Dracula patted down his reassembled body. His new fingers, stiff at the joints, gingerly probed the folds of his favorite vest for the not one, but two, stake holes.
That was the last time he would put on the finery for a Slayer. He'd have the holes repaired, once he found the time to cow the Sunnydale vampire populace and cull proper minions from the slack-jawed locals. But the holes in his pride that had killed him twice over—that would take more than a splash of gypsy magic to fix. Next time, it would be as it should, he assured himself. Bones stripped and blood of the Beast on his killing clothes.
The sound of wood splintering caught the Master Vampire's attention. He snarled, barring his fangs in human face. The sharp scent of plastics mixed with the graveyard. It was one of the impudent whelps who'd come earlier to the aid of the Beast. His mind, unsteady in its new flesh, sought out the intruder, tried, failed, tried, failed, and found him standing at the entrance.
The base of his spine tingled with a familiar signature. A fractional pause. A familiar shadow seemed to flit next to the stone mantle where he'd turned so cockily to greet the Beast. He passed his eyes over the room. Nothing but windows, drapes, and naked stone. He dismissed the feeling.
He turned the force of his will onto the intruder at the door.
"You want hell," he said through the mouth of the boy. The connection was instantaneous. He heard with the whelp's ears, saw the twisted oak doors of his fool repeated his words, followed up with the high-pinched whine of electricity powering up.
"Come to me," Dracula called, "kneel."
"Only if the ponce buys me flowers first." The punch connected with his jaw. His weakened body sprawled on the Persian carpet.
Dracula ran a hand roughly across his lip, sucking down the blood that he couldn't afford to lose. He looked up with an annoyance that quickly faded.
"You?" he said, choking on his own blood.
"Me," Spike admitted with a savage grin.
***///***
"You," Dracula repeated flatly.
"Established that to your satisfaction, have we?" Spike snorted. He felt overdressed, the chain, the book, the axe, gloves and all the other peripherals he'd pilfered from the Magic Shop, for one damn bloody vamp.
"This must be a horrible joke at my expense," Dracula said.
"Welcome to Sunnyhell," Spike retorted.
Dracula appraised him, cocking his head to one side in a knowing mockery of the other vamp. "Is this about your--"
"Eleven quid," Spike said.
"I've already had the pleasure of repaying you your thirteen quid," Dracula said smoothly. "Or do you presume to collect interest?"
"Listen you git. Eleven. It's eleven. Eleven quid. The original sum. Not a ha'pence greater or less," Spike growled. "And you'll never finish paying."
Dracula pursed his lips. Not a word had penetrated the Prince's cool shell of self-possession. He deigned to fix his silk collar and adjust the vest on his shoulders as though posing for a portrait. "You look ridiculous in those gloves," Dracula said at last.
"I'm bored ever so," Spike snarled.
He dropped the accessories and grabbed for the chain. Dracula, tough blighter, was on his feet as quick as quick as the chain came off Spike's shoulder. Spike grabbed up a good length of it into his fist and crouched. The other vamp tensed. Squared off like gunfighters at high noon in human face, they waited for fatal roll of the bell tower.
Owing to the lack of a clock tower on this side of town, it was Dracula who struck first with an overextended kick to Spike's midsection. Spike took the blow—dodging was for noncy types, anyway—and slid into game face.
Time for the demons to play.
Spike smashed the chained fist across Drac's face. As the metal touched the Master Vamp's skin, a blistering smell tore out of curdling flesh. The older vampire jerked away. His hand shook as he touched the growing knot of scar tissue and bubbling pus on his pretty jaw.
"Say hello to the Chain of Balthus—" Spike grinned as he smashed his other fist across the reeling vampire's open face. "Some do cubism. Some do nudes. And some do chains of torment."
Dracula brought his arms up to block a kick, only to be greeted with another slash of the chain that broke his jawbone.
"—Never would have figured that git Balthus for the mystical type. It's the academic influence I suppose."
Spike slid a longer length of the chain down his arm and lanced it out like a projectile. It caught around Drac's neck. Spike patted the chain and pulled it tight around the prone vampire's neck.
Dracula didn't gasp as it crushed his windpipe. He was above that kind of human reflex on account of him having been around for untold hundreds of years, a decidedly human voice inside Spike groused. He jerked the chain with a swift downward motion. The master vamp's neck snapped. With a muted thud, Dracula fell to his knees.
"Never was good with the small talk," he said, dropping the chain and hefting the axe. Spike looked into the face of the defeated vampire. "Cor, yeah—" he giggled, nearly killing the mood of the first Big Bad production to go off without a comical falling-into-the-open-grave or getting-zapped-by-commando-types. "I can see why they were so afraid of you."
Spike struck the head of the vamp clean off. Drac's body dissolved into a trail of wafting dust.
With a pull of his teeth, the bottle of consecrated palm wine was uncorked. He poured a libation over Drac's remains. The dust frothed—a right boiling mess. Vamp mud. Soup. Ash to ash, dust to dust and all that.
"And for the finishing touch, I offer one priceless objet d'art, a lekythos from —" Patting down his duster, he shook off his demon face. "From the island of—"
He spun his head this way and that, scanning the floor, the table, the chairs for the brilliant blue urn. His glowing mystical urn, 100% guaranteed to hold the demonic in a restful sleep or your money back. The urn he wedged under his arm because it made his skin crawl to touch it, even through the thick hide of the duster. The urn which he'd checked was snug under his arm just before he'd decided to cut through the development lot on 8th to lose the carpenter who followed behind, stealthy as a drunk—him. Before he jumped over the fence and felt a bit lighter of foot having lost the—
"Oh bloody buggering fuck." Spike's voice twinged, and with a bit of horror, he watched as white shining light enveloped the clotted dust.
On the floor, a hazy form began to writhe along the ground, creeping over the ornate blood-red carpet like crazy yellow vines. Perhaps, Spike mused sourly as he grabbed up the axe, there was an actual bloody reason he never made it as Master Vamp.