As a man and a poet, William had enjoyed the myriad tastes and scents of the world. He could appreciate a fine, ripe pear, a pungent morsel of Roquefort cheese, or a perfectly-steeped cup of lapsang suchong. He wrote sonnets about the smell of rain on a quiet summer afternoon and countless paeans on the topic of the delicate petals of orange blossoms, particularly when they were nestled in the ebon curls of Cecily Addams' hair.

When he became a vampire, Spike did not lose his appreciation for the bountiful delights of nature. He reveled in the intoxicating scents of fear and despair, and he rejoiced in the fluid patterns of glistening ribbons of entrails that Drusilla teased across the floor. Such was his passion for pleasures of the senses that he painted countless rooms in spatters of crimson in his search for the elusive, pure taste of one who was utterly willing to die.

Yes, Spike could appreciate a rare vintage of victim, and he was more than intrigued by the dark-haired boy offered to him by his old companion. Fear poured off of the boy, to be certain, but it was overlaid with the scents of outrage and rebellion. He struggled not just against death but also against the betrayal that lead him toward it.

The strength of this boy's anger would lend a heady overtone to his blood, but Spike would not sample it just yet. First there were more substantial courses to be consumed: the tart flare of power of the Slayer and the dark, bitter anguish of the vampire with a soul. After they were savored, though, the sweet taste of defiance and determination would be a perfect dessert to such an extraordinary dinner.

The meal might even be good enough to write a poem about.

~end~