Spark and Burn

by Diana G. Gallagher

  “There was that little problem with her pals,” Spike reminded him. “A slayer by herself is more than most super Bads can handle. A slayer with a loyal band of merry marauders is practically invincible.”

  Adam wasn’t convinced. “Your emotions made you weak and ineffectual.”

  Spike wanted to reject that, but there was a kernel of truth in the engineered mutant’s observation. He had been passionately in love with Drusilla. Then he had threatened to kill her to show Buffy how much he loved her.

  “You told the Slayer I was your salvation.” Dru smiled, her voice smooth and mellow; it was like warm caramel when she was pleased. “That I delivered you from mediocrity.”

  “Yes.” Spike nodded, his smile sad. A century together, and Drusilla had never stopped surprising him. She had come to the crypt to save him from the chip.

  “I wanted to make things right again,” Dru said, “but you didn’t want to be saved, puppet Spike with your Tinkertoy strings. Can’t hunt. Can’t hurt. Can’t kill.”

  “Wired for pain,” Spike said.

  “The Slayer didn’t even care about that, did she?” Dru’s tone became brittle and accusing.

  Spike felt his mental hold slipping. He buried his head in his arms and rocked.

  “You were a killer, bash, slash, making things dead, and then you crawled to her like a worm.” Dru mocked him with a plea he had once made to Buffy. “ ‘Just give me something. A crumb, the barest smidgen. Tell me someday, maybe . . . there’s a chance.’ ”

  Then Dru was Buffy, glaring at him, her words loaded with disdain. “The only chance you had with me was when I was unconscious.”

  “Don’t!” Spike covered his ears and squeezed his eyes closed, but the Other was relentless in Its assault.

  “What happened to you, Spike?” Adam asked.

  Spike didn’t know. Before he came to Sunnydale he had been able to suppress the emotional tendencies and feelings that made him vulnerable. Then everything had started to unravel.

  Adam pressed. “You were a ruthless, cold-blooded beast too powerful to contain, pure in your ferocity. Where did you go wrong?”

  Spike didn’t have to think about that. His first mistake had been letting Buffy live on Parent-Teacher Night. His second mistake was getting to know her and her friends.

  Sunnydale

  October 1997

  Since becoming a vampire, Spike’s interest in academics had been restricted to stalking coeds on the happy hunting grounds of university campuses. On occasion he attended poetry seminars and readings, and his own poems, composed and saved in memory only, had improved over the years. He hadn’t indulged in either pastime since arriving in Sunnydale. A sinister undercurrent permeated the grounds of UC Sunnydale. He couldn’t name or identify what he sensed, but it discouraged hunting and stifled creative flow.

  No such suffocating atmosphere depressed the allure of Crestwood College. With its rolling lawns, wooded paths, and Spanish architecture, the small, exclusive institution of higher learning invited investigation. Spike was looking forward to cruising the dorms, sororities, and frat houses after he finished with Professor Dalton.

  The linguistics professor had been out of town for the past week, attending a rare-book-sellers convention and forcing Spike to put his search for the du Lac Manuscript on hold. He’d found out that Dalton kept late hours on Wednesdays for student conferences and faculty consultations, and Spike had an unscheduled appointment.

  Dalton’s office was located in a building that combined anthropology, archeology, archaic languages, and other studies related to ancient human history and development. No one roamed the quiet halls or waited in the corridor to see the professor. Spike entered the small, cluttered office without knocking and leaned against the doorjamb.

  Dalton sat hunched over a wooden desk, reading a parchment with a magnifying glass. A short, mousy man with thin hair and glasses, he probably made up in brains what he lacked in stature and appeal. Nature had a built-in default for balance in all things.

  “I stopped seeing people at—” The professor squinted at Spike over the top of his glasses. “Who are you?”

  Spike didn’t bother with an introduction or small talk. “Your friend Roman Shaw bought the du Lac Manuscript for a client a few weeks ago. Who’s the client?”

  “That’s none of your business. Now—get out of my office.” Frowning, the professor waved the magnifying glass toward the door. He jumped with a sharp intake of breath when Spike took a step forward and kicked the door closed.

  “Quite the contrary,” Spike said in a conversational tone. “I need that text to save someone near and dear to my heart, and that makes it my business.” He vamped out and roared. “Who’s the client?”

  Professor Dalton dropped the magnifying glass. His mouth worked as he tried to talk, but no sound came out.

  “Anytime in the next thirty seconds will be acceptable,” Spike said. “I was going to grab someone to eat on my way home, but I can make do with a stringy, balding guy—if you get my meaning.”

  Dalton nodded and swallowed hard. “I don’t know. Roman did—didn’t tell me.”

  “Well, give him a ring and ask!” Spike exclaimed.

  “He lives in London,” Dalton said. “It’s just before dawn there.”

  Spike leaned over and snarled. “Wake him up.”

  Dalton picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello, Roman? Yes, yes. This is Martin Dalton. I realize it’s early, but I have a rather urgent request.”

  “Very urgent,” Spike muttered as he perched on the corner of the desk.

  “This is a little irregular, but I really must know who bought the du Lac text.” Dalton nodded vigorously and interrupted his friend. “Yes, I understand, but I have a contact who’s, uh—willing to pay a hefty fee to see it. At the very least, your client should know.”

  Spike craned to see what Dalton scrawled on a notepad.

  “Ah, he’s not a wealthy chap, then?” Dalton nodded, smiled, and then blinked in surprise. “He’s the what where? I never would have guessed. Yes, well, thanks so much.”

  “And the client is?” Spike prompted.

  “The librarian at Sunnydale High,” Dalton said as he finished writing and handed Spike the slip of paper. “Rupert Giles.”

  Chapter Six

  Sunnydale

  October 1997

  Professor Dalton was stunned—but alive—when Spike left the building to explore the Crestwood College campus. Of course, the academic’s status was subject to change, depending on the du Lac Manuscript. Finding the book was only the first phase of Spike’s project to restore Drusilla’s health. Next, he had to take possession of the book. Then, depending on the language Josephus du Lac had used, he might need someone to translate it. If so, the good professor could be changed into a brainy henchman to do the job. In the meantime, since something unexpected could happen regarding the book or Rupert Giles, Dalton might be needed again—alive.

  Besides, although the Sunnydale police had a peculiar nonchalance about the exceptional number of deaths and disappearances in town, it wouldn’t be wise to raise any red flags. Roman Shaw lived too far away to kill, and the agent knew that Professor Dalton had inquired about the du Lac Manuscript. If Dalton turned up dead, Shaw might tell Rupert Giles that someone wanted the text—badly. A long shot, to be sure, but Spike wasn’t willing to take the risk.

  The book buyer’s identity could not be dismissed as a coincidence, either. Spike mulled over the connections between the du Lac Manuscript, Rupert Giles, and the Slayer as he walked through the Crestwood College campus. Several paths branched off a central courtyard toward the theater, academic facilities, student union, dorms, and fraternity row. Spike paused to read a signpost.

  Three young men passed by without casting even a curious glance in Spike’s direction. They were all dressed in a casual Ivy League style: slacks and button-down shirts with V-neck sweaters or blazers. Spike followed them toward the dorms, out of sight in th
e trees that lined the path, eavesdropping with mild interest.

  “So Brian Randolph wasn’t asked to pledge Delta Zeta Kappa either?” the tallest man asked.

  “They only take guys from old money and/or old families,” his heavyset companion explained. “Brian’s father was an accountant before he became a dot-com millionaire.”

  “New wealth buys your way into Crestwood, Cory,” the third man said, “but not into Crestwood’s version of Skull and Bones.”

  “Don’t they ever make exceptions?” Cory frowned.

  “Not very often.” The heavy man shrugged. “Why cut a stranger in on the wealth and success that’s practically guaranteed to everyone in the house?”

  “There’s no ‘practically’ about it,” the third man remarked with a shake of his head. “Those guys keep getting richer, and none of them ever go broke. Must be nice to have connections.”

  Indeed, Spike thought. Cory didn’t have a prayer of crashing the rich boys’ campus club. It was a familiar story: The offspring of wealth and privilege thought they were better than everyone else, and everyone else went along with the myth, creating a vicious cycle of power and abuse. Prompted by an old prejudice of his own, Spike left the students and headed toward fraternity row.

  The Delta Zeta Kappa house didn’t look anything like the fraternities Spike had hunted in in other parts of the country. Instead of a stately mansion on a tree-lined street, the frat was a sprawling hacienda set in the middle of an expansive green meadow. Wide steps led up to three arches that framed a large front porch. Several windows opened onto a balcony above the porch.

  Spike studied the structure from the woods that bordered the drive and parking area. There was no movement behind the windows and doors. Assuming the members were all watching TV or studying, he started to leave. But the sound of breaking glass drew him back.

  A girl plunged through an upstairs window onto the balcony and scrambled over the wall. As she dropped to the ground, a figure in a brown hooded robe dashed through the broken glass. As soon as the robed figure realized the girl wasn’t on the second floor, he ran back inside. The girl stumbled to her feet and started running. She had barely gone twenty yards when five robed figures dashed out of the house and took off after her.

  “If I had known there was going to be entertainment, I would have brought popcorn.” Intrigued, Spike followed at a discreet distance.

  The girl headed into the woods at the southern end of the house and stumbled just before she reached the high stone wall that surrounded the school. Getting quickly to her feet, she climbed onto a low curved tree trunk and hoisted herself up and over the wall—right into the cemetery.

  To avoid the boys in monks’ clothing, Spike scaled the wall farther down and kept pace as they barreled across a paved drive. As they started to close ground, a young man with sandy-blond hair, who had circled around, stopped the girl.

  She screamed, anguished and frightened when he grabbed her wrists.

  Spike watched from behind a large grave marker. The scene didn’t impress a vampire who had stalked, captured, and killed women all over the world. He had an impulsive streak, but the boys were crude.

  “Callie, Callie . . .” The young man smiled, amused by the girl’s struggles. “Where you going?”

  Callie sobbed pitifully.

  “The party’s just getting started.” The college boy in the monk suit shoved her into the clutches of three other robed figures. As they dragged her back toward the Delta Zeta Kappa house, the man stole a furtive glance around, then pulled up his hood and followed.

  Spike leaned against the tombstone, shaking his head. He was a demon. It was his job to terrify, torture, and kill people. Humans had souls, which made their evil transgressions more disgusting and vile somehow, especially rich brats trying to run with the Big Bads for kicks.

  Spike frowned, recalling that the members of Delta Zeta Kappa enjoyed a remarkable degree of financial success. It was quite possible that a demonic Big Bad was the boys’ Big Boss.

  * * *

  Leaving Drusilla behind on Thursday night wasn’t a problem. Yesterday, after the monk-boys had left the cemetery with the girl, Spike had found a nest and ambushed a blackbird sitting on her eggs. With the bird firmly in hand, he had nicked a cage and some packaged seed from a local pet store. Dru had adored the gift and was content to stay home, singing to her feathered captive.

  Some of his underlings hadn’t been as cooperative.

  “What do you mean, ‘they’re gone?’ ” Spike glared at Lucius. Vampires operated pretty much with impunity in Sunnydale, but nothing prevented the oddball mayor or chief of police from cracking down on “violent crime” without notice. Spike had instituted strict rationing until Dru’s cure was complete, and had relied on Lucius to enforce it. “I gave specific orders. Everyone has to wait their turn.”

  “I tried to stop them,” Lucius said, “but Hank was hungry.”

  “A vampire doesn’t need to feed every night! I went without a drop for weeks once.” Spike’s eyes blazed. “Hank has an eating disorder! He only thinks he’s hungry.”

  “But Drusilla feeds every night.” Lucius cringed, as though he expected Spike to lash out.

  Spike held his temper rather than draw attention to Drusilla’s weakening condition. He had enough to do without worrying that an ambitious subordinate might try to get to him through her. This new discipline problem was a distraction he could have done without.

  “I’ll deal with Hank when I get back,” Spike said.

  Lucius smiled, imagining the worst for Hank and savoring the prospects. “What about Dorian and Garbo?”

  Dorian and Garbo hadn’t made trouble before, but they had gone hunting with Hank, a defiance Spike couldn’t ignore. He glanced back at Lucius as he headed for the factory door. “They better hope I don’t have any trouble checking a book out of the library.”

  Spike kept to alleys and side streets as he made his way through Sunnydale to the high school campus. Traffic and pedestrian activity was heavy for a week-night, and Main Street cafés filled up as downtown specialty shops closed. From the looks of the crowds clogging the sidewalks, business had been brisk.

  Spike’s predatory instincts were primed when he reached the Sunnydale High School grounds. The surveillance mission was more critical than an ordinary hunt, and he scanned the parking lot before he strode across it. Since three cars were parked in the faculty section, he assumed three adults were still on the premises. Teachers or janitors would be working and easily avoided, especially the old duffer who drove the broken down Citroen DS. He didn’t want to create a commotion that would hinder his search for the du Lac Manuscript.

  The only positive result of his botched attempt to kill the Slayer on Parent-Teacher Night was that he knew the location of the library. With Dru’s life depending on his efforts, he proceeded with more caution than usual. He had planned to scout the library through the windows first, but the two semicircular windows with a view of the interior were too high to access from the ground.

  Having no recourse but to learn the library’s layout from the inside, Spike continued on around the building. As long as he was on a reconnaissance outing, he might as well recon everything.

  If Spike hadn’t been studying the high school structure, he wouldn’t have seen the boarded-up break in the foundation. He swung the loose boards aside and stepped through a narrow opening into a dark cellar with a low ceiling. His eyes quickly adjusted. Nothing of value was stored in the space, but empty paint cans, pieces of lumber, and other discarded construction debris were strewn about the dirt floor.

  Footsteps overhead drew Spike’s gaze to a faint sliver of light shining through a narrow wooden door at the top of ladderlike stairs. He waited until the footsteps retreated, then silently climbed up. The door was actually a hatch that opened into an area filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

  Realizing he had stumbled on a secret way into the library, Spike considered his next ste
p before entering. If the back stacks were any indication, the high school library was exceptionally large and well stocked. If the librarian was clever, he had hidden the du Lac Manuscript in plain sight among thousands of other volumes.

  Spike stifled his natural inclination to storm the stacks and take Giles prisoner. He could torture the librarian into revealing the location of the book, but if Giles died without telling, the du Lac Manuscript might be lost. Then Dru would die too. The seize-and-brutalize option was best saved as a last resort, in the event all else failed.

  The librarian was obviously working late tonight, but Spike doubted Giles was on the job twenty-four/seven. Although it went against his impulsive grain, he knew a methodical search in an unoccupied library was a better plan.

  But as long as I’m here, it can’t hurt to take a quick look. Spike eased inside and crept to the end of the stacks.

  The back section of the library, where Spike was standing, was raised four feet off the main floor. A railing of spindles and posts ran the length of the platform, and a wide staircase led down from an open space under the semicircular windows. Study tables with chairs and bankers’ lamps dominated the lower floor. An office and checkout counter filled the space on the left. The double doors he remembered from Parent-Teacher Night were directly across the room. A green-lighted exit sign hung above them. Also: a clock, bulletin board, planter, card catalog, and locked wire door into a small room with more books.

  Books the librarian doesn’t want anyone to see, Spike thought, as a tall man walked out of the office carrying a book. Rupert Giles, I presume.

  The man looked like a librarian, with glasses, a slightly receding hairline, vest, and proper tie. The book in his hand was an ordinary volume, not the one Spike was looking for.

  “I dare say I’m the only Watcher that’s ever been assigned to a slayer with a social life.” Giles mumbled as he walked to the study table and slapped the book onto one of several stacks needing to be reshelved. “Who could have imagined such a thing?”