All About Spike - Plain Version
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Summary: Spike's night on the town, New York City, 1928.
Author Notes: Stand alone historical. Slash, het.
Dedication: As always, for Kalima first and foremost.
Completed: December 2001.
Disclaimer: Joss creates, I borrow
High noon. A grey February day in 1928, steeped in
snow. Free at last of the groaning
churning Limited, they emerged beneath a universe of glittering stars.
tipped her head back, blinking up at them as he pulled her along by the arm,
their portmanteau weighing him down on the other side. But she broke free and began to turn,
as if whirled about by some current of air descended from the sweeping expanse
of universe over their heads. Arms
flung out, gaping up, she began to laugh.
at all the golden pretties!”
paused and watched her twirl, as her hair worked free of its pins (when, oh
when, would she bob it and be done?), and her ridiculously outmoded skirt
billowed around her legs. Odd as
she looked, the crowds around them barely parted for her; no one paused to
stare. He followed her upswept
gaze, squinted at the hundreds of twinkling lights, arranged in gilded
constellations across a sea of green.
Full of stories. But not
their story. He grabbed for her
arm again, wrenched her out of her dance.
He’d be uneasy until they were out of here. It had been snowing all morning, but
the sun could break through at any moment, and flood those immense windows at
either end of the hall with killing light. Besides, he wanted to find somewhere to get some hooch, tide
them over ‘til feeding time.
be going now, pet.”
. . . Spoike . . .”
didn’t let her see how her pout affected him. He’d had more than enough of travel, of the perilously
cracked windowshades on trains, their constant sickening sway and clatter that
seemed to make the loose marbles in Dru’s poor head looser still. He had an address in his pocket, a
basement place in the Village where they’d find others of their
kind. Impatient, Spike
dragged Dru through Grand Central Station and down into the subway.
heard good things about the New York City subways. You could go many miles without seeing the sun. Find your way in and out of the big
shops, get a bite and a sup, a shave and a haircut (he removed his hat and
smoothed down his pomaded hair with his hand; he liked to be neat), all without
putting your nose above ground.
Around the clock prey on the hoof down the subway, white meat, dark
meat, whatever you fancied, plenty of dark nooks and crannies in which to drag
one off and feed, stash the body so as not to frighten the rest of the
herd. Quick get-aways a
gibbered and fell back against him when the first downtown express racketed in,
but once they were on she grinned like a kitten in the press of hot bodies on
the crowded car. Her
eyes rolled from face to face; he knew she’d have fed right then if
he wasn’t there to distract
her. And it was an amusing idea,
wasn’t it; you could drain a straphanger dry where he stood, and the
horde would hold him up until the press thinned out somewhere in Brooklyn. By which time, you’d be long
gone. Spike promised himself to
try it sometime soon. When the
people weren’t quite so swathed in scarves and mufflers. There wasn’t a bare neck on the
car that he could see.
the end of the line, Eighth Avenue on the crosstown BMT, Spike held Dru back
long enough to reconnoiter. The people clumping down the stairs were all
bundled up to the nines, snow crusted on their galoshes, on their hats and
shoulders. Good. Sometimes the weather was a
vampire’s friend. Anyway,
they didn’t feel really the cold.
He adjusted his hat to just the
right angle for resisting the wind, hefted the portmanteau. “Right then,
pet, up we go.”
The notes he’d jotted on the
bit of paper led them west along a busy block, past stores and restaurants with
signs in Spanish. An elevated line
hulked up at the next intersection, its big gingerbread-house-on-stilts of a
station casting a welcome dinge over the snow-brightened streets. Dru sniffed, and Spike smelt it too:
the high sweet scent of blood on the air: not human blood, but that of all
sorts of hooved beasts, mixed with the stink of bilge, coal soot, garbage.
“Like lambs, they are,”
Dru whispered, watching the passersby as they went up and down the stairs to
the Ninth Avenue El, and passed in and out of its shadow, “. . . to the
“Right. Slaughter.” They must be close to their
destination; the vamp in New Orleans had spoken of meatpacking houses, with all
their scented joys, their easy human prey, already blood-splattered, active on
the cobbled streets in the middle of the night. Easy pickings, right at their doorstep. The hideout, he’d been told, was
in the shadow of the El. They
turned, trod beneath it in the kicked-up grey snow. Greenwich Street.
past warehouses, stables, and down-at-heel rowhouses given over to
boarders. This wasn’t the
glamorous part of the Village you saw in the tourist books, was it? The men they passed wore canvas jackets
and workmen’s caps, or cloth coats not quite up to the wind. No one else had lush beaver coats to
flap satisfyingly around the ankles, like his and Dru’s. But then none of these poor sods had
had the initiative to drag a couple of college boys into the shadows at the
Baltimore station for a marinated feast.
(God, their blood must’ve been 90 proof––! Along with the cozy coats Spike had
appropriated rather a nice silver hip flask still half full, a Tiffany wrist
watch, and the duckiest little pearl tie pin in the world.)
At the corner of Horatio Street,
Dru let out a groan and sank to her knees a moment before he felt it himself; a
delivery van almost flattened them as he dragged her crazily away from it. On the far side he blinked into the
swirling white: what was going on
here? Then he spotted the trouble:
El Faro, the sign said, on the corner restaurant that scented the air with
enough garlic to fell The Master himself.
Or at least, slow him up considerably.
“We won’t be having any
little snacks there, love,” he said. “But it’s all right. Come, we’re almost there.”
They were almost there: the address on the paper proved to be
right next door to the vampire-proof eatery. 838B was down three steps from the sidewalk, and through a
passage once meant for horses, which let out into a cramped little yard, still
reeking faintly of the horrible garlic.
“Here mate, what sort of a
place is this?” Spike said to the
old craggy faced vamp who appeared to meet them.
“Ah, Spike and
Drusilla. I’ve been watching
out for you two. Rent’s
cheap here for a reason,” he said, leading the way into the cellar.
Four o’clock. Whatever threat of sunlight there was
for that day was long gone, and free at last of the trains, he was starting to
feel frisky and omnipotent again. Spike
left Drusilla sleeping in their agreeably dank new room, and ventured out into
the dirty streets. He’d
manacled her ankle to the radiator so she wouldn’t wander off without him
and get lost. He’d come back
for her later, once he’d seen a bit of the lay of the land. Desultory
snow still fell, and all the air was gray. Pausing against one of the El uprights, he lit his last
Fatima and took a couple of grateful drags. An agenda formed in his mind: Find more smokes. Visit a barber. Learn about where a bloke could get a
drink and hear some decent music around here. Find someone amusing to fuck, rob, feed on. Possibly even in that order. Over his head, a train rumbled up
from Christopher Street. He turned
his steps east. The trees of
Abingdon Square were pale ghosts in the murk. He crossed into Bleecker Street, passed the public baths
(noting them as a possible steamy amusement for the future––there
was an occasional charm in a fish-in-a-barrel way to bringing down moist, naked
prey) and ducked into the first barber shop he saw. He always felt happy in a barber shop, no matter how
modest––scent of bay rum, the fancy red leather-and-chrome chairs,
paraphernalia of combs and clippers, the perfect whiteness of the tiled walls
and floor. Once, at a particularly
lovely two-chair shop in Charleston,
just before closing time, he’d allowed all that pearly whiteness
to overcome him, and did for the barber right there, spraying the walls and
mirror with red. So pretty when
fresh, and of course he never hung about to see the dun browny-orange it turned
The mirrors. A mirror was the only thing that
wasn’t sheer bliss about a barber shop. It made necessary an extra step: immediate eye-contact with
the man, long enough to put a little hypnotic hex on him, so he wouldn’t
notice what he wasn’t seeing in the glass. Dru had taught him.
He didn’t think it sporting to do to prey––he liked
food to know it was about to be eaten––but certain things were
Looking sharp, for one. He
could feel with his fingers that the narrow moustache that traced the line of
his upper lip needed serious seeing to.
Dru had trimmed it on the train, with God only knew what result.
The shop was empty when
he went in, save for the proprietor, but once the basking-under-a-hot-towel
part of the proceedings was over, Spike noticed a new man in the next
chair. That profile! What a sheik! Like Leyendecker’s own personal jerk-off fantasy. This one, Spike thought, I investigate.
waited outside for the other fellow to emerge. The snow had stopped.
People went in and out of the lighted shops, buying supper, claiming
their washing in brown paper parcels. A girl with a minx-face between high fur collar and
nimble little cloche distracted him for a moment. A tasty morsel, she’d be! Spike almost set off after her dainty silk ankles as
she wobbled along in unbuckled galoshes.
But then there he was. Tall
and louche, probably a year or two out of some university he’d crewed
for, Spike supposed. Strong. Worth the taming.
gave his arm a quick touch.
“Got a fag?”
fellow stopped, his expression serious, as if performing some important
obligation, and drew a pack of Camels from an inside pocket.
brand,” Spike lied.
In the brief flare of the
lighter, Spike caught him glancing.
“Got somewhere to go?” Spike murmured.
Collar Boy checked, with barely a move of his sculpted head, that no one was
eavesdropping on them. “My
room’s on Perry Street.
Around the corner.”
a bottle there?”
followed the fellow’s big shoulders around the corner, through a dark
doorway, and up five flights of steep steps that smelled of boiled
cabbage. Once in the flat, he
slammed him back against the door and yanked his head down on a level with his
own. Holding him around the jaws,
Spike could feel the exciting thrum of blood in the fellow’s neck, the
rising tide of arousal and alarm.
“Hey—! I don’t kiss—!”
right—I do.” Spike
thrust his tongue down the boy’s throat.
for resistance, Spike felt the lanky body against his stiffen and struggle for
one long moment before giving way with a groan. Never did he tire of that moment of psychic surrender, or
what came after; lifting his mouth from the boy’s, looking into his eyes
that were full of fear and beseeching.
Feeling him tremble all through himself.
do you want?” the boy asked.
backed off a step, keeping their gazes locked. He liked what he could do with his stare. Turn a big strong coxswain into a
wibbling tower of jelly. Except
for one part. He grabbed for it,
and found it answered. “You.
In my own good time.”
He let it go, and the boy gasped.
Good, he’d do anything now.
“Where’s the booze?”
Johnny seemed to have forgotten he could stand free of the door, or walk. Breathlessly he pointed towards a low
bookcase in the corner. Spike
yanked out a few tomes: The Green Hat, This Side of Paradise, a couple of odd volumes of the Harvard
classics––and there it was.
An actual Canadian Club bottle, containing, potentially, actual Canadian
Club. Whatever was in there, it
was dark brown and full to the rim.
He drank off a long swig.
Then, with an air of kindness, Spike went back to the boy and kissed him again, letting the whiskey
flow back through his lips into Johnny’s mouth. He sucked it down, kissing back, grabbing now at
Spike’s clothes. He shook
the suit, idiot.”
took off his pinstriped suit jacket and draped it neatly on the back of
one of the two chairs in the
studio flat. The other he pulled
to the middle of the room, where he sat down on it backwards. The tall slanted windows and skylight
admitted plenty of the sort of light Spike liked best: streetlamp reflections,
shadowed and capricious. Like his
Dru. He smiled at the thought, and
at Johnny’s riveted attention.
Still leaning on that door, framed in an oblong glow.
for me. Or don’t you do that
either?” Spike purred. He
brought the bottle to his lips and drank again, but never took his eyes off
. . . I mean . . . yes.” The
way he swallowed, Spike could trace the bobbing of his adam’s apple. “Yes, sir.” Johnny shrugged
out of his overcoat, his suit coat, and began scrabbling at his tie. Then something Spike did with his gaze
made his fingers slow and deft.
Suddenly the knot gave way; the suspenders dropped off the broad
shoulders, the shirt buttons seemed to part with their holes of their own
accord. Charming, Spike thought,
the white underwear Americans wore, so earnest and shy and clean and
upstanding. Mmmm, upstanding. What he saw when the BVDs fell made
Spike crook a grin.
started forward. Spike snapped his
fingers. “Not like
that. On your knees.”
an expression of passionate misery, but no hesitation, he dropped. God, he was something, Spike thought,
this big milk-fed athletic American boy.
A strand of dark hair fell over his brow; his mouth quivered, chest
rising and falling as he dragged in the breaths. Spike could practically hear his heart pumping, sped by
confusion and lust and suffering.
Of course, his suffering had barely begun. And his cock had no idea of any of that: it stood up red
headed and proud, and drooled like a mad thing.
was going to be delicious. In more
ways than one.
he reached him, having crawled across the cold uncarpeted boards, Johnny needed
no instructions. His long fingers
didn’t fumble too badly at Spike’s trouser buttons, and his
surprise at finding nothing more between him and Spike’s splitter only
slowed him down for a moment.
Spike played his fingers through the boy’s hair, so recently cut
and slicked down, until it was pointing in all directions. Boy howdy, this was the stuff! Humans’ mouths were so hot..
Johnny’s hands on his balls were like the heated towel he’d
had wrapped around his head at the barber’s. If the boy noticed that the flesh he was devouring was
rather tepid, he didn’t pause to remark on it. His mouth was too full for anything but groans.
of that for now, pet,” Spike said, as his fingers tightened in the
boy’s hair, drawing him off.
“Are you ready for me?
Because here I come, ready or not.” He rose from the chair, and stood for a moment over Johnny,
who stared up, open-mouthed, open-handed, swaying a little, his cock thrumming
against his belly. Spike
considered whether to take his own clothes off, but decided not to bother. It wasn’t as if this was a lover,
to whom he wanted to show himself.
Besides, the boy was making no demands, was he? There was a daybed tucked against
one wall under the tall windows.
That would do. Spike
stepped around him, grabbed his arm, dragging him hard across the rough boards,
and forced him down against the side of the low divan. Johnny’s vague protest was
quelled when Spike pushed his face against the cushion and drove into him
without warning. Oh, this was
good! Just what he’d been
wanting after a week cramped into that damned train with Drusilla going on all
night about the dancing monkeys she saw outside the windows, and weeping half
the days! Spike
pumped–once–twice–holding the boy down by the neck, and there
was no more resistance. Johnny
made a sound like air going out of a tire, and began to keen in time with
Five–six–he was wriggling back, the breath sawing out of
him. Spike went faster, and felt
the change come on him, the hungry fangs descend. He yanked Johnny up by the shoulders, rocked back a little
to take the boy’s weight against his chest, and still thrusting up into
God Oh God––what are you doing?” The boy flailed around, but his powerful arms could get no
purchase on anything. Kneeling
behind him, Spike had him doubly impaled, and took his time. Slow deep thrusts, matched by slow deep
gulps. The blood just bubbled
eagerly up. No rush, it was still so early. Keep it going. Feeling a little pity for
Johnny––he was being so
good––Spike closed his hand
around the boy’s cock, pumped it in time with his pulsing
surges. It was like thumbing
the cork out of a bottle of bubbly; he came at once, filling Spike’s hand
a lovely strong boy, aren’t you, just brimming with the
life-force,” Spike crooned, feeding it back to him. With his palm pressed to the
boy’s slavering mouth, Spike pulled away from his neck. No reason, really, to take it all
now. All the time in the
world. When he felt his face
change back, he smiled, and turning the boy’s head, murmured, “Now,
precious, give us a kiss.”
rolled his eyes like a frightened horse; his neck stung but he didn’t
know why. Spike sucked on his
tongue. Poor bewildered
light-headed thing. Gasping, the boy broke away and dropped back onto the
you done yet?” he pleaded.
be done when I’m done, as the barmaid said to the vicar.” Spike
redoubled his fucking, and watched the tiny beads of blood well up in the two
puncture holes, but he did not taste them. There was enough there even to waste. As he reached the crisis, sounds came
from the stairwell outside; heavy footfalls, laughter. A knock.
“Fred! Freddie! Open up!”
up and surrender your hooch!”
fists began to pound the door.
it was Freddie, apparently––bucked as if to throw him off. But Spike was beyond recall; he
shot with a roar that brought his fangs halfway down again; flailing beneath
him, Freddie caught a glimpse over his shoulder of half-formed vamp face and
in there! Freddie!”
out on us! Open up!”
held the terrified boy down until he was completely spent, then stumbled to his
feet, putting himself away with trembling fingers. “Bloody marvelous you are. Congratulations.
Go clean yourself up, I’ll get rid of your pals.”
as Freddie staggered to his feet, one hand clapped to his neck and the other to
his crotch, the door flew open and three young men spilled into the studio.
slipped through a beaded curtain and disappeared. A moment later Spike heard splashing from behind the
clicking falls of beads, and low cursing.
looked at the pals, who, having surprised themselves by their unexpected
success in bursting through the door, were momentarily stunned to see a
stranger there. Spike sized them
up at a glance: more of Freddie’s same, well-brought up boys from good
suburban families, stockbrokers, publisher’s assistants, or some such,
and imagining no one knew they were queer except each other.
gents. Was it a drink you were
after? Help yourself.” He gestured at the bottle of Canadian
Club, sitting innocently on the floor near his vacated chair. “Freddie will be with you in two shakes.”
up the boy’s discarded clothes, Spike slipped with them through the
beaded curtain, and found Freddie staring at himself in a small round shaving
mirror hung over a tiny, not very clean sink. Transfixed, he fingered the puncture marks on his neck. Spike stepped up behind him and cupped
his ass. “There, you should
be more careful when you’re getting reamed out in future, not to scratch
at yourself that way. You opened
up quite a gash there in the heights of your transports, mate.”
. . . I . . . “
come, you don’t want to keep your lads waiting.” Spike thrust the clothes at him, but at
the same time one of the pals intruded, setting the beads clicking and clacking
wildly. Clearly, he was
already drunk; his fair skin pinked with it. He grinned crazily.
were holding out on
us––who’s the trick?”
his, two other heads appeared.
“We’re going to the baths––are you coming along
pair of glassy eyes went glassier when they met Spike’s. Oh, this was almost too easy.
They fell in, these handsome lads, like good dogs at the trainer’s
slightest look. Spike gave them
his best smile. “The
Everard. You’ll come
too,” the blond said, “that’ll be all right. Won’t it, fellows?”
said the one in the spectacles, giggling around his attempt to ape
Freddie turned from the mirror to regard his friends. For a moment Spike thought he was going to collapse. He seemed unaware that he was still
naked. Blinking, he put a hand to
do I have to fuck around here to get a goddamn drink?”
tableau dissolved in loutish confusion, and Spike found himself in a cab,
hugged between the flanks of Freddie and another Johnny, knee to knee with the
wasted blond folded onto the jumpseat opposite. Apparently they’d stopped somewhere on the way, as a
silver flask––not his––was making the rounds. This was a bit of all right. The cab careened up Eighth Avenue;
Spike registered the lights and movement, but he was much more entranced by the
heat of all this drunken boyflesh fencing him on all sides, the rush of their
blood practically audible to him as they nattered together about The Everard,
and who’d had whom there last week.
I am Brer Rabbit in the bloody briar patch, I am, Spike thought, taking a long swig from the flask
when it came his way.
cab pulled up in West 28th Street, just shy of Broadway. Spike followed his new-found friends
into the basement entrance of the Everard, where they each forked over a dollar
to the attendant, checked the contents of their pockets, and received a clean
white sheet. Or Spike thought, accepting his, a shroud. He
let the laughing Johnnies herd him upstairs. The blond, it now appeared, was paying him special
attention, walking too close behind him; on the stairs he hand made an
appearance on Spike’s ass. All
right, you want to be first?
I’ll oblige you. Spike turned and looked at
the Johnny, raising his scarred eyebrow.
steam room?” the blond asked, raising an eyebrow back and succeeding only
in looking like what he was: a kid from Schenectedy who thought he was
sophisticated because he readVanity Fair. Spike winked at him. They were all naked now, wrapped in
their sheets, except Spike didn’t bother with his, just tucked it, still
folded, under his arm. Might come
in useful for something later on, but he wasn’t interested in the Roman
legislator look. Let ‘em
stare. And every man jack in the
place already was. Spike took a
deep breath. This was even better
than the barber shop: scents of Wildroot hair oil, male sweat, whiskey, spunk,
and steam, and laced under all, the portent of blood, high-running blood. The whole building was chock full of
men who were fucking, or about to fuck, or just done fucking, and their blood
was going to be spicy rich with the wild joy of it. Too bad, Spike thought, he wouldn’t be able to have
them all. Still, he’d treat
himself to a nice sampling. The
blond gestured, and he followed him down a corridor lined with cots where
feeding was certainly going on, if not quite in the Spike manner. He took it in out of the corners of his
eyes, but stayed fixated on the broad pink shoulders of the big blond ahead of
into the steam. In heat like this,
Spike almost felt alive; touching himself was like touching someone else, his
cock actually warm as it grew in his hand. The room was small, and it was almost impossible to see
anything, but he smelled the rich tones of four or five men already there. His belly growled as his prick nosed
up: so many simultaneous hungers, and here he was at the smorgasbord. Followed Blondie by his scent to the
tier of benches on the far wall, where he sprawled back on the highest one,
legs spread, and let the sheet fall open.
Sure of yourself, are
you? Spike thought. Well, all right. From
the opposite corner, a sucking sound provided inspiration; Spike scrambled up
onto the middle tier, between Blondie’s outstretched legs. In the murk, he smelled the cock before
he saw it; it shared its owner’s fair, lightly-pitched notes. Beneath it was a murkier, muskier tone:
and suddenly it was that Spike craved, the hell with the damn cock; he’d
have the boy’s bunghole, sink his tongue in up to the root, make Blondie
scream and thrash. Bring all the
blood down right where he wanted it.
No sooner thought than done: Spike grabbed the slippery back of a knee
in each hand and jerked the legs up; Blondie rocked back on his spine, hands
grabbing at the slick bench slats.
it––! oh. Ohhhhh.”
kid’s asshole opened right up to him––there’d been more
traffic through here recently than in that brand new Holland Tunnel. Slut. Tonguing him, Spike felt his game face come on, and suddenly
he was impatient: who, after all, was the sodding boss here? Not Blondie, for very damn sure. He was ready for a nip, and he’d
Just––there. Spike bit into the tender flesh where
the inner thigh met the body.
Blondie’s cock, which was already standing straight up, the
ballsac stretched taut beneath, quivered like a dousing rod as the molten blood
flooded his mouth. Somewhere up
above, Blondie cried out, but in a place like this, who was paying
attention? There was plenty of
hollering going on all through the baths.
Sucking it down, Spike slipped three fingers back into the arse. Hold my place, I’ll be right
back. He drank, and for a moment imagined himself as a babe in arms again,
cradled in all that drowsy warmth, scarfing down sustenance from pulsing white
flesh. Every inch of him content.
every inch wasn’t content just at
the moment––a fair few inches were throbbing to be quenched.
pet,” Spike murmured, hooking the knees again, up over his shoulders,
slick skin against slick skin, and into you we go like a great chundering
Limited, pretty as you please.
Fucking him in long crazy strokes, Spike came in close to taste Blondie’s
mouth, and was met by a scream.
don’t you fancy my true face, precious?” Without breaking his hips’ rhythm, Spike slapped the
boy’s face, once, twice, and it settled nicely back from panic into a
beautiful entranced fear, so beautiful that Spike felt his cock engorge
further, his fangs tingle in their sockets, at the sight of it. Why not have another nip of such a
lovely thing? Especially when the
corner of the mouth was already bleeding?
He dipped his head to lick up that drop, mouthed the lower lip that
quivered wildly between his teeth.
Used just one fang to make a delicate slit to sip through. The wound down below was still open; he
felt it weep sweet blood onto his own pounding cock.
groaned against Spike’s mouth, his ankles hooked together at
happy as clams, we are,” Spike remarked, letting him get a good look at
the grinning game face.
“Enjoying your yellow-eyed devil, are you, my lad?”
Blondie nodded, his lips slick with his own blood. Spike dipped down for
another salty kiss. As he did, he
felt Blondie’s cock jump, and splatter their bellies with hot cum. “Ah, who said you could do
that?” Spike slapped him again.
. . . oh God . . . I couldn’t help it . . . .”
that he could find any words, really, at this point. Game lad. Spike
slipped one hand down and found the kid’s sticky cock still hard. Ah, youth. Well, that was all right after all. He redoubled his thrusts, thinking that
as many as Blondie had had before, he was still getting the best for last. With that, Spike began to come. Allowed himself one good roar before
coming down on the kid’s neck with a loud crunch. He shot, Blondie shot, and the blood
from his jugular shot down Spike’s throat like a tidal wave. It was a long time before Spike stopped
pumping. He withdrew, fore and
aft, and let the slackened legs down onto the bench. The drained face lolled to the side, displaying the ragged
gash in the neck.
done, old son, well done.”
Spike closed his eyes for him, and the sheet they’d been lying on
did for covering the empty face.
of this infernal murky heat. He
was ready for a plunge.
from his bathe, Spike saw Freddie again, leaning in the doorway of one of the
cubicles that lined the corridor, talking to someone within. Spike came up behind and blew his cool
breath against the boy’s neck.
Freddie jumped and spun around.
It’s you.” At
once he blushed, and an obedient tent rose beneath the sheet wrapped around his
were born to be a slave, you were, Spike
thought. And your
blood’s practically leaping to be down my throat.
He glanced around at
Freddie’s interlocutor, stretched out on the cubicle’s cot with one
arm tucked behind his head, the other playing languidly with an impressive cock. A John Gilbert type. Very nice. Hell––Spike squinted––maybe he
really was John Gilbert. He’d taken Drusilla to see Flesh
& The Devil before they left New
Orleans, and they’d sat through it a second time, discussing in fierce
whispers what they’d like to do with Garbo and Gilbert before draining
them dry. The usher shone his
flashlight on them and said there’d been a complaint; if they
weren’t quiet, they’d have to leave. They got their revenge at the end of the screening, dragging
him out to the alley behind the Lido
for a snack. Dru kept his pillbox
hat for a souvenir.
At any event, this bloke
looked prosperous, as much as anyone could when he was starkers. And what Spike fancied now was a big
juicy steak, some A-one booze, and a spot of music. Gilbert here would be just the ticket.
he glowered at Spike, who’d shown up just as he was luring Freddie in,
and stood behind him now with an arm looped around his waist, pressing against
the eager bulge.
mine,” Spike grinned, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t
share.” He shoved Freddie
into the cubicle and kicked the door shut behind them. “He doesn’t kiss,
tho’.” At these words
he felt Freddie give a little jump.
“Well, not anyone but me.” Spike yanked the sheet off, watching Gilbert’s
face. It amused him to play
master of ceremonies. Almost as
much as it did to feel how entirely Freddie was in his thrall. Spike stroked his back and ass, felt
the skin thrum at his touch. The
boy was in a trance of terror and desire, and he would do whatever Spike told
him to. Together they’d hook
this Gilbert, and make him take them off for a night on the town.
proved easy. While Gilbert went at
him from behind, Spike contented himself with kissing Freddie’s mouth,
sucking the hot gusts of breath as he panted from the good coring he was
getting. For a boy who
didn’t kiss, he was awfully eager for it. In the midst of all the hurly-burly, the other fellow
didn’t notice at all when Spike’s mouth slipped down to
Freddie’s throat, the fangs going neatly into the half-closed holes
they’d made a few hours ago.
There was nothing quite as tasty and satisfying, Spike thought, as to
drink a man whose blood was up. He
caressed Freddie’s hair and cheek as he sucked; hooked a couple fingers
into his mouth; Freddie sucked on them with the automatic intensity of a hungry
he heard Gilbert begin to grunt, Spike slipped a hand under Freddie’s
belly. Disengaged from his neck so
as to feast his eyes instead on the grateful helpless look on the boy’s
face as he yanked him off. Then
kissed him again as his whole body shook with the force of the other
rose out of his crouch.
“Right? All done, are
you? Let’s go then fellows,
the taxi Spike half-listened to Freddie and Gilbert discuss mutual
acquaintances; there was at least ten years’ difference in their ages and
they’d never clapped eyes on each other before, but it quickly became
apparent that Freddie’s sister Tuffy was at Miss Porter’s with
Gilbert’s second cousin, and good God what a bore. Far more interesting to examine the
night time cityscape. No other
city he’d ever seen was so thoroughly lit up as New York. As the cab nosed through traffic into
Times Square, he gaped. Why, there
must have been bloody millions of white light bulbs, the whole place was a
blaze, and––fancy that, some of them went on and off very fast and
told you the news. Spike craned
his neck around to keep the ticker in sight as long as he could. Must make sure Dru got to see that
too––well, maybe not.
She’d probably be frightened of it and foam at the mouth half the
night about evil fairies snapping after her. But my–! Wasn’t that fine.
fine thing was Central Park. It
went on and on, rocky and bosky and dark, the perfect happy hunting
ground. The cab drove north
through the park’s windy lanes, and Spike took it all in, silent and
still in its swaddling of snow, wondering why they’d waited so long to
come here. This burg was made for vampires.
they reached Harlem, Gilbert paid off the driver without a murmur. Spike’s instinct about him was
right; back in his clothes he proved to be very flash indeed. He led the way into Small’s
Paradise as if he owned the joint, and the Captain greeted him by name. Ah, can I pick ‘em, or can I
pick ‘em? In a quarter of an hour Spike found himself at a prime
table, smoking a Cuban cigar, drinking real French champers, and tearing into
rare steak while five feet away a line of dusky beauties in skimpy satin costumes
did the Charleston. This was the
glanced at Freddie, who was staring, glassy-eyed, into space. Cab Calloway and the shimmying girls
weren’t making a dent on him.
you,” Spike murmured, leaning in to his ear, “you want to eat, is
what you want to do. Build
yourself up. Need your strength.”
“Huh? Oh.” Once the steak was pointed out to him, he picked up the
cutlery and started to eat. Spike
stole a hand under the tablecloth and touched him. Hard. There was
a lot of blood in this boy, and it was amazingly single-minded. Spike gave him a squeeze that made
Freddie’s eyes cross a little, and let go. On the other side of him, Gilbert was intent on his supper,
and didn’t seem to feel called upon to make conversation. Which would’ve been difficult,
given the syncopated racket of the band and the dancers coming at them from the
front, and the tide of chatter from the sea of tables at their backs. This noisy hilarity would be all right,
Spike thought, for a couple of hours, but it wasn’t really what he had in
mind for the rest of the evening.
He wanted to find some little dive with a piano player, somewhere the
local Negroes weren’t barred from coming in except through the service
entrance. Their time in the south
had given him a taste for jukes––places where the music was
low-down, where you never knew when some marvelous dance or fight would break
out, the air was thick with the scent of reefer and pig hocks, and the blood of
your victim would likely as not be laced with cocaine or grain alcohol. Places that were dangerous for white
folks, unless they had what Spike had: loads of disingenuous charm, a foreign
accent . . . and a good set of fangs. Small’s was too polite. But it would do, on Gilbert’s
show over, steaks gnawed down to the bone, Spike decided to make his move. He couldn’t help but notice how
obviously Gilbert was playing footsie with Freddie under the table. Well, that would work. Spike got to his feet, and tapped
Freddie on the shoulder. Freddie
rose like the zombie he practically was now and followed Spike as he threaded
his way through the tables crowded with men in tuxedos and bare-armed girls
playing with their cigarette holders and long strings of pearls. When he reached the alcove leading to
the rest rooms, Spike glanced back.
Sure enough, Gilbert was craning his neck to keep an eye on them. Spike pushed Freddie ahead of him,
paused long enough to see Gilbert stumble up from his chair, and followed. He steered the boy past the men’s
room and out the back door into a slushy alley that reeked of cooking, garbage
Paradise in there, and his hell out here, apparently,” Spike said. He backed Freddie against the greasy
brick wall. Pressed on his shoulder
with one insistent hand. Down he
went. Zombie or not, the kid
sucked like a champ. Might almost
be a good lark to turn him.
Gilbert appeared in the wedge of yellow light cast by the bare bulb over
the door. He squinted for a moment
into the darkness, then spotted them.
say––you’re going it!” Gilbert glanced nervously over his shoulder. “What if somebody comes?”
will, in a minute,” Spike said, grabbing Freddie by the ears and shoving
further into his gobbling mouth.
“After that, he’ll be all yours.” He smiled sweetly at
Gilbert. “Light me a fag,
will you? My hands are
“Oh! Well . . . sure.” Gilbert fished a silver cigarette case
out of his inside breast pocket, lit two and placed one between Spike’s
Spike took a grateful
drag, let go of one of Freddie’s ears long enough to retrieve the smoke,
and shot. The boy swallowed it
all, and what was even better, he let go so reluctantly, kissing the tip with
reverence and turning his shining eyes up to meet Spike’s gaze with an
expression of total devotion.
“Right. You’re next,” Spike
said. “Don’t worry,
I’ll stand here between you and the door. No one’ll see.”
Freddie went right to
work. Spike finished his
cigarette, taking slow thoughtful puffs, watching Gilbert’s face as his
breathing changed, and his eyes closed.
It was then that Spike caught the fellow’s head in his hands,
wrenched it around to expose the neck above the nice fresh celluloid collar,
and bit. He could tell, by
the way both Gilbert and Freddie suddenly went “Mmmmph!!!” that the
bite made him come. Which
happened, more than you’d think, even when the victim hadn’t got
his cock in another fellow’s mouth.
Even so, Freddie didn’t seem aware of what was going on; he went
on kneeling at Gilbert’s feet as Spike drained him, and when it became
necessary for Spike to catch him about the waist and hold him up, Freddie rose
fainted,” Spike said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, shaking
his face back to normal. Freddie
just nodded and laid Gilbert down on the wet ground. “Had an awful lot to
drink. I expect he’ll come
around in a bit.” Spike bent
over him for a moment, pretended to check his vital signs. He already had the wallet; had taken
that in the first moment Gilbert got his cock out, but now he palmed the
cigarette case and the watch.
Freddie either didn’t see or didn’t care. But he surprised Spike, when he got
back to his feet, by grabbing him into a kiss.
that’s all right,” Spike said, shoving him away. “Down, boy.”
“I don’t mind
what you made me do,” Freddie gasped. “I’ll do anything you
say. Only, let’s get out of
here so we can go f––“
Another lunge, another kiss, and the boy rubbed himself against Spike in
a way that showed a lot more initiative than he’d evinced since the
barber shop that afternoon.
It was time, Spike saw,
to put an end to this. He took
Freddie’s shoulders firmly in his hands and turned him so his back was to
the wall. Paused a moment to consider. Decided, after all, to be generous, to
be sporting. Poor Freddie’s
tool––all evening a bridesmaid and never a bride. Spike knelt, freed the importunate
thing, and swallowed it to the root.
The kid came at once with a yell, and yelled again when Spike’s
fangs sank into his flesh.
Freddie only had .32 in
his pockets, and a class ring from Choate, but that was all right. Gilbert was flush. And the night still
Right. Now for the fleshpots. Spike turned his steps away from the
bright lights of Seventh Avenue, where cabs were pulling up, spilling
overdressed partyers from downtown.
He smoked one of Gilbert’s fancy cigarettes as he walked along the
slushy dark sidestreets, past rows and rows of identical brownstone stoops,
feeling the contentment of a full belly and a bulging wallet, looking out for
what he wanted.
there. The last house in the row, at the door under the stoop: a
group of big fellows, prizefighter types, in raccoon coats and Stetsons,
conferring with some unseen bouncer.
Wherever they wanted to be
was likely to suit Spike. He made
himself their silent tail; got in the door unseen, followed them along a dark
smoky hall and up a flight of stairs.
The room was nearly black; its inhabitants all were. Unlike Small’s, there were no
cloths or little flickering candles on the tables. No food, no dancefloor, hardly any women. Nothing to drink except rough gin. And every bloke in the joint, Spike
could see, was some sort of local player––you could tell that by
the cut of their suits, the gleam of gold in their mouths, and of the diamonds
on their fingers. Best of all,
there was a piano, a battered upright set on the tiny stage at the end of the
room, and a man sitting at it coaxing out music Spike could feel through every
fiber of his body.
slipped into a chair at a vacant table along the wall. A moment later the waiter appeared, but
instead of asking what he’d have, the man just stared at him. Spike glanced up to discover that every
man in the room was doing the same: a wall of impregnable scowls all giving off
the same unspoken message: Your kind’s not welcome here.
Spike looked from face to face, meeting the fierce eyes with his mildest
gaze. He took Gilbert’s
wallet from his pocket, stirred through it with a fingertip, and laid a crisp
fifty dollar bill on the table.
it would be my pleasure to buy all these gents here a drink. Make mine––whatever
they’re having.” When
he brought his eyes back to the waiter’s, the man’s face
mighty nice of you, mister.”
at all,” Spike replied, showing his blandest smile. Little by little, the others in the
room looked away from him; the piano music, which had never quite stopped
during this exchange, picked up in pace and volume. The fifty disappeared, to be replaced by gin in a not-quite-clean
Music like this reminded
him of why he was glad to be a vampire, because it was melancholy and
desperate, and he’d been like that when he was alive, with no end in
sight until Drusilla put him out of his misery. But it made him hate what he was too, because it was
beautiful and intense of life, reminding him that he’d never really been
alive when he was alive, and what he was now wasn’t the same at all. This was music about the devil, and
being an intimate acquaintance of Old Nick, Spike heard himself in every note.
He sipped the horrible gin and settled back with closed eyes to listen.
opened them when he heard the voice.
Sometimes he makes me
happy, then sometimes he makes me cry
Sometimes he makes me happy, then
sometimes he makes me cry
He had me to the place once, I wish to God that I could die . . .
stood awkwardly near the piano man’s elbow, hands clutched together, a
girl in an ill-fitting black dress with a sagging hem. She couldn’t have been more
than nineteen, and looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there with all
those eyes on her. But there was
an authority to her low vibrating voice that brought every conversation in the
room to silence.
I met the blues this
morning walking just like a man
Ooooh, walking just
like a man
I said, Good morning
blues, now gimme your right hand
Every day seem like
Every day seem like
gonna leave tomorrow. I know you
don’t bit more care
She stared at the floor
as she sang, and barely moved except to squeeze her hands together. The lyric came out of her in a
passionate moan, as if she’d have kept silent if she could. Spike leaned forward, drinking her in
with all his senses. She
wasn’t beautiful, or graceful, or confident, like Drusilla. But he couldn’t remember the last
time a woman had stirred him as much as she did.
Got the world in a
jug, the stopper's in my hand
Got the world in a
jug, the stopper's in my hand
Going to hold it,
baby, till you come under my command
she was gone. The piano player
disappeared too, and the silence they left was filled up with the sudden sound
of a gramophone record and the men’s voices swelling up again. Spike drank off his gin and waited
anxiously for her to come back and sing again. Surely that couldn’t be all, those few songs? How could the rest of these men
carry on their drinking and bragging as if nothing had occurred? The absence of that voice filled him
with a bitter sadness; what if he never got to hear it again?
he saw her; at the big table near the stage, where the piano player was sitting
now with the men Spike had followed into the joint. One of them grabbed her by the arm and pulled her onto his
knee. She shied, turning her face
away from him, and for a moment her gaze connected with Spike’s. Then she tried to twist free of the big
man, who was squeezing her and laughing with his pals. Spike got up and crossed the room.
have a wonderful way with a song, you do,” Spike said. “My compliments.” He held his hand out to her, but she
barely looked at him, and didn’t move to take it. The man holding her on his lap jerked
her away from Spike.
you going to favor us again?” Spike asked.
piano player glanced up from his gin.
“Take a powder.”
this moment of distraction, the girl made another attempt to pull away from her
admirer. He yanked her back
with a twist of the arm that made her cry out; the other men at the table
laughed, and none of them looked at Spike, or acknowledged his presence.
lady wants to get up,” Spike murmured. “Why don’t you let her?”
don’t you mind your own goddamned business?” They were on their
feet suddenly, all these big men; and one of them had a gun.
girl, quicker than she looked, took that moment to escape; from the corner of
his eye he saw her slipping amongst the tables towards the exit. When he moved to follow, the piano
player grabbed hold of his shirt front.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
turned to them. Held up his hands.
Stepped back. Smiling, he
shook his head. And with a roar
that shattered the air, showed them his true face.
men fell away from him like bits of waste paper tumbling in a stiff breeze.
caught up with the girl down the block.
Clutching her thin wrap to her chest, she was walking determinedly away,
leaning into the wind. Shrugging
out of his beaver coat, he wrapped it around her shoulders.
“You’ve got nowhere to go,
do you, pet?”
stopped. Raised her eyes to
his. “Look. I don’t need to be standing out
here in no wind, talking nonsense with
no white man. I can look after myself.”
pulled the lapels of the fur coat more firmly around her. “Do you know what your singing
did to me? Made me regret my birth,
and my life, and my death, all at the same time. Made me want to do things . . . to be things . . . I
can’t even tell you.”
you sing for me a little more?”
She shrugged the coat off and held it out to him. “I got to go.” She glanced over her
shoulder. The street was oddly
empty and quiet. Spike
didn’t take the coat, but just looked at her. She tossed her head in defiance, but the effect was spoiled
He bent over her and
spoke close to her ear. “What’s your name?”
hesitated. Then—“Gar .
. . Garnetta.”
with me, Garnetta. We’re
both all alone tonight, and I need another song. I’ll make it worth your while.” He wrapped the coat around her again,
and kept an arm around her. She shuddered,
but after a moment let him tug her into motion, trudging along at his side with
her head bowed, suddenly will-less.
Her fear stirred him, but he wasn’t sure yet just how. All he knew was that he wanted to hear
her again, wanted to watch the way her throat and lips moved as she sang.
small hotel he’d passed on the way to the speakeasy took them in. The cramped lobby was shabby but clean,
and steam-heated to a tropical temperature. The old man at the desk barely glanced at Spike as he paid his
two dollars fifty cents for the night and signed the register. Mr & Mrs Wm Blood.
the room on the fifth floor, with its threadbare rug and sagging metal
bedstead, she shrugged the fur coat off and left it lying on the floor. Spike took off his jacket, loosened his
tie, rolled up his shirt sleeves.
She watched him unceasingly, not moving.
anything to drink?” He saw,
by the way she looked at him, her big eyes narrowed, the effort that went into
her facade of calm. Even standing
a few feet away, he could feel the hum of her blood. Silently, he passed her Gilbert’s flask. She took a long brave chug, and wiped
her mouth with the back of her hand.
“What song you want me to sing?”
bed creaked under Spike as he sat.
He drew her gently onto his knee.
Her whole body was rigid; he saw her swallow, and followed the bobbing
of her throat.
want to hear what you sing . . . when you just can’t help
yourself.” He slid a hand up
her leg. Her stocking was
laddered. She pushed his hand
smiled. “I know. Cold.” He brought it up to her mouth. “Blow on it. Warm it up.”
jerked her head back and stared at him.
“I know what you are.”
started, but took care not to let her see it. Her whole body thrummed against his leg, but she held
herself as still as a statue. “Do you, Garnetta?”
seen your face you showed them men, before I slipped out.”
“Ah. I didn’t mean for you to see
“I always knowed the devil was a
white man.” She closed her
eyes. “Always thought
I’d find him with my singin’, but didn’t think it would be so
soon.” Again she looked at him, and the fear was gone from her eyes. “What you want wit’
answer, he laid his mouth against her neck, just under the ear. Kissed her there, where the blood
galloped beneath the smooth sweet skin.
He touched her throat, just where the voicebox was. She didn’t try to move away. Put a hand on her chest, felt the
thrill of her heart. Here was the
seat of those songs that had so pulled him apart. Laid a finger on the pooch of her lips, slipped it into her
mouth. “You worked magic
with these . . . “ Lips, teeth, tongue,
“that made me feel . . . things I thought I’d forgotten. I’d
like to show you what I can do with mine.”
met her hot querying gaze with his cool smile. She studied him for a moment, then rose and pulled off her
dress. When she tossed it away,
she was grinning.
Freed of her tatty
clothes, Garnetta was majestic.
Spike breathed in the rich perfume of her body as he traced a cool wet
line from her lips to her throat, down the valley of her chest, diverting to
the two high points of her conical breasts. Swirled his tongue around each dark nipple in turn. Nibbled at the soft undersides. Warmed his cold hands on the rich
curves of her flanks. Aware of how
intently she watched him, he thought all the while of the sound of her voice
curling its smoky way around his spine, lighting up every nerve, forcing memories
on him unbidden.
Now, she went from barely
seeming to breathe at all to sipping the air as if it was burning her
mouth. He nipped at her
belly. She growled and parted her
thighs, pushed his head down. She
was smoky there too, intense and blue and simple and complicated, like her
song. The velvety folds of her leapt beneath his laving tongue. She reacted to
every move he made with his mouth and hands, and not just by sighing and
fluttering, like so many girls: she thrashed and moaned and heaved and called
him terrible names; her pussy was endlessly drenched, endlessly consuming: he
swore it practically sucked and bit back at him. Scorched him too—her blood-gorged flesh, its amazing
texture and scent, seared his senses, and it was all he could do not to change
and bite; sated for blood as he’d been an hour ago, he was filled with a
crazy hunger for her. Every sound she made as he worked her
worked on him. She came and came and came again,
swearing like a stevedore, and he wanted so much just to give in to her, to
bite her, drink her, turn her.
Protect her, keep her, ravish her always.
Except that Drusilla
would take any fledging girl vamp he brought near her, and rend the creature to
Garnetta yanked at his
hair. “Gimme the rest
now—I want the rest!”
Spike looked up along the
line of her quivering body to the face, so alive, so real. Had he
really thought her plain when he first saw her? She was a queen.
But what more could she possibly want?
on!” she said, “how long you gonna root around down there and not
get started like a man? You got a
cock? Let’s have it.”
“This . . . was
meant to be just for you. Your
“Well, my pleasure
now is you get your clothes off and do it. I’m gon’ fornicate with the devil, I want to
know all about it. Don’t
want to quit before the main attraction.”
He wasn’t sure
he’d be able to do that and keep his head. Merely devouring her pussy was almost too much. Fucking her, having her all around him,
getting to the depths of her, what would stop him from tearing out her throat
and drinking her down? But as he
rose and pulled the braces down off his shoulders, yanked off his tie,
unbuttoned his shirt, he also knew there was no way he was going to walk away
from her now. He thought he could
spend the rest of time swimming in her––drowning in
her––and miss nothing else.
She watched him strip with clear-eyed interest. Shook her head and hummed “mmm
hmm” as he revealed himself to her.
“Never heard the
devil was so damn pretty.”
not really the devil,” Spike confided,
stretching himself over her, pinning her wrists with his hands. His body felt like a struck
tuning fork, and he’d not even entered her yet. “Just a devil.”
She lifted her head to
catch his mouth with hers, and he plunged into her.
The first time was fast—hammer
and tongs. Coming in her, Spike
recalled the ecstasy of his death and rebirth. Garnetta seemed every bit as strong and fierce as he; her
laugh made his bones sing.
Then they went slow, long deep strokes,
almost withdrawing and her hips rising up to keep him every time. Both trembling like an earthquake about
to happen, drenched in sweat. She
looked into his eyes and would not let him look away. What was she thinking?
What did she imagine about him?
He wanted to know and was afraid to speak. Every outstroke was perilous, every return like a plunge
back to the warm center of being.
Her blood groaned all around him.
He wanted to come, to make her come, to go on fucking forever, but what
he really wanted was her. Her blood was her. He had to have her, possess her
utterly, all his. Surely
she’d want it too.
He tried to pull
away. She gripped him, held
him––thighs, arms, and inside herself, with a pressure that made
him dizzy. And always looking into
his face with her dark brown gaze.
it,” she whispered.
“See what? I’m naked, you’ve seen
everything I’ve got—“
Again he tried to withdraw, again she tightened.
“Lemme see that
face. Don’ hide it from
“Believe me, you
don’t want to.” God,
she was boiling him. Never stop never
stop never stop.
He couldn’t have
stopped then if he tried, his cum came up like hot lava. Exploding into her, he roared and
changed. She hollered, undulating
beneath him, nails scoring his back.
He tore himself from her, rolled away, panting and growling.
She followed after,
straddling him. Looked down at him with an expression of fearless wonder, and
touched his altered face with gentle fingers. Gasping, he was too spent for the moment to move. He couldn’t change back, or stop
her from looking.
thing,” she murmured.
“Don’t you get tired?
You must get so tired.”
When she brought her face
close to his, breathing warmth against it, and kissed the distorted ridges of
his forehead and cheekbones, the harsh brow and distended mouth, tears flowed
out of his yellow eyes. Spike
pushed her off, but not hard, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. One more moment of this, just one more
of her sweet look and that gentle mouth, would be the death of her. He lurched up, crossed the room,
slammed the bathroom door.
A sinkful of cold rusty
water restored him. When he
emerged, Garnetta was still in bed, but she’d wrapped the sheet around
herself, and was sipping from Gilbert’s flask. Spike began to dress.
In his clothes he was calmer, and able to come back to her side.
“Stay here and
smiled down at her, and she looked different again than she had in the
speakeasy, or even five minutes ago.
Strange, powerful woman. Sitting
on the side of the bed, he kissed the points of her shoulders, turned her right
arm to kiss the pit, and the elbow, the wrist and hand. Then the left, and paused at what he
discovered. “Ah, pet, you
shouldn’t do this,” he said, tracing the pattern of little tracks
that dotted the flesh. She dropped
her gaze, and stammered something, but he kissed them just the same. “I know, life’s hard . . .
but death’s harder. Think on
that. And you. You are an artiste.”
got a gift too,” she murmured. Then, “Nothin’ says you have to go. Still plenty of night left.”
shook his head.
went sullen. “You got a
downtown gal. Goin’ back to her.”
Spike said. He rose, went to the dresser
where he’d put the contents of his pockets. He’d taken over 0 from Gilbert; he left it there
for her. If he
couldn’t be her loving Sire, still he could give her that much. She could keep the beaver coat too,
that was something would warm her, not like he wanted to, but something. And Gilbert’s watch and
flask. She could always hock
them. At the door he paused. Why not why not why not just turn back
to her? Every chord of his body
strained towards that bed. His
retracted fangs keened to be in her.
To make her his own cherished one, the way Drusilla had made him hers.
He opened the door.
“Garnetta. If you ever see me again . . . no
matter how I look at you . . . how I may smile, or call out to you, say your
name . . . no matter how I beckon,
Garnetta. If you ever see me again,
run like hell in the other direction.
You run like hell, because I am
the devil, and I’m not going to be so strong a second time.”
Although he was very far
from Greenwich Street, and the night was far advanced, Spike walked
downtown. Through the newly-swirling
snow, past the brownstone fronts and tenement rows, through the held-breath
stillness of the glazed park paths, past the darkened theatres and shops, the
taxis racing between blaring nightclubs, the houses full of exhaling humanity.
Drusilla, at the end of
her wits and her chain, flung herself at him when he came through the door,
scratching, biting, babbling. When
she got a good whiff of him, she howled.
Grinning, Spike unlocked the manacle, kissed her tenderly until she was
quiet, and took her out into the predawn stillness to feed.
This is a stand-alone story but also serves as a prequel to the Bittersweets series about Spike and Buffy. The first story in that series is "All Wrong."
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Read All Wrong, the sequel to Manhattan Nocturne.
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