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During his long drive across the lower half of the country, Spike remembered the last time he saw Drusilla almost a month before.
“Dru, ducks, what will it take?” Spike asked.
Drusilla was angry at him over some small thing she claimed he had done. “You talk of her all the time. I let you come back last time because you hurt me so well. But you’re at it again.” His companion of many long years pouted and stoked the hair of a ragged china doll. “Mrs. Edith heard you talking in your sleep. ‘Now, Slayer. Harder, Slayer.’” She mocked his deep voice, rough with need.
“Dru. You know I don’t know what I say in my sleep, no one does.” Spike had slipped into the soothing, reasonable tones he must use to placate his love.
“I know what I say. I can write down what I said last night if you want.”
Spike eased up to her. “Come on, princess. Let daddy make you feel all better.” He reached down her black velvet dress and cupped one small breast. Normally, this made her coo and forget her pique. This time she slapped him and whirled away.
“I want you to get the Slayer out of your system.” His sire whipped around to face him. “Kill them. Kill them all. Kill her Mum. Kill her daddy. Kill her big brother. Kill her sister. Kill her!”
“She doesn’t have a sister or brother, you know that, Luv.” He had to fight to keep his tone level. “And her father is who the hell knows where.”
“The ones she keeps so close. That’s her family. Kill them. Like Angelus killed mine. Kill them all. Then come back to me. Bring me proof.”
“Dru, pet…” an edge of a whine came into his voice that he hated.
She crossed her arms and turned her narrow back to him. “Go. Bring me bits of them. Then you’ll quit obsessing and I’ll take you back.”
“But my sweet…” he put a hand on her thin shoulder, but she shrugged it off.
“No. Not this time, Spike. Go kill the Slayer and everyone she holds dear. I’ll be here. Until the moon is the same shape again.”
This finally made Spike mad. “I’ll do that, just for you, love.” He turned and walked toward the door, pausing as he put on his coat. “Are you sure you don’t want to come watch?”
Dru just stalked off.
He drove away vaguely westward and wasted several days in a snit. It was not long before he missed Drusilla and vowed to do just what she told him. Just as he always did.
Days before her one month deadline, Spike parked his beat-up Desoto behind the crumbling antebellum mansion where he last left Drusilla. With a smile, he gathered his evidence and strode in the back door.
“Honey, I’m home!” Stillness greeted him. “Drusilla!” He listened hard and heard activity in what was once the grand ballroom. He burst in, hoping to please Drusilla with his early appearance.
The smell hit him first. It was like a dead, wet cat had been wrapped in layers of newspaper and left to rot under a sheet of tin in the southern summer heat. A great gray-green mass of vaguely man-like shape was wriggling in the center of the floor. This would not bother him so much, but he saw Dru’s feet sticking up on either side of the mass. And she was making the excited little hiccoughing sounds she made when something felt particularly good. With a roar, Spike grabbed up a length of two by four from a pile of rubbish by the door, charged the two and knocked the fungus demon off his sire and across the room.
Fungus demons were not known for their fighting skills, and Spike had soon beaten the thing into a pile of putrid lumps. Breathing hard, and quite angry, he tossed aside the board and turned to Drusilla.
Dru pouted and pulled down her skirts, greenish slime oozing down her legs to plop on the floor. “Why did you do that, daddy? He is sweet. He kept bringing me shiny round rocks.”
“That just means it wanted to build a nest then lay eggs in your corpse.”
“Silly boy, I won’t leave a corpse. Someone should tell him.”
“Plus, Dru. It is a fungus demon! For god’s sake, is there nothing you won’t fuck?”
She danced over to Spike. “If you’re naughty, I won’t fuck you, Sweet William. And you have been naughty. The king of wands’ birthday came and went and you weren’t here. Where have you been?”
He pulled back from the smell all over her. “I went to Sunnydale. I did what you told me to.”
He gave her his trophy bag and she clapped and jumped up and down like a little girl before snatching it. “Presents! For me!” From his pockets he brought out Mr. Pointy and his knife coated with the Slayer’s blood and showed them to her. She cooed over the sharp weapons, then sat on the floor and dumped out the braids of hair, the blond mat, the glasses, the ear, and bit of cloth from the bag as if it were a Christmas stocking. “These aren’t good presents. They’re all dark and used.” She dropped them on the floor and tore at her long black hair.
“You told me that if I went to Sunnydale and killed everyone the Slayer held dear and the Slayer herself, then came back to you with proof within one month you would take me back.” Spike hated the whine that only she could bring to his voice.
She burst out laughing that weird ascending laugh of hers. Her crazy laugh. She left his hard-won spoils in a heap and crawled over to him. “I remember now. I was joking. I thought you would pout a few days and come right back. I just wanted you to give me some space to play for a while. You won’t leave me alone otherwise.” She ran her hand up his leg to fondle him through his pants. “A girl has to have her variety.”
Spike froze. For many long years he had been devoted to Drusilla. He had been dragged all over the world. He had risked his life hundreds of times to satisfy every crazy whim that struck her. He had let her humiliate him and abuse him because he loved her. A thousand little snubs and the way she said them replayed in his mind in a heartbeat. She had played him as love’s bitch all this time. Used him. Never felt for him as he had for her, although she pretended well. And, most telling to him, she had not noticed his war wound. The notch that will mark him forever.
In that instant any crumb that remained of humanity within Spike died. The last hold the human poet kept in Spike’s heart was gone. A small part of his mind felt it crumble to dust with something akin to relief. He stood straighter, and when he spoke, the whine was gone forever. “Drusilla. I am tired of your games. For a hundred and thirty years I have put up with your mind fucks, your teasing and your hurting me.” He still clutched Mr. Pointy, but she did not notice.
“Have you ever made love on a bed of round rocks, Spike?” she had abandoned his crotch and was fluttering over the riverbed of rocks which ran along one wall of the ballroom. “Apart from that time in the Rhine river.” She turned her flirtatious, crazy gaze on him, only to encounter Spike standing close and the sharp end of Slayer’s favorite stake.
“Game’s over. Good bye Dru.” Spike said as he dropped the wood to clatter on the floor among the blowing ashes of his sire.
With the death of the illusion of love within Spike’s breast, an animal more evil than Angelus was born. Always traveling alone, he took what he wanted, fucked what he wanted, and killed what he wanted. He became known as Spike the Bloody. His name was boogey man to vampires, demons, and, in some realms, humans. Angelus had been supplanted in the Watcher’s annals.
In the next six years he used the knowledge, the intimate details of the workings of the council he gleaned from the Watcher’s dairies. He took out three more Slayers and those around them, each one more sadistically than the one before. During the fourth year of this mad reign, Angel was killed in Los Angeles. Spike himself had been quoted as having “dusted the Poof.”
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