Pride

Pride


The Soul is in despair. His mate has left him. And I am in the grip of such a rage as I have not known since I was a newly birthed demon.

He has renounced her. If only I had the strength to dominate him as he now dominates me. If only I could find a way to *get rid of him*! He *cannot* renounce her. She is my mate, and she will be that forever. The spineless, spiritless, pathetic moron. I’ll kill him!

And why do only I remember what has happened to me? He does not know what I have endured, nor the bargain I made to return. Why have I not forgotten my time in Hell, if he has no memory of it? I wonder, can the body not remember what happens to the spirit alone? I do not understand.

One thing is clear, though. I may know what is to come, but Soul Boy does not. That could work to my advantage, if I keep it from him.

Now, if I could only find a way to be free of him before it happens. He won’t have the spine to do what must be done. The servitude must be accommodated, for a time at least. I gave my word.

But, you know, perhaps my stay in Hell has done some good. My separation from him has cleared my mind a little. And I think I can see a way to get rid of that snivelling soul. I need to weaken him beyond despair, or I need to find him a moment of pure happiness. And I think I may know how.

Cordelia.

Ever since our stay in Egypt, it seems to me that I have a little more strength given to me by Aurelius’ blood. And there is the added power from the werewolf. He doesn’t use them – although he does use the strength we got from the Slayer’s blood; he can’t help himself – but I can, and will. If I am very, very careful not to let him notice what I am doing, I think that I can make him fancy himself just a little in love with Cordelia. On the rebound.

Whyever not? What is love, after all, but chemicals in the blood? The chemicals of emotional addiction. Being so newly returned to the body, I can tell exactly which chemicals they are – they are in his blood now, screaming for the Slayer. If I can find how to exert this small amount of extra power, to make this body secrete those chemicals, without him knowing, then I will have him at my mercy. Or rather, at hers.

He’s a man. He’s lonely and he’s frustrated.

He’s a vampire. He’s lonely and he’s frustrated.

His soul? His goodness? His self-control? Listen. He’s *dead*. His body is that of a *vampire*. Matter over mind, in this case. My – our – mate? He really, really wants to do her. He can’t even think of her without getting a hard-on, believe me. Okay, so he thinks of her rather more romantically than that. The verb might change, but the need doesn’t. And he can never have her again. He can’t even trust himself to touch her, because he knows how bad his need is. And I’m always there to help it along a little. Not only can he never have her again, he can never again have *anybody* that he loves, in all the long ages that are still to come. Ever. Wouldn’t that sort of get you down? And don’t you know that we always (and here I include humans as well as demons) want to do the things we are absolutely forbidden to do. Don’t we? In fact, those things often grow in importance until they fill our minds to the exclusion of all else. He’s in real trouble, let me tell you.

Blood, sex and power. Remember? That’s what vampires are all about.

Blood? He goes out to save the innocent, and blood gets spilled. Sometimes it’s his, sometimes it isn’t. Do you think he can’t smell it? Do you think he really *wants* pig’s blood? Do you think the smell of spilled human blood doesn’t wind him up as tight as a spring? Cordelia comes into work each day, but some days, well, you know what it’s like with women? One week in four? You can bet that he knows the time of the month at least as well as she does. All that blood, around him all the time, winding the spring a little tighter. You wouldn’t believe the nu of of times he has woken up to find that he has been biting on his own arm, just for the taste. It’s hell on the laundry, I can tell you.

Sex? She comes into the office, smelling of her liaisons. She’ll never be a virgin bride. Snigger? Who, me? He knows each one, now, the odd regular, and the one-night stands. He’d recognise them in the street. And the days when she’s ovulating, when she’s at her most receptive? In animals, you call it ‘in oestrus’, and say that humans have no such mindless urges. Please! On those days, she fills his nostrils as if she were a bitch in heat, or a calling queen. Those are the days when he daren’t come out of his cave until she’s pretty well ready to go home. That spring just went ‘tick’ again.

And when he patrols at night? The hookers turning tricks in the alleys he frequents? Do you know how often he watches them from cover, under pretence of keeping them safe? How often he goes home and jacks off in the shower? It’s a most unsatisfactory act, let me tell you. And there are other apartments in this building, as well as offices. Do you think a vampire cannot hear very well what goes on, even across all this distance? Can’t smell it? The creak of the bed – he can even tell which one is doing the creaking – the slap of skin on skin, the breathy moans and the cries of ecstasy? He knows all the pairings, now. Can you imagine how often his hands are busy under the sheets? He’s a vampire, damn it! Vampires *need* sex almost as much as we need blood. He’s no exception, no matter how much he acts the stoic. Someone tried to tell him once that he is a man with a demon inside him. He knows better. He’s a vampire, a demon. He’s me, with a side order of soul. And he has my urges.

Oh, he’s tried all the normal remedies over the last hundred years. Not that he knew then that there was a barrier to sex, you understand. He just went through periods when he tried to deny his vampiric nature completely. And deny himself any comforts – another part of his hairshirt penance. The religious zealots of old made an art form of mortification of the flesh by discipline and self-denial. He’s read all about it, tried it all. The self-denial is a bust, and discipline? Don’t make me laugh - *that* only serves to turn him on even more. Vampires get off on pain, don’t forget.

Power? Well, she’s the only one here, and he already thinks of her as his responsibility, the only member so far of his new pride. He’s her alpha, her pride master. Possession is nine tenths of the law, isn’t it? And possession can, in the short term, be mistaken for love. I only need the short term. The very short term.

So, that spring is just getting tighter and tighter. If I can find the right chemical switches, and make them work when I want them to, subtly, he’ll never know. Oh, intellectually he’ll know that he’s in love with the Slayer, and will never stop, that Cordelia is nothing more than a convenience. That won’t prevent him having enough feelings for the cheerleader to serve my purpose. Don’t blame me – don’t you always say that men think with their gonads, anyway? That’s what I intend him to do.

What have I got to lose? If I can give him enough of a happy with Cordelia, I win.

If I can tweak his bloodlust to the point where he drinks from her as well, even if he isn’t happy enough to lose his soul, he’ll be in such despair that I might, just might, be able to break through and gain the upper hand. And keep it.

And anyway, thinking back, she has been putting out the right pheromones whenever he’s around – she wouldn’t be averse to entrapping Mr Broody, especially after the Slayer’s abrupt departure, I’m sure. And do you know, I think there is something strange happening. Now that I turn all my corrupted senses to the problem, there seems to be some sort of mojo working here. From her. She’s doing something to entrap him. Well, let’s just help that along. I’ll worry about exactly what it is later. Small steps.

You don’t think I can do it? You don’t think that the bodies we inhabit still have the mechanisms to secrete the chemicals I need? You think the internal organs, the inner working parts are shrivelled and dead? Foolishness. I suppose you think the brain is shrivelled and dead? The bones crumbling to dust? The eyes rotting, the tongue swollen and black, the flesh putrid, and the skin flaking off in layers? No? Well, if *they* are functioning, why should the rest not be? You humans! You think you know everything, and you know nothing.

We don’t breathe, so you think the lungs are dust? Yet we can talk. Does that not require air, moved by the lungs and diaphragm? Our hearts do not pump as yours do, so you think the blood doesn’t circulate? Yet prick us, do we not bleed? A real life stiff certainly doesn’t. If our bodies are dead, why do we feel pain? And believe me, we do. A sword in the gut is very, very painful indeed. Would that be so if our guts were languishing palsied and dead? If our hearts were dried and withered in our breasts, so much useless rotten meat, why would a stake affect them? We are corpses, that much is true, but demonically activated ones. And the demon uses all of us, each and every part to achieve, and to enhance, the semblance of life in us. Waste not, want not. Otherwise, we would be no better than zombies. No, thank you!

You have heard that vampires can hypnotise their human prey? Lure you to us, make you do things you would not normally do? It’s all nonsense, such hypnotism in the way that you suppose. But we can do something that produces the same effect. We can choose to use whichever pheromones will serve us. You are creatures of your senses, just as much as any other beast. Scent is the most primal sense of all. But, you cannot consciously distinguish the scents that rule you, and so you believe they do not exist, that you are not reacting to them all the time, that you are better than the other animals.

You fool yourselves. You may not be able to recognise their scent, yet they still have you by the balls. Or whatever. The way you look when an attractive partner enters the room; the way your eyes dilate; the tingling up your spine and in your groin; ladies, the way your womb clenches at the thought of his hands on you; gentlemen, the way your cock twitches as you imagine her lips on you. Or whichever way round turns you on. The sly glances, the preening, the ‘accidental’ touching as you pass each other; the expansion of your personal space so that your very skin can *feel* the object of your desire even though they are on the other side of the room. Pheromones, children. Hormones. The chemicals of emotional addiction. Nothing more.

If I can gain just enough control of the small functions of the body, just enough to activate these primal mechanisms, I can start a veritable avalanche of hormones that could bring him down.

I think it’s worth a shot. Don’t you? Well, what else am I going to do? Besides, can you doubt that I’ll succeed? I’m too good not to. If it all goes down while he’s still in charge, he’ll never serve his new master. He’ll get us both killed. And her.


************

April

I have faithfully chronicled those year sep separation. I may be a demon, and an alien to your planet, but I am bound to the Mated Pair in a way that you do not understand. I am their servant here, bound by oaths of fidelity and service. I have felt their pain.

We have watched. We have watched their triumphs and failures, their small happinesses and their larger sorrows. Their disasters. The Slayer’s new sister. Angel’s new family. Their efforts to find comfort away from each other, none of them successful.

I was only a little surprised when Angelus – Angel – gradually turned his attentions to Cordelia – after all, the head of a vampire family surely has rights over all the members of that family? That is what I have been given to believe. I can certainly understand him exercising his position and his rights, as her dominant male, but he seems to be trying to replace Buffy. Does he wish to lose his soul again? Or does he know that he does not care for her in the same way, so there is no danger in that liaison, only relief? He’s a virile male, after all. Fascinating.

Spike seemed very surprised, though, and Buffy seemed hurt. I am given to believe that, in vampire families, there is no such thing as total fidelity. If the mate of one whose attention was wandering did not approve of the object of that pursuit, the worst that would happen would be a bout of physical violence, probably followed by rambunctious (is that truly a word?) and lengthy sex. That, of course, is not possible here, and Buffy is more or less human. So she seemed hurt. Certainly, she gave herself to several other males soon afterwards, callow youths all, and none of them could in any way compare to Angelus, so she quickly cast them off.

Spike went so far as to visit Los Angeles, although he was careful to remain unseen by Angel. He does not care that Angel might lose his soul – in fact he would welcome that. But he finds the behaviour to be out of character, and he was intrigued. He was very disturbed when he returned, saying that he thought there was ‘some mojo’ in operation, with Cordelia at its centre. He had to explain that to me, and we watched very carefully afterwards, but Angel seemed to remain unharmed, even if he still did seem to be enamoured of Cordelia. Spike was disappointed. I may be mistaken, but I think that the Slayer was, too, just a little.

I spoke to the Watcher, and we decided to leave things be. It was with reluctance on his part, but he truly believes that a moment of real happiness, such as that which cost Angel his soul with Buffy, is not easy to come by. I think he is of the opinion that, on balance, a vampire who is sexually satisfied but not contented would be safer for the world than one who is as taut as a bowstring. Who someday might not be able to resist returning to Sunnydale. He did not say so, but I gained the distinct impression that he could not envisage such a moment of happiness occurring with Cordelia. He did not explain his reason, but even I feel that he might be correct.

Still, I am less worried about the possible return of Angelus than he is. I am bound to Angelus after all. And to the Slayer. I must beware of the Watcher, though. He was not called ‘Ripper’ for nothing. I believe that, if Angelus were to return, the Watcher would not rely on the Slayer fulfilling her duty as he sees it, but would try to kill the vampire himself. That is why he has not taken action against the liaison with Cordelia, I think. If the soul is lost, he might have an excuse to do something he feels will spare his Slayer future pain. He has not, though, seen Angelus and the Slayer together in the way that I have, during those weeks of the Hylekian Games. So, I will watch him, and make sure that, if Angelus returns, no harm comes to him, if I can possibly prevent it.

Drusilla has gone, unable to stay where she had found such disappointment and loss. We do not know where, and Spike misses her dreadfully. We do not know what Angel thinks of her departure.

We have seen Angel’s struggles against the lawyers at Wolfram & Hart – paid lawyers, such a quaint notion. One would think that the profession had only been invented to provide gainful employment for those who would otherwise be indigent. Certainly, I have never seen it anywhere except on pla planet.

And we have seen the Slayer and Angelus’ childe, William, find some small solace in each other.

All of his family, his pride, have suffered their losses, had mts ots of victory, but none have been tried so much as the Mated Pair.

You have a saying in your world, ‘What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.’ It is as if we were all foot soldiers, cannon fodder, our mettle to be tested to make sure we were fit for battle. But the Master Vampire and the Slayer? It is as if they must be tested to destruction. Yet the Seers find nothing helpful.

The Seers came out of their seclusion after the Slayer’s visit to her mate, and would not speak of the event. Now, almost two years later, what they do say is that they can see some of the paths to the future. Well, path is not perhaps the right word. At its simplest, one might say that a path has two ends, but these have only one as yet. The paths are floating free, twisting in the winds of fate, no one knowing where any of them might lead, or whether any of them lead anywhere.

You can imagine that no seer would be very pleased with that.

They also say that futures are still being burned away in the fires of chaos, that freedom to choose is being extinguished, choice-by-choice. They have never known anything like it. May the Powers help us all.

And now we have watched whilst Angel was killed by his new family – there is no word more suitable than ‘killed’ – and Angelus released once more. Some of us see that more equably than others. The Watcher and Xander Harris are particularly… exercised… by that development. I think it is time for me to return from this visit to Hylek. Things might be changing.

************

Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.
The Bible
Proverbs, chapter 16 verse 18


Who would have thought it? After all that effort I put in to finding ways to bring him down, tied in with the magic that Cordelia was working on him, it was his gang of so-called friends who did the deed in the end. Murdered him, and freed me. I’m pretty sure that Cordelia was being manipulated by the one who struck a deal with me whilst I was in Hell. What do you think? Do you think it preferred to deal with me, a demon who keeps my word, or him, a souled vampire who would do his best to stop its grand designs? I know, there’s no contest.

And then it had to go and send The Beast as a minion. Now, why did it have to do that? I certainly didn’t sign up for earthquakes and rains of fire. This is MY state, and this most certainly is MY city. What? Because he thought of it as his you think I can’t claim it too? Think again. There’s a lot of underworld in this city. Just what I need. And I do not need all these out-of-town losers come to take advantage of the no-sun effect in Los Angeles. I have the Gem of Amara, if I need it, remember? Well, the Slayer does, on my behalf. This is not good enough, and has to stop. Giving your word to a bargain is one thing. Being screwed over is quite another. No one does that to me.

Unfortunately, they’ve all tried to stop it, and been pretty well beaten to a pulp. Even him, and he was fighting with almost as much power as me. Not quite – if he drank more human blood, it would give him more of an edge, and if he would just let himself go… – but he’s afraid that I’ll get loose. Was afraid. Past tense. It’s all past tense for him now.

Anyway, what I do know is that he was nowhere near beating The Beast. That’s why they letout.out. They think I know something that he doesn’t. The Beast knows me. In truth, I don’t know why. I don’t remember ever meeting it before. But I know why it’s here. It’s the appointed date and time. It must be the one I was told would come to set our bargain in place. I would be returned from the Underworld, but I would be in service to a *master*, this creature of smoke and shadows, for an unspecified time. Hey, it was the best I could do. Do you think I wanted the Furies to continue feeding on me for eternity?

Now, I have to deal with this monster that’s laying waste to my territory. And I’ve had a little unexpected help – you think I’m too proud to accept help? Not when it would be suicidal to refuse.

This morning, a parcel came. From Egypt. Aurelius. It’s the Gebel el-Arak kni you you know about that, I think? When Aurelius made it, it was a carved ivory handle – depicting Aurelius’ own becoming – with a bronze blade. Some aoh aoh or another broke the blade and had a flint one put in. Oh, I still have Aurelius’ Book of the Dead, but no one else has seen it. Not Wes, not Giles, not Ezrafel. No one. I haven’t read it all, but I’ve read about the knife. Last I knew, it was in the Louvre. Now it’s in Los Angeles. Mine.

Flint is very, very sharp, but too brittle. The Beast has manifested as something damned close to rock and lava. But the knife has a new blade now. Brand new. Obsidian. Volcanic glass, made from hardened lava. That might just do the job. And I can feel the tang of magic in it. Aurelius might have his uses, after all. He has collected a lot of prophecies, and he’s no slouch at seeing the future himself. Perhaps he knows what will kill The Beast, so I’ll take his help, for now. It won’t prevent him from getting his, though. I won’t forget how he’s treated me.

I know something that no one else here knows. I’m back, and for good. That *pathetic* soul will never trouble me again. Oh, that isn’t just wishful thinking. I do believe I told you once before to beware the power of three. Three is the number of completion, and the curse of the Rom has run to its completion. There’s nothing anybody can do to me to bring the soul back now. He’s lost it three times; once to Darla; once to the Slayer; and once to his friends in LA. Third time pays for all, don’t you say? In this case it does. The soul is gone to wherever souls go, never, ever to return. I’ll never have to listen to him again. It’s my time now.

I’ll decide later what to do with this little group of do-gooders, the ones he considered to be his family. It isn’t that I feel I have any obligation to them, you understand. It’s just that I have more urgent matters to attend to. I’ve been kept chained and caged by him, but I’ve been able to see and to feel. Only through him, but better than nothing. Lately, I’ve had some disturbing feelings about my mate. That’s where I’m off to next, as soon as I’ve rammed this excellent knife into The Beast’s skull.

************

I can hear the Slayer coming now. You might think that my circumstances are reduced since last we spoke. I was living in a mansion then, I’m in a crypt now. It’s fine by me. I couldn’t bear the mansion after we lost *him*, but I stayed there for Dru. Then, when she decided to leave, I had the choice of going with her or staying here, in Sunnydale. I stayed, but I couldn’t live in the mansion. Too many memories. The others are there, but not me. There’s more privacy here, any way.

Privacy is good. She misses him, too, and privacy is better so that we can miss him together. We’ve been having… carnal relations is, I think, how you would put it politely, for a while now. I have something she wants, and she has something I want. Him. For a little while, we can pretend. Her human senses can’t detect it, but her Slayer senses know that I still smell of him. I’m his childe. I will always carry his scent. So does she. She’s his mate. Oh, she told me – eventually – about that pillock renouncing her. He can’t. An eternal mate can never be renounced, and somehow, that’s the mating they’ve created. There should have been the proper rites and ceremonies, but I can smell what they are. They own each other, body and spirit, forever. Even the final death of one can only separate them until the survivor dies too. You have no appreciation of the complexities of scent, so don’t ask me to explain. Just accept it. Accept - that’s something they ought to do. The Sire hasn’t explained it to her, and he damned well should have.

So, she comes here to be with the little of him that is left to her. I stay here to be with the little of him that is left to me. And we have… carnal relations… pretending it’s with the one we both miss.

Apart from anything else, she can’t have sex with a normal guy. At least, not the sort of sex where she can let herself go, let herself just *be*. She’d break his spine, for one thing. And I still have this bloody chip in my head. I’m not a proper vampire anymore – that’s why Dru left, in the end. Who could I have sex with now? But also, it’s the vampire way. Mates and childer console themselves with each other when the mate, the sire, the master of the pride, is absent for long periods. Or lost.

She’s here now. She looks forlorn. We have a godling on our hands, and none of us can beat her. Glory. She’s after the key to open the dimensions, so that she can go home. Dawn, the Slayer’s pseudo-sister, made flesh by some bloody monks. There’s nothing pseudo about her feelings for Dawn, though. Not like her feelings for me.

Oh, she likes me well enough. As well as she can like any demon that isn’t the Sire. She is, after all, head of the family, what he liked to think of as his pride, in his absence. The head of the family has never been anything but a vampire, of course, but Aurelians have always been a bit unconventional. Why should we change now?

She just doesn’t like me in the love me way. She never will. It’s all about him.

She’s undressing now. She doesn’t speak, we rarely do. Sometimes we speak afterwards, but it’s always about him. There’s never much conversation in these encounters. It would spoil the illusion. And I am desperate for the illusion not to be spoiled tonight. I cannot begin to explain how much I have missed him. How much I have felt his call in my blood. Things in LA are going to hell in a hand basket, and we have had no news from them for weeks, since that one phone call telling us they could cope, and to tend to our own problems. He has felt very close in recent days, though, and his smell on her is much stronger.

I need him. I damn well wish he were here, of course, but after the beating I got from Glory, I really do need him. We all do, even those that won’t accept it.

Now she’s stretching out beside me, lithe as a cat, and I can just breathe in the scent of her. Of him. I run my hand over her flank, just like he would let me do with him, sometimes, feeling the tremors in the flesh. She’s in a submissive mood. It won’t last long, it never does, but just for the moment, she wants to feel that she’s got someone stronger than herself around. After all, she has to be the strong one when it comes to fighting Glory, and even that isn’t sg eng enough. We’re all worried about Dawn, and whether we can hide her, but Buffy most of all. Just for now, just for the hour she is going to spend here, she needs to be taken care of. And if it can’t be him, I’m thxt bxt best thing. I think harder about him, conjure his picture in my mind, and imagine his hand on my flesh. It will bring out his scent on me, and whether her senses recognise it or not, the mate in her will respond. She will be comforted.

My hands move up her body, finding each tender spot, each place that she loved him to touch. I know all of them now. She’s shown me. When it gets to be my turn, she knows, too. I’ve shown her.

I roll over a little and cover her body with mine. She’s ready for me, I can tell. I lift her thighs and slide gently in. I’m not delaying too much, this first time, not tormenting her. She needs the edge taken off – so do I – and I’ll be able to take more time with her once I’ve done that. The rhythm I set is hard, but she needs it. Just a little more, I can see by the look on her face, and I bite my lip to hold back my own fulfilment. Then she holds her hand out and cries ‘Angel!’. But she isn’t looking at me. And the scent of him fills my nostrils, warms my blood.

I look behind me, and it’s him. Not Angel. Angelus. Thank the dark lords. He’s back.

“Si…”

**************

I remember when I felt differently. I remember the days when I felt more… amenable. When I felt that there might be more to existence than a demon’s passion, a demon’s rage. When I thought that perhaps there were other emotions worth sampling. How stupid could I be? A brainless, thick-witted, vacuous, puerile *simpleton*! A moonstruck gowk, a ridiculous schoolboy!

Now, as I stand here in demon face, the black rage consuming all other emotion in its fury, watching the ashes of my erstwhile childe sifting down over her, staining her sweat-sodden skin, I know that I will never feel anything again other than those feelings proper to a demon. She will feel them too.

I look at my hands for one moment, still held out as if in supplication … as if! … still held out from where they ripped his faithless head from his traitorous shoulders. And dusted him. Then I deliver one felling blow to her, and as she slumps into unconsciousness, I lift her onto my shoulder – never mind her clothes, she’ll have no need of those where she’s going – and I leave this place of betrayal, leave the remains of my very own Judas. He deserves nothing better. And we’ll see what she deserves.

I haven’t been back to the mansion yet. I started to go there, but I knew that was the wrong place. Hiding themselves and their infidelities away in a *crypt*! Did they think I wouldn’t find them? I can smell him on her, him and his seed. I cannot tell you what an offence that is to me. Does she carry his fang marks, too? If she does…

I remember how I felt, sitting in the oak tree outside her bedroom window after the werewolf had bitten me. The tide of unreasoning rage. The need to tear into her flesh, to feel her blood sliding over my jaws. How hard I fought to control myself so as not to hurt her. Those were feelings of bliss, compared to how I feel now. I wish I had never bothered. I am beside myself, and I really don’t know how this will end.

The mansion is clearly occupied, but equally clearly, they don’t expect me. It seems that Soul Boy’s second family haven’t told the people here how they killed him. Of course they wouldn’t. They expected to be able to slip that greasy soul right back in. And it was easy to make them believe they had, with Witchy Willow casting her spells. They should feel lucky that I left them alive and untouched. That might not be the case in Sunnydale.

Ah, there’s a minion opening the door – I don’t recognise him, but I’ll worry about that later. And about how long he kept me on the doorstep. His Lord and Master! I can only smell Dru faintly. She’s gone from here, and she’s been gone a long time. Who’s left, I wonder? But that, too, can wait until later. Everyone I see knows enough to avert their eyes in submission as I stalk through my Hall, and take the stairs to my rooms three at a time. These had better have been kept ready for me.

They have. Someone will be rewarded for that. I’ll let them live. I don’t know who else will be that lucky. Mundane thoughts, all. Mundane thoughts to fend off the larger thoughts? Or to keep my brain thinking at all? To stop me from simply tearing her to shreds and feasting on her remains. I remember having that thought before, when she was not at fault. At least, no more at fault than her simple existence warranted. She lived through that. I don’t know whether she will live through this. Whether I want her to. But I know that if I give in to that urge, the world will burn. Perhaps I should let it. It contains nothing but pain, in any event. Such a pity that I was in so much haste to slay The Beast, and get back here to her. I should have let it continue its path of destruction.

There’s a hook in the ceiling, for the chains. There’s a lot more ironwork on the other side of the ceiling, holding that hook secure. It will hold the strongest vampire. It will hold her. The chains are in the bottom drawer of the dresser, just where they should be. She’ll waken before long. To try and clear my clouded mind, ready for the hours, days, or even years, to come, I’ll take a shower. Have some blood. Mundane thoughts. Mundane deeds. For now.

*************

I think it’s the pain in my arms that awakens me. It takes a few moments for my shocked mind to face the reality of what is happening. Angelus is back. Spike is dead. Angelus killed Spike. But the thoughts are simply words. They don’t seem to have any meaning. Just words in my head.

Until I look down, that is, and see Spike. What’s left of him. Dust and ashes, sticking to the sweat of my body. Then, I can barely keep in the scream. But I mustn’t show weakness, never weakness, in front of this strongest of vampires. This demon, who is almost certainly mad again from the years of incarceration by Angel.

Angel.

I need him now. Where is he?

I’m hanging from some strong, heavy chains fixed to a hook in the ceiling. I remember the hook well. In happier times, we’ve joked about it. The joking’s over now. I’m hanging in manacles that are a far cry from the delicate, padded toys we laughed about. They’re solid aold,old, and digging into the flesh of my wrists. Blood has dribbled down my arms already. I’m standing on my toes, and the joints are aching. I’m naked, and my only covering is … Spike. This is not how Angelus and I teased each other it would be.

Neither is he. The bed, that huge, once-comfortable haven, in which I’ve known nothing but pleasure, is right in front of me. He’s lounging on it, propped up against the headboard, one arm thrown negligently over the pile of pillows next to him, the other hand holding a cut crystal goblet. It’s full of something red, and I really don’t think it’s wine. Even at his worst, I have never seen him look so. His human face, his eyes, have the flatness, the blankness, of a snake. He’s wearing only a pair of black leather pants, and a black shirt, completely unbuttoned, showing his pale and still chest.

A whimper tells me that someone is in the room with us. Angelus turns his head a little in the direction of that sound, and I can see her, on the floor by the bed. A woman, small and blonde. Like me. Naked. Like me. Cowering in a huddle. Chained to the floor by a shackle around her ankle. She’s covered in bite marks.

He turns back to me, and suddenly he’s on his feet, gone from lounging to standing with no apparent state in between. He puts the glass down carefully and stalks over to me. One thing I’ve noticed – his hands are shaking. Why would that be? Is it rage, still? God help me, for no one else can.

He’s standing right in front of me, now. Close enough that our almost-touching skin creates a tingling charge between us. There is no point of contact, but I can feel him in every pore, raising every hair. And then he moves back a step and he’s in demon face. Will I finish up like that girl? Only if I’m very lucky.

He runs one claw gently down the angles of my face.

“My beautiful, faithless jade.”

His voice is soft as silk, harsh as iron. He circles around me, and I can feel that questing finger gently exploring the contours of my spine.

“My harlot.”

Now it’s my hip.

“My fair Cyprian.”

He stops talking as he circles round to where he started, facing me. With one hand, he lifts my chin until he can look in my eyes. And I can look in his. There’s nothing there. Angelus has always been soulless, so it’s pointless to say that’s what’s lacking in his eyes. Before, they’ve always sparkled with life; been full of fire and passion, full of excess of every kind. Now it’s an excess of nothing.

He brings his lips close to my ear.

“My mate.”

He grinds the words out as though they are intolerable to him. I don’t understand half the words he’s using, but I don’t suppose they are words of love. I can only guess that these are spiteful words from his youth. The timbre of his voice changes as he speaks, an edge of madness creeping in that I’ve heard before. Except that it was saner, then, when he only wanted to destroy the world.

“My doxy, rather. My wanton Messalina. My little grisette. I should have known. I should have known by the way you first gave it up to that whimpering, spineless apology for a vampire that you were nothing but another barque of frailty, just another trull. A prettier piece than most, but a common drab, nonetheless.”

He’s shouting now, his spittle spraying over my cheek.

He moves behind me again, and I can hear the small noises of his buckle being undone, and of his zipper. And then he’s in me, his claws digging into my breasts, drawing blood, as he thrusts with all his vampiric strength. He isn’t holding back. This is punishment and dominance. And it hurts like hell. He has no intention that it should do anything else.

I want to cry. I want to cry out. Like a terrified dog, I want to empty my bladder. But some instinct tells me that I dare not do any of those things. I *know* that if I show weakness, his predator instincts, so close to the surface at the best of times, might just appear and allow him to tear me limb from limb. I can only afford to show him strength – the strength he expects in a mate. And so I endure.

Then, he’s finished. With a roar, not of pleasure, but of possession, dominance and rage, he finishes, resting most of his weight on me, tearing at my shoulders and wrists. Fresh blood trickles down my arms, and he growls, the growl of a large and hungry cat. A big cat, defending its kill. When I can’t see his face or his form, it’s easy to forget that he’s anything like human. He loosens the grip that his claws have on my breasts, and as he does so I can see that his hands are still shaking.

It’s going to be a long night. I don’t know whether to hope for that or not.

************
Continued in chapter 5