Spark and Burn

by Diana G. Gallagher

  “Just like I pictured it,” Spike said as she advanced on him again. “Is it good for you?”

  The Slayer did not respond to his taunts. She lunged, kicking and slashing, but failed to connect. Spike twisted to avoid the sword, then grabbed the blade and jammed it into a massive sculpture. Forced to let go, the girl abandoned the weapon to fight with fists and feet.

  Each blow Spike landed or took sent another jolt of rage coursing through his veins until he couldn’t contain the power. He roared and pressed the attack, hitting her hard and hitting her again until he missed and was thrown off balance. The girl planted a boot in his back, shoved him into a wall, and pinned him with a foot on his chest.

  Spike stared as the Slayer drew a stake, suddenly aware that he could end up as a pile of dust on a fat man’s temple floor. As he gripped her foot to cast her off, she brought the stake down toward his heart. An explosion blasted through the latticework, sending the girl sprawling.

  No matter how this comes out, Spike thought as the girl regained her feet and charged, it was worth the risk. Battling the Slayer and knowing he could lose was a true test of his mettle.

  Spike clamped on to the Slayer’s arm and slammed it against his leg, forcing her to drop the stake. As she reached to retrieve it, he clasped her wrist, twisted her arm behind her back, and held her in his vicelike embrace. His fangs sank deep into her neck, and he feasted on her enriched blood as her heartbeat slowed.

  When her eyes fluttered open, Spike stared into the brown depths, hoping to glimpse the unique, dynamic spark that empowered a vampire slayer. All he saw was sorrow as she spoke a few words in Chinese, and died.

  Sunnydale

  September 1997

  Spike stood by the dumpster outside The Bronze, smoking a cigarette. A parade of tasty teenagers wandered in and out of the converted warehouse, but he was in no hurry to hook Dru’s catch-of-the-day. He had sent Big Ugly inside to scout for the Slayer, but that was only a pretext—Spike could spot a slayer with his eyes closed. He just didn’t want company while he plotted the big boy’s imminent demise.

  “Not much light, lots of trash lying about.” Spike ground the butt of his smoke under his heel and headed for the club entrance. The alley would do for a fact-finding ambush.

  The bouncer ignored Spike as he breezed into the club, and the crowd clogging the area inside the door parted to let him through—not a conscious decision, but a response to the force generated by his presence. They reacted without being aware of him, like water flowing around rock.

  The Bronze reminded Spike of a hundred other popular hangouts he had hunted over the years. Vacant warehouses and factories could be renovated on the cheap, and the low-life illusion created by the rough décors appealed to middle-class kids looking for safe thrills. No risk, no rush, Spike thought with a sweeping glance around the room.

  Neon signs hung over a bar that, judging from the average age of the clientele, probably served more lattes and soft drinks than beer and wine. Movie posters, fliers, and graffiti covered the walls, and the floor was crammed with tall tables and stools. Dancers gyrated in mindless abandon to the beat of a local band. Geeks with guitars strutted their stuff on stage, parlaying a passable talent for music into a surefire girl magnet.

  All of it faded into the background when Spike sensed the smoldering energies radiating from the Slayer.

  Blond and tan, with a slim body packed into a lavender top and jeans, she was prettier than the other slayers he had killed. She sat at a table with a redheaded friend and an open notebook, mangling French.

  “You’re just not focused,” the redhead said. “It’s Angel-missage.”

  “Well, he didn’t say for sure.” The Slayer shrugged. “It was a maybe-see-you-there deal.”

  The words washed over Spike, unheard and unimportant as he studied the Slayer from angles mortals couldn’t detect or comprehend. An aura of power surrounded her, generated by a core of intense inner strength. She existed in a state of spring-coiled tension—always armed, and primed to strike at the slightest provocation. Anticipation of the clash to come turned the cold blood in his veins to liquid fire.

  “Guys, I’m all alone out there.” A tall boy with dark hair rushed over to the table. “Somebody has to dance with me.”

  “Well, we are studying.” Red, as Spike instantly dubbed the Slayer’s friend, certainly knew how to throw a damper on a party.

  The lanky loser wasn’t having any of it, though. “Come on. One dance,” the boy insisted. “You’ve been studying, like, twelve minutes?”

  “No wonder my brain’s fried,” the Slayer said. “Come on.”

  The guitarist struck a chord that almost quickened a pulse in Spike’s dead heart as the Slayer slipped off her seat. Pretty and perky, he thought as both girls joined the boy on the dance floor. Fascinating.

  “I did a stupid thing last night,” the lead singer sang.

  Spike stared, startled by the impact of his first impression. The Sunnydale Slayer was a free spirit with a social life, not traits he usually associated with her kind. Most of the Chosen Ones lived strictly to kill vampires, and died trying.

  “One step away from spilling my guts to you . . .”

  I’d love to spill your blood, Spike thought. The girl danced like poetry, evoking a profound appreciation of beauty that he rarely acknowledged. Destroying her would be all the sweeter for it.

  China Doll had relied on disciplined techniques of the ancient martial arts—to no avail. The second slayer had made up in raw power what she lacked in finesse. He still cursed the boy who had cut short their deadly duet in the rain.

  New York

  1977

  The rain fell in blinding sheets, blurring the stark outlines of skyscrapers that rose into Manhattan’s night sky. Rivers of water flowed down the park sidewalk, but the slippery footing and her long leather trench didn’t detract from the Slayer’s form or style. She sent Spike tumbling backward with a solid kick.

  “Well, all right!” Spike exclaimed as he rolled back onto his feet. “You’ve got the moves, don’t you? I’m going to ride you hard before I put you away, luv.” He dared the dark-skinned woman with a cruel grin, but the grotesque visage of vampire ridges and fangs didn’t intimidate her.

  “Are you sure about that?” She moved with a proud slayer swagger to face him. “You actually look a little limp and wet to me. And I ain’t your love.”

  Nikki was old for a slayer, but Spike knew she had survived as much by her wits as her prowess. Every slayer had a weakness, he just hadn’t figured hers out yet.

  Nikki renewed the battle with a vengeance, landing a barrage of blows Spike deftly returned. Nothing excited and energized him more than tempting death in a dance with a slayer. Almost a hundred years had passed since China, but the rush was as exhilarating as he remembered.

  When Nikki went down on her back, Spike thought it was over. After weeks spent tracking her down, he had hoped for a more satisfying duel. She didn’t disappoint. With a surge of slayer determination and strength, she booted him backward and drove in with a fist that doubled him over. He absorbed another hit before he made his move, staying the Slayer’s arm and drawing her into his lethal vampire’s embrace. Snarling, he tensed to drive his fangs into her neck.

  Something metal crashed and clattered behind him. Instinctively, Spike looked back to assess the threat and saw a small boy and a toppled litter basket. The child stood behind a park bench, watching with wide, frightened eyes, water running down his dark rain hat and slicker.

  Taking the opening without hesitation, the Slayer threw her head back. She cracked Spike in the chin and followed through with a fist to his stomach before she flipped him.

  As Spike rolled clear, he realized he had lost the advantage. The Slayer was no longer just trying to rid the world of one more vampire. She was fighting to save her son.

  As he started to rise, Spike saw Nikki throw a stake. He caught it before it touched his jacket.

  �
�I’ve spent a long time trying to track you down,” Spike said. “I don’t really want the dance to end so soon, do you, Nikki? The music’s just starting, isn’t it?”

  Winded and soaked, the Slayer glared without answering.

  Spike tossed the stake on the ground and mounted a concrete wall. “Oh, and by the way, love the coat.”

  The Slayer didn’t give chase when he jumped off the wall into a gully and ran into the night.

  “But I’ll see you later, Slayer,” Spike mumbled as his vampire features smoothed into human flesh and form. He wasn’t upset about postponing the climax of Nikki’s chapter in the continuing saga of Spike versus the vampire slayers. Being somewhat of an expert on the Chosen killers, he knew she’d come looking for him. “She won’t be able to help herself.”

  Spike had studied slayers since learning of their existence from Angelus. The more audacious ones loved the fight, but they were often victims of their superior abilities. Believing themselves invincible or immortal, they took unnecessary chances and died before he found them.

  Except for the girl in China, Spike thought with a wistful smile. He had lucked right into that one, thanks to Darla’s perverse interest in religious wars, but the first kill had spoiled him. Too many slayers weren’t up to the high standards China Doll had set, and weren’t worth the time or effort to track them down. Most didn’t survive long enough to warrant a mention on the vampire grapevine.

  Drenched and hungry, Spike headed into the subway where he had taken up residence in an abandoned construction annex between stations. The underground network was a cornucopia of humanity, from runaways and derelicts to businessmen and suburban shoppers. It wouldn’t take long to find someone appealing, although there was no substitute for slayer blood.

  On the bright side, after his glimpse of the small boy, he knew that Nikki was a slayer with other priorities. The mission drove her with the same relentless dedication to duty all slayers had in common, but she had a rare and unusual weakness: a son and the burden of a mother’s worry. The tidbit was her soft spot, one Spike was confident he could exploit.

  Nikki would show up to dance with the Big Bad again. And with luck, she’d wear that coat.

  Sunnydale

  September 1997

  Spike tightened his jaw as he watched the Sunnydale Slayer swing and sway on the dance floor. There was something disturbing about her he couldn’t quite figure, an intangible magnetism he hadn’t encountered before. He wasn’t imagining the power he sensed in her, but some elusive factor gave him pause. Killing a slayer wasn’t simply a matter of being stronger, faster, more agile, or even smarter than she was. He never talked about it, not even to Dru, but the black duster he had taken off Nikki was a constant reminder that sometimes slayers just gave up.

  The meaning of China Doll’s last words, spoken in Chinese, had been embedded in the sadness Spike saw in her eyes before she died. He and Dru had left the Orient to safari on the Serengeti before he finally understood. The Chinese girl had just let go of a monumental responsibility she had not sought, and relinquished a destiny some undefined force for good had given her. For a slayer, death was the only way out.

  Nikki had died to protect her son.

  And he had felt cheated, even though her unexpected capitulation was his own fault. The long coat had been his consolation prize.

  Sometimes even the smartest vampires outsmart themselves, Spike thought. When Nikki isolated him in a subway car, he had pointed out that the son of a slayer was bound to end up dead, killed by one demon or another, sooner or later. He had meant to incite her maternal ferocity, to fuse it with her immense slayer power so she had no choice but to try to take him out, to stop him from hunting the brat. He wanted to win, but he didn’t want it to be easy.

  It had been a decent brawl, but when he looked into Nikki’s eyes before he broke her neck, he saw surrender. She had opted out knowing her Watcher would take her orphaned son somewhere safe.

  Spike was two for two, but neither of the dead slayers had quite lived up to her hype.

  Judging by her appearance, the Sunnydale model was a typical California teenager who’d rather dance than learn to conjugate a French verb, and who probably lost sleep if she chipped her nail paint. Then again, few things in this world were what they seemed. He knew she had the power, but did she have the will? He’d know soon enough where this girl fit on the slayer threat scale.

  Maybe three’s the charm, Spike thought as he walked up to Big Ugly. Oblivious to the six-inch difference in their heights, he looked up into the larger vamp’s craggy face. “Go get something to eat.”

  The big vampire couldn’t leave fast enough.

  With the bait dispatched, Spike strode over to a man within hearing distance of the dancing Slayer. “Where’s the phone? I need to call the police. There’s some big guy out there trying to bite someone.”

  Knowing something about slayer behavior, Spike was not surprised that the ruse worked exactly as he’d planned. The Slayer was heading for the door the instant she heard the word “bite.” He ducked out the back way. In order to get a true reading on the girl’s style and skills, he had to watch her unobserved. He hung back in the shadows, but he had a clear view of the show.

  Just as Big Ugly was about to turn a sobbing girl into a meal, the Slayer grabbed him and hurled him aside. The big vampire hit the ground and rolled. He looked startled, then emboldened when he saw who had interfered. “Slayer.”

  “Slayee,” the girl quipped.

  Spike gave her points for being quick with the snappy comeback, but he wasn’t going to challenge her to an exchange of verbal barbs.

  The Slayer spun, whacking the big guy with her foot and absorbing his first blow. She wasn’t as steady on the return punch. Big Ugly snagged her arm and sent her flying into the corrugated door across the alley. She looked a bit stunned coming off the fall, but she was on her feet and slipping by her opponent before the brute could adjust. Unable to stop his forward momentum, he smashed into the ridged door.

  While the Slayer fended off the vampire, her two pals from the dance floor rushed out to save the stupid damsel Big Ugly had singled out for chow. It occurred to Spike that one of the great cosmic mysteries was why rescued victims of supernatural and mortal crimes stood around gawking instead of running away when they had the chance.

  “Get her out of here!” the Slayer yelled to her friends between repeated blows to Big Ugly’s fanged face. “A stake would be nice!”

  What? Spike cocked a curious eyebrow. It wasn’t every slayer who ventured forth without her trusty pointed killing stick. However, her punches were precise and powerful—the girl wasn’t incompetent.

  Red and the tall boy jumped to do her bidding and hauled the rescued girl out of harm’s way. Spike had never known a slayer who had her own gang of minions.

  Spike winced when Big Ugly struck the Slayer hard enough to throw her off her feet. She didn’t bounce back as he expected, but lay on the pavement, staring up at the towering vampire in apparent shock and awe.

  “I don’t need to wait for St. Vigeous,” Big Ugly gloated. “You’re mine.”

  Bloody hell, Spike thought furiously. For a minute there, the girl’s confidence and combat techniques had more than measured up to the inherent power of a slayer. The plan had been to run her through her paces, not see her done in by a giant klutz. He needed a third slayer kill to establish a record no vampire would ever match, and there was no telling where the next Chosen One would pop up.

  But the Sunnydale Slayer wasn’t finished. As the big guy leaned over, she clocked him with a kick and twisted herself upright again.

  “Spike!” Big Ugly urged. “Give me a hand.”

  At this, the Slayer snapped her head around to look. Spike stayed where he was, invisible in the shadows.

  “Buffy!” The boy called the Slayer by name and threw her a stake.

  Buffy? Spike almost laughed out loud. What kind of name was that for a slayer? It sounded like cot
ton candy, giggles, and other nauseating cuddles humans described as cute. Then the girl charged and punctured Big Ugly’s heart with the stake. Not funny or cute.

  As the big vampire disintegrated and the dust settled, Spike walked into the light, applauding her performance. “Nice work, luv.”

  Buffy frowned. “Who are you?”

  “You’ll find out on Saturday,” Spike replied evenly.

  “What happens on Saturday?” the Slayer asked with a nervous toss of her head.

  He was blunt. “I kill you.”

  The Slayer just stared and let him walk away.

  Stroll away, to be precise, Spike thought when he reached the end of the alley. Why hadn’t she come after him? Too stunned by his bold announcement? Too tired from the fight? Worried about her pals? All of the above, or none? Doesn’t matter, he realized. He had learned what he needed to know.

  The Slayer called Buffy was quick of mind and body and gifted with a predator’s instincts and responses; a better warrior, perhaps, than his two previous trophies. Just how much better remained to be seen, but she had passed his first test.

  Beating her wouldn’t be easy.

  Killing the two boys in the alley, however, took no time at all. They were dead and discarded within seconds, and didn’t make a sound to alert the girl who had been walking with them. She was a little too tart and hard-edged for Spike’s tastes, but Drusilla loved a spicy bite.

  Chapter Four

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  Spike opened the storeroom door.

  “Spike.” The Slayer seemed as stunned to find him now in the Sunnydale High School basement as she had been when they first met outside The Bronze. “Are you real?”

  That was a question he didn’t know how to answer. He laughed.

  Reality was a constantly shifting kaleidoscope of conflict in his head. Some bits made sense until he tried to latch on and they got all jumbled up again. The people getting their jollies off tormenting him had been real once. Were they real now, or were they phantoms? Maybe he was the phantom, a figment of cosmic imagination. The beast roiling underground, straining to escape the Hellmouth, was real. He knew that. Maybe It was the only reality, getting ready to change clothes because all the pieces didn’t fit right anymore.