Dead Soul
RATING:NC-17
WARNINGS:graphic sex and violence, sadomasochism, bloodplay, implied character death, unrelenting cynicism and angst, and just a soupçon of blasphemy
PAIRINGS:Spike/Sunday (BtVS, Season Four, The Freshman), Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Sunday/Drusilla>
SPOILERS:BtVS - none past Season Four
DISCLAIMERS:I own nothing and no one.The story title is a line from the song Blank Generation by Richard Hell and the Voidoids.Chapter titles are the titles of Elvis Costello songs.
THANKS:to my terrific betas, SpikeMom, juliaabra and Lady Starlight who make me go back and describe things more, who slay the insidious typos, oh, and who make me use more commas (grumble, grumble).And to astraea for the gorgeousness that is her – eyeballs to entrails
FEEDBACK:might make me too happy to write, which may, perhaps, be a consummation greatly to be desired.Worth a try, anyway - deadsoul820@aol.com> or my LiveJournal
SUMMARY:a twenty-year vampiric globetrotting ménage a trois with lots of really twisted sex and yummy gore.Oh, and angst, lotsa angst.Sequel to Sunday Girl
By
the time we got out of the bathtub and into our clothes, the night was quite
advanced and the streets were mostly deserted. Spike wasn’t having any of the scooter
we’d appropriated the night before.
I beckoned the parking valet over to where Spike was lurking in the
shadows, drawing him away from the entrance of the hotel and the bored gaze of
the night concierge. Spike snapped
the boy’s neck before he could say anything more than, “Che cosa-” and
helped himself to the huge ring of carefully labeled keys hanging from a chain
on his belt. He dragged the body
into the dense bushes surrounding the hotel.
We
sneaked into the garage under the hotel.
Passing by our lowly scooter, Spike chose a gleaming black Jaguar XJ
sedan. Picking through the key
ring, he found the right key and opened the passenger door for me, gesturing me
in with an old-fashioned flourish and a bow. “Your carriage awaits,
Madam.”
“Thank you, sir, you are most kind,” I said, doing a dreadful
impression of his own dreadful impression of a highfaluting aristocratic
accent. I think I probably sounded
like Scarlett O’Hara with a head cold.
I slid into the buttery leather seat, and he closed the door behind me
with that solid, almost muffled, thunk that only the doors of the very best cars
have. He went around to the
driver’s side and got in. The
engine purred nearly silently when he started it, and we stole out of the garage
like the shadow of a storm cloud gliding across the moon. He didn’t turn on the headlights until
we’d gotten several blocks from the hotel.
Spike obviously had some experience in grand theft
auto.
“Where are we going?” I asked idly, although I didn’t much care. I was enjoying the warm spring breeze
coming through the open window and the Verdi that had been in the car’s tape
player.
“Surprise,” he said, looking over at me with a wicked grin. He paused then asked, “How good are you
with your game face?”
“Game
face?”
“Y’know, vampire face.
How well can you control it?
Can you turn it on and off at will, or is it just something that happens
when you’re about to fight or feed?”
“Oh,
is that what you call it? Makes
sense. Pretty good, I think. Sneaks up on me sometimes if I get mad,
but mostly I only wear it when I feed, and I can shake it off right
afterwards.”
“Lemme see.”
I
looked down at my lap, then out the window, thinking furiously. I really didn’t want to do it in front
of him. I was afraid he’d think it
was ugly. I knew I’d have to show
him eventually; how else was I going to eat? But here? Now? It was too soon. I didn’t even know, myself, what it
looked like. When I’d been taking
pictures of myself with the Polaroid, I’d been scrupulously careful not to catch
it. I hadn’t wanted to know then,
but now I was wishing I’d had at least an idea.
“Come
on, let me see. Or were you just
talking big?”
“Just
take my word for it, okay? I can
turn it on whenever I need to.”
Spike
pulled the car over with a screech, bumping the tire up over the curb. He grabbed my arm and jerked me around
to face him. He drew back his arm
and backhanded me across the face, then hit me again from the other
direction. “Do it,” he snarled,
eyes gleaming yellow in the dark, the ridges of his brow standing out starkly in
the glow of the streetlamp.
I
stared at him, my eyes big and round, shocked by this unprovoked attack. I reached up to touch my stinging face,
but he grabbed my wrist and twisted it.
I pulled away with all my strength but couldn’t break his grasp. A frenzy, born of fear and stubbornness
and confusion, came over me. I
fought him tooth and nail, flailing and kicking, barely noticing the change when
it happened. He didn’t try to hurt
me back; he only held my arms, throwing a hard-muscled leg across mine to still
my kicks, until he had me pinned back against the leather seat. I turned my face from him; trying to
hide it until I was able to turn it off, put it away.
It
was no good. With one strong hand,
he grabbed my jaw, forcing my head towards him. But when he saw my tears, tears of
anger, frustration and humiliation, his grip became gentler, and he moved his
thumb to brush them away.
“You
think I won’t like your face? Is
that what this is about?” he asked, voice soft and solicitous. “Here, let me look.” He let go of my jaw completely and,
instead, used his hand to trace my, as I imagined them, grotesquely deformed
features. I was searching his face,
trying to assess his reaction, looking for any sign of distaste, any hint of
rejection.
“You
got lucky,” he said. “As vampire
faces go, yours is quite nice.”
I
blinked and said, in a small voice, “I-It is?”
“Yeah, always a gamble, though.
What it’s going to look like.
Sometimes the prettiest girls, the handsomest blokes’ll end up with a
phiz like a bag of spanners. Brows
hangin’ over so far, you don’t know how they can see, mouth like a bucktoothed
jackrabbit with a gob full of rusty knives. You’ve got about the prettiest set of
teeth I’ve ever seen on a vamp, white and sharp as
needles.”
I had
to smile, but it was a very self-conscious smile. “So I won’t give you nightmares,
then?”
“Your
face won’t, anyway. Your behavior,
however, well, we’ll see. Now, let
me see you take it off.”
I
hadn’t been bragging, I normally did have quite good control. I’d spent hours practicing in the
basement, training myself to let it show only when I was feeding or when it was
necessary to put a scare into someone.
Smooth as butter, I shifted, immediately feeling much better and more
attractive.
“Not
bad, now switch back.”
Scowling at him, I did as he asked, putting it on and taking it off
several times. Finally he conceded
that I hadn’t been lying, that I did, indeed have decent control. “Guess you’ll do,” he said with a sly
grin.
“I
know that expression,” I accused.
“What’ve you got up that black leather sleeve of
yours?”
His
grin just widened as he pulled off the curb, and back into the deserted
street.
***
About
half an hour later, he stopped the car in, what seemed like, the middle of
nowhere, although I could still see the glow of the city’s lights behind
us. Quiet country night noises were
all I could hear after he’d turned the engine off, the rustling of small
nocturnal animals, the wind in the trees.
He’d pulled up next to a concrete slab with a manhole cover in the center
of it – the only sign of civilization in this little clearing. He stuck a finger in the cover’s hole
and wrenched it up, letting it fall to the side with a clang that echoed
loudly. Reflexively, I caught my
breath and looked around to see if anyone had heard it. Of course no one had – there was no one
within miles of this place. “Get a
wiggle on,” Spike said, as he disappeared into the pit of utter darkness. His voice floated back up, hollow and
eerie, “We haven’t got all night.”
“Better be someone down here to eat,” I muttered to myself,
descending the creaky, rusty old iron ladder, feeling carefully for each rung as
I went down and down. I have no
idea how long the climb down was.
By the time I got to the bottom, the manhole was just a gray circle the
size of nickel.
“You
ready?” Spike asked right in my ear and I jumped.
“You
prick, you scared me!”
“Here, hold onto my coat, we’ll be without a light for the next
couple hundred yards.” The ceiling
of the tunnel was so low that Spike had to stoop a bit. Since I’d worn flat-soled boots, I could
stand up straight, but just barely.
After just a few steps, the dim moonlight filtering down from the shaft
had faded away. I put on my face
again, and that helped my vision for a few steps more, but even the best, most
uncanny, eyes need some light. Soon
I was just following Spike blindly, trusting that he knew where we were
going.
The
blackness seemed interminable, but it was probably only a couple of minutes
until I saw a reddish glow ahead of us.
As the light grew, so did the sound of voices. Voices chanting like priests. As we neared, I could tell that the
chanting was Latin, but I’d never studied enough of the language to be able to
tell what they were saying.
I
looked around. The walls of the
tunnel were covered, floor to ceiling, with slots, each about six feet long and
two feet high. In some of the
slots, I could see the faint pale gleam of bone, in a few, an entire,
still-articulated skeleton. I
shivered. I’d read about these
places. We were in the
catacombs. The faint stench of
ancient death and decay hung in the still air.
We
drew near enough to the red light coming from an arched doorway to see the
black-robed figures circling around a leaping bonfire while they chanted, but we
didn’t go through. Spike drew me
off to the left through a smaller archway and into a small, cell-like room lit
only by a candle. A single, robed
figure was in there, sitting on a small stool, the robe’s hood drawn over his
head. He looked up as we entered,
and I stopped dead in my tracks, frozen, completely unable to move. But when he stood, I found I could move
after all. I could move backwards,
and with as much haste as possible.
Before I could get more than a couple of steps away, Spike caught my arm
and stopped me, pulling me back into the room. “Be good now. Freddy’s an old friend.” He let go of me and approached the
enormous monster. “Freddy, me old
son! How’s it
hangin’?”
The
monster roared something that might, conceivably, have been ‘Spike,’ and
engulfed him in a huge bear hug with much manly back-pounding, which Spike
heartily reciprocated. The beast
emitted a growling, rumbling mumbling and Spike, to my amazement, rumbled right
back to him.
Spike
extricated himself from the embrace and reached a hand back to me. I let him pull me forward as he said,
“Freddy, (rumble, growl) Sunday, (snarl, rumble, growl,
snort).”
The
creature, Freddy, held out a huge, clawed hand to me and, with much trepidation,
I put mine in his, expected it to be mauled, the bones crushed to powder, but he
was surprisingly gentle. I nodded
and said, with as much confidence as I could muster, “Nice to meet
you.”
While
Spike and Freddy continued their animalistic impersonation of a conversation, I
had a chance to examine Freddy a little more calmly, with a little less blind
panic. He was huge – he had to be
between seven and eight feet tall.
He had curled ram’s horns on either side of his head and a long chin that
came to a squared off point several inches below where a normal chin would
stop. Kind of like the beards of
Egyptian pharaohs, only not quite that long. He skin was darkish and reddish, it was
hard to tell by the light of the one candle, and he had exaggeratedly prominent
cheekbones and sharp fangs, although not quite in the same configuration as
Spike’s and mine. The robe poked up
over his shoulders like there was something bony or spiny protruding there, and
similar, but smaller protrusions marched down his spine.
Finally, Spike turned back to me and said, “Freddy here has a show
tonight, and he’s invited us to participate.”
“What
do you mean?”
“Silly gits in the other room think they’re summoning a demon, and
Freddy’s here to oblige them.”
“Freddy’s a demon?
Vampires aren’t the only demons?”
“You’ve got eyes – what else could he be? There’re more kinds of demons than there
are breeds of dogs. Freddy’s a
Fyarl demon. In general, they’re
not too bright, but he’s kind of their token genius. Got himself quite an act. Kinda the livin’ embodiment of ‘be
careful what you wish for.’ Well,
if you’re wishin’ for demons, anyway.”
Since
we’d been in the room with Freddy, I’d been listening with half an ear to the
chanting, which had been steadily growing louder, faster, and more
frenzied. They seemed to be at a
fever pitch now, wails and screams punctuating the speed-Latin. Freddy bent to raise a trap door in the
floor and growled something before climbing down the hole. Spike translated,
“Showtime.”
Spike
took down a couple of spare robes from hooks set the wall. “Take off your clothes and put this on,”
he said, handing one to me. “It’ll
save them from getting ruined.”
After changing into the robes, we crept back into the tunnel and watched
through the wide archway. The demon
summoners, maybe fifteen of them, some still in their robes, some naked, were
circling round the huge bonfire.
They all seemed to be in their late teens to early twenties – just the
age to start fooling around with Satanism and the occult in an effort to shock
their parents and impress their friends.
If anyone was asking for it, it was these idiots.
The
room was a chapel, complete with altar and mosaics of saints and other religious
figures. It looked ancient – a
strange mixture of Byzantine and Roman styles. But past the bonfire, one’s eye was
drawn most immediately to the huge inverted crucifix behind the
altar.
“So
what’s the scoop on churches?” I whispered to Spike. “Can we go in
them?”
“Sure, but this one’s deconsecrated, anyway. Shh, watch now.”
The
wailing and thrashing increased to the point of hysteria as the flames of the
bonfire suddenly started burning a smoky, sickly green. As the chanters fell about, choking and
gasping, Freddy stepped out of the flames, raising his arms and roaring. Those still standing fell to their knees
then their faces as he towered over them.
“That’s our cue,” Spike said, and we entered the deconsecrated
chapel. Iron gates were opened flat
against the walls on either side of the doorway. Spike gestured to me; I went to one
side, and he went to the other. We
closed the gates and, using a heavy chain and padlock that had been looped
through the bars on his side, locked them shut.
“Put
your game face on and drop your robe,” he said so quietly that I could barely
hear him, but he could have yelled it at the top of his lungs for all the
attention they’d have paid to us.
Naked
and together, we picked our way through the prostrate cultists to stand on
either side of Freddy. He took our
hands in his and raised them, roaring something incomprehensible, which Spike
translated into English for me, and Italian for those on the floor, “These are
my lieutenants, my surrogates. Obey
them as you would obey me! Feed
them as you would feed me!” The
roar dropped to a seductive rumbling purr, “Pleasure them as you would pleasure
me.”
Freddy dropped our hands and flung off his robe. To this day, I’ve never seen a cock as
huge or as terrifying as his. Evil
I may have been, stupid I wasn’t. I
vowed silently that he wasn’t getting anywhere near me with that thing, and
Spike had damn well better back me up on that.
And
so I witnessed, and participated in, my first orgy. Since I was still awfully hungry and
still pretty well sated sexually by our bathroom fun, blood was the first thing
on my mind. I grabbed up the first
person I could get my hands on, not caring about gender or attractiveness, and
fed.
When
I was finished and had let the lifeless body slide from my grasp, I looked
around me. Freddy had somehow
managed to get himself into a girl while several others held her in place so
that his huge prick bloodily sawing in and out of her wouldn’t drag her back and
forth across the floor. Spike was
feeding on one man while another knelt at his feet, sucking his cock. I was momentarily taken aback, but as I
watched, I realized that the sight was arousing me. And annoying me. Someone began pawing at my knees, trying
to get my attention. Irritably, I
reached down and snapped its neck.
I never even bothered to look at whom I’d just
killed.
Spike
tossed his dinner’s body away. He
put his hands in the other man’s hair, shoving himself harder and faster into
the man’s mouth until he came, twisting the man’s head so sharply that I could
hear the bones of his neck snap over all the moaning and screaming and general
carrying on. The last few spurts of
Spike’s semen fell on a dead face.
Peevishly, I wondered if that guy had given Spike better head than I
had. I was still smarting from his
words after my very first, and so far, only complete blowjob, “Points for
effort, love, but the technique still needs some work.” So, sauce, I thought, you’ve
met the gander, now meet the bitch.
Seizing a guy at random, I dragged him up the short flight of stairs
to the altar in front of the upside-down jesus on a stick. I hopped up on it and sat with my legs
spread wide. Grabbing his head, I
thrust it between my legs. I
beckoned for more worshippers, and more came. Soon I had four people doing their
fervent best to give me pleasure, to worship me with their hands and
tongues. I was stretched out on the
altar; hot, sucking mouths attached to my nipples, my cunt, even my toes. Understandably, quite soon I didn’t care
what Spike was doing or with whom.
I’ve
been to more than few of these things over the years, and it’s been my
experience that, after a while, orgy = one big blur. I don’t remember how many I killed, how
many Spike killed, how many Freddy killed.
Ditto on whom and how many got fucked. But I do remember how it
ended.
He
was at that moment, that perfect moment right before you come when that’s all
you can think of, all you can feel, and the Second Coming couldn’t distract you
from your goal. He writhed
underneath me, as I rode him, gasping for breath, as I clutched him with the boa
constrictor muscles of my inhumanly strong cunt. Just as he was about to have the best
orgasm of his short and pathetic life, I clamped down hard, gave one vicious,
little sideways wriggle of my hips and ripped his cock clean off. He had a moment to come to the stunned
realization of what had happened and to feel the pain. I let him scream a couple of times
before ripping his throat out and gulping down huge draughts of his hot, spicy
blood, blood positively saturated with testosterone, endorphins, and adrenaline
– the ingredients of lust, fear and pain.
As I
raised myself off his dead body, I glanced over at Spike who had been watching
the whole thing with gleeful licentiousness, and stroking himself to
rifle-barrel hardness. I prowled
over to where he sat on the steps leading up the to the altar, straddled him,
and, reaching down between my legs with both hands, I opened myself wide and
pulled out the dripping remains of the dead guy’s little minchia. Leaving one hand busily rubbing my clit;
with the other I brought the pathetic little scrap of flesh to my mouth, sucking
the blood that was still dribbling from the torn end of it, moving it in and out
of my mouth in a triumphantly sadistic backwards fellatio. Oh yeah, I thought, that’s the
sauce for this bitch.
Tossing it aside, I lowered myself onto Spike’s much more
satisfactory erection. When he was
inside me as far as he could go, I tightened around him, cooing archly into his
ear, “And don’t think for a moment that I’ve forgiven you for slapping me in the
car.” I gave him a first, er, hand
demonstration of the little move I’d just recently found to be so effective,
and, while his cock was in no immediate danger, he did catch his breath
in instinctive alarm before giving me an ‘Okay, you got me’
grin.
But he got me back by rolling us over, pressing my back against the sharp edges
of the steps, and fucking me fast and hard, burying his fangs into the place
where my shoulder met my neck. I
shuddered in passion before answering in kind, sinking my teeth into his hard,
white flesh and sucking in his rich, heady blood. This was totally different than feeding
from humans. It wasn’t food; it
was the purest essence of sex, of belonging, of communion. I drank of his blood in remembrance of
who I had been and in celebration of who I had become, whom he’d remade me to
be. I truly felt it now. I was a Vampire.