Spark and Burn

by Diana G. Gallagher

  I certainly didn’t, Spike thought. He had suspected Rupert Giles might be Buffy’s Watcher. An ordinary school librarian wouldn’t buy a one-of-a-kind volume of evil rituals and spells or keep it around for young, impressionable eyes to browse. That Giles would be British was pretty much a given.

  “ ‘Seven to seven-oh-five.’ ” The librarian huffed. “As though she doesn’t abandon her training and duties whenever she has something else she’d rather do.”

  Spike had also suspected that Buffy’s independent streak was difficult to manage. It was fun knowing the straight-laced old wanker disapproved of the girl’s gregarious lifestyle. They had something in common, actually—both in charge of escape artists. Hank was getting on his nerves too.

  “I suppose I should be thankful she doesn’t complain about her nightly cemetery patrols.” Sighing, Giles slid the top six books off the stack into his arms. As he started up the stairs to put them away, Spike slipped back into the cellar.

  Now that he had a way to get in and out of the library undetected, Spike could look for the du Lac Manuscript without fear of being caught or having his purpose discovered. He replaced the loose boards over the hole in the foundation and continued on around the building, looking for any other anomalies that might prove helpful.

  Spike didn’t find anything else unusual, but when he rounded the corner of the building, he saw Giles walking toward the parking lot. Apparently, the librarian had left most of the stacked books to be put away in the morning. Spike almost laughed aloud when the Brit stopped by the old Citroen and reached in his trouser pocket for his keys. The Watcher didn’t notice the three forms waiting at the edge of the pavement on the far side of the lot, but Spike did.

  Hank, Dorian, and Garbo were about to attack Giles.

  “Bloody hell.” Spike cursed under his breath.

  Speeding unseen across the dark campus, Spike tackled Hank just as the minion made his move. As he and Hank fell, Spike grabbed Dorian’s ankle and yanked him off his feet. Garbo stopped dead and stared. Spike closed his hand around a small tree branch on the ground, jumped back to his feet, and planted a boot on Hank’s chest before Dorian had figured out what happened. “Do not move,” Spike said quietly, fuming. He snapped the branch in half, creating a crude but lethal stake.

  Nobody moved.

  While Spike waited for Giles to get his stubborn car started, he reviewed his options. The three underlings had blatantly defied his authority. Although he couldn’t afford to deplete the lower ranks, the crime could not go unpunished.

  As soon as the Citroen turned out of the parking lot and lurched down the street, Spike pressed down harder on Hank’s chest.

  “Who gets to meet the big feather duster in the sky first?” Spike held the stake at ready. “None of you were scheduled to feed tonight. So what the hell are you doing out here?”

  Garbo glanced down at Dorian, but she was too frightened to answer.

  “We haven’t fed in two days,” Hank said. He was full of bluster despite the boot on his breastbone and the stake aimed at his heart. “You have no right to starve us, Spike.”

  If the minions had killed Rupert Giles, Spike would have lost his one solid link to the book that could save Drusilla’s life. He was out of patience. With a speed the other vampires couldn’t track, he dropped to one knee over Hank and drove the stake into his chest. He was back on his feet before the dust settled. “There, you won’t starve now, Hank.”

  Before Dorian recovered from the shock, Spike was straddling his prone body with the stake pulled back to strike again. Hank had paid the price for disobedience. Spike just wanted to make sure the other two had gotten the point.

  “How hungry are you, Dorian?” Spike asked.

  “I’m good for another week.” Dorian held his hands up, palms out. “Garbo and I were just out for a walk.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Garbo nodded vigorously and flipped her blond hair behind her shoulder. “Just walking, looking for something to do.”

  “Bored, eh?” Spike stood up and motioned Dorian to rise. “Well, I’ve got a job that will keep you both busy and out of trouble for a while. There’s a book I want from the school library.”

  As he led Dorian and Garbo to the hidden hole in the foundation, Spike described the du Lac Manuscript. He gave them strict instructions, which they both swore to follow: Search only when the library was empty and don’t kill anyone enrolled in, working at, or otherwise connected to the high school. In return he would give them permission to hunt every night at the mall.

  Prompted by Giles’s remarks, Spike went looking for Buffy before going back to the factory. He knew she was patrolling one of Sunnydale’s many cemeteries. Although it was efficient to execute vampires the moment they rose from the grave, the newly undead wouldn’t begin to task the Slayer’s skills. Still, he might learn something useful.

  Spike spotted Buffy strolling through the tombstones of the third Sunnydale cemetery he scouted, the one that bordered Crestwood College. The Slayer paused near the spot where the monk-boys had grabbed the girl the night before. He hung back when she knelt to pick up a piece of shiny metal, and resisted the urge to trade insults and lob a few threats.

  The Slayer would dance with him soon, but right now he was more interested in watching her work. A wise warrior knew the enemy.

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  That had been the first—but not the last time Spike had used the “know your enemy” excuse for not killing Buffy. Learning about his opponents gave him a psychological edge in the final contest.

  He had rushed blindly into his fight with the Chinese slayer, knowing nothing about her or her skills. Killing the girl had been exhilarating, but not as satisfying as killing Nikki. He had stalked Nikki, and then tormented her with threats against her son before taking her life.

  “You came to know your enemy too well,” Adam said. The massive hybrid paced the small basement storeroom.

  Spike squatted in the middle of the floor with his arms wrapped around himself, rocking slightly, trying to ignore the apparitions that taunted him.

  “It wasn’t the chip or stinkin’ luck that kept you from killing the Slayer,” Adam said, following up on a conversation they had had almost three years before. “You did fear her.”

  “Yes,” Spike said, hoping his admission would make Adam declare victory and fade away.

  “Why?” Adam asked. “She was just a girl.”

  “A girl who could drive a stake through my heart,” Spike said.

  Buffy knelt down in front of him. “That wasn’t it, though, was it, Spike?”

  “No.” He shook his head. That had never been it. He hadn’t been afraid of her at all, not until he started to love her. Then he was afraid she wouldn’t love him back, wouldn’t need him.

  “I never need you, Spike.” Buffy smiled, knowing the words hurt more than a stake and the nothing of oblivion. “And I could never trust you enough for it to be love.”

  Spike buried his face in his arms. He didn’t want to listen, but the past was immutable, and the truth burned—scorching hot and seared in bitter memory. Buffy couldn’t trust him because he had forced himself on her and called it love. He had gotten the spark back to fix himself—for her, but that wasn’t enough. It didn’t change what he had been and done, and couldn’t make her understand.

  “I had a speech,” Spike said. “I learned it all. Oh, God, she won’t understand. She won’t understand.” The magnitude of the truth was crushing. He raked his fingers through his hair, but the throbbing pain could not be soothed.

  “Of course she won’t understand, Sparky.” Warren walked behind him. “I’m beyond her understanding.”

  Once, the mad teenage scientist’s superior attitude and caustic words had annoyed Spike. It no longer mattered.

  “She’s a girl!” Warren sputtered with the unguarded contempt of the rejected and reviled.

  Spike had never been able to ignore the fact that B
uffy was a girl.

  Sunnydale

  October 1997

  Spike leaned against the trunk of a shade tree at the edge of the cemetery drive, taking the Slayer’s measure from the perspective of one who could and would destroy her. He had already confirmed that she was as strong, quick, and skilled as the slayers before her. But Buffy had something extra, a definitive identity that defied her calling and, consequently, enhanced it. The very things that disturbed her Watcher’s sense of order in the realm of Slayerhood made Buffy more than her destiny expected.

  Buffy was the ultimate trophy, the kill that would change Spike’s story into a legend. But because she was that good, he had to know her to kill her.

  Spike suspected that Buffy wore her hair clipped high on her head because she liked the way it looked, not because she could fight better with her blond locks tied out of the way. The light blue sweater with the plunging V neckline begged her demonic opponents to underestimate her and dared the oh-so-serious Giles to object. Spike’s brow knit in consternation as Buffy studied the bracelet she had found in the grass. Even he had been distracted by her good looks and perky personality once, but it wouldn’t happen again.

  “There’s blood on it.”

  Buffy jumped up, startled by the sound of Angelus’s voice.

  Bollocks, Spike thought with a grimace. He had felt violently ill when his henchmen told him that the once renowned Angelus now called himself Angel. He had been too busy to investigate the returning-soul phenomenon, but that bit of voodoo was at the top of his find-out-ASAP list.

  Of even greater interest now was why the Slayer didn’t whip out a stake and dust the abomination. Angel was still a vampire.

  “Hi,” Buffy said, surprised by the sneak verbal attack but apparently not upset that Angel was the intruder. “It’s nice to—blood?”

  “I can smell it,” Angel explained.

  “Oh.” The Slayer swallowed, looking disturbed and disgusted.

  Disturbed and disgusted because Angel could smell blood, Spike wondered, or because she was having a friendly conversation with a vampire? Watching them, he suspected he’d be disturbed and disgusted by the answer.

  “It’s pretty thin,” Buffy went on. “Probably belonged to a girl.”

  “Probably,” Angel replied.

  The running girl from last night, perhaps, Spike thought. He hadn’t considered the fate of the terrified young thing the snob frat boys had kidnapped. However, it was a sure bet they hadn’t dragged her back to the hacienda for tea and cartoons.

  Buffy hesitated, playing with the bracelet. Then she laughed nervously to cover the awkward pause. “I—I was just thinking—wouldn’t it be funny—” She shrugged self-consciously. “—sometime to see each other when it wasn’t a blood thing.”

  Oh, God, no! Spike staggered back a step as the meaning of the scene suddenly sank in. The Slayer was making a bloody play for Angel!

  Apparently Angel was staggered too. He didn’t say anything.

  The Slayer quickly tried to fill the uncomfortable void. “Not funny ha-ha.”

  “What’re you saying?” Angel asked with a not-taking-this-seriously inflection in his voice. “You want to have a date?”

  Spike rolled his eyes and covered his face with his hand. It was inconceivable that two definitive icons of the perpetual struggle between good and evil were flirting—badly—and making goo-goo eyes at each other in a cemetery.

  “No,” Buffy said, too quickly to mean it.

  “You don’t want a date?” Angel sounded puzzled.

  “Who said date?” The Slayer backed off. “I—I never said date.”

  “Right,” Angel agreed. “You just want to have coffee or something.”

  “Coffee?” Buffy winced.

  “I knew this was going to happen,” Angel said.

  Spike shook his head. He had thought nothing could make him more contemptuous of Angel than knowing he had gone over to the good guys, but he had been wrong. The Slayer was throwing herself at Angel, the once Dark Prince of all that was unholy, and Angel was pushing her away.

  “What?” The Slayer looked torn between anxiety and relief. “What do you think is happening?”

  “You’re sixteen years old. I’m two hundred forty-one.”

  “I’ve done the math,” Buffy countered.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know what you want—” Angel glanced away.

  Spike recognized the tone. Angelus had been a fine lady-killer, charming and feeding on beautiful women from Paris to Babylon. Angel had sworn off the feeding part, but he dismissed Buffy and her feelings as though the idea of them together was too ridiculous to consider. To the Slayer’s credit, she got the message.

  “Oh, no. I think I do,” Buffy said. “I want out of this conversation.”

  “Listen.” Angel grabbed Buffy’s arm as she tried to brush past him. “If we date, we both know that one thing’s going to lead to another.”

  Angel was no longer dithering around, teasing the girl to boost his masculine ego. He was grim and earnest. Spike’s initial revulsion regarding the romantic angle was replaced by an intense interest in the Slayer’s response.

  “One thing already has led to another,” Buffy said. “Don’t you think it’s a little late to be reading me the warning label?”

  Buffy’s expression was grave, but her eyes brimmed with a longing Spike hadn’t felt in a long time. He had looked at Cecily with the same unconditional adoration, and then Drusilla, after she had captured his heart and affection. He and Dru were bound by a love of ages, but the white-hot intensity of new love had faded some of late. He had thought Dru’s failing health to blame, but perhaps time was at fault.

  “I’m just trying to protect you,” Angel said. “This could get out of control.”

  “Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be?” Buffy asked.

  Yes, it is, Slayer, Spike thought. Great love burned with a dangerous, consuming flame, and eons of time could not extinguish the fires of such passion. He and Dru had loved with a fury no human girl, not even a slayer, could possibly match.

  The Slayer gasped when the vampire clenched his teeth and pulled her close. As tight as Angel’s grip was on her arms, the force that bound their eyes was stronger.

  “This isn’t some fairy tale,” Angel told her. “When I kiss you, you don’t wake up from a deep sleep and live happily ever after.”

  “No,” Buffy said. “When I kiss you, I want to die.” She held his gaze for a profound second, then turned and ran.

  Spike watched her go, stunned by the power of her words. As he melted into the darkness, away from Angel and the passion the Slayer had aroused, he lapsed into sober contemplation of the unexpected development.

  What kind of slayer was attracted to a vampire? Angelus may have gotten his soul back and changed his name, but he had defiled, tormented, and brutally murdered thousands of innocent people. The question had to be answered if Spike hoped to understand this girl, one of the few in her generation to be empowered to kill his kind. He had defeated two slayers, one because he knew what mattered more to her than her own life.

  Buffy was a dangerous enigma.

  Disturbed by the hold she suddenly had on his thoughts, Spike glanced in the direction she had gone.

  “Better beware, Slayer,” Spike said, intrigued by a kill scenario he had not considered before. “If I kiss you, you will die.”

  Chapter Seven

  Sunnydale

  October 1997

  Spike ducked when Miss Martha’s head flew off. The porcelain missile missed him and broke into pieces on the wall. Sawdust stuffing spewed from the headless body as Dru continued to smash the doll against the bedpost. The novelty of the bird had already worn off, and she was angry because Spike wouldn’t take her out tonight.

  Dru stopped suddenly and cradled the broken remnants of the doll in her arms. “Poor Miss Martha. She got in the way of the tempest, and not even the king’s men can put the Hum
pty Dumpty dolly together again.”

  Fearing another eruption, Spike chose his words carefully. “Perhaps we should give Miss Martha a proper burial, then—have a funeral and all.”

  Dru slowly turned her head, slicing him with a dark scowl. “But there’s no one to come and pay their respects. All the mourners will be at the party.”

  “I’m only assuming the Delta Zeta Kappa boys are having a party. They are a fraternity, and it is Friday.” Even if they were, Spike had to check out his demonic Big Boss theory before he decided to take the minions hunting at Crestwood. He had made the mistake of hypothesizing out loud, which prompted Dru’s tantrum. “What if we cremate Miss Martha on a funeral pyre with a ceremony tomorrow?”

  Dru nodded, then smiled. “Miss Martha would like that, but you’ll have to bring her mummy a condolences present.” Her eyes were hard on him again. “Because it’s your fault mummy smashed the baby all to bits.”

  Back on familiar ground now, Spike relaxed. He walked over and put his arms around her. “What would you like, pet?”

  “The last one the minions brought me for dinner was old and stringy,” Dru said. “His blood was moldy.”

  “A gourmet student, then,” Spike suggested, “from a fine, exclusive school. Girl or boy?”

  “I want a mother.” Dru tilted her head coyly. “A hot-blood who’ll struggle before I kill her. The Slayer’s mother.”

  “The Slayer’s mother?” Spike frowned. “The Slayer’s mum who popped me with an axe?”

  “Yes, that one.” Dru reached for a basket on the crate behind her and put the broken doll body inside. “Everybody’s had a special mother except me.”

  “Who has?” Spike asked sharply, assuming she meant the henchmen.

  “Angelus killed my mother,” Dru said. “I was behind a curtain and saw him do it.” She knelt to pick up the pieces of the porcelain doll’s head and the green ribbon gag.

  “He was a heartless rogue, wasn’t he?” Spike hadn’t told her yet that Angelus was now Angel, a vampire with a soul.