Paris--November 11, 1918
"Armistice Day is no fun," Drusilla pouted, standing on a balcony looking over the crowds celebrating in the streets below.
Spike came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, placing a kiss on the top of her head. "Wars never last, luv, but there's always a new one around the next corner."
"It was so nice, though. The battlefields full of dying men. They were so yummy," she murmured dreamily, swaying back against him. "I was the angel of death."
"And a lovelier angel was never seen."
"I liked the ones who begged for death better than the ones who begged for life." She smiled and glanced up into his warm eyes. "I don't like those people down there. They're forgetting all the death, celebrating life." Drusilla made a face, and Spike leaned down and kissed her gently.
"Humans do tend to revere life, Dru."
"Can we show them that death is better?"
"And, how do you plan to do that?" He smiled knowingly into her glittering eyes.
"Kill them all."
Spike chuckled and drew her back into their hotel room. "All right, luv. Shall we join the party?"
Nodding in delight, Drusilla picked up her fur stole and draped it over one shoulder, then took Spike's hand and led him out of the room. The elegant lobby of the hotel was full of happy people drinking champagne and dancing to the orchestra. Spike led his lover onto the dance floor and took her in his arms. They waltzed as if on air, their feet barely touching the ground, so incredibly graceful.
Drusilla hummed softly along with the musicians, her senses filling with the sounds of heartbeats, the smell of blood coursing beneath warm flesh, the sight of happiness and relief on faces so used to sorrow and fear.
She wanted to crush them all.
The song ended and she spotted the one she wanted first. A beautiful waif of a girl dressed in the latest fashion and all in white save for red and blue ribbons in her long golden hair.
As Drusilla stopped dancing, Spike followed her hungry gaze and a smile lit on his face. Sliding his arm around her waist, he guided her over to the girl, picking up a glass of champagne from a waiter.
It was all too easy. Tipsy and confident that everything was right in the world, the girl followed Drusilla into the ladies lounge. Drinking his champagne, Spike guarded the door, his anticipation heightened, his own hunger growing.
The smell of blood hit him--hot and rich-- and he licked his lips unconsciously, his eyes fastening on a plump matron, her face flushed with joy and alcohol.
As he watched his chosen victim chatting with several other women, Drusilla slipped from the room behind him.
"How was she?" he asked, not looking at her.
Drusilla wrapped her arms around his waist from behind and squirmed against him. "Delicious. So were the four others inside. Now they're celebrating death, too."
Mixed with the scent of blood and roses, was the heady aroma of her arousal. Killing always made her hot and wet for him. He felt himself stir and pulled gently away from her. "Go back to our room and wait for me." He glanced over his shoulder and saw the lusty smile on her face as she nodded and darted for the stairs.
*****
Three matrons and a fop of a man later, his blood lust sated, Spike strolled into the suite on the top floor of the hotel and found it lit with candles. His lover lay on the four poster bed, on her stomach with her legs bent up. She was nude, her pale skin gleaming warmly in the golden glow of the candles. She was listening to a phonograph record of some popular American song, humming along, her toes bouncing in the air.
Silently Spike removed his clothes, dropping them carelessly to the floor. Running his fingers through his short brown hair, he stretched elegantly, then crawled onto the bed.
As his lips touched the small of her back, Drusilla squealed in pleasure and turned into his arms.
From the lobby below, they could hear screams of fear as their victims were found, and they smiled at each other.
"Much better," Drusilla murmured, then drew his mouth down to hers.
End