TITLE: A Name for Himself
AUTHOR: Fyre and Kirsty
EMAIL: Fyredansa@hotmail.com/ SSKNicol@aol.com
SUMMARY: 'Fool for Love' and 'Darla' - The Bits You Didn't See...
FEEDBACK: Spike fan? Let Kirsty know. Delirious over Dru? Tell Fyre. Or even better - email us both! (We need it - we're desperate, really. . .)
SPOILERS: 'Fool for Love' and 'Darla'
COUPLE: William/Dru, Angelus/Darla
RATING: R - railroad spikes used for unnatural purposes. . .
DISCLAIMER: It's not ours, otherwise we'd be having far too much fun. No poems were harmed during the making of this fic.
NOTES: Switches between Spike and Dru's POV (starting with Dru), and with a 'guest interlude' from Angelus and Darla. Italics indicate Kirsty's work, normal font indicates Fyre's. Improv used - #8 glow -- rain -- bound -- crave
DEDICATED: To my Groovy Co-writer - Kirsty

--------

Full of emptiness and soft loneliness, I was as I walked with Father and Grandmum.

"I'm full and warm - yet all alone," I tell them, longing for someone to share the nights with me, to hunt and play and kill with. Like daddy has grandmum, I long for someone.

Daddy looks to me, his dark eyes full of grandmum, as ever. He speaks laughingly. "That's not true, precious. You've got us."

"Not in the least," I say sadly, the moon whispering that something new and wonderful is coming. "You won't even have me just a little bit."

"All you have to do is ask," Grandmum says, the golden glow of her hair singing to the sound of the summer night. I know she is simply laughing at me, her mind wavering.

"No," I remind her, the darkness of her possessing my daddy glowing in her eyes. "His head's too full of you, grandmother."

There is a flicker of her anger, burning like blue. "Stop calling me that." Daddy laughs softly, a low growl, and grandmum hits him fondly, pulls him down the darkness of the street.

I follow, alone like always. "Don't be cross," I tell her back, her anger at daddy and me fading. "I could be your mummy."

Daddy throws a dark-eyed look at me, his dark angel's face traced by the fingers of the moon. "Well, if you're lonely, Dru, why don't you make yourself a playmate?"

The moon sings its delight. This is what it has been trying to tell me, it's words getting muddled and tangled in the cloud that surrounds it. "I could. I could pick the wisest and bravest knight in all the land," I decide, agreeing with the gentle laughter of the stars. "...And make him mine forever with a kiss."

And then he was before me. The one the moon had whispered so clumsily about, and the stars scream that I must have him.

He appeared out of the darkness like a beautiful angel, eyes as pure and clear as the river, but there is a lilting darkness singing through his empty soul.

He runs, runs from his cruel, living demons, running only to come face to face with his dark demons, demons with faces and eyes and mouths and pretty, shining hair. Grandmum and Daddy laugh, seeing only the child's shell.

The oily shadow shines in the pain behind his eyes. So dark, the blue of the sky that has gathered in his eyes should become the black of the night, stars gleaming there in place of the glittering tears he sheds.

His pain dances in me like needles, tingling through my skin. He doesn't even look to us, mumbling unheard words to heedless ears. Empty and lost, he conceals a darkness behind a mask of beauty.

***

And so here I am. A broken soul set adrift in a sea of. . .A sea of. . .brokenness? Good heavens that's pathetic. And so am I. And this bloody poetry is too! I'm tearing up each solitary piece, as it is nothing but hollow, mocking words -

'I am the master of my fate/I am the captain of my soul'

Pah! Nothing but worthless rubbish. Words that make a mockery of literature. Words I wrote for *her*. And now it is all meaningless.

I choke back a sob.

More scraps of paper flutter to the floor and I decide that I shan't even pick them up afterwards. Ha! The gutterats can put that in their pipe and smoke it!

Cold comfort, however, for a broken heart. . .

"And I wonder... what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?"

A girl - No - a *woman* stands before me. She is quite, quite beautiful. I feel a sonnet. . .No! That's what got me here in the first place. And outer beauty is only a false perception. Goodness knows what she could be underneath. . .I choose to remain unmoved by her presence.

"Nothing. I wish to be alone."

I wish she would just leave, but she doesn't. In fact, she comes closer. Perhaps a little too close. She smells of perfume and something coppery. I can't quite put my finger on it.

"Oh, I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision, his glory." And she pauses, as if in careful thought. "That and burning baby fish swimming all around your head."

I start to back away from the obviously insane beauty. Perhaps she's escaped from one of those awful asylums? If this is so - then shouldn't the police be dealing with such uncomfortableness? I try to fend her off with a few bravely chosen words.

"That's quite close enough. I've heard tales of London pickpockets. You'll not be getting my purse, I tell you."

There. That ought to show her. But now she's *looking* at me, and I can see the oddest sense of clarity in her features, determined and perhaps even a trifle. . .smug? She smiles and the small gesture starts to worm itself into my wounded heart.

"Don't need a purse." And then she points to her heart and head as I sink deeper into her thrall. "Your wealth lies here... and here. In the spirit and... imagination. You walk in worlds the others can't begin to imagine."

I walk in unimaginable worlds?! How does she know this, see this? See *me*? It's as if she's looking straight into my soul. Perhaps, at last, she may see me as a kindred spirit? A man not deserving of this cruel world. A man, even!

My words come stuttering out, as conflicting emotions whirl through my thoughts - admiration, eagerness. . .fear.

"Oh, yes! I mean, no. I mean... mother's expecting me."

She's so close now, and - good Lord! She's starting to undo my shirt! This really isn't becoming of a gentlewoman. She'll get herself a nasty reputation acting like this, and I shouldn't wonder if I - ooh!

Just touch me, please! Right there.

So dangerously enticing, like a poisonous flower. So delicate, yet I'm sure that she could control any man with the crook of her finger.

"I see what you want. Something glowing and glistening. Something... effulgent."

Yes! Yes! Yes! Finally! Someone who understands me. Someone to share my passions with, to - dare I say it? - Love. I must be with her. Of course it would help tremendously if I knew her name.

I whisper her words under my breath, amazed at her profound vision. "Effulgent."

"Do you want it?" she asks me.

I have never wanted anything more in my entire life.

"Oh, yes!" I reach out to touch her bosom, to make sure that this is real, not some fantastical apparition taunting my sensitive mind. It's not. Although she is a little cold. I'm sure that it's of no consequence. "God, yes."

I want it. I crave it. I don't know exactly what 'it' is, but I know that it is for me.

And now this Goddess looks upon me and - Hang on! Her face. . .It's changed, become twisted somehow. Not frightening, precisely, but I'd like to know what's going on.

Ow!

But it's too late for questions as her teeth are already buried in my neck. And bloody hell is it painful!

'Ow!" That really hurts! And now she's biting harder and it's almost becoming pleasurable. And. . . "Ow, ow, ow, ow..."

And then black.

***

Tiny, sweet crimson rosettes bloom on the white silk, the smooth marble of his beautiful throat tainted by his own fresh nectar.

Now, he sleeps.

My baby. My childe. My own angel.

And when he awakens, he will be the same, yet everything will be different for him. He will be my beautiful angel of light, as my daddy is my angel of darkness.

Soft waves of dark golden silk ripple around his face, motionless. Still as the grave, he is a statue, crafted from alabaster by an expert's hand, his hands folded across his silent, soundless breast.

I touch his closed lids, feel the flicker of life flee from him. His weakness and frailty of humanity has gone, soon to be replaced with the strength of his mummy's blood. I feel the power growing in him.

He rests in my soft bed, surrounded by silks and velvets. So different from the street where I found him, surrounded by the filth-coated beasts of the refuse, his timid face marred by diamonds of pain.

Empty eyes swirling with solitude and pain cried out to me, searching for something that he would never find on the sea of life. Buffeted by the waves of cruelty and rejection, he had been washed up on my shore, helpless.

Steered by the currents of fate, he waited for me here, not knowing why or how, only accepting that I am his and he was to be mine.

Looking to his heart through the blue, tear-tainted windows to his soul, his wishes and dreams sang to me, his fear tinged with hunger and confusion.

The beat of his heart matched that of the angry drummer boy, pounding in demand, begging for me to sup him, to let his life fill me, to make him mine and mine alone.

I was to be his angel of death and yet, he looked upon me as if I were simply a woman. A woman like the one who had sent him running, his thoughts tumbling and falling over one another, his feet tripping and stumbling in the dark streets.

Touching his breast, his spirit raced against my fingertips, his fear increasing, but also his hunger. His hunger for something...something effulgent. His mind whispered of his hopes as he reached out and touched me.

And when he touched me, I knew that he was to be mine for all eternity, that he would be mine, as I was my dark angel's. He would be my pet, my sweet, my eternal fair-faced, dark-hearted angel.

So I took him, without a fight. His beautiful veins burst open like a ripe, sweet fruit, his fresh, strong juices flowing over my lips and tongue, sating my hunger and filling me with his incomparable essence.

The taste of his fear and hate-filled life sang, the pain carried within him turning into burning pleasure, as his delicious heat coursed through me, until I could hear him slowing, faltering to a silent halt.

Then he sank in my arms, dying but for the salvation of my own juices. His small gasp trickled between his silky lips, screaming for me to feed him and make him all big and strong forever. Like daddy, grandmum and me.

So I suckled him like a babe, opening my breast for him, letting his strong mouth seal over it and draw on his mummy's sweet, life-filled milk. The blurring potion of our essences mixing to bring him immortality.

And then he fell into the sleep that would carry him to the other side, his eyes closed, leaving sooty smudges on his cheek.

So I brought him home, to our pretty rooms that overlook the river. Laying him in my bed, I knew daddy and grandmum were still out on the hunt, dining on all the pleasant luxuries of the city, so I could wait by my new sweet's side, until he awoke in his new life.

He waited until the dawn to wake. I knew that he would. Filled with a hunger by the time the darkness falls, he will be prepared for his first hunt, his first chase. His first night as one of us will be beautiful and bloody, the screams of the living filling our senses.

Daddy believes my sweet will be weak. He was a man of words and of poetry, which is only weakness to my dark angel. When he saw the weeping child, he laughed and mocked such frailty, but he did not see passed the tears.

My daddy only ever sees the outer shell of my sweet. Of other people. He never looks to the heart of a person, only caring how he can use them, use their weaknesses to hurt them. My daddy knew my weakness. My daddy killed all my family, all their warm faces gone.

I saw them die, long before they ever did. The dreams sang in my head that I was to blame, that I was the source of all this wickedness and I knew it to be true. When my daddy came to take me to his heart, to make me like him, I knew I was so evil I could not fight him.

I had believed myself to be a good girl for so long, and yet, I was bad. Even in the robes of goodness, I still became bad, bringing evilness to all those around me so I have found a childe who looked all sweet and gentle. He has an evil in him like I did.

Soon, they will see that. Soon my daddy will know that I have found a perfect companion, a dark-hearted, cruel monster with the face of a gold-haired angel.

Like me, he will look so gentle and tender, no one will believe the evil his beautiful, artful face conceals. They will look at him and see his heavenly eyes, the soft smile on his lips, the kindly angel's face and then...

Then, they will see death.

Opening his eyes, eyes the colour of the veins pulsing in a child's soft neck, he looks at me with an awe-filled intensity. His pale mouth curls in a smile that begs me to kiss it, to taste his mouth with my own.

So I do.

And my childe accepts me. His fresh, young lips open to mine, invading mine, his hands tearing in my hair. Drawing me onto the bed, I know I have chosen well, his body and mind hungry for me.

Then, when the cruel sun falls, we will go out, he and I. We will wander the streets and hunt and feed and my sweet Will, he will show his mummy how he can use all the darkness hidden inside him.

He will make me proud.

***

She's whispering again.

Silken promises of glorious hunts, and eternal nights. Nights where the screaming is so sweet and full, it rains into the blood. Promises that make the remnants of the boy I was shiver, and the demon I now am cry out with joy.

I think I'm going to enjoy this.

I'm looking at my new world, taking in all of the new smells, sights and sounds. It's amazing. There's so much I didn't know, couldn't see, but now I can. I mean, did you know that fear has a scent? Pure, intoxicating, and it clings to her - to Drusilla - wherever she goes.

A last testament to her previous 'meal'.

I chuckle. A delicious irony, don't you think? And as for the sights and sounds. . .I can *see* now. Really see. I may as well have been blind before. Now I see into the darkness, my new home. (Met the grandparents and everything)

And, only hours before I'm sure that it spoke to me. No - I'm not touched like my precious Maker, but there is something. . .When I lay there, the residues of my soul still slithering out I heard Her ask me what I wanted. And I wanted Her. I wanted to be strong, to exist without fear, to go against my very grain.

No longer William 'The Bloody Awful Poet'. No longer beneath any human woman. No more. Time to rebel, and I'm bloody well going to enjoy it.

"I'm hungry," I tell my delighted Sire. "Let's go eat."

***

My sweet, insane childe has sired a fool.

The boy is vicious and bloodthirsty - I'll grant him that - but I find the lad to be too impulsive. He has no finesse, and sooner or later that cockiness of his will introduce him - if not us all - to the sharp end of a stake. In brief - he is trouble. And 'tis a pity, because I could be makin' quite a fine hunter out of him, if he'd just listen to me.

But that, as I have found, is the problem. For some reason, the boy has decided that being turned has given him the excuse to act like an insolent little brat. Quite a pathetic creature during his mortal years, I hear, and now. . .now he's become a lot more interesting.

Yes - I'm admittin' it. He does present quite a challenge - one that I'm worthy of - and one that will be a joy to fulfil.

I saw him with Dru after the change - needless to say his lithe form has been carefully engraved on my mind - that is - until I find some paper and a good drawing tool. No charcoal for William, it's too soft to capture those firm lines and angles. Too blunt to etch out those prominent cheekbones. . .far too gentle for that. . .The boy will be needin' a sharp, straight line of discipline. And that - I can happily provide.

Watching his body move, almost rhythmically, as he worshipped her body. . . It was compelling. Such a nice, taught body - not like most of his contemporaries - all obsessed with fattening their feeble bodies with every piece of fare imaginable. It leaves them quite distasteful. Nevertheless the boy has managed to avoid this, and has left us with an unblemished complexion, a broad expanse of smooth skin covering a firm back. And this I can feel without even touching the childe! (Naturally, this will soon be remedied)

Even Darla would attest to such an adoring depiction, although I can see that she despises the boy. But her anger combined with my own potent lust will certainly be leadin' to a night to remember. Mayhaps siring the lad wasn't such an unwise decision after all.

However, our young William may have potential (and a firm arse), but with Dru as his Sire the boy will learn nothin' of any use. And that is why *I* shall be the one to teach him. Mayhaps I can knock some sense into his stubborn head. And if he refuses to co- operate. . .Well - That'll be rather unfortunate for him, won't it?

Either way, I'm feelin' that I will be the greater beneficiary of the arrangement. . .

***

So, Angelus' crazy little obsession has taken a new companion.

Her Sire was not amused, which lead to some frenzied lovemaking in his fury. His anger and animalistic passions go hand-in-hand.

Almost makes me wish the little bitch would make another 'unsuitable' childe. To have my dark Angelus in a fury is the most overwhelming feeling, to feel him pin me down, make me accede to his every whim by violence or otherwise. It's just so damn satisfying.

Perverted, of course, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

But I've seen the way he looked at the new member of our 'family'. We returned to find Drusilla getting better acquainted with the boy. If looks were the most important thing, I would agree that the crazy little bitch has made a superb choice.

Watching from the door of her bedchamber, it was sheer art. Poetry in motion. The smooth muscles of his back rippled, tapering down to a firm, rounded pair of buttocks that would make any man break every law in the Lord's good book.

Scratches scored the alabaster white flesh of his back, droplets of dark blood rolling down into the valley of his spine, trickling down the gully and directing our attention back to that eye-catchingly delightful rear, which was slowly rising and falling as he toyed with my preciously loony grandchilde.

Looking up to Angelus, I could see the dark lust in his eyes. He caressed the boy's smooth back with those dangerous brown orbs of his, taking in the soft, sculpted planes of the childe's sleek young body.

The flavour of his arousal permeated the air and I wanted him then. His anger at Drusilla, the scent of the two childer and his lust for the new childe were a heady combination, which meant that neither of us got much sleep during the day.

Already, he has accepted the responsibility of the training of this childe. Despite his fury at learning that his crazed childe had actually turned the sniveling street boy, he wants the boy to be his own.

In whatever way it takes.

We both know that his own childe is far passed sane. True, she is a dangerous and violent creature, but she lacks a sense of duty. She would never be able to give her own childer sufficient training or domination, to keep them under her own control.

So it is all left to her dark Sire. My favoured childe. My Magnum Opus.

And I am sure that my dear boy will leave no aspect of a Sire's duty undone with the beautiful childe of Drusilla. Dominating the boy's Sire is no challenge for him. She will obey his every word without question. But he wants a challenge.

This youth could provide it.

Despite what we saw of him, before Drusilla went after him, there was something in the feeble human that screamed rebel. With the demon as his ally, he could prove quite the dangerous young fledgling.

Beautifully formed with a perfect, sculpted face, he could be a demon to break hearts, but seeing him survive passed his first years will be an impressive feat in itself. It will be up to Angelus to make certain the rebellious spirit is curbed and controlled.

But if this fledgling draws my dark, brutal childe from my bed, if he takes my position as Angelus' favourite, he will surely regret it. He will wish he had never laid eyes on our pretty little Drusilla. I will see to that myself.

The night calls us both, the music of the moon howling as we step out into the time that belongs to us alone.

Grandmum and daddy went out earlier, going to a party, with many rich and aristocratic people in attendance. Both were dressed up grandly, fine clothing that sobbed and wailed of its lost owners. Daddy and grandmum do so love to dress up and mix in with all the rich, expensive people.

I dislike such parties. The blood of the aristocrats is foul. It is full of sweet and promising scents, the promise of deliciously rich tastes and yet, it tastes like the real people. Sour, bitter and hateful.

Having expensive and bitter dinners means nothing to me. I prefer to find someone who can run, without being hindered by magnificent robes and clothes. I prefer the poor. They have a stronger, sweeter taste.

The flavour of strong, young people is more to my liking. Posturing rich men are of no interest to me. I like someone big and strong who will attempt to run, never to get anywhere, to find themselves in my embrace.

My Will is fresh and eager for the hunt, for the first taste of sweet young blood. He has revenge in his heart too, such bitter and angry revenge it makes me giddy to hear it screaming through his mind.

Arm-in-arm, we walk through the darkness. The scent of blood is heavy in the air, death is all around us and we are its servants. We fear nothing and no one with death as our fierce and wonderful ally.

My childe is impatient, eager for the thrill of the kill, ready and willing to draw the life out of one of the lower creatures, ready to attack and kill and do what he wants to any of the people who ever harmed him.

He longs to hurt them as much as they hurt him, when he still lived. When he was still weak and feeble and like them.

Touching his soft temple, I can feel the demon screaming within him. His control is beautiful, his anger growing and swelling, yet he refuses to let it free until the time is right, until the sources of all his anger stand before him.

When he emerges fully, I know my childe will be powerful. He longs to show that he is no longer sweet little William. He is not the same person he was, my Will. He is stronger, deadly and he is mine. All mine.

Daddy and grandmum dislike him, dislike that he was a quiet, tame man. That he was not a drunken boy like daddy was, or that he did not do all kinds of naughty favours to gentlemen in order to receive suitable payment like grandmum.

Instead, he was seen as an angel, sweet and full of goodness and well-ordered behaviour, obeying his gentle mummy just like I used to. He was an innocent, just like I was, before daddy came and made me see my badness.

Just as my dark angel made me see the darkness and drew me to him like a lost child, I found my young Will when he was lost and alone. He and I are alike and soon, the child that he was will fade as he becomes the childe that he is.

Both he and I have fallen from grace, both fallen angels who have become wicked in our ways. Angels who will never look upon the face of heaven.

And yet, we have found some semblance of Heaven with one another, we are the same. Two fallen ones, seeking refuge from the hatefully cruel light, both under the protection of the dark one, our dark daddy.

My beautiful Will turns his shining angel's smile to me, drawing me into his arms and pressing a child's tender kiss on my lips, full of imitated innocence, unlike that which we shared for many hours, hidden from the light of day.

His hand caresses my growly tummy, his blue eyes gleaming with hunger. He always likes to touch me, on my neck, on my breast and especially on my tummy. He is gentle, to let me feel what he is feeling. He knows that I can hear him inside my head and the naughty words he whispers in my mind make me smile.

But he can be cruel. He can be hurtful and bite and burn and torture. He can be wonderfully talented with pain and I know he wants to use his special gift to harm those who harmed him.

First, we must find them.

Then they will see what they have done the quiet, rosy-faced sweetling. They will see what a true monster they have turned him into. And then, after they see what he has become, my Will will be allowed to have his revenge.

Oh, what a pretty revenge it will be.

***

I'm going to kill them all. That's the plan.

Everyone who ever dared to mock me, treat me with disrespect, and anyone who's had it coming to them anyway.

Horribly, brutally, bloodily, and every other torture-related word ending with 'ily'. Not sure how yet, but I know I'm going to have fun - Drusilla said so. And insane she may be, but stupid she is most definitely not. Turns out she has these 'visions', y'see (very handy), and she saw them - Crawford, Brown. . .all of those toffs who thought I was some sort of whipping boy - all nice and dead. At my hands. Now who am I to avoid my destiny?

***

Oh this is fun. I haven't done anything like this in. . .Well - I haven't *ever* done anything like this! Torture, mutilation, death and destruction. . .all becoming exciting new pastimes. And better yet - it's eternal. So you miss out on a measly bit of sunlight - So what? The night's more interesting anyway.

But I digress.

I'm getting ready for the *real* fun, now that the 'distinguished' guests have arrived. Found them easily enough - coming home from yet another dinner party, a bit tipsy. . .you know the story.

You don't? Well - let me refresh your memory.

***

One sherry too many and a man thinks he's invincible.

"I see Cecily's becoming rather closely acquainted with you now, m'dear friend Crawford. Are you going to relieve her father of his burden?" A giggle, and a snort.

I stay in the shadows, held back by Drusilla, finger pressed to my lips.

Wait. Not yet. Patience, my childe.

And so I bite my tongue.

"She is quite the treat, David," and then the little bastard licks his lips, as if sat in front of a banquet, "her sweet fruit may be plucked before it's ripe!"

"Too late, old man. Rumour has it that she's already been well rogered by Fripps - twice weekly for the past year. Don't know what his wife'll make of that!"

A shared laugh echoes throughout the night and I find myself growling. Partially because of their pathetic state, but mostly because they remind me of the boy who would've fought to defend such a 'lady's' honour. Time for a little theatre, I think, as I stumble out to meet my audience.

"William?" they question, and the light of recognition begins to gleam. "Will, old chap," smiles Crawford, slapping me on the back. "We thought you'd run off to sea!"

I look around, a little unsteady. Innocent. Confused. . .lost little lamb. . . "Oh - no!" I shake my head vehemently. "I could never do such a thing. All of that that tossing and turning isn't good for the constitution, I find. Do you think you could help me? I appear to be a little lost."

Brown extends an unsteady arm. "Well, that's where we are. And you live. . ." he sways, and gestures eastwards "that way!" They both break out in giggles. It really is quite pathetic.

"Oh. . .Right. Well - I was wondering if you could help me with something else, then? Something of a more. . .personal nature?"

The two share a mocking grin, and Crawford gestures grandly for me to continue. Oh how very benevolent of him. Obnoxious twerp. I'd love to take that regal little hand of his, rip it off, and shove it straight up his -

"M- My poetry," I stammer. "Do you think I could get it published? And please - do be honest." Yes. *Do*. Because your life is resting on that little question, whether you know it or not.

Crawford nudges Brown, motioning for him to be quiet, and then clears his throat before speaking. It's funny. He almost sounds sober.

"I think you'll find William, that your 'poetry' is quite the worst piece of turd infested rubbish this side of the Thames. And perhaps even beyond that!" He begins to back me up against a wall. "In fact, I would rather listen to the sounds of a man dying of flatulence before I listened to any more of the works of William the Bloody Awful Poet! That answer your question?" His face is only inches from mine, and Brown lingers not far behind.

"It certainly does," I whisper. "But may I ask you one last question?"

He nods, amused.

I feel the demon come forth, my brow protruding and fangs lengthening. Feels kinda good. Smooth. Powerful. I could rip his throat out then and then without him even realising it. God that would be a thrill!

"Would you prefer a long, slow agonising death, or just a short, fast agonising one?"

He jumps back, lets out an unmanly squeal, falling into his companion's arms.

"W-w-What?"

"Oh forget that question." I step forward, closer and closer. I can hear the blood in their veins pumping, faster and faster. Their heartbeat's accelerating.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom, boom, boom, boom. . .

"You don't get a choice."

And I'm joined by my precious Drusilla, and now the boys are screaming, petrified. I love it.

They start to run, and I start to complain.

"Shhh. The chase is the best part," she informs me wisely before we kiss. "Makes them taste like honeyed almonds."

And very soon, we catch them up.

***

So here we are. We found an abandoned building next to the railway, trussed up the prey. (I couldn't resist a little taste first). Bound, gagged and helpless. Perfect for a nice long night of torture, don't you think?

Tonight, I decide, as I pick up the nearest object from the floor. It's a steel railroad spike.

Tonight I'm going to make a name for myself. <

***

My fair-faced angel contains a truly cruel darkness.

His revenge was thrillingly beautiful, the pitiful sounds of the screaming, the pure terror and pain still ringing in my head, the sweet scent of the blood still clinging to him, as if it was his lost child.

He let his tormentor's see his true face, made them run, fearful for their worthless, empty lives. Their anxious hearts pounded like a little child on a drum, like horses hooves clattering on a dark road.

And we had no need to give chase.

Instead, we simply waited until they had exhausted themselves, then we hunted them down and trapped them, like pathetic little animals. They sobbed and wailed and screamed for mercy, before we even touched them.

One of the more foolish ones hurled a small, golden crucifix at us, missing both he and I. It clattered on the dusty, dirty floor, clinking, and lay there, looking shiny and pretty, but nothing more. It would never harm us and our new toys could not possibly reach it.

I was content to watch my childe play. He tasted one of them, the only one that tried to fight, drew enough of his life to weaken him, but left sufficient for him to survive long enough for my Will to play.

And such games my Will designed.

A beautiful weapon appeared in his hand, gleaming like a dull blade in the faint light of the night, reflected in his honey-coloured eyes.

It was a spike, I believe. One that was used at the tracks for the new horseless carriages, to hold the roads in place. Silvery in the light, the rounded tip widened into a broad, flat head, for the hammering no doubt.

Such a toy looked harmless, but not in my childe's hands. My childe knew how to make his old enemies scream.

That beautiful, blunt weapon could tear through anything my Will wanted it to. Anything that my Will wanted a hole in, he would use that gleaming, dangerously blunt spike to rip bloody, big holes through it.

All too soon, the shininess was dulled, deep red.

But the red was so pretty. It carried the screams on the cloud of the night, lilting across the streets, pattering like soft, ruby raindrops all over us.

My childe was a master, his friends living until he chose to show the mercy of oblivion. And even then, his mercy was cruel and sensually beautiful, his work with the blood and the blunt blade making my heart sing.

Crimson floors for red-faced men.

Wading through the restless corpses, my sweet young love smiles proudly, his spike shattering bone and flesh as he takes his much-deserved revenge on his tormentors, his golden eyes sparkling with fire.

One screams, the others are passed pain. But the one that screamed. Ah, he is the worst, the one who tormented my sweet love the most.

I can tell, you see, as my sweet lets the cause of his vexation feel the chilling pain of the spike in a way that none of the others would.

That only makes him scream more. Makes my Will laugh and stab harder with that wonderfully vicious tool. Makes me reel from the scent of death and power that fills the room with heady glory.

One of the others tries to crawl away, like a wounded puppy. He whimpers and moans, his hands clutched to his face. It's a pity that he can't see where he's going. He can't see that he's coming towards me.

And my tummy is so growly now. I look to my sweet and he is still laughing, ignoring the one slithering closer to me like a sightless worm.

I bend and pat the blinded puppy on the head. He whimpers more and more, finally making my sweet look over. He smiles, his sharp fangs glinting like little ivory daggers in the dark.

"You can eat that bloody pillock," he tells me.

I let my teeth come out to play. The puppy whines and whimpers more, sweet red juice splashing from his torn mouth. I press my mouth to his, his essence spilling from the remains of his tongue like a tiny, flesh-tainted fountain.

"Bloody beautiful." I hear my sweet whisper, as he bends to drink from the puppy too, sinking his lovely teeth into the whining puppy's shoulder.

His hand wraps into my hair like a rope, pulling until I feel I might tear. The puppy collapses, all drank up and I look to my sweet, his face and hands dark red as he kisses me again, the sweetness of his meals spreading into me.

We play such sweet games together, bathed in warm red, our tummies full and satisfied. He makes my body sing as we tangle together, sweet drops of claret rain spattering on our faces, as he kisses me again and again, like there's no forever.

Only when the scent of the coming of cruel morning tingles through the scent of yummy dinner, do we finally leave our special playhouse, leaving all my sweet's bullies to be found by the clumsy humans.

The only thing we take with us is the crimson-crusted spike that my Will plays with so magnificently, decorated with the still-pumping heart of my love's greatest tormentor, the warm red rippling over Will's pale hand.

My childe has made me proud, leaving a trail of death-scented pieces of his old associates sprinkled all over the scarlet-stained floor.

I never knew such a thing as an innocent-looking spike could be so deadly. Just like my harmless-looking, fair angel, the spike looked timid until it fell into a master's hands.

My Will and his spike could tear this world apart.

William the Bloody may have been his mortal name, but now...Now I see that they truly were talking of my Will. They didn't know what he would become, but they knew the name they would give him, before he got his new toy.

Now, they need to find a new name, for my sweet and his spike. William the Bloody doesn't describe him sufficiently any longer.

He's far more than they knew.

And he's mine.

****

Yorkshire - 1880:

Poofy bastard's got me round the neck, and he's holding on fucking tight!

"Perhaps it's my advancing years that makes me so forgetful, William. Remind me. Why don't we kill you?"

He knows damn well, but I'm not bringing *that* up in front of Dru.

I choke a bit more. Bloody lucky I don't have to breathe. I just wish someone would tell my windpipe that.

"...ike." is about all I can gasp out.

Mr Scourge of Deafness lets go a little, and I attempt to reclaim my voice.

"What's that?" he asks.

I brush myself off. That little assault damn well creased my coat!

"It's Spike now," I casually inform him, more bothered about my precious Princess' reaction to the scene than his. And as for the ever-present Darla. . ? She can go suck off a fledge for all I care.

"You'd do well to remember it, mate."

Yes you would. Because things are changing Angelus. You've gotta move with the times. Because if you don't, you'll still be Sire-whipped in a hundred years, still clinging to the blonde bitch's skirt, whimpering about her like a friggin' puppy. And by then you'll be too much of a lap dog to care.

Just you wait, Angelus. Your time will come.

~Fin~