Portatelo nella tomba


Author: Lamia Archer

FIC: portatelo nella tomba,





Roma, 1771

Stagnancy is a problem. It didn’t used to be; even as a human, Darla was always endowed with enormous patience. But in their few short years together, Angelus has driven the virtue from her.

Ah, well. Turnabout is fair play.

Darla stands at the window, watching the pale last breaths of the setting sun. They should be moving, but of course they can’t. Not even once it’s properly dark.

On the bed, behind her, Angelus writhes, a furious feral growl ripping from his chest.

La contessa swats at him. “Ma che cazzo fai, coglione? Calmati!”

Angelus growls again. Darla sighs, lets her eyes drift wearily closed.

“If you rip her throat out, you’ll have to tend to your own wounds. Our choice of magical healers is somewhat limited, and I am not a nursemaid.”

Angelus stills beneath la contessa’s ministrations, but not happily.

“Mangierò degli tuoi occhi,” he hisses.

“Vai all’inferno,” la contessa says, and applies the cauterizing brand with rather less care than one might appreciate.

“Not yet,” Darla says. “Not yet.”

She turns to appraise the situation. La contessa straddles her boy; they both started sitting up properly, facing each other, but Angelus’s peevishness necessitated a firmer hand, as usual. His chest is still half open, his blood as rust stains marring the hotel’s expensive linens. This is a problem; there will be questions.

Darla’s life has been more than enough problematic of late.

She could have left him with Holtz. Between Angelus’s loyalty and Holtz’s capacity, she never feared that a secret would be spilled that would seriously endanger her. She has no delusions of maternal obligation, and truly clean breaks are so rare in life.


Darla sits on the bed beside Angelus, threads her fingers through his hair.

“You flirt so close to death again,” she purrs, “and I’ll kill you myself.”

Angelus narrows a knowing look at her. “I love you too, Darla.”

Love. The audacity. A quick backhand wipes the smug smile from his face; la contessa laughs.

“Hush,” Darla says. “Or I will let him eat your eyes.”

Angelus relaxes against Darla’s hand, her palm cradling the base of his skull. He closes his eyes, felled by the exhaustion of hours of torture, the comfort of familiar proximity and an emotion that is definitely not love. Darla repositions herself, moves to let Angelus’s heavy body fall against hers. Her fingers comb gently through his hair.



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