the preacher asked him for any last words
my brother spit onto his clean shirt
and he smiled without redemption
and said this is one soul god don't need

-- Amy Ray, Johnny Rottentale

“Ah, crap?” Daria said. Not exactly the reaction she’d been expecting.

The woman smiled slightly. “Thought I was going to start attacking you or try to bust through the walls to get away, didn’t you?”

“Maybe take a hostage. Why I separated you from the rest of them. Case you decided to get all freaky and begin a melee, there’s always the possibility they might be able to escape.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said. “I don’t plan on going on a murderous rampage. Not now, not ever. I like living too much.” After a second, she added, “You seem disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed. Skeptical, yeah. I certainly know about the shitload of demons that are fine with living and let living. That one of them would be present at the execution of the person who killed my parents stretches my credulity slightly.”

“It’s not a coincidence,” she said. Daria braced herself for a fight. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d faced down against some superchick in the middle of a prison. Admittedly, last time she’d been an inmate. Still, it was not a trend she actually felt like continuing. “But it has nothing to do with you. Just my bad luck that the daughter of a murder victim would be a vampire Slayer.”

“So, why are you here?” Daria said.

“Death,” she said.

“You’re death?” Truth be told, she didn’t look the part. On the other hand, Daria scarcely looked like the terror of the underworld, herself.

Now she laughed. “No. I look horrible in black.” Her voice got real quiet. “I feed on it. The nastier, the better.”

“So you just fake being a reporter so you can feed off, what, the energies of someone passing away?”

“Nothing fake about my job,” she said. “I’m still hoping you’ll give me an interview.”

“Maybe in a few minutes,” Daria said. “Once I’m completely satisfied. You feed on death?”

“Yes. I‘m a todhunter demon.” Daria had never heard of them; but then, Faith had

“Gotta say, this seems like a lot of work for not a whole lot of payout,” Daria said. “Seems to me you could just as easily “feed” by hanging around hospitals.”

“Sometimes, I do,” the reporter said. “And I do if I have to. But there’s a difference in quality. Why would I dine on hamburgers when I can have steak?”

Daria said, “You’re asking the wrong girl, Still, I believe I understand.”

“Good.”

“Two more things,” Daria said. “And remember, I know who you are --” the woman’s name, Susanna Curry, was on her badge -- “and, if it turns out you’re lying, I’ll come back and indulge myself in some creative self-teaching on the anatomy of demons. A course in which I strongly suspect I’ll get an A. And not just because I’ll be the one giving the grades. You get me?”

The woman said wryly, “I believe so, yes.”

“One. Ever help anyone along so you could feed?”

“Yes,” Curry said. “I’ve always wanted to be under investigation as a serial killer.”

It took Daria a second, but she got it. “You don’t have an alternate form.”

“Nope. I’ve got scales growing where they won’t show and my eyes are silver, but beyond that?” Daria looked at her eyes. “Color contacts. I explain them as a birth defect if I have to, but it’s easier not to have to. Anyway, human form, human fingerprints, human teeth, and human enough DNA. And besides, it’s just not how my species operates. We’re -- we’re vultures. We’re not carnivores.”

“Okay. Lacking any convenient Watchers I suppose I’m going to have to take you at your word. Second: What happens to Harbaugh as you feed on his death? Does it put him at peace, does he go through a universe of pain --?

“I told you I was a vulture,” Curry said.

“Ah. So you’re going to fly over him for a while and fight it out with other vultures. Truly. I see the analogy.”

“Has anyone ever told you can be very sarcastic?” the reporter asked.

“Once or twice. So, yo: What do you mean this time?”

“Does a dead deer know or care if a vulture’s eating it?”

“So it’s not going to affect him one way or the other.”

“Nope.” After a second, she added, “So were you hoping it would hurt him?”

“Let’s just say I’m glad you didn’t present me with that particular dilemma. ‘cause it would have been a sonuvabitch to figure out.” Indeed. One part of her -- okay, a large part -- wouldn’t have minded seeing Willard Jay Harbaugh in agony as he shuffled off this mortal coil, but still, that would mean that Curry’d done that to other people, some of whom probably wouldn’t be contemptible bastards. Despite her generally low opinion of the human race, damn few people deserved to spend their last moments suffering like a motherfucker.

There didn’t seem to be anything to say that, so Susanna Curry didn’t even try. Instead, she pulled out a notepad and said, “About that interview . . .?”

“Okay, seeing as I just threatened your life, I figure I probably owe you. You have five minutes.” Odd being interviewed by a demon, but Daria’s instincts were telling her that the reporter was probably telling the truth.

And it wasn’t like Daria was lying about coming after her if it turned out Curry was bullshitting her, either. Demon was going to have an eye kept on her.

In the meantime, Daria answered her questions, which stuck mostly to the topic of Willard Jay Harbaugh, though once she did ask about Daria’s time as “Faith Lehane.” Daria could hardly bitch about it; it was still news, after all.

When they were done, they both sat back down. Daria positioned herself where she could keep a careful eye on Susanna Curry. The guards had kept half an eye on them, but, as they hadn’t been hustled out to meet any reps of the local loony bins, Daria felt fairly safe assuming they hadn’t been listening.

They didn’t have to wait long. Soon enough the curtain opened on Willard Jay Harbaugh, strapped onto a gurney-looking thing. He’d already been prepared; at least, there was tubing sticking out of his arm. Three men in surgical garb were standing by -- at least, Daria thought they were guys; they were covered head to toe, except for their eyes. Made sense; executioner wasn’t exactly a job guaranteed to get you action at the bar.

Though this was Texas, after all.

One of the guards said, “Five minutes.”

Daria settled in.

A priest entered the execution chamber and approached Harbaugh; Harbaugh spit on him. The priest shook his head and walked off.

With one minute to go, sound started coming from the chamber. “Do you have anything to say?” the other man in there said.

Harbaugh said, “Anything I can say that’ll change your mind?”

“No,” the man said.

“Then no.”

And silence.

Half a minute later, the man nodded to the doctors. Each of them injected a needle into a separate part of the tube.

Out of the corner of her eye, Daria watched Susanna Curry. Outwardly, the woman simply seemed to be focused directly at Harbaugh’s head. Daria’s Slayer senses told her different.

In the chamber, Harbaugh started struggling against his bonds. He still didn’t say anything.

Susanna Curry smiled.

Eventually the struggles slowed down.

And then stopped.

No one was there to love him. No one cared about him as him.

And that’s what he took to the grave.

Susanna Curry sank back in her seat.

One of the men in surgical garb reached forward and felt Harbaugh’s wrist.

And that, apparently, was that. A nod to the man in the corner, and the curtain closed. Daria wondered at the lack of any further announcements, but guessed that “Thank you for coming” would probably seem a little gauche.

The guards gestured for everyone to leave.

Harbaugh was dead.

About damn time.

Daria thought she’d feel more; but then, she’d pretty much already come to terms with everything she needed to come to terms with.

This was just making sure.

She took one last look at the curtain, then turned around and followed Susanna Curry out of the room.