It's autumn again. Or "fall" as they call it here, taking her pretty language and twisting it round to sing their own brash song. Dead leaves crunch under her elegantly shod foot and she laughs out loud, mocking Mother Nature for not being able to keep her creations forever fresh and beautiful, like Drusilla is herself.
Then she pauses, remembering the evergreens. Remembering the first year that Papa had brought one home at Christmastime and how prettily the candles sparkled and shone.
How Mama had scolded at first, mindful of the mess from the spindly fallen leaves, protesting the foreign custom introduced by the Germanic Prince Consort. Remembering how Daddy had laughed the first year she asked for one in their home.

"Foolish child! What does a cold dead thing like you want with greenery and life?"

Remembering her unexpected champion breaking in.

"Oh, let her have the tree, Angelus. What harm can it do?" And when he scoffed, "Well, this is what you get for making such a child."

And later, soft arms around her waist, pale skin bathed warm by the magical tree-light, and champagne kisses to celebrate the season, just between them, Angelus banished for his scorn.

Would they have a Christmas tree this year, she wonders. They should, for her baby's first Christmas, with gifts and sugarplums on the tree. But first, she must find her, and ask her.

The building hulks against the cobalt sky, filling her vision, staring at her with its many bright, unblinking eyes. A large poster advertises a 'Bold New Artist, Showing Now'. Ignoring the rudely staring windows, she makes her way to the door.

Inside, a young security guard greets her.

"Evening miss, can I help you? Are you looking for the viewing?"

"I'm looking for Grandmum," she explains, "I left her with the lawyer, but I think she wandered off. They were both gone when I got back."

He looks sympathetic, how quaint. "Oh dear. But I haven't seen any elderly ladies here, I'm afraid."

She frowns. What a silly man. "Shhh! Not elderly at all. She's only a baby... just a few months old." She smiles, reminiscing again. "I buried her so nicely, and then we had a lovely slaughter."

The little guard man is staring at her, and his face can't seem to settle on an expression. Which is interesting to watch, but not very helpful.
With a huff of annoyance, she grasps his head, and snap! he falls to the floor. She prods him with her foot. They always go so crumply.

She meanders in the direction of the music that's playing faintly in the background, swaying in time to it as she goes. And turning a corner, there is grandmother, laughing and pouting her cherry red lips at the human she is with, tossing her shiny-gold hair.
Drusilla pauses, and then Darla sees her. Her eyes flicker back over Drusilla's shoulder to where no-one waits in the background, because he didn't, wouldn't, come.

"Drusilla, darling!" Grandmum stretches out an elegant hand, smiling, but Drusilla tastes the bitter disappointment in her voice. Mutually abandoned, then, they are - no William, nor Angelus, to share bloody destruction.

"I knew I'd find you," she tells her daughter, allowing herself to be drawn near, revelling in the embrace and Darla's flowery scent like rotted roses.

The human stares from her to Grandma and back again. She knows that look, oh very well indeed. Grandmum sees it too, and laughs as she kisses Dru one more lingering time. Drusilla is sure she feels the crystal tinkles of sound travel down her throat, all the way to the tips of her toes. She wiggles with pleasure, and her own laughter - or it is Grandma's, escaping back again? - bursts forth.

Her baby has swayed back over to their prize, hypnotising him with her movements.

"Like a snake," Drusilla says to him, though he doesn't seem to be paying proper attention, "cold blooded, and sleek. With sharp deadly teeth, and coils that crush the life right out of you."

Darla's smile broadens, and she licks her lips, slowly. Drusilla watches the man, his eyes fixed on the tantalising movement. Will he taste of paint and turpentine, she wonders. She is sure Grandmum wants to find out, too.

"Eric, my sweet," Darla purrs, and he raises his besotted gaze to her eyes "Drusilla would love to see your other work - she simply adores .... wild animals. And there's nothing I would rather see than an artist's studio in the moonlight. Do you think we might?..."

Drusilla knows her part, and moves closer. As always, their combined onslaught dazzles their prey, and he swells in foolish pride.

"Dear ladies, I should be honoured." he proclaims, and each taking an arm, they allow him to believe he is escorting them.

Later, Drusilla draws extravagant designs in scarlet. She has found that the artist's canvases hold her patterns well, unlike the bedsheets which were the subject of her earlier experiments. Now, she finds the contrast against her own ivory skin the best of all.

Her daughter, replete from their meal, strolls in.

"May I paint you, Grandma?" Drusilla asks, and is rewarded with a rich, bloody chuckle.

"Dear departed Eric asked me that, you know. But I think I like your way better."

Drusilla grins, gleeful, as Darla approaches. "It's only paint now," she apologises. "The blood ran out."

Darla sighs. "Ah well, we can't have everything. We did have to eat, after all."

"But I made a lovely symphony, didn't I, Grandma. All of pain and screaming."

"It was marvellous," Darla reassures her, as she stretches luxuriously out on the ruined bed. "Now, what are you planning to paint on me?"

Drusilla crawls up the bed beside her, paintbrush in hand, hovering over her daughter's body. "Destruction... and death - a thousand deaths, and so much pain." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "And all caused by *us*."

"Mmmmmm." Darla writhes a little beneath her granddaughter's hand. "I like the sound of that. It's about time we got to wreak some real havoc. Just us girls."

And Drusilla smiles, and bends her head back to her task. Now at last she knows: it will be a wonderfully bloody Christmas.

END