If this was the fifty third time round the crypt, he'd been walking for twenty five minutes, and it was seven minutes past four, and sundown was at six, that meant he had - no head for maths - too much time. Always too much time. That was the trouble with the chip, it gave him too much time. Time when he ended up thinking, time when he remembered, time when. time was he never had enough time. But that time's gone and all he had now was too much sodding time. Spike spun and slammed his fist into the wall. The concrete crumbled. Bloody shoddy workmanship. Back in the day it would have been stone. Back in the day they knew how to make things. Back in the day they made things properly, things like vampires. Not like the stupid fledges you got these days. Like the concrete. Look all-hard on the outside, but one good punch and they fell apart.
Even Harris can kill them and if droopy-boy can then what's the point. What is the point? His head hit his hands as his ass hit the seat. The point was, there was nothing else, and wasn't that the most depressing thing about his entire existence. God, he was tired. His head fell back against the chair and his eyes closed, only to jerk open a minute later. A sightless stare rested on the ceiling until, imperceptibly, the lids slid shut again.
To an observer the stillness might have been obscene, a corpse recumbent in an oddly domestic setting for all its marble slabs and monumental inscriptions. But what followed would have cast that quick description from their lips and reinstated it for this, a greater obscenity. A corpse reanimated, like something birthed from Frankenstein's table. Hands clawed and clawing. Back arched and convulsing. Cries wrenched from reluctant lips that decreed yet more inhalations.
From the inside, the dream was the same as it ever was. Glimpses of familiar faces and familiar places. The rank smell of big cats overlaying that of other creatures, all swamping the ever present reek of damp London streets. Then blood, animal screams of fear as hunter became hunted, as a predator that looked like food showed it's own fangs. Then the eyes. Golden. Glowing. Such eyes. Beloved eyes. But not always beloving. The scene skews. Time slides. Familiar faces vanish to be replaced by fear - gut-churning fear. Fear that brings the taste of bile to your throat and a cold sweat to your skin. Fear that makes your heart beat so fast that it is sure to explode.
With a heart-rending scream Spike flung himself out of the chair, not fully waking until he was leaning shaking against the wall. And that was why he didn't sleep. Couldn't sleep. Hadn't slept. Those eyes. The fear. Dru's eyes and his fear - in his dreams Dru was hunting and she was hunting him.
Spike's memories of the night he was turned were, at best, vague. It wasn't something he'd been encouraged to dwell on. Once a vampire always a vampire, no turning back so why dwell on the past, live for the present, secure your territory, maintain your position in the pack. He knew Dru was his sire 'cos he'd been told often enough. Angelus had beaten it into him - idiot childe of an idiot childe - idiot childe of an idiot childe - the strap rising and falling in time with the words.
He stood upright, shaking the last of the dream from his fatigue-fogged mind. No point in looking back. Not as if he had any regrets, not as if he had a soul to torment him. A wicked smirk spread over his face - he knew someone who did though and he hoped Soulboy was feeling as guilty as fuck for all the things Angelus had done to him over the years.
On that happy note Spike pottered over to the fridge. Pigs blood or beer? He grabbed both and returned to the chair, setting can and blood bag next to him on the floor. The TV flickered and muttered to itself in the corner, and Spike's eyes slowly drifted shut again, his body finally succumbing after 48 hours vertical.
This time it was different. It started with the eyes - dark eyes, a predator's eyes - staring into his own - filling his vision, all else fading to background static, his life was in those eyes - his life was those eyes.
~*~*~*~
"Ow. Ow." Pain, not just in his neck, - what did the stupid woman think she was doing? - but also in his hand where the cigarette he had been smoking burned into his fingers. He dropped it and pulled away from the woman, sucking at his fingers to ease the pain.
"Drusilla?" A voice, a man's voice, came from the entrance to the alley. "Are you done? Darla and I are going back."
A growl emanated from the woman in front of him and William stared at her. Gone was the beautiful girl who'd promised to show him another world and to unleash his creativity just moments before. In its place was a hideous visage drawn straight from Dante's Inferno. He backed away, his burnt hand, groping blindly, found a discarded broken bottle. The woman moved towards him and, panicked beyond rational thought, he swung the bottle round with as much force as he could muster. Not stopping to see what injury he may have caused, he took off down the alley, hearing a startled cry behind him.
He ran dodging and twisting through the darkness, neither knowing nor caring where, aware of nothing but the horror he'd left behind. As the minutes past with no immediate sounds of pursuit, he slowed to a jog, breathing heavily and trying to rationalise what had just happened. It could have been opium, he had heard it did very odd things to people, made them dreamy and strange. The girl had certainly seemed dreamy when she first spoke to him.
A slate fell from the roof behind him and William looked up, briefly glimpsing a dark figure on the roof. His heart jumped in his chest and the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Fearfully, his eyes sought something familiar in the darkness but to no avail. He so completely lost that he had no idea where the hell he was, but he certainly wasn't going to stay here, a sitting duck for whoever it was following him. He moved swiftly down the alley and, at a crossroads, headed left towards the lights of a pub he could see in the distance. As he turned, William saw the same dark figure ahead of him, almost swallowed by the shadows, but between him and the pub. Swinging right instead, he began to move more quickly, his heart starting to pound again. Time and again he tried to turn towards the lights and the sounds of voices, but each time a dark shadow flicked across his line of sight driving him further away from his goal and further into the darkness.
They were driving him; that's what was happening. He was being driven. He couldn't see who or what was doing it, but he knew he didn't want to be caught. Left, right, the turns became a blur, a messy memory, no thought to where he was, just the simple knowledge that he must keep moving, keep trying to find the lighted streets and crowding humanity he knew must lie just around the next corner.
At last, blood charging through his veins, William knew he could run no further. He was starting to stagger and, if he missed his footing and fell, they - he was pretty certain there was a whole gang - would be on him in seconds. He wouldn't be able to take them all but, by God, he'd make some of them bleed before he went down. He paused briefly at the next junction, searching with desperate eyes for anything that may help him. Away to the right lay a yard, a dead end, but a dimly lit dead end. Not an ideal place to make a final stand, but it was better that nothing and infinitely better than running until panic and exhaustion made him an easy target.
He sprinted towards the light and swung round, fists raised, ready to hit out at whoever was following.
Silence.
Shadows and silence surrounded him. The only sound he could hear was his own rasping breath and the pounding of his pulse in his ears. William started to lower his hands, ready to admit he'd been a fool, running from his own shadow. Then he hesitated, a dark figure appeared at the entrance to the yard. As it moved into the flickering yellow light he saw that it was the young woman he had escaped from earlier.
"Leave me alone." He heard his own voice crack slightly through fear and exhaustion. "I don't know what you want from me. But just go away and leave me alone." The woman continued forward, tilting her head slightly to one side as she looked at him.
"Pretty," she said, in a quiet singsong voice. "So shiny and pretty to play with. Ms. Edith would like to play too." William looked at her. The girl was obviously quite mad. He wasn't sure how he'd not noticed it before.
Peering into the shadows, he searched for the man who had called after her, and saw nothing but darkness. 'I've got past her before, so I can do it again' he thought, clenching and unclenching his fists, readying himself to run. A soft sound had him looking round but, before he could move, his arms were pinioned to his sides in a punishing grip.
"You're going to die, boy." A breathy growl in a soft Irish brogue brushed across his ear and William's blood froze in his veins.
"Daddy, no! He's pretty and shiny. Let me have him, a puppy to play with. Please Daddy. I never have anything to play with." The girl sighed wistfully and looked under heavy eyelids at the man behind him. The man's hesitation was almost palpable and William used the momentary distraction to escape. He wriggled like an eel, out of his coat, and out of the vice like grip.
Within half a step a hand firmly applied to the back of his neck lifted his feet from the ground, and he was dangled by the scruff like a recalcitrant dog.
"See Daddy, all pretty and shiny hanging there. Like a Christmas tree. He could be my Christmas tree and I could decorate him and make him...."
"No, Dru." William tried to twist round to see the man who was holding him at least six inches off the ground. All he succeeded in doing was making the man tighten the grip on his neck, he yelped.
"Please Daddy. You like shiny things too, we could share," a wheedling note entered her voice. "He could be our toy, ours to play with, just between us." Again William sensed the man's momentary hesitation and indecision. He got to see his captor for the first time when he was dropped to the ground. A handful of his hair grabbed and his head forced back until he met the eyes of the huge Irishman. Black cold eyes held his own and he saw something like amusement flicker across them.
"You care to be Dru's puppy, boy? She starved the last one she had, after she'd tortured it. Made a terrible noise." Will narrowed his eyes, refusing to back down from the aggressive stare of the other man. Again amusement. "Perhaps you will do. You have spirit, I'll give you that much...and," the man ran his tongue lasciviously across his lips, "perhaps we could share."
William shivered, but the man removed his hand and he was released. He stood motionless aware that the slightest movement on his part would result in being held again.
"You may take him Drusilla, just don't break this one." The man's tone had lightened to just below a laugh.
What the hell did the brute mean - be her puppy? He was obviously as mad as she was. William decided he wasn't going to stand for it. He shook himself mentally and cleared his throat. "This is all very nice, but I think I'll be moving along now, if you two don't mind."
The man lunged at him, growling, grabbed him by the throat and slammed him against the wall. Yellow eyes, wolf's eyes, locked onto his own gaze from an inhuman visage, another demon from the Inferno, Dr. Faust's own Devil.
William's heart leapt and his legs collapsed under him, leaving him held entirely by the grip on his throat. Some calm returned to the face and the hideous mask faded leaving behind the face of an angel. Only the eyes, cold and black, belied the beauty of the face.
"Daddy?" A small voice came from behind the huge man. "You haven't hurt him have you? 'Cos, you know, he's supposed to be my toy."
William found his feet on the floor again and stumbled slightly, coughing harshly, and clutching his throat where the ferocious grip had been released.
"Puppy. Naughty puppy! Dru will have to punish you if you don't play nice." The girl appeared from behind the Irishman, a stern pout on her face. Then, with a delighted smile, she added, "But I could punish you anyway and we could play and play. Play and play, all day, all the way." She hummed to herself and started to pirouette round and round.
The man smiled at her indulgently. "That's my beautiful girl," Then, holding William's shirt collar, he pushed him forward towards the dancing girl, shaking him slightly to get her attention.
"Now Dru, we don't have all night."
The girl turned towards him, eyes unfocussed and dreamy.
"Damnation." The big man swore. "Darla will have the skin off both of us if we're late again. It's bad enough that I abandoned her to run after you." His forehead wrinkled slightly as if he was trying to think his way though a complex problem.
Then he called the girl to him gently, "Come to Daddy, sweet thing. Dru, come to Daddy." She drifted over, still in a world of her own. He grasped her hand, drawing her towards William, who he held in front of him. William found himself trapped between the hulking Irishman and the girl, still humming quietly to herself. Glancing down at the girl, all too aware of her body lightly pressing against his, William saw a laceration across her neck and realised that this was the damage he had caused with the broken bottle. Only a trace of scarlet remained to mark the edges of the wound.
The girl's humming trailed off as she saw him staring and she stated coldly, "He hurt me. You will have to punish him." Her fingers fluttered across the wound and William heard a faint growl from behind him. The girl's arm was dropped onto William's shoulder but before she could move away, another appeared from behind him dripping blood from what looked like a bite wound on the wrist.
"Here, feed. It will help you heal." The girl's eyes yellowed and her demonic visage returned as she dropped her head to suck at the bleeding wrist.
As she suckled, the man pressed closer, a strong arm snaking round William's waist moulding the length of their bodies together. The hardness in the man' s groin was insistent against his buttocks, and the arm drifted lower until a hand rested on the front of his trousers. Breathe hitching, William pulled the girl towards him, her silky dress cool under his hands. He was hyperaware and hot, every movement scraped his clothes across his sensitive skin. The girl held him tightly round his back, and he could feel the swell of her breasts against his chest. The heady smell of leather and blood, and sweet perfume overwhelmed him as he was trapped between them, their three bodies completely entwined. William's head dropped forward directly onto the wound on the girl's neck. He could taste her blood on his lips and in his mouth, as if it had started to bleed again, then he gasped sharply as something punctured his neck from behind.
The blood was gushing into his mouth now, tasting of musk and metal. A low thrumming purr came from behind him, echoed by the girl in front, and the bodies surrounding him started to pulse to the rhythm of the purr. The hand trapped against his groin tightened and William thrust against it as he felt the blood being drained from his body. Completely enclosed by cool flesh he felt light-headed and darkness started to close in. He couldn't take enough of the girl's blood to replace his own, being pumped away by his faltering heart. The purr increased in urgency, both devils pushing against him as they fed. The blood in his mouth took on an overtone of fear and William knew he was tasting his own blood, drawn full circle through the three bodies. As darkness fell for the final time, the voice that would haunt him for the next 150 years whispered, "You're mine now, childe."
~*~*~*~
Spike woke with a panicked gasp. The TV in the corner was still flickering and muttering to itself. The world a perfectly normal and ordinary place, except for the new knowledge he had from his dreams. Which one of them had sired him? His demon was very familiar with the blood he had tasted that night. Musk and sweet perfume - attar of roses - Drusilla, still sweet to his tongue despite her desertion. Metal and leather, Angelus. The Scourge. And under that, himself. The taste of fear, the flavour of a dying human desperate to save its own soul.
"What the fuck did you do to me, you bastards?" Spike wailed throwing himself to his feet, then dropping to his knees as shudders ran through his body. The tastes hovered on the edge of his awareness, Drusilla, Angelus, himself - his own blood fed back to him in an act of grotesque passion so typical of his two sires. Grabbing handfuls of blond hair, Spike sank down to the floor, tears wetting his cheeks; completely possessed by the memory, and by the realisation that, whatever else he might be, his humanity still clung to him and carried with it the stink of the grave.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
It was 10 days since Connor had gone, 5 since that desperate attempt to open the portal to get him back. Angel sat on his bed staring at the empty cot. The anger and tears had all passed leaving behind an aching emptiness that could never be filled. There should have been something he could have done. He should have been quicker, brighter, got there sooner. Should have - could have. Angel knew it went much deeper than that. The original crime was his, what he did to Holtz's family. Without that act of brutality Holtz would have had no desire to hunt him down across the centuries.
Even after 200 years the memories of that night were horribly vivid. It seemed to Angel that it was his demon that kept those memories fresh. He'd spoken to Giles about it once, a long time ago, how he recalled every hunt in realistic detail, how he would feel the excitement of it gripping him if he let his guard down even for a moment. Giles was fascinated, questioning him, asking if that had not changed since Angel got his soul. Angel, in return, told how the memories remained but instead of nameless, faceless victims he could recall all the details, names, faces, things he'd not been aware of knowing.
Even after a hundred years the shock of those memories still haunted Angel. The face of Holtz's wife floated in front of his eyes, she'd been a pretty dark haired woman in her late thirties.
"Tasty too," leered Angelus. Angel shut his eyes trying to control his thoughts but on this occasion the demon was too strong and the memory came crashing in. Angel could feel the woman's skin beneath his hands, smell her pain and terror, hear her screaming as he raped her while he fed. Experiencing again the incredible high he felt at the time.
As the shudders passed away Angel pulled himself off the bed and headed for the shower. None of his friends knew about these episodes and he fought hard to keep them hidden. It didn't often happen any more. The longer he spent with human's and had his mission to occupy him, the more control he developed, but sometimes all he could do was lock the door and pray everyone would stay away while he wrestled his own personal demon.
Turning the shower off, Angel returned to the bedroom, wrapping a towel round his waist. Needing a distraction he turned to the pile of books on the table that Fred had brought for him. "Something other than just staring at the ceiling," she'd said. He flicked through the pile. Most were familiar texts on demonology but at the bottom was a Watcher's Diary. Tempted to throw the book away as it was obviously Wesley's, Angel hesitated, and it wasn't often he got his hands on a Watcher's Diary. Even back in Sunnydale Giles had always kept his collection under lock and key, the Council guarded its knowledge closely.
Angel picked up the book and ran his hands over the cover. A modern edition, 1930's if he was any judge. Opening it he saw that alongside the mundane everyday records of the Watcher was a case study, a detailed commentary on two of the most dangerous vampires of the time. The front plate of the book was a photograph, of Spike and Drusilla.
Angel's fingers traced the faces of his two childer. He thought about Dru a lot. Angelus considered her his finest creation, the innocent he had driven mad before turning her, and Angel knew that paying for that crime was a significant part of his penance. But what of Spike? Angel was familiar with some of his story through contacts that he and Cordy still had in Sunnydale. He was aware of what the Initiative had done and that Spike had turned to Buffy to help him. She had done so too, not willing to destroy a creature unable to defend itself.
The rumours seemed to suggest that Buffy and her friends were having a similar effect on Spike that Cordy and Gunn were having on himself. At one time the peroxide blond would have considered the Slayer and her friends as little more than lunch, but Angel had been surprised by some of the reports he'd had about Spike's actions over the previous year. He had thrown his lot in with Buffy against Glory and after Buffy's death had fought alongside her friends helping to maintain the illusion that the Slayer was still alive.
More recent rumours suggested something even stranger. The word was that the neutered vampire was in 'love' with the Slayer and, if the accounts were true, they were "at it like rabbits", to coin a phrase. Angel's first reaction to that news was to confront Buffy and demand she deny it, but after some consideration he decided he was hardly in a position to criticise her sleeping with a vampire. He just hoped she would be careful. Just because Spike couldn't hurt her physically, didn't mean he couldn't harm her in other ways. It wasn't possible for him to be in love. Vampires, soulless ones anyway, couldn't love. It was a human emotion, and Spike was ... Well, Spike was, frankly the most human vampire Angel had ever met. He hung around in human bars, ate human food and persisted in smoking cigarettes. Could it be possible? Could his childe have somehow fallen in love?
Memories of the night Spike had been turned cascaded into Angel's mind, still vulnerable from his earlier episode, and he sank slowly into the chair, the night becoming real for him once more.
~*~*~*~
"That stupid girl has run off again," Darla was more then slightly annoyed. They, he, Darla and Dru, had been to the theatre before a successful hunt through the East End. Well fed and looking forward to a day in bed the three had been heading home when Drusilla slipped away in pursuit of a young man who had run down a nearby alley.
"Go after her. Find her and bring her home. I'll wait for you there." Darla stalked off through the crowds, an aggrieved look on her face, leaving Angelus to look for Drusilla. He was angry, and was tempted to leave Dru to her own devices, but experience told him that this was not a good idea. The girl was completely mad, and, when she had one of her turns, almost incapable of looking after herself.
Backtracking to the alley where he had last seen her, he saw Drusilla, arms around a young man, head buried in his neck. He leaned against the wall to wait for her. She wouldn't take long. Despite everything his girl was a quick, efficient feeder. The moments passed and Angelus started to get bored, he stood up and looked again. Dru had disengaged, but the young man had not collapsed, in fact quite the opposite. As Angelus watched he started to back away from her. "Dru. Have you finished? We need to get home," he called down the alley. Drusilla lifted her head and he could see she was still showing her true face. The young man also saw and backed against the wall. In moments the bottle had swung and Angelus heard a cry from his beloved Childe as the glass cut a deep wound across her throat.
His immediate instinct was for revenge. To kill the little man that had hurt his girl. But the boy had vanished. Had taken off as if the hounds off hell were after him. Drusilla met Angelus' golden eyes and an unspoken decision passed between them, the hunt was up. He leapt onto the nearest rooftop, searching the streets below, while Dru hunted at ground level by scent. For five minutes they searched. The boy was quick and clever. He had run down alleys only recently emptied of people which made him harder to track, but Angelus had done this many, many times and his prey never escaped. They spotted him only just in time, about to leave the deserted alleys and get back to the busy streets. Angelus dropped from the rooftop, carefully allowing himself to be spotted. It had the desired effect, the young man turned away, back into the maze of dark alleys he had been trying to escape.
The hunt became a drive, the prey starting to panic. They could turn him as they wished, driving him deeper and deeper, away from safety. The young man ran well and for a long time, but exhaustion and fear were starting to take their toll. Angelus could smell him strongly now, hear his heart thumping and the gasping of his breath. The moment was nearly there. When the chase was up and the final kill could start. Then, against all the odds, the lad suddenly stopped, breathing deeply, looking urgently around him. Angelus paused, not wanting to be second-guessed. Did the boy have something up his sleeve; was there someone waiting for him?
The young man shot across the alley and into a dimly lit yard, spinning round with his fists raised. Angelus laughed silently, maybe the game was still afoot. He saw Drusilla glide slowly towards the light and quickly made his way across the roofs until he was directly behind and above the man. Drusilla was talking quietly to herself, whispering sweet nothings, probably totally inaudible to the young man staring at her across the yard.
"I don't know what you want from me. Just go away and leave me alone." He was obviously still scared, Angelus could smell the stink coming off him in waves, but he was not yet panicking. Angelus dropped from the roof as the lad made to leave and grabbed him by the arms. Although his anger had subsided somewhat, he still meant to kill the boy, after all he'd hurt his childe. Fun first though. The boy was not nearly terrified enough.
"You're going to die, boy." Angelus made his voice as low and quiet as possible and it came out as a breathy growl. Dru moved closer, staring at the boy, seemingly fascinated by something Angelus couldn't see.
"Daddy, no. He's pretty and shiny. Let me have him, a puppy to play with. Please Daddy. I never have anything to play with." Angelus' heart fell. She'd done this before. Turned some pathetic fool who had taken her fancy and then got bored within a week, and left it up to him to get rid of the evidence. The dust took forever to get up off the carpet. Momentarily distracted, Angelus missed the spineless wriggle that released his captive from his grasp and left him standing holding an empty coat. Annoyed by his own carelessness, he grabbed the boy by the neck and lifted him off the ground.
"See Daddy, all pretty and shiny hanging there. Like a Christmas tree. He could be my Christmas tree and I could decorate him and make him...."
"No Dru." Angelus wasn't going to get lumbered again. Dru usually had lousy choice in potential childer.
"Please Daddy. You like shiny things too, we could share," a wheedling note entered her voice. "He could be our toy, ours to play with, just between us."
She wasn't usually so insistent or disobedient. Maybe the girl could see something in this one. Angelus dropped him heavily then grabbed the mousy hair raising the face to his own. Piercing blue eyes met his, full of fear but also something else, - obstinacy and a determination. Something about the set of the jaw, the high cheek bones. The boy could almost be called pretty. Angelus glared at him but he refused to look away. Maybe Dru's taste hadn't been so bad this time.
"You care to be Dru's puppy, boy? She starved the last one she had, after she'd tortured it. Made a terrible noise." Confusion passed across the boy's face at the question, but he refused to break eye contact.
"Perhaps you will do. You have spirit, I'll give you that much...and," Angelus studied the face before him. Pretty, yes, and eminently fuckable. "Perhaps we could share."
Dropping his grip on the lad's hair he turned to Drusilla voicing his approval. "You may take him Drusilla, just don't break this one." Worst case scenario - they'd both get a couple of weeks fun before the fledgling was staked.
Behind him Angelus could hear the lad shuffling around, clearing his throat.
"This is all very nice, but I think I'll be getting along now, if you two don't mind." The idiot started to walk past him towards the yard entrance. Fool! Temper snapping Angelus threw the boy against the wall and held him there. Having made up his mind to have him, he wasn't going to let the boy just walk away.
"Daddy?" Drusilla's voice brought his focus back, and his true face faded into human features. "You haven't hurt him, have you? 'Cos, you know, he's supposed to be my toy." He dropped the boy, tempted to put the boot in just to stop him from trying to run off again. But Dru got in first. Wagging her finger and talking as if to a small child.
"Puppy. Naughty puppy! Dru will have to punish you if you don't play nice." She looked so adorable Angelus nearly forgot the boy. "But I could punish you anyway and we could play and play. Play and play, all day, all the way." Dru's eyes clouded over as she started to dance, humming to herself.
"Damnation." Now what? He'd got his heart set on the lad now, and he wasn't about to let one of Drusilla's 'turns' get in the way of enjoying him. Trouble was if he turned him himself Darla would know and then there would be hell to pay. Angelus knew he had to find some way of breaking though Dru's moment of madness or alternatively - that was an idea. The boy only had to feed from her. That was an easy task. Calling Drusilla over to him he held both firmly until the boy was effectively trapped between the two of them. Now if he could just drain the boy enough and then force him to feed from Dru, the deed would be done and Darla none the wiser.
A brief moment of lucidity crossed Dru's face, and she moved her hands over her throat. "He hurt me. You will have to punish him for this." Angelus noticed the wound, starting to close and knew exactly what would keep her quiet while he drained the boy. Releasing the bony shoulder in front of him, he opened a vein on his wrist, offering the blood to his eager childe. As she started to feed Angelus drew her closer to him, pulling the three of them into a tight embrace. The heat of the boy's body pressing against him and Dru's voracious feeding aroused his own lust. He pushed the boy's head forward striking fangs deep into the carotid artery.
The blood, all fear and copper, filled his mouth and he felt a purr build in his chest. Dru's purr echoed his and he could feel his own passions rise to match hers. Warm blood filled him, now flavoured with the musky taste of Drusilla and rational thought deserted him. The smell and taste of her and the feel of the young body against his filled his senses and he let the frenzy take him completely, moving with it, blood lust and sexual lust heightened as he tasted Drusilla's excitement and felt her movements mirror his own. He climaxed the moment the boy died in his arms and, in an induced moment of insight whispered in his ear; "You're mine now, childe."
Angel came as well, on his hands and knees in full game face, retching up an empty stomach. The smell of blood filling his nostrils and his mouth. At that final moment of passion he had tasted something more, something his demon had not wanted to acknowledge. His own blood, Spike's and Drusilla's all mixing, feeding Spike back to himself.
"Jesus Christ." Angel fought to regain control, shaking with the effort. William may have died that night but his humanity had not. He knew now that his childe had found a way to love. Freed by the Initiative from the constant drive to hunt and exposed to tender human emotions, Spike had rediscovered the human within himself. Angel knew with a chilling familiarity what his childe was going though, and that for over a hundred years William had battled his demon for possession of his humanity.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
My name is Drusilla. It tried to steal my name when it stole my body, but I will not let it. I am Drusilla, not the demon who stalks the world wearing my guise. I abide here, in the dark, in the small corner of myself it has left for me, waiting, watching for any chance to influence the demon's behaviour. There are few opportunities. It is forever vigilant, guarding against what I may do. I, in my turn, must be ever vigilant for it, pure in all that I do and say.
We talk, the demon and I. It in my body and I, in this small, small corner of my mind. It has told me how it came to me, called through Angelus' blood, and found an empty house, everything that had made me Drusilla gone. Having only madness to work with, it tailored a faulty garment, cut from the cloth of my madness. And yet this madness delights it, its potential for cruelty far surpassing that of any sane mind. It glories in it, creating a whirlwind of darkness and pain in its wake. And when I returned it allowed me to stay, gave me this small space in which to be myself.
We talk, the demon and I. It shows me what it does with my body, what it allows to be done, and how, whatever the corruption, it will never allow it to fail, to grow old, to wither and die. It shows me, allows me to feel how it rejoices in the blood, how it, a creature without God's blessing, unable to create new life perpetuates its semblance through undying death.
Thus I have met William, and mourn the boy that was lost and the man he will never be. The demon may have tasted his blood, but I tasted his soul and know that whatever he may do in order to win a demon's love, his basic goodness will survive. I will tell you what the demon told me, showed me of that night. It may be selective in its tales but I have the sight, I can see what it does not wish me to know and tell what it does not want told.
It shows me the blood on my hands and I feel the heat of it giving a false flush of life through my body. And yet, not enough. I feel the demon's discontent, its insecurity in having to share its mate, its desire to make another like itself. William is simply an opportunity; a ripe chance for immediate fulfilment of voiced desire.
The alley's darkness is no challenge for a demon, neither is a young man's fear. But sudden attack surprises it and the boy is able to slip away. It hides well but I feel its pain and confusion as it howls into the night, its cry answered by another of its kind. Demon eye meets demon eye both joining in the hunt, but it cannot conceal its true feelings from me. Angelus, lover and Sire, blood calling to its blood, obedient in thought and deed, moulded and melded as the Sire sees fit. The demons hunt through the night, I feel the thrill of the chase, hear the beating heart and smell the fear of the one we/they pursue. Senses heightened, bloodlust rising, the quarry driven, hunted until only fear remains. But, the worm turns; flight becomes fight and William, dear stupid William, turns at bay, unknowing that through this foolish act his immortal soul will be forfeit.
The boy shines in the darkness, his life glowing in a place where only dead things reside. I tell the demon and feel it tell the world. A shiny bauble, a toy to play with, to break and then discard. "No." That is not what I meant. I wanted the demon to see, to really see the effulgence of him. But my words are taken, twisted, sunk into darkness and corruption. The demon sees nothing but a plaything, something to be turned and tortured like itself.
The demon begs for its toy, offering the ultimate gift to its Sire, "We could share." This appeals to Angelus. This demon has little patience; little tolerance for boredom and a new toy, anything to relieve the monotony of its everlasting existence will be welcomed.
I will not be part of this. Will not allow it to create others like itself. The demon and I meet in deadly battle, its control of my body spinning away as I fight to save the soul before me. Oh, but Angelus is clever. He offers the only weapon the demon within me lacks, his blood. The demon feasts on its Sire's blood, renewed, while the bitter taste fills my mind, allowing the demon to slip through my fingers. The unholy triumvirate is joined and I feel the boy's warm dying lips pressed against my throat. The demon revels in my pain and despair, pressing my body closer to that of the dying man, touching its Sire through him. Glorying in death and un-life, in temptation and fulfilment.
I feel his life slip away in my arms, and reach for him, trying to pull him back. Give him back to himself. Create a little of what I have, the space within that the demon cannot touch, somewhere he can still be human. It worked, I believe. The demon's tales in recent times are full of William's humanity, much to its disgust.
I know now why God allowed this to happen to me, why it would allow his most devoted child to fall into the hands of devils. The demon has become my mission, the reason for my continued existence. One day I will find its weakness, I will stand in the sun once more and feel as it burns away my corruption.
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