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Title: Dead Air
Author: Juanita Dark
Rating: NC-17 

 
 
There was nothing like harsh, frigid air to remind you how dead you
were. Sometimes he missed that.

Catch the snow at the right depth and it was almost impossible for
humans to achieve any kind of practical mobility; the vexation of
their abortive attempts at escape pronouncing their fear, heating
their blood, lending the taste an intense quality it otherwise
lacked. Darla, of course, had little tolerance for the snow wetting
her hem, but he, he used to have fun with it.

Biting; sipping just enough to cause disorientation, then letting the
dazed quarry go; watching the great clouds of crystalline air they
produced with hot, panicked breaths that he didn't need to take
himself but enjoyed seeing. In fact, it was difficult not to find the
inevitable running, tripping crawl into deeper drifts some
enlightened form of entertainment that should have occurred to him
earlier but held no less compulsion for it. He rarely did it for the
blood - despite the richness of the flavour - and it was often
wasted, leaving a dark, spattered trail that he truly didn't care
for.

It appealed to him to effectively disappear from view so that the
game thought it was alone, before withering his human mask and
appearing out of nowhere. They always thought they could get away.
Sometimes they screamed; he liked that. But better when they froze
with fear. Infrequently they turned to fight, but he always arrested
that revolting development by snapping their necks before becoming
engaged in pointless tussle. If he did it right, they quivered while
he held them, the piquancy of the fear tangible enough to be tasted,
and it stirred him - to say the least.

It was when he and Penn got on like this that Darla wore that air of
scorn she never rightly outgrew. He would - in jest - attempt to take
her, in the snow, and it was only then that she would evoke her
seniority of line and fell him if necessary. She would take a horse
to the nearest city, where he would find her later in her nicely
genteel hotel-room with poorly concealed cadavers. He would bring her
some token of affection rended from his hunt and she would make
allowances for his still learning. But he was young then, and it took
a while for things to lose their novelty.

In the quaint European villages - while they lasted - there was
nothing better than to find an isolated family home, some last
outpost of civilisation - a cottage or a lodge - just before
Christmas. Feign the accidental tourist. Win their confidence by
flattery and a premeditated condition of confusion and bravado. Only
after the invitation would he instigate some diversion that caused at
least one of them to follow him back outside.

He had done it more than once.

First, lured Papa out and bitten down hard enough to cause
spontaneous urination, and not let go - no matter how disgusting it
became - until he had his fill. He needed the heat you see, for later
exertions.

He would lay the father in the snow in the shape of a cross, out in
the nearest open field. Go back to the house and say there had been
an accident. Bring the wife out and do the same to her. Sometimes he
ripped their skirts to make them run further and if the woman was
attractive, he usually took his time. Then down she would go, to the
side of her husband - faux crucified. The offspring would be last.
Very often he broke their tiny necks before letting them over the
threshold. He needed this blood, you see, for decoration. So that
even after the bodies were removed, three, four or more bloody
crosses were visible underneath.

Later, dispensing with the crosses altogether, he started shaping the
families in mock nativities.  Madly drunk on the vodka-blood of a
Russian captain once, it had suited him to kill livestock to realise
his little masterpiece. Penn, for some reason, liked to pack the
children inside little snowmen, always leaving the fingers and eyes
visible.

Juvenile it was, and naturally this interest in snow could only last
for so long before the masses caught on and he became impatient -
either massacring everyone inside or simply gorging himself with
detachment, dumping the bodies out on the snow in a heap. Which of
course lacked elegance. So inspired for the last time he had strewn
the bodies of his final family over the roof, packed them over with
snow and left the front door open. Someone would find them, hopefully
in Spring when everything started to thaw. And rot.

* * *

But he was in Sunnydale - and true to its legend it was sunny. The
air was warm, with rarely a fog or downcast day. Occasionally, clear
night skies made the air arctic and cast the moon adrift, a lone
glacial presence in a sea of shards and nothing. It was then that he
felt the old thrill of arrangement again.

Tonight was such a night.

Rightfully, at this time, Acathla was being installed at the mansion,
watched over by a petulant Spike and a rapt Dru. Yet he stayed to the
shadows hoping to catch a glimpse of his intended dusting some fool
with fangs - another pleasurable spectator sport. On this night he
found two - fools and fighters both - four in all, not counting the
piles of dust littering the frosted grass around their melee.

The Jamaican used a crooked stake and a straighter method, lacked for
puns but not for directness - the type who clearly accepted early
death, as a function of her responsibility because her Watcher had
made sure her life was a drag. Dru, perhaps, might like that - easy
to mesmerise. He, however, found it an unfortunate waste of time,
training and temperament - almost giving him a reason to kill those
responsible for it, as well as her. But he was a lover not a fighter,
and Spike - once he renounced the wheelie set - would like that kind
of fight just fine. Make her angry first; prime her for a slow, and
hard suck. It was probably why Spike gravitated towards Buffy - she
was easier to inflame and almost worth the effort once she was in
that state. It amused him to consider that had it been Spike, and not
himself, at the right hand of the Judge while Buffy sighted up the
rocket launcher, the younger would have worn fangs and a hard-on.
Both ineffective for a long-range weapon. But that was Spike,
effectively ineffective.

For now, he left the Slayers and went the other way, to find a pair
at least superficially like them.

It took a while to sift the opportunities from the accidents, amongst
the alleyways and cold, glittering sidewalks, but opportunity did
arise. He found the blonde outside a club, clearly high and open to
suggestion. She giggled when he wrapped his arm around her, her
dancing partner didn't mind - clearly this was the order of the game.

"You're cute," she giggled again, the scent of her mint breath
seeming cold - tantalising him with memories of the snow.

When he had her alone, his strength deceptively concealed by his dark
coat and his eyes a fathomless empty, he forced an easy smile. She
sniffed, rubbing a hand across her cheek to squint at him - looking
curiously waifish, as she tried to catch a glimpse of his face out of
the shadow.

"You are cute," she repeated, something like meaning slipping into
the words for the first time.

The light wind shifted stray, blonde hairs across her face and he
brought a hand up to pluck them away. He pushed her gently back
against a wall, moving in closer as he quietly cooed: "Aren't I just
a handsome devil?"

The fangs and forms were calculatingly produced.

This one didn't have the sense or presence of mind to recognise what
was upon her. She took stock of his face by tracing her blue-tinted
fingers along the bumps of his newly predatory countenance perhaps,
fighting for the clarity of what was right in front of her. Very
slowly, her own face contorted with what could have been realisation
but was probably very well disguised as a really bad trip. She burst
into tears.

He bit her savagely because it seemed the time and place, hoping pain
might produce something exquisite in her. But no. She only ceased her
crying like a baby being soothed. Her heart fluttering rapidly
against the birdcage of her chest, she breathed deeply even as he
drank callously. So he made it harder for her, pressing down on her
throat so that she nearly choked. Yet her need was almost as
ferocious as his disdain, the harder he drained her the more she felt
the need to cling to him. Clutching at the folds of his coat with an
inconceivable greed to hold and be held.

She was an overwhelming disappointment, if an effective meal.
Gripping him even tighter in death. He shrugged her from him. Leaving
her carcass in the shadow of a crypt, he went off to seek the other.

The brown girl was harder to find, but when he did find her she
proved more than an advancement. A tuba-player, resigned to late
practise imprudently believing that the locked doors, high windows
and skitterish staff - her instructor a solemn and mechanical,
blackbird of a woman who, quite likely, never knew exactly what broke
her neck - precluded her from early death. Her fingers arched nimbly
over the keys as she moulded the puffed notes into a pleasant
recitation of Camille Saint-Saën's Danse Macabre. He chose not to
interrupt until she forced an error on herself - the last note was
off key. He applauded nonetheless. She started.

"Can I help you? Ms. Kaiser will be back in a moment, if you--"
He stood up from the vantage point of his seat.
"Ms. Kaiser is unfortunately detained at the moment," he paused
liking that first inscrutable flush of suspicion on her face. "She's
unfortunately dead."
There was a flicker of understanding but the etiquette in her made
her feign misunderstanding.
"I'm sorry? I thought you said--"
"I killed her."
He smiled, and in case she misunderstood that, his bestial nature was
to the fore.

The girl was on her feet quicker than he would have credited, her
sharp movement disturbing the flimsy music-stand before her - it went
crashing to the floor with a tinny little clatter. He took a taunting
step towards her.

"You're next."
The whizzing tuba just missed his head as he ducked to avoid it. He
steadied himself.
"Now I have to say, I'm impressed!"
He leapt out at her, catching her in mid-flight to the door.
"Not too impressed though, just - you know - hungry."
She struggled, all fists and nails - he was pleased by her efforts
but forced her hands behind her back. Her mouth opened to scream and
wap!! his hand went over it. Her eyes widened.

"Hmm, it seems you missed your true vocation in life. With a throw
like that I would have suggested something athletic, softball
perhaps? Might have been a star-player. College, sponsorship, fame,
early retirement." He drew back a little so he could see her
considering. His hand tightened around her wrists and he felt, rather
than heard a squeal form in her throat. "Hmmm? It's a pity, isn't it?"

It was then she drew back a foot and aimed it squarely at his shin.
The pluckiness rather than the pain stunned him for a moment and he
let her go. She, naturally, screamed bloody murder but never made it
to the door. He caught her by her hair, throwing her forward so that
she bounced against a wall, then he wrenched her backwards, towards
him. The skin above her right eye had split and now bled freely. His
lips found her throat and he ran his tongue along the artery to alarm
her before he bit down. She inhaled in shock and a fair amount of
indignation. The fear and anger in her swirled in a hot, heady
bouquet that he fully appreciated.

She slid floorward, dying, but he hoisted her body towards him
lifting her. She wasn't quite dead yet and she made an admirable
attempt not to cooperate with him as he took her along. By the time
he approached the cemetery her head lolled oddly on the neck like a
snapped branch. He found the blonde undisturbed, where he had left
her and easily lifting them both - a corpse in each arm he searched
for the perfect spot. He found it, licking his lips at its aptness.

Setting them down he slipped their arms around each other, like
sisters, like lovers, so that they leant against each other in
counterbalance as if they had laid down to sleep and died that way.
The overall effect was that of peace - until one noticed the ruptured
throats and understood the blasphemy. He brushed their hair out of
their faces for the last time. Then appraised the two sleepers lying,
as they were, in the shadow of a statuette angel. Beyond them the
moon glowed sending tall shadows out from the wings, extending them
well beyond the girls' ankles. He adding a single red rose to their
dead, entangled fingers before leaving.

Technically he was still young.

-fin-
 
 

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