Still Grrr

Entering their lair located under the northern out-flung wing of the Pražský hrad, Spike stops short at the sight that greets him. “What are you doing, pet?”

“I’m having a party, a pretty party, where the girls squeal as the red drips and drips and drips.” Drusilla smiles up at him, fingers streaking blood down her cheek as she caresses her own skin.

Her hand reaches repeatedly into the nearest body, grab and pull, grab and pull. Greyish-purple ropes coil around her ankles until she squats in a sea of alien flesh. Piles of such already adorn the area around five of the corpses. Ten more wait with throats ripped out – girls of about seven, all dressed in matching grey wool skirts and white cotton shirts.

The stone-walled room, previously smelling of nothing more than musty dampness, is thick with the copper-rich reek of blood.

“Why these, Dru?” He waves a hand out towards the girls.

“They were a matched set. One, two, three little dollies all lined up and pressed into crinoline. But it scratched their skin, and they pulled it away from their bodies when the schoolmarm wasn’t looking.” She looks at him coyly from the side of her eye. “I simply pulled harder.”

“But we pulled three backpackers on Charles Bridge not two hours ago. It’s an odd time for you to come over all peckish.”

“They tasted of sunshine and lollipops.” She trails a hand through the ruined torso of the nearest girl and licks her fingers, one, two, three before snapping them at him. “But they smelled of pain and whimpered so prettily.” She stands to spin and point. “That one whimpers still.”

Spike's gaze follows the line of her arm to one of the gutted corpses. “She’s dead, love.”

Her arm arcs through the air, hand describing a delicate shape, as her head lolls backwards. “Which only makes it all the more amazing.” She tilts her head to the side. “Can’t you hear it, my Spike? The high whine that catches every so often in the back of her throat?” She looks at him with devilment in her eyes, on her curving lips. “I want to hear it always.”

“Dru, love.” Spotting two more crimpled bodies under a darkened stone arch, he sighs. That makes seventeen – an entire school group. “They’ll come after us for this.”

Pouting, she glides towards him to slither one hand up his chest. “But I wanted a party, and a party has to have decorations. Miss Edith says so.” Her smile grows, wicked and ripe. “And see, my Spike!” She whirls and swoops to gather up the nearest intestine, flinging it towards one of the wrought-iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It loops beautifully as she throws the other end over the next such fixture.

Blood falls in little pats into the puddle on the floor.

Drusilla turns to look at him, face expectant, hands held still at waist height.

He bends and grabs a coil from the nearest pile. Slippery and still somewhat warmer than his room-temperature skin, the rope of intestine’s most interesting property seems its strangely pliant elasticity. It gives where touched, noticeably stretching on either side of his hand as he raises a loop from the mass on the floor.

Clapping her hands and cooing in pleasure, she turns back to an unmutilated body, making short work of stripping the fifteen feet of viscera from its abdominal cavity.

Spike works at throwing the garlands, covering the room in swags of varying height, alternating short, tight half-circles with larger, lower, gentler arcs.

Finally finished, they stand still for a few moments, the fat drops of blood creating a gentle susurrus, as of heavy yet lazy rain.

Suddenly, Dru swirls through the room, stepping nimbly between the corpses, her dark red dress now drenched to almost black, her face streaked red. “Come and dance with me, my Spike. The party's for you.”

He moves to her and wraps her in his arms, turning her momentum into swaying. “For me, love?”

Leaning forward, she licks the newest drops from his cheek. “Yes, my knight. A party for you.” She turns in his arms to throw out hers. “The most glorious party ever with all the best decorations, better than Grandmama could do.” Spinning back, Dru lowers her head to look up at him through her lashes. “Don’t you like it?”

Spike rests his forehead on hers. “I love it, pet.”  He breaths in blood.  "I love it."