Chapter Four

She was huddled on the floor of the master’s lair, shaking from the pain she felt coming through the link. The link she still had with her family, even after leaving them almost twenty years ago.

A vampire never completely deserted their family. Her Childe needed her. She looked up into the eyes of her own Sire, she knew he felt it too. Their sorrow had molded his lips into a thinner line than he normally wore upon his face.

After all this time, she was finally ready to meet her family. She had organized a gala for the occasion. The Master had insisted on it.

He was excited over meeting the newest member to the line, and the daughter of a vampire and a seer.

Who’d taken a vampire from her Sire.

It was one for the record books.

In his own family.

It was too bad that she was dead.

* * * * * *

England, 1864

She knew it was time for her to leave.

This. . . domesticity, was not what she had turned him for. He was a rapist. A murderer. They’d trekked all throughout Europe, leaving cities in ruin in their wake. Young girls killed themselves if he didn’t do it for them, not able to live with the memory of his vicious touch on their skin.

Destroying their spirits more efficiently than he did their bodies.

After all, it was always the woman’s fault if she drew attention.

And the two demons thrived on it.

But a bouncing baby girl had changed all that. Liam, Angelus–had a family. Companionship. And he didn’t need her anymore.

Her own Sire was calling her, wanting her with him in his stinking hole, ready to open the hellmouth. Sometimes, she just wanted to eat the brat.

The only thing that stopped her were a pair of lavender eyes. The child wasn’t completely human, she had a demon. And she had her mother’s gift.

Darla, the vampire, the whore, was defeated by her own curiosity. She alone kept her fangs and hands in check. She wondered what Little Lizzie would grow up to be.

Some small part of her relished in the addition to her line. A rarity.

It was time for her to go home.


* * * * * *


She was dancing in the garden with her mother, raven hair shielding her from the world like a cloak as her mother picked her up, spinning them ’round, and ’round.

He watched them from the safety of the oak, hiding in the protection the shadows offered him. Safety from the creatures like him, who lurked in the dark

It was amazing. The hexes, potions, and curses the gypsies are willing to sell.

All for the sake of a gold coin.

It was pathetic, though he didn’t expect anything more from them.

After all, they were only human.

Only cattle.


* * * * * *


She laughed as her mother twirled again and they began to dance, holding her in her arms. She cheered as the orchestra finished setting up, beginning a song her mother hummed to her. Da-da-da-da-dee-dum-dum, da-da. . . .da-da. . .


* * * * * *


Angelus smiled a cruel smile. Somehow, they’d found out about Lizzie. He’d felt it all night at the play–someone trying to hide, trying to keep on the edge of his senses.

They underestimated him, all of them. Demons called his kind “tainted,” barely worth more than a human. He was over 100 years old, no longer a fledge.

But oh, how they had underestimated him! He watched the night from beneath the cover of the oak tree, waiting for it to come closer, to reach the gates to the sprawling manor.

He looked to the small orchestra who played for his giggling pixies. He gave them a nod. Terrified, the page-turners flipped the page to the first segment in the book as the small orchestra began to play a louder, faster song; drowning out the sounds of the night.

All the little girl could hear was the orchestra and the sounds of their laughter as she saw her father approaching. She wriggled out of her mother’s hold to reach him as the two adults exchanged a soft small, looking to their dark-haired daughter as she closed the distance between them at a run. . .

Laughing, he picked her up, lifting her high into the air; wishing his newly four year old daughter a happy birthday. He pressed her to his chest, his hand going to her ear as she rested against him, arm wrapped tightly around the small waist.

The musicians looked to their sire, not sure of what was more terrifying–his rage, or this scene between him and his daughter.

'Only cattle,' he thought as he heard the click of the gate as it moved to push the heavy, iron gate open.

He looked to his mate as a pained scream ripped through the air, followed by the smell of burning flesh as the watcher went up in flames, leaving a charred, oozing corpse behind. The members of the orchestra scented the air, increasing the tempo at the sound of the first pain-filled gasp.

Mother and Father exchanged a sinister smile over Daughter’s shoulder where she rested comfortably in Father’s arms. The same thought going through their minds.

The orchestra slowed once again as Drusilla joined the pair and they danced in the moonlight, their daughter between them

Da-da-da Da-dee Dum- dum...da-da, da-da. . .

‘Don’t touch what’s mine.’

AN: Well, I hope you guys liked it! I’d actually written a completely different version, didn’t like it, and re-wrote it on paper before typing it up. It actually got a little...grizzlier than what it had been originally. Tell me what you guys think! And none of the characters belong to me, just the idea.