Spike tapped his fingers on the arm of his wheelchair, casting a jaundiced eye at the still-smoldering master vampire leading what was left of their sorry lot. Drusilla was curled up in a ball whimpering, half their former minions were dust, and he was damn lucky he’d made a habit of always setting up a backup day-shelter near any current lair. “See if I’m hearing this right. After all this time playing mind games with the Slayer and leaving gag gifts in her friends’ beds, you decide to take it up a notch. But instead of a nice, simple brawl that would leave them in hospital or dead, you go off and cast a spell to toy with their minds some more… and it turns them into demon slayers?”
“Hey, it was supposed to just hit the Watcher!” Angelus defended himself. “And that damn gypsy. Her tribe kept me under their little curse thumb for almost a century. They have to suffer.” The dark-haired vampire smirked. “And will she ever. You saw the legend.”
I did, Spike thought darkly, rolling over to the small pile of occult texts they’d rescued from the Factory. Believe I’d like to read it again.
“Every time she looks at him now, the bitch will see her twin brother. The murderer who became a demon himself. Her lover.” Angelus snickered. “Buffy’s finished. This? Is going to rip her cozy little hunting group to pieces.”
“Bit more concerned about them shredding us first,” Spike muttered, pulling out the right scroll. He could still see the casual flash of fire as the robed Slayer let off a full volley of rounds at his minions, every last one finding its mark.