*Background details in the previous section.*

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The night calls us both, the music of the moon howling as we step out into the time that belongs to us alone.

Grandmum and daddy went out earlier, going to a party, with many rich and aristocratic people in attendance. Both were dressed up grandly, fine clothing that sobbed and wailed of its lost owners. Daddy and grandmum do so love to dress up and mix in with all the rich, expensive people.

I dislike such parties. The blood of the aristocrats is foul. It is full of sweet and promising scents, the promise of deliciously rich tastes and yet, it tastes like the real people. Sour, bitter and hateful.

Having expensive and bitter dinners means nothing to me. I prefer to find someone who can run, without being hindered by magnificent robes and clothes. I prefer the poor. They have a stronger, sweeter taste.

The flavour of strong, young people is more to my liking. Posturing rich men are of no interest to me. I like someone big and strong who will attempt to run, never to get anywhere, to find themselves in my embrace.

My Will is fresh and eager for the hunt, for the first taste of sweet young blood. He has revenge in his heart too, such bitter and angry revenge it makes me giddy to hear it screaming through his mind.

Arm-in-arm, we walk through the darkness. The scent of blood is heavy in the air, death is all around us and we are its servants. We fear nothing and no one with death as our fierce and wonderful ally.

My childe is impatient, eager for the thrill of the kill, ready and willing to draw the life out of one of the lower creatures, ready to attack and kill and do what he wants to any of the people who ever harmed him.

He longs to hurt them as much as they hurt him, when he still lived. When he was still weak and feeble and like them.

Touching his soft temple, I can feel the demon screaming within him. His control is beautiful, his anger growing and swelling, yet he refuses to let it free until the time is right, until the sources of all his anger stand before him.

When he emerges fully, I know my childe will be powerful. He longs to show that he is no longer sweet little William. He is not the same person he was, my Will. He is stronger, deadly and he is mine. All mine.

Daddy and grandmum dislike him, dislike that he was a quiet, tame man. That he was not a drunken boy like daddy was, or that he did not do all kinds of naughty favours to gentlemen in order to receive suitable payment like grandmum.

Instead, he was seen as an angel, sweet and full of goodness and well-ordered behaviour, obeying his gentle mummy just like I used to. He was an innocent, just like I was, before daddy came and made me see my badness.

Just as my dark angel made me see the darkness and drew me to him like a lost child, I found my young Will when he was lost and alone. He and I are alike and soon, the child that he was will fade as he becomes the childe that he is.

Both he and I have fallen from grace, both fallen angels who have become wicked in our ways. Angels who will never look upon the face of heaven.

And yet, we have found some semblance of Heaven with one another, we are the same. Two fallen ones, seeking refuge from the hatefully cruel light, both under the protection of the dark one, our dark daddy.

My beautiful Will turns his shining angel's smile to me, drawing me into his arms and pressing a child's tender kiss on my lips, full of imitated innocence, unlike that which we shared for many hours, hidden from the light of day.

His hand caresses my growly tummy, his blue eyes gleaming with hunger. He always likes to touch me, on my neck, on my breast and especially on my tummy. He is gentle, to let me feel what he is feeling. He knows that I can hear him inside my head and the naughty words he whispers in my mind make me smile.

But he can be cruel. He can be hurtful and bite and burn and torture. He can be wonderfully talented with pain and I know he wants to use his special gift to harm those who harmed him.

First, we must find them.

Then they will see what they have done the quiet, rosy-faced sweetling. They will see what a true monster they have turned him into. And then, after they see what he has become, my Will will be allowed to have his revenge.

Oh, what a pretty revenge it will be.

****

I'm going to kill them all. That's the plan.

Everyone who ever dared to mock me, treat me with disrespect, and anyone who's had it coming to them anyway.

Horribly, brutally, bloodily, and every other torture-related word ending with 'ily'. Not sure how yet, but I know I'm going to have fun - Drusilla said so. And insane she may be, but stupid she is most definitely not. Turns out she has these 'visions', y'see (very handy), and she saw them - Crawford, Brown. . .all of those toffs who thought I was some sort of whipping boy - all nice and dead. At my hands. Now who am I to avoid my destiny?

~~~~

Oh this is fun. I haven't done anything like this in. . .Well - I haven't *ever* done anything like this! Torture, mutilation, death and destruction. . .all becoming exciting new pastimes. And better yet - it's eternal. So you miss out on a measly bit of sunlight - So what? The night's more interesting anyway.

But I digress.

I'm getting ready for the *real* fun, now that the 'distinguished' guests have arrived. Found them easily enough - coming home from yet another dinner party, a bit tipsy. . .you know the story.

You don't? Well - let me refresh your memory.

~~~~

One sherry too many and a man thinks he's invincible.

"I see Cecily's becoming rather closely acquainted with you now, m'dear friend Crawford. Are you going to relieve her father of his burden?" A giggle, and a snort.

I stay in the shadows, held back by Drusilla, finger pressed to my lips.

Wait. Not yet. Patience, my childe.

And so I bite my tongue.

"She is quite the treat, David," and then the little bastard licks his lips, as if sat in front of a banquet, "her sweet fruit may be plucked before it's ripe!"

"Too late, old man. Rumour has it that she's already been well rogered by Fripps - twice weekly for the past year. Don't know what his wife'll make of that!"

A shared laugh echoes throughout the night and I find myself growling. Partially because of their pathetic state, but mostly because they remind me of the boy who would've fought to defend such a 'lady's' honour. Time for a little theatre, I think, as I stumble out to meet my audience.

"William?" they question, and the light of recognition begins to gleam. "Will old chap," smiles Crawford, slapping me on the back. "We thought you'd run off to sea!"

I look around, a little unsteady. Innocent. Confused. . .lost little lamb. . .

"Oh - no!," I shake my head vehemently. "I could never do such a thing. All of that that tossing and turning isn't good for the constitution, I find. Do you think you could help me? I appear to be a little lost."

Brown extends an unsteady arm. "Well that's where we are. And you live. . ." he sways, and gestures eastwards "that way!" They both break out in giggles. It really is quite pathetic.

"Oh. . .Right. Well - I was wondering if you could help me with something else, then? Something of a more. . .personal nature?"

The two share a mocking grin, and Crawford gestures grandly for me to continue. Oh how very benevolent of him. Obnoxious twerp. I'd love to take that regal little hand of his, rip it off, and shove it straight up his -

"M- My poetry," I stammer. "Do you think I could get it published? And please - do be honest." Yes. *Do*. Because your life is resting on that little question, whether you know it or not.

Crawford nudges Brown, motioning for him to be quiet, and then clears his throat before speaking. It's funny. He almost sounds sober.

"I think you'll find William, that your 'poetry' is quite the worst piece of turd infested rubbish this side of the Thames. And perhaps even beyond that!" He begins to back me up against a wall. "In fact, I would rather listen to the sounds of a man dying of flatulence before I listened to any more of the works of William the Bloody Awful Poet! That answer your question?" His face is only inches from mine, and Brown lingers not far behind.

"It certainly does," I whisper. "But may I ask you one last question?"

He nods, amused.

I feel the demon come forth, my brow protruding and fangs lengthening. Feels kinda good. Smooth. Powerful. I could rip his throat out then and then without him even realising it. God that would be a thrill!

"Would you prefer a long, slow agonising death, or just a short, fast agonising one?"

He jumps back, lets out an unmanly squeal, falling into his companion's arms.

"W-w-What?"

"Oh forget that question." I step forward, closer and closer. I can hear the blood in their veins pumping, faster and faster. Their heartbeat's accelerating.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom, boom, boom, boom. . .

"You don't get a choice."

And I'm joined by my precious Drusilla, and now the boys are screaming, petrified. I love it.

They start to run, and I start to complain.

"Shhh. The chase is the best part," she informs me wisely before we kiss. "Makes them taste like honeyed almonds."

And very soon, we catch them up.

~~~~

So here we are. We found an abandoned building next to the railway, trussed up the prey. (I couldn't resist a little taste first). Bound, gagged and helpless. Perfect for a nice long night of torture, don't you think?

Tonight, I decide, as I pick up the nearest object from the floor. It's a steel railroad spike.

Tonight I'm going to make a name for myself.

****

My fair-faced angel contains a truly cruel darkness.

His revenge was thrillingly beautiful, the pitiful sounds of the screaming, the pure terror and pain still ringing in my head, the sweet scent of the blood still clinging to him, as if it was his lost child.

He let his tormentor's see his true face, made them run, fearful for their worthless, empty lives. Their anxious hearts pounded like a little child on a drum, like horses hooves clattering on a dark road.

And we had no need to give chase.

Instead, we simply waited until they had exhausted themselves, then we hunted them down and trapped them, like pathetic little animals. They sobbed and wailed and screamed for mercy, before we even touched them.

One of the more foolish ones hurled a small, golden crucifix at us, missing both he and I. It clattered on the dusty, dirty floor, clinking, and lay there, looking shiny and pretty, but nothing more. It would never harm us and our new toys could not possibly reach it.

I was content to watch my childe play. He tasted one of them, the only one that tried to fight, drew enough of his life to weaken him, but left sufficient for him to survive long enough for my Will to play.

And such games my Will designed.

A beautiful weapon appeared in his hand, gleaming like a dull blade in the faint light of the night, reflected in his honey-coloured eyes.

It was a spike, I believe. One that was used at the tracks for the new horseless carriages, to hold the roads in place. Silvery in the light, the rounded tip widened into a broad, flat head, for the hammering no doubt.

Such a toy looked harmless, but not in my childe's hands. My childe knew how to make his old enemies scream.

That beautiful, blunt weapon could tear through anything my Will wanted it to. Anything that my Will wanted a hole in, he would use that gleaming, dangerously blunt spike to rip bloody, big holes through it.

All too soon, the shininess was dulled, deep red.

But the red was so pretty. It carried the screams on the cloud of the night, lilting across the streets, pattering like soft, ruby raindrops all over us.

My childe was a master, his friends living until he chose to show the mercy of oblivion. And even then, his mercy was cruel and sensually beautiful, his work with the blood and the blunt blade making my heart sing.

Crimson floors for red-faced men.

Wading through the restless corpses, my sweet young love smiles proudly, his spike shattering bone and flesh as he takes his much-deserved revenge on his tormentors, his golden eyes sparkling with fire.

One screams, the others are passed pain. But the one that screamed. Ah, he is the worst, the one who tormented my sweet love the most.

I can tell, you see, as my sweet lets the cause of his vexation feel the chilling pain of the spike in a way that none of the others would.

That only makes him scream more. Makes my Will laugh and stab harder with that wonderfully vicious tool. Makes me reel from the scent of death and power that fills the room with heady glory.

One of the others tries to crawl away, like a wounded puppy. He whimpers and moans, his hands clutched to his face. It's a pity that he can't see where he's going. He can't see that he's coming towards me.

And my tummy is so growly now. I look to my sweet and he is still laughing, ignoring the one slithering closer to me like a sightless worm.

I bend and pat the blinded puppy on the head. He whimpers more and more, finally making my sweet look over. He smiles, his sharp fangs glinting like little ivory daggers in the dark.

"You can eat that bloody pillock." He tells me.

I let my teeth come out to play. The puppy whines and whimpers more, sweet red juice splashing from his torn mouth. I press my mouth to his, his essence spilling from the remains of his tongue like a tiny, flesh-tainted fountain.

"Bloody beautiful." I hear my sweet whisper, as he bends to drink from the puppy too, sinking his lovely teeth into the whining puppy's shoulder.

His hand wraps into my hair like a rope, pulling until I feel I might tear. The puppy collapses, all drank up and I look to my sweet, his face and hands dark red as he kisses me again, the sweetness of his meals spreading into me.

We play such sweet games together, bathed in warm red, our tummies full and satisfied. He makes my body sing as we tangle together, sweet drops of claret rain spattering on our faces, as he kisses me again and again, like there's no forever.

Only when the scent of the coming of cruel morning tingles through the scent of yummy dinner, do we finally leave our special playhouse, leaving all my sweet's bullies to be found by the clumsy humans.

The only thing we take with us is the crimson-crusted spike that my Will plays with so magnificently, decorated with the still-pumping heart of my love's greatest tormentor, the warm red rippling over Will's pale hand.

My childe has made me proud, leaving a trail of death-scented pieces of his old associates sprinkled all over the scarlet-stained floor.

I never knew such a thing as an innocent-looking spike could be so deadly. Just like my harmless-looking, fair angel, the spike looked timid until it fell into a master's hands.

My Will and his spike could tear this world apart.

William the Bloody may have been his mortal name, but now...Now I see that they truly were talking of my Will. They didn't know what he would become, but they knew the name they would give him, before he got his new toy.

Now, they need to find a new name, for my sweet and his spike. William the Bloody doesn't describe him sufficiently any longer.

He's far more than they knew.

And he's mine.

****

Yorkshire - 1880:

Poofy bastard's got me round the neck, and he's holding on fucking tight!

"Perhaps it's my advancing years that makes me so forgetful, William. Remind me. Why don't we kill you?"

He knows damn well, but I'm not bringing *that* up in front of Dru.

I choke a bit more. Bloody lucky I don't have to breathe. I just wish someone would tell my windpipe that.

"...ike." is about all I can gasp out.

Mr Scourge of Deafness lets go a little, and I attempt to reclaim my voice.

"What's that?" he asks.

I brush myself off. That little assault damn well creased my coat!

"It's Spike now," I casually inform him, more bothered about my precious Princess' reaction to the scene than his. And as for the ever-present Darla. . ? She can go suck off a fledge for all I care.

"You'd do well to remember it, mate."

Yes you would. Because things are changing Angelus. You've gotta move with the times. Because if you don't, you'll still be Sire-whipped in a hundred years, still clinging to the blonde bitch's skirt, whimpering about her like a friggin' puppy. And by then you'll be too much of a lap dog to care.

Just you wait Angelus. Your time will come.

~Fin~


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