The Twelfth…
Spike needed to hit something.
Right now, he wanted nothing more than to sink his fangs into someone's neck, to tear something bit by bit with his bare hands. He needed the cleansing force of ripped flesh and torn muscle, blood vessels slashed open and their contents spilling free. His mind was awash with images and memories he wanted no part of, and the only way Spike knew how to deal was with violence. He needed to make a scene and he needed it to be blood.
Most of all, though, he needed to make a point.
This was not a vampire who took kindly to being hit over the head with a purse. No… William the Bloody was better than that, and he needed to make sure everyone knew it. Buffy was a problem, a unique one, but Spike couldn't help but smile at the thought of the other Slayer – the one who had pinned him in that alley.
She didn't appreciate how serious Spike was. Perhaps she needed a reminder.
Spike supposed that, to some degree, he was still Senator Bracken's pawn. The entire reason Wolfram & Hart resurrected him was so he could play his part in Bracken's Ascension. But Detective Beckett was a thorn in Bracken's side, and as curious as Spike was as to why that was, he was far more intrigued by her.
Then again, Spike's fascination with Slayers was nothing new; he'd been obsessed with them from the first night Angelus had told him about them. He had bagged his first Slayer during the Boxer Rebellion, a Chinese girl who couldn't have been any older than seventeen.
His second kill was far more satisfying, if for no other reason than the fact that Spike took something away from someone. His second Slayer kill was far more than just a Slayer; Nikki Wood had been a mother, and when Spike snapped her neck like a twig, he deprived a 4-year-old boy of a lifetime with his mom.
For all of Spike's mommy issues over the years, that was especially gratifying.
Not that Spike's centuries-long obsession with Slayers had always been a good thing –a certain blonde had been a thorn in his side long before he was blindsided by misguided notions of love and doing the right thing. That such thoughts perverted Spike's mind before he had a soul was particularly disgusting, and Spike wanted nothing more than to crawl the disgusting urges out of his skin.
He still dreamed of Buffy Summers' warm skin against his. He sometimes woke with the memory of her pulse thundering away in his ears, and though Spike wanted nothing more than to break open that vein and drink until it was empty, he was sickened with the memory that he had known her in ways few others had.
Something else he and Angel had in common.
Spike was so lost in his own head that he almost didn't notice when the elevator came to a stop and the doors split in front of him. The dull throb in the back of his head was almost gone, but he continued replaying events from earlier that night in his head. He was angry that he had lost out on a meal, but more importantly, he wanted another crack at the two Slayers who had interrupted his supper.
The blonde, especially.
Memories of Buffy made Spike's stomach flip. His hands curled into fists in the pockets of his black leather duster, and as he finally strode out of the elevator and onto a floor teeming with uniformed officers and plain-clothed detectives alike, the vampire couldn't hide the snarl. Spike wanted to believe the memory of Buffy's lips on his, visceral to the point that he could still taste them, was fake – some by-product of Wolfram & Hart's meddling.
But Spike knew better. The memory was far too clear to be fake. He hated the way those memories made him feel, he hated even the slightest insinuation that he cared anything for the Slayer outside of his preternatural bloodlust.
I love you.
No, you don't. But thanks for saying it.
Forcing himself not to dwell on the worst memory of all – the one where he gave himself up fighting side-by-side with her – Spike stopped in front of a desk, clearing his throat to get the attention of the Hispanic cop filing paperwork. Why that man was here in the dead of night was unclear, but Spike was thankful for it.
Detective Esposito looked up at the sound, dropping his pen. "Uh… can I help you?"
"Yeah. I'd like to press assault charges."
Glancing over his shoulder, and tapping his partner's shoulder, Esposito stood. The British man with hair so bright it practically glowed was definitely not the sort of person he was used to seeing at the precinct – especially at this hour – and that trenchcoat? Even ignoring the fact that the Twelfth's air conditioning was on the fritz, that was strange.
"Sir," Esposito explained, "this is Homicide."
Spike's dour expression brightened. "Perfect! I'd like to file attempted murder charges, then."
"What's your name?"
I know I'm a monster… but you treat me like a man.
"Pratt." Spike shrugged. "William Pratt."
The vampire fought the urge to roll his eyes when the other detective instantly went back to his computer, typing the alias into some database. Modern technology was a pain in the ass sometimes, though Spike had to admit he was curious as to what they would find. Probably nothing, which was probably a problem.
"Sorry," the other detective, whose name plate read Detective Ryan, said. "Looks like you're not in the system."
Bugger this.
Before either cop could react, Spike grabbed the back of Esposito's head and smashed him face-first into the surface of the desk. Detective Ryan drew his gun, only to have Spike whirl around and snatch it from his grasp. Ryan's wrist snapped in the process.
No sooner did the two detectives crumple to the floor, one unconscious and the other whimpering in pain, three uniformed officers had drawn their weapons and opened fire. Spike grit his teeth as the bullets seared through his body, his face shifting to the demonic visage of the vampire. The gunfire stopped, and the officers' eyes went wide at the sight.
They were so frozen with fear that they couldn't react when Spike closed the distance. He tackled one of the uniforms, the force of the blow knocking the gun out of her hand. The back of her head smacked against the hardwood floor, knocking her unconscious. The other two uniforms came at Spike from either side, but he grabbed their necks and squeezes until they dropped with a telltale crack.
Ask me again why I could never love you!
Another gunshot caught Spike in the shoulder. He spun around to see two more uniforms approaching with their guns drawn. A detective on the far end of the bullpen was cowered under their desk, phone cradled to their ear as they undoubtedly called for help. Not that the NYPD had anyone in the building who could handle Spike.
Even as the blood trickled down his chest, Spike grinned. His fangs were on full display and both officers froze at the sight. That opening was all Spike needed; he disarmed the male officer and kicked him out the window before grabbing the female officer. He pinned her back against his chest, a low growl spilling from his throat before he sank his fangs into the side of her neck. She didn't scream, but the gasp of pain was just as enticing as the metallic taste of her blood hitting his tongue.
For a second, Spike thought of turning the woman, but the sound of a gun cocking from behind stopped him. He dropped the woman in his arms and turned around, smiling at the sight of a disheveled black man cradling his gun in both hands. The barrel shook, and the deep breath the man sucked in was clearly an attempt to calm his own nerves.
"Well, now," Spike licked some of the blood from his bottom lip. "You the bloke in charge of this place?"
Every time Spike took a step forward, Roy Montgomery took a step back. His grip on the gun was so tight that his palms were sweating, the finger resting against the trigger shaking so badly that he thought he might inadvertently fire a shot. Considering there were only three bullets in the chamber…
"Stand down," he ordered in a voice far stronger than he felt. "Or I will shoot."
"Already full of slugs, mate." Spike grinned; over the other man's shoulder, he could see a placard that read Detective Beckett. The vampire couldn't help but laugh at the sheer luck of it. "Hurts like hell, but I kinda like it."
Montgomery got off one shot, hitting Spike in the stomach before the platinum-blond vampire closed the distance between them. Pushing Montgomery's arms up, Spike's growl was drowned out by the gunshot that tore through the ceiling. The momentum carried them both backwards, and when Montgomery's back slammed into the floor, his gun skidded several feet away from him.
"You're scared," Spike teased. "But it's different than the others. You know what I am."
"Helps having a Slayer on payroll," Roy said, punching Spike across the face, trying to ignore the jolt of pain in his hand.
"Yeah." Spike licked the blood pouring from his nose with a sadistic grin. "About her…"
Say it's true.
Spike lifted Montgomery off the floor before flipping him onto the surface of Detective Beckett's desk. Roy cried out when his back smashed against the keyboard, his arm flailing to the side to knock both the monitor and a family of ceramic elephants off the desk. The elephants smashed into pieces on the floor, shards of ceramic resting against Spike's feet.
Grabbing a letter opener from the desk, Spike grinned and stabbed Montgomery in the shoulder. He grit his teeth to keep from crying out again, only to grunt when the blade twisted inside the wound.
"You're gonna give Detective Beckett a message for me."
Say I do want to.
Spike pulled the letter opener out of Montgomery's shoulder, smeared in blood, before jamming it into the side of his neck. Roy made a sound that was part gasp, part choke, and the way his eyes widened was exactly the reaction Spike wanted. Short of outright screaming, ragged chokes and gasps for air were a fantastic signal of human suffering.
"On second thought, I'll give it to her myself."
It wouldn't be you, Spike. It would never be you.
By the time Spike removed the weapon again, Roy Montgomery's head slumped to the side, his eyes frozen in a look of horrified shock. His entire body had gone rigid, and though blood was still oozing from the holes in his neck and shoulder, the flow had almost slowed to a trickle.
It was only a matter of time before back-up came storming in, so Spike had to be quick. For all he knew, backup wouldn't come in the form of badges and guns, but stakes and holy water. Part of him hoped the two Slayers he encountered earlier were the backup; his personal vendetta needed to be dealt with soon. The longer her let that blonde occupy his head, the closer he would descend into madness.
Yanking a sheet of paper from a yellow legal pad still on the desk, Spike used Roy's own blood on the letter opener to write down a message, ignoring the groans of the detective whose wrist he had broken in the start of the scrum.
You're beneath me.