Sitting in the Bronze, skirt spread coyly over her knees, Darla is stalking her prey. That’s fun. Her prey thinks it’s stalking her; that’s even better.
A man, tweedy, weak-eyed, bumbles between her and her tender morsel. “So sorry,” he says. His gaze catches on her. “I’m looking for Buffy Summers. Have you seen her?”
“No,” she says. Not so tweedy, really: there’s liquor and wild nights wrinkling the corners of his eyes; there’s some hard delicious truth buried under that diffident accent. Much tastier than the foolish lamb scowling at him. She smiles. “Maybe you’re looking for me, instead.”
For a moment he pauses, transfixed: caught in the cobra’s stare. “So sorry,” he says again, shaking his head clear as he pushes past. “Must find her.”
Her blood’s up now, and her starry-eyed boy is still lurking hopefully. She lures him away, pulls him into an alley, and leans in for a taste, imagining cries of English agony, but he’s flushed and eager as a debutante; his fingers fumble; he’s entirely lacking.
The Master should like him fine, then; he’s always had a weakness for youth. Later, she promises herself. She’ll find the appetizing Englishman and devour him later.