Part II

Outside in a hazy cloud of smoke Spike watched Buffy’s mom close the living room draperies. He’d heard every word they had said. The old myth about vampires having heightened senses was quite true. He saw things. He heard things. He even felt things that no one knew about.

Spike dropped another cigarette to the ground and crushed it out.

Nice woman, Buffy’s mom. He was dashed glad he hadn’t eaten her when she’d first invited him into the house. Not that it had been wise of her to let him into the house. He’d thought about killing her. But then she’d offered hot chocolate, and it threw him. It really threw him. First of all who in her right mind would offer a vampire hot chocolate? Second of all, who could kill someone kind enough to offer hot chocolate?

‘Kind’ was rare in the world. It always had been. Oh, people spoke about being kind and generous, but actual evidence of it was pretty thin on the ground. People put pretty faces on many things. They coated venom with sugar and good manners, but scratch the surface and most of the time you found that ‘polite’ was just the pretty white icing on a cake made of caa-caa.

He’d learned that in quite brutal fashion more than a hundred and twenty years ago. When he had confessed to Cecily Addams that he loved her only to have his admiration thrown in his face with the words: "You’re beneath me." It had been a blow to his pride, his heart, and his manhood. Of course it had also sent him into the night and into Drusilla’s arms, so perhaps it was a forgivable insult.

That long ago night when he had stood alone and in pain, Dru had stepped out of the shadows. She had given him a look... such a look. It was impossible to describe, but it had been a balm to his soul, and he’d even HAD a soul then. He’d had one and had willingly surrendered it to her.

Funny, but despite general expectations, that night it had been the human who had been cruel and the vampire who had offered sympathy and understanding. Buffy had described it as ‘trading up the food chain’. What a cold and dispassionate description for someone’s death and rebirth.

Spike had never told anyone what it was like to die. What it was to look into the eyes and face of death and welcome it gladly, as he had welcomed Dru. It hadn’t been painless. Surrender never is. It would have been a shame if it had been. Such moments in one’s life should not be easy or pass unnoticed - especially when it was one’s death. It should be felt and understood that here one thing ends and another begins.

Spike remembered the moment of dying quite clearly, of Drusilla’s arms wrapped around him as he fell to the ground, of the warmth of his own blood streaming from the wounds in his throat until his heart slowed and ceased to beat. He remembered growing cold, and the world going black.

But that was not all he remembered. He remembered other things. Worse things. The things of nightmares.

No one had warned him about that.

People knew the part about vampires being the "undead." He had even made a mockery of it to Buffy’s sister only minutes ago. But it wasn’t something easy to joke about... not for a vampire. Humans looked at vamps and saw life AFTER death. What they didn’t see was what had preceded it, death itself.

He had died in a dark alley while wrapped in Dru’s arms. She had stayed with him, cooing softly in her nonsensical often childlike voice, holding him, comforting him, staying with him, at least until dawn when Dru had, by necessity, left him behind.

The police had found him hours later. Thank god, it had been before the rats. He had been aware of every moment as the bobbies dragged him into a covered carriage, as they had covered his face with linen. He could hear the moment when his mother had identified his body.

Very distinctly he remembered the sensation of being laid out for display. Left lying in the front parlor for all the world to see in the hours before his funeral. He had heard Mrs. Daylripple comment to his mother how very nice it was to see that his cravat was properly tied and that his shirt points had been crisply starched. One could always tell a gentleman by his grooming. A properly tied cravat was the measure of a man and wasn’t it a shame that poor William had always been so remiss with his cravats and collars? The old bitty had even gone on to talk about the importance of properly polished shoes.

Why had his mother not shown the least bit of outrage? Her son lay dead, and she had listened and agreed with her next-door neighbor’s assessment of the deplorable condition of his shoes.

Bloody hell, the state of his shoes was at least partially due to Mrs. Daylripple herself. Her dog had taken a piss on them daily. He’d leave the house, and Mrs. Daylripple would stand on her front steps saying: "Oh, William, there you are. My butler seems to have disappeared somewhere this morning. You never can find good help these days. Would you be a dear and take Sebastian for his morning walk?"

William would look down to see the dog growling with teeth bared. It was incredibly generous to call it a dog. It actually looked like a glorified rat with too much hair and too many teeth. But William had never told Mrs. Daylripple no, though day after day he had vowed to do so.

The truth was Mrs. Daylripple didn’t have a butler. Ever since Mr. Daylripple had died she had lived on a meager inheritance. Her staff had been let go years ago, and as she had stood on her front steps looking as fragile as small brown finch, William had been unable or unwilling to say no. Besides, she also had a touch of the gout. So, despite daily affirmations that today was the day he would ignore her and go about his business, William had always taken Sebastian to the park where the dog lifted his leg and took a morning piss on William’s shoes.

After Mrs. Daylripple had run out of comments about his less than satisfactory sartorial style, Claire Haversham and her husband Gunther had come to stand by his casket. Gunther had maintained the physique of a modern American football player beneath his Victorian garb and was known for his disreputable temper. Actually, Gunther’s temper had been more than reputation. Claire Haversham had sported dark bruises on her cheek and on her arms just above her gloves more times than William had cared to count. He’d never doubted that Gunther had been the one to place those bruises there.

Once when leaving Hookham’s bookstore, William had seen Claire in intimate conversation with a man who had not been Gunther, but having known Gunther’s monstrous temper William had overlooked the incident. William hadn’t told a soul, not even when he saw Clair and her friend taking an early morning walk in Hyde Park or when he had crossed paths with them in Covent Garden.

The last time Claire had seen William as well. She had begged with tears in her eyes, "Please, William, don’t tell Gunther. You don’t know what he will do. You don’t know how truly terrible he can be."

William had offered his handkerchief and sworn on his grave that as long as he breathed he would never, ever tell.

Having gained his oath, Claire had smiled and laid her hand against his cheek. "Thank you, William. Thank you dearly. You’ve saved my life."

Such a pretty sentiment... too bad she hadn’t remembered it at his funeral. Standing at his side looking at his lifeless corpse Claire had murmured the uninspired platitude: "Doesn’t William look lifelike?"

"More than he ever did in life." Gunther had chuckled.

"Gunther, please, you shouldn’t say such things."

"Why ever not?"

"Because someone might hear you which would be dreadfully embarrassing."

"You feather-headed bint. No one would care. It’s only William after all." Then Gunther had scolded: "Don’t demure like that, Claire. Watching you play your hypocritical little games is vexing and sets my teeth on edge. You know the truth as well as I, and don’t pretend you feel any differently. All of society is gleeful at the prospect of never again hearing the fop’s bloody awful poetry."

Claire had smothered a laugh. "True."

"There. A moment of honesty. I didn’t know you had it in your wretched little self."

"Do stop, Gunther. William may have been a twit, but he had his uses."

"Ah, did you manipulate him into keeping one of your many little secrets? Was it your French cher ami or your Italian Don Juan? Don’t say it was the bloody Irish fellow."

"Hush! Someone might hear."

"So? Everyone in society knows what a little whore you are. The only fool deluded enough to believe you possess even a shred of virtue is the one lying in this casket."

William had stopped listening to their bickering at that point. He wasn’t sure when they had drifted away, but he had been aware that Cecily was the very last to arrive.

Cecily Addams had stood over him while pleasantly conversing with Rosalyn Paddington-Smythe. They could have been discussing the weather for all the sympathy they had shown over his bloody demise.

"Can you believe that he did this for me?" Cecily said in a nauseatingly happy voice.

"For you?" Rosalyn had asked. "William was murdered."

"Oh piffle. That’s what they want you to think, but I know better. Last night he confessed he loved me, and when I said I’d have none of him, he turned ever so pale. I do believe I shattered his heart."

Rosalyn had snorted. "Little surprise there. All of society has known for ages that William was blind sick in love with you. Still there’s no reason to think his death was anything but what it appeared to be."

"He did himself in, I tell you," Cecily had snapped. "He was mad with love for me, and when he knew he could never have me, he slit his own throat. It’s quite romantic actually."

"More romantic than him mooning over you day and night?"

"Gads yes. That was mortifying. As if I would ever look twice in his direction. I’m glad he’s dead and will never bother me again."

"But you like the idea that he committed suicide over you?"

"Oh my, yes." Cecily had cooed triumphantly. "Ariel Castleton never had anyone commit suicide over her."

The rest of his funeral had passed in a nightmarish haze only to be followed by something worse... his burial.

William had heard the clatter of dirt on his casket, but had been unable to move or scream. In those moments of terror, thoughts had begun to race through his head. What if he wasn’t dead? What if he was only paralyzed and by burying him, locking him beneath six feet of earth, they were killing him? Slowly. He would die in the dark, alone, screaming... No one would hear. No one would know or care. Or worse, what if he WAS dead, but would remain forever alert, as he was now, thoughtful but trapped in stifling darkness? He would go insane, trapped in this box, in this dead body, a body that might decay while he still lived. Oh God... oh God.

For hours William had been plagued by the unthinkable, by night terrors that could not be banished because there was no candle to light. There was nothing, just black, still darkness that closed in on him, blinding him, suffocating him as it whispered of horrors that could not be put into words.

Spike remembered saying to Buffy not too many weeks ago that death was on her heels and that one day it would catch her, that part of her even wanted it to catch her. It would stop the fear and uncertainty, and, though she was incapable of admitting it to herself, deep down some part of her was just a little in love with it. He’d said: "Part of you is desperate to know. What’s it like? Where does it lead you?"

Those were dangerous questions. Questions he should have warned Buffy not to ask because those questions had lead William to hellish hours locked inside a casket with no way out. Even when the spell that had kept his body motionless had released its hold, William had been unable to free himself. He had pushed against the lid of his coffin screaming, screaming at the top of his lungs until there was no air left, just the still, stifling darkness. He had torn at the satin lining of his coffin until his fingers bled, and he had died a thousand deaths with no one there to know.

When at last he had fallen into a state of exhaustion and despair, William had heard a faint noise. Someone was digging him out. An eternity later the lid of his coffin had been lifted, and he had gazed into Dru’s insanely beautiful face. His angel. His own dark, demented angel. She had said in her singsong voice: "Anarchy is upon us. Let’s have some fun."

Dru had offered her hand and pulled William free of his grave. It was only then that he had noticed the large, dark man standing next Dru. The man had held a spade and had clearly been the one to do the digging. A small, strikingly beautiful blonde stood behind Dru, stroking Dru’s dark hair.

"Darling girl," the blonde had cooed. "You should have told us about your pet sooner. It couldn’t have been pleasant to have been locked in there for so many hours, and if you cannot take care of your pet you are not allowed to have one."

Dru’s eyes had widened. "Care? Oh, I do care, Grandmummy. I do."

The blonde had smiled benevolently. "Well, I suppose we can overlook this one incident. Just be sure to clean up behind him and keep him fed."

Dru had turned, laid her hand on the pale blonde’s cheek. "So weeping, a mystic shape did move and drew me backward by the hair..." she had chanted.

The blonde had looked nervous and pulled away.

"Dru," the dark man had growled, his slight Scottish burr shading the timber of his voice until it seemed to merge with the sounds of the night. "We have your playmate. It’s time to go."

"Go?" Dru had asked blankly. Then her eyes had lit with madly beautiful fire. She had approached William excitedly. "Guess now who holds thee?"

William had gazed uncertainly from creature to creature. From the demented Dru, to the smiling blonde demon named Darla, to the dark man Spike would later learn was called Angelus, one day to be known as Angel.

"Guess!" Dru had insisted as she had grabbed his lapels, pulling William further into the night. "Guess who holds thee. Not death. Do not say death."

Frowning a little, William had searched for the name. "Dru?"

She had laughed and the sound was like quicksilver. Beautiful, elusive, and deadly. "Noooooo. Not death. Not Dru. Love." Her laughter had died, and her eyes had become dark and distracted as if she gazed into distant worlds.

Then she had looked directly at him. "Love will always have you," she professed. "It will call to you and crush you and make you scream. You will nurture it and it will call you ashes. You will protect it and it will not see. Show it truth, and it will damn your eyes." Dru began to sway. "Stand you there between dark and bright. What will you choose?"

"What?" William was lost.

Dru’s gaze had narrowed. "Which will you choose?"

"I..." He had glanced at the other two, Angelus and Darla. Angelus had turned his back and walked away. Darla had given him a smile and a shrug that seemed to say she had no clue about the things Dru spoke of. Then she joined Angelus in the mist. William had been left alone.

Dru had offered her hand. "Which will you choose?"

Again William looked into her eyes - dark and soft, lost and childlike, shrewd and lethal. Dru alone had gazed at him in empathy. She had said he had strength and that his greatest wealth lay in his heart. Dru had wept over his dead body, though she had the least reason to weep. And she had come in his darkest hour to set him free.

"I choose you," he had answered, only half surprised by his words.

Dru had laughed, but it was a pleasant, inviting sound. Again she took his hand. "No. I chose you. Extra special." Tucking his hand into the crook of her arm, Dru had pulled him deep into the night.

They had followed in Angelus and Darla’s wake, walking from Tottenham Court Road to Leicester Square. William had been enthralled by the city he had previously thought he knew.

It was said that when you became a vampire you lost your soul and became possessed by a demon. Maybe that was true, but it hadn’t felt that way. It had felt like being set free. Night was no longer just darkness but a myriad of tints and shades, beautiful in their complexity. And sound became clearer in the crisp, cold air. Everything was more vivid and more vital... more wild.

There had been a scream in the distance. Dru had tugged his hand, pulling him down a labyrinth of back alleys until they came across a dreadful sight, a man savagely beating a woman as another man stood and watched. When the man who stood doing nothing saw the strangers now watching instinct must have warned him to run. Unfortunately for the bloke, he’d run into the beautiful Darla’s deadly arms.

"Oh, what a pretty boy you are," Darla had cooed before transforming her lovely face into that of a vampire. The man had begun screaming even before she sank her teeth into his throat.

Angelus had pushed past William, shoving him into the wall before grabbing the woman who had been so savagely beaten. If for a moment William had believed that Angelus was rescuing the woman, he could be forgiven. Initially it had looked that way, but looks could be deceiving.

Angelus had fallen ravenously on the woman. With gruesome, animalistic sounds he had ripped the bodice of the woman’s expensive dress and buried his face in her bosom. Blood soaked her lace chemise and pooled between her breasts. Then William noticed something he had not seen before. The woman was Claire Haversham.

William frowned. If that was Claire then...

William turned and saw that the remaining man, the man who had so savagely beaten Claire was Gunther. Gunther stood frozen in terror watching his wife’s brutal murder and he did not do a thing. He didn’t move or make a sound of protest; he just backed into the shadows as if hoping the demons would forget that he existed.

William would not forget.

Dru tugged at William’s sleeve. "Oh, do join the party. It’s your birthday. This party is meant for you!"

At the sound of Dru’s voice, Gunther looked up and saw them for the very first time. He had backed further into the shadows crying, "You! I know you. You’re... you’re dead!"

It was at that moment William’s transformation into Spike had become complete. Whereas before anger and rage had been something shunted to the side, now it coursed through him like a river of fire, bursting through dams that had long held unruly emotions in check. A blazing torrent of feeling flowed through him crashing and smashing and destroying all that stood in its path. All rules by which William had lead his life fell away, and Spike strode forward as power surged through him.

"Do I look lifelike now, you bullying git?" Icy disdain chipped away at William’s upper class accent, clipping his words sharply as Spike sent Gunther flying into the alley wall. Bricks were crushed to a fine orange and red powder and Gunther fell to the floor, his neck twisted at painfully awkward angle because his spine had been broken.

William - or had it been Spike - looked at Gunther’s broken body with an impossible mixture of horror and satisfaction. For once in his life William had stood up to a bully. For the first time since his death, Spike had killed; and, as Gunther’s lifeless form slumped gracelessly onto the ground, Spike found his sense of satisfaction outweighed any nagging regret. He’d given the brutal bloke his just due, and it had felt good. No, it had felt better than good. It had felt great.

Of course, giving Gunther what he deserved resulted in Gunther’s death. It was murder. There was no going back after that. Spike could never be William again, and all those silly thoughts of what was bright and gleaming and beautiful in the light of day was exchanged for the wildness and the darker, more complex beauty of the night. William was dead, and Spike was just learning to live.

Dru had clapped her hands. "Oh, what a clever, clever boy you are," she had gleefully praised.

Delicately wiping her lips free of the blood of Claire’s cher ami, Darla examined Gunther’s body and pronounced in a disturbingly calm and practical voice: "It’s a start."

Darla had then tapped William on the shoulder and said in a lecturing tone: "But you’ll starve if you only break them to bits. Drink first. Kill later."

To this day, Spike wasn’t sure whether he had truly meant to kill Gunther Haversham. Perhaps he had only wished to vent years of frustration. Maybe he had decided the brutal, bullying Gunther deserved a taste of his own medicine only he had underestimated his sudden preternatural strength. Or maybe he had simply been turned into a vampire, and that’s what vampires did: kill, without remorse and without pity. They were creatures of rage and destruction. They relished anarchy and thrived on chaos. It was their nature, and so perhaps it was inevitable that Spike embrace the wildness coursing through him just as he had embraced the insane beauty of the night.

Angel had dropped Claire’s lifeless husk on the ground next to Gunther, and without a backward glance he’d called over his shoulder: "It’s time to go."

Not knowing what else to do, Spike had followed.

That had been the beginning. And that had been the general way of things. They had hunted the streets of London like a lions hunted the Serengeti, culling the weak from the heard and stalking the most desired prey.

That had been Spike’s first triumph. Stalking.

It had been Gunther’s final words that had given Spike the idea. "You’re dead!" Gunther had cried in horror, and late one night, just as dawn had tinted the sky with the shades of pink and lilac that Cecily had favored in her dress, Spike had remembered Cecily’s glee in thinking that "William the Bloody" had committed suicide over her.

Spike sought out Cecily for the first time at the theater. Hamlet had been playing. It had set the perfect mood. After an evening of death and hauntings, a glimpse of the "dead" William in the crowd had been enough to cause Cecily to go quite pale. She had disturbed several of her companions asking if they had seen William as well. Spike had made quite sure they hadn’t.

Later he had followed her to the opera. Cecily had swooned. At the Paddington-Smythe Soiree, she had flown into a fit of hysterics. Spike lost count of the nights he had stood near her in the dark; just close enough to be seen but not to be touched. She would never be allowed to touch, to reassure herself that her eyes did not deceive her. Let her worry. Let her stew. Let her doubt her sanity. She would be allowed no way to prove that "William the Bloody" was real.

Spike became increasingly bold, allowing Cecily glimpses of him in half-light or speaking to her when she was alone on some dark terrace. He hid himself in the shadows but he stood near, very near, and in time he drew close enough for her to touch if she dared. She never did.

Spike had even invited Dru to the hauntings. Dru had found the mind games to be ever so fun. She liked the scent of fear in the air. She thought it was intoxicating. Dru had even thought of a few of her own troubling tricks to play. Dru was such a wonderfully wicked girl.

One frigid winter night she had bumped into Cecily outside the theater and slipped a bloodied handkerchief into Cecily’s muff. Cecily had discovered it while in a circle of her close friends, friends who had been horrified by the morbid souvenir in Cecily’s possession, for it had been quickly noted that the handkerchief bore William the Bloody’s initials. That became the moment when Society began to whisper that Cecily was obsessed with William.

Cecily swore he followed her in crowds and spoke to her when she was alone. He was dead as they all well knew for they had seen him buried, and yet Cecily would swear she saw him at the opera, or walking along the street as she left a ball. Society would make sympathetic noises as she raved, then behind her back they would whisper that Cecily was grief stricken over William’s demise. She was obsessed with the poor fellow. The more Cecily protested that this was not the case, the more certain Society became that it was.

Spike loved it.

He enjoyed watching her become increasingly agitated. He laughed as she developed a habit of glancing anxiously over her shoulder to look for him, always searching for his face. Society ‘tutt tutted’ over her actions and noted that Cecily had begun falling apart not long after William’s death. Of course, William and Cecily had always been devoted to one another.

Yes, it was revisionist history, but much of history is revised. Given the turn of events, Society reassessed Cecily and William’s association and concluded that Cecily had always been obsessed with him. Spike had laughed long and hard about that. It was impossible to describe the satisfaction he had felt as the story transmuted and changed from day to day until it was said that Cecily was the deluded creature with an unattainable love.

Then came the night that Spike had shown himself to her, not in shadows, not in a brief glimpse, but in her house... in her bedroom. Cecily’s shrieks of horror and distress had been earsplitting. He’d loved it. He’d even added to the effect by showing her his vampire face, but he hadn’t killed her. No, that had never been the plan.

Spike’s scheme had reached its intended climax when a shaking Cecily - still claiming that William was alive and a vampire to boot - had been dragged to the madhouse. She had been quite sane of course, but who would believe her. Vampires? Piffle.

She hadn’t stayed in Bedlam long, but it had been long enough. In their day and age and social circle, to be tainted by even a hint of scandal meant banishment from the golden circle. Cecily had become a pariah to the very social set she had wanted so badly to impress. She lived her life - her very LONG life - on the fringe of polite world where she stood not only unadmired, but unwanted.

Spike had taken great satisfaction in that, on William’s behalf, of course. It had to be on William’s behalf, because Spike no longer cared. He had Dru.

Angelus, however, had not been happy with Spike’s antics. He had been angered that William had shown himself to people who had known him in his human state. If anyone discovered that Cecily spoke the truth, they would become the hunted instead of the hunters. That was intolerable, so Angelus had dragged the four of them from London to Yorkshire.

However, despite Angelus’ rage and contempt, Spike had never regretted a thing. William "the bloody" may never have found vindication in life, but Spike had gained revenge after death. It would do.

Noticing car headlights passing down the street, Spike stepped behind the large oak tree in Buffy’s yard and remembered Dawn asking if he was a ‘nice vampire’. For once in his undead life, Spike had answered a question with the unvarnished truth. No, he was not nice, or kind. All kindness in him had died more than a century ago, killed not by a demon but by an unkind world.

After another car passed, Spike gazed up at the warm colored lights in Buffy’s house. They stood in stark contrast to the inky blackness of the night that surrounded him. In some way the kindnesses that had been extended to him beyond that door and in those lights was a balm to the soul that William had lost so long ago. Somehow knowing he had a standing invitation put some part of his inner rage to rest. Of course Spike knew the invitation was an illusion. He was not truly welcome or wanted - not today or in that Victorian parlor where he had professed love only to find rejection and humiliation. Still he clung to the invitation. Illusion that it was, it was better than nothing.

Spike pulled out his cigarettes and found the pack empty. Crushing the wrapper in his hand, he began the long, lonely walk to the Bronze. If he couldn’t have cigarettes he could at least have beer. He never saw the slender, swaying feminine form just beyond the border between dark and light.

Dru stood beyond the reach of the streetlamps chanting in her soft childlike voice, "Oh dear. You look so strange. Thought I warned you. Love is a devil who will not let you rest, though you pace upon mountains and hide your face in stars."

She pulled her cloak more tightly around herself. "There’s a chill in the air and the trees begin to cry. Birnam comes to Dunsinane, and I come for you. I chose you, Spike. Extra special."