"You -- he..."
I say, "Don't ask."
I know his face. I don't want to know it, but I do. It's that look you get when you're fearing the worst, right before you fall off the cliff into oblivion and into acceptance. He's on the verge of falling, and yet, he knows there is one more hope left.
He asks me, tight-lipped, "Is Toby running around without a soul?"
I shake my head, give him a grin just as tight lipped as his. There's no more vampires tonight. "No. We made a deal -- I killed him before that happened."
His head bowed slightly, and yet that face, that stoic, calculating face didn't move an inch. He doesn't ask the details; doesn't need to. He only needs to know one thing, and I recognise this nightmare all too well. "Was it because of what I didn't do?"
I nod.
He nods back.
I give him a minute to breath. Breathing is very important to humans, and I need this one in tip top condition, and broken, to do what I need. But for all things, there is a grieving period.
About seven seconds elapse.
Then I say, "You still owe me a favor. He's dead, not undead."
He stares up at me, and I feel the demon. He nods.
I say, "Kill the Slayer."
"I can't. I don't-- I'm not going to hell." I barely recognise his face, that fear, but I remember what it was like to be Catholic. That guilt, running behind you every day of your life... I don't think this man has ever been a saint, but the medal of St. Christopher is hanging around his neck still. It means something to him, at least. He says, harshly, "Something else."
Maybe I'll turn him next. It might be a blessing.
He shakes his head, and I see that he's determined. Ah, damn. Fine. There's one more card I can play... one more thing that, if I can't have her dead, at least I can pretend I've got her on her knees. I crook my finger up, and grin. His eyes narrow, and I know I'm going to pay for this later.
But he comes.
Once a prag, always a prag.
It doesn't take long for him to close his eyes and transport himself to whatever place humans go when they're in discomfort.
I get to work.
I howl.
My hands are gripped on his angled hips, tight enough that I know I'm going to leave bruises. There is very little light in his cell-like room, and the shadows accent my face, the hollows and crevices where the beasts hide.
In the throes of passion, I want to nickname the ass beneath mine, but every time a pet name tries to choke itself out, my pupils -- yellow and far too round with barely constrained urges -- fix themselves on the brand on Chris's left cheek.
And I bite my tongue until I taste salty blood, and swallows it down, and likes the taste. Rub the wound in, just to feel it.
And close my eyes.
And then I throw my head back, open my eyes, and stare at the ceiling, and as my eyes fix themselves on the patterns there, I remember Dru, standing on a ladder with sidewalk chalk. She was crying out about the stars, and wanted to paint them everywhere. And she might be god and the devil knows where, but the chalk's already flaking away.
And I say, 'Sweetcheeks. Groan for me.'
And he's quiet.
And I know he's thinking what I am when I pull out.
And I think, not for the first time, Anything is better than this.