Chapter 4
The sudden core-rumbling sound of a V8 engine roaring to life makes me misstep as I stroll across the campus parking lot towards the adjacent bus stop. I whip around to find the occupants of the Pontiac Firebird, 1969 Trans Am, laughing hysterically at my apparent trepidation. The driver revs the engine repeatedly making the car twist on its suspension like a racehorse bucking at the starting gates on race day, eager to be out of the stalls. The afternoon sun glints blindingly off the gleaming white paintwork.
The machine launches from its parking lot towards me. I keep walking, forcing one foot in front of the other, willing myself forward against better judgment and instincts of self-preservation.
Laughter rolls from the vehicle as it roars past me, "Made ya look, Freak!"
I yell back, "Does Daddy know you have his car?" As they race past I swing my book bag at the vehicle, listening to the satisfactory screech as metal buckles connect with the gleaming paintwork. I hold my breath, waiting for the vehicle to slow in response to my crime. The music is obviously too loud as they continue on without hesitation. Wait until Daddy finds that scratch; hoping silently that they don't connect the damage with this little altercation.
"Assholes!" I mutter under my breath as I reach the relative safety of the bus stop.
"Who are?" Liz pipes up from the bus seat behind me.
"No one!" I immediately regret my snappy retort. Exhaling loudly, trying to rid myself of the angst the confrontation has caused, I answer, "Greves and Murphy. They thought it was funny scaring the shit out of me in the parking lot."
Liz's face scrunches in disgust. She has had run-ins with these creeps as well. Rich kids with chips on their shoulders and something to prove.
"How did you do on the chem exam?" Liz changes the subject quickly.
Liz is my chemistry lab partner. She is also the only reason I am still passing the subject. "I passed," I smile weakly at her, muttering, "…I hope," under my breath.
"How's that other assignment coming along, the one you've been spending so many hours on in the library?" Liz asked cheerfully, knowing when to leave well enough alone.
"Oh, It's coming along well. Slowly, but well." I answer. "There is so much I could be writing about. Who knew there was so much to the subject." My voice trails off as my mind wanders to the content of my soon due paper on vampires in society; real or a metaphor? As I mentally sift through the information I have managed to source on the subject my thoughts shift to what it would be like to actually be a vampire. Images spring to mind of the two rich-kid jerks who had buzzed me in the parking lot, screaming in terror, flailing inanely, as their blood is drained. Their lives torn from their throats. A satisfied smile creeps onto my face at the image.
"What are you thinking about?" Liz queries looking quizzically at my expression.
"Nothing…nothing." I flounder for a rational explanation to my amused smirk. "I was just thinking about something I'd read on vampires while I was researching the other night," I hurriedly lie.
"Saved by the bus," I whisper under my breath as the Number 5 pulls into its space behind me. I like Liz, she' s a good friend but she has a way of seeing past the surface and getting to the underlying truth. I don't need that kind or scrutiny at the moment. We say our hurried goodbyes and I quickly choose a seat by myself as the bus moves away from the bus stop and out onto the street. Finally I can be alone with my thoughts, at least for the length of the bus ride.
The library is quiet and cool. The afternoon sun streams through the windows forming large pools of orange light on the marble floor. The sound of my heels echoes throughout the cavernous space as I move quickly towards the shelves containing city records where I have spent many hours recently looking for information for my research paper.
The process is slow going, scanning pages and pages of information, looking for any morsel of data that would bring me closer to the truth. Closing the final book in the library a little too forcefully in frustration, I close my eyes, allowing my mind to drift to the strange dreams I have been experiencing over the last few months.
The dreams are not like the usual scattered ramblings of a sleeping mind. They're more like memories. The image of one recurring character within my dreams appears in my mind. As I study the image his eyes, the colour of stormy seas, seem to pierce my soul. If only those eyes were real and I could lose myself in them, I muse. As I recall the dreams this man's high sculpted cheekbones, caramel curls resting on his for forehead, and gentle nature melt my heart. Why can't I meet a guy like him?
From the dreamscape I gleaned the setting to be London. With some investigation I was able to establish the approximate time frame of the dreams by the period attire of the men and women depicted. I had narrowed it down to between 1850's to around 1900. On an impulse I had contacted the London Museum asking for copies of the newspapers within those dates. Remarkably they obliged by providing copies of the hundreds of newspapers on microfiche to the New York Library which, to my dismay, has apparently become my second home. It will take me weeks to finish going through all the articles.
After many long nights and weeks of scanning through the microfiche copies, with bleary eyes, I had stumbled upon newspaper articles of the night in London when a young gentleman by the name of William Pratt had disappeared, the same night a woman by the name of Estelle Ashmore had also gone missing. I nearly missed the article as I scanned the page, eyes tired from looking at the screen for so long. The five minute warning sounded over the library's sound system, alerting me to how late it is. Mom is going to kill me! Estelle Ashmore. The name sends chills down my spine as I read it once again. Why this name? What is its significance? After frantically reading further articles, I am still no closer to the truth. But what truth? What am I looking for?
More articles showed it was at a time of several disappearances and disturbing murders throughout London city. Because William and Estelle had frequented the same social circles and they had attended the same party the night of her disappearance, William had been implicated in her death.
Estelle's body had been discovered several days later. It had been in the Thames for that time and the cause of death - although obviously heinous in nature - and therefore her murderer, were never identified.
"Hu…hmmm" I turn sharply at the sound. The librarian stands beside me tapping her wristwatch before walking away in a bustling, business-like manner. Hurriedly, I gather my things and rush out the door as the librarian stands holding it open for me. I am the last one left besides her. Her stern look expresses her displeasure at being so late to close the library, with the door almost hitting me in the ass as I exit.
Once in the street I turn and move towards the train station to make my way home. The street is dark apart from the few pools of light cast by the street lamps overhead. After reading the details of those murders in London I am a little spooked at the thought of walking home alone. Although, in New York, there were always disappearances, the number of reported disappearances and murders has increased in this part of the city in particular. I hurry on towards the platform, worrying that Mom will be going crazy right about now because I am so late.
The man's voice coming from the stranger a few people ahead of me makes my legs stop working. I nearly stumble as Adrenalin pulses through my veins, pushing me to fight or flight mode. All I can see of him is his back as he pushes aside one of the other passengers to enter the stationary train. The denim vest with ragged arm holes, as if the sleeves have been torn from the garment, frame the sculptured upper arms of this man with blonde, spiky hair so bleached it is almost white. It's his accent, working class North London, and the sound of his voice; I know his voice. I push forward towards the now closing doors of the train, receiving disgruntled noises and glares from the other people waiting on the platform for the next train. The doors close and the train pulls away but not before I catch a glimpse of the stranger's face as he looks right at me. My world seems to spin for a moment as his stormy grey eyes meet mine. A small smirk creases his mouth at one corner as he rocks gently holding one of the overhead straps as the train picks up speed and disappears into the darkness. I know that face. I had been studying it not more than an hour ago in the library while I looked at the newspaper photo of William Pratt. My mind must be playing tricks on me, I know I thought he was handsome, but for it to transform a strangers face…. I must be tired, that's it.
I realise it wasn't this man's face that had first drawn my attention. I struggle to understand how I could be familiar with his voice. I don't know anyone with an English accent let alone a North London accent. My thoughts keep me withdrawn for the train ride home.
I'm met with icy words at my reckless and uncaring behaviour for making Mom worry after me like that, and dinner, which is not much warmer. I push the food around my plate for a while, trying to work out where I have heard this man's voice before but to no avail. I trudge to my room sullenly, the thought of the thesis soon due and yet unfinished did nothing to improve my mood. When sleep finally claims me I fall into a restless, uneasy sleep full of images and sounds of other places and other times.
College is a drone of voices and slowly passing hours. Finally my last class of the day ends. I decide to walk home instead of taking the bus. The change of scenery and a little exercise might clear my head of these thoughts of the man on the train who looked like the man from London, William, who had died so many years ago.
After walking for I don't know how long, I look up and finally take note of my surroundings. With a jolt of shock I realise I have wandered into a part of town I have never been before. I quickly scan up and down the street; nothing looks familiar. With a small sense of panic rising I look at my watch. 4.36! How did it get that late? I have been wandering aimlessly for nearly an hour. I have no clue in what direction I have traveled or how far. I scan the street once again. There are a few people at the far end going about their business so I decide it's best to ask someone where I am. Hopefully I can get some directions back to the college.
A little over half way to the milling people a shop front catches my eye. It is a quaint, old style bookshop. It's multi-paned front window glints in the afternoon sun, slightly obscuring the view of the array of books on display behind it. I move closer to get a better look. There are leather bound books, hand-written journals and first editions all neatly showcased on metal stands and red velvet cushions.
Before I think twice about it I open the door and walk inside. The bell above the door tinkles in welcome. Inside, in the forward most shelves, the shop holds the usual mainstream reading material, cook books and reference books. I browse the shelves absentmindedly, slowly moving further into the shop. In a hidden corner, far at the rear of the shop, I discover there is a whole other world of literature. Reference books on every form of the occult imaginable and beyond.
I spend the next couple of hours immersed in the information held in those books. The shop owner is most helpful with my searches. She is a middle-aged black woman with salt-and-pepper hair and kind, crystal clear eyes that shine with knowledge beyond her years. As I leave the shop just before dark - I'm not going to be late home again like I was last time - she smiles kindly at me and tells me to come again anytime I want. I realise I have exhausted my resources at the library and can find a lot more relevant information at this shop so decide to visit again in the next couple of days. No matter what is driving me to research this particular subject I still have a thesis to hand in.
As I enter the shop the little bell tinkles my arrival, Sola greets me from her counter to the left of the doorway. "Back again, huh? That's the third time this week". The owner, Sola, is always helpful and friendly. She is a middle-aged African American woman with salt-and-pepper hair and kind, crystal clear eyes that shine with knowledge beyond her years. We had spoken frequently throughout the my visits. I discover she possesses a great amount of knowledge on many subjects and she admits during one of my visits to the shop that she is wiccan.
As always, she leaves me in peace to find my way to the back of the shop. Today there is something different, something about the way the air feels. I move through the book shelves and when I reach the hidden section my hand extends out briefly touching each book gently as I pass by. Suddenly, my hand stops, hovering over a rather old looking volume. Funny, I've never noticed this book before.
As I carefully open the pages, the information seems to blur for a moment before becoming clearly defined. It is a book written about a secret organisation called the Watchers Council. I wonder if they know that there is an entire book written on their history right up to only a few decades ago. On closer inspection of the book there is no publishing information. The book seems to be a one-off. Almost like the writer's personal journal. I approach Sola, with the text hoping she knows something about it.
A warm smile spreads across Sola's face when I present the book to her. With light gleaming off the apples of her cheeks, "This book is very special, Becky. It was given to me by a dear friend of the family when I was a young woman. I was entrusted with it's safekeeping so that if something ever happened to the Council some of their history would be saved.
"The book is cloaked in a charm that allows only someone who is worthy of, or needs, the information held within its pages, to find it. You may read it, it has chosen you."
All of a sudden a world of vampires, demon and a girl called the Vampire Slayer opens up to me. I never imagined that what I dreamed about could actually be real. The book has me intrigued. As I sit in the sun-drenched shop reading the Watchers book, I idly flick through the pages looking at various illustrations as my mind ponders the information I have read so far. My hand stills as I stare at a picture within the book. It is of a young man in very old fashioned clothing, his long hair touching his shoulders. As I stare at the portrait images from a recent dream flood my mind. The man in the book… how can this be real? First William, now this man?
Sola has her hand on my shoulder as I look up into her soulful eyes. My eyes are wide, the colour drained from my cheeks.
"What is wrong, child?" Sola's voice is soft yet full of concern.
After a moment I hold up the book in shaky hands, showing the Sola the picture.
"I know… well…not know… I've dreamed of him before."
Her warm, papery smooth hand on my cheek steadies my breathing slightly. "Come with me. Come, come," she tuts as I fail to move at the gentle urging of her hand around mine. "A cup of tea is in order."
After sitting me down at her kitchen table in the back room of her shop she proceeds to make us a pot of tea. I look around the room. It is light filled and has the most wonderful, calming air about it. There are beautiful cut flowers in a tall crystal vase sitting on the buffet at one side of the room. The heady scent of roses among the bouquet fill the space and I breathe deeply. The round table at which I sit has elegantly carved wooden legs peeking out from below the crisp white tablecloth. Seated on the plump, upholstered chair at the table I absently smooth the tablecloth beneath my hands while Sola busies herself in the kitchenette to the side of the elegantly presented room.
I quietly explain the dreams I have had that seem more like memories as Sola continues preparing the tea. Before long she approaches the table with cups and saucers before quickly turning again to retrieve the plate of delicate little cakes and biscuits along with the teapot stand. Once those are on the table the teapot quickly follows. As she lowers herself into an adjacent chair Sola motions to the cakes and begins filling our teacups. The steaming amber liquid fills the cups as tea leaves swirl languidly at the bottom once she's finished pouring. I wonder why she has not used a strainer but say nothing as she offers to pour milk into my cup.
We speak about how she came to own the book shop and her family's history of Wicca and shamanism while I sip at the delicious, hot tea. As I near the bottom of the cup Sola places her hand upon my wrist, "Leave half a mouthful in the cup, won't you dear?"
I nod, understanding the request but not the reason why. Was it so I didn't drink the leaves?
"I'm going to read your tea leaves, Becky. Hold the handle in your left hand and swirl the tea three times in the cup, moving the cup from left to right. Then turn the cup gently upside down into the saucer. That's right," her smile reassuring. "Let it rest there for a moment or two to make sure the liquid has had time to drain from the tea leaves. Now, turn the cup back up slowly."
She holds out her hand and I carefully pass the cup to her. I'm surprised to see only a few leaves have made their way into the saucer with the drained liquid. As she studies the contents Sola keeps a constant, relaxed expression on her face. After a few moments that seem like forever she says, " Yes, yes, I think I see," as she looks up at me and smiles.
"You were right in thinking the dreams were past lives. It seems you have been here before, several times, I think. You also seem to be connected to another, a man." Before she continues she pushes her chair away from the table. "One moment."
Very shortly she returns from the book shop carrying a relatively new looking text, quickly thumbing through the pages. She sits quietly as she scans the information held within. "Yes, here it is. This man, I believe, is your twin flame." I look at her quizzically having not heard the term before.
"You have heard of soul mates?"
I nod.
"There is a common misconception that a soul mate is a person's true love, the one that you will happily spend the rest of your life with. The truth is that most of the time there is more than one soul mate for every person and they are sent to us throughout our lives to challenge us and teach us valuable life lessons. They need not be lovers and could even be family members. Twin flames, on the other hand, are created when the cosmic energy that makes a soul separates into two parts – two separate souls – at its creation. Each person has only one twin flame. The souls generally find one another in their last reincarnation so they can ascend together at the end of their final lives." Sola pauses for a moment, looking me in the eyes, checking she has not lost me. After a moment of getting my head around what she has just said I nod for her to continue.
"Your case is somewhat unusual. You seem to have come together with your twin flame before the true time. Each time the universe has seen to rectify this by one of you moving on ." She frowns slightly as she picks up the tea cup again, moving it about in her hands. "In your dreams, you have died several times before, once you have made the connection with this man?"
"Twice, before he was….changed. Once since then."
"Changed?" Sola questions.
I look at the Watchers journal I had brought with me from the bookshop, the book that had started this discussion, still in my hand. I glance apologetically towards Sola before quickly thumbing through the journal to the picture that has stopped me in my tracks earlier. I turn the book so she can see the man in the image.
Sola's smile freezes momentarily. "Angelus? This isn't good, my dear."
I look back at the book, "What? No! Not Angelus. Well, yes, he is part of one of my dreams, but it's not him." I frown, wondering how I can explain this quickly. If Angelus is in this book that means he existed and vampires are real. Could William be in here too? I hurriedly flick through the pages scanning for any mention of William Pratt. An entry catches my eye. William the Bloody. That was what the snobs at the party had called William behind his back. I turn the page to have my breath catch in my throat.
"Him!" turning the book to Sola once again.
"Well," she smiles encouragingly. "Let's see what we can work out.
"Now, back to your past lives. What happened the first time? What can you remember?" I wonder briefly why it would be so bad for it to have been Angelus. I don't have time to ask as Sola takes both of my hands in hers, "I can help you focus. Relax and let the images flow. Close your eyes if it helps."
I close my eyes and allow my mind to drift back to the dreams I've had of my past lives. The time I believe to be my first life was the longest and happiest I recall.
The doors of the subway train slide open with a hiss and I stand watching the passengers hurriedly disembarking, and rushing to enter the train in its short time at the station. This isn't my train so there is no fear of being left behind. I can stand back and observe; people-gaze. I feel drained after my session with Sola but strangely buzzed at the same time. By the time Sola and I finished examining my dreams and cross-referencing them to the Watchers journal and other books around the subject of reincarnation the sun had been down for hours. Watching people completely oblivious to the world of the supernatural continue about their daily lives is somehow calming.
Even at this time of the night men and women in suits rush to be somewhere. I guess that "somewhere" is mostly home with their families and loved-ones. I feel a twang of guilt that I am not home like I promised my parents, but they're both out tonight. Some work function for Dad that will keep them both out until the early hours of the morning, no doubt.
Mixed with the executive types are party-goers and couples on a night out. With the diversity of culture and dress codes within this city no one actually stands out for being different, until I see him step from the train just as the doors close and it pulls away from the station. His heavily bleached hair is spiked all over his head; very punk rocker. The long leather coat he's now wearing swings about his legs with his distinctive swagger; the blonde spiky-haired man from the last time I was at the train station past my home time. The one that looked so much like…. "William!" It was barely a whisper but his head whipped around as if I'd shouted it at him. His eyes sweep over me as he scans the commuters looking for the source of his name. Just as quickly he turns away. I can't see his face as he moves along the platform towards the exit stairs but I catch a glimpse of his sharply chiselled jawline that makes my knees not want to hold me upright any longer. I try to take a step to follow him but find my feet have suddenly started weighing more than I can lift.
With a small squeak my voice has become a traitor, too. All the while a weight inside me is growing heavier. A weight that is trying to move outwards instead of down. It's like the gravitational pull between the sun and the earth except something has happened to the orbit. I'm the earth and I'm being pulled towards the centre of the sun. My legs begin working of their own volition, pushing me after this blonde man that seems to be acting as my own personal magnet.
As I rush from the train station I just catch a glimpse of the leather coat tails as they disappear around a corner into a nearby alley. With my heart pounding I rush on into the alley. I'm halfway down the alleyway before I realise it's empty. There's no one else here but me. My steps falter at the discovery but I continue on hoping I'll catch a glimpse around the next bend. There's a building that juts into the alley further than the surrounding structures creating a dark corner that I had initially mistaken for the end of the backstreet. As I approach I realise my mistake and quicken my steps towards the next street. A dark figure moves far too swiftly from within the shadows, clamping vice-like arms around me and drags me into the gloomy recess. The wall is cold pressed hard against my back as my assailant's body presses against me from the front. Light coming from a nearby window casts dark shadows across the man's face, making it impossible to discern his features. His voice, oh, that voice. "Why are you following me?" he rumbles, his grip around my arms pinning them to my sides.
"William." I struggle to look into his eyes as I speak the name of the man who has filled my dreams. Can this man really be the same person?
"No one's called me that in a very long time, love. How do you know my na…? You know what? It doesn't matter. 'Cos I killed a slayer tonight and I'm in a bloody good mood!"
"So, your name is William?" My heart beats faster at the prospect. It's him! I know it is. I can feel it. Before he has time to answer I strain upwards against his stone grasp pressing my lips to his. They are cold but malleable. He pulls away in surprise at my boldness.
"Now, hang on pet! I think you may have me confused with someone else." But even with those words his body presses against mine, his arousal at the situation making its presence felt. "Aren't you a bit young to be out on the streets so late?"
"I know who you are. What you are." I have nothing to lose by telling the truth. That arousal is quite probably at the prospect of my death at the end of his teeth, not for any other pleasures someone like me could offer him. He's already stated, in as many words, he thinks I'm too young. My heart sinks slightly at the thought. His face moves closer to mine before lowering his lips to my neck. I feel them brushing the skin below my ear, sending shivers down my spine, my breath catching momentarily in my throat.
"Who sent you?" he croons against my skin. I struggle to look at his face, trying to work my chin around and under his to force his eyes up to meet mine.
"No one! No one sent me. It's hard to explain!" I struggle futilely against his, once again tightening, grip on my arms. I know bruises are already forming beneath his fingers.
"I should kill you right here. But, I'm in a good mood and I've got all night. Let's go. I like a good story, especially when it's about me." He turns sharply dragging me from the dark corner, down the alleyway and into the street beyond. He moves so quickly, in and out of streets and alleys, that within minutes I am lost. Even if I was able to escape him I wouldn't know which way to run.
A group of people walk towards us as we hurry down the street. They are minding their own business, out on the town for the night. Suddenly, I am tucked against his side, my wrist still held tight by the hand at the end of his arm slung so casually across my shoulders. My other arm is fixed firmly behind his back and secured in his vice-like clasp at his hip. At a glance I imagine we look like two lovers out on a date, strolling in a comfortable embrace. As the group reaches us and moves past, one of them casts a concerned glance in my direction, maybe sensing all was not as it seems. That concern could get him killed. William looks down at me and smiles as I look up to meet his gaze, pleading silently for him not to hurt this man. His lips meet mine in what seems like a passionate kiss to the concerned passerby who quickly looks away from the lurid public show of affection. In this age of Flower Power and Free Love people are still embarrassed at others displays of affection.
Tingles pass through my entire body at the sensation of his lips against mine. I move into William's kiss, turning into the embrace. His steps slow then stop altogether as the kiss deepens. It is no longer necessary for the passerby's benefit. When the group has moved on he pulls away, but not immediately. Maybe he was enjoying it.
"Why are you not terrified of me? Are you some kind of vampire groupie? Do you want me to turn you, is that it?"
"No," I squeak. "I don't want you to turn me. It's complicated, like I said before. I know you, and you know me."
"I'm sorry, love but I've never seen you before in my life, until the other night at the train station. I remember you from there. You looked like you'd seen ghost." He smirked as he must have been recalling the look of shock on my face when I had first seen him.
I blush at the thought of what must have been a slack jawed, wide eyed expression on my face that night. He chuckles at my discomfort and steps away again, tugging me after him. "Not far now. I'm looking forward to this story of yours."
In the next street we leave the footpath, passing between two buildings to the space behind. He pulls me into the shadows, down a set of stairs where I stumble in the darkness. We pause momentarily at the bottom of the stairs where I can hear William opening a door. There isn't enough light for me to see anything and I step forward hesitantly. Suddenly, light fills the room as William switches a lamp on. I blink repeatedly waiting for my eyes to adjust. The scene around me takes shape. It's a room built under someone's house. There doesn't appear to be any windows so I guess this is where he stays when the sun comes up.
"Do you rent this room?"
William looks at me momentarily, before letting out a snort of laughter. He obviously finds my question amusing. My cheeks colour as I realise the naivety of my question. "The owners are dead, aren't they?"
"Quite dead." He states matter-of-factly. "But, they were tasty! And, when I found out what a prime piece of real estate they owned, so close to the city, I couldn't let it go to waste." He plonks himself down on the nearby bed propping his head up on his hand. With his other hand he pats the bed beside him. "What about that story, pet?"
I step towards the bed hesitantly, hoping my legs keep working. I look around the room. This could be the last place I see. My eyes move to William, lying relaxed and outstretched on the bed. He could be the last thing I see. Suddenly, I feel the bed beneath my hands. I don't remember crossing the floor from where I had been standing. As I crawl onto the mattress beside William he moves over slightly, making more room. This should feel wrong, dangerous. I just feel home.
A sultry look enters his eyes, "So," he croons, as he reaches out, tracing a line lightly with his fingertips down my arm. "Why were you following me?"
"You know me, William." His hand closes around my wrist, where it rests on my hip. I watch, paralysed, as he moves my wrist towards his mouth. His face changes, creases, as his now pointed teeth sink into my skin. My heart races. I now know fear, what I should have been feeling from the very beginning. A whimper escapes my lips as he pulls my hand away and licks the droplets of blood flowing from the puncture wounds.
"Call me Spike, pet. No one calls me William anymore. No one alive, that is." His face is once again human. "I don't know you. So, where did you learn about me? You're not a slayer. Otherwise, you wouldn't be lying her with me," he muses.
"No, nothing like that." Fear and a little frustration makes my tone brusque. I take a deep breath and begin.
"I was with you at the party the night you were changed, Wil.. Spike. I followed you into the stables where Drusilla made you a vampire." The words rush from me now I can finally get them out. I wanted to stop her…"
Spike grabs me, hard. The distorted face of the demon staring at me with yellow eyes, his lips curled back in anger, baring his teeth. "I'm telling the truth! I'm telling the truth! Why would I lie?" I scream.
"You are going to die. I thought I might have some fun with you first," eluding to his caresses from before, "But now…I'm going to eat you!" He launches at me, teeth tearing into the flesh of my throat.
"It was a past life!" I gasp. Spike releases his bite on my throat. I can feel the blood trickling down my back with each pulse of my heart. "This is not the first time I've lived, we've lived." I search desperately back through my memories of my past life when William was human. "I know what you're thinking. This is all in the history books about you. I could have read about that party. The books don't tell what Cecily said to you when you announced your love for her. I heard what she said to you." I stop. This could get me killed despite it being the truth. The look on Spike's face about my choice of subject to convince him iss warning enough. "I heard what Drusilla said to you, before she turned you in the stables. She used the same words you'd spoken in your poetry for Cecily."
Spike looks at me, expressionless, "What words?"
My breath is coming in gasps at my panic. What was the word? "Eff… eff…" What's the damn word? "Effulgent! Something effulgent, that's what she said! I heard the words, something effulgent, then she asked if you wanted it. You said yes, then she bit you."
Spike looks a little shocked. I rush on while he's not trying to eat me.
"You won't remember your past lives. People aren't meant to. I don't know why I do. All I know is that in every life I can remember I'm with you…Or, at least, I know you."
"I'm sorry , love. I hate to burst your love bubble for the Big Bad, but I didn't know you back then." Despite his words Spike's interest still seems piqued.
"It doesn't matter. For whatever the reason, here we are again." I place my hand on his chest, fingertips touching his cool skin exposed at the vee in his shirt, my heart drumming in my chest. "There's something drawing me to you. I don't know if you feel it too. I don't know if you can, now you're a…vampire." I have nothing to lose, I decide I'm not going to die this time without telling him how I feel. "I have loved you before, in these past lives, known every part of you." I look into Spike's eyes, trying to convey the intensity of my memories. " Let me know what it's like; what having you feels like. I've dreamed it before, so many times, just once I want to know the real thing, before I die, this time." I smirk at my own personal joke.
My fingers find his shirt hem and start to move it up his torso, exposing the contoured muscles beneath. "I love yo….." Before I can finish the sentence, Spike's face becomes that of the demon as he lunges, sinking his teeth deep into the already damaged flesh of my neck. Blood gushes from the gaping holes, my life-force pumping, with every heartbeat, down his throat.
With the last thump, Spike pulls away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. " You talk too much!"
