The museum curator looked up. There were noises coming from somewhere... Whispers.
"Hello?" he called out. The whispers stayed the same--just whispers. He couldn't figure out what they were meant to say, what was going on.
The musem was closed, and he was the last person around. Even all of the historical folks working on this huge rock had gone home for the night.
Then again, maybe someone had gone back. Maybe someone else had a spare key. A guard, or someone. He got up to go and look, to walk by the rock in order to leave.
As he walked to the rock, the whispers got louder. But he kept walking, and they got softer as he walked away.
Frowning even more, he turned around, moving back to the rock. The whispers got louder again.
He placed his hand on the rock to rest for a moment. The whispers got even louder. As far as whispers went, these were nearly deafening.
He opened his mouth, right as a hand clamped over it.
From behind him, Darla snapped his neck. Drusilla watched, pouting, as the dead body fell to the ground. "All that honey and sugar wasted," she mourned.
"He was too old to eat," said Darla.
Angelus walked in behind them, many minions at his back.
"Let's have one of these," he said, pointing at the giant rock.
"And be careful with it," he warned them. "The one who wrecks it will be the one screaming for death over the next century or so."
They all exchanged looks. Any other vampire couldn't make that kind of a threat--except, possibly, for William the Bloody. But with Angelus, the threat was valid. One that none of them wanted to mess with.
"Is this it, Dru?" He was sure, but he checked anyway.
"That's it," she agreed. "That's what's been singing to me over the stars at night."
"Good. I'd hate to think that we were stealing the wrong tomb." He smiled.
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