and fraternité with them.
The terror reign was to Darla’s liking.
Only pity was that she’d seemed to misplace Angelus somewhere – but he’d show up. He always did.
Lately there had been people escaping from the Bastille. The Scarlet Pimpernel – a bloody Englishman - had been liberating them. Darla had nothing against that, other than the lovely sound and smell caused by the guillotine would lessen. Especially the smell.
But there were more than enough blood to go around these days. She never went to bed hungry.
A missing person here, another one there. Faith, they were easy to explain. The citoyens had dug their own grave on that one. All you had to do was set out some rumour that they had been partaking in something, never specify what, that hadn’t been exactly pleasing to the ones in charge of the new republique.
Voilá, case closed.
And should she happen to run across an Englishman she’d picked up the little ditty to snare him in that was popular in England at the moment: “We seek him here, we seek him there, Those Frenchies seek him everywhere. Is he in heaven? – Is he in hell? That demmed, elusive Pimpernel.”
Darla grinned and closed in on her prey for the evening. One she was sure wouldn’t be missed by any but Robespierre. And should that be the case – well, she could always blame it on the Scarlet Pimpernel. It was quite lucky that Angelus, that sweet lad, had gifted her with a bracelet of pimpernels before he took off for parts unknown.
It looked like Citoyen Chauvelin, the fox-like man, had had bad luck in his chasing of the Scarlet Pimpernel. Perhaps, he needed some solace for the evening.
Darla was always eager to give comfort to her brothers of the revolution. It almost brought her mind back to her former profession. But this was a better way – now she was the one in power. Casually setting up a seat of power for herself – a true daughter of the French republic.