He liked certain colours best. Black, of course. Creature of the night here, creature of darkness, evil, and really cool manicures. Oh, and the sort of leather coat that made certain Slayers go weak at the knees.
Red used to be next on his list. The bright red of arterial blood, spurting from a fresh wound, making his mouth water. The dark red of pooled blood, neatly outlining a corpse he’d finished with. The orange-red of stains and splashes coating the walls while he and Dru partied. Rubies and garnets and dresses taken from their still-warm previous owners to deck his beloved in, the outfit she wore when she shagged her next to the corpse of his first Slayer. And her lips, an intense, kissable red, despite her lack of blood circulation, a striking contrast to her skin.
Blue, too, worked for him at one stage. Not the blue of his own eyes, which he hadn’t seen for many decades, nor the blue of the sky he could only glimpse through a window from the shady side of the room. No, the blue of her moods, when she was so deep down she was prepared to turn even to a cold, dead, soulless thing for solace. The blue of the light, bounced from the moon and into his crypt, shining on her face as she beat and threatened him, preliminary to throwing him down and taking his body, riding him till he thought he would die yet again from the sheer joy of it all.
Now it was white he liked best. Yes, it was the colour of the damaged purity of his sire, of the driven snow he had sullied with his evil. But right now it was the colour of the light bursting from his breast, the pure white light which was almost the last thing he would ever see, the heat which gave rise to the flames when she held his hands and he knew, whatever he’d said next, knew that she loved him, that he had a place in her heart and, by this trivial sacrifice of a life already far too long, would always have it. As the fires consumed him, he knew he had chosen the right colour at the last.