The knife danced between the spread fingers, stabbing into the scarred wooden table. The waltz turned to a jig and the blade began to blur. Finally, the knife slipped and gouged flesh, sending blood trickling down to pool on the splintered wood.
The voice was jovial but there was a warning note. He didn’t like to lose.
“You’re supposed to use your own hand.” He could easily bury the pain but the annoyance surfaced despite his efforts.
Angelus took Spike’s hand and began to lick slowly at the dripping blood.
“Now where’s the fun in that?” he wondered.
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