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There's No Accounting for Taste


Buffy lay on the bed. Still, quiet...dead.

It had been too easy, really, and Angelus wondered what the hell Spike saw in killing Slayers. One dies, a new one is called, why even bother? Of course, the fact that this Slayer had just fucked the soul out of her "soulmate" might have taken some of that battle-bred tang out of the elixir of life that flowed through her veins, but still...really...he couldn’t taste much difference between Buffy’s blood and that of the numberless other vapid blondes he’d drained dry in the good old days. Spike was as loony as the vampiress who’d sired him if he thought there was anything special to be found in the blood of the one girl in all the world...

Oh well, he thought as he got dressed and prepared to see what was going on with Buffy’s band of do-gooders, maybe Watcher’s blood would taste better than that of the Slayer. Only one way to find out.


The End
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