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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.
I have no idea how long I was asleep, dead, whatever. Apparently it varies greatly depending on the vamp and how it's made. Don't guess it really matters. Even if it had only been a few hours, by the time I woke up, I could tell that Spike and Drusilla were long gone.
It was the hunger that woke me. Gnawing, growling, screaming hunger. Unlike any I'd ever felt before, even during the two weeks I'd been alone with Dru and her odd idea of an adequate diet. So I wasn't even thinking about the morbidness, the claustrophobic feeling of waking in a coffin, beating and clawing my way through the wooden planks, spitting out the mouthfuls of dirt that fell in my face. I burst out of the pile of earth and into the room, mindless of anything but my hunger.
Reflexively, I drew in several long deep breaths before realizing that I didn't need to breathe anymore. I held my breath to make sure - nope, didn't feel any need to either inhale or exhale. Felt the same inside whether I breathed or not. The realization was enough to make me pause a bit, enough to allow me to shove the hunger down for a few minutes while I assessed the rest of the situation.
They'd been considerate enough to dress me in the black outfit I'd chosen for myself from the clothes in the laundry room before burying me. Spike had placed one of his heavy silver rings on my thumb. I smiled sadly when I saw it, inadvertently cutting my lip on one of my new fangs. Reminded, I reached up to feel my face. Ridges and bumps had grown on my forehead and down my nose. My vision seemed much sharper and the smorgasbord of odors assaulting my nostrils was almost nauseating. The smell of dirt, dust, old stale blood, harsh cleaning products, freshly splintered timber and cold, dead candle wax. There was another odor, less-sickening, teasing my nose. I knew that if I focused on it, I'd be able to track it to its source. I felt hyper-aware beyond the dreams of the most hardcore speed freak.
There was new energy and strength sparking throughout my body as I anticipated the hunt for that elusive fragrance. As I moved and stretched, I heard a crackling noise from inside my shirt and felt something scratching my bare skin. I reached underneath my black camisole and pulled out a piece of paper. Scrawled on a piece of torn brown paper bag, it was a letter from Spike:
"Dear Sunday,
Drusilla 'n me are on our way to Rome by now. Sorry it all went pear-shaped. Really did mean to do what you'd asked, but Dru woke up too soon. Fun while it lasted, though. Maybe someday we'll run into you again somewhere. Sorry I couldn't stick around to show you the ropes (we never did do ropes, did we?).
I did it proper. You'll be strong and I already know you're a survivor. Don't really have much advice to give you. Best to keep moving and maybe someday you'll run into a vamp who can be to you what Dru is to me. They're mostly stupid gits, especially the young ones (present company excepted) and if they're not they'll more'n likely be cooking up some asinine plot to end the world. Wankers. No matter how bad things get, how lonely you feel, don't sign on to be anyone's minion. The infighting's brutal and you'll more'n likely get staked just so's some pillock can show off his wrinklies.
Keep your ear to the ground. You hear where the next Slayer turns up; go someplace far away. Although in a hundred years or so, I bet you'll be able to hold your own against one. Just give it some time first.
That's about all I can think of 'n Dru's getting' antsy (no pun intended). Left you a little prezzie. Getting kind of hungry right about now, aren't you?
Ta, love,
Spike
p.s. if you run into this one vamp - caveman brow, hair sticks straight up - give him a wide berth. He's a real buzzkill."
The letter was so perfectly "him" that I almost thought I could hear
his voice, the dark rough velvet of it tickling my ear, wrapping around my brain,
fondling the insides of my eyelids, dripping down the back of my throat. I folded
the small scrap of paper carefully and put it back where I'd found it, next
to my skin. He was really gone and I was really on my own. Kind of sobering,
but now that he'd reminded me, the hunger was back, fiercer and sharper than
before. I followed my nose back to my old cell. I didn't even need the key,
I discovered. I wrenched the doorknob, breaking the lock and walked in.
She was as like the person I had been as I was now unlike her. Scared yet defiant, she backed away from me, from my demon face. She was talking but I wasn't listening, her voice an annoying little buzz in the echoey emptiness of the high-ceilinged cell. It wasn't the sound of her voice that drew me to her. I was looking at her neck, smelling the fresh blood in her, seeing and hearing it pulse in her soft white throat. It was that rhythmic thump, setting a drumming tempo that pulled my stalking feet across the room.
Moving faster, driven by her speeding pulse, I was behind her, clutching a fistful of her hair, pulling her head back and sinking my teeth into the smell, the beat, the taste, the juicy sound of tearing flesh, my mouth filling with her hot, salty, viscous, rich, lively blood, feeling it feed the demon, feeling it course through my veins, sing in them, fill them and it wasn't the same, it wasn't as much. It wasn't what Spike's blood had been to me, but it was enough for now. I pulled her tighter into my embrace, cradling her, holding her to me as her knees collapsed and her eyes fluttered closed.
When I'd drunk all I could and the girl was an empty, used up, dried up sack of skin and bones, I dropped her, forgot her. I was already wondering, what next? As I wandered back into the main room to see what they'd left, to see if I could find anything that might give me an idea of what my next step should be, I had an urge to shake my head and as I did so, I felt something sliding away, receding. I raised my bloodstained hands and felt my face. All smooth now, it felt just like it always had, save for the tiny scar in my eyebrow. I hadn't had a chance yet to examine myself in detail, to learn that all my injuries and scars had been erased save for this small reminder. Later I would wonder why this one remained.
They'd taken the coffin off of its trestles before piling the dirt over it. Curiously I looked into it, pushing aside the dirt that had fallen in when I'd broken out, to see if they'd left any other last minute gifts. Buried by a spill of black soil I found one more memento - Drusilla had left one of her dolls in the coffin with me. Miss Mary, her blue eyes broken into jagged shards of glass that fell out and into my hand like crystallized tears when I lifted her. Clenching them in my fist, I shook with fury and felt my face change once more within just the short time I'd been awake.
I knew a warning, a threat, when I saw one. But what Drusilla had never understood about me, and what was doubly true about me now, after all I'd been through, after all the superficial changes, was this. Nothing makes me more determined to do something than being told not to. Maybe I'd always been Miss Mary - contrary to the core. I had once had a love and no warnings or threats were going to keep me from finding him again.
So really, that's about all there is to my story. The beginning of it, anyway. Sun's coming up and I've got places to go, a Spike to find. Hear the Hellmouth's nice this time of year.
The girl in black gets up from the table, tosses her long blonde hair impatiently behind her shoulder and turns her back on the man who is still talking, still asking questions, unwilling to let her leave. She wipes away the exasperation that had shown on her face when her back was turned as she pivots around to face him and leans in to whisper something into his ear. He follows her into the diner's unisex restroom, oblivious to the predatory set of her features, the feral smirk on her red lips.
A few minutes later she emerges alone. Wearing the young man's leather jacket, she tosses a set of car keys into the air and catches them. With her other hand she reaches up and wipes her mouth, the harsh fluorescent light glinting off the heavy silver band on her thumb.
She goes into the parking lot. It takes her several tries, but she finally finds the car that fits the keys she's swiped. As she peels out of the lot, back tires skidding on the icy blacktop, and heads west, the Buzzcocks' "Orgasm Addict" cranked at full volume can be heard through the car's closed windows.
"Well you try it just
for once, find it all right for kicks
But now you find out that it's a habit that sticks
And you're an orgasm addict
You're an orgasm addict"
THE END
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