Spike stood in the balcony looking down at Drusilla, entranced. His
kitten had abandoned her clothes and was lying in the center of the
ballroom floor, looking up through the ruined roof at the stars. Her
pale body glowed in the invasive moonlight, and the blind eyes of her
nipples seemed to be watching him. The stark contrast of her black triangle
transfixed him, and his cock swelled with the longing to be nestled
there in her cool nest. He let the drained corpse of his dinner drop,
and vaulted over the railing to the floor below.
As he crossed the floor, he could hear the worn floorboards complaining
and far below the ocean gnawing at the rotten pilings. Long ago and
far away he'd danced in a seaside ballroom like this one by gaslight.
He'd been young and awkward, a living man, entranced by a girl who'd
sworn she would love him forever and ever. He'd died before he could
find out what a bitter joke that was. Her face had faded from his memory
long ago; probably before the flesh itself had rotted into the earth.
Ashes to ashes...
Spike knelt down beside Drusilla, he teased a pale nipple with a black-nailed
"Hello, baby. What're you doing?"
"The stars, they're singing to me," Drusilla sighed. "Can
you hear them?"
"No pet, sorry," he admitted.
She sighed. "Poor Spike. It's so beautiful," she said wistfully.
"Like breaking glass."
"Will you dance with me?" Spike asked. Drusilla smiled and
offered him her hand.
They waltzed to the music in her head. Spinning, round and round, in
and out of the rays of silver shining through he broken roof. His eyes
never left hers, happily drowning in their glittering indigo depths.
Spike kissed her, catching her laughter in his mouth, hearing it echo
in his throat; tasting the sweet tang of fresh blood. Light and dark,
faster and faster until moonlight and shadow began to strobe and blur.
As they circled the floor, locked together, suspended between the night
and the sea Spike thought he could almost hear the music. Dru was as
light as a feather in his arms. She put her lips close to Spikes ear
and murmured something.
"What did you say, baby?" Spike asked, running his hand
through her silky black hair.
"Goodbye Spike," she whispered.
"What?" A cloud seemed to pass over the moon and the ballroom
was suddenly cast into darkness. He faltered, suddenly unsure of his
footing and felt Drusilla slip from his arms.
"Dru!" he shouted. He reached for her white shape in the
impossible blinding darkness. She shrunk away from him, fading like
frost under the morning sun, shaking her head sadly.
"Poor Spike," she said. "You're lost." He watched
in disbelief as she faded away, like the Cheshire Cat, her sad eyes
the last thing to go.
Spike was alone, suspended in complete darkness. He welcomed oblivion
as it closed in around him, null and soothing; wiping away even the
memory of loss. But almost as soon as he became resigned, the darkness
began to fade as he slowly began to wake.
As consciousness inexorably returned, so did hunger and pain, familiar
and inescapable. Keeping his eyes firmly shut, feigning unconsciousness,
he listened. No breath, no heartbeat, disturbed the silence. He was
He opened his eyes and had to turn his head away from the searing
light. She'd left the lamp on, it was so close he could feel the heat.
He could feel the sun somewhere overhead, white hot, burning with the
promise of final death, and oblivion. If he stared into the lamp long
enough it would blind him, but unlike the sun it would not kill him.
There was no mercy here. Cautiously moved, testing his restraints. The
chains held, and he gave up.
He could tell it was day, but what day or month was a mystery. He
had long since given up on trying to keep track of time. There was no
time here; he'd been here forever. Drowning in an endless ocean of pain.
Pain was the only constant, only the degree varied. Sometimes she took
him all the way down to the deep blue depths of evisceration, vivisection,
burning. Other times she kept him in the middle waters of impalement,
knives, and whips. And when she was done, released him to drift into
the shallow waters of the dull aches of healing, and anticipation of
the next time. It made it worse to know that a human being had been
able to do this to him, to make him her plaything, her toy.
This time she'd left him on his back, his arms chained over his head.
There was an irritating itching he knew meant that the wounds in his
stomach had nearly healed, his undead flesh mercilessly, mindlessly,
healing itself. His arms were numb, almost not part of him. Slowly it
occurred to him that, for the first time in many cycles, he was whole.
He wondered if she was finally tired of him, ready to end it; or far
more likely, had something special she wanted to try on an intact body.
He almost didn't care, except for Drusilla.
Drusilla; His black princess, his sweetness, his heart. They had been
so happy after he'd returned to Rio. He'd killed the demon he found
her with and made good on his oath to torture her until she loved him
again. It worked like a charm. She was his ripe black plum again, his
adoring lover, his heart restored. They'd gone on a second honeymoon,
killing and fucking their way North, wreaking beautiful destruction
from Brazil all the way up through the isthmus. They'd been so happy.
Then, one night in Panama, he’d woken to find her gone. No word,
no note, just gone. She'd even forgotten the latest incarnation of her
Miss Edith. He'd smashed every one of her dolls and set fire to the
bed before going after her.
He'd tracked Dru back to Sunnydale in a black rage. He'd assumed that
she had returned to the Hellmouth in search of Angelus; there was nothing
else it could be. Angelus, the bastard, was always there between them.
She wouldn’t give the idea up of finding her ‘Daddy’
no matter how many times he told her that he was gone; sucked into hell.
Spike had carefully never told her about Angel's having returned.
He’d been puzzled when the trail led to a comfortable house in
an expensive neighborhood near the university. Not the usual kind of
place he'd expect her to lair in. Nevertheless, he could sense Dru inside
as he’d rung the doorbell, torn between anger and anticipation.
Unsure what he would say to her, or do to her.
Then the door had opened....
"Well," Professor Orexis said, smiling at Kenny her teaching
assistant. "I think that ought to do it. Go home. Enjoy your weekend."
"You sure you don't want me to collate these handouts for you?"
Kenny offered, watching her as she stretched and went to the window.
Thinking, not for the first time, that she was pretty good looking for
her age, which really couldn't be all that old. Not even as old as his
mom. Silhouetted in the window her honey-blond hair was crowned in gold.
She turned and smiled.
"No. Now it's a wonderful day. Shoo! Get out of here, I'll see
"You're the boss." Kenny gathered up his things and showed
himself out. He turned at the end of the walk to wave at the petite
figure standing in the window. She waved back, then made shooing gestures.
Kenny grinned, and left.
As soon as he was out of sight the professor drew the curtains. She
did a quick circuit of the house to make sure the doors were locked.
She armed the security system and went downstairs.
He lay there silent and still as the corpse he almost was. So pale,
the boyish face a little sunken, thinner now than when he'd come to
her. She liked watching him feed, but keeping him hungry kept the demon
closer to the surface, made it easier for him to lose control and for
her to elicit the desired response. She admired the tableaux he made,
arched and taut on the table. Really, the chains were unnecessary, since
with the bindings she'd already woven into his flesh, she could control
him with a few words, a gesture; but she liked the look of him there:
narrow and taut, her lithe white serpent. She was aware that he was
awake, though he continued feigning unconsciousness as she descended
the stairs. He was a wonderfully obstinate creature. Even after all
these months, he still continued to struggle.
"Good afternoon William," she said. Spike opened his eyes
and looked at her. "It's rude not to acknowledge a visitor,"
"Sorry," he said. "I'm not feeling my best." He
had a lovely voice, she thought, and smiled, remembering the wonderful
timbre of his screams, his hisses, his roars of pain echoing in the
soundproofed room through the long summer days.
She placed her hands on his motionless chest, circled the pale pink
nipples with her fingers and pinched them lightly. She felt him shiver
as she moved lower down, stroking his belly, the dried blood flaking
from the smooth skin. The wounds she'd opened in him were closed; the
scars only slightly inflamed. They would fade to silver by tomorrow,
and be erased entirely in a few days, a week at most, leaving him a
blank slate, ready for her further attentions.
She loved his skin. It was so perfectly white, poreless and smooth;
blue veins visible through its translucence. It parted like silk under
her blades to reveal the wonders of pale meat and paler bone. She adored
peeled the beautiful stuff from his back in strips, and sewing it back
together with silver thread, watching it heal, the foreign metal oozing
from the regenerating flesh in tiny beads till perfection was restored.
She'd traced patterns on his body with a brush dipped in holy water,
watching the smoke curl and rise in beautiful arabesques. Had even tattooed
her name in the small of his back with black ink and silver pins, marking
him as her's.
She reached between his legs to cradle his balls in her hand and smiled
wistfully, longing to have him open again, to plunge her hands into
the cool wetness inside, to touch his silent heart and feel the demon
inside cringing under her hand.
Ah well, but it can't always be cakes and ale, she reminded herself.
Summer was over, and it was time to let these minor diversions go and
focus on her work. She gave him a last gentle squeeze, and stepped back
from the table, retreating from temptation.
Spike looked into the smiling face of his tormentor, and for a moment
he was thrown back again into the memory of the first time he'd seen
"Yes?" she said looking quizzically up at him from the open
door. From the interior of the house came the smells of wood smoke,
lemon oil, and money. The sense of Drusilla, crystal clear up to the
moment she'd opened the door seemed to have suddenly dissipated. He
looked down at her, slightly puzzled, seeing a human, a woman, not in
her first youth. Her looks made no impression on him either way. He
was slightly peckish, and he was vaguely curious about how she would
"Erm, I’m looking for a friend," he said. Trying his
best to look young and harmless, trusting that the stains from his last
meal didn't show against the black shirt, black pants. Hoping that she
was as naive as she looked.
"Oh, yes. You must be Drusilla's friend" she smiled. "Come
in," she invited him. He felt a surge of excitement at her words
as she smiled, and stepped aside to let him in. He stood in the hallway
behind her, trying to peering into the house, sensing Dru close by,
expecting to see her at any moment. He was only vaguely aware of her
shutting the door, locking it.
"So, is it Spike, or William?" she'd asked. "I think
I like William better." He'd turned and seen the gun, huge and
clumsy in her hands, aimed at him. She smiled and shot him.
He didn't know much about guns, but the caliber was large enough that
the first shot knocked him into the wall. The next took out his knee,
and he fell to the floor. All he could think about was how much it fucking
hurt. Then he felt the muzzle against the back of his head and then
white light erased the world.
He'd awakened here, in her 'playroom'. He'd thought he'd known something
about pain: its uses and delights, but in the eternity he'd spent here
Orexis had shown him the full length and breadth of his naiveté.
His dreams had preserved his sanity. His dreams and the knowledge that
his Drusilla still walked the earth. He would know if she'd been destroyed,
they were almost the same blood after all their years together. Occasionally
he thought he could feel her nearby; had heard her voice whispering
like dead leaves in his ear, trying to tell him something. He knew she
must be still nearby, in Sunnydale, looking for him as he'd come looking
for her. He hoped she never found this house, never came here.
"William dear, are you listening?" He flinched at the sweet
voice of his tormenter.
"Yeah," he snarled, still clinging to the pretense of defiance.
Knowing it was thin as tissue paper. Knowing that she knew it too, but
enjoyed the game. Enjoyed watching him struggle. It was a good game,
and one he'd enjoyed it when he was the one with power. It was poetic
fucking justice wasn’t it?
"I have bad news, dear. The term begins on Tuesday, so I'm afraid
our little tryst will have to end," she said and produced a tiny
key from a pocket. She watched for his reaction, and saw the sudden
dilation of pupil, the uncontrollable reflex of hope.
He trembled as she unlocked the manacles, and his arms dropped to his
sides. He sat up and wrapped his arms around himself, looking at her.
Waiting for her to do whatever it was she really intended. She left
him and went to a small closet, pulled out a bundle of clothes and tossed
them at him. He recognized them as his own, dusty and stiff with the
stains of his last meal.
"Get dressed, then come upstairs. I'll explain what I need you
to do." She turned her back on him and left without a backward
He hesitated for less than a moment. He could still feel the sun's
menace; but the sun was a known threat, and a quick way to go, if it
came to that. He dressed, climbed the stairs and followed her faint
human perfume to the front of the house. He hesitated in the hallway,
looking into the parlor. She'd considerately drawn the drapes so that
only a few threads of yellow light intruded.
She had her back to him, as she sat reading something at the delicately
carved secretary. Oblivious to his presence. He was suddenly intensely
aware of her human smell; the smell of her blood thick in the air. Reminded
of the endless hours he'd spent surrounded by the smell of her, feeling
her hands on him, in him, dealing out agony. He felt his face change,
the demon suddenly focused on her pale neck.
The phone on her desk rang. She answered it.
"Hello? Oh, Lalo, dear, how are you?" She laughed and continued
chatting as Spike eased silently into the room.
He knew it was a bad idea, even as he rushed at her. Knew it was too
easy, an obvious set-up. But these caveats were easily overwhelmed by
his demon's screaming for blood and revenge and his own idiot hope that
it might not be, that he could begin to blot out his humiliation with
her violent death.
She squeaked as Spike grabbed her by her long, shining hair, and jerked
her backwards and up, out of the chair. He grabbed her throat, her pulse
pounding desperately under his hand as he pulled her around to face
him, reveled in the sharp jolt of pleasure when he saw nothing but surprise
and terror in her eyes. The demon growled, brutally exposed her throat
and sank his fangs into her. Sweet, warm, human blood flooded into his
mouth, and he swallowed…
Fire blossomed in his belly, bright agony roared through his veins,
seared his nerves, and burned into his bones. Screaming, he threw Orexis
away from him and fell to the brightly patterned rug writhing in agony,
and despair. Feeling her inside him, worming into his flesh and bone,
infecting every cell with her essence. Owning him.
And the worst thing was the knowledge that she'd tricked him into completing
the spell, that he had damned himself. He could hear her laughing as
he fell again into darkness.
When he woke the sun was gone, a cool night breeze was disturbing the
draperies. He shuddered, lying face down and waited in the dim quiet.
Where was she? Had she left the room? She might have gone out, left
him here, knowing that no matter where he went, she could reel him in
by the bindings she'd placed in him. She owned him now; so where was
she? There was no human scent in the room, only an odd smell like vinegar
His shoulder blades clenched as he heard something moving behind him.
A scuttling sound, and what the hell was that smell? It was oddly familiar.
He slowly raised himself onto his elbows, flinched as a shadow fell
across him, as something passed in front of the light from the hallway.
It was not a human shape. Painfully, he pulled himself up and turned
to face it.
"Spike," it whispered.
Next: Part 1: The Circus Comes