Spark and Burn

by Diana G. Gallagher

  “Did someone laugh at you?” Spike asked as he moved to her side. He wouldn’t want to be the vampire that had hurt Dru’s feelings.

  “He didn’t care for my clothes.” Dru pursed her lips. “Asked what self-respecting vampire would wear a pretty white dress.”

  “Who did?” Spike tensed, his anger mounting. “I’ll cut out his tongue and stuff it down his throat before I kill him.”

  “You can’t.” Dru smiled. “The wretched lit’le thing took a bad turn in the sun this morning. Perhaps, I should burn my dress—”

  “I love your dress,” Spike assured her. She swayed as he slipped his arm around her waist. “Would you like to lie down?”

  “Not just now.” Dru picked up Miss Martha and set the doll back on the shelf. “No more laughing or you’ll be ashes by tomorrow.”

  Weary from the long night and still furious about losing the opening round with the Slayer, Spike took off his duster. He hung the coat on a bracket that clamped a pipe to the wall, then sank into a chair by the TV and propped up his feet. He couldn’t hear the newscaster’s account of a deadly fire over Dru’s singing, but he had too much on his mind to care.

  “Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, all fall down—”

  Spike had learned to tune out the fourteenth-century children’s song about the bubonic plague. The images seemed innocent until one realized that the plague victims’ skin had turned rose red, and the living had used flowers—posies—to mask the odor of burning bodies. The ditty about death was one of Dru’s favorites.

  “Don’t interrupt me when I’m singing.” Dru dropped the large doll again. “If we were having a party, Miss Martha, you wouldn’t be able to come.”

  Spike swore under his breath. He hated making Dru unhappy and vowed to hold a bash with all the pomp, ceremony, and bloody games her black heart desired as soon as he killed the Slayer.

  Tiring of her plastic and porcelain entourage, Dru kissed Spike’s cheek. “I will lie down a bit now. I’m feeling a lit’le faint.”

  Spike helped Dru into bed, covered her with a quilt, and returned to his chair. Lowering the volume on the TV, he gave himself over to his thoughts. Killing the Slayer was on his to do list, but now that the Master’s brat was gone, he could take care of her on his schedule. He wouldn’t have anything to celebrate if Dru became too weak to sustain her undead body. Unless he found a cure, she would suffer horribly for years, growing weaker and thinner until she dried up and crumbled into nothing.

  Spike would not let that happen.

  He had scoured the occult libraries, interrogated the masterminds of the medicinal black arts, and followed every lead to find a charm, potion, or spell to cure Dru’s malady. Her wasting condition was rare, but not unknown among vampires and those that revered or served them. The research trail had led him to Josephus du Lac, a theologian and mathematician who had been excommunicated at the turn of the century. He had belonged to a sect that created unusual rituals and spells for the evil. The du Lac Manuscript, a handwritten text bound in embossed leather, reportedly contained the ritual to restore a sick and weak vampire to health.

  But no one knew where the book was.

  The du Lac Manuscript had vanished from a university library in Poland when Hitler invaded in 1939. It had surfaced again in the 1950s and was acquired by a New England museum for an extensive exhibit about witchcraft and the dark disciplines. The lack of operating funds had forced the exhibit to close, and the book had been sold to a museum patron and collector. A year ago, in 1996 when the dead collector’s estate was being settled, the volume came up missing. A search was not undertaken, since the rich old duffer had made a habit of giving his possessions to whoever admired them. Spike had taken Dru to New Orleans based on a rumor that the book would be offered in a private sale. The rumor was false, and the trail had grown cold again.

  Spike wasn’t about to give up. Once he set his mind to doing something, he did it. The du Lac Manuscript was out there, and his priority was to find it before Dru sickened beyond hope. He was no less intent on killing the Slayer, but she had a temporary reprieve.

  Unfortunately, so did Angelus. Spike had crossed paths with his old mentor since China, but not under circumstances that had revealed Angelus’s foul conversion. How could it have happened to one of the most vicious, unscrupulous vampires in the world? By what means could a vampire regain his soul? Fascinated—and not a little revolted—Spike had to have answers to his questions. Having the feeble spark of his own soul find its way home was a fate he wanted to avoid at all costs.

  “Ashes sprinkled on the cakes . . . ,” Dru muttered in her sleep.

  Spike smiled at the frail creature he loved so deeply. He would always be grateful to Angelus for making Drusilla, but it was hard to believe he was once desperate to win Angelus’s respect.

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  Spike sat on the floor, holding his head in his hand and muttering gibberish. His persona had been peeled away and his emotions bared in front of Buffy. The exposure was more than he could handle. Everything he had been was gone—stirred and dissolved in pain, guilt, and self-loathing.

  “Nobody ever respected you, William.” Cecily stood over him, grinding him into the dirt with her haughty bearing.

  “Where are you?” Buffy asked into the phone.

  “You were the parlor jester,” Cecily went on, “invited to our soirees as a source of amusement.”

  “That’s why I liked him,” Dru said. “He was so good at making up little games.”

  Buffy was still talking to Dawn. “Yeah, they came after me, too.”

  “I especially liked hunt-and-kill-the-Slayer! The danger was intoxicating before she made you all soft and squishy.” Dru curled her hands into claws and struck at Buffy with a menacing hiss. But unlike the grungy spirit people, the Other had no substance and couldn’t do any physical harm.

  “So far, to piss me off,” Buffy said into the small phone.

  Dru was angry too. Spike hugged the corner, wishing she’d leave, knowing she wouldn’t.

  “Yes, I am quite upset.” Dru leaned over, glaring at him. “You were it, Spike, but you didn’t tag the Slayer. You broke the rules and let her get away.”

  “Oh, I’m damage-bound.” Buffy sounded just a tad frazzled. “I just can’t figure them. Ghosts can’t touch you, and zombies can’t disappear, so I don’t know what we’re dealing with—”

  Spike hacked through his tangled thoughts, ignoring Dru to make a clear space. “Not ghosts.”

  “Hold on.” Buffy slapped her hand over the phone and turned to him. “You know what they are?”

  The voices suddenly clambered to be heard, speaking one after another, trying to confuse him so he couldn’t help the girl. Spike pushed them back.

  “Manifest spirits, controlled by a talisman and raised to seek vengeance,” he explained. “A four-year-old could figure it.”

  “Don’t get cocky,” Angelus admonished him. “You haven’t figured your way out of this, and this is going to do much worse than kill you. You’ll be trapped by your own madness and despair.”

  Chapter Five

  Sunnydale

  October 1997

  “I don’t want to be here alone,” Dru said. “Miss Edith won’t speak to me anymore.”

  “Maybe that’s because she has a gag over her mouth,” Spike said, putting on his duster. He rarely lost patience with Drusilla, but she had an uncanny habit of pestering him when he was pressed about something important.

  “I haven’t been to the park to hunt in ever so long,” Dru whined. “I miss sinking my teeth into someone whose blood is hot from running.”

  “Is that the problem, then?” Spike’s tone was heavy with sarcasm. “Tell you what, pet. I’ll fetch someone back and chase the bloke around a few minutes before you eat. Heat and serve.”

  Dru’s lower lip began to quiver.

  “Oh, don’t cry.” Spike wilted under Dru’s injur
ed gaze. Catering to her delicate constitution and whims was time-consuming and often exasperating, but he rarely complained and despised himself when he did. She had rescued him from an abyss of despair when she changed him, a debt he could never fully repay. Curing her affliction would add some credits to his side of the ledger, though, and tonight he had a lead on the du Lac Manuscript.

  “It’s not that I don’t want your company,” Spike said, “but I have business to take care of before I get groceries. You’d be bored, believe me.”

  “I’m bored here.” Dru frowned.

  “And weak,” Spike reminded her.

  Dru had no interest in books or the tedious task of tracking a missing one down, not even if it held the secret to restoring her to eternal life. He had to concentrate on his quest, not attend to her ills and snits. She couldn’t come.

  But Dru was in a stubborn mood. “I’m strong enough to prey on the feeble ones, the very young and very old.”

  “Look, I’ll take you out for homeless people tomorrow night,” Spike said. “The benches around town are a smorgasbord of derelicts. In the meantime, why not amuse yourself with our resident gang of fools?”

  “We could play a game,” Dru said, brightening. “Can you think of one? You’re so clever at making up games.”

  Before Spike could answer, Hank and Lucius rushed over in furious vamp mode. Spike had defended his right to rule several times since flash frying the Anointed One. Goatee had been the first to fall in a failed ambush attempt. Although neither Hank nor Lucius had challenged him, they both wanted to be his second-in-command. He didn’t really need a lieutenant, but playing them off each other had been entertaining.

  “What’s the problem?” Spike asked.

  “Hank won’t take his turn on watch.” Lucius folded his arms and glared at the smaller male.

  Hank glared back. “I’m hungry.”

  “Why didn’t you get something to eat last night, when you weren’t on duty?” Spike struggled to hide his irritation.

  “I did,” Hank said. “I’m still hungry.”

  “He’s always hungry,” Lucius shot back.

  Spike was no longer entertained. “Lucius, what would you say if I ordered you to take Hank’s watch?”

  Lucius didn’t hesitate. “You’re the boss.”

  “Yes, and I’m going out.” Spike turned a chilling smile on Hank. “From now on, Lucius will be the boss when I’m gone, of everyone except Dru.”

  “Yes!” Lucius yanked air with his fist.

  “You’ll keep Dru happy, of course.” Spike cocked an eyebrow at Lucius, but there was no question the vampire would do anything to stay in her good graces. “And Dru will tell me if anyone gives you a hard time. Now, get out of here.”

  Spike rolled his eyes as the two vampires raced away. Since he had established his supremacy, he had spent way too much time settling petty squabbles among the troops. He had won their respect and guaranteed Dru’s safety, but they hadn’t paid dearly enough for the inconvenience and hassle.

  “Have a scavenger hunt, Dru,” Spike suggested. “Send everyone out for prey that won’t be easy to find.”

  “Like a butterfly collection.” Dru paused, thinking. “I could ask for a bald man with bad teeth and a beer belly.”

  “There you go.” Spike leaned toward her, beaming. “Twins might be interesting, or a midget with curly hair and a dimple. And just in case you want to keep them for a while, I’ll pick up dinner at The Bronze on my way home.”

  Spike kissed her on the cheek and left before she found fault with his game or another reason to delay him.

  Unlike many denizens of the underworld set, Spike wasn’t a purist. He didn’t believe using mundane modern methods to achieve his evil ends betrayed his supernatural heritage. The Yellow Pages and a telephone had uncovered a used bookstore called A Rare Read. The proprietor specialized in finding and obtaining obscure volumes.

  Spike entered the store through a side door. There were no customers, but a bearded man wearing a Star Trek T-shirt sat behind a cluttered checkout counter staring at a computer monitor. Except for electric lights and a phone, the computer was the only modern device in the place.

  “I close in twenty minutes,” the man said without looking up. “Browse fast.”

  “I doubt you have the book I want on the premises,” Spike said, taking in the details of the store at a glance.

  The walkways between the stacks, tables, and shelves were clear, but every other square foot of space was stuffed with books: new and old, large and small, fat and thin, leather bound and paperback. A pair of bookcases with glass doors blocked the front window. A permanent haze of dust hung in the air and coated the shelves, apparently impervious to drafts, feather dusters, and furniture polish. A Rare Read had been in business for a very long time, longer than the rude man at the computer was old.

  “Are you Sidney Cranston?” Spike asked, stepping up to the counter. If not, I’m going to kill you because you’re obnoxious.

  “The Third, but I’m the only Sidney Cranston that matters.” The man glanced up. “The other two are dead.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around,” Spike quipped. Sidney Cranston the Third did not in any way resemble the literary types he had met before. He was no more than thirty, with shaggy brown hair, John Lennon wire-rimmed glasses, and a rose-twined-anchor tattoo on his forearm.

  “Tell me about it.” Sidney swiveled his stool to face front. “Sunnydale’s the epicenter of death from weird but unknown causes.”

  “I’m looking for a book,” Spike said.

  “Most people who come here are,” Sidney shot back.

  Spike suspected Sidney’s father had been the expert touted in the Yellow Pages advertisement, but there was no harm asking his questions. If Sidney Three didn’t have the answers, he’d take the scruffy, smart-ass bookworm home as his contribution to Dru’s collection.

  “One-of-a-kind,” Spike went on, “embossed leather binding, about a hundred years old, called the du Lac Manuscript.”

  “You’re kidding.” Sidney looked incredulous. “I saw something about that text a couple weeks ago.”

  “You’re kidding. Where is it?”

  “Tell you in a minute.” The young man turned back to the computer and tapped a few keys. “I’ve got the most comprehensive database on rare and unusual books in town, except for maybe Professor Dalton. I update every day.”

  Spike waited, trying not to appear too impatient. If Sidney had a bead on the du Lac Manuscript, Spike would probably let him live. There was no telling when he might need to locate another rare text.

  “Here we go,” Sidney said. “Roman Shaw bought it at a private sale in Orleans, Massachusetts a month ago.”

  Spike blinked. “There’s an Orleans without “New” in front of it?”

  “On Cape Cod,” Sidney said. “Right above the elbow. Never been there myself.”

  Spike threw up his hands. “What is it with rumors that people can’t get their facts straight?”

  “Beats me.” Sidney shrugged.

  “So where do I find this Roman bloke that’s got my book?”

  “Mr. Shaw probably doesn’t have the book.” Sidney closed the window on the monitor. “He’s an agent. He buys rare books and artifacts for clients who don’t have the time to track things down themselves.”

  “All right, then.” Spike nodded at the phone sitting on a stack of old Atlantic Monthly magazines. “Ring him up and ask who has it now.”

  “Wouldn’t do any good,” Sidney said. “Roman Shaw doesn’t talk about his clients or their business transactions, not to me, anyway.”

  He’ll talk to me, Spike thought.

  Sidney frowned. “But he might tell Professor Dalton, especially if this du Lac Manuscript was a coup. They’ve been friends for years.”

  “A professor at UC Sunnydale?” Spike asked.

  “Crestwood College,” Sidney said. “He teaches ancient languages.”

  “You’
ve been right helpful, Sidney the Third.” Spike smiled. “I’ll be back.”

  Spike decided to put off paying a visit to the professor. Dru’s behavior could be erratic when she was bored or upset, and she had been both tonight. And, on further reflection, he realized his impromptu game could backfire. The minions might object to letting Dru “collect” their prey when they had worked harder than usual to get it. He didn’t want to be away from the factory longer than necessary, and he headed straight for The Bronze.

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  The instant Spike finished telling Buffy about manifest spirits, she turned away.

  “Hang tight,” Buffy told Dawn, speaking into her cell phone. “I’ll find you. These things can hurt you. You can hurt them, too. Find a weapon. I’ll come for you.”

  Glory appeared behind Buffy. Her red dress reminded Spike of blood, and hurt his eyes.

  “Spike, you gonna help me out?” Buffy asked, shoving the cell phone into her back pocket.

  “Why help her?” Glory asked. “She never appreciates it.”

  Yes, she does, Spike thought. The Slayer was suddenly frozen in place, but his mind raced, as though he had been isolated from real time.

  “Oh, right.” Glory uttered a short, derisive laugh. “You let a god pound your pretty-boy face to protect the key, but did Buffy care? Not even a little.”

  Lie! Spike wanted to shout in protest, but his mouth wouldn’t move. Even so, he knew Glory was wrong. Buffy had cared. She had.

  “You don’t know that. You can’t know that.” Glory got in his face, smiling, determined to warp his perceptions. “You’re insane.”

  Spike flipped through his memories, looking for the truth that would expose Glory’s lie.

  “I practically turned you into mincemeat!” Glory exclaimed. “But all Buffy cared about was her precious kid sister.”

  Yes, the Niblet. Spike latched onto an image of Dawn. That’s why the Slayer was in the basement now. She was looking for Dawn.

  “And as soon as Dawnie is safe, Buffy will forget about you,” Glory taunted, “just as she did a moment ago and just as she did back then.”