AN: Because I'm apparently a crazy person, I volunteered myself for a December fic challenge meme on LJ. People gave me a prompt and a date, and I'm writing at least 300 words for them. Which means that a) I'm going to want to pull my hair out by sometime next week and b) I'll be posting stuff like nobody's business. So here we go.

Prompt: Drusilla, See the blazing yule before us.


The flames of the Yule log cast long shadows up and over the walls. Snow was falling all around the secluded country estate.

Drusilla perched on a footstool and inspected herself by the light of the fire. There were no lamps to see by, of course. She and Darla and Spike had blown them all out hours ago.

It was more fun that way. In the dark, they were confused. In the dark it was harder to spot the enemy. In the dark, they screamed. And she liked it when they screamed.

In the flickering half-light, the blood looked like ink. The stains marred her dress, offsetting the jagged holes a few desperate partygoers had torn in their attempt to fight back. It was a shame really. She liked this dress.

The slick black blood spread like a plague across her hands, down her arms, over her mouth. Marking her. Cursing her. The devil himself singling out her sins.

She brought one hand up to her mouth, licked it clean. She reveled in the taste of it. Coppery and rich, thick on her tongue, slithering down her throat. Baptizing her. Damning her.

(When she was small, her mother had fed her seeds from a pomegranate and told her the story of Persephone. Doomed to spend her life half in shadows, tied to a man she wanted and hated in equal measure. Years later she would think of Persephone, fleetingly, as she swallowed blood as red and sweet as a pomegranate, and watched her own personal Hades throw away the keys to the garden.)

Darla's voice, calling her back outside, startled Drusilla back to the present.

She weaved her way through the maze of dead bodies, towards the door, stopping only to scoop up a delicate doll form the arms of a child. A fair amount of blood had spilled from the little girl onto the doll, but that would come out with enough scrubbing and Miss Edith could really use a companion.

When she reached the yard, Darla was already seated in their stolen coach, shooting threatening looks at the terrified driver.

Spike was standing in the snow, waiting for her at the door of the coach. The blood from his own slaughter was smeared across his face, and his eyes danced. She pulled his head toward her mouth and kissed it away. She smiled when she felt him shudder under her hand.

When Spike had handed her into the coach, she settled beside Darla.

"Happy Christmas Grandmother."

Darla made her usual face at the name, but she reached for Drusilla's hand anyway.