Blackout

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  She struggled to get her right arm up and then elbowed Spike in the face. As he stumbled back, she grabbed him and started knee-kicking him in the stomach.

  He pushed her off, and she stumbled back. Her breaths were starting to get more labored, and the coat suddenly felt incredibly heavy. It had been a long time since a single bloodsucker had given her this kind of trouble. It was starting to become old news.

  Hell with this—I’m the Slayer. She reached out, grabbed Spike by the safety pins, and threw him behind her, toward the front of the car. Then she grabbed one of the poles and used it to pivot on a jumping kick that sent the honky bloodsucker reeling, crashing into another pole.

  Then he looked at the pole and palm-heeled it. Nikki thought he was crazy, but then the pole broke in two. Damn, thought them poles was stronger than that.

  Or maybe Spike was the one who was stronger.

  He started twirling the pole around like Bruce Lee with one of those big wooden sticks.

  That was his first mistake, and Nikki intended to make him pay. He telegraphed that he was going to try to hit her over the head, and sure enough, a second later he tried to hit her over the head. She deflected the blow with ease, and then punched him in the face.

  Now she was smiling. Who’s laughing now, turkey?

  And now he was snarling as he came at her again with the pole, moving incredibly fast. Before she knew it, sharp pain sliced into her stomach, as the jagged edge of the pole hit her right in the side, unprotected by the coat. Doubling over, she left herself wide open to be hit in the face, the cold metal striking her cheek and sending her to the constantly shifting floor of the subway car.

  They raced past the 81st Street stop, which was right under the Museum of Natural History and the Hayden Planetarium. Robin loves going there—maybe this weekend I’ll take him there, see the big blue whale he likes so much. . . .

  Dammit, focus! Forcing her mind back to the present, she started crabwalking backward so she could get her bearings. Shouldn’t have let Spike get me that bad.

  Then he raised the pole up, giving her plenty of time to raise her arms to block it—but this time she grabbed the pole, yanked it away from him, and, for good measure, slammed her platform heels into his groin.

  She quickly got to her feet, seeing that Spike looked a little dazed. Pushing past her own fatigue, and trying to throw everything she could into her right arm, she leaped forward with a haymaker that sent Spike sprawling to the floor.

  Once again she straddled him, but this time lower so she could keep his legs immobilized. She punched him again and again and again, holding both his arms immobilized with her left hand while she whaled on him.

  As they shot past the 86th Street station, the lights went out. Time to put this sucker to sleep. She reached into her coat pocket for her stake.

  The train lurched.

  Nikki lost her balance.

  Spike managed to kick up and knock her to the dirt-covered floor. Before she even realized what was happening, he was straddling her, his hands on her throat. His weight on her stomach and thighs was tremendous, and she couldn’t budge; his grip on her throat was like a vise.

  She clawed at his arm, but it didn’t do any good; she found herself unable to breathe.

  For the first time since her grandmother died, Nikki Wood was scared. She’d been worried lots of times, concerned quite a bit, but since Bernard Crowley had come to her pad and said she was the Slayer, she’d never been scared of anything.

  Until now.

  Please don’t! I have to get home to my son. . . .

  Then Spike’s grip tightened.

  . . . to my Robin.

  Then he grabbed the back of her head.

  Take care of him, Crowley.

  Then the world ended.

  * * *

  Spike stared down at the corpse of the Slayer.

  I did it. I bagged another one.

  The first one, that Chinese bird—killing her had been the greatest night of Spike’s life. There was never anything quite like the first time, and that particular one was glorious, tasting the Slayer’s blood and sharing it with Dru.

  But this—this was the greatest fight of his life.

  Spike had tangled with all sorts of humans, demons, fellow vampires, Slayers, but none of them had given him a rush like this—not least because more than once, Spike had been sure he was going to snuff it, a feeling he’d never gotten in China. Right at the end there, she had him. All she had to do was pull out her stake, and that would’ve been the end of it. Almost a century of unlife turned to dust.

  But then the train lurched, Spike saw his moment, and he took it. Had himself a good day.

  The train was lumbering along past the 96th Street station. Spike got up and stumbled more than walked—now that the fight was over, he was starting to feel every punch and kick the Slayer got in on him, and his muscles and bones ached—over to the red emergency brake handle near the back of the car. He yanked it downward, and the train screeched to a halt. Spike almost fell to the floor from the sudden cessation of motion combined with physical exhaustion after the scrap.

  Blood of a Slayer was an aphrodisiac, as Spike well knew from seventy-seven years past, but he couldn’t bring himself to drain this one the way he had the Chinese girl. No, Nikki deserved better. She had manipulated him and Dru with a verve that would’ve impressed Angelus, and then stayed on him to the very last, and didn’t beg for mercy or nothing.

  Not that he’d share that with anyone. As far as he was concerned, when he was talking about this one with the lads over a pint of blood, he’d say she went down easy and begged for her life. After all, he had a reputation to uphold.

  He walked back over to her corpse. Time was running short—someone would be along shortly to check on why the brake was thrown—but he had to do one last thing.

  The first Slayer he killed had given him a remembrance: the scar he still carried on his left eyebrow.

  This one, who gave him the best fight of his life, she’d leave him something too. Something better.

  Kneeling down, he started removing the leather coat.

  He stood, wrapped the coat around his back, slid his arms in, and looked down at himself. Fits like a bloody glove, it does.

  Then, smiling, he ran toward the back of the car, his new coat billowing behind him. After forcing the back door open again, he ran down the tunnel, back to the 96th Street station. Nobody saw him run over to the local track and then leap up onto the platform, or go downstairs—for reasons Spike neither knew nor cared about, the trains that ran under Central Park West had the uptown and downtown tracks stacked one over the other instead of side by side like in the rest of the city—to wait for a train to take him back to Columbus Circle. Hope Dru’s all right. He wasn’t too concerned—his love could take care of herself, especially with the Slayer out of the picture.

  Nothing was really keeping Spike in New York now. He’d seen the Ramones, killed the Slayer, and been reunited with Dru. All was well. Besides, Dru always preferred Europe. Once he found her again, they’d head for the pier and find a boat to stow away on.

  A CC train pulled into the station and opened its doors. Spike sauntered in, thinking, Can’t wait to hear what Dru thinks of my new coat. . . .

  Chapter Sixteen

  New York City

  July 15, 1977

  1:35 a.m.

  Bernard Crowley was awakened out of a sound sleep by the buzzing of the intercom to the doorman’s station at the front door. Noting the time on his alarm clock, he angrily said, “What could it possibly be at this hour?” as he picked up the receiver.

  “Sorry, Mr. Crowley, but it’s a detective named Landesberg here to see you, along with two uniformed officers.”

  That burned Bernard’s anger to ashes. What’s Arthur doing here? He couldn’t even recall ever giving the detective his address—though he supposed that Landesberg had his own ways of tracking that down. “Send them up, of course.”

&n
bsp; He threw on a dressing gown, then opened the door to the guest room to make sure that Robin was sleeping soundly.

  Landesberg knocked on the door right after Bernard had put the kettle on and lit up a cigarette.

  Opening the door, he saw a hard look on Landesberg’s face that he saw only when the detective had witnessed a particularly brutal crime. In deference to the two uniformed officers standing behind him, he went with a more formal greeting: “Detective. Please come in.”

  Landesberg took two steps into the flat, going in only as far as he had to in order to allow the two officers to also come in and close the door behind him, but not get very deep into the place. “Mr. Crowley, I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us. We need you to identify a body.”

  The world seemed to spin under Bernard’s feet. “Wha—what?”

  “There’s a body on a subway train near the 103rd Street station just up the street. Afro-American female, no ID, but a card that says in case of an emergency to contact you. I need you to—”

  “Yes,” Bernard said, his mind in a fog. “I just need—I—Robin, her son, he’s—he’s asleep, I—I need to—”

  Landesberg put a hand on Bernard’s shoulder, stopping him from moving toward the hallway. “He shouldn’t see this. One of the officers will stay here and keep an eye on the kid.” Landesberg turned back to one of the officers, whose nameplate read CLANCY, and nodded. Clancy nodded back.

  “Very—very well.”

  Bernard had no recollection of actually getting dressed, accompanying Landesberg and the other officer downstairs to a waiting police vehicle, then driving the nine blocks up Central Park West to 103rd Street. It was as if Bernard went straight from saying “very well” to materializing at 103rd, getting out of the car, and going under the yellow crime-scene tape that blocked off the intersection.

  Nikki is dead. He finally allowed himself to have that thought. I can’t believe it. I thought she’d last longer than this. While it was true that most Slayers didn’t last into their twenties—indeed, most didn’t make it to their cruciamenta, and many didn’t survive that—Bernard had thought that Nikki would be different.

  Why, because you trained her? he tartly asked himself as Landesberg led him down the steep staircase to the 103rd Street station. Are you truly that arrogant?

  The scene that greeted him on the platform reminded him a great deal of the night he’d first met Nikki—dozens of people working for various branches of the NYPD milling about doing whatever duties they had to perform.

  In the middle of the platform was a hospital gurney. A sheet had been pulled over the human-body-shaped item on top of it. Bernard suddenly found it hard to breathe, and not just because of the oppressive airlessness that categorized a New York subway platform in midsummer.

  Landesberg pulled the sheet down to reveal Nikki’s face. Her head was at an impossible angle to the rest of her body.

  God, no! Even though he’d been steeling himself for this moment, it was now all Bernard could do to keep from stumbling to the floor. But somehow, he gathered up the remnants of his dignity, stiffened his upper lip, and said, “Her name is Nikki Mavis Wood. She was—a friend. I occasionally babysat for her son, Robin. He’s the one you left Officer Clancy with. She lives in a flat over the Gem Theater on 42nd Street.”

  One of the uniformed officers, who was taking notes, asked, “A what over the Gem Theater?”

  Shaking his head, Bernard said, “Sorry—apartment.”

  “Oh, okay.”

  Bernard answered a few more questions, all basic personal information, then he himself asked, “Where’s her coat?”

  Frowning, Landesberg asked, “Coat?”

  “She—she had a leather coat. She never went outside without it, regardless of the weather.”

  Landesberg looked over at the uniformed officer, who said, “This is how they found her, Detective.”

  Finding he could could no longer stand to look at Nikki’s body like this, Bernard turned and walked briskly toward the exit, saying, “If that’s all, Detective.”

  Landesberg walked just as briskly to keep pace. “One more thing, Bernie.” It was the first time he’d called him anything other than “Mr. Crowley” since arriving at his flat.

  Slowing down his gait so Landesberg could comfortably walk alongside him, but still keep them both moving far away from Nikki’s body, Bernard said, “Yes?”

  “We got a witness, says two people burst into the back car after it pulled outta 59th. One of them matches your girl. The other one”—he hesitated—“matches the description of that guy who killed those two girls last week.”

  Bernard stopped walking and closed his eyes. Spike. Of course. I should’ve guessed. Nikki said she was going after him and Drusilla tonight.

  For the sake of keeping up appearances, Bernard asked, “Any leads on his whereabouts?”

  “Not yet—and if he’s what I think he is, we won’t get any. And now our best shot at getting the sonofabitch is lying dead on that subway platform.”

  Tears started to cloud Bernard’s vision. He ran his sleeve over his eyes. “I’m afraid so, Arthur.”

  Landesberg nodded. “I’m sorry, Bernie.”

  “As am I.” Bernard let out a long breath, and then forced his upper lip into stiffness once again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to Robin and—and give him the bad news.”

  * * *

  By the time Robin cried himself back to sleep, it was almost four in the morning. Bernard felt like he’d been run over. There was no easy way to tell a four-year-old that the mother he adored more than anything in the world was never coming back. Not even when the child was especially bright and aware of what, exactly, his mother did every night. Robin screamed and denied and cried and shouted and insulted.

  Then, finally, he fell asleep, leaving Bernard free to make the phone call he’d been dreading having to make from the moment he was first told he was being assigned to a Slayer four years ago.

  He dialed the series of numbers that would connect him to Watchers Headquarters in London, eventually being put through to Roger Wyndham-Pryce.

  “William the Bloody, eh?” Wyndham-Pryce said. “Yes, I recall him and his paramour at that orphanage in Vienna. Nasty business, that.”

  Bernard said, “Indeed,” remembering that Wyndham-Pryce had been one of the survivors of that little massacre.

  “Very well, Bernard, we’ll start making the necessary arrangements—see if any of our potentials have activated. In the meantime, you’ll need to send the emergency kit back and—”

  “I’m afraid,” Bernard said quickly, “there is one more piece of business: Robin.”

  “Who?”

  Dear God in heaven, don’t any of these blighters read the reports I send them? “Nikki had a four-year-old boy named Robin. He’s orphaned now.”

  “The Slayer had a child? That’s most irregular, Bernard, how could you allow such a thing?”

  Tightly, Bernard said, “My allowance had very little to do with it, Roger, the child was born before she was called.”

  “I see.” Wyndham-Pryce’s tone indicated that he very much didn’t, but Bernard let it go. The Watcher continued, “Well, be that as it may, I’m not clear as to the difficulty. I’m sure even as dismal a spot as New York has such things as orphanages.”

  Horrified, Bernard said, “Are you mad? This child is our responsibility, we can’t just—”

  “We can and we will, Bernard. Our task is to supervise the Slayers, not clean up the Slayers’ mistakes.”

  “Robin is hardly a ‘mistake.’ He’s a bright young boy whose mother was taken from him.”

  “He should never have known his mother,” Wyndham-Pryce said archly. “You should have insisted she give the child up for adoption the moment you recruited her.”

  “She would never have stood for that,” Bernard said. “I—”

  “What she stood for is of no relevance, as you well know. We’re fighting a war, after
all, and war is no place for children. I have to confess to being disappointed—but not entirely surprised. You were never intended for fieldwork, only observation, so it’s no wonder you’ve failed.”

  Bernard could have made any number of responses to this. He could have gone the intellectual route and listed Nikki’s many accomplishments, from stopping Darla, to keeping New York from being sucked into hell, to defeating Dracula, to destroying the snake demon who called himself Diamondback, to keeping a lid on Reet’s activities, to averting more than one apocalypse. He could have gone the childish route and insulted Roger Wyndham-Pryce’s parentage and intellectual capacity. He could have found some middle ground between the two.

  Instead, he said, “Very well, I quit,” and hung up on the pillock.

  Under no circumstances would he sully Nikki’s memory by giving up her child to what passed for orphanages in this city. Nor would he return his books, diaries, files, or the emergency kit to England. If Wyndham-Pryce’s attitude was representative of the Watchers Council these days, Bernard had no use for them, and he saw no reason to give them aid or comfort. If they asked for any of the material, so be it, but he would not willingly be their lapdog.

  He undressed and climbed into bed, beyond exhausted. Tomorrow he would begin the paperwork to formally adopt Robin, and also clean out the apartment at the Gem. Young Mr. Manguson will no doubt be devastated. Then perhaps they should move. Bernard didn’t fancy the notion of staying in the city—it would serve only to remind him of her.

  Perhaps California, he thought as he drifted off to sleep.

  Epilogue

  Sunnydale, California

  January 22, 2002

  9:40 p.m.

  Buffy Summers had come to the crypt expecting to see Spike alone, so the sight of this other guy who apparently hadn’t gotten the memo that Halloween was three months ago kind of surprised her. Ever since being ripped from Heaven by her well-meaning friends, Buffy had been struggling to get through each day. Spike—who had fallen in love with her, a concept that Buffy still hadn’t completely wrapped her brain around—had been a source of comfort, of life. And how sad is it that I go to someone who’s dead to feel alive?