Eyghon, IIRC.

It's Eyghon. I had to use it in Tuesday.

Multiple x-post.

Ple, AIM? I'm paper-bound, so I'm up for awhile.

Technically, I'm watching a movie, and attempting to self-Doblerize at the moment, so I don't think I'll be on. Though I've got a weird urge for Blues Brothers fic now.

Excellent! Ta, all.

SA, Bwah! "greaaaaaase...."

Thanks, deb. I'm doing all my flashfics right now, as I am putting off latin homework and a paper.

OK, is this too silly?

• * *

When Crispin kicked the front door of Number 17 half off its hinges, Emma thought she'd somehow strayed into some bad student knockoff of an Antonioni flick.

The first thing she saw was the freaky-faced bird with the vampire ridges - Drusilla, Crispin had called her - running the longest tongue Emma had ever seen along the length of her potential dinner's throat. She'd got her dinner's tie-dyed Indian peasant shirt off, or perhaps Spike had done that, and was cradling the girl in one arm, supporting her head, tilting her back to make the most of a long, supple neck. The thunderous crack of the door slamming into the wall and parting company with its hinges apparently startled Drusilla; her mouth dropped open, her grip relaxed, and the unconscious and presumably unwilling blood donor du jour bounced to the floor.

"That wasn't nice," Drusilla said reproachfully. "You've gone and made me spill my tea all over the floor."

"Don't meet her eyes!" Crispin, circling Spike with a stake in one hand, yelled the reminder. Since he was having to do this while not turning his back on Ethan, Emma realised it was up to her not to let Drusilla get into the game.

"Who in sodding hell are you people, anyway?" Spike, the bell-bottoms of his tight velvet pants flapping as he crouched and circled, was clearly irritated. Looking over Crispin's shoulder, he got his first look at Emma. "Blimey! If that's the Slayer, she can slay me anytime!"

"Well, I don't like her. And now I'm all cross." Drusilla, prancing on her preposterous shoes, lunged at Emma, who kicked her halfway across the room. As she straightened up, stake in hand, she suddenly became aware of the low voice in the middle of the pentagram, and heard what Ethan Rayne was chanting.

"....eight, nine, vampires to dust, ten, eleven, man and woman together, oh Eyghon I offer these up unto thee, thy spell complete, eight, nine..."

Apropos of nothing, really, I find the image of Dru in preposterous shoes utterly charming.

Can't you just see her swanning about in four-inch heels with silk ribbons fluttering off in every direction?

I almost don't like writing Dru. She's so damned easy.

Hee!

I'd cut

you bad lady, you."

Because the Dru pouting menace comes through more clearly without it.