Chapter Four

These humans reeked. They surrounded him in his torment and acted the way they always did: blind and insecure. Deserving of death. Deserving of destruction. How could he disappoint?

Warm blood encased in flesh swarmed around him in the streets, enough to take his pick without resorting to the celebration of the Bronze or some other establishment these hoards flocked to for fun but instead sunk further into melancholy. He refused to be tamed. Refused to let the circumstances of Dru's mad actions and the Slayer's delicious body and blood turn him soft, change who he is.

A fresh little brunette passed him on the sidewalk and gave him a flirty smile. He smirked and followed her, letting his eyes drift over her body as she swayed to a silent rhythm. The blood mesmerised him, turned him into an animal that paced his kill, following her from the light of the street into the dark of an alley. She would be his demon's prize—spread out before him to abuse and feast to his ultimate satisfaction.

And freedom was his gift.

He'd always thought that was Dru, his glorious princess that had saved him from a mediocre existence being the brunt of the cruel humour of the more successful of his society. She'd seen something within him that no other had taken the time to examine. She'd recognised his potential and gifted him with time and immortality to relish the beast within, again and again.

The blood meant something different to him than it did to others of his possession. While the majority of vampires relished the kill, bathed in the blood and fornicated in death, he was much simpler.

Blood meant life.

It meant a power that he'd never had as a mewling mortal, weakened by his societies strictures and hierarchy. He had a higher calling to it than his lowly minions, and Slayer blood was the biggest kick of all. He wasn't only about the kill. It was the accomplishment, the fight to assert who and what he was.

It was the thing that lying in bed with the Slayer had slowly began stripping him of. Identity. Dru had dusted right in front of him and taken away his meaning, left him floating in the sea of confused understanding. Was he still there, or had she taken him away with her? Had she now broken him with her misguided and misunderstood visions and subsequent action, or was she giving him something new to mould?

He couldn't find the direction she'd left. Thought briefly that he could fumble through when the Slayer threw away her stake and curled around his flesh. Having the interruption—of Angel breaking with a tradition that the great one had pounded into him from his raising—was that small spark that could get him out of there. Was one more little shred of evidence that Dru had tried to take away all he'd known for over a century.

He refused to let Peaches add to the mess. He'd been punished severely to never forget the code, to never go against his family, and yet the amazing audacity of his prick grandesire had him running out of there in desperation to kill. To maim and feed and fuck. Except maybe not as the Slayer's blood still pounded through his body and her scent was still heavy on his cock.

The scent infuriated him like no other and before he'd made a conscious decision he'd stepped out in front of the girl, his wicked smile making way for the change of his face and the drop of his fangs. He didn't even stop her scream, ripping the front of her dress as she tried to run.

"That's right, little girl. It isn't worth it unless you scream."

Yet when the time came it wasn't her pussy he wanted. He'd never been about that, needing no one but Dru to satisfy his still Victorian principles. It wasn't her blood he wanted, feeling almost ill at mixing common slutty trash with the virginal blood of the Slayer. But her neck he craved and so his hands caressed the flesh, his thumbs stroking against the pulse of her frightened screams, and then the wrench that stopped it all. Killed the noise and killed the girl. Stepping over the prone form of his success at banishing the fear.

Power like no other, and just like that, he was back to being the Big Bad with a grandsire to find.

A traitor to punish.

And a decision to make.

He'd made a mistake. Hours trekking after the poof of his making, the elder of his line, had been useless. The decapitation of too many bar patrons and the savage attacks on the proprietors had gotten him nowhere. He'd even ventured to the bright and loud arena of the Bronze, snapping another neck while he sniffed desperately to pick up a recent scent. No one knew where the fucker lived. No one knew where he'd been. And no one had seen him tonight.

It pissed Spike off no end. Left him directionless on a night that had demanded retribution.

He'd never taken Angelus for spineless. Never taken him for a yellowbelly who would turn his back on a mistake and run. Even jam-packed with a soul.

Spike felt the rage surge through his body, needing so badly to take out this deed on the perpetrator. Make the git pay dearly for lodging a stake in Buffy's back. The chit could have died...

Something icy cold settled on his back and Spike ran, blurred past pedestrians like hell was on his heels. He'd left her, to assert vampire lore and control over one who'd usurped his own, only to leave a profusely bleeding Slayer at the mercy of his minions.

Seemed like the night was all about stupid decisions, and for this he could blame no one but himself. The heavy cloak of black was lifting by the time he made it back, making the colour around him lighter, yet only by a degree. It was enough to call vampires home to their nests, cause distress in those too far from home. Spike arrived on the outskirts of his own group of minions in their state of hypnotism.

Spike stood back, watching as they all slowly made their way past him, ignoring him as they focused on getting back inside the factory and settled for the night. They all looked drugged, out of it in a way that had Spike more than slightly spooked. It wasn't uncommon to thrall a demon but he'd never seen this kind of effect. The flashy no-substance Dracula had never even managed this kind of feat.

He didn't know what he would be following them into. Didn't even feel confident he would find a live Slayer still bleeding all over his bed. Then each step he took he saw a big splash of blood that could only belong to her. His minions seemed to be lined around each pool, beyond mesmerised by the magic of her scent, and with a sudden frantic need Spike ran through the factory and into his bedroom.

His heart was searching, but his head already knew. She was gone; the story of her blood on the dirty cement floor and the mangy cream lace coverlet Dru had adored.

Blistering fury tore through him and he almost choked with the need to destroy. The lace shredded easily in his hands, howls of anger and pain almost drowned out with the redecoration of his furniture. Wood splintered as he kicked the dresser, punched at the bedside table. Porcelain dolls smashed beautifully as he saw the disintegrating face of the woman he'd loved for a hundred and more years; her black hair, her feline shaped eyes and the gold of her demon.

She'd given him this? This horror in which to continue existing? She'd brought him to Hell, not Sunnydale. How bloody dare she tell him this is what he had been destined for since the night she'd taken his breath from him. How fucking dare she leave him alone and confused in a place that was home of the Slayer and then tell him not to kill her.

And how dare she see a future for him that would rob him of everything she'd taught and encouraged him to be?

Finally Spike realised his resistance was useless. When had he ever fought one of Dru's convictions and won? Bloody never, that's when. He'd never been able to overpower her mind, as flimsy as it often was. He'd never been able to hurt her—not in over a hundred and twenty years. She'd been his salvation and he'd loved her deeply for that. Respected her endlessly for finding the depths in him that he'd accidentally hidden in his human world.

She'd never stopped surprising him. Never stopped taking him to newer heights.

It was the same even now. Bringing him and handing him over to the Slayer he was forbidden to kill. She'd halted his path, changed his direction and his resistance was wearing thin.

But despite everything, despite what his sire had hoped and predicted, no way was he going to change and be the Slayer's newest puppy dog. No way would he hand over the power to one he'd forced from innocence in an evil and guilty way. He'd marked her so she was his, but he had yet to decide if he wanted her.

Angel had interrupted the process. Had made him forget the slippery slide into cosiness that he'd been in danger of falling into. He had the poof to thank for that at least, but he'd also stopped the process that would have left him at the beginning of something. Either the beginning of something monumental, or the edge of his own demise. Whatever it was it involved the blond, encompassed her life in a way that put him at its pinnacle.

He'd given her a stake, but he would never give her the power.

Head down and body huddled around a bottle of something hard, he thought he could almost forget his own name. It was something he'd wanted; something he'd tried to do for a century now. Forget his name, forget his entire existence. It might have brought him some low level of peace, but he doubted he'd ever receive the comfort.

Too many always wanted him to remember, to grieve over the gruesome evil that his existence had been before someone took control to alter him forever. To water him down forever. It was what he felt now. Half a man; half a demon. The whole of nothing. He'd lost the places where he had belonged, whether by right or design. He'd been stripped of it all—his home, his family, the life he'd known, all taken away to leave him in a small cold place where everyone knew his name. Everyone warned of his game.

It wasn't hard. He was a broken creature feeding on misery and death, though not the same kind of death as previously. This time it had been rats, the odd faltered homeless that had lost their chance at life. Blood still warm though the heart beat no more. It was the only place he could think to return, to hide from his name and his truth for more than a minute at a time.

It didn't hurt that no one would think to find him here. Dirty and sozzled on good Irish plonk, his leather blending into the night until the sky became more grey than pitch and he'd be squeezed back into the pulse of life once again. Brought back into the open to answer to crimes against human and vampire alike.

The Powers had given Buffy to him for purpose. Had given him reason to emerge from his shell and attempt to make good on his past. So far he'd screwed it up. Had let Buffy be caught, had allowed his childe to dust herself for whoever knew insane reason. Had let himself be convinced by something deep and dark within that she was gone and he had to destroy what was left. Kill his Buffy to save his soul. Except he feared it was gone already. Trapped in some murky depths of a cheap bottle of alcohol while he sat lost in useless guilt.

The first signs that the night was turning came with a distant silence as a strange light seemed to hunt him down. It had an essence as it struck him in the chest and left him flinching in pain while his back hit hard against a brick wall. It was an impact of fury, enough to have him falter in his misery.

"Daddy snapped at the pretty white children and hurt my William's new gift."

Angel froze, his eyes squeezed tight against the pain of the voice he could never forget. His grief was playing tricks he couldn't withstand and tears began to flow down his cheeks. In an effort to stave off the pain, to prove to himself that the frightening images of his imagination had not escaped to exist before him, he had to open his eyes.

And there she was. Glowing white in a dress that he knew was familiar, though exact memory failed him for now.

"Drusilla," he whispered into the still air and she smiled, though the tension around her lips was hard.

"Bad Daddy, thinks he can always take William's things. My Spike won't let you this time. Naughty boy has broken the rules and he will bring you to hell on a silver white horse and a big shiny hat."

His shock could not shift enough for him to even think over her words, finding them—as usual—not important enough in comparison with her presence.

"Oh Dru, you look so beautiful." He stared at her spectre until he felt the heat of her anger sink through his oblivion.

"My Angel never learns when he must let go the shackles. William isn't your boy anymore and he is caught now on the road to sunshine. You must help him make it right, make what I did to him right, or I will return and make the gypsies hurt you deeper than the spark." With a feral growl and the snap of her fangs, she was gone, the light she'd shone around him getting smaller until it barely illuminated a crack in the road. And then it was gone completely and Angel found himself stumbling his path through a hazy early morning darkness, racing for home before the truth hit him hard and he was left to rot on his knees.

Or let his failures spread on a dusty wind.