Drusilla smiled. Marisol thought that smile was ever so slightly wrong, almost hungry. But thought was not something she was capable of for long. All her awareness seemed to be fixed on the slow path Spike's hand was making around her waist, and then down her thigh, pulling up the fabric of her skirt until flesh was revealed.
"So warm," Drusilla purred as she came to stand directly in front of the girl. She extended a hand, touching Marisol's hair and then smoothing slowly down the side of her neck, tracing the sensitive tendon there so that the young woman shivered. "So pretty . . ."
Spike's hands were moving as well, sliding under her dress now to caress her thigh, then moving up towards her hip . . . and then across another, higher, place, bringing a gasp from her at the shock of the sudden, unexpected, unknown pleasure. Drusilla moved closer, her hand strangely cold as she traced a path down Marisol's neck again, but the girl didn't protest. She couldn't. It felt so good, his touch and hers as well, as a cold hand slid to her shoulder and pushed down one shoulder of her dress. Another hand slid down into the space created by the gap, slipping gently across her breast . . .
Drusilla's head lowered, and cold lips pressed to the skin at the side of her throat, then parted as Drusilla licked delicately at her skin. Like a cat would lap at cream . . . The thought came and vanished again as sensation grew, and she leaned her head back against Spike's shoulder as his mouth joined in the caresses, on the other side of her neck.
She should protest; Marisol knew she should. She should stop, think . . . but it felt so good, they felt so incredibly good, their touch burning into her, burning away the cold of the night, the cold of frustrated desires she had only partly known were there . . .
"Yes," Drusilla whispered. "No more cold . . . no more wanting . . . Drusilla will take it all away . . ."
Marisol turned towards the voice and found her mouth captured in a kiss. Strangely cold, but welcoming, intoxicating, so that instead of pulling away, she only craved more. And more still, as a pair of slightly warmer hands touched her, caressed her, and Spike's mouth moved against her shoulder and neck. The intensity of the sensations was incredible, adding to the ecstasy of Spike's hand under her dress, gifting her with sensations she had never known existed. Her senses heightened even further, and suddenly she knew, indefinably but undeniably, that Maya was feeling all of this as well. She could sense her sister's surprise, could almost feel, in the back of her mind, the heavy wood of the bed-frame as Maya's hands grasped it in equal surprise.
Then she pushed away from the connection, wanting only to feel him. Her. Them. Take everything they offered. Surrender utterly to the sensations they were giving her. Her hands rose, one in front and one behind, curving about Drusilla and Spike's heads as they kissed and licked her shoulders, her neck. She cradled them gently, fingers clenching softly in the silky locks of hair, her breath coming out in soft murmurs of encouragement that she never would have imagined she could give.
There was a pause, a cessation of their touch as both pulled their heads briefly away. Marisol made a small sound of denial, request. "My lovely doll," she heard Drusilla murmur, and then she felt their heads descend again, almost in unison.
She almost didn't notice the pain as sharp teeth drove suddenly into her skin, piercing her neck on either side, almost to the junction of her shoulder. It hit her suddenly, intensely, agony that screamed through her mind and body. Marisol straightened with a startled cry, her eyes snapping open in shock. She tried to push away from them, tried to struggle, only to have Spike's arm tighten about her waist, and Drusilla's hands hold her shoulders with a nearly crushing grip. She wasn't strong enough to fight back . . . and in the end, as a strange lethargy set in, she didn't want to.
In her bedroom nearly a mile away, Maya let out a strangled scream and collapsed to her knees. Images and sensations poured into her, throwing her onto the floor as wave after wave crashed against her.
Blood.
Violence.
Agony.
Teeth tearing into pale, vulnerable flesh.
Locked in Spike's arms, life draining away from her as he and a strange woman held her, pulled her down.
And then a strange pleasure as her life flowed into them from her veins, and promises echoed in her ears . . .
And then a new voice, one Maya had never heard before, female and lilting, chiding. Directed not to Marisol, but to Maya.
"Bad doll. This isn't your party yet. Go away."
And abruptly the link shut off. A dim echo of it still pulsed through to her, though. Enough to know that her sister, the other half of her soul, was dying. For long, precious moments, she lay in shock, oblivious to the calls of her family as her siblings called their parents. Oblivious to the touch of her parents hands as her father scooped her up from the floor and put her on the bed, her mother touching her face and begging her to open her eyes. She was trapped in her own mind, trying desperately to hold onto the link she had shared since birth, trying to hold onto her sister as she felt her slipping away.
In the barn, lamplight flickered gently on three figures as they sank slowly to the ground. Spike held the girl's slender form almost gently, lowering her to the ground, his mouth still buried against her neck. Drusilla had pulled back, but now he sensed her kneeling in front of them. He pulled his head back and looked at her as she touched his shoulder. The girl was still alive, but barely. He could feel her heartbeat inside of him, feel it slowing, faltering.
Drusilla smiled dreamily at him, a strange gentleness showing on her vampiric face. "I want my doll, Spike," she murmured.
Spike frowned, confused until Drusilla looked down at extended her hand to lightly touch Marisol's face, brushing against the dark locks of her hair. There was something close to tenderness in the motion. Spike looked at his lover and fought to raise an eyebrow through his vampiric mask. "You want me to Turn her for you, pet?"
Drusilla smiled brightly now, yellow eyes glowing with eager desire. "Oh yes. Please, Spike. Princess wants her pretty doll."
Spike smiled. "Whatever my Princess wants." He looked down and smiled at Marisol. "What do you say, pet? Will you stay with us forever? Be my Dru's pretty doll? Never get old or ugly. . ."
Her eyes met his, strangely clear as she neared the final point of life. Her voice was the barest whisper, but they heard it nonetheless, filled with fear and confusion, and a desperate pleading for mercy. "Please . . ."
Spike smiled. "I'll just take that as a yes, shall I?" He caressed her face just as gently as Drusilla had done, then raised his wrist to his mouth and tore the skin with sharp fang, savoring the pain and anticipation. Drusilla slipped one hand under the girl's head and supported it as Spike lowered her wrist to her mouth, borrowed blood dripping warm and dark onto her lips.
Marisol hesitated for a moment. She could feel her life slipping away into darkness, into a deep unknown that suddenly terrified her more than anything else could. It was almost instinct then, to part her lips and allow the dark fluid to slip into her mouth. Spike's skin was warm now, filled with her own vitality, almost pulsing as his wrist settled against her lips.
She closed her eyes and drank.
Maya screamed once as her sister's heart ceased to beat. A darkness that was absolute grasped at her soul through their bond, pulling her towards the last flicker of their connection. A sharp slap across her face snapped her back into her own body, and her eyes flew open. Her expression was wild, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She was aware of her parents staring at her in shock and deep concern, but her bond to her twin overrode all of their sudden questions about what was wrong.
There was only darkness when she reached out through the link, and there was only one reason she could fathom for that darkness. Maya collapsed back on the bed and curled in on herself, knowing beyond doubt that her sister was dead.
***
They found Marisol a few hours later, given the information of her planned outing only when Maya was brought enough to herself again. She said only three words: "The old barn."
Her mother stayed at her side, perplexed and driven half out of her own senses by fear for her daughters. She knew as well as anyone else in the family that the only reason for Maya to react in such a way had to be something truly terrible. But that made it no easier for her when the men came back with Marisol's body. It also made it no easier for Roberto Cortez when they entered the barn and found his daughter crumpled in a stack of hay, cold and lifeless, and pale as only a bloodless body can be.
They carried her back to the house, silent and solemn, every one of them crossing himself as he stepped back over the threshold. A search-party was organized to hunt for the culprit, but no one truly expected to find anything. It had been hours since Maya's collapse, and there were horse-tracks that led away from the old barn only to join the churned soil of the main road. The murderers were counted as long gone, and the Cortez family was left to mourn and bury their eldest child.
From the time she told her parents of Marisol's agony and danger to when they brought home her body, Maya was in a state of shock. It became a dull ache all during the funeral arrangements, leaving her nearly catatonic for the day and a half that it took to place Marisol in her final resting place.
She watched in frozen silence as they prepared her sister for burial, moving only when all the other attendants finally left the room. She went to the body then, reaching out with a strangely steady hand to touch her sister's face and hair. Marisol looked beautiful, peaceful, dressed in virgin white with a pristine veil, a crown of protective flowers about her head. There was nothing to betray the violence of her death except the carefully hidden sets of teeth-marks on either side of her neck.
Maya stood looking at her for a long time, not entirely aware of the time that passed. Finally, she reached up to her own neck and undid the clasp of a chain about her neck. The small crucifix had been a gift from her to Marisol for their twelfth birthday, when they were preparing for their confirmation. It was the twin of the one Marisol had given her for the same occasion; when they were sixteen the clasp on Maya's chain had broken, and hers had been lost somewhere. To comfort her over the loss, Marisol had given her her own, and Maya had never taken it off since. Now, she laid it gently, carefully, about her sister's neck. It was the only goodbye she could give.
Maya stood silent during the funeral, too deeply in shock even for tears, and not even the whispers of the townsfolk could reach her. She watched the casket being lowered into the earth, watched them cover it up with dirt, and let her father guide her back to the house as her mother was surrounded by comforting children and neighbors. The day had worn on, filled with neighbors who came to pay their respects and offer help during the grieving time. Maya left them to it, retreating to her room to sit motionless and silent by the window.
She was distantly aware of her father coming to check on her, since her mother was as yet too grief-struck to be confronted with a living reminder of her loss. She was just as distantly aware of her younger siblings coming to see her, even little Angelita, who crawled into her lap and hugged her as tightly as her five-year-old arms could manage. The child sat with her for a long time, until eleven year-old Eduardo came to call her away, but she left her favorite doll with her sister, assuming in the way that children do that it would offer the same solace to Maya that it did to her.
Maya was aware of all this, and some part of her felt deep love for each of them for their attentions, but she could not focus her full attention on them. For something else was coming through her shock now. It took all of that day and a half for it to come to a head, but slowly, hour by hour, it grew stronger. As the sun set and the family, finally alone, sat down to a silent dinner, Maya grew increasingly more restless.
Her father attributed it to her grief over Marisol's death, but it was more than that. Something . . . wasn't been right. Instead of the emptiness Maya had expected, that she knew she should be feeling with Marisol gone, there was only a strange . . . feeling. As if the bond were there, but not there.
As if Marisol were still alive, and calling for her.
A queasiness in her stomach had left her without appetite for dinner, and a strange lightheadedness sent her to bed early pleading exhaustion. Except, as she lay in the too-empty bed, she was unable to sleep. She tossed, dozing fitfully, always coming awake with a feeling that alternated between something pressing down on her and something calling her.
Finally, she got up and paced a bit. The rest of the family had settled down to sleep themselves, and the house was silent. Maya dressed and tried to preserve that silence; thirteen year-old Louisa woke and saw her, but agreed to say nothing when Maya urgently made a shushing gesture. She understood her sister's impulse: Maya had to get away, even if it was just for a short while. She had to escape the confining house, get into the night air where she could think . . .
Maya escaped through the window as Marisol had done before, and slipped silent and wraith-like through the night. She followed old worn paths through moonlight and shadow until she found herself, perhaps understandable to anyone else, at the graveyard. But as she finally paid attention, startled into awareness by her destination, she realized that it hadn't been her subconscious that had led her here. Rather, it seemed to have been a feeling of being called, pulled . . .
Lured.
As she passed the crumbling stone wall, her eyes easily picking out the correct path in the light of the full moon, Maya felt as if she were caught in a dream. A dream in which one knows one is heading into danger, but cannot stop. As she neared the family plot, she frowned and quickened her step, her eyes disbelieving of what was revealed by the moonlight. A grave, newly dug, the soft earth atop it hurled to either side. Her sister's grave. Except that the casket had been wrenched open, leaving the interior open to the view of the moon. It was empty.
Maya stared down into the depths, stunned and uncomprehending. Then she froze as a whisper of sound reached her ears. A familiar voice sang her name almost pleasantly, the tone light and teasing -- and as well-known to her as her own voice. Her heart thundering, Maya turned to look behind her.
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