In a tight voice, Nikki said, “Look, if you don’t want to take care of Robin—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Crowley gave her a look that made Nikki feel like she’d just put a fly in his soup. “I adore your son, you know that. I just think that he—and you—would be safer—”
“Nobody knows who I am, Crowley. Nobody knows where I live. They can’t be lookin’ me up, ’cause I ain’t in the Yellow Pages under ‘slayer.’ And nobody would think to look in this dump, anyhow—s’why I took it when old man Manguson offered it. Ain’t no fit place to live—so it’s perfect for the mission. We’re all safe here.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Crowley said in that long-suffering tone that meant he didn’t think she was right but was tired of arguing. He put the mug down on the end table—okay, the wooden crate she used as an end table—and asked, “Anything noteworthy about the two vampires?”
“Lousy fashion sense.” Nikki leaned back, setting the chair into a steady rocking motion, grateful that Crowley had changed the subject. She hadn’t budged on this position and never would, and she really wished her Watcher would get the hell off it already. “Not a lot to tell—just two cats pickin’ on some girl. I stopped ’em.”
“Not working with Reet, then?” Crowley asked, blowing out some more smoke.
Nikki shrugged. “Not so’s I could tell, but I was too busy stakin’ ’em to ask. They didn’t look like Reet’s usual muscle, but that don’t mean nothin’.” Another shrug. “Shoot, if they vamps in this town, they probably got somethin’ goin’ with Reet.”
“Sad but true.” Crowley got up from the couch, putting out his cigarette in the pottery ashtray Robin had made in nursery school. “Well, I must be going. My own bed, and the blessed silence of a flat not next to a projection room, await my pleasure. Have a good night.”
Nikki was too tired to get up from her chair, so she just said, “G’night, Crowley. Sleep good.”
She grinned as he winced at her improper grammar. Most of the time he let it slide, but that type of misuse always got his goat. Well, he deserves it, trying to get me to move on up to his deluxe apartment in the sky. I’m staying here, and he knows it. So why he gotta keep throwing it in my face?
As he approached the door, he said, “Tomorrow I’d like very much to go over your kicks. I’ve noticed you’re not getting full power behind them.” He looked down at her platforms, sitting next to the couch. “Probably has something to do with that ridiculous footwear.”
“I hope you’re not telling me to get new shoes. It’s part of the look. I gotta look bad, Crowley, or else—”
Crowley held up a hand. She’d been making this point to him as much as he’d been harping on moving to his pad. “Yes, of course, striking fear into the hearts of evildoers with your supercool threads. What was I thinking? Either way, we need to review kicks—if for no other reason than to take full advantage of those outsize heels of yours.”
“Yeah, okay.” She was just jiving Crowley, anyhow. She enjoyed the physical training with him. They usually did it in Central Park, where they had some open space, and where Robin could play.
“Good night, Nikki.” With that, Crowley left. She could hear his footfalls creaking on the staircase heading down to the theater.
The strains of Ricky Nelson and Dean Martin singing “My Rifle, My Pony and Me” were sounding through the wall when Nikki finally managed to haul herself to her feet and go to the door that led to the apartment’s other room.
Robin didn’t even budge when the light from the living room shone into his darkened room. Not that a room with a window looking out on Times Square was ever completely dark. Another fan blew in that window as well, in an attempt to keep the stale air moving.
Her little boy’s stomach rose and fell slowly, his arms gripping his GI Joe. On the wall was a giant Star Wars poster, which had recently replaced the Evel Knievel poster for the top spot over his bed. Nikki hadn’t been able to complain. She’d been the same four years ago when Cleopatra Jones came out—especially since she now lived a life eerily similar to Cleo’s. The only difference was, everybody knew who Cleo was—she was a badass secret agent. Nikki was a badass, too, with even better moves than Cleo had, but nobody knew who the Slayer really was. From what Crowley told her, that was typical for Slayers, but for Nikki it was a necessity. The mission was all-important, but she wouldn’t let it endanger her son. So folks only knew her as the Vampire Slayer, if they knew anything. Her legend had grown over the past four years, which only made it less likely that anyone would find her.
She walked over to the bed and touched Robin’s smooth cheek. She loved her little boy more than anything else in the whole world, so she had to keep him safe. Her life wouldn’t allow her to do anything else. Crowley had also said that Slayers with children were not the norm, and nothing in his books—his apartment was lined floor to ceiling with them—said anything about what happened to any Slayers who might have got knocked up.
Nikki wasn’t letting anything happen to her little boy.
But she wasn’t gonna give up the mission, either. Robin understood that the mission was what mattered. If Nikki ever doubted it, she just had to remember the looks on the faces of the people she saved.
She was a hero. No way would she give that up.
Giving her son a kiss on the cheek, she went back out into the living room, unfolded the couch, and collapsed on the sofa bed, having earned herself a good night’s—or day’s—sleep.
As she drifted into dreamland, she thought about the day Crowley had found her four years earlier. . . .
Chapter Three
New York City
February 10, 1973
10:20 p.m.
There were few places on Earth dingier than New York City three days after a snowstorm. The day of the storm itself, it was beautiful, like the city was covered in a white blanket. But once the storm stopped and the plows went through, people trod on the snow, and cars and trucks and buses rolled over it belching their fumes, the city became a dreary, ugly place, the snow laced with filth.
Having been born and raised in London, Bernard Crowley knew from dreary, ugly places. The island of Manhattan on this bitter winter evening certainly cracked his top ten.
Bernard ran a hand through his thinning blond hair as he walked down Lenox Avenue, hoping to God the Watchers Council had their facts right. True, they’d been finding and training Slayers for centuries, but when that girl in Poland died, none of the potential Slayers they had in their charge had been activated. Which meant the new Slayer needed to be sought out.
The mystics the Council sometimes employed insisted that the new Slayer was here, in Harlem. Bernard had moved to New York some years ago to observe its rather entrenched vampire population, not to mention the city’s various magical hot spots, such as the 125th Steet fault line, Ewen Park in the Bronx, and both the North Woods and the Sheep Meadow in Central Park. As a result, he was assigned to find and train this new Slayer.
Is it asking so much for the Slayer to live in a better neighborhood? Bernard’s white face stood out like a beacon in Harlem, and while he could take care of himself in a fight, he’d just as soon not put his black belt to good use.
Turning the corner onto 118th Street, he was distressed to see several police cars, lights flashing, and yellow crime-scene tape flapping in the biting winter wind right in front of the very building he was to visit.
He paused and pulled out a cigarette, cupping his hands around the end so the strong winds wouldn’t blow out his lighter. Perhaps it might be best if I return tomorrow. But Bernard dismissed that thought quickly. It was quite possible that whatever the police were doing here related to the newly activated Slayer. A girl finding herself with super-strength and stamina could very easily get into mischief of some sort. I’ll need to make sure my Slayer isn’t in trouble.
He smiled. My Slayer. I rather like the sound of that, actually. Being assigned a Slayer was the highest honor a Watcher cou
ld be given, and while Bernard knew it was only because of an accident of geography—no other Watcher was within a hundred miles of New York—he still felt rather chuffed by the whole thing.
Let’s just hope that bauble works as well as Kapsis said it would.
As soon as he neared the crime-scene tape, a uniformed constable—or, as they called them here, officer—approached, holding up a gloved hand. “I’m sorry, sir, but you need to step back.”
Reaching into his pocket, Bernard pulled out the orb Kapsis had shipped to him. “My name’s Crowley—Agent Bernard Crowley, with Interpol. I’ve received word that this might relate to an investigation of ours. Who’s the officer in charge?”
The officer, whose nameplate read O’MALLEY, stared at the orb, blinked for a moment, then stared at Bernard with a look of mild irritation. “This is just an old lady getting iced, Agent Crowley. Ain’t no international conspiracies here.”
Bernard let out a sigh of relief. The orb did indeed look like an Interpol badge to O’Malley. Taking an imperious puff of his cigarette, he said, “That’s for me to judge, I’m afraid. Now then, the officer in charge?” To accentuate his point, he dropped the cigarette onto the sidewalk and stepped on it authoritatively.
With obvious reluctance, O’Malley held up the tape for Bernard to more easily bend under it. He led Bernard up the cracked stoop into the dark, filthy lobby and then up the two flights of stairs to the depressingly small flat, where forensics specialists and officers and plainclothes detectives did their jobs, dusting the various bits of furniture for fingerprints. The couch was at an odd angle to the wall, one of the chairs was upside down, and the shattered remains of a wooden table were strewn all over the floor.
Also on the floor, a man in a blue topcoat and with a cigarette dangling from his mouth was examining an old black woman who was very obviously dead. She had two bloody puncture wounds in her neck.
Bernard knew instantly from looking at her how she’d died. The coroner would no doubt say it was exsanguination from a wound in the carotid artery, but Bernard had a more basic explanation, one the NYPD was unlikely to subscribe to: The old woman had been killed by a vampire.
Off to the side, sitting on an old rocking chair, was a young girl of about fifteen or sixteen years of age. She wore a light blue waitress’s uniform commonly seen on employees of diners. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she was holding a newborn baby in her arms. At first she seemed to be a grieving child, or perhaps grandchild, but Bernard saw something else.
It was her brown eyes. They blazed with a fury that gave Bernard pause.
He suspected that this was his Slayer.
Is the child hers? That’s a bit of a nuisance. Still, I’ll cross that bridge when I burn it. He forced his attention back to O’Malley, who was introducing him to one of the detectives, a big-nosed, curly-haired, mustachioed man wearing unfashionably small spectacles and a simple suit.
“Detective Landesberg, this is Agent Crawley from Interpol.”
“Crowley, actually,” Bernard said, offering his hand to the detective. “A pleasure.”
“This is a little under your radar, isn’t it, Agent Crowley?” Landesberg asked, returning the handshake. Bernard noted that he had a firm grip.
“Perhaps, but I need to verify that for myself. Should I assume that the victim died of exsanguination from wounds in the carotid artery?”
“Coroner’s still withholding a final, but that’s what it looks like, yeah. Vic’s name is Mavis Wood. She lives with her granddaughter, Nikki, and little Robin there.” Landesberg pointed at the girl on the easy chair and the baby even as he consulted his notepad. “Nikki’s parents were mugged and killed seven years ago. She’s been working at a diner to pay the rent—dropped out of school.”
That bodes ill, Bernard thought, but he said nothing. “May I speak to the girl?”
“Knock yourself out, but I warn you, she’s a little kooky.” Landesberg grinned. “She says a vampire killed her grandmother, and that she killed the vampire. Funny that there’s no vampire body to go with the story.”
Hardly, since vampires don’t leave dead bodies behind. Of course, Bernard could not share that knowledge with the detective. “Thank you for the warning. Excuse me.”
Bernard moved over to sit down on the armrest of the displaced couch. “Hello—I’m Bernard Crowley. They tell me your name is Nikki Wood. Is that short for Nicole?”
Nikki looked up at Bernard through tear-filled eyes. “Nah, it’s just Nikki. Ain’t short for nothin’.”
He peered down at the bundle in her arms. “Is that your brother?”
“My son, Robin. I named him after my dad.”
I was afraid of that. “I see.”
“You ain’t no fuzz, are you?”
“Very perceptive, Miss Wood—no, I’m not. The, ah, ‘fuzz’ think I’m from the International Police, but I’m actually with an organization known as the Watchers.”
“Yeah? What do you watch?”
“Any number of things—at present, I have my eye on you. I believe, Miss Wood, that you have a destiny.”
“Say what?”
“Do you claim that a vampire killed your grandmother?”
Nikki looked away. “You gonna laugh at me too?”
“Actually, no. In fact, I can tell you how it happened. You came home from your job at the diner to find the vampire feeding on your grandmother—or perhaps it had already fed, and your grandmother was dead. In any event, you fought back and were surprised by your own strength. Indeed, it’s probably not the first example of increased strength you’ve observed in yourself of late.”
Eyes widening, Nikki nodded slowly and spoke in a low voice. “At the diner, I almost broke my locker. I did dent it a little. Mr. Petalas was mad.”
“So you engaged the vampire. At one point you committed some action—a punch or a throw, perhaps—that shattered that end table. Eventually you killed the vampire by stabbing it through the heart with one of the shards from the end table, then called the police.”
Now Nikki looked at Bernard again, her brown eyes wide. “How—how’d you know all that? I didn’t tell the cops all that stuff.”
“Yes, well, I’ve had some experience with vampires. And very soon, so will you. You see, Nikki, you’re the Slayer. That’s the destiny I mentioned before. In every generation, a girl is born who fights vampires, demons, and creatures of the night. When one dies, another is chosen. A Slayer died recently, and you were chosen. You are now the Slayer, Miss Wood.”
Snorting, Nikki said, “Yeah? Any bread in bein’ a Slayer? ’Cause if not, you can count me out.”
That rather surprised Bernard. Slayers who were called before they’d been recruited as potentials by the Council were often skeptical of their calling, but he wasn’t expecting quite this reaction. “I beg your pardon?”
“Only way we survived was me workin’ at the diner. Gramma’s social security paid the rent; my waitressin’ paid for everything else, and Gramma watched Robin. Without Gramma, how’m I gonna survive? Can’t feed two mouths and pay for this pad. Ain’t got no family left now.”
Realizing that a call to the Council was going to be in order, Bernard said, “I believe I might be able to help there.” He reached into his suit jacket’s inner pocket and pulled out a business card. “Once the police are finished with you—however long that might take—I want you to call that number. If you don’t reach me directly, an answering service will take your message. Then we can talk further about your destiny.”
Still cradling the baby with one arm, she reached out and took the card with the other. “What you’re sayin’ sounds crazy, you know that.”
Bernard smiled. “So does what you’re saying. But we both know that it’s true.” He got up from the armrest. “By the way, how’d you know to stake the vampire in the heart?”
She shrugged. “Wild guess. S’what Peter Cushing always does to Christopher Lee.”
Another life saved by Hammer Film
s. Will wonders never cease. Bernard shook his head with amusement. “Excuse me.”
He went over to Landesberg, who was smoking a cigarette and conferring with one of the uniformed officers.
“You get anything useful, Agent Crowley?” Smoke burst out of Landesberg’s mouth as he spoke.
“Miss Wood isn’t a suspect, is she, Detective?”
Landesberg shook his head. “Nah, neighbors say some guy broke into the apartment. They heard him struggle with the grandmother, then saw the girl come home, and they heard the fight. Guy got away, obviously, and we don’t have a good description on him. Doesn’t look good for tracking him down. Unless you know something?”
Bernard did, of course, but he ignored the leading question as he had ignored Landesberg’s earlier one and said, “Well, thank you for your cooperation, Detective. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“So this wasn’t a help,” Landesberg said before Bernard could walk off.
“Not the way I’d hoped, no.”
“Then why’d you give her a card?”
Giving the detective a little smile, Benard said, “I’m sorry, I can’t discuss it,” which was true as far as it went.
* * *
The next morning Bernard was woken out of a sound sleep by a phone call. This wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t been up half the night researching the creature that the Council insisted was going to be appearing in the North Woods tomorrow—or, rather, today—at noon. “It’s Nikki Wood. You said I’m the Slayer.”
“Er, well, yes, that’s right.” Bernard was having trouble focusing. He hadn’t had his tea yet, and it was always touch and go in the old cranium without tea.
“Okay. That mean I get to kill turkeys like the one who killed Gramma?”
“In fact, that will be your raison d’être. Your job will be to slay vampires. Hence, you know—Slayer.”
“Right on, Mr. Cooley. You got yourself a Slayer.”
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