* * *

LONDON 1860

The young woman stirred in her sleep and twisted the bedsheets in her
fists, her dark hair spilled across the pillow and her face tightened
with distress as she slept. A soft, fearful moan escaped her slightly
parted lips and her eyelids fluttered. Suddenly, she awoke, starting
violently and sitting up straight in panic.

Breathing raggedly, Drusilla gathered a knitted blanket close around
herself. The nightmare was over, thank the Heavens, already fading
from her memory as quickly and completely as the night retreated from
the dawn. It was over. For now.

The house was starting to warm, crawling out from under the cool grip
of night. Someone had recently stoked the coal oven, and the sun was
just beginning to peek its glowing edge over the horizon.

Slipping out of bed, she touched her delicate feet to the chill
floorboards. On the other side of the small room, her younger
brother, Joshua, slept fitfully, shivering under a thick quilt.

He had just turned fifteen this past winter and was already well into
manhood, supplementing the family's income by helping out some of the
local fishermen. He was as sweet and gentle a young man as she had
ever known. Drusilla smiled when she looked at him, as she often did,
bolstered by a strong surge of familial love. She took the blanket
from her bed and carefully laid it over him, tucking it close around
his neck. Instantly, his shivering stilled and the tension left his
face.

Still smiling to herself, she paused for a moment, watching him in
the gloom. He was growing into a handsome man, she realized, his dark
hair and deep crystal-blue eyes a lure for any young lady. It
wouldn't be long before he would have a family of his own to care
for. As much as she loved her brother, Drusilla couldn't help but
hope that that day would be far off. He was such a sweet boy, she
just couldn't imagine him being ready to go out into the world on his
own.

Opening the door quietly, she tiptoed into the main room of the
family's modest living quarters. Bright orange light shone in through
the murky glass windows, casting a ruddy glow about the small room. A
worn box made of wood sitting against the wall was half full with raw
coal.

Shivering and blowing on her hands to warm them, she reached for a
pair of black metal tongs and froze with her hand half outstretched.
A small, black spider had spun a web for itself in a corner of the
coal box, directly over the tongs, and she feared touching it.

She hated spiders. So ugly, the eight-legged creatures couldn't
possibly have been a creation of God's.

With a distasteful face, she flicked a piece of coal into the web,
sweeping it away. Still worried about the harmless arachnid, she
darted her hand in and grabbed the tongs. Using them, she picked up a
rough-edged lump of coal and lifted the cover of a squat iron heating
stove, dropping the fuel into its flaming maw. Setting the tongs back
into the coal box, she closed the top of the stove and latched it
securely shut.

"You're awake rather early, aren't you, Kitten?" A deep voice rumbled
from the other end of the room.

Drusilla jumped nervously and whipped around. A tall, swarthy man
with a well trimmed beard and deep, dark eyes sat sideways in a
sturdy, armless chair at the kitchen table.

"Daddy!" she exclaimed in pleased excitement, skipping across the
room to him, "What are you still doing at home? Shouldn't you be
opening up the store?"

Ever since he had gained full ownership of the modest furniture
store, her father had always been sure to be there with the doors
open at the crack of dawn. Drusilla couldn't fathom why he would
still be here with the shop unattended. Something must have been
wrong.

Her father pulled her into his lap and hugged her comfortingly. She
could feel the tension bristling in him.

"There was an accident at the mine this morning, Kitten." He sighed,
shaking his head, "I knew something bad was brewin'. Canaries were
dropping like stones all day yesterday. When the first men went down
the hole today, there was an explosion and a cave-in. Two of them
were killed."

"Dear Heavens." Drusilla gasped softly, touching her hand to her
mouth in horror.

She had had a dream of a cave-in at the mine yesterday, one so real
that she had wept with fear for the lives of the miners, and now it
seemed that her vision had come true. At the time, her mother had
told her to ignore the dreams, that to claim knowledge of the future
was blasphemy, and that she must try her best to ignore them.

Drusilla had agreed, convincing herself that it was nothing, but the
disaster at the mine had shaken her resolve and caused her to doubt.
Perhaps the dreams were real?

"I'm closing the store for the day." He informed her, standing up and
easing her off his lap and onto her feet, "They'll need help with
retrieving the bodies. Joshua has taken sick again so he won't be
going out on the boats with the other boys today. I need you to check
in on him while your Mum is busy this morning."

Drusilla frowned. Joshua was ill? She hadn't noticed anything strange
about him when she had awoken this morning. She hoped he was all
right.

"Yes, Daddy." She promised quietly, her mind still partly occupied
with thoughts of the cave-in, "Just as soon as I return from the
abbey."

The man nodded sternly and went to the door.

"Good girl, you make your peace with the Lord." He smiled proudly at
her, "After this morning's disaster, we could all do with a bit of
extra prayer."

He exiting without a word, marching down the cobbled walkway as his
daughter watched through the window.

Drusilla heard soft footsteps behind her and turned to find Joshua
standing in the doorway to the room she shared with him, wrapped in
his quilt.

"You're upset." He whispered softly, staring at her with wide,
delicate blue eyes.

"It's nothing, Joshua." She assured him with a weak smile, "Just a
little fright from a dream I had, that's all. Daddy says you're
feeling sick again? What's wrong?"

Joshua swallowed uneasily and pulled the quilt tighter around his
shoulders.

"I can see darkness, Dru. All around the house." He muttered
fearfully, "On Mum and Da, even you. Especially you. It's making my
head sick."

"What are you talking about? That's foolishness." she feigned a laugh
to cover the nervousness twisting inside her. Darkness? Her dreams
had been filled with darkness of late, a dark predatory thing that
followed her wherever she went.

"You know about the mine, don't you Dru?" he asked, continuing to
watch her, "It happened just like in the dream you had yesterday. You
can see things, can't you? That's why Mum's making you go to the
abbey today."

Drusilla smiled nervously and went to put another lump of coal in the
stove. It was well into spring, but for some reason she felt
unusually cold this morning.

"Don't be daft, Joshua." She scoffed prettily, "I've had enough of
you trying to bedevil me with your foolish words. I'm going to
confession to cleanse my soul, not because of any dreams. You would
do good to do the same once you get better."

"Listen to me, Dru." He pleaded softly, "Please don't go to the abbey
today. I'm afraid something terrible is going to happen."

His voice sounded so fragile, like he was about to cry. Joshua was
not like the other boys his age. He had always been sensitive,
perhaps too sensitive. His eyes possessed extraordinary vision, an
ability which allowed him to perceive things that were invisible to
others. As a consequence, however, he often felt more deeply than
most and was susceptible to strong emotions.

She knew he had learned to keep much of what he saw quiet. More often
than not, his wild claims only caused him trouble. Dru was surprised
that he had so readily revealed the source of his fears to her.
Joshua was well aware that she, like their mother, rejected all such
ungodly occurrences.

"I have no choice, Joshua." She shook her head sadly and sighed, "Mum
will tan my hide if I have another dream. I have to make my peace
with God so they'll go away."

He clutched her arm desperately, fearfully.

"You don't know what could happen." He warned in a tight
whisper, "The dark and the cold are waiting for you."

She was startled by his vehemence and had no immediate response.
Drawing him into a gentle hug, she stroked her fingers comfortingly
along the side of his head.

"I know, Joshua," she soothed, "I know, but if I don't get there
soon, I'll have to wait until after the morning service for Father
Mcmannus to meet me in the confessional."

She released him and grabbed up her coat, slipping her arms through
the sleeves and buttoning it tightly. In the pocket, she had a hand-
sized bible and a wooden rosary, still there from her last confession
only two days ago. She wrapped a thin, gauze-like scarf about her
head and neck, adjusting it so that it framed her face like a
kerchief. Giving Joshua another quick squeeze, she went for the door.

"Tell Mummy I'll be back soon." She smiled at him as she opened the
door, "I'll stop by the market and buy you some cakes on the way
back, okay?"

He stood quiet and still, watching her with those big, blue eyes, so
filled with fear.

"Be careful." He pleaded, his voice weak and barely audible.

She felt so guilty leaving him alone and ignoring his warning like
this, but she had no choice but to go to confession again. Mummy
simply would not have her only daughter beset by blasphemous images
of the future.

"I will." She assured him, pulling open the door, "Promise."

Regretfully, she closed the door behind her and headed down the
cobbled walkway. The sky was lightening now as dawn arrived, turning
the horizon a pale blue ranging up to a deeper azure higher up
without a trace of cloud. It promised to be a fine day and the
morning chill would no doubt burn off by noontime.

Skipping along a worn pathway toward the edge of town, she turned
down a shaded alleyway and skidded abruptly to a stop, her heart
jumping into her throat. A young man dressed in black finery stood
shrouded in shadow with his hands buried in the pockets of a long
topcoat. His long, sandy brown hair was tied back into a stubby
ponytail at the top of his collar. He was tall and dark complected,
with deep, intense eyes, like bottomless pools of the darkest,
starless night.

"Hello." He smiled kindly, displaying an array of straight white
teeth, "I didn't startle you, did I?"

"Um, n-no." She replied, recomposing herself. In truth, for a
fleeting moment, she had thought it was the Prince of Darkness
himself waiting for her, but now she realized he was just a man.

"What's your name?" he took a step toward her and instinctively she
stepped back, somewhat nervous around young men.

"You're not afraid of me, are you?" he smiled again. Something about
him was not right, she knew. She detected a distinct Irish accent to
his voice. Her father had always told her to never trust the Irish,
perhaps that was it.

"I must be going." She attempted to walk around him and he stepped
into her path.

"Wait." He looked at her with those endlessly deep eyes, "What's your
name?"

"I-it's Drusilla. Drusilla Abbott. Please, I must go to the market."
She dropped her gaze to the ground. The lie filled her with guilt,
but she was starting to feel uncomfortable and a bit afraid of this
man. She didn't feel right telling him where she was truly going.

"Drusilla." He breathed the name slowly as if tasting its shape on
his lips, "That's a very pretty name. I'm Angel."

"Angel?" she echoed, surprised, "Are you a missionary?"

"A m-? Yes, yes, I am here to do the Lord's work, I am." He held
himself up proudly and casually brushed off the lapels of his coat.

Drusilla sighed and relaxed instantly. She felt very foolish
suddenly, embarrassed by her rash appraisal of him. All her fear had
been for nothing. She was standing before a man of God, not some
servant of evil.

"You are young to be one of His messengers." She noted
conversationally, warming to make up for acting so suspiciously
earlier, "Have you been spreading the Lord's message for long?"

"Not long at all." He smirked wryly, looking her over with interest.

Drusilla's eyes met his and she broke into a shy smile, dropping her
gaze and shifting from foot to foot. She could feel warmth burning in
her cheeks and along her neck. Although she was nearing her
eighteenth year, she had lived a sheltered life and was not
accustomed to such earnest attention from a man. Waving shortly, she
eased past him to the open end of the alley.

"Well, good morn to you, Missionary." She smiled, forcing herself to
look him in the face so as not to seem impolite, "I must be off."

Turning quickly, she hurried off, her feet a blur of tiny, lady-like
steps.

"Yes." He answered softly with his dark eyes fixed unerringly on her
as she left, "Good Mourn."

* * *

After passing through the alleyway. Drusilla made a detour and
stopped by the marketplace. The missionary's dark, intense eyes still
haunted her and she needed a few moments to clear her head, to
cleanse away any traces of impure thoughts that might still linger.
Besides, this way, the lie she had told him would not be a lie at
all. A loophole perhaps, but it did much to assuage her guilt.

As she entered the market, she drew in a deep breath, enjoying the
wonderful mix of exciting smells. The market had always been one of
her favorite places, ever since she had been a child. It had
something to do with the mystery of the place combined with the
safety of being familiar with many of the people there.

All around her, the shopkeepers of the district were opening up their
doors and setting out their wares on homemade wooden stalls,
everything from salted fish to quilts and clothing made by their
wives and daughters. Drusilla paused to inspect a fine looking
sweater through one of the shop windows when a familiar voice called
out to her.

She lifted her head and spotted a pretty young girl with silken
blonde hair and bright, hazel eyes, rushing across the square toward
her. She wore a long dark blue dress with a fetching pink scarf
knotted at her throat and hard-soled shoes on her small feet. Anne
was a few years younger than Drusilla, she had just turned sixteen a
month ago, but it had never been a problem. Of all the girls Drusilla
knew, Anne was her closest friend.

"Dru!" the girl shouted, waving wildly as she came with a wide grin
on her face, "Dru, I'm so glad you're here!"

The girl bounced giddily on the spot, almost breathless with
excitement, her face flushed and glowing.

"What?" Dru smiled, caught up in her friend's energetic mood, "Anne,
what is it? You look like you're about to burst!"

"Oh, I think I am, Dru!" Anne giggled gleefully, "I've met the most
wonderful man!"

Drusilla smiled to herself. Poor Anne imagined herself to be in love
every second week. All it took was a decent looking man and a casual
smile in her direction. Sometimes not even that. Anne's imagination
often supplied to her what real life could not.

"Oh, he's tall and handsome." Anne sighed dreamily, "He's an
Irishman, too. I so love the sound of his voice!"

"An Irishman?" Drusilla frowned suspiciously, "I met an Irishman this
morning. He's a missionary."

"My Irishman is certainly no missionary." Anne grinned devilishly, "A
musician, perhaps. He does such incredible things with his hands."
Her gaze went distant and the flush in her cheeks deepened as she
toyed with the scarf around her throat.

Drusilla's eyes flew wide with shocked excitement and she clutched
her friend's sleeve tightly.

"Anne, you dreadful creature, you DIDN'T!" she gasped, her mouth
hanging open, "You'll have yourself set for the eternal fire from
such trysting!"

Anne giggled, "Let the Devil have my soul. My heart belongs to my
dark Irishman. And what about your heart Drusilla? Rumor has it that
the good blacksmith's son, John Coleman has been asking about you.
Methinks I see a courtship in your future."

Despite the flattering news, Drusilla's smile fell and her breath
caught in her throat. The future . . .The memory of her dream
yesterday came flitting disturbingly back through her mind.

"Don't be silly." She forced a laugh to cover her uneasiness, "No one
can see the future! I-it's blasphemy."

Anne rolled her eyes in exasperation and chuckled softly, "Dru,
sometimes I wonder if you shouldn't live in that monastery with all
the time you spend with your mind on the heavens."

Drusilla gasped softly and touched her hand to her mouth. In all the
excitement, she had almost forgotten the abbey. Mass would be
starting soon.

"I'm on my way to the abbey. I must be off now," Dru shook her head
with bemused tolerance. It wasn't Anne's fault that she had been
raised in a Godless household.

Drusilla reached into her pocket and twined her fingers through the
loop of rosary beads, taking comfort in the hard edges of the tiny
cross as she turned in the direction of the abbey. "I'll be sure to
send up a prayer for your wicked soul while I am in the
confessional."

Anne waved goodbye with a friendly smile.

"You can't avoid men forever, Luv!" she shouted, "You'll end up being
a hundred year old spinster!"

* * *

Drusilla hurried up the steps to the abbey. It had taken her longer
than she had expected to make the trek up to the hills and she
worried whether she had arrived in time to catch the Father at a free
moment. The abbey was a huge place, with a high curved ceiling and
intricately made stained-glass windows placed at regular intervals
around the circumference of the dome. The building was eerily quiet
and her footsteps echoed loudly off the walls. The service hadn't
started yet, at least, she had made it in time.

She quelled a nervous shiver as she approached the confessional
booth. The near silence was beginning to make her tense. As a child,
she had often imagined ghosts living in the rafters of the old
building, waiting to swoop down and carry her off. She was a regular
churchgoer and visited the abbey often, but she had never been able
to shake that feeling.

She knelt behind the rearmost pew and faced the altar, tracing the
sign of the cross quickly over her chest. She then rose and stepped
through the curtain of one of the confessional booths. She knelt on a
raised and padded piece of the floor and unwrapped her scarf from her
face, ducking her head and folding her hands in prayer.

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been two days since my
last confession." she began and then paused when she heard a dull
thump from the other side of the screen, "Father?"

"That's not very long." the father answered after a moment.

Drusilla felt a creeping chill pass over her briefly. The voice was
not one she recognized. She had expected to receive confession from
either Father Mcmannus or Father Oake. Frowning slightly, she shook
her head to clear it. It did not matter, she reminded herself, all
priests held the Lord's ear with equal importance.

"Oh, Father, I'm so afraid." she said, her voice unintentionally
trembling.

The priest paused again for an instant before answering.

"The Lord is very forgiving." he told her kindly, "Tell me your
sins."

Drusilla inhaled deeply and fought the panic that threatened to
overtake her. Just thinking about the terrible visions was enough to
upset her.

"I had...I've been seeing again, Father. Yesterday, the men were
going to work in the mine. I had... a terrible fright." she paused
and drew in a shuddering breath, "My stomach's all tied up, and I saw
this horrible... crash. My mummy said to keep my peace, it didn't
mean nothing. But this morning...they had a cave-in. Two men died."

She waited tensely for some indication that the priest had heard her
and was not about to cast her out of the church in shame and
disgrace.

"Go on." he intoned calmly.

"Me mum says... I'm cursed." she breathed, "My seeing things is an
affront to the Lord, that only He's supposed to see anything before
it happens. But I don't mean to, Father, I swear! I swear!" panic
gripped her now that the story was started and the floodgates of her
memory had opened and she began to weep fearfully, "I try to be pure
in his sight. I don't want to be an evil thing."

"Oh, hush, child." the priest's voice sounded almost like a chideful
snicker, "The Lord has a plan for all creatures. Even a Devil child
like you."

"A Devil?" she gasped, touching her hand to her mouth in surprise. A
frightening chill crept down her spine.

"Yes! You're a spawn of Satan." the priest remarked matter-of-
factly, "All the Hail Marys in the world aren't going to help. The
Lord will use you and smite you down. He's like that."

"What can I do?" she whimpered, her dark eyes wide with terror.

The priest sighed casually, "Fulfill his plan, child. Be evil. Just
give in."

"No!" Drusilla cried desperately, sobbing, "I want to be good. I want
to be pure."

"We all do, at first." the outline of the priest's head shook
sadly, "The world doesn't work that way.

"Father... I beg you..." she leaned into the screen and pressed her
fingertips against it, tears streaming down her cheeks, "Please...
Please, help me."

There was a pause as the father shifted in his seat and seemed to be
considering her fate. Her stomach twisted in agitation, awaiting his
judgement.

"Very well." he relented at last, "Ten Our Fathers and an Act of
Contrition. Does that sound good?"

Drusilla sank back, relieved. Such penance was nothing compared to
the punishment she had been expecting.

"Yes." she exhaled deeply, releasing her pent-up worry, "Yes, Father.
Thank you."

"The pleasure was mine." he answered as she rose from the kneeling
platform, "And my child...?"

"Yes?" she paused, swallowing nervously.

"God is watching you." he reminded her ominously.

Smiling uneasily, Drusilla exited the confessional booth and briskly
genuflected toward the altar before making a hasty retreat for the
main doors. Around the corner of the confessional, a dark clad figure
stepped out of the priest's booth and allowed the body of Father Oake
to slump lifelessly to the floor. Angelus smiled cunningly and wiped
the back of his hand across his mouth, his eyes locked on Drusilla's
form as she hurried outside.

* * *

On her way back into town, Drusilla stopped by the market again to
pick up the cakes she had promised Joshua. A kindly looking old woman
beckoned to her as she passed, pointing to the collection of baked
goods on her table.

Drusilla stopped and looked over the selection carefully. She
selected four fresh flatcakes flavored with strawberries, Joshua's
favorite, and wrapped them in a thin cloth. The woman smiled kindly
at her and slipped a fifth into the bundle with a conspiratorial
wink.

"For your sweetheart, Luv." She alluded patting the back of
Drusilla's hand.

"My sweetheart?" Drusilla cocked her head in polite confusion, "I'm
afraid I have no sweetheart."

"Oh dearie, I think that you do. You just don't know it yet." She
nodded covertly over Dru's shoulder toward a figure dressed in black
and standing casually within the open mouth of an alleyway, "A
handsome young man like that doesn't watch a girl unless he's got
courtin' in mind."

Whirling about with no regard for ladylike decorum, Drusilla followed
the woman's indication. She recognized the young man as the
missionary she had met with this morning. He smiled at her, but
remained still, content to continue watching her from the late day
shadows.

"Um, thank you." She said nervously over her shoulder to the woman,
gathering up her bundle of cakes and carefully approaching the
missionary.

She walked across the square and stopped a cautious distance from the
young man, watching him anxiously.

"Hello again, sweet Miss Abbott." Angelus greeted quietly, "On your
way home?"

The tone of his voice was so low that Drusilla unintentionally
stepped a little closer to hear him.

"H-hello missionary." She answered, clutching the cloth bundle in her
hands tensely, "Y-yes, I have penance to perform before the sun goes
down."

"Ah yes, prayers." Angelus nodded sympathetically, "What a pious
child you are. Allow me to walk with you. It's almost dark and the
ghouls and ghosts will be out soon, no place for a fine young lady
such as yerself. After all, God cannot be everywhere."

As he offered out his arm in a gentlemanly manner, Drusilla frowned
slightly. All the teachings she had ever learned dictated the exact
opposite of his last statement.

Carefully, she took his arm by the elbow and started down the alley.
She wasn't sure if she was making a good decision, but the woman from
the market had been right. Angelus appeared to be quite a dashing
young man and, missionary or not, walking home on his arm was not an
unpleasant thought.

Strolling quietly together, they cut across another cobbled street
and through a wooded park.

Angelus guided her along a shaded path, keeping under the cool
shelter of the birch trees. Never once did the pale sunlight alight
upon his intense countenance. Stepping over a small stream, he held
Drusilla's hand high, gallantly helping her with her balance as she
prepared to cross the tiny impasse.

She hopped over and landed on the edge of the opposite bank
immediately in front of him, nearly colliding with his chest.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, teetering precariously before him, unwilling to
grab on to him for support.

Angelus' arm snaked around her waist and steadied her, pulling her
body close as he held her nervous gaze with his.

Drusilla froze in his strong grasp, losing herself in the depth of
his impossibly deep eyes. Her heart was thumping like a trapped bird
in her chest and her throat felt tight and dry. She had never been
this intensely aware of a man before.

Her fingers brushed along the rough wool of his coat as he lifted her
easily and turned, setting her feet down on more solid ground. This
close to him, crushed up against the solidity of his chest, she felt
anxious and pleasantly disoriented.

"Th-thank you, sir." She smiled weakly, demurely dropping her eyes
from his.

He caressed the soft underside of her chin with a surprisingly gentle
finger, nudging her face up to look at him, the coolness of his touch
elicited a rush of heat from her maidenly skin. He caught her with
his gaze again, a faint smile bending his lips and creasing the
corners of his eyes.

Drusilla felt her breath quicken and an unfamiliar tightness in her
chest. It was as if her lungs had emptied themselves of all breath.

"You're a very beautiful girl, Drusilla." Angelus whispered in a
voice filled with warm admiration.

Tightening his arm around her waist, he pulled her close.

Drusilla's lips parted in awe and she hesitated, caught between
instinctive curiosity and social propriety, a breathy gasp escaping
her soft, pink mouth. There was something at once dangerous and
exciting about this man, an aura of mystery that played with her
imagination. Closing her eyes, she laid her head against his chest
and relaxed in his arms. His touch was so strong and confident and
she could smell the heady scent of freshly turned earth from his
clothes, like the sweetness of a warm spring day. The surface of her
skin began to grow hot, tingling all over, as if her naked body was
being kissed by the warmth of the sun on a windless day.

He broke the intimate contact, stepping back slightly, and she
reached for him instinctively then stopped herself, dizzily blinking
away the haze of her desire.

Angelus smiled congenially at her and raised his eyebrows
suggestively, slipping his hands from around her waist and casually
dropping them into his pockets.

Realization of what she had just done started to sink in and Drusilla
clapped her hand to her mouth in panic and remorse. She had been
entertaining impure thoughts. Thoughts that surely were rooted in
sin. And about a man of God, at that!

"The Lord has a plan for all creatures. Even a Devil child like you."
The father's condemning voice echoed in her memory.

Shame rushed through her and she stepped back, away from Angelus, in
horror. Tears of self recrimination welled up in her eyes and her
mouth quivered in disbelief. She turned, fleeing from the scene and
the evil that she had committed, a lump of choking guilt in the back
of her throat.

* * *

It was dark by the time Drusilla ran up the cobblestones to her front
door. She found her father waiting for her with a stern expression on
his face and his arms folded tightly over his chest.

She was in trouble, she knew it. Daddy never got that look unless he
was very angry.

"H-Hello, Daddy." She greeted him fearfully.

In the blink of an eye, her father's hand shot out and clamped
painfully around her arm. The bundle of cakes she had bought for
Joshua tumbled to the ground and spilled out. Drusilla cried out as
he dragged her forcefully into the house and down to her bedroom.

"I spend all day burying two good, righteous men and I come home to
hear THIS?!" he shook her angrily, his thick fingers pressing
painfully into the soft flesh of her arm.

"W-What are you talking about?" Drusilla wailed, "What did I do?"

"I thought you were a good girl, Dru." He gripped her by both arms
and forced her to look into his rage-filled eyes, "I thought we
raised you right, but now I know I was wrong."

"Daddy, please!" she cried, trying to shrink in on herself, tears of
fear and hurt streaming down her delicate cheeks, "I don't know what
you're talking about!"

Her father slammed her up against the wall with enough force to jar
the air from her lungs, "John Coleman was here to see you today and
your brother had to lie to him. He's a loyal, hard-working young man,
more than you deserve after what I've just heard."

"What?" Drusilla cowered timidly before her father's seething anger.

"Where were you just before dark?" he demanded grabbing her arm again
and squeezing it, "Where?!"

"I was on my way back from the market. I bought cakes for Joshua."
She struggled ineffectually against his steely grip, "Please, Daddy,
you're hurting me!"

His dark eyes narrowed accusingly and he gave her arm another
squeeze, "Were you with anyone? Did someone walk with you?"

Drusilla gasped, both from shock and the pain in her arm. He knew!
Somehow, her father knew that she had been with Angelus in the park!
Panic gripped her and her mind began working at a furious pace.

"It was nothing, Daddy, I swear it." She pleaded, fresh tears in her
eyes, "I didn't kiss him, I ran away, I did. I ran and -"

Her explanation was cut short by an open-handed slap across her face
that knocked her to the floor. Drusilla curled up in terror,
clutching her reddened cheek.

"I knew it! Joshua saw you in the midst of your sin!" he kicked her
hard in the rear and sent her skidding into her room, "Mucking around
in the trees with some boy no one has ever seen before! How dare
you!"

"Daddy, no!" Drusilla sat up and covered her head with her arms.

"No more lies! No daughter of mine is going to be tramping around the
streets like a whore!" Her father dragged her to her feet and slapped
her again across the face, even more forcefully this time, throwing
her onto her bed. Turning sharply on his heel, he stormed out of the
room and slammed the door thunderously behind him.

Drusilla flinched at the sound, and pressed her face into the
embroidered pillow her mother had made for her, bawling until she was
almost out of breath. Between ragged tear-choked gasps, she cursed
her father for his intolerance, cursed him more for hitting her. She
wished the Lord would come down out of the heavens and smite him for
what he had done to her. If only she could take back the whole day
and start it all over again.

Snuffling and weeping uncontrollably, she didn't notice the figure
standing in the darkness outside her window. Angelus' eyes narrowed
and his lips thinned, turning upward into a cruel and conniving
smirk.

* * *

Drusilla did not sleep well that night, her dreams consumed by
terrifying images of drowning in an ocean of blood. She sat up in her
bed and found that Joshua was already gone, no doubt recovered from
his illness and out on the boats for hours by this time.

She slipped out from under her quilt and picked up a small hand
mirror. Holding it in front of her face, she gingerly touched her
fingers to her bruised cheek, testing for pain. It hurt, but at least
the mark was barely noticeable, only a slight darkening that would be
invisible to the casual observer.

A chill ran down her spine as she realized how unusually quiet the
rest of the house was this morning. Putting down the mirror, she
quickly dressed and went into the main room.

Her mother was there, sitting silently at the table, holding her head
in her hands. The woman was not old, still younger than thirty-five,
but this morning her appearance was haggard and ashen. She sat
staring blankly at the table top, completely unaware of her
daughter's presence.

"M-Mum?" Dru asked, reaching out to touch her still body with a
tentative hand.

The woman only stirred slightly at the contact, inhaling a deep,
shuddering breath.

"I told him not to go up to that mine." She lamented, staring blindly
and shaking her head slowly with grief, "I knew that evil was
alurkin' in those hills the second I heard about them miners. Evil, I
tell you."

"Mummy, what's wrong?" Drusilla pulled up a chair and sat down next
to the near catatonic woman.

Her mother turned her head and stared at her with red-rimmed, grief-
filled eyes, blue like Josua's, "They found him in the street this
morning, Drusilla. It must have happened in the wee hours, before he
opened the store."

"What?" she asked fearfully, "What happened?"

The woman gently took her daughter's hand and cradled it in her lap
with both of her own. Her light blue eyes were dull with grief.

"It's your father, dear. He's dead." She seemed to have to force the
words from her mouth, "They found him this morning, said he must have
been kicked in the face by a horse or somesuch. Joshua is with
undertaker now, seeing to the arrangements."

Drusilla rocked back in her chair, stunned by the news. Just last
night, she had wished her father dead and now he was. Had her
temperamental imaginings translated into reality? She had thought
that after her confession, she would be cured of such evil influence,
but it seemed to only have made things worse.

Jerking to her feet, her eyes welling with tears, she bolted for the
door. She heard her mother call out after her but she kept running
heedlessly. Down the walkway and into the street she ran, trying to
escape the terror that threatened to destroy her, her shoes clicking
on the hard cobblestones. She kept running until she came to the park
she had passed through with the missionary. Ducking under the foliage
of a thick stand of trees, she tripped on a small rise in the ground
and fell to her knees, scraping the tender skin of one of them
against a rough stone.

She didn't bother to get up. Instead, she sank the rest of the way
down and laid her tear-stained cheek against the cool grass, crying
in regret and loss. Her tears flowed unabated until the sound of
nearby footsteps startled her. Quickly sitting up, she choked back
her sorrow and wiped furiously at her reddened eyes, trying to focus
them.

She lifted her head, her bottom lip quivering, and found Angelus
standing over her beneath the shade of the thick forest canopy.

"You're crying." He noted softly, crouching down next to her and
gently taking her hand in both of his, "What's happened?"

She was so frightened and upset that she threw herself into his
embrace and buried her face into his shoulder.

"Oh, Angel, it's terrible! So horrible!" she wailed, "The Devil
surely has his hand on my shoulder!"

Above her head, Angelus' lips twitched in an ironic smirk and he
folded his arms around her shuddering body.

"The Devil?" he asked in a conversational tone.

"Yes! Yes!" she choked and hiccuped through her tears, "I wished it
upon him! I was angry and I wished it! And now he's dead!"

She broke down into a series of wracking sobs while he held her,
smiling pleasantly to himself over her head.

"Well, he must have done somethin' to you for you to make a wish like
that." He patted her back and stroked her hair comfortingly, "Did he
hurt ya? You can tell me."

She pulled herself away from him a little and looked up into his face
with swollen eyes. Unable to form the words, she simple nodded
miserably, fighting back a fresh bout of sobbing.

"Then let me ask you, Drusilla." He stroked his thumb softly across
her cheek, brushing away a hot, crystalline tear, "Is it a terrible
thing for such an evil man ta perish?"

"W-What?" she sniffed, wiping at her face, "But me Da, he's not evil.
He . . . he loved us."

The dark young man turned his eyes skyward in an expression of
beatific faith.

"But is it not the Lord's way ta punish those who are deserving?" He
gently tapped the tip of his index finger against the tip of her nose
and smiled, "Ta smite them?"

Drusilla shifted uncertainly, dropping her eyes to the ground in
confusion. What the missionary was saying made sense, but she
couldn't believe it. She wouldn't.

"No, not me Da . . ." she whispered.

"Oh, come now, child." He gently chided her, "Evil often wears a
pretty face. That's its nature. Why, you could be the most evil of
the Devil's spawn and I would never know it."

"N-no, I'm not evil, I'm not, I swear it!" she protested but inside,
she wasn't so sure. She had been told in the confessional that she
was evil and that there was no choice for her. And the violent death
of her father certainly pointed an accusing finger in her direction.

"Of course you're not, Drusilla." He shook his head with a mild
smirk, "Forget all this foolishness and let me help ya back on your
feet."

She shifted her legs back under herself and squeaked in pain, clapped
her hands to her knee and sucking air wetly through her teeth.

"You're hurt." Angelus reached out and took the hem of her dress in
his hands, "Let me see."

As he began to lift the dress, she instinctively clamped her hands
around her ankle and pinned the garment to her leg, regarding him
with shock and disapproval.

"What are you afraid of?" he chuckled softly at her prudish
behavior, "Am I not a man of the cloth? If I am to help, I must see
the wound."

She watched him uncertainly for a moment, staring into his deep, dark
eyes, and then slowly relented.

"There, see. That's not so bad now, is it?" he grinned, gradually
easing the hem of her dress up around her leg.

Drusilla's breath caught in her throat and her cheeks flushed hotly
as his hands edged the dress ever higher up her calf. Wherever his
cool fingers were in direct contact with her, they traced pleasant
tingling lines along her skin. The sensation seemed to trickle
through her entire body, slithering up her thigh and setting her
blood on fire. Unconsciously, she closed her eyes and tilted her head
back, inhaling slow and deeply. His hands continued their gradual,
sensuous journey and the dress slipped ever higher until her leg was
exposed all the way up to the knee.

"Now isn't THAT a sight?" Angelus smirked, eyeing her shapely
limb, "You've gone and cut yerself."

Drusilla blinked and swallowed nervously, collecting her senses and
focusing her attention on her knee. She recoiled in fear when she saw
the smear of crimson staining her skin. Her mouth worked soundlessly
and she fluttered her hands before her in distress. The sight of
blood had always frightened her.

"Oohhhh, Heavens!" she squeezed her eyes shut and averted her face.

"Oh, it's nothing." Angelus assured her, "Just a scratch really.
Here, let me take care of it."

He bent forward and tenderly touched his cool lips to the wound,
dabbing it softly with the tip of his tongue.

A small gasp of pleasure escaped Drusilla's lips and she felt the
flush spread through her entire body, coursing in dizzying waves from
that small point of contact. He gently traced the tiny cut with his
mouth, pulling on it with mild suction and lightly drawing his teeth
along the surrounding skin.

It was like every nerve in her body had a direct connection to the
trivial cut on her knee and to the soft lips that gently caressed it.
Her breath quickened and her hands twitched in the grass as a wave of
overpowering need overtook her, flooding through her bloodstream.

As she arched her back suddenly and released a quiet moan, her
fingertips digging unconsciously into the soft earth, he pulled away
abruptly and she felt the wonderful connection end. Her eyes snapped
open and she lifted her head, panting, and looked to her knee.
Completely clean, the wound was almost invisible now.

"There," Angelus smiled kindly, standing over her and offering out
his hand, "A little kiss to make it better and you're as good as
new."

Drusilla swallowed in disorientation and pressed her palm to the base
of her throat in an attempt to calm her heavy breathing. A little
kiss? Her blood was thrumming through her veins and warm tingles had
started in her middle and reached all the way down to her toes. She
had never been kissed by a man before, at least not in the way of a
man and a woman. Was this how all such kisses felt?

"Yes . . . thank you." She gripped his hand and allowed him to pull
her to her feet. She stumbled a bit, weak in the knees, and she
wasn't sure whether it was because of the fall or not.

He waited until she steadied herself then smoothed down the sleeves
of her dress, taking a half step closer and looking down at her. She
wondered if he might try to kiss her again and her heart quickened in
anticipation.

"What will you do without yer Da?" he asked.

Drusilla's face flushed with embarrassment. Of course, there would be
no kiss. He was only concerned for her well-being, the way all men of
the cloth were trained to think. It had been foolish and self-
absorbed of her to think his interest fell anywhere but within the
boundaries of his occupation.

"I suppose Joshua will have to take care of us now." She shrugged
uncertainly, ducking her head to conceal the rosy tinge of her
cheeks, "And perhaps I'll become a schoolteacher."

Angelus cocked his head slightly and raised his eyebrows with
interest.

"Joshua?" he queried politely.

"My baby brother. He works on the fishing boats sometimes." She
revealed with a touch of sadness, "He'll have to be working all the
time, now that . . .now that . . ." she trailed off and her face
became stricken with grief.

Angelus reached for her, his eyes warm with dark hunger. The branches
overhead shifted in the breeze, letting a tiny, weak beam of sunlight
through, and he immediately backed against the bole of the tree.

Drusilla didn't notice the agitated movement and bit her lip
worriedly.

"I must be getting back. Me Mum will be worried and we still have to
figure out what we'll do with ourselves." She touched his arm gently
with her hand then quickly withdrew it, "Thank you for your help,
kind missionary."

"Please, call me Angel." He favored her with a friendly smile.

"Angel, then." She agreed, slowly backing away, watching him with a
faint smile peeking through her downcast features.

He watched her as she turned and ran through the weak, dappled
sunlight, and the hunger gnawed at him from within. She was so sweet,
so innocent, he longed to take her now, but he restrained himself
again. The game had just begun, no need to spoil it. Too many times,
he had killed without thought, gorged before he even understood the
nature of his prey. Not this time. A creature such as Drusilla only
came along once in a long while. He would take his time with her,
savor the experience. For, in the end, it would all pass so
fleetingly.

"Joshua." He murmured to himself and sneered, considering. Yes, this
was most certainly something to be savored.

* * *

Rain poured down from the drab, gray sky in a seemingly unending
torrent, saturating the air with chill dampness. The funeral goers
were all gathered under a tarpaulin that had been erected as shelter
from the downpour while they paid their respects. All dressed in
black and shivering from the dampness, they only served to further
darken an already painfully somber service.

Drusilla pulled her black shawl tightly about her shoulders and
huddled into the crowd for warmth, sniffling quietly to herself. Less
than ten feet away, a sharp edged coffin sat waiting to be lowered
into the earth. Wood from his workshop had been used to make that
coffin, she knew. Her father would be buried with the material that
had been his livelihood in life.

She wished she could see him one last time, look at his smiling face
again. Anything to replace the last memory she had of him. But she
wouldn't dare consider peeking into the casket. Even without the
vicious rainstorm, the coffin lid would have been kept closed. The
rumors said that his face had been so badly mutilated when they had
discovered him that it had taken six men to arrive on scene before
two could be found who could withstand the sight of it long enough to
move him.

Her dark eyes filled with worry and guilt twisted inside her as she
remembered her wish again. That night seemed like half a lifetime ago
although, in reality, it had barely been three days.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder from behind and Joshua squeezed in
next to her. He didn't look good at all. His hair was wet and clung
to his face in haphazard sprigs and his delicate skin appeared even
more pale than usual. Even his lips were pallid. Drusilla noted that
his cheeks were sunken and that dark, unhealthy circles had formed
around his crystal blue eyes, now dull. She wondered how long it had
been since the last time he had slept.

"I didn't truly see you, you know." He said in a quiet, even voice,
his eyes fastened straight ahead on the coffin.

"What?" she asked, perplexed.

"In the forest with the strange man." He elaborated, his gaze still
fixed, "I saw it with my vision, not my eyes."

His vision. He was referring to the unearthly things that his sight
often showed him, she realized.

"I saw the Cold Man with you in the forest." He continued, "I saw you
fall and he kissed your blood."

What little color she had drained from Drusilla's face and her
stomach lurched with dread. How could Joshua have known? She hadn't
experienced Angelus' kiss until after her father had been found dead.
Was her brother beginning to have premonitions too?

"Be careful, Dru." He warned her ominously.

She smiled nervously and rested her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't be afraid, baby brother." She reassured him, "I'll keep safe,
I promise."

"The darkness is gathering all around us." Joshua's jaw tightened and
he bit his lip until it bled, his eyes wide and distantly fearful, "I
can see it."

"Joshua?" she reached for his face in concern, frightened by his
intensity.

Their mother emerged from a tight group of well-wishers, outfitted in
a black dress and veil, the mourning garb of a widow.

"What have we done to deserve this, oh Lord?!" she wailed at the sky,
her hands clenched into tiny fists and fresh tears streaming down her
cheeks.

Joshua broke from his trance and went immediately to console her,
taking her in his arms and holding her. He seemed a decade older
today than he had three days ago, Dru noted. He was the man of the
house now, responsible for both herself and their mother. The burden
appeared to already be taking a toll on his delicate spirit.

A hand brushed her shoulder and she started, turning swiftly.
Standing before her was a towering young man with sandy colored hair
and a handsome, friendly face that was clouded with sympathy and
sadness. He was well built, with broad shoulders and bright,
intelligent brown eyes, with a faint tracing of a light, immaculately-
trimmed beard along his jaw. The rain had soaked him through, but he
appeared unbothered by it.

"John!" she exclaimed in surprise.

It had been almost a week since she had seen him last. Back then, she
used to hold her breath nervously whenever he passed and entertain
childish dreams of marriage when she had a quiet moment to herself.
But, today, after all that had happened, she hadn't even been aware
of him as he approached.

"Hello, Dru." He said, his voice respectful and somber, "I'm sorry to
hear about your Da."

He always spoke to her in a placid tone, as if, because of his size,
he might run the risk of harming her with normal volume. Her gentle
giant.

"I know. Thank you." A slight smile poked through the veil of her
sadness.

He took her hand carefully in his, completely engulfing it.

"If there's anything you or your family needs, don't hesitate to
ask." He offered kindly, "Me and me Da are here for you if you need
it."

At least a dozen other people had made similar promises to her that
day, mostly out of politeness and shock over the violent death of her
father, but, unlike them, John was completely believable. Something
about the way he looked her right in the eye with total faith in his
words.

She smiled nervously and dropped her eyes, staring at the massive
hand that was closed so tenderly over hers.

"Thank you, John." She answered, touched by his sincerity, "Again."

He stood before her, silent and still as a statue, just holding her
hand. The comforting contact eased some of the sorrow that burdened
her heart.

"Can I see you later?" he asked in his giant's whisper, "After the
service? I can help out with anything you need around the house."

"I-I'd like that."

"Tomorrow, then." He promised, releasing her hand with reluctance,
his warm brown eyes holding hers.

As he dutifully went to pay his respects to both Joshua and her
mother, another familiar person approached her, appearing from the
crowd as if by magic.

Anne threw her arms around Drusilla, hugging her tightly.

"I heard what happened, Dru." The blonde girl whispered, her throat
tight with tears, "I'm so sorry."

Drusilla returned the embrace, taking a brief moment of comfort from
the contact. The blonde girl clung to her tightly, almost painfully,
rocking her with short sharp jerks. When Anne withdrew, Drusilla was
shocked at what she saw. The girl looked to be in worse shape than
Joshua. Her skin was pale and blotched with a faint pinkness and her
lips were dry and tinged with blue. Her once silken hair was dull and
unkempt, hanging about her face in lank tendrils. Too much white was
showing in her eyes and dark smudges marred the lids, making her
appearance haunted.

"Anne, what's happened to you?" she gasped quietly.

"Oh, I know I must look dreadful." The girl fretted self-consciously,
dropping her gaze and pawing at her hair in an attempt to smooth it
against her head, "But there's been no time. I haven't slept in
days."

Drusilla felt an eerie chill shoot through her and she grasped her
friend's hand tightly. The fingers were terribly cold, like death.

"I'm sorry I had to tell you this way, Dru." Anne blubbered
tearfully, almost hysterically, inhaling sharply and rubbing her free
hand roughly across her running nose, "What with all that's gone on
with you and your family, I just wish I could have found another
time."

"Anne, what are you talking about?" she gave the girl's hand a sharp
squeeze to get her attention, "What is it?"

Anne stopped fidgeting and calmed herself, hanging her head like a
guilty child. Sniffing back her tears, she took a few deep breaths
and released them slowly.

"I'm leaving London." She whispered, her voice a tragic note of
loss, "Forever."

"What?" Dru felt her face go blank with shock and she squeezed her
friend's hand.

"It's my sweetheart." The blonde confided softly, "He says he'll take
me tonight."

Drusilla's brow furrowed. Anne sounded sick and a little desperate,
not ecstatic like she would have expected. She watched as the girl
rubbed unconsciously at the top of her thigh as if the limb was
bothering her, her fingers trembling uncontrollably.

"I have to go Dru." She apologized abruptly, peering skittishly over
her shoulder, "He won't wait for me. I have to go."

Drusilla held on to the girl's hand as she tried to retreat.

"Wait." She said, "When are you leaving. I'll come see you off."

Anne flinched for no apparent reason and caught the edge of her
sleeve between her teeth in a nervous, child-like manner, "I can't,
Dru. I can't tell you. Oh, I would so love to, but I can't. We must
get away during the night. To avoid me Dad."

She tugged on her hand to retrieve it and stared at Drusilla's hold
on her, seeming to be suddenly upset by the contact and hovering on
the edge of tears.

"Please, Dru, let me go. I have to go to my sweetheart."

Disturbed by Anne's strange behavior, she released her. The blonde
gathered her skirt up in her hands and hurried away, splashing
heedlessly through the deep puddles.

Drusilla watched her, her dark eyes deep with worry and nervousness
turning in her stomach. She wondered what Joshua would see if he
turned his particular vision in Anne's direction. Something was
certainly wrong with her and Drusilla doubted that running away with
her new boyfriend was going to help the situation, whoever he was.

Behind her, Joshua watched Anne as well, his pale blue eyes strained
with focus. His jaw quivering, he clenched his teeth against the
inside of his lip in agitation, bringing forth another thin stream of
blood into his mouth.

* * *

Drusilla sighed forlornly as she folded up the last of her father's
clothes. There was no point in keeping them. Joshua would never grow
to be as broad as their father had been and there were no other close
male relatives to give them to.

The shock of her father's passing made it all seem surreal. She kept
expecting him to come walking through the door and pull her into his
lap the way he used to. The house seemed so empty and silent now that
he was gone.

"Dru?" a man's voice asked from the doorway.

Her face lit up and she spun around quickly.

"Da-?" she froze, seeing that it was Joshua who had spoken.

He leaned against the doorway, looking a little better than he had
during the service yesterday. His crystal blue eyes were clearer and
the dark circles around them had lessened.

"You have a gentleman caller." He said with a slight, approving
smile, the first positive expression he had shown since learning of
his father's passing, "It's John Coleman."

Drusilla hastily straightened her dress and smoothed her dark hair
back away from her face. She had been expecting John for most of the
day but as nightfall approached, she had become less hopeful.
Inhaling deeply to steady her nerves, she waited a moment before
following her brother into the main room.

Her mother sat at the table, solemn and grief-stricken, and Joshua
took the chair next to her, covering her hands with his. He seemed to
be the only one who could pull her out of the withdrawn state she had
slipped into since losing her husband.

John stooped in the doorway, his full height an inch or so higher
than the ceiling. His normally jovial face looked heavy and worn and
his brown eyes wandered in a constant circle from her brother to her
mother to herself.

"John, how good to see you." She greeted, crossing the small room in
a few long strides, "Can I get you anything?"

The giant man shifted uneasily and cleared his throat, folding his
huge hands together at his waist.

"Um, no. Thank you." He swallowed nervously, "I can't stay."

"Oh?" she tried not to let her disappointment show.

"A group of men are taking their guns up into the hills." He nodded
softly, "I-I've volunteered to go with them."

"The hills?" Joshua looked up from consoling his mother and
frowned, "What's going on?"

"There's word of a . . .a rabid wolf on the loose. We're going to get
rid of it." The tall man sounded almost apologetic.

"A wolf? What makes you think . . .?" Joshua's eyes went wide and his
lips parted in horror, "Dear heavens, no . . . Anne."

John only bowed his head, his face stricken.

"No one knew how to tell you, what with all that's happened." He
explained regretfully, "But you had to know."

"What?!" Drusilla demanded frantically, grabbing hold of John's
forearm, "Why are you talking that way? What's happened to Anne?"

John looked down at her with a miserable expression. Placing his
hands on her delicate shoulders, he held her steady and cleared his
throat again.

"Last night . . ." he stroked her hair with more gentleness than it
seemed his big hands should have been capable of, "she got . . . she
was . . . killed."

Drusilla gasped sharply and stepped back in shock, tears welling up
in her dark, soulful eyes. Joshua pulled her into a comforting hug,
his expression steady and grim. John sighed heavily and pushed his
hands into the pockets of his coat.

"They found her on the edge of town. Her body had been . . .
had . . ." he looked to Joshua, unable to continue, "That's why we
suspect a wolf. Maybe more than one."

Drusilla pressed her hand to her quivering mouth and sniffed,
releasing a long, shuddering breath. Anne must have been attacked
while waiting for her sweetheart. It was so tragic. Just a few more
hours and she would have been safely out of London with him. Safely
away from the curse that Drusilla seemed to be carrying with her
wherever she went.

"I must be on my way. They're waiting for me." John announced,
hesitating in the doorway, "I want the three of you to stay indoors
tonight. At least until we find this thing."

Drusilla touched her hand to his and nodded up at him in
agreement, "We will."

As he turned reluctantly and left, Joshua reached for his coat and
pulled it on.

"Where are you going?" Drusilla hooked her hands around his
arm, "Weren't you listening to John? It's dangerous to go out now."

Joshua smoothed his dark hair out of his eyes and regarded her with a
serious expression.

"I'm going to the undertaker's." he said with worry apparent in his
eyes, "I have to see her body."

"Joshua?" she whispered, horrified.

"Stay with Mum." He pulled his arm free of her grasp and went for the
door, "I can't explain it but I have to do this."

Drusilla watched helplessly as her baby brother exited in a hurry,
practically running down the cobbled walkway. With a deep sigh, she
sank into the chair next to her mother's.

Seeming to rouse from her lethargy, the woman lifted her head and
scowled to herself.

"Fool girl." she muttered in a low, condemning voice, "Trystin' in
the woods at night like that. Deserved to get bit if you ask me."

Drusilla's head snapped up and she stared, stunned by her mother's
inexplicable observance.

* * *

Joshua marched steadily down the street, his face creased with worry.
The undertaker's place was almost clear across the city and every
step fueled a growing sense of foreboding within him. He had made
this same trek not four days ago, on the morning when his father's
body had been found. He'd hoped to never have to make it again.

Thunder rumbled ominously and Joshua eyed the darkening sky
cautiously. The clouds had not cleared since yesterday's downpour but
at least it had stopped raining. He hoped that the respite would hold
out a while longer.

Bravely, he pressed on, but he was afraid. He had been that way ever
since the morning of the mine disaster. The visions he'd had that day
had been so powerful that it had sickened him, twisting his stomach
into knots and afflicting him with a stabbing headache. He'd been
having more frequent occurrences since then, as well.

Normally, when his Second Sight asserted itself, he could see things
that were invisible to the average person. Not actual visions, but
something akin to an extra dimension to what his normal sight showed
him. On people, this extra dimension manifested as a visible aura,
complete with color, shape, texture and an animated life all its own.
Subtleties in this aura could reveal a great deal about a person if
interpreted correctly. For the last four days, however, he had been
afflicted with a perception that far outdistanced his normal
extrasensory ability.

Auras had begun to blaze like miniature sunsets before his eyes and
the information they conveyed was no longer limited to the past and
present. Future events hung like specters in the air around the
people he saw, showing him jumbled pictures of what was to be. Worse,
he couldn't find a way to shut it off. The occurrences of his power
had become more frequent lately until it seemed that the Sight had
become a permanent part of his senses.

Yesterday, when he had looked at Anne, the sense of death he had
received from her had been staggering. It had clung to her like a
cloud of pure evil, polluting her normally bright innocence. Far more
sinister than something as natural as a wolf, he was sure. Just a
short time ago, he had seen a similarly disturbing energy surrounding
his sister. The realization had sickened him with dread.

Every time he looked at Drusilla, he could see the indefinable
tragedy that was destined to befall her.

But not if Joshua could help it. If his gift truly was showing him a
picture of the future, no matter how difficult to interpret, then he
would turn it to his advantage. No matter what the cost, he would
rescue his sister from the impending darkness.

When he reached the undertaker's place, he hesitated uncertainly
outside the door. He wasn't sure what he expected to see when he
viewed Anne's body, but he had to find out. Inhaling a deep breath,
he took hold of the knob and opened the door.

The undertaker, a surprisingly young looking man who was actually in
his early forties, stood up from behind his desk and smiled a
greeting.

"Joshua Abbott." He circled out from behind the desk, "What brings
you here this afternoon? I hear that your father's service went
well?"

Joshua fidgeted and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Mister Lowell
was a good man, but he seemed far too casual about death and its
trappings. Perhaps life as an undertaker made such things appear
normal.

"It was fine, thank you." He answered uncomfortably, "But that's not
why I'm here."

"Oh?" Mister Lowell slipped his wire-rimmed spectacles off and caught
the earpiece between his teeth in interest, "Then what did bring you
here?"

Joshua started to pace a wide, slow circle around the room, unable to
meet Mister Lowell's eyes directly.

"It's about Anne." He revealed in a low voice, "Anne Guthrie."

The undertaker's hand shot to his mouth and his face became gray with
genuine sadness.

"Oh, that dear, poor child." He shook his head sadly, "Never have I
seen such tragedy. To die so young and in the way that she did . . ."

He turned and sighed, staring out the window at the gloomy afternoon
sky with troubled eyes.

Joshua swallowed tensely, "It was a wolf then?"

Mister Lowell's gaze became more disturbed and he rubbed his chin,
his lips tight.

"That's what they say." He responded shortly, a slight tell-tale
tremble in his voice.

"What do you say it was?"

The older man sighed and shook his head slowly, pivoting away from
the window and facing Joshua again.

"To be absolutely honest, I don't know what I think." He said
tiredly, "All I know is that the body of a pretty young girl was
brought into my shop this morning in a most atrocious condition. And
I have to do my best to try and clean her up for the service."

Joshua bit his lip, his heart beating hollowly in his chest, and
looked to Mister Lowell imploringly.

"Show me." He said.

"What?" Mister Lowell ducked behind his desk, putting it between
himself and the dark-haired young man, "Y-You don't know what you're
asking lad. I've become accustomed to dealing with the dead. This
young lady is no sight for the squeamish."

"I need to see her." Joshua reiterated with conviction, "The fate of
my family may depend on it."

Mister Lowell hesitated, worried and unsure, but relented and fished
out a metal key from under his desk.

"You must understand, Joshua, that this is highly irregular." He
mentioned as he turned the key in the lock of a sturdy wooden door in
the back, "It wouldn't do for the young lady's kin to hear word of
it."

"I won't say anything." Joshua followed him in through the door,
close behind.

The room was strangely cold and there was a dark brown sheet covering
something on a long wooden table. Mister Lowell went to one end of it
and laid his hands on the edge of the sheet.

"Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?" he asked, begging the
young man with his eyes to reconsider.

"I'm certain." Joshua folded his arms across his chest and braced
himself as the undertaker lowered his eyes and removed the sheet.

Joshua gasped in horror and stepped back from the sight that had
waited underneath. Although her body had been arranged in a peaceful
pose, it was obvious that the girl had died consumed with terror. The
stench of it still clung to her.

Her pale flesh was marked with dark, angry bruises and scored with
dozens of long, thin cuts. Pockets of dark, hemorrhaged blood had
gathered in areas, distorting the natural curves of her soft flesh.
Parts of her were awkwardly set, misshapen by the broken bones
underneath, and her spine looked like it had been twisted out of
joint in a couple of places. A deep, bloody cross had been carved
into her left cheek and, below that, along the side of her throat was
a set of bruised teethmarks that looked to have been ripped instead
of pierced.

Joshua shuddered and felt his stomach knot up in revulsion. Anne had
been viciously brutalized before being killed. She hardly looked real
to him now. No wolf had done this to her, he realized. A wolf would
only attack out of fear or hunger, or to protect its family. This
atrocity had been motivated by sheer cruelty.

Sadly, he stepped up to the table and reached out to touch her still
face. Even in death, mutilated and disgraced, she still held a
certain beautiful purity.

As regretful tears gathered in his eyes, the backs of his fingers
caressed her cool cheek and the world exploded inside his mind.
Screaming in pain, he clapped his hands to the sides of his head,
digging his fingers into his scalp and falling to his knees.

He was running blindly, the pain in his lungs almost as much as the
pain in his heart. Tears ran freely down his face and mingled with
the blood gushing from the ragged-edged cut in the side of his neck.
A dozen similar wounds scored the flawless skin of his chest, arms
and shoulders, turning his dress into a crimson, blood-soaked mess.

Joshua continued to run, his small feet pounding against the uneven
forest floor as he barreled carelessly into the thick brush. Sharp
branches clawed at his face and stabbed painfully into his breasts,
but he continued heedlessly. The danger that was closing on him from
behind far outweighed the risk of running blind through the forest.

Strong, vise-like arms seized him from behind, squeezing him tightly
enough to jolt the breath from his lungs. He tried to scream, the way
his mother had told him to, but the only noise that escaped his
bleeding throat was a weak airy gasp.

A cool cheek pressed itself against his from behind and soft lips
brushed his ear. Only minutes ago, that mouth had been pressed
passionately over his, but then he had felt the pain of sharp teeth
and blood had flowed. And then the chase had begun.

Strong fingers rubbed roughly across his wounded body, splitting the
many cuts in his flesh wider, and a chilling voice whispered loving
promises of torment and despair into his ear.

A swift wrench and his spine twisted sharply sideways, the sheer
agony stealing away his breath. The arms released him roughly and the
forest floor rushed up and smashed into him. He lay struggling
futilely on the bed of spongy pine needles, his crumpled body
refusing to respond adequately to his wishes. He had thought for an
instant when he first hit the ground that he was paralyzed, but
paralysis equated with numbness and he had never felt such incredible
pain before in his life.

His pursuer knelt down over him and stroked a chill metal talon
across his cheek, slicing down and then across in the shape of the
cross.

"It's time, my love." a sinister voice leered softly.

Joshua screamed, flailing wildly with his arms and clawing at the
empty air in terror. Gasping for breath, he slowly cracked his eyes
open and lowered his trembling arms to his sides. He was back in
Mister Lowell's shop, in possession of his own body again. He climbed
to his feet and straightened his clothing, his senses slowly
reasserting themselves. The vision had been so powerful, so complete,
that he was left reeling. Disturbing afterimages still swam before
his clouded, crystal-blue eyes.

Mister Lowell stared at him with a wide, open mouth and a slack
expression on his face.

"Are you all right?" he asked, offering a steadying arm and then
retracting it uncertainly.

Joshua leaned heavily against the wall, using it as a guide and
pulling himself along it toward the door.

"I-I have to leave." He kept his eyes shut, afraid of what he still
might see if he opened them, "Thank you for your help, Mister
Lowell."

Moving by touch alone, he found the door and pulled it open,
stumbling outside into the cool evening air. He could hear Mister
Lowell hovering in the doorway behind him.

"Joshua?" he called, "Are you sure you are alright?"

The young man ignored him, clutching his forehead and staggering into
the street. He stopped and leaned against a lamppost to catch his
breath. Tentatively, he eased his eyelids open and was relieved to
find that the sickening remnants of the vision had passed. Biting the
inside of his lip in troubled thought, he started on the road for
home.

It frightened him to think of it. His particular vision was becoming
stronger, unmanageable, confronting him with things he was not
prepared to see. He had less control of it now than ever before and
he feared that the growing stress on his psyche might break him. Even
now, he could feel the tide waiting to engulf him.

The road forked, the right branch snaking up the hill, becoming more
weather worn and dusty in the distance while the other circled around
at a slightly downward angle. He had come up the lower branch on his
way to Mister Lowell's, but the right branch followed a shorter
route. Looking up into the dark sky, he opted for the right hand fork
and pressed on, his lungs laboring somewhat as he mounted the steep,
rocky slope.

He approached a wooden bridge spanning a deep, narrow gorge. It was a
commonly used shortcut for those who often traveled from one end of
the city to the other. Someone had lit the single oil-filled lamp
that hung from the center support beam and it rocked back and forth
slightly, giving off a weak yellowish glow.

As Joshua took his first step onto the bridge, a figure at the
opposite end mirrored his movement. Joshua froze, staring at the dark-
clad man, his foot braced against the sturdy old wood. A sick feeling
crawled over the surface of his skin and cold fear settled like lead
in his stomach.

The man strolled forward, the light from the lamp spilling over his
features and throwing stark shadows into the hollows of his eyes. He
was smiling, but the expression held no kindness or mirth. It was the
greedy smile of a predator.

"Hello, Joshua." He greeted, using the name with familiarity, as if
they had known each other for a long time.

"I know who you are." Joshua took an unsteady step backward,
swallowing a lump in his throat.

"Oh?" the man cocked an interested eyebrow, continuing his slow,
careless approach, "Do tell."

Joshua narrowed his eyes and set both feet firmly on the lip of the
bridge, determined to stand his ground.

"You're the darkness that's been plaguing Drusilla and me family." He
accused, reaching inside his shirt and withdrawing a pewter
crucifix, "You-you murdered Anne Guthrie."

Angelus stopped less than three feet from him, his dark eyes studying
the metal pendant with amusement.

"They say 'tis folly to place such faith in icons." In the blink of
an eye, his hand swept across Joshua's throat, snatching away the
pendant and tossing it over the side of the bridge, "I'm inclined to
agree."

Joshua started at the swift movement, awed and frightened by its
speed and ferocity. A slight, residual stink of burnt flesh wafted on
the breeze. His eyes itched and he could see the evil surrounding the
man clearly now, like a halo of pure blackness, shot through with
veins of red hatred and yellow cruelty.

The man slipped a small metal object of his own out of his pocket and
placed it over the end of his thumb.

Fear washed over Joshua, demanding that he turn and flee, but he
refused. No matter what, he would stand up to the darkness. He would
protect his sister.

As the dark-clad man's hand closed around his throat, Joshua closed
his eyes and silently prayed to the Lord for mercy.

* * *

Drusilla wandered back into her room and sat down on the edge of her
bed, pressing her hand to her forehead. She was so tired. She had
been losing sleep for more than a week with the dream visions and the
last few days had only made thing worse. The recent emotional drain
had camouflaged her exhaustion with depression, but now it was
becoming apparent.

Stretching out, she laid back on the mattress, releasing a long,
tense breath and letting her eyes sag shut. She would only rest for a
minute or two, just enough to restore some of her flagging energy.
Only a minute.

As she drifted off, a terrible fear rose up inside her, drowning her
like a massive flood. She struggled and kicked, striving desperately
for the surface. Something was holding her down, keeping her from
reaching the air. Crippling pain blossomed across her midsection and
she screamed, releasing the last of her precious air. Weakened, she
started to sink slowly into the abyss.

The pressing darkness thinned and her gradual descent became a
hurtling fall. Wind whistled past her ears and terror rushed through
her in sickening waves. She hit water again with lung-jarring force,
plunging into the chill depths and touching the sandy bottom.

She opened her eyes and found herself laying on her back across a
sandy, sunny lakeshore. A deep shadow fell over her, blocking out the
bright sunshine overhead. She looked up, squinting into the stray
beams that broke past the edges of the tall silhouette. Fearfully,
she recoiled from it.

The black outline crouched down over her and placed a gentle hand
against her cheek.

"Joshua." She smiled, recognizing her brother's kind features and
delicate blue eyes.

Her terror quickly receded as he helped her to her feet and enfolded
her in a comforting, brotherly hug. She rested her head on his
shoulder and relaxed, feeling the warm tickle of sand under her bare
feet.

"Run, Drusilla." He whispered harshly into her ear, "He's coming."

His body tensed suddenly, going taut and rigid with pain, and he was
jerked away from her by an invisible hand.

"Run, Dru!" he cried, a long cut opening by itself across his left
cheek, spilling vermilion blood down his chest, "RUN!"

She hesitated, paralyzed with fright as Joshua's face twisted in pain
and a second cut opened perpendicular to the first, forming the shape
of a cross on his cheek.

He fought desperately against his unseen attacker, choking and
kicking his feet, "GO!!!"

Consumed with terror, Drusilla turned and fled blindly, running as
hard as she could but she gained no ground. Her feet felt like they
were mired in tar and the cold hands of Joshua's invisible tormentor
closed around her from behind.

She jerked upright on her bed, panting in fear and her heart pounding
wildly in her chest. She blinked away tears of fright and gaped in
horror as the last moments of the dream burned into her memory.
Joshua . . .

* * *

Lightning flashed and thunder ripped deafeningly through the night
sky. Rain threatened and the clouds were dark and angry, filling the
air with tense static. Propped from the bridge's center post, the
guttering lamp jostled back and forth in the steady breeze, casting
harsh, orange-tinged shadows across the faces of the two men standing
on the bridge.

Joshua gritted his teeth in utter agony and gasped desperately for
breath as he hung precariously close to the edge. Angelus held him by
the collar of his shirt in a tireless, steely grip, the boy's feet
dangling just inches above the wood. Below them, a deep ravine
dropped away into a layer of thick, white mist.

"I'm not afraid of you, demon!" Joshua grunted over his shoulder, his
soft blue eyes wide and straining against the pain. His breath was
quick and short with terror, but he refused to feed his captor's sick
need by letting it show.

A cross-shape had been gouged into his cheek, cut so deep as to
almost have pushed through to the other side, and blood ran freely
from it over his jaw and down his neck.

Angelus drew his thumb across the boy's stomach, slicing a deep rent
with the sharpened metal spike that capped the digit like a silver
talon. Lightning flashed again, followed immediately by a rumbling
peal of thunder that swallowed Joshua's screams as he spasmed,
shuddering with the searing waves of torment that wracked his body.
His muscles taut, he jerked straight, his voice cracking with strain.
Then the first rush of agony passed and he was finally able to
breathe again.

"You'll pay for your sins one day." he gasped weakly, "I can see it.
Your destiny . . . clings to you . . . like a shroud."

Angelus leered and traced his fingers along the edges of the boy's
belly wound, drawing them away covered in crimson gore. Joshua bit
back another scream, his face twisted and pale, as his torturer
touched the blood reverently to his lips and tasted it with a
satisfied smile.

"And who will collect such a costly price, Joshua?" Angelus chuckled,
sucking greedily at his fingertips, "You?"

With a vicious snarl, he jammed his hand into the open belly wound,
twisting his fingers deep. Joshua cried out in blinding pain and
kicked wildly, sour vomit surging up his throat and exploding from
his lips to spill down over the front of his shirt and into the gorge
below. Hot tears squeezed from between his tightly held eyelids as
he hung defenseless, impaled on the vampire's cruel hand.

"Th-the . . .Lord." he groaned weakly, slumping forward into dull
agony, exhausted and covered in sweat, "You . . . you will suffer
His . . . His . . . divine vengeance."

"The Lord?" Angelus sneered, "I don't believe in things I can't see.
Afraid I'm not much for penance either." He smirked, working his
fingers into the boy's slick guts, "But don't wait for me. It might
be a good plan for you to make your peace with the Almighty while you
can."

Joshua grunted and coughed, his empty stomach clenching in the
aftershocks of the crippling torture, his throat strained beyond
sound.

"No more screams?" Angelus affected a disappointed pout, "Guess it's
pointless if there's no one around to hear you."

Angelus looked down through the mists and made out the dim shapes of
a gathering crowd of onlookers. They milled around below and squinted
up into the gloom, unsure of what they were seeing.

"Then again." The vampire snickered evilly, "Maybe a good show would
be worthwhile after all."

He closed his fist around Joshua's entrails, slicing through with his
silver thumb-spike. A tormented shriek that could have come from the
deepest pit of Hell ripped itself from the young man's throat amid a
stream of bloody vomit, echoing through the night.

The small crowd below jumped as one and stared fearfully up at the
bridge, startled by the ear-piercing sound. Some of them began to
point, their mouths hanging wide with surprise. By the light of the
single lamp, they couldn't see Angelus' dark-clad form, only Joshua
as he appeared to hang by an invisible thread, screaming and throwing
his limbs about.

"Look, it's young Joshua Abbott!"

"He's going to jump!"

Angelus leaned close pressed his cheek against the gaping wound in
Joshua's face, smearing the blood across them both.

"Do you hear that?" he breathed into the young man's ear, "They think
you're mad, that you're up here raving to the Devil. If only they
knew, hm?"

Joshua's head lolled forward, half-conscious, his eyes rolled up
white and the lids fluttering.

"Come on, don't leave on me now." Angelus smiled cheerfully, removing
his hand from Joshua's midsection and slapping him lightly across the
face, "Give me one more good scream before the big finish."

Joshua lifted his head weakly, his own blood staining his face and
mixing with the drool and vomit on his chin. He cracked his eyes
open, his crystal blue irises awash in a storm of pain.

"P-Penance, Angelus." He whispered with a short, bitter laugh, sick
beyond fear, "Remember it . . ."

Angelus snarled, slamming a straight-fingered hand into the young
man's stomach, twisting deeply into the bloody cavity. Joshua
screamed and convulsed, his limbs flopping wildly, and tears cut
through the blood on his cheeks.

"Good-bye, Joshua." Angelus grinned, throwing his arms sharply
forward and releasing his grip.

Joshua shrieked piercingly as he hurtled headlong into the gorge. His
body disappeared into the roiling mists and his scream continued for
a moment before it was abruptly cut short.

Standing on the edge of the bridge, Angelus whistled low and long,
wincing at the imagined impact. He turned his dark gaze to the
gathered crowd below once more and smiled. Slipping his hands
casually into his pockets, he slowly strolled away, humming a cheery
tune.

* * *

Drusilla set a bowl of warm soup in front of her mother and gently
slid it across the table toward her. News of Joshua's death had
arrived soon after the fact and it had rocked the broken remains of
their household to the foundation. They had told her that he had lost
his way in the dark and stumbled over the edge of a ravine, but other
voices, ones she had not been meant to hear, said other things. They
whispered about Joshua's secret discourse with the Devil, about how
he had brought evil down upon himself and his family. And that he had
paid the price for his dark dealings. But Drusilla knew the real
reason behind the harm that had befallen them during the past week.
The Father had told her in the confessional.

"Come now, Mum," she urged, "You have to eat."

Her mother weakly pushed the bowl away, her eyes distant and red-
rimmed.

"I don't want it." She complained, "Where's Joshua?"

Drusilla inhaled a sorrowful breath. He had been gone for three days
now and she was still unable to accept reality. Three days. The Lord
had risen after three days. But Joshua's body hadn't even been found,
lost somewhere at the bottom of the gorge. And something told her
that God had few blessed miracles planned for her future.

"It's all that seein' that did him in." her mother muttered to
herself, staring blankly at the tabletop.

"Mum?" Dru placed her hand on her mother's arm and leaned forward in
concern.

The woman pulled away, flinching skittishly from the contact, turning
her gaze toward the window.

"He had the Devil in his eyes, he did." She whispered, her voice
tight and reedy, "I always knew it. And the Lord punished him for
it."

Drusilla's dark, soulful eyes filled with sympathy and she reached
out to her mother but draw up short.

"No, Mum," she said, her voice strained and on the edge of
tears, "that's not true."

The woman turned around, her eyes looking empty and red-rimmed.

"Then who, Drusilla?" she demanded, shaking her fist angrily, her
bottom lip trembling with raw emotion, "Who is He punishin'?"

Drusilla fell silent and dropped her gaze to the floor. She had an
answer, but not one she wanted to share. It was she who had been
afflicted with blasphemous visions. The father had told her that she
was a Devil-child and that she was meant to walk the path of evil.
But how could that be? Was it not every mortal's duty to strive to be
more like God? Was the Lord punishing her for rejecting the path He
had set out for her?

"He deserves to burn for harborin' such evil visions." Her mother
spat, disdainfully.

Drusilla eyes went wide and her jaw dropped in shock. How could Mummy
say such a thing? Joshua had been the most sensitive, caring young
man in the world, not some Godless sinner. She was making it sound
like he had asked to be afflicted with the Second Sight. Angrily,
Drusilla jumped to her feet.

"How can you turn your back on him?!" she shrieked, holding her arms
rigidly by her sides and tears springing from her eyes, "Joshua loved
you more than he loved his own life! He loved all of us!"

Her mother flinched and turned her profile to her daughter.

"He was evil." She steadfastly maintained, her voice low but
resolute, "He got what he deserved."

Drusilla's eyes darkened with betrayal and gut-wrenching
understanding.

"You See sometimes too, don't you?" she whispered venomously, "That's
how you knew Anne had been to see her sweetheart. And that's why you
hate it so much. You hate the visions because you have them too."

Drusilla's mother leaped to her feet and cracked an open palm across
her daughter's face.

"Don't you ever say that again!" she screamed, her entire body
trembling, "The visions are blasphemy, an affront to all that is good
and holy. Joshua was struck down for his audacity and you'll be next
if you don't change your ways."

She turned her back to her daughter and clutched her hands together,
the fingers working fitfully in agitation.

"But I'm going to save you." She murmured, twisting her hands
together in an attempt to still them.

"What?"

"It's the only way to break this curse that's befallen us. You have
to go away, Drusilla." The older woman's eyes were wild and her
fingers trembled, "To the abbey."

Dru's heart felt like it just stopped in her chest. The abbey. Of all
the fears that had taken up residence inside her, that one had almost
been lost in the maelstrom. Now it resurfaced with a vengeance.

"What?" she gasped fearfully, "Mum, you can't-!"

"It's the only way, Drusilla." Her mother barked desperately, "Give
your life to God and hope that it's enough to save your wretched
soul. To save all of us."

Drusilla swallowed nervously, not wanting to point out that with her
father and Joshua gone, her mother was the only one left other than
Drusilla herself.

* * *

An old woman dressed in a pristine nun's habit met Drusilla at the
door to the abbey. Her skin was wrinkled and her body seemed
frighteningly thin, almost frail. But there was an intangible
strength about her that defied the physical, as if her body was made
of sterner stuff than the average person. Even the expression on her
face reflected this sternness, being constantly turned down in a hard
scowl.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" John asked her, holding a pack
full of her clothes in his hand like it weighed nothing. Perhaps to
him, it did.

He had volunteered to carry her few belongings up to the abbey for
her as soon as he had heard the news of her departure. Her mother had
told people that she was being sent away to study, but she was sure
that most would know the difference. Three gruesome, mysterious
deaths in the span of a week told their own tale, one that they were
more likely to believe.

"I have no choice." She shook her head sadly, "Me Mum says this is
the only way for me to get better."

He abruptly took her tiny hand in his and looked down at her with
serious eyes.

"You don't need to get better." He told her earnestly, "There's
nothing wrong with you."

She smiled slightly, the strongest emotional reaction she could
muster through the dread that weighed on her, and ducked her head.
John was such a nice man, but he just didn't understand. Joining the
convent was the only way to save her soul from eternal torment. It
was the only way that God would forgive her.

"I must go now, John." She patted her hand gently against his thick
arm, "The sisters are waiting for me."

In truth, she didn't want to go at all and John's presence only made
the decision more difficult for her. While she loved the Lord with
all her heart and soul, the abbey had always frightened her, ever
since she had been a child. Her mother used to tell her that there
were spirits residing within the place, messengers from on high.
Drusilla was afraid of what evil those spirits might see in her.

She took the pack with her belongings and approached the stern
sister, leaving John behind.

"Come now, girl." The old woman prompted insistently, "The day's
already wasting and you have a lot to learn."

As the woman's withered, talon-like hand closed around her shoulder,
she cast one last, regretful look over her shoulder to John. He stood
exactly where she had left him, looking sad and sympathetic under a
bright, warm sun, watching her disappear into the abbey. Drusilla had
only a moment to commit the image to memory as the heavy, doubled
doors swung closed with an echoing thud, plunging the inside of the
building into utter, sheltered gloom.

* * *

Angelus prowled outside Drusilla's bedroom window, staring through
the pane into the darkness inside. His undead eyes could see through
the blackness as easily as if it were bathed in full daylight. And he
did not like what they showed him.

The room was bare, stripped of all personal belongings, down to the
bed dressings. She was gone. His chaste little delight of purity had
escaped him during the daylight hours.

Growling in frustration, he ground his teeth and clenched his fists.
They'd had no right to take her away from him! Drusilla belonged to
him, as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. Her destiny was
inalterably twined with his own, he had been sure of it since the
moment he had first laid eyes on her. Such beauty, such purity, just
begging to be brought into the darkness.

The bedroom door opened and he hastily ducked down behind a thick
shrub, peering cautiously through the branches. A haggard looking
woman stepped into the room, looking far older than she should have.
Angelus could smell the suffering on her and realized who she must
be. Here was the one who had taken his Drusilla from him. A dark,
murderous fire ignited in the depths of his eyes and the yellow faded
into deep brown as he allowed his demonic face to melt away.

Straightening his coat, he marched around the small house and up to
the front door. Only a single oil lamp burned inside, throwing
guttering orange light about the main room. Smoothing back his hair,
he looked down at himself and brushed a few stray bits of twig and
dust from his coat, then, satisfied that he was properly presentable,
he rapped politely on the wood.

Three more raps and almost a full minute passed before Drusilla's
bedraggled mother emerged from the side room and came to answer the
door. Pulling it open, she looked up at him without recognition,
holding a worn, stitched doll hanging from one hand.

"Good evenin', Madam." He greeted with his most ingratiating smile.

The woman eyed him warily, her bloodshot eyes narrowed and surrounded
by dark circles.

"Who are ye?" she demanded, "I'm not for taking visitors at this late
hour."

She looked ready to slam the door in his face, so he moved quickly to
allay her suspicion.

"Just a missionary, Madam." He assured her with raised, open
hands, "Here to check in on you and yer family after all the trouble
that's been happenin' of late. Might I step inside for a moment?"

He stepped closer, but stopped short of the threshold. Without
invitation, he wouldn't be able to set a single foot inside.

Drusilla's mother held steadfastly to the door, but looked at him
with less mistrust now.

"It's just you here, isn't it?" he asked innocently, "And yer
daughter, of course?"

The woman shook her head sharply, clearly upset, and clasped the doll
tightly in her hands.

"Dru's gone." She affirmed, "I sent her away. It was the only way to
make things right in her head. Sick in her faith, she was."

Outrage flared within Angelus and he had to fight to keep it from
showing on his face. This worn old hag had dared to interfere with
his game. But all was not yet lost and he prudently restrained
himself.

"I see." He nodded with interest, "You sent her to the abbey, then?"

Watching her, he wanted nothing more than to lash out and rip her
throat apart, but he needed to know for certain where his fair
Drusilla had gone first.

"Yes." The woman confirmed, "I sent her this morning. What does it
matter to you?"

Eyeing him shrewdly, she reached reflexively for the carved wooden
crucifix around her throat.

"You're one o' them, aren't ya?" she accused, seeming to draw
strength from the icon, "A creature of evil, come to tempt away my
daughter's soul."

Angelus scowled, wondering what had given his ruse away.

"Why, no, madam." he attempted to placate her, "I'm just a lowly
missionary, lookin' ta do the Lord's work."

"Ye're not the Lord's servant." she sneered, standing confidently
just on the edge of the threshold, "If you were, you wouldn't need me
to invite ya in!"

Angelus' lip curled and his face unintentionally tensed into a
demonic visage. The woman was not frightened, however. In fact, it
appeared that she was only emboldened by the confirmation of his
nature.

"Like alla Satan's minions, you cannot cross the threshold into the
home of a true believer!" she taunted him, "You can't hurt me. God is
protecting me."

She wavered dangerously close to the edge of the doorway, her
smugness redoubling the Angelus' rage. She was right. As long as she
stayed within the borders of her home, he could not enter without
invitation. But, as he had learned, there was more than one way to
skin a cat.

Standing perfectly still for a moment, he burst forward with a sharp
roar, his face and hands slamming up against the impenetrable
invisible barrier in her doorway. The woman started, losing her hold
on Drusilla's doll. The toy fell at her feet and bounced to lay
limply just outside the door. Instinctively she crouched and reached
for it, stretching her arm across the barrier.

Angelus' large hand clamped painfully around the limb and she froze,
her eyes wide with pain and shock. He grinned cruelly at her and
twisted the limb slowly in his fist.

"Where is your God now, madam?" he leered, jerking savagely on her
arm and dragging the petrified woman out into the street.

* * *

Two days later, John sat down on the edge of his bed with a tired
sigh. Absently, he rubbed at the soot marring his fingertips,
succeeding only in smearing it instead of removing it. He'd had a
good day at the forge. Searching for peace, he had worked
relentlessly, pounding steel to chase all extraneous thoughts from
his mind. He had wanted to think of nothing but hammer, fire and
steel, but his respite had proved to be intermittent, as best.

Always, his thoughts returned to Drusilla and the terrible tragedies
that had overtaken her family recently. He wondered how she was
doing, locked behind the walls of the abbey. It would be improper for
him to visit her now that she was destined to take her vows and word
was that her mother had not left the house since her son had died so
she would be unable to offer him any news.

So much pain and sorrow had plagued them, he doubted even the favor
of the good Lord would be enough to protect Drusilla. Rising, he went
to the wall where a crude metal crucifix hung on the wall. Little
more than two pieces of iron stock welded together in the middle, it
had been the result of John's very first turn at the forge when he
had only been a boy. Brimming with pride, he had begged the deacon to
say a prayer over the icon and bless it.

He took the cross down and considered it silently. It was like his
faith, he realized, battered and rough-hewn. After all that had
happened, how could he be expected to keep stalwart belief in a god
that would allow so much horror to occur to one family?

A quiet knock sounded from the main room, originating from the
outside of the main door. Frowning to himself, he shoved the metal
cross into his pocket and hurried to answer the door. His father had
gone into the city proper a while ago, perhaps he had accidentally
locked himself out?

Pulling the door open partway, he braced it against his body and
looked out. When he saw who had come calling, all blood instantly
drained from his face and terrible dread choked him.

The shapely form of Anne Guthrie peered innocently up at him in her
burial gown, seeming as small and harmless as a kitten.

"Hello, John," she smiled shyly, "May I come in?"

John's mouth worked soundlessly and he shook his head to clear the
hallucination from his eyes, but the apparition remained.

"Y-you're n-not supposed ta be here." He gasped fearfully.

"I know." She nodded agreeably, "It's very late, but I needed to
speak with you."

John swallowed uncomfortably. He was not a strong believer in the
supernatural, yet he could not deny the evidence right in front of
him. This ghost, or whatever it was, looked, sounded and acted
exactly like the late Anne Guthrie.

"How?" he asked, still too stunned to think coherently.

"I don't know." Anne shrugged slightly, shivering suddenly from the
cold, "Can I please come inside?"

John hesitated, holding the edge of the door. Good conduct dictated
that he invite the girl in, but something inside him warned him not
to. He pulled the door open a little more, but remained standing so
that his impressive bulk blocked the entrance.

"Have ya spoken to yer parents yet?" he asked, tensely. There was an
air of quiet desperation around the girl that made him uneasy.

"No." She shook her head, staring at the ground between her feet, "He
was supposed to take me away from all this but instead he abandoned
me. Please, let me inside, John, I'm so cold. A-and hungry."

John reached across the threshold and took the girl's hand in his
own. She was right, the flesh was chilled and pale, like a small
chunk of ice in his hand.

"We should get you to the surgeon." He suggested in concern, stepping
halfway toward her.

In a burst of action, Anne lashed out, raking long, hard nails across
his arm.

"Invite me in!" she shrieked, "Invite me!"

John fell back into the room, clutching his wounded limb close to his
body, and the door drifted open. Anne thrashed angrily, just outside
the edge of the doorway, trapped by an invisible barrier. Her face
twisted with rage, demonic ridges risen from the flesh and sharp
fangs filling her mouth. He understood now how she had returned.
Clearly, her body was possessed by the Devil.

Drawing forth his small metal cross, he gripped it tightly and lunged
forward, pressing it against the pale skin of her forehead. Flesh
seared and smoked at the point of contact and Anne wailed in pain,
pawing wildly at the wound. She stumbled and fell to one knee,
hissing and spitting blindly.

"I don't know who ya are," he shouted, brandishing the cross with a
straight arm, "but ye're not Anne Guthrie!"

Anne snarled at him, circling but unable to come within range of the
holy symbol in his hand. John kept it aimed at her, fear quaking in
his knees. Circling twice more, she spat at him and turned, fleeing
into the night with a shriek of hatred.

John held the cross out for long minutes after she had disappeared
from sight, so frightened that he wasn't sure he could move. Finally
calming himself enough to come back inside, he collapsed into a
seated position on the floor.

His mind still raced with shock and he was only beginning to
comprehend what had just occurred. He had just witnessed something
that was beyond anything he had ever experienced before in his life.
Life from death. Or perhaps death from life, he wasn't entirely sure.
One thing he did know, however, he planned to keep the information to
himself. A demon on the loose would only become that much more of a
danger if the only man who knew about it was locked up in the
sanitarium.

Cradling the small cross he had made as a child, he stood up and took
a chair. There was no point in going back to bed, he doubted he would
be able to sleep until the sun rose again and by then he would have
other things to do. Eyeing the rifle he had taken into the hills only
days ago, he settled in and watched the door with a cautious eye.
Yes, tomorrow would be a full day, indeed.

* * *

Mother Constance stood sternly over Drusilla as the young girl toiled
on her hands and knees, scrubbing industriously at the base of the
Virgin Mary's shrine. Another girl, a recently inducted sister named
Genevieve, hovered nearby, curiously aware of the new arrival.

"Prayer is the first step on the path to forgiveness, daughter." The
old woman instructed, "You must always be diligent in prayer if you
seek the favor of our Lord."

Drusilla nodded dutifully as she scoured away at the base of the
smooth stone statue. Her shoulders were burning from overuse and her
knees ached against the cold, hard floor. Mother Constance had been
drilling her for hours, quoting biblical passages and neatly phrased
personal mantras. For her own sake, Drusilla was doing her best to
pay attention, but it was not an easy task.

"Toil is the second step." Mother Constance continued, eyeing the
girl's work with a critical eye, "Drusilla dear, make sure you get
all the way in between the tiles. Cleanliness is, after all, next to
Godliness."

Drusilla slumped tiredly, her fingers feeling raw and sore. She had
already gone between the tiles three times. A fresh, spring rain
wasn't as clean as those tiles.

"Come with me, daughter." Constance gripped her arms with bony,
impossibly strong hands and hauled her to her feet, "I have something
to show you."

She led the girl down a long, empty hallway. Light shone in dusty
beams on the polished floor tiles from stained glass windows set high
on the walls. Each window depicted a different saint and the four
largest housed images of the major archangels. The constructs of
colored glass seemed to watch her as she walked, staring down at her
with accusatory eyes.

Evil, the saints seemed to say to her, You're a spawn of Satan. The
Lord will use you and smite you down.

Dropping her gaze, she quickened her steps and hurried down the
hallway after Mother Constance.

They turned into a high archway and entered a small room, barely
larger than her sleeping quarters. A painted and laquered wooden
statue of Christ hanging from the cross dominated the close chamber,
filling the wall between two high, narrow windows. The light from the
windows formed the ends of a rectangle at the base of the statue.

Inwardly, Drusilla groaned softly. Another statue? How much more
cleaning could she possibly be expected to do?

"Kneel daughter." Mother Constance commanded levelly, pressing down
on the girl's shoulder until her knees were positioned directly
between the twin beams of light, "And tell me what you see."

"Whu-Well, Mother," Drusilla stammered, mildly confused by the simple
question, "It's the crucifixion of our Lord."

Constance nodded in agreement, going to a long, shallow box on the
wall, opening it and withdrawing a slender rod of black leather.
Drusilla observed the item curiously. It looked like a riding crop,
the kind the noblemen often carried with them. But what would Mother
Constance want with a crop? She had no horse.

"And what does it represent?" the older woman paced a slow, steady
circle around her.

"Our Lord died for our sins. The cross is a symbol of that
redemption." Drusilla did not have to think about her answer. The
lesson had been one of the earliest she had learned.

"Hmm, yes." Mother Constance nodded again, "But does it mean anything
else? Anything to you personally?"

Drusilla shifted uneasily, uncomfortable with the tone of the woman's
voice.

"I don't know." She whispered as Mother Constance circled behind
her, "I've never really-"

The crop came down with lightning swiftness and cracked deafening
along the tender skin of her shoulders. Drusilla cried out, falling
forward and throwing her hands over her head to shield herself.

"Christ suffered for three days on the cross to become pure enough to
return to Heaven!" Constance shouted in a steely voice, "I know of
the evil that afflicts you, Drusilla. If you are ever to be inducted
into the Sisterhood, you must be purified."

She snapped the crop down again across Drusilla's back and the girl
yelped in pain. She curled fearfully against the cold stone floor and
held back her tears as Constance stood, towering over her.

"You already know the first steps to forgiveness, daughter. This is
the last." The Sister slapped the crop sharply across her opposite
palm, "Penance."

Drusilla curled into a ball and held her breath, covering her head
with her arms as the crop rose again.

* * *

Returning to the small, cubical chamber that served as her quarters
at the abbey, Drusilla thankfully closed the door behind her. A thin,
rickety bed sat against the back wall, pushed into the corner across
from a compact bureau she had been allowed to bring with her from
home. Her father had made that bureau for her when she was just a
girl, setting the drawers and mounting the mirror with his own two
hands.

She walked past it and went to the window, habitually trying to block
out the sadness that always accompanied thoughts of the man. Every
day it seemed more and more distant to her, like her life before the
abbey had belonged to someone else entirely. It had only been two
weeks, but terrible homesickness filled her heart.

Pulling aside the heavy drapes, she winced as the movement put stress
on the tender skin across her shoulders. Raw, red stripes marked her
soft skin, the legacy of Mother Constance's most recent lesson.
Penance was a long and arduous process and, according to the mother,
diligence in its execution was of utmost importance. She had even
gone so far as to give Drusilla a crop of her own to use, but the
girl had distastefully set it aside in her room, much to the old
woman's dismay.

As the drapes moved aside, a small, black-bodied spider fell onto the
sill. Drusilla squeaked in fright and shrank back, disgusted by the
arachnid. The horrible thing reminded her of the one she had found in
her family's coal box so long ago, all crawly legs and glittering
eyes. Grasping the stub of one of her study candles, she made a face
and flicked at the spider with it until she had chased it out the
window.

Leaning out over the sill to make sure the dreadful creature was
gone, she froze in horror, staring, gaping at the terrible sight that
greeted her. The corpse of a beautiful, white dove was spread,
bloodied and broken, over a rough framework that resembled Christ's
cross. Someone had captured the poor unfortunate animal and carved it
up with careful cruelty, arranging it like a gruesome offering to her
directly beneath her window. Who would do such a blasphemous thing?
And on the abbey's sacred ground, as well. Her thoughts turned
endlessly on themselves as she attempted to understand the
inconceivable act and a tiny headache blossomed inside her skull.

Blinding sensation roared through her head, filling her brain with
more input than a human was meant to interpret. It became night
suddenly and the air in her room turned muggy and warm. She found
herself dancing, whirling in graceful circles in the arms of a man
who towered over her. John Coleman's large, gentle hands guided her
movements with surprising skill, carrying her small form with him.
Tilting her head back, she looked up into his face with a smile. The
expression died quickly, though, when she saw him.

His head hung listlessly to one side, the flesh of his face pale and
wasted. Dark circles surrounded his vacant eyes and a sharp gash had
been rent in the side of his neck, spilling a trail of dark, half-
congealed blood onto his shirt.

Pushing violently away from him, she fell back and pressed her hand
to her mouth, sick with horror. The vision receded as quickly as it
had come, dropping her abruptly back into reality.

Weak and upset, she pulled her bible in her lap and opened it.
Prayers. Prayers were the only way to clear the evil from her head.
Mummy had said so.

Mumbling the words to the Lord's prayer under her breath, she flipped
through the pages in search of a passage with which to purify
herself. An answer had to lay somewhere within the book, she refused
to believe otherwise. If she was wrong, then there would certainly be
no hope for the redemption of her wretched soul.

* * *

John clutched his rifle tightly in his fists, stalking as quietly as
he could through the woods. A small, hooded lantern hung from the
weapon's barrel, shedding light down onto the ground in a weak circle
around him. The sun had dropped below the horizon an hour ago and he
had slipped out of the house without his father knowing. He could
never have explained why he had taken his gun out at night, or why he
had waited until after dark to head for the woods. No one would have
believed him if he told the truth.

She was out here, he knew, lurking amid the trees and he was the only
one who could stop her.

His huge foot came down on a small branch and it snapped deafeningly
against the spongy forest floor. A bolt of terror shot through him
and he froze instantly, the skin over his ears tightening as he
strained to hear if anything responded to the sound.

He heard nothing, only the thudding of his own fear-stricken heart in
his ears. Allowing himself to move again, he started slowly, easing
back to a steady, marching pace. She could be anywhere, he realized,
trying not to imagine Anne's feral face as it had been on the night
she had come to him. The forest was her domain now, it welcomed the
savage creature that she had become. His chances of finding her
unaware were almost none. Although apprehensive, he carried on. Only
the crude, metal cross under his coat lent a measure of comfort to
him as he continued the hunt.

Unbeknownst to the giant of a man, a small, blonde figure in a
tattered maiden's dress crouched beneath the fallen trunk of a thick
tree, her hands and feet planted like those of a wild animal,
watching him with feral, yellow-irised eyes.

* * *

Drusilla tiredly entered her room and closed the heavy door behind
her. Another long day of grueling chores had used up every last ounce
of her energy and she wanted nothing more than to go straight to bed.
At least no new visions had troubled her lately. Perhaps her efforts
to atone had finally begun to take effect. She didn't bother to light
the oil lamp as she crossed the chamber, just pulling off her clothes
in the dark and changing into her nightgown.

It wasn't until after she had crawled under her blankets that she
realized she wasn't alone. When the tall figure moved through the
dark and knelt down next to the edge of her bed, she knew immediately
who it was.

"Angel." She whispered, her eyes wide and blind in the pitch-
blackness.

The corner of her mattress bent under his weight as he sat down.

"I've been waiting for you." He said in a low voice.

She curled beneath the blankets, feeling frightened and defenseless
in the dark, following his movements solely by the sound of his
voice.

"Joshua told me to stay away from you." She shrank back nervously and
pulled the blankets up against her chest.

Angelus laid his hand over her bent knee, the same one that he had
kissed weeks ago, and stroked it gently through the thick wool. The
sweet scent of fresh-turned earth tickled her nose.

"You're brother is dead." He reminded her matter-of-factly, "It's
time ya start making decisions for yourself."

She shrank back further, more frightened by this new prospect than
anything she could imagine from Angelus.

"What do you want, Drusilla?" he asked softly, reaching out to stroke
a cool finger along the curve of her cheek.

The only touch she had felt since coming to the abbey had been the
cruel kiss of Mother Constance's crop, nothing near the tenderness of
this caress. She started at the contact, heat rushing to the surface
of her skin. She could almost feel his smile as he leaned forward a
little, listening, waiting.

"I want to be good." She answered quickly, "To make my peace with the
Lord, like Mummy wanted."

"That's not what I asked." He took her head in his hands and held it
like a treasure, his blunt fingers slipping into her long, unbound
hair, "What do YOU want?"

She shivered under his touch, tantalized by an indefinable sense of
danger, yet reticent. Her thoughts were jumbled, distracted by his
immediacy. Every moral bone in her body screamed at her to send him
away, but she didn't, couldn't.

"I . . .I don't know." She tried to shake her head, but he held her
steady.

Angelus placed the fingertips of one hand against her forehead and
drew them slowly down her face, caressing her nose, her cheeks, her
lips. She inhaled sharply, holding the breath, as she sensed his face
move nearer to hers. As his fingers reached the edge of her chin, he
followed the curve of her throat down to where her hand clutched the
blankets against her chest.

"What do you want, Drusilla?" he asked again, tugging the blankets
down and stroking his hand under the neckline of her nightgown.

She swallowed tensely as he brushed soft circles over the tender
flesh between her maidenly breasts. The gradual movements evoked
dizzying sensations from her body. Heat flushed through her,
collecting under his hand and reaching down between her thighs. She
grasped for his arm to pull him away, but he caught her hand and
turned it up under his chin.

Gently, he pressed his lips to her wrist and kissed the tiny
quickening pulse he found there. Drusilla gasped and closed her eyes,
her feet twisting into the blankets. Why was it that when he kissed
her wrist, she could feel it all over?

He stood up, still holding her by the wrist, and she heard a soft
rustling, like cloth folding against itself. He was undressing.

"What do you want?" he lifted the blanket and slipped under it,
sliding his cool body up next to hers.

Angelus drew his fingers up along the sides of her neck and leaned
into her, his lips hovering only a tiny distance from hers. She
released a short, tight moan and shuddered as more waves of heat
rushed through her. She was sweating now, a light sheen of it
springing up across her face and chest.

"Tell me what you want." He dipped closer, the nearness of his flesh
utterly intoxicating, despite the fear that still resided within her.

She opened her mouth to speak and he met her in a strong, passionate
kiss. Squeaking once in alarm, she fluttered her hands nervously in
the air, but did nothing to resist him, stunned by the exciting
contact. Sighing against the solidity of his body, she felt his moist
tongue dart between her teeth and tickle against the insides of her
lips. His mouth was tinged with a tingling, electrical taste of
copper, pulling on hers with gentle insistence. Rolling over on top
of her, he pressed her back into the soft mattress with the weight of
his naked body.

She pulled her mouth away from his, gasping and panting with desire,
intensely aware of every inch of her body. The soft skin of her lips
tingled from contact with him, urging her to seek more. She had never
felt such incredible feelings before, the dizzying euphoria, the hot
tension building inside her. But it was sin, she was sure of it, the
work of the Devil to further despoil her. Pressing her palms against
his muscled shoulders, she shifted underneath him, seeking escape,
but the movement only sent a fresh jolt of pleasure shooting through
her.

"Please . . ." she moaned softly, "Please Angel, don't . . ."

He ignored her plea, reaching down and grasping the hem of her
sleeping gown. Burying his face into her neck, he traced his lips up
along the tender flesh, nibbling and teasing her with his teeth. And
slowly, he brought his hands upward.

Drusilla's breath quickened into high-pitched pants and her legs
instinctively parted, squeezing the insides of her knees against his
solid thighs. Her entire body felt hot and moist, melting under his
careful touch. Kissing her mouth with savage intensity, he slowly
drew her breath into his lungs and cupped the palms of his hands
against her soft, naked breasts.

A strangled grunt forced its way out of her throat and she reared her
head, arching her back as his mouth found her delicate throat.
Moistening her lips with a hot tongue, she closed her eyes and
tangled her fingers into his dark hair, following his head as he
traced a line of kisses down her chest.

Bathed in darkness, her imagination started to play tricks with her.
She felt like she was hanging on the edge of a towering precipice,
about to fall over. Above her floated the beatific face of the Lord,
her God, radiant in His unfathomable mercy and wisdom. Below waited
the deceptively beautiful face of Lucifer Himself, surrounded by a
dark halo and dancing flames. While she reached desperately to touch
the face of her God, the Devil tormented her with forbidden pleasure,
seeking to steal away her immortal soul.

The vision was shattered instantly as Angelus circled his tongue
around her navel, sucking at the tiny depression in her soft
midsection. She gasped sharply, her fingers clenched in his hair, and
drove her toes into the mattress, delicious tension coiling like a
spring inside her, just under his chin.

Every shred of morality she possessed screamed at her to fight free,
to escape Angelus' tantalizing ministrations and flee for the sake of
her eternal soul. She tried to think of John and her dreams of a life
with him. But she couldn't think anymore, only feel. All the nerves
in her body were on fire, feeling every little movement of his hands
and torso against her, the soft wetness of his tongue pressed against
her flesh.

"What do you want?" he whispered softly, his voice tickling against
her abdomen.

She answered him with a long, stifled groan, twisting her body
against him and pushing his head lower.

"Tell me." He demanded quietly, nuzzling into the silken flesh of her
upper thigh and teasing her with his lips.

"I want . . ." she gasped harshly, writhing in frustration against
him, so close to satisfaction, "I want . . ."

"Say it, Dru." He narrowed his eyes and lovingly kissed her opposite
thigh, stroking his fingers up along her legs in gradually increasing
circles over her smooth hips.

"YOU!" she cried out desperately, surrendering to the need that
dominated her every thought and movement, wrapping her legs tightly
around his upper body.

Angelus grinned broadly and lowered his head onto her.

"That's just what I was waitin' to hear." He purred, positioning his
elongated canines over her femoral artery and piercing her delicate
flesh.

Drusilla gasped as the slight pain traveled up her spine, translating
itself into pure ecstasy, and the entire length of her body shuddered
in answer. She held his head in place and sighed while he drank,
drawing slowly from the tiny pinprick holes.

After a moment, he released her soft skin and smiled, studying the
residual teethmarks with pride.

"Can't have the good sisters finding marks on you now, can we?" he
smirked hungrily, lowering his head once more.

* * *

Sister Genevieve stood perfectly still in the corridor outside
Drusilla's chamber, her ear cocked toward the door and her mouth
hanging open. Another woman, Mother Constance, marched slowly down
the hallway and the younger nun beckoned to her.

"Mother Constance?" she whispered conspiratorially, "Can you hear
that?"

Constance stopped, lifting her head and straining her ears. From
within Drusilla's room, she could hear the girl's sharp gasps and
muffled cries, sounding in regular rhythm.

"Why, yes." She answered, considering thoughtfully.

Sister Genevieve bit her lip tensely, her eyes wide and
unblinking, "It . . .it sounds like-"

"Penance." The older woman nodded proudly.

"What?" Sister Genevieve lifted her eyebrows in surprise.

"She's finally taken to the crop!" Mother Constance smiled, the
wrinkles in her face folding oddly in the uncommon expression, "I
knew she'd come round eventually. Such piety is admirable, is it
not?"

"Yes, Sister." Genevieve lowered her eyes to the floor in disbelief,
unwilling to argue with her superior.

Mother Constance folded her hands under her chin and turned her face
toward the heavens, "It's only a matter of time now before she is
delivered unto your hands, oh Lord."

* * *

Making another pass through the forest that had become so familiar to
him over the last few weeks, John did his best to keep his mind
occupied. Monotonous movements formed a pattern which he repeated
over and over. Step, step, step, step, adjust the lamp, step, step,
step, sweep the end of the rifle.

Rain speckled his wool overcoat, creating tiny beads atop the stray
fibers. The dampness chilled his hands to the bone, but he didn't
dare put them in his pockets. His breath made pale clouds of steam in
the unseasonably cold night, its sound swallowed by the steady hiss
of misty raindrops hitting the leaves overhead.

He had been searching for the evil creature that wore Anne Guthrie's
face for hours, the same as he had every night for many weeks now,
with no luck. But she was out there. The rising number of bloodless
animal corpses he had been coming across bore testament to Anne's
insatiable hunger. As time went on, it seemed that Anne was getting
better at hiding her kills, as well. She was steadily adapting to the
wild, becoming one with it. The creatures she hunted now were larger
and more challenging. Perhaps he had frightened her when she had come
to his door, but she was regaining her confidence, working her way up
the food chain toward the top. Time was running out, he realized as
he eyed the remains of a ten-point buck he had uncovered just the
previous night. If he didn't find her soon, he might not find her at
all until it was too late. Soon she would be ready for a human
victim.

He lowered the end of his rifle and set the hanging oil lantern down
on a flat rock. With a disheartened sigh, he swept a huge hand
through his sopping locks, pushing the hair up out of his eyes. His
one-man crusade had been costing him. Over the last few weeks, his
health had begun to deteriorate from lack of sleep and food. He
hadn't shaved in almost a week and his father's business was starting
to feel his absentness at the forge. Perhaps it was time for him to
give up, to let Anne Guthrie become someone else's responsibility.
But he couldn't because the only way that would happen would be when
she eventually killed someone from the town, thereby proving her
existence to another.

"Where are you, Anne?" he hissed quietly, gripping the stock of his
rifle tightly.

"Right where I've been every night, John." The girl's voice lilted
sardonically from over his shoulder, "Right behind you."

John whipped around, slipping in the damp leaves and bringing his gun
to bear. Anne stood, soaked to the skin but oblivious to the rain,
grinning fiendishly at him. Her dress was in tatters, the sleeves and
lower portion having been ripped away for the sake of economical
movement, exposing her pale, slender limbs. Blonde hair, drenched
with rainwater, hung in lank tendrils from her head, tangled with
twigs and leaves. There had been a time when Anne would never have
shown herself without having first prepared a flawless appearance.
London's little dove had become a savage wolf.

She took a slow step forward and John jerked the end of his rifle at
her in warning. With a slight, disdainful smirk, she eyed the weapon
and raised her eyebrows in question.

"Every night I see you out here." She mentioned casually, taking
another step forward, "And every night I follow you and wonder why
you do it."

"Stay where ye are, damned creature!" he shouted with another stab of
his gun barrel, carefully regaining his feet on the wet ground.

Anne stopped with an accepting sigh and looked up at him with eyes
that would have appeared innocent had it not been for the wild
glitter that danced in their depths.

"Why, John?" she asked plainly, "Why?"

John hesitated, fear freezing his body to the spot. He had asked
himself that same question countless times and only ever come up with
one answer.

"Y-you shouldn't be here." He replied, his voice trembling, "You're
dead. 'Tis naught but the Devil's work."

"No, John." She shook her head softly, "I'm alive. For the first time
ever, I'm truly alive. But you are right about one thing. It is the
work of a devil."

Anne tilted her head back and stared into the sky, seeming to enjoy
how the rain poured down over her.

"He abandoned me." She revealed absently, "Left me in the ground and
forgot about me. Left me with this unending hunger."

John raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the center of
her chest, his finger quivering on the trigger. Anne lowered her head
to look at him and sighed, unconcerned.

"You're not going to shoot me, are you John?" she pouted.

Bursting forward, she lunged at him with a sharp, blood-curdling
scream, her arms spread and fingers curled like talons.
Instinctively, John raised his weapon and fired, blasting a hole
clean through her mid-section.

Anne's slight body bucked from the impact and she crumpled lifelessly
to the forest floor in a heap. John swallowed nervously and stared at
her, transfixed with horror. He'd had no idea how terrible it would
be to finally kill her. Even though she was now a creature of the
Devil, she had once been sweet innocent Anne Guthrie, a girl who had
never meant a drop of harm to anyone.

Her body stirred and a strangled moan of pain issued forth. Weakly,
her hands reached out as if of their own accord and pawed through the
dirt.

John's mouth fell open in sickened awe. She was still alive!

"J-John . . ." she mewled, crawling haltingly across the ground
toward him, " . . . help me . . . "

Shame filled him as he looked down at her pain-filled face, rain
water dripping off his nose and chin. So small, so helpless, what had
Anne ever done to deserve such a fate? Overcome with remorse, he
knelt next to her, taking her hand in his with the intent of holding
it until she expired.

Pain lanced through his huge frame as Anne's fist slammed into his
stomach with the force of a horse's kick. The rifle went spinning out
of his hands and he tumbled back across the wet ground, coughing and
wheezing. Anne sprang to her feet, totally unharmed.

"Stupid man!" she spat venomously, "You think I'm so weak. Weak like
you are."

John shrank back, reaching blindly through the leaves for his rifle
without finding it. Anne's face had transformed into the visage of
the creature he had seen the first night she had come to him. Fleshy
ridges had risen over and around her eyes, filling the hollows with
harsh shadows from the weak lamplight. Her teeth had become jagged
fangs and the color of her eyes had turned feral yellow. The eyes
frightened him the most. They almost seemed luminescent in the
darkness.

"Don't be afraid, John." She soothed, "I'm going to take all your
fear away. You won't be weak for much longer."

John's hands stopped rifling over the ground and he froze, staring
wide and unblinking at her.

"W-what do ya m-mean?" he swallowed nervously.

Anne chuckled lightly, the sound reminiscent of her once-innocent
laughter yet tinged with dark design. She stretched out one of her
arms and stroked it admiringly with a pleasant sigh.

"I'm going to make you strong." She explained, "Like me. Except you
won't be abandoned the way I was. I'll teach you everything you'll
need to know."

As she approached, John crabbed backward and his hand fell on the
stock of his rifle.

"Get away from me!" he roared, swinging the weapon around.

Anne reacted far faster than he ever would have imagined, catching
the barrel before it was even halfway pointed at her and wrenching
the gun out of his grip. Offhandedly, she smashed it against the
trunk of a tree, shattering it as she continued to advance.

"You can't stop me, John." She chided, "No one can. I'm immortal
now."

Desperate to escape, he turned over and tried to run, his feet
slipping in the sodden leaves. Anne struck his back with an
impossibly strong fist, throwing him flat. Arms outstretched, he hit
the ground, his chest impacting with painful force.

"Anne, no, please." He begged, crawling instinctively to the small
circle of dim light surrounding his lamp.

Anne paused, just outside the light's edge, "You're a good man. I
need you to help me find him. It has to be this way."

She lunged again and this time he knew there would be no stopping
her. His body reacted reflexively, hooking his fingers through the
top of the lamp and swinging it forward with all his strength.

Glass shattered and a huge gout of oil and flame burst forth,
splashing Anne's small body. She staggered back, shrieking at ear-
piercing volume, as the fire licked greedily over her flesh,
engulfing her. Blindly, she staggered and lashed out, her body
blazing like a living inferno.

The blow glanced off the side of John's face, knocking him into a
stand of trees and away from her as she stumbled and fell over a
deadwood tree. One of the tree's long, pointed branched pierced her,
lancing up through her tainted heart.

John watched, mesmerized, as her body disintegrated with a hollow
shriek. Her corpse was completely gone, leaving behind a vaguely
human shape of burning oil guttering on the leaves. Even her bones
were gone, like the Devil Himself had reached up through the flames
to claim the remains of His servant.

Rising to his feet, John leaned heavily against a tree, feeling sick
and drained. She was gone. The devil-creature had been defeated, but
the victory brought him no relief. Another had made her, the same way
she had intended to make him. The true evil still lurked somewhere,
perhaps nearby.

All the terrible happenings lately were finally starting to make
sense now. Evil had set upon this small corner of London, killing
wantonly and without remorse in a pattern that could inevitably lead
to only one person. Drusilla. Tomorrow she was to be inducted into
the sisterhood, but he understood now that it would not save her. The
evil would not relent while she still lived in London.

Scooping up as much of the remaining oil as he could with a thick
branch, he held it aloft like a torch and started resolutely back
toward his house.

Tomorrow, he would go to her and see that she never had to deal with
tragedy again.

* * *

Drusilla held a small, struggling fly pinned between the nails of her
thumb and forefinger and crouched before the web of the spider on her
windowsill. Flicking the insect into the web, she watched with
delight as the spider rushed over and swiftly bound its prey in a
cocoon of silk.

"Yes, little one, eat it all up." She cooed encouragingly, "If you
clean your plate, then Mummy might take you for a walk after."

Rising swiftly to her feet, Drusilla swooned, taking an unsteady step
and pressing her hands to the wall to steady herself. She was always
so tired lately. And confused. She had been having trouble sleeping.
Horrible nightmares plagued her where she would be running from
something, desperate to escape, only to find herself to be chasing
someone else. In her most recent dreams, she had been fast enough to
catch that someone, leaping on them like they were frightened,
squealing pigs. Sometimes it was Sister Genevieve she hunted,
sometimes her own mother, but in the end she always killed them,
cutting their throats and gorging on the explosive blood flow.

The only nights that the dreams did not hound her were the ones when
Angel came to visit her. She flushed deeply with guilt when she
thought of what he had been making her do, deeper still when she
recalled how she had come to count the seconds until his return.
Always, after their terrible sinning together, she would sleep the
deep and dreamless sleep of the dead.

Rubbing unconsciously at the pinprick holes on the upper inside of
her thighs with one hand, she approached a small, rectangular mirror
and picked up her hairbrush.

She began pulling the brush through her dark locks, counting the
strokes while admiring her reflection. Her skin had become so
wonderfully pale lately, even her lips had lost pigment, and her eyes
were so much prettier now, all pink and wet and shiny.

Fifty strokes on one side and then another fifty on the other. She
imagined she could hear a song from the brush, whisking effortlessly
through her hair, and she began to sing along with it, her voice low
and discordant.

Suddenly, her head snapped up and she put the brush down. Earlier in
the day, she had accepted her vows, dedicated her life to God. This
afternoon would be her first prayer session as a fully inducted nun.
It would be time soon, she would have to hurry if she was going to
make it to the chapel before Mother Constance and the others. She so
wanted them to be proud of her. Perhaps with her devotion to God
cemented, she would finally be free of the evil inside her.

Hastily, she smoothed down her simple dress and grabbed up her prayer
book, the same one her father had given her after her first communion
when she was a little girl.

The chapel was only a short walk away and she found it still and
empty. It reminded her of a tomb.

Beams of warm, colored sunlight spilled in through the stained glass
windows at the tops of the walls, creating blurred images on the
floor. She hated those windows, the faces that always seemed to
follow her with accusing eyes and judgmental expressions.
Instinctively, she walked around the patterns of illumination on
floor, avoiding direct contact with her small feet. She imagined that
the light would burn her, punish her like the fires of Hell if it
touched her skin.

"You're a spawn of Satan." the voice of the priest reminded her
matter-of-factly, "All the Hail Marys in the world aren't going to
help. The Lord will use you and smite you down. He's like that."

"Father?" she whispered, staring around, wide-eyed and lost.

But the chapel was empty. Drusilla cowered fearfully, pulling both
arms up and pressing her wrists against her mouth, and stepped around
another light picture on the floor, this one depicting one of the
four major archangels. The figure stood atop an outcropping of stone,
brandishing a golden trumpet, his pale wings spread wide and his
robes and long, auburn hair flowing in the wind.

It was the archangel Gabriel, the Messenger, spreading the glorious
word of God. Lifting her head and squinting at the bright panes of
glass, she wondered what message the good archangel would bring for
her.

"Fulfill his plan, child." A ghostly voice told her, "Be evil. Just
give in."

She gasped in surprise and backed away as the light on the floor
wafted up and took on the vague outline of a winged man with a
trumpet. Like wisps of luminescent, colored smoke, the light held
together and the archangel raised its arms and bore down on her,
ready to dispense the Lord's justice.

"The Lord has a plan for all creatures." The heavenly messenger
declared, its eyes glowing like blinding yellow sunbursts and its
wispy auburn hair flowing away from its face on the currents of a
phantom breeze, "Even a Devil child like you."

Drusilla stumbled back and fell into one of the sturdy, oak pews,
raising her arms and covering her head in terror.

"I don't want to be evil." She whispered, her voice
trembling, "Please, I don't want to."

A hand touched her arm and she started violently. Sister Genevieve
jumped back in surprise, watching Drusilla with worry in her brown
eyes.

"Sister, are you all right?" she asked carefully.

Drusilla forced herself to relax and lower her arms. Sister Genevieve
stood squarely in the center of the light shining on the floor from
the Messenger's stained glass image and the apparition of the
archangel was nowhere to be seen.

"I'm fine. Thank you, Sister." Dru answered, rising to her feet again
and peering around, still nervous.

"I understand your worry, Sister." Genevieve nodded, thinking she
knew the source of Drusilla's odd behavior of late, "But the ceremony
was the hardest part, you'll see."

Drusilla nodded absently, swallowing and shooting a quick glance
toward the glass archangel. The image appeared as it had every other
day she had seen it, completely harmless, but she didn't trust it.

"Come then." Genevieve indicated one of the front pews, closest to
the altar, "We can wait in prayer until Mother Constance arrives."

Drusilla obeyed willingly, taking a place next to the other girl and
kneeling pietiously. She ducked her head and folded her hands
together in an effort to pray, but the words would not come to her.
Prayers that had been ingrained into her mind since the first moment
she could talk were beyond her, lost in the fog that had been filling
her mind lately.

What good was it that she had accepted her vows if she could not even
recall the Lord's prayer? Would she be punished further for this new
affront?

Cracking an eyelid, she looked sidelong at Sister Genevieve whose
lips worked furiously as she recited endlessly under her breath.

"What do you know of evil, Sister?" Drusilla asked her quietly.

Genevieve's prayer was cut off in mid breath and she opened her eyes,
turning to face her.

"Evil?" she repeated confusedly, "I suppose that I know what everyone
knows. Evil is wrong."

Drusilla sighed softly, keeping her hands folded before her.

"Why do you think the Lord allows it to exist then?" she pressed, "Do
you think that perhaps evil has a purpose in His divine plan?"

"Of course not!" Genevieve scoffed, uncertainty showing in her
eyes, "It is man's purpose on this earth to destroy evil, the Bible
says so."

Drusilla looked directly into the other girl's eyes, her gaze
becoming intense and piercing.

"And what if God chooses to tolerate evil?" she posed, her voice low
and level, "Or what if He doesn't even care?"

Sister Genevieve gasped and her mouth hung in shock as she stared at
Dru.

A man cleared his throat as a way of announcing himself, near the
entrance of the chapel. Drusilla turned backward and recognized him
immediately.

"Drusilla," John whispered to her in the solemnity of the
chapel, "Can I speak with you?"

He looked sick and pale, his face drawn and tired as he crouched in
the doorway holding his hat politely in his hands. A pinkish burn
marked one side of his face and small blisters speckled the skin.

Ignoring Sister Genevieve's disapproving scowl, Drusilla rose and
scurried to the entrance.

"John," she smiled, guiding him quickly outside the doors and closing
them, "You've come to wish me well with my induction. Is Mummy here?"

She craned her neck and looked around him, back and forth, finding
nothing. She continued to look, forgetting about her mother
altogether and simply enjoying the odd feeling of swinging her head
around until John took hold of her arms and held her still.

"Yer Mum's not with me, Dru." He informed her sorrowfully, "They
think she took your dowry and made away to Ireland with it. I thought
you already knew. Your house has been empty for weeks."

Drusilla backed away from him with tears brimming in her eyes,
pressing her hands to her mouth in disbelief.

"Empty?" she echoed absently.

"There's more." He swallowed uneasily, his throat suddenly dry, "Anne
Guthrie has been roaming the forest, killin' and drainin' the blood
from the woodland beasts. Last night, I found her and finally laid
her to rest for good. She was possessed by the Devil, Dru."

Drusilla continued to stare at him in blank horror.

"The Lord has a plan for all creatures." One of the many voices which
had taken up residence in her head recently echoed, "Even a Devil
child like you."

She started to laugh, an almost inaudible tittering that sounded like
the ringing of high-pitched discordant bells. Looking back, it was
all so funny to her now. So Anne had been a Devil-child, too. And all
she had done to deserve her fate was tryst in the woods with a young
man who fancied her. What indescribable torment awaited Drusilla
after all the sin that she had committed?

John took her gently in his giant's hands and held her, his eyes
filled with concern.

"Dru, please," he begged her to look at him, "I didn't come here
today to congratulate you on taking your vows."

Her fit of giggling abruptly ceased and she immediately sobered,
staring confusedly at him. Kneeling before her on one knee, he took
both of her hands in his.

"Dru, I want you to marry me." He whispered, his voice tight and
intense, "Come away with me and leave this cursed place and all the
trouble it's brought you."

Drusilla pulled away from him, her eyes filled with tears and both
her hands pressed tightly against her mouth. He didn't know that she
had already taken her vows before God.

"Nooooo." She whimpered fearfully, choking on soft, wracking
sobs, "Please John, don't ask me that, not now."

John swiftly rose and reached to take her hand again, but she
flinched and hid her face from him, burying it in her sleeve.

"I know you are to take your vows today." He allowed
respectfully, "But that's why I had to come, before it was too late.
I love you, Drusilla."

She stared up at him and the way he looked at her, adoringly, as if
she were the most beautiful girl in the world. Poor, sweet, innocent
John Coleman, if only he knew how wrong he was. Even if she hadn't
already taken her vows, marrying him would have been impossible.

"I-I can't do that, John." She began to pace back and forth
agitatedly, weeping quietly with her arms tangled together in front
of her, her voice trembling with strain, "Oh, how I would truly love
to marry you, but I can't. You deserve far better than evil, terrible
Dru. The townfolk were right about me, you know?"

"I don't care about any of that, Dru." John declared earnestly,
moving to touch her again, but stopping as she waved him off, "I want
to make you my wife."

Drusilla shook her head, slowly then with increasing violence until
it seemed she wanted to shake it from her shoulders.

"No, John, you don't want me." She moaned piteously, reaching down to
rub at the raw spots at the tops of her thighs, "I'm dirty. Tainted.
The Devil has put His fluid in me and taken my fluid into Himself in
turn."

She turned swiftly, fixing him with wild, red-rimmed eyes and a
fierce expression.

"I have to atone, John. For my evil." She whispered tightly, staring
through him rather than at him, "The Lord is testing me and His
angels are watching, always watching."

She flinched and looked fearfully overhead, worried that one might be
looking over her at that very moment.

"Please, Dru." John took her hand, worry deep in his eyes, "You need
to get away from all this. Let me take you with me."

She stared dumbly at his hand for a long moment, but did not pull
away. John was such a good man, she couldn't bear to break his heart.
Of all the evil she had committed, that was one deed she could not
do.

A dark, shadowy shape flitted across the periphery of her vision and
a faint, sibilant voice hissed in her ear.

"Get away from him!" the voice insisted, "You belong to us now!"

More shapes danced before her eyes, too quick and ghostly for her to
identify clearly. The voice in her ear was the same as that of the
archangel image that had confronted her in the chapel and the shapes
resembled the saints whose visages were depicted in the stained glass
windows.

"Dru?" John asked in concern, "What's wrong?"

She warded him off with her hands and took a step back. Why couldn't
he see them? Why couldn't he hear the voices?

"You are evil! Evil, Drusilla Abbott!" they shrieked in her
ears, "All who touch you are doomed!"

The spectral visions whirled around her like a storm, almost
completely blocking John from sight. They would go after him next,
she knew, weigh down his kind-hearted soul until it was as black and
despoiled as her own. She had to get him to leave, convince him to
find safety somehow.

"John, you have to go." She grabbed his arm tightly and turned him
around, pushing futilely against his large frame.

"But Dru, wait-" he protested, frowning in confusion, "You haven't
answered me."

"You belong to us!" the voices roared, drowning out John entirely.

They crawled all over her, slithering across her body, leering and
snarling evilly. She swept her arms sharply through the air to chase
them away, but her hands passed through their intangible forms
without effect.

Her hands slapped John's arm and he jerked back, thinking it was him
she had intended to strike.

"Please, John," she begged him quietly, her eyes tightly
closed, "It's best if you go."

He reached out to touch her, but stopped, slowly withdrawing his
hands. She could feel him standing over her, protective as always.
She backed away, shrinking behind the chapel doors. John was the only
thing that was left of the safe, secure world she had grown up in.
But she was not part of his world anymore. Like the spectral voices
had said, she belonged to them now.

The flitting visions had faded away as quickly as they had
manifested, but she knew they weren't far off. They would be watching
and waiting.

Leaving him standing stunned and confused outside, she pressed the
palms of her hands flat against the wooden doors and pushed them
closed.

* * *

Drusilla went directly to her room after leaving the chapel. Closing
the door behind her, she leaned forward against it, pressing her
forehead against the wood. She felt weak, drained from the near-
constant assault on her senses by the ghostly visions, but she
accepted it as a measure of proper punishment for her evil ways. The
encounter with John had disturbed her, reminded her of a time when
her life had been so much simpler. She wanted so desperately to
return to that time now.

Her world had been careening wildly from mundane into the surreal for
months, ever since she had first set eyes on the devilishly handsome
Angel. A slight shiver ran through her body as she thought of him,
partly from fear, partly from desire.

"I been waitin' for you." His voice sounded softly from behind her.

She didn't turn around. A dozen different voices had been following
her every moment of the day for weeks now and she was hardly
surprised to hear another. She supposed it wouldn't be long before
she would start taking the lot of them entirely for granted.

A lukewarm body towered over her suddenly from behind, casting a late-
day shadow onto her from frighteningly close, and a pair of strong
arms wrapped around her. Well-formed hands pressed her fingers around
a warm metal cup filled with dark liquid.

"Drink." Angel urged, pulling her hands and the cup up to her lips.

Drusilla did not resist. She was too tired and sick to argue anymore.
Besides, she wasn't even sure she was ready to believe that this
Angel was even real. Resting the edge of the cup against her bottom
teeth, she tilted it back and allowed its contents to pour into her
mouth. The drink was thick and viscous with slick, congealed globs
near the bottom which she gulped back. A tiny rivulet dripped down
her chin and left a crimson blotch on the front of her dress.

She set the empty cup down and regarded the stain blankly.

"This is blood." She noted tonelessly.

"Yes it is, my love." Angelus replied, turning her around to face him
fully, "And it is all you will drink from this moment on."

Scowling in annoyance, she shook free of his hold and stepped back,
away from him.

"No, I'm going with John." She declared, "He's going to marry me."

Angelus smirked cruelly, "No one's gonna marry you, Drusilla. Yer
half-mad. You belong ta me now."

He reached out for her again and she resisted, slapping his hand away
with a child-like whine.

"Oh, come now, don't be actin' like that." He chided, strolling over
to her bed, "What would your mother think?"

Unnoticed until now, her mother's still form reclined across the edge
of the bed, pale and unmoving. Angelus sat down next to the woman and
beckoned invitingly to Dru.

"Come, sit with us." He suggested, lifting the woman's limp arm and
squeezing her wrist against the edge of the cup, "Have another
drink."

Drusilla stared at the woman's face, still living but only barely, as
Angelus filled the cup with her blood. Pain knotted in her stomach as
she realized distantly that she had already tasted the cup's gruesome
contents.

"I'm going to find John." She moaned, reaching for the door.

In the blink of an eye, Angelus leapt from the bed and clamped his
arms tightly around her.

"No." He commanded, pressing his face against her cheek as she
struggled ineffectually against his formidable strength, "You can't
go. I have to have you, Drusilla. There can be no other way."

Tears sprang to Drusilla's eyes and rolled slowly down her flawless
cheeks.

"No." She protested with a sniff, her entire body trembling with
fear, "The Lord will punish me."

Angelus leaned closer, enfolding her more tightly.

"All this suffering. All the pain you been feelin'. Wouldn't it be
easier to just let it all go?" he breathed suggestively into her ear,
increasing the pressure with his arms and slowly squeezing the air
out of her lungs, "Stop fightin' it and surrender."

As his teeth brushed her throat, Dru's mind reached a point of
perfect clarity. All the confusion and madness that had accumulated
over the past few months was washed away by the realization of what
it truly was that held her. All the evil that tainted her, the
darkness that Joshua had warned her of, she had foolishly invited it
in. Turning her tear-streaked face toward the roof, she prayed
silently for forgiveness.

* * *

John slowed and stopped on the trail that led back to the road. He
couldn't stop thinking about Dru or the shadow that had fallen over
her and her family. The men of her family were dead, her mother was
gone, she had no one now. He couldn't leave her. Turning on his heel,
he marched back up the hill, directly for the abbey.

Balling his huge hand into a fist, he pounded on the door. As he
pulled back his arm to knock again, the door opened and a chubby-
faced girl stared up at him with wide eyes. He recognized her as the
girl he had briefly seen at the chapel with Drusilla.

"Where is she?" he asked quickly.

The girl swallowed nervously and moistened her lips.

"W-Who?" she stammered.

"Drusilla Abbott." He replied, feeling an unexplained sense of
urgency.

He pushed the door in and started swiftly down the hallway toward the
back.

"Wait, you can't go back there!" the young nun protested, hauling
ineffectually on his arm, "Sister Drusilla is in bed, taken ill."

John ignored her and continued to where he knew the nuns were
quartered.

"Which room is hers?"

The nun released his arm and hung back, unable to stop him from
proceeding.

"The last one on the left." She directed uncertainly, "But you still
can't go in there."

As he heedlessly placed his hand on the door to Drusilla's room, she
turned and hurried away in distress, "I'm going to get Mother
Constance."

John let her go, unconcerned. His mind was occupied with other
things. Shoving open Drusilla's door, he froze just outside it in
shock, aghast at the scene that greeted him.

The corpse of Drusilla's mother lay slumped on the floor against the
corner of the bed, evidence of many days of torture obviously
showing. In the center of the room, a tall, male figure attired in
black clutched Drusilla's weakened form. She slumped against him, her
face buried in his chest and her arms dangling slack at her sides.
The man's features were distorted and feral, his eyes flaring
vibrantly yellow as he drew greedily from a wound in Drusilla's
throat with his mouth.

He recognized the mark of evil on him, the same one that he had seen
on Anne Guthrie. Here was the heart of the darkness that had infected
Drusilla's life. The Devil Himself.

Fighting off stunning astonishment, John reached into his coat and
withdrew the metal crucifix that had become a permanent part of his
attire recently. Leaping forward, he pressed it against her
attacker's cheek.

The creature roared in pain, dropping Drusilla's limp body to the
floor and retreating to the far wall.

John quickly closed the distance between himself and the creature,
brandishing the cross at arm's length.

"Leave her be, monster!" he roared, pinning the vampire against the
wall with the force of his faith.

The fiend glared at him with hatred seething in his eyes, but
remained trapped. As long as John kept behind his cross, he would be
safe.

He remembered how Anne had died when a spear of wood had pierced her
heart. Drawing a length of sharpened wood from his belt, John hoped
her master would perish similarly. Raising his arm high, he aimed for
the left side of the vampire's chest, stabbing down with all his
strength.

A small hand caught his arm, mid-stroke, in a crushing grip and
squeezed until he dropped the wooden weapon with a cry of pain.
Turning fear-filled eyes toward his new assailant, he gasped in
horror.

Her face distorted by evil, Drusilla watched him with wild yellow
eyes and grinned with pointed teeth.

"It's so sweet you came to save me, John." she smiled
admiringly, "Let me give you a kiss."

Long days pounding steel at the forge had corded John's body with
solid muscle, but his strength was no match for the unearthly power
now coursing through Drusilla's slender frame. He could only stare,
wide-eyed, as his throat was exposed and his body drawn inexorably
into her.

Her teeth cut into his flesh and he choked in horror as he heard her
sucking greedily. She started to spin slowly, carrying him
effortlessly along with her in a gradual, haphazard dance. Slowly,
the strength left his body and he felt very tired, lolling in her
embrace. Lifting her mouth from his bleeding throat, she brushed her
lips intimately close to his ear.

"He really is an angel, you know." she confided in a whisper, "He's
come to take my soul away."

Releasing him, she let his body thud lifelessly to the floor, his
long limbs sprawling. His eyes rolled uncontrollably up inside his
skull, he could barely see her standing over him as she stepped into
the other creature's embrace. He knew it would only be moments before
death took him.

"I'll miss you, John." she whispered affectionately, "But we must be
going now, Angel's taking me with him. Just as soon as we say goodbye
to Mother Constance and the other nuns."

The last thing John Coleman saw as death took him was the face of the
woman he loved corrupted by a heart of purest evil.