Drusilla kept up the rhythm, although she occasionally altered the steps to suit her own flights of fancy. It was almost as if there was no ground beneath her. Just air. Just air and sky.

"Oh, yes," she purred, "My daughter arrived."

Technically not hers - different universes again, their hosts playing wicked tricks with them - but still a Slayer. Still a beautiful Slayer with fangs. Everything Buffy was supposed to be, that was what she was. How could Drusilla fail to love her?