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Dead Soul
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Angst/horror
Pairings: Spike/Drusilla, Spike/Sunday, Drusilla/Sunday, Spike/Drusilla/Sunday
Warnings: BDSM, non-consensual sex, violence, bloodplay, language, f/f slash,
inappropriate humor - all the good stuff
Disclaimers: Story and chapter titles are titles of Blondie songs. (I thought
about being careful with song dates and such but, like Spike, I got bored. Any
anachronisms are either intentional or so the hell what.) The usual disclaimers
for both characters and song titles. The only things I own are the things I
steal from dorm rooms. No, that sweater doesn't make you look fat. It just makes
you look purple
Distribution: Want? Take, have. But please let me know where
Feedback: Keeps the bloodlust in check, mailto:deadsoul820@aol.com
or drop me a comment on my LiveJournal, Dead Soul
Summary: Spike, Drusilla and Sunday in New York City, 1977. Ever wonder where Sunday (BtVS, Season 4, "The Freshman") came from? Why her fashion sense seems familiar, not to mention her attitude? She tells her story.
(A/N: this chapter contains one WHOPPING anachronism, I just couldn't resist making a certain event occur about sixteen months earlier than it does in the realverse.)
Spike had dropped the bomb and I was still processing it. They were going to make me into a vampire. I was, to put it mildly, a little non-plussed. The possibility had always been in the back of my mind. The way I saw it there were three possible ultimate outcomes to this little adventure I'd been having: 1.) dying - sooner or later, going on as I had been, that is, being their human pet/servant, was not something that could continue indefinitely; eventually they'd go too far with their play and kill me, or kill me just for the hell of it, 2.) being let go, which was not very likely - it would have been out of character for them and even though no one would have believed me, they wouldn't want the story to get out, and 3.) becoming like them. Looking at things logically, this was about the most positive outcome I could have expected. Still, I wasn't quite sure how I felt about it.
Leaving me in front of the mirror, still taking the idea in, giving myself the final once-over he had recommended, Spike crossed the room to fetch the items from the dresser - a short bolero-style shirt made of black stretch lace that tied in the front, and a collar and leash of the same black patent leather as the corset. He held the shirt for me to put on. It was so short that it just barely covered my breasts and was tight enough that it didn't quite meet in front. My nipples were dark shadows, clearly visible though the black lace. Tight, elbow-length sleeves dripped four inches of black lace ruffles down my forearms.
Wrapped in the shirt had been the wide black leather collar with attached leash. This got a big no way from me. It was one thing to be led around on a leash here in the lair - it had been a symbol of Dru's ownership and, by extension, her protection of me from the other vampires. A reminder to them that harming or killing me would seriously piss Dru off. But Spike had said we were going out and no way was I going out on the end of a leash.
Scrabbling in the make-up bag again, Spike had pulled out the eyeliner pencil. "Put this on for me, there's a love," he said, holding it out to me.
***
"Roll your eyes up and hold still, I'm almost done," I say, getting ready to draw the eyeliner along his lower eyelid, pulling the skin taut so I can get a good clean line.
"Soon's you get this done and put the collar on, we can meet Dru. Should be 'bout ready by now," he says.
"Absolutely not," I say firmly. "I will not wear that thing in public."
'You will, you know," he replies matter-of-factly. "Dru wants you to and if you won't do what Dru wants, then we have no use for you. We'll just eat you and forget you. Done it a thousand times before."
"That would probably sound a lot more menacing if I weren't holding a sharpened pencil to your eyeball."
"You honestly think I couldn't stop you before you even so much as thought of it?"
"Thinking of it now, you haven't stopped me yet." I draw the pencil quick and even along and under the thick dark lashes of his lower lid. The black liner makes his blue eyes look even bluer.
I must have gotten lost in them for a moment because he gets the drop on me, grabbing the eyeliner from my hand and throwing it across the room before upending me over his lap. But instead of the spanking I expect, he strokes my bare ass and the bare skin of my thighs above the tops of the stockings. He draws a single finger down the crack of my ass and on down into my slit, parting the lips, rubbing my clit. I feel a sharp sudden pain as he yanks out a pubic hair I must've missed when I shaved down there. Hey, you try it some time and see if you don't miss a hair or two. Not exactly an area that lends itself to easy examination while wielding a razor.
Of course, I yelp and try to jump up, but he's holding me down by the back of my neck and he's resuming his rubbing. I close my eyes and relax back into the feeling. As he's rubbing my pussy and gently entering me with his thumb, his hand on my neck relaxes its hold a little bit and he caresses me there as well, clasping his hand loosely around my neck then tightening it slightly, but not in a way that makes me feel strangled or choked.
His fingers working in my slit quicken their pace and he's bringing me the relief he denied me this afternoon. I hear a faint click but pay no attention to it. I come quickly; it's been so long, it seems, since I was last with him. After spending a minute to bring me down gently, he does spank me, just one sharp slap on my ass, then pulls me upright by the…by the?
By the leash attached to the collar he had fastened around my neck while I was distracted! Bastard!
He's laughing while I fume, licking his fingers clean of my juices. I reach up to undo the collar, but it's fastened not with a regular buckle, but with a tiny padlock.
"Come along," he says, jerking the leash, still laughing at my impotent fury. "Wouldn't do to keep Drusilla waiting. She might lose the plot; forget you're not just an appetizer."
Giving in with good grace is a skill that I'm slowly learning with them. I swallow the rest of my pointless tirade and follow him. At the doorway he stops and pulls a black silk handkerchief from his pocket. "Gotta blindfold you. She doesn't want you seeing the decorations until later."
"Later?" I ask as he pulls the blindfold around my eyes.
"Gotta go find Dru a poet, first." He ties the handkerchief in a knot at the back of my head. I hear him opening the door and he pushes me gently through it. Disoriented, I stand still for a moment in the hall. He brushes against me as he comes around in front of me and gently tugs the leash. I follow him carefully, feeling ahead with my foot before setting it down and stepping forwards. As we enter the main room I can see soft light around the edges of my blindfold, but nothing more.
"Ah, there's my pretty baby," Drusilla says as we come to a stop. Soft, light hands caress me fleetingly, touching my cheek, my neck, one of my lace-covered breasts, teasing the nipple to a sharp point. "Is Miss Sunday ready for its special night?"
It has been so long since I'd last heard her speak, I'd forgotten the music of her voice, the way it gets into your head and makes it spin. Visions of her madness, of her making, dance back into my memory - the visions I'd had when she'd last drunk from me.
"Night's awastin'," Spike says. Even I can hear the forced cheerfulness in his tone. Whatever's coming, he's not too keen on it. I hear the rustle of leather and assume he's putting on his duster. I feel the leash twitch as he shifts it from hand to hand.
"Yes, much to do before dawn," Dru replies, clapping her hands like a schoolmarm calling her class to order. "Bring it upstairs and then the fun can start."
My head spins a little when Spike scoops me into his arms and carries me up the stairs. As soon as we're outside I can smell and feel the difference in the air - the smells of the street and the brisk bite of the late September night. Or is it early October? I realize that I've lost track of the amount of time I've been with them.
He sets me on my feet and takes off the blindfold. Blinking, I smooth my hair and look at them. He's dressed in what I've come to think of as his going-out clothes - faded jeans, artfully torn black t-shirt adorned with safety pins, hair spiked, heavy silver and black leather jewelry. All this I'd seen in the bedroom. The black leather duster only completes the look.
I gape a bit at what Drusilla is wearing. I've only ever seen her in white before; the dark red velvet dress in her trademark empire style is free of the lace and ribbons that decorate her white dresses. Her hair is sleek and long, a 180-degree change from the fussy curls and ringlets, parted on the side with only a gentle wave at the ends. She puts her forehead against mine for a minute and our hair intertwines, making a fragrant cage that gleams in the harsh glow from the streetlight.
Spike presses my leash into her hand and cocks an elbow, "Shall we away, my Princess?" he asks. Dru takes his arm and they turn to stride down the street, leaving me to trot along behind, trying not to stumble on my high heels.
***
The noise was deafening in the little hole-in-the-wall, underground club. I didn't know what kind of poet they thought they'd find here, but I supposed they knew what they were doing. If I'd been embarrassed to be seen on the end of Dru's leash, it was nothing to the get-ups of some of the people around us. At least they weren't making me crawl, like that group over there. A tall woman with a shaved head, dressed all in black rubber, was leading two crawling men on leashes, one sucking on a pacifier and wearing nothing but a diaper, and the other got up like a dog complete with a floppy-eared headband and wagging tail, held on, presumably, by one end of the prop being stuck up his ass. I truly and fervently hoped that Drusilla wasn't getting any ideas.
Spike had gone over to have a word with the doorman who jerked a thumb towards the back of the club. I saw Spike slip him some money then he came back to us and whispered something into Dru's ear.
She tugged on my leash and said conspiratorially, "Come along, Sunday. Spike may have found us a poet." I followed them into a little room off the back hall. Another doorman let us in after Spike spoke to him. The room was hazy, filled with smoke that didn't smell like cigarette smoke, yet not exactly like pot smoke, either. Ratty couches lined the walls and the music from the club was muffled by the walls and the now shut door. The light was very dim, coming from one small lamp in the corner. Seated, or rather lolling, on the couches were a handful of very out-of-it looking people.
Dru handed my leash to Spike and went around the room, taking a moment to study each person. Even the ones who were conscious could hardly be bothered to notice her, except for one. A tall, lanky, emaciated looking youth with spiked black hair. His bare chest, where it showed between the lapels of his black leather biker jacket, was covered with scratches and scars. He was caught by her eyes; dropping the syringe and rubber tubing he'd been about to use, he fell under her spell. She crooked her finger at him and he stumbled after her across the room, falling to his knees next to her when she stopped by me. She took his stubble-roughened chin in her hand, whispering to him, "Be in my eyes, be with me, see what you most want to see." She turned his face up to me, "See in her all you desire, see in her all you've lost, all you love."
Tears welled in his eyes as he gazed at me in disbelief. He fell towards me, clutching me around my knees. It was only Spike standing behind me and holding me up that kept me from going down. The pathetic junkie buried his face in my hip, choking out the name, "Nancy," over and over between his sobs.
"You think this wanker's a poet?" Spike asked contemptuously.
"Sh, he has the grief
and pain of a poet, if not the talent. He'll go down a treat, you'll see,"
Dru replied. Not quite knowing what else to do, I patted the young man's shoulder.
He nuzzled his face against me, somehow getting his nose through the slit in
my long skirt, poking it against my bare crotch. I could feel my face reddening
as he snuffled against me, kissing me there, still crying, still calling me
'Nancy.'
"Well, only if you're sure this one'll do. Let's get back then," Spike replied.
"Come along, Miss Sunday. Now that we've collected the refreshments, we can return to our party," Dru said happily. They turned for the door and Spike twitched my leash. I tried to follow, but was having a little trouble walking with this guy still holding onto me, still trying to get his face into my crotch.
I managed to shimmy out of his circling arms and he fell forwards onto the floor before scrambling to his feet. Following us out of the club and into the quiet street, he called after us plaintively in a thick working class London accent, "Nancy, Nancy, come back. I'm sorry, please Nancy, please come back."
"Better go back and get him, Sunday," Spike said, dropping my leash. "Can't have him caterwauling all the way home."
Giving Spike a 'Why me?' look, I went back to him, coaxing him to put an arm around my shoulders, whispering calming, I hoped, endearments into his ear. He smelled pretty rank, but then, I was used to the sweatless, odorless company of my vampires.
"Nancy, is it really you? I'm so sorry, didn't mean to kill you. Is it really you?" He babbled the same thing over and over, but at least he was doing it quietly now. Dragging him forwards, I hurried to catch up with Spike and Dru, trying not to trip on my trailing leash.
***
Returning to the lair I finally get to see the decorations in the main room. Candelabra cover nearly every flat surface, their flickering yellow light the only illumination except for twinkling white Christmas lights strung across the ceiling to imitate stars. Reflections of the candlelight gleam in the polished steel of the chains and manacles hanging from the walls, threaded through with long-stemmed red roses and ivy. Miss Edith and the rest of the dolls are seated on an upholstered bench along one wall. One of them, Miss Mary presumably, is positioned facing the wall, her eyes covered with a red silk ribbon.
Set up like an altar in the center of the room on a couple of low trestles is a coffin. Not the usual rectangular coffin with a rounded lid that I'm used to seeing. The kind of old fashioned, person-shaped coffin that's wide at the shoulders and narrow at the feet, with a flat lid. A red velvet cloth covers it and a matching red velvet pillow rests at its head. In one of the darker corners of the room I see a large pile of dirt with a shovel stuck in it. My mind is racing, am I going to be buried alive, or rather, dead, until I rise again? This really, finally, brings everything home. I'm going to become a vampire. I'm going to die and rise again. I'll have to drink blood. I'll kill people; I'll never see the sun again. I'll never age, never die. Never become a loud middle-aged housewife who embarrasses her children by dressing too young for her age. I'll be strong; I'll be no one's victim ever again.
But right now, I've got to get this smelly, mumbling asshole off of me. I shrug his arm off my shoulders and let him collapse to the floor. Spike comes and drags him over to the wall, chaining him up. We might have interrupted his shooting-up, but he's still got plenty of drugs in his system. He nods off, muttering a final, "I'm sorry, Nancy, do you forgive your Sidney?" before finally shutting up.
"Music, Spike. We need music," Drusilla says before she comes over to me and kisses me long and deep. I sway in her arms, melting into the kiss, chasing her tongue with mine, putting my arms around her slender waist. Passionate tumbling piano, Beethoven I think, spills out of the speakers. Dru moves in time to the music, dancing us slowly around the floor, towards the coffin/altar. Still holding the kiss, she pushes my shoulders back, urging me wordlessly to lie on top of it. It's low enough that I just need to fall back and swing my feet up to be stretched full length upon it. She breaks the kiss and takes my hands, folding them precisely across my chest.
"This moment calls for poetry," she cries. She goes over to Sidney, hanging on the wall, and slaps his face lightly. "You, give us a poem." His eyes open blearily; he looks into her eyes for a moment and speaks, mumbling at first, his voice growing stronger as he continues,
"Nancy,
You were my little baby girl
And I knew all your fears
Such joy to hold you in my arms
And kiss away your tears
But now you've gone
There's only pain
And nothing I can do
And I don't want to live this life
If I can't live for you"*
Spike snorts, "What utter crap. This one'll be no loss to liter-ah-ture. Music, either." I'm snickering myself, while continuing to play dead, lying on top of the coffin.
"Hush, Spike. I need to drink his words, taste the stars in his pain." Dru's face shifts and she sinks her fangs into his throat. I can hear her greedy gulps, his whimpering as the pain cuts through the smack-haze. Finally sated, she staggers back from him, ripping away a chunk of flesh from his neck. Weaving, blood dripping off her chin, she stumbles around the room. Spike catches her and eases her down onto the fainting couch. Her human face slides back into place, as she appears to fall asleep.
"Always happens when she eats a junkie," Spike says, kneeling next to her and wiping the blood from her face with the hem of his t-shirt. "Poor thing doesn't have the constitution to handle it. Just have to sleep it off, now."
Does this mean I won't be turned into a vampire tonight, I wonder. I sit up on the coffin and swing my legs around. He looks up at me and says, "I was hoping I'd have another chance to talk to you. Come with me."
I jump down and cross the room to take the hand he's holding out to me. He leads me into the bedroom and shuts the door. He pats a place near the head of the bed for me to sit. I hop up, kick off my shoes and sit cross-legged, the corset keeping my spine straight. I look down and play with the leash coiled in my lap, wondering what he's going to say.
"Dru's had a vision," he starts, leaning back against the closed door. "When she last drank from you she said that she saw me turning you, that she saw your birth as you were seeing hers. What exactly did you see?"
"It was very jumbled, chaotic. I saw nuns and a church and then the nuns being slaughtered by two vampires who made love across my lap as I screamed and lost contact with reality, imagining scenes from my childhood - her childhood," I look up at him. "I felt her go mad."
He's silent for a moment. "Thing about Dru's visions is, they usually come true. Even if she has to help them. This leaves me with two options. I can fulfill her vision for her and make you into a vampire or I can kill you and tell her that I fucked up, went too far. Which do you want?"
Fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, I think. It's one thing to accept being turned against my will, something entirely different to be asked to choose. To be asked whether or not I want to kill and maim and torture people for the foreseeable forever. Or just to be dead. And god help me, I don't think I want to be dead.
"If you turn me into a vampire, what happens then? Do you take me with you to Rome?"
He comes over and sits next to me on the bed, taking my hand in his, playing nervously with my fingers, "Can't love, Darla'd never stand for it. Can't stand any competition. Dru's all right because she's mad and dark, but you're too similar to her - although a deal wittier, not such a wet blanket," he smiles at me then looks down at our hands. "'Sides, Dru's vision showed us leaving you here. Reckon you've been hearing us argue some. I don't much go in for making new vamps, especially if I can't stay around to show 'em the ropes, teach them how to get along. Just seems like a dirty trick to me. She's stubborn, though. We make you and leave you. She says that she knows you'll make it, that you'll do just fine without us."
I can feel the blood leaving my face, my stomach sinking. Whichever fate I choose, I'll be losing him. Put this way, my choice seems pretty obvious to me. "Dead," I say. "If I can't be with you, I want you to kill me. But make it special."
*Poem allegedly found by Sid Vicious' mother when she discovered his body after his fatal overdose on February 2, 1979.
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