The Storyteller (t_storyteller) wrote in they_are_wicked,
The Storyteller

Genesis revisited.

"Considering not everything went according to schematic, we'll consider this one half off, miss Drusilla," offered the half hissed voice of the demon concealed behind the cloak. "I hadn't anticipated that he'd reject the ritual so fiercly-"

"I am displeased," Drusilla interrupted in a ghostly melodic tone, softly spoken as a chilled breeze. "You said you would have no difficulties. No problems, isn't that right?" She turned to face him, her gaze a lithe mask of distaste. "You promised."

"Yes, but you must understand that each soul is different," the shrouded figure defended, "and there's no telling-"

She was upon him like a cat upon its prey, snarling her hatred at his misleading words while her claws sank into the unprotected sockets of his eyes. It didn't take long for the life to be drained of him and without ceremony Drusilla dropped him to the ground. "You're fired," was her conclusion before her tongue was draped generously over her thumbtips, sucking the blood free of her nails. "Mm," she hummed chipperly, "what's this?" Her grasp fell upon the body of the fallen and she pulled forth the orb of Thesula cast aglow with a golden luminence; the only physical representation of a contained soul. She held it up in front of her eyes and examined it. "So filthy," her voice deemed. "Disgusting and messy it makes me writhe in agony! Ewwwh!" Her anger toward it was focused in her thrust that sent the crystal sphere against the wall, shattering it and sending the imprisoned to be lost to the void. "Now. Let's see if my new toy is ready to play."

Consciousness began to come back to Spike who was quick to discover he was still taut in his chains. His mouth was dry and his stomach ached; a feeling he'd not experienced in ages. At his feet lay a shallow pile of gray dust which he could immediately identify as a vampire's remains. "Tch. Told the bint," he carelessly slurred. Despite the pain in his overworked muscles he tried to pull against his bonds without success, now left to wonder just how he was to escape his new predicament. The need for blood was overpowering for some reason. He was craving the flesh of a human, unable to be sedated by the mere thought of the pig's blood he'd been living off of living in the wake of Wolfram & Hart. His body felt empty. A worthless shell housing the consciousness of a killer. The thought delighted him so much he was compelled to rub the tip of his tongue against his fangs. "Lookit me all fancy again," he said weakly to himself. "Sorry, baby," was continued upon returning his attention down at the pile of dust he thought was his once beloved, "but I warned ya."

It was then the sound of feet descending wooden stairs drew his attention toward the cellar door. As a trapped animal he watched the turning of the knob, waiting for the entity behind to reveal itself so he might lay his bloodlust upon them. If he could, that is.
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