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It is always the pretty ones, the beautiful ones, those who serve a purpose, who are changed.

All the others are simple fodder for the occasional dalliance.

---

The woman is intent on her washing, her back hunched over a basin of water that is almost too dirty to use. It would take too much effort to refill it, and she is near done anyway; so she keeps scrubbing. It earns a few extra pennies that go to feed her idiot daughter's wily children, who come around begging for scraps when she has little for her own. The bane of children, she thinks, is that you would give them your left arm should it serve to make them happier.

When she finally stands, she can hear the creaking and groaning of her accursed back. The well-meaning priest that wanders 'round this neighbourhood always coddles her, tells her she needs to take care of herself more, but truth be told she wouldn't know what to do with herself had she all the time in the world. What's a life without work, anyhow? She can't honestly fathom one, having done some sort of labour her whole life; as young as she can remember, she was helping her mother peel potatoes and sew together holes in ragged clothes.

The last shirt is pinned to the line, and she leaves the water for the boys to dump out later. She hasn't the strength anymore. She once did, was once a strapping young girl, as her Robert used to call her, but old age and death take a toll on anyone. She lives alone, though it's unseemly, and keeps to herself save her family and the laundry she does for other people. It's not a bad life, though not a good one; she's grateful for what she has, dutifully goes to the chapel on Sundays and says her prayers. She hopes she will go to heaven, even if it's for the simple things of feeding her grandchildren and working hard for all her long life.

She shuts the door and puts the basket in its corner; makes the sign of the cross and mumbles a few words of grace. They say it isn't even safe to step out your own door after dark, anymore; lock the windows and blow out the candles. She doesn't give much thought to the dark evils of the night, other than to throw a bit of salt over her shoulder for luck and put rosemary in her plum cake for caution. Those are things her mother taught her, and she wisely passes them on to her granddaughter, Evie, who seemed to get a little more sense than her ridiculous mother.

It is later than she thought it was, and for some reason the hairs on the back of her neck stand up as she passes the window near her bed. The last thing she sees as sharp teeth dig into her neck is the clutch of daises young David left on her windowsill that morning.

---

"Brown soil, undisturbed, waiting to be rummaged," Drusilla whispers with a hum in her voice.

"Of course, love," Darla says indulgently, petting her hair and leading her away at the same time.

"She had nothing in her head, no chalk on her slate, just yellow petals that fluttered to the ground," Drusilla sighs, following easily. "I do so like the ones who let me write on their tablets."

"Who wouldn't?" Darla mumbles under her breath, though she knows Drusilla can hear her. This was supposed to be a quick meal; Angelus and William have journeyed away for the weekend, leaving them free for their more...pastoral pursuits. It makes Darla smile predatorily to think of it; as of late, Angelus has been occupying her time, and they've all had to deal with a petulant William. She knows that their sojourn is so Angelus might beat some sense into the fool boy.

Luckily, their lodgings are nearby. Darla has plans for this evening, and damned to anyone that sees fit to stand in her way.

As they climb the stairs, Drusilla stops and laughs lowly. "Mummy is going to be naughty tonight."

Darla steps just low enough to grasp Drusilla's chin. "Oh, yes, my dear. Mummy is going to be very naughty indeed."

---

The silk ties that bind Drusilla's hands behind her back do nothing to halt her movement; even on her knees, she sways from side to side, leaning forward whenever Darla draws near. Darla smiles; she never had to teach that to her, it came naturally. Now, it takes only a spray of a certain perfume to draw Drusilla close to her, distract her from whatever the boys are doing. There is something satisfying in that. The role of matriarch fits her well.

The top piece of Drusilla's dress has been carefully pulled away, leaving bare, pale flesh in its wake; her petticoat hangs still and linen-white from her waist, and Darla will enjoy cutting that from her supple skin. Bloodplay is not their ritual--that is reserved for Angelus and his delusions of ownership. It simply serves to heighten their time, bring it closer to something that would take far more effort and lack of masculinity to accomplish.

Bindings are the first step; a knife is the next. Then comes touch masked as romanticism: a fickle human notion Darla employs because it works. Her illusion-ridden child enjoys the perversity of it, as though creatures such as they experiences gentleness or compassion. It fit the masks they wore, to hide their true features. Pretense, too, was essential.

Her fingers trail up the front of Drusilla's thighs, and it takes the barest push of a forefinger to tip her to the bed. The beauty of Drusilla lies in her malleability, her willingness to be moulded to the moment. Darla is a master craftswoman.

Cool breath caresses Dru's collarbones, making her shiver and moan. Without compunction, she angles two fingers into Dru's body, relishing the perfect arch of her back. She draws blood, can smell and feel it on her fingers, and Darla delights in the knowledge that Drusilla will ache for surely a day after this. She regrets, often, the gift of healing a vampire possesses; she desires marks, lasting impressions of her hands on a fragile body.

When she withdraws, it's to a high-pitched whine from Drusilla. A smile curves over Darla's face. So ready, and they've barely begun. But then, this evening's kill was mere foreplay, a way to ensure hot blood will be spilled tonight. She considers and discards using tools; there are better methods for her lovely girl, all wicked and ripe for the plucking.

Darla backhands Dru, drawing blood from her lips and a curse uttered like a prayer just behind it. Dru's eyes slip closed, and Darla would wrench them open if she didn't make such a pretty picture. As it is, the tips of her fingernails soothe the hinge of Drusilla' jaw, before digging in carefully and methodically at her skin, fingers clamping around her throat. Drusilla's eyes pop open, and she struggles for breath; it always amuses Darla how the desperate instinct for air never disappears.

Still holding her firmly, Darla dips her head low to lick and bite hard at each of Drusilla's nipples in turn. This makes her thrash and open her mouth for air even more, her helpless hands digging into the bedspread to grasp for things she'll never be given.

"Oh, my sweet darling," Darla croons to Drusilla's ear. "You always seem to forget who truly made you want you are. I turned Angelus to your charms, led him in his quest to destroy you; I was there watching when he changed you. You are mine, sweet pet, first and foremost--all of you are. When you forget, I will be there to remind you." She squeezes just a bit harder before letting go. "I will always be there," she whispers to Drusilla's unthinking litany of, "Yes, Mummy, yes, yes yes."

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