A/N: Oneshot I wrote a few months ago. Hope you enjoy it. :) Reviews are welcome and encouraged. Disclaimer: Don't own anything in this story besides the character of Paul Sanders. Everything else is owned by Joss Whedon/Mutant Enemy. Entertainment purposes only, and all that stuff.
Mr. Paul Sanders had always liked to consider himself a very practical, down-to-earth sort of person. A man of forty-two, having lived in Sunnydale for most of his years, he had seen very many peculiar things in his lifetime. There had always been something suspicious and eerie about the town in which he lived that he couldn't exactly place. Every day in the newspaper, there was a new story about mysterious disappearances and happenings.
No strange memory of his past living in the town atop the mouth of Hell, though, could measure up to what took place in the final moments of Paul Sanders' life.
It was early October, and Paul was just cleaning out the cage of a barking white terrier dog.
"There," he said, lifting the puppy back into the cage, "Nice and clean for ya, Snowball."
The dog's tail wagged rapidly in response to the sound of his name. He barked once more, prompting the other dogs around him to reply with equal enthusiasm.
"Hush, now," said Paul to all the furry faces around him, "You want to go to a nice home, eventually, now don't you?"
Over the past ten years working at Sunnydale Pets Plus, Paul had developed a habit of talking to the animals he kept for. He felt obliged to keep them company.
Paul glanced at the clock near the cash register. It was almost 8:30; the sun had set hours ago, and it was time to close the store.
Whistling absently, Paul walked over to the counter and reached for his keys to lock up the register. Just as he did so, he heard the unmistakable ringing sound of the bell that signified someone entering the store.
He looked up, about to say something along the lines of, "Sorry, folks, we're closing for the night", but what Paul saw caused his speech to falter.
A man and a woman had walked through the shop doors, shadows from the moonlight covering most of their features. It wasn't until the man stepped forward under the fluorescent lights that Paul began to feel a bit queasy.
This man, donning a long, black coat, black slacks, and black boots, stood in front of Paul with his hands stuffed confidently in his pockets. His hair was a shocking blonde color, his eyes a piercing blue.
His skin, Paul noted, was paler than that of anyone he'd ever seen before.
"Right," said the man, in a thick Cockney accent. He nodded to Paul. "You sell birds here, yeah?"
Paul, flabbergasted, initially said nothing. The man certainly had a threatening presence about him, and it gave Paul a sense of foreboding.
The blonde man uttered a big, dramatic sigh. "Do you speak English, mate?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "Birds. Fluttery, tweety little things. Annoying. You carry 'em?"
"Uh," Paul cleared his throat, wiping sweat from his brow, "Yes. Yes, we do. But I'm afraid I'm about to cl---"
"Look, pal," the man interrupted, "I don't got time for games right now. I promised my Dru here a house pet," he gestured toward the young woman in the shadows, "And she's going to get one."
The woman, apparently called Dru, stepped forward. She, too, was quite pale, but alluring in a way Paul couldn't place. Her hair was dark and velvety, her dress almost as white as her skin. He stared in awe as she gracefully slinked her way over to the blonde man, grinning sweetly.
"Spike," she whispered in a voice barely audible, "Where are the pretty birdies?"
Paul, watching this exchange in silence, realized that she was referring to the man when she spoke. In all his confusion, he couldn't help but wonder what kind of name 'Spike' was.
"Now, now, love," replied Spike, his voice softer as he turned his attention to Dru, brushing his hand lightly across her face, "We must be patient. This nice man is going to help us."
Spike turned from whom Paul assumed was his girlfriend to face him. "You are. Right?"
Paul, feeling that he really had no other choice in the matter, nodded meekly. "You . . . you said you wanted a bird? Follow me."
He whirled around and headed toward the back of the store, where a little room was kept for the parakeets and cockatoos. Paul could hear some of them chirping away innocently even from far away.
What he couldn't hear, however, were the footsteps of the couple right behind him. They seemed to be completely silent as they walked. Paul shuddered.
They made their way past the aquarium section, and Paul listened to the conversation behind him.
"Look, my William! The fish are swimming. If only they could sing, then Mummy would take them all home to play." By the sound of her child-like voice, Paul made the assumption that she was a bit "off her rocker", as the saying goes.
Paul heard a sniff in reply, apparently from Spike (William? Paul wasn't sure): "Fish are dull, pet. Not much fun to eat, either, unless you're human."
Unless you're human.
Paul felt faint, yet again raising his arm to brush away sweat from his forehead as he entered the bird room. There was a rustle as any sleeping birds awoke and drew their attention to Paul and the two mysterious strangers.
He turned to face the couple again to find the woman clapping her hands excitedly. "Such lovely little things! Look at them, darling!"
Spike looked around nonchalantly, seeming uninterested. "Pick whichever you fancy, Drusilla."
"The . . . prices range from two hundred dollars to seven hundred, d-d-depending on the bird you choose. The c-cage prices depends on the size of the bird," Paul said. He found himself stuttering immensely.
"Seven-bloody-hundred?" Spike raised his eyebrows, and Paul gulped, regretting what he'd said.
"As I said, it depends on the---"
"I want this one!"
Spike immediately fixed his gaze on Drusilla, who was peering at a bird in the corner. It shouldn't have been a surprise to Paul this happened to be the bird he considered the "black sheep" of the little animal family at Sunnydale Pets Plus. Paul had rightfully nicknamed him "Lonely". He was covered in gray and black feathers and rarely chirped like any of the other birds. When, if ever, approached, he hissed menacingly.
At the sight of Drusilla, however, the bird seemed unusually calm.
"It's beautiful," Drusilla breathed, "May I, my Spike? May I?"
Spike grinned. "Whatever you want, pet."
"That's a, uh, parrotlet. Male," Paul muttered, wanting to make the sale as quickly as possible so that the two would leave, "Five-hundr---"
Spike whirled around, glaring at Paul, causing him to fall silent. "I think we'll skip the price negotiations, lad. See, here's the thing . . . "
He took a few steps toward Paul, who was shaking. "My Drusilla wants a lil' birdy for keeps. We're a bit tight on money. And I---"
The hairs on Paul's skin prickled as Spike moved even closer. His first instinct was to run, and he tried. Spike had grabbed his arm before he could move an inch.
"---want something to eat," Spike finished. His eyes were suddenly a wild yellow, and his face had transformed into a grotesque, lumpy, horrifying expression nothing like Paul had ever seen.
Paul could do nothing as Spike lunged for his neck, and his eyes widened as he felt a sharp pain in his neck. In that instant, many a fleeting thought went through Paul's mind about all the scary stories his father used to tell him as a young boy.
In the dark, sometimes, you can see those golden yellow eyes . . . They're the eyes of a vampire, lurking in the dark, just waiting . . .
When Paul collapsed to the ground, he could still barely see, through blurred vision, the two vampires standing hand in hand.
They'll only drain you until there's only an ounce of blood left to keep the heart goin' for a few seconds.
It had all been a joke, he'd thought. A joke to haunt his ten-year-old mind at Halloween time.
They never feed after the heart stops, Paulie.
The pair walked away, Spike carrying the cage in which the Lonely bird fluttered about.
"Come on, love, let's go. I'll have to find you some supper after we drop off your new pretty pet."
"I very much like him, my William," said Drusilla, "He sings the Song of Death."
The last thing Paul Sanders ever heard was the gentle, yet terrifying hum of Drusilla the vampire, and the echo of the once silent bird's whistling in harmony.