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ii. Killers don't make for allies
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Lilith likes thinking she's dead.
Flashes of her life intrude her head whenever she's alone; she sits crosslegged somewhere in the tunnel where she pretends to be drilling, and dangles a cigarette from her her mouth. Her back is to the wall and her head lightly thrums against it; her movements become harsher the more she lets the past flood in. It's easier to think these are all the memories of a dead person.
1742. The year she was born. Small town, New York, four walls, not a home. Mother that didn't love her enough, Father that couldn't love. 1755. The year she first killed someone—or rather, something. A demon, just like her; only Lilith was human then. A blade to the heart was what it took. Father handed her the weapon, Father made her a killer. Lilith didn't understand the cruelty of it then. 1763. The year Lilith turned into what she killed. A ritual and a sacrifice in the slaughterhouse that was home.
She doesn't know when the demon became the girl, and the girl became the demon.
Lilith snuffs out her half-smoked cigarette with the tip of her finger, she likes feeling the sting. A small blister forms on the pad of her index but it soon fades. She stands and dreams of better things to do than walking aimlessly through a tunnel.
She nods at two vampires she passes by. Everyone in the tunnel has been working away — even more so now with Spike's newfound motivation after his run-in with the Slayer. After all, killing the Slayer is at the top of his list once he gets his gem. Uninterested in the gem, Lilith stays for the treasure that is rumored to be with it.
At the end of the cave, Lilith finds Spike. He shovels another hole. Although, he sees her, he ignores her.
"You could use a break. I can help with that," Lilith says, aiming to take the shovel from him, she reaches out her hand to wrap it over his, it's cold.
