Spark and Burn

by Diana G. Gallagher

  No, that wasn’t how it went. Spike stared at the Slayer. The Other didn’t want him to remember, but he had to remember. It was important.

  “You want those memories back?” Glory asked. “Fine. Remember how Buffy treated you like dirt. She didn’t trust you, couldn’t trust you, wouldn’t trust you—about anything.”

  Except Dawn, Spike realized, fighting the Other’s influence. Buffy had once posed as the Buffy-bot and come to see him in the crypt. She had studied his cuts and bruises, wanting to know if he had betrayed Dawn to Glory.

  I didn’t tell. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt Little-bit. Spike had been desperate to make Buffy understand, was still desperate. She had believed him, kissed him, told him that what he had done was real and that she wouldn’t forget.

  “Big deal.” Glory grinned. “The Slayer couldn’t remember anything after she dove off my tower.”

  The Other replayed that memory, forcing Spike to watch as Buffy fell from the sky onto the pavement and died.

  No! Stricken, Spike retreated from the unbearable pain, unwilling to experience it again. He let himself sink deeper into the mire of twisted thought where reality didn’t matter. The Other took over and began spouting nonsense to Buffy about the Hellmouth.

  “This is my home,” the Other said in Spike’s voice. “I belong here, always been here.”

  As he descended into the well of sorrow, Spike looked through the Other into Buffy’s eyes. He saw something . . . not sure what. Pity? Regret? No—whatever it was, it stopped his plunge into the mental maelstrom and helped him shake off the Other for a moment.

  “Cheers for stopping by,” Spike said, turning his back. He couldn’t face the Slayer, but he couldn’t let her leave without an explanation. “It’s in the walls.”

  Buffy paused.

  “The Slayer’s still there,” Dru said. “Floating all around you, but never, never yours. Poor lit’le Spike.”

  Harmony rolled her eyes. “Slayer this and Slayer that. She’s everywhere, haunting him, just like he said. It’ll never end.”

  No, the pain will never end, Spike thought. He clutched at the wall, unable to still the whimpers in his throat. It just burned and burned, a spark cast into the eternal fires of hell. No one ever told that secret—that hell was inside.

  “I’ll get back to you.” Buffy unlatched the door, kicked it open, and left.

  “All this pain and angst didn’t have to happen, Spike,” Angelus said. “You always were too impulsive for your own good. Killing without thinking, never getting the maximum bang for your bite.”

  Spike hung his head. His mentor had been an artist, creating and compounding misery. Angelus had reveled in making his victims suffer before he killed them—or turned them. He had made Drusilla insane, killing her family, driving her into a convent, and changing her on the day she took her Holy Orders. Nothing less than diabolically brilliant, Spike conceded.

  Angelus plotted and planned. Spike had been more of a spur-of-the-moment, whatever-works-now killer.

  “All you had to do was pick a friend and kill it,” Angelus said. “Then the Slayer would have been drowning in guilt and remorse when you fought her. How hard was that?”

  Harder than Spike ever imagined.

  Sunnydale

  October 1997

  Sunny D. is just full of surprises, Spike thought as he slipped into The Bronze, some pleasant and some not so pleasant. The warehouse club was holding some kind of masquerade with an international theme, a decidedly pleasant turn of events. He scanned with a critical eye the wide selection of Grade-A-prime teens decked out in costumes. The cuisine was All-American. He just had to choose which exotic package Dru would like best.

  Spanish lady or Cossack? Spike glanced at the couple standing on the far side of the entrance.

  Between tracking down the du Lac Manuscript, expanding his and Dru’s personal space in the factory, and managing the subordinates, Spike had not had a lot of R & R lately. Rather than grab the first succulent bit that caught his eye, he hung back in the shadows to watch the floor show and choose an entrée at his leisure.

  A local band called Dingoes Ate My Baby was pounding out a baleful tune with a beat. The drummer and lead guitarist had their acts together, but half the lead singer’s words were unintelligible.

  “She’s in ecstasy,” the boy sang. “. . . falls down heavenly, fake’s desire . . .”

  “Amateurs,” Spike muttered as a tall brunette walked through the entrance. She wore a flower in her hair that matched a lei around her neck. The pink blossoms complemented a two-piece blue and white Hawaiian outfit.

  “Hey, Cordelia,” the bouncer greeted the girl. “You look terrific.”

  “Thanks, Boomer.” Cordelia flashed him a dazzling smile as she entered the club.

  Spike appraised Cordelia as potential fodder. She had dressed to get attention and, judging by the adolescent eyes that turned her way, she had succeeded.

  “Ooh! Near faux pas.” The tropical femme fatale sharpened her claws on a meek girl in Eskimo fur. “I almost wore the same thing.”

  Take no prisoners, Spike thought as Cordelia breezed by her target. Then he realized that the girl in the parka was the Slayer’s pal Red. Reeking of tantalizing innocence, she would be an interesting addition to Dru’s collection. The harpoon was a nice touch, but he didn’t want anything mucking up the cure for Dru. A slayer out to avenge a friend’s death would be a major complication. He tracked the Hawaiian charmer instead.

  “Hey, where’s Sven?” a girl dressed as a geisha asked.

  “I keep trying to ditch him,” Cordelia said. “He’s like one of those dogs you leave at the Grand Canyon on vacation. It follows you back across four states.”

  Ouch, Spike thought. Cordelia’s friends laughed, but the big boy in the Viking suit had his leather knickers in a bunch at the insult.

  “See?” Cordelia said when Sven walked up. “My own speechless boomerang.”

  “He’s kinda cute,” the geisha observed. “Maybe it’s nice skipping all that small talk.”

  “Small talk? How about simple instruction?” Cordelia turned to Sven and spoke in a tone people usually reserved for the very dense or the very deaf. “Get punchy. You. Fruit drinky.”

  Spike clenched his jaw. Cordelia was a sarcastic snob. She reminded him of Cecily and her circle of elite, pompous friends. He would enjoy killing the Hawaiian bimbo, except that Dru wanted fresh, hot blood. Cordelia, the luau lady with the acidic attitude, would be dead long before he got her back to the factory. He’d have to kill her to make her stop talking.

  “He can follow me.” The geisha took Sven’s arm and led him off.

  Sven would be big enough to sustain Dru for a couple of days. But, given the verbal abuse Cordelia had just dumped on the student Viking, it wouldn’t be sporting to kill him.

  “We’ve been born before,” the singer shouted into the mike. “We’ll be born again . . .”

  “Devon is so cool,” a girl behind Spike said. “He can sing to me all night, but he’s probably dating someone.”

  “I think he’s going out with Cordelia,” another girl answered. “Or did or wants to or something.”

  Figures, Spike thought. Although different standards determined who was accepted into a society’s top tiers, the basic rules stayed the same. The rich and popular few banded together to the exclusion of everyone else. In his day, heritage and wealth had been the foundation of social status. In an American high school, athletic prowess and beauty were the deciding factors. The system hadn’t changed in the one hundred and seventeen years of Spike’s existence as a vampire. It was still sick and unfair.

  As Spike eased back into the crowd, the Slayer’s other sidekick came in. The tall boy swaggered in a black hat and poncho with a cigar hanging unlit from his mouth, but the tough guy getup didn’t negate the boy’s inner nerd. The dark-haired beauty clinging to his hand completely out-classed him. Also, Spike noted with a laugh, the babe had outlived him. She was
dead.

  Curious, Spike moved closer as the couple did a quick stroll around the dance floor then joined Red, the Eskimo girl.

  “Wow,” Red said. “You guys look great.”

  “I love your costume.” The boy’s date sounded sincere. “It’s very authentic.”

  “Thanks.” Red smiled tightly.

  “Yeah, you look . . . um . . .”—The boy fumbled for the right word—“snug.”

  “That’s what I was going for,” Red countered.

  Like hell you were. Spike scoffed internally. It was clear Red’s feelings were damaged.

  “Where’s Buffy?” Red turned stiffly, unable to move her arms in the heavy coat. “Weren’t you and Ampata supposed to pick her up, Xander?”

  “Hmm—what, Willow?” The boy—Xander—dragged his mooning gaze away from Ampata. “Did you say something?”

  “Isn’t Buffy coming?” Willow asked again.

  “No,” Xander said. “She had some stuff to do with Giles.”

  Spike wondered who Giles was, but didn’t dwell on it. Eventually he’d find out everything he needed to know about everyone connected to the Slayer. For now, the immediate situation was loaded with suspense and was almost as compelling as the afternoon soaps. He hated to admit it, but he wanted to see what happened next.

  Unlike Cordelia, who felt entitled to everyone’s oxygen, Willow expected to be ignored. It was obvious she had a bad case of the longings for Xander, who was ignoring her. Xander, lacking a vampire’s ability to sense such things, apparently didn’t realize that his hot date was stone-cold dead.

  What made me think the suburbs would be boring? Spike wondered as Willow excused herself. A short boy in an Australian bush hat sat down at the table. He stared into space, lost and alone, not even “in” with the average kids that laughed and danced around him.

  Speaking of which, Xander and Ampata huddled under the metal staircase, listening to the music. Thirty seconds, Spike thought, and he’ll ask her to dance.

  “Take a moment,” the singer warbled, “out of time, I’m standing right behind.”

  “Do you, um—” Xander stammered. “Would you like to, uh—you know.”

  “I’d love to dance,” the dead date said coyly.

  On the dot.

  Under ordinary circumstances, Spike was good for about ten minutes of watching prey party before he singled someone out and left to eat. The only thing keeping his interest now was the unbelievable predictability of the Slayer players. The more he learned about Buffy’s close cohorts, the less concerned he was that the Slayer’s Scooby Gang would present any serious impediments to his plans.

  Xander ditched the hat, the poncho, and the cigar and took Ampata’s hand. As they walked onto the dance floor, he didn’t notice Willow standing nearby, looking forlorn and forsaken. She was totally and pathetically oblivious to the lead guitar player, who couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  Spike turned his attention back to Xander and his partner. The boy was lost in Ampata’s adoring gaze and unaware that her hand had just shriveled.

  A reconstituted mummy, Spike surmised, with a short shelf life. Considering how quickly and aggressively the girl’s body had started to revert, she would need a life-force fix soon to retain her youthful good looks. But it won’t be Xander, Spike realized as Ampata abruptly abandoned the boy.

  Stunned, Xander hesitated before going after her, and lost Ampata in the crowd. “Okay. At least I can rule out something I said.”

  Spike followed Ampata. He had firsthand knowledge about many bizarre beings, but he had never seen a mummy in action and didn’t want to miss a rare opportunity.

  The Australian bush boy was sitting on the metal stairway, watching the dance floor he would probably never set foot on with a girl. Ampata headed straight for him.

  “Is there a back door?” Ampata asked her unsuspecting life-force donor.

  “Back door?” The boy’s hand went limp and he almost spilled his soda.

  “Yes,” Ampata pleaded. “My father forbade me to come to the dance, and I think he’s waiting outside. If he finds me—”

  “There’s an exit backstage.” The boy pointed.

  “Would you show me?” Ampata begged, hiding her withered hand behind her back.

  “Sure.” Leaving his drink, the boy hurried down the stairs and motioned for her to follow. “I’m Jonathan, in case you wanted to know.”

  She didn’t, Spike thought as he shadowed victim and killer-seductress to a storage area in the rear of the building. He found a spot in the dark with an unobstructed view.

  Jonathan was helplessly in the thrall of the beautiful girl as she removed his hat and ran her dried hand through his hair. The girl’s focus narrowed to the life she needed to steal to survive.

  “Your hands feel kinda . . . rough,” Jonathan said. “Aren’t you with Xander?”

  A flicker of remorse touched Ampata’s face, but it quickly passed. “Do I look like I’m with Xander?”

  Spike rolled his eyes when Ampata drew Jonathan’s face closer. He felt let down that her methods weren’t more original. Dozens of demonic parasites used kissing to drain humans of one thing or another: information, will, or life force.

  “Ampata!” Xander called out.

  The sound snapped Jonathan free of the girl’s mesmerizing gaze. The lucky runt grabbed his hat—“That’s my cue to leave.”—and ran.

  Although Spike was intrigued by the new plot twist and Xander’s arrival on the scene, he only wanted to spare a few minutes more. The longer he was absent from the factory, the greater the chance that chaos might erupt. The minions tended to eat on the run, not carry the prey home to play with first. If no one thought to gag the specimens, their screams might attract unwanted attention from the authorities. Lucius was the brightest of the bunch, but he was still not equipped to handle an uprising.

  He should have gotten Dru her blooming bird so she wouldn’t be lonely when he had to be gone. That went to the top of his to do list, along with contacting Professor Dalton.

  “There you are,” Xander said to Ampata, relieved to find his wayward date. “Why’d you run away?”

  Spike waited to see how the scene played out, knowing that the Slayer wouldn’t blame him if the mummy-girl killed Xander. Vampires didn’t freeze-dry their victims.

  “Because,” Ampata said, looking wretched. “I do not deserve you.”

  “What—” Xander cut off a startled laugh as he walked toward her. “You think that you don’t deserve me?” Then he did laugh. “Man, I love you.”

  Tears welled up in Ampata’s eyes.

  “Are those tears of joy?” Xander asked. “Pain? Revulsion?”

  “I am very happy,” Ampata confessed.

  Spike suspected that was true. Primitive South American cultures had been superstitious and extraordinarily bloodthirsty. The girl had died before she was grown, probably before she had the chance to experience love. As demonic fates went, he reflected, being a vampire was preferable to just about everything else in the evil-entities catalog.

  “And very sad,” Ampata finished.

  “Then talk to me,” Xander implored her. “Let me know what’s wrong.”

  “I can’t.” The girl dissolved into tears on his shoulder.

  “Hey, I know why you can’t tell me.” Xander held her gently, trying to comfort her. “It’s a secret, right? And if you told me, you’d have to kill me.”

  Spike groaned silently. No wonder the poor slob was hooked on a dead girl. Xander was humor-and-tact-challenged, which no doubt killed his chances with the live ones.

  “Oh,” Xander said lamely. “That was . . . a bad joke. And the delivery was off too. I’m sorry. I, uh—” He pulled back and wiped a tear off Ampata’s cheek. “I’m sorry.”

  Spike winced when Xander kissed the girl, tentatively, then with more passion until suddenly the boy’s whole body stiffened. Spike expected to see young, vibrant Xander wrinkle and dehydrate right before his eyes. Instead, Ampata
pushed him away and he fell to the ground.

  “No, I can’t.” The girl dropped down beside the gasping boy. “Xander, I’m so sorry.” She held him for a moment, then looked up suddenly. “The seal.”

  Startled when Ampata ran off, Spike glanced at the boy lying on the floor. Xander was out of breath and too weak to move, an easy mark. Easy to bag, but too much trouble to tote. Spike didn’t want to drag Dru’s dinner across town or wait until Xander could walk on his own. Besides, the Slayer was rushing backstage.

  Spike ducked behind a massive speaker before Buffy spotted him. As she ran by with Willow, he could smell the blood coursing hot through their veins. Exactly what Dru craved, but he wasn’t looking for a fight tonight.

  Spike detoured past the mall on his way back to the factory, hunting anyone handy.

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  Spike heard Buffy’s footsteps receding down the corridor and glanced at the storeroom door. It was open. Anyone could get in: students, teachers, construction workers, even disgruntled dead people. Frantic, he grabbed the handle and pulled the door closed—hard. The sound disrupted the fog shrouding his mind, and his thoughts cleared.

  For how long? He wondered, panicked. There was something he needed to know. Something important. Think!

  “A predator doesn’t think.” Adam stood by the opposite wall, his massive arms folded over his chest, his half-human face devoid of emotion. “He reacts on instinct, swiftly and without hesitation, picking off the weaker ones in a pack first. You should have taken the one called Willow when you had the chance.”

  “Hard to get at her neck through that bloody parka,” Spike said. “Her chin barely cleared the fur trim.”

  “A savage would have ripped the parka to shreds,” Adam countered.

  “Yeah, and he’d be picking fur out of his teeth for a week.” Spike squatted in the middle of the room. He didn’t know how long the clarity would last and focused on the conversation with the demon hybrid for stability.

  “An inadequate excuse.” Adam stared, his black eyes cold and lightless. “I offered to make you savage again in exchange for the Slayer, but even then you had excuses, too many reasons why it couldn’t be done.”