It wasn't the first time she'd felt teeth at her neck, sinking in.
Cordelia Chase, twenty-one years old and soon-to-be dead, ex-simpering cheerleader, current employee of the conflicted vampire with a soul. Formerly a resident of Sunnydale, now living in Los Angeles, the city where Angels might or might not give a fuck.
All of this fit experience really over-qualified her for the job description of tasty-snack, but Darla believes in only the best. Besides. She might have been bitten before, but it's the first time she really feels, beaten.
Cordy, see, is remembering terrorizing little Willow in the changerooms freshman year, and wondering if Willow ever fantasized about her naked.
"Hey, precious. Does it hurt yet?"
"Maybe your attitude. And the smell of your lousy-assed conditioner."
"Ooh!" Darla pulls away, tugging on Cordelia's hair just a little tighter, making those neck tendons snap and pop. Cordelia's face winces, and her reflection in the store window is frightened. "Someone with bite. Little girl, it's going to hurt."
Cordy sucks in a breath, and prays. "I'm sure a skank like you would know all about it."
Praying is common in situations where life is soon to be extinguished.
"And you'll teach me." Coughs, two broken ribs cracking painfully from where Darla kicked with a sure blow. "Because you're super bitch and I'm just a way to get to Angel."
"Angelus is--" Deep breath, keep your grip on Cordelia's waist, there. Those tender bones, those skinny hips and normal curves. "Nothing."
Coughs up some blood, this time, and Cordelia wonders whether Darla was the type of woman that men liked to beat before they had sex. Whether she used to like it. "Right." A bruised black eye, and a throbbing pain in her neck, lightheadedness, with a bit of a dizzy spell, are the things defining Cordelia Chase right now. "You're just running around here, psycho, because he's nothing. Is that it."
Darla smiles, and licks the blood trickling down that pale, smooth, neck. Bitten. "You taste so sweet, darling. Did the boys ever tell you that?"
Her head lolls back against the support of Darla's shoulder. Fainting is a common sign of loss of blood. Darla lets go a hand from Cordelia's hips, strokes a fingernail down her cheek softly. "I bet they did. I know all about boys."
Through red haze. Cordelia pants a bit, sucks in some breath, to answer, "Yeah, well, you've probably been around."
It's not the best she could do, but under the circumstances, it will have to do.
In a honey tone, gentle, Darla talks to herself. "I bet I know what they called you, Cordelia. I know the names they use. Whore, right, precious? Whore." Darla's voice lowers. "I remember that word."
Cordelia spits out blood. Says, "Did Angel call you that?"
And then there's a louder snap, and Cordelia Chase, ex-human, current biodegradable waste-product, hits pavement.
Tomorrow, the headlines will say nothing about a beautiful young brunette killed in an alley-way. The policemen that finds her, maybe he'll think about the mother that's not going to know she's missing, or the father that bought her that first new car and wanted to be called 'daddy' even though she was already getting down on her knees to prove she was a princess. Maybe he'll mention, she could have been a model, or a gymnast, or a lawyer, how she probably was the prom queen. He probably won't know what a bitch she was or why, but that's a common mistake of beautiful women.
Kate Lochley, age twenty-eight, won't hear about it. But another guy in her precinct, Larry Morgen, age thirty-eight, might drop a word or two over coffee back at the office about the fucking amazing legs on the Jane Doe they brought in last night.