Spark and Burn

by Diana G. Gallagher

  Spike usually stayed in on Halloween and watched old monster movies on TV, but he dared not ignore Dru’s warning or advice. The Slayer would be weakened tomorrow, and he had come to Sunnydale to kill a slayer.

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  “You never will,” Dru said.

  Spike knew that. He hadn’t killed the Sunnydale Slayer and never would.

  “You’ll always be mine.” Dru caressed the side of his face with a phantom touch.

  No, he wouldn’t. Spike was struck again by the blatant irony. Drusilla, in her madness, delighted in evil. Now that he was insane, there was no pleasure. Only pain. His own.

  “You’ll always be in the dark with me, singing our lit’le songs.” Dru traced delicate patterns on his skin, but the fingers that couldn’t touch him bored into him. “You like our little songs, don’t you?”

  Spike tensed. She was probing his most secret thoughts, looking for something to yank his chain. Don’t. He tried, but couldn’t stop the violation of his fondest memories.

  Early one morning just as the sun was rising . . .

  She snatched the lyric and tune, twisted it into a hook, and shoved it into the swamp of his subconscious.

  Panicked at the loss of his mother’s favorite song, he reached into the blackwater muck, but it was buried too deep to find.

  “You’ve always liked them,” Dru said.

  What? Spike wondered, disoriented.

  “Right from the beginning,” Dru cooed. “And that’s where we’re going . . .”

  Sunnydale

  October 1997

  “Why are ghosts white?” Dru asked.

  “They’re not—except in human imaginations, old movies, and dime-store decorations.” Spike lifted the corked bottle of congealing blood Dru had left on the bed table. “What’s this?”

  “I’ve been saving it.” Dru draped a black cloth over Miss Edith, the last of the dolls to be shrouded for Halloween. “For trick or treats.”

  “For your play people?” Spike set the bottle down and shrugged into his favorite red shirt.

  “Yes, for my lit’le black ghosts.” Dru stepped back to study her handiwork. “What tricks shall we play to celebrate this tawdry holiday?”

  “You made a rhyme.” Spike embraced her from behind and kissed her neck. “You know I wouldn’t be going out tonight if I didn’t have to work.”

  “Making the streets safe for the magic man’s wee demons and ghouls.” Dru bashed one of the dolls in the head with her fist. “Quiet or no sweet stuffing in your pumpkin.”

  “Magic man?” Spike asked. When he had asked for more specific details about the weakened Slayer, Dru had lapsed back into an agitated hysteria about fire and rotting insides. Her descriptions and interpretations of her visions were often vague, and she resented being pressured. Occasionally, though, important details followed with no prompting. “Is that the ‘someone new’ who makes everything different?”

  “Makes everything real.” Dru picked up Miss Edith and closed her hand around the doll’s neck, tightening the black cloth. “Don’t forget to bring me one.”

  “A treat?” Spike took his duster off the pipe bracket and slung it over his shoulder.

  “Trick-or-treater, pumpkin eater, how does your graveyard grow?” Drusilla turned suddenly, her carefree demeanor darkened by a fearful scowl. “The Slayer’s tombstone shimmers. Put her in the ground, Spike—before the winds change.”

  Spike left the factory through a side exit to avoid the minions. He didn’t want to explain why he was breaking with tradition and going out on Halloween. In the long ago past, demons had refrained from moving about on Samhain in deference to the spirits of the dead most human cultures honored. As time passed, humanity’s respectful observance of All Hallows Eve had been transformed into a grotesque parody with an emphasis on masquerade and panhandling. Vampires, demons, and all other evil entities universally rejected modern humanity’s tacky tribute to death and horror. It was a singular matter of honor that all evil shared, and one Spike usually respected by staying in.

  But a new and unknown force would weaken the Slayer tonight. Spike no longer cared how he killed her as long as he killed her. Letting Buffy Summers live threatened Dru’s health and mocked his Big Bad reputation. Ironically, she would die on All Hallows Eve, the one night of the year she thought she was safe.

  As Spike expected, the industrial-district parking lots and alleys were deserted. He headed straight for the Slayer’s house; he was a black knife meeting no resistance as he cut through the darkness between factories and warehouses and sped along side streets unlit and little traveled at night. He didn’t slow his pace until he hit the bright lights of downtown Sunnydale.

  It had been many years since Spike had witnessed the Halloween ritual of trick or treat. The last time had been in 1953, when he had gone into a typical Midwest neighborhood to satisfy his curiosity. Most of the look-alike houses had displayed carved pumpkins lit with candles on their front porches. A few enthusiasts had decorated their lawns with handmade grave markers, cardboard coffins, ghosts, hay bales, bundles of dried corn stalks, and scarecrows. Parents with flashlights supervised children dressed up as pirates, cowboys, princesses, and ballerinas as they went from house to house begging for candy.

  Dru had been right. America’s postwar Halloween customs were crass and an insult to evil everywhere. The only break in the boredom had been a tall “ghost” in a white sheet, who was stalking two young girls trick-or-treating by themselves. Spike had trailed the ghost, his excitement mounting when the girls realized they were being followed. The older cowgirl had taken the smaller cat-child’s hand and hurried her toward a house as the ghost closed in. The children had rushed inside to hide behind a man, who was obviously their father. He hadn’t expected the stalker to whip off the white sheet.

  “Mommy!” the little girls had shrieked.

  Furious at being suckered, Spike would have fed on the whole bloody family if he hadn’t promised Dru to abstain because it was the soddin’ demons-don’t day. On later reflection, he had to admit he admired the ghost mother’s subterfuge to protect her young. Besides, that deception was minor compared to how insidiously commercial Halloween had become since 1953.

  Spike glanced down Sunnydale’s main street, aghast. Every storefront was festooned with decorations that demeaned the symbols of evil and major Bads. Witches, who were often as beautiful as they were powerful, were portrayed as green crones with hooked noses, pointed chins, and warts. Werewolves, zombies, and other mystical monsters were depicted as cute or comical. Every vampire bore a distinct resemblance to Bela Lugosi’s Dracula, with wet-combed black hair, sunken dark eyes, pasty white skin, a rouged mouth, and glistening fangs.

  Spike detoured onto a side street, but there was no escape from an endless variety of jack-o’-lanterns, black cats, bats, scarecrows, cobwebs, tombstones, ghosts, and goblins. The Party Town costume shop was still open and doing a booming last-minute business. Ethan’s, another vendor of Halloween clothes and paraphernalia a few doors down, was closed. Spike sensed something sinister within Ethan’s darkened walls, but he had no interest in how other evil entities chose to spend their annual night off.

  Once Spike left the downtown business area, the crowds and porch decorations were similar to those he had seen in 1953. The residential neighborhood was overrun with costumed kids being herded from house to house by teenage volunteers or watchful parents. The children’s costumes were more elaborate and the themes more varied, ranging from winged fairies and green goblins to sunflowers, doctors, and bunnies.

  He moved off the sidewalk into the street to avoid being slowed down in the trick or treat traffic.

  “Wow! Cool costume!” A young teenage girl in a gypsy outfit with heavy makeup and gold hoop earrings jumped in front of him. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  “Dracula,” Spike snapped.

  “Don’t think so.” She peeled a paper off a lollipop. “There’s
this blond singer—”

  “Get lost.” Spike snatched the lollipop out of her hand and stuck it in his mouth as he barged past. Any doubts he’d ever had about the wisdom of dropping out on Halloween were dispelled as he navigated the throngs of greedy, giggling children, doting moms and dads, and gushing saps who willingly dished out free candy every year.

  Spike couldn’t be sure that Buffy would be home. Since Halloween was a night off for the Slayer, too, she was probably out having fun. The Summers’ house was the best place to pick up her trail.

  Spike paused when he saw an adult “ghost” leading a troop of children toward the house on his left. The long porch was hung with orange paper lanterns, black and orange streamers, and an inflated plastic skeleton. As soon as the elderly lady in residence opened the door, the pint-sized beggars recited their extortion mantra.

  “Trick or treat!”

  “Oh, my goodness, aren’t you adorable!” The woman smiled as she reached into her plastic pumpkin to pay off the trespassers.

  For Spike, the ghost was a poignant reminder of times past, evoking a nostalgic pang for the carefree days before Dru had been afflicted, when they had hunted from New York to Seattle at leisure—except on Halloween. He looked away, clearing his mind. He had a slayer to kill.

  As Spike started to move on, a wind roared down the street, whipping dead leaves into a frenzied stream and chilling the air. He felt the dark magic roiling on the current and smiled as Dru’s words echoed in his mind.

  “Someone’s come to change it all. Someone new.”

  “Someone has just cast a monster spell,” Spike said, looking back toward the house.

  “Oh, dear.” The elderly woman stared into an empty plastic pumpkin. “Am I all out? I could have sworn I had more candy.”

  “Something’s happening here, now, isn’t it?” Spike watched, fascinated, as the small boy in a red devil cap morphed into a red devil demon with green horns. The old lady didn’t realize a slightly taller boy in a green goblin mask was no longer human.

  “I’m sorry, mister monster.” The woman leaned toward the goblin. “Maybe I’ll—”

  The goblin snarled and clamped his clawed hands around the old lady’s neck. She screamed. The children who had not been changed into monsters screamed and ran.

  “No!” The female ghost shouted at the monsters. “Let her go! Stop!”

  When the red devil went for the green goblin’s throat, he released the woman. She ran back into her house and slammed the door as the two little Bads tried to throttle each other.

  “Stop!” The ghost yelled. “What are you doing?”

  “Just having a bit of monster rough house.” Spike leaned against the rough bark, taking stock of the spell’s effects.

  A cacophony of terrified shrieks and monster roars reverberated up and down the street. However, not everyone had been affected by the magic. Those that had changed into “the magic man’s wee demons and ghouls,” as Dru had so accurately put it, immediately attacked those who had not. The two changelings on the porch had been wearing purchased masks and costumes. From Ethan’s? Spike wondered, remembering the evil he had sensed emanating from the store.

  “Stop!” The responsible girl ghost kept trying to break up the fight between the devil and the goblin. “Hey!”

  The two little blokes leaped over the porch railing and ran—straight into Spike’s clutches. He snagged them both by the collars. “Gotcha!”

  Spike held the snarling monsters at arm’s length, one in each hand. They kicked and swung at him with short, stubby arms, but it was a futile fight.

  “Stop wiggling,” Spike ordered. “I’m the boss. Either you’re working for me or you’re dead. Your choice.”

  The small demons stopped struggling.

  “That’s better.” Spike patted their heads. “Now just stand there a minute and let me think.”

  The neighborhood was in chaos. Glass shattered, car alarms blared, and shrieking children ran by, chased by hideous creatures of all shapes and sizes. Farther down the street a man with a gun was taking aim. Then Spike realized the man was Xander, and he was aiming at Willow—wearing short and sassy black leather and burgundy velour.

  Spike couldn’t hear what the Slayer’s friends were saying, but when Xander shouldered his gun and stumbled through Willow as though she weren’t there, he knew he had an unexpected problem. Dru had said the magic man would “make everything real.” Xander and Willow had obviously been affected by the mysterious transformation spell. He was trigger-happy and armed with real bullets, and she was a ghost. Logically, Spike could assume that the spell would somehow weaken the Slayer, just as Dru had foreseen.

  But Dru hadn’t seen that Buffy’s misfit gang would be transformed as well—into more formidable adversaries. They couldn’t seriously hurt him, but they could make killing Buffy a lot harder.

  Since the chances of catching the Slayer without her trusty entourage were slim to none, Spike needed backup. There weren’t any real demons on the streets to recruit, but the spell-caster, whoever he or she was, had provided him with a handy supply of pseudo-demons.

  Motioning the two diminutive minions to follow, Spike headed away from Xander and Willow. The little ones were too small to be much help in a fight, but Ethan’s costume store had also catered to adults. Three or four large specimens would fill out the ranks nicely.

  The sound of machine-gun fire sent the children diving for cover. They were still mortal and could be wounded or killed. Spike revised his demon recruitment goal to five or six.

  The first addition was a pseudovampire Spike shanghaied by the guy’s own front door. The dimwit newbie, in full vamp face, was threatening his hysterical wife, who had the good sense not to invite her deformed and deranged hubby back into the house. Spike promised to help the furious man get even with his wife after he helped Spike get the Slayer.

  After that, Spike just had to stand in the street and choose as the various demons, mutants, and monsters went by.

  “Well.” Spike grinned as an overweight Sasquatch and two zombies lumbered after two women and an old guy. Sirens wailed in the distance and more shots rang out. Horns honked, things smashed into other things, and a helicopter flew overhead. “This is just—neat.”

  Despite the underlying seriousness of taking out an incapacitated Slayer, Spike had never dreamed Halloween could be so much fun. The use of magic on the despised holiday was unprecedented, but it wasn’t in his nature to complain when someone else’s bad worked to his advantage.

  Fate was also on his side tonight.

  When Spike spotted Cordelia, Xander, and Angel striding down the middle of the street, he waved his recruits into the shadows.

  “Are you sure she came this way?” Xander asked. He carried the automatic weapon as though it were part of him. The boy had been playing dress-up soldier and now he was one, with everything in a real soldier’s experience and memory at his disposal.

  “No,” Angel snapped angrily.

  “She’ll be okay.” Cordelia was wearing a striped feline costume, but she was still Cordelia: catty, but not a cat.

  “Buffy would be okay,” Angel shot back. “Whoever she is now, she’s helpless. Come on.”

  Spike turned to his henchmen. “Do you hear that, my friends?”

  They growled and snarled, thrilled at the prospect of a brawl.

  Spike teased their awakened bloodlust. “Somewhere out there is the tenderest meat you’ve ever tasted. And all we have to do is find her first.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Sunnydale

  October 1997

  Spike immediately altered his plan. Vampires could sense the Slayer as surely as they could sense each other. Angel could not tell if Buffy had come this way because he wasn’t tracking the Slayer’s pungent powers. She had become someone else. Since there was no distinctive Slayer scent to follow, there was no point going to the Summers’ house.

  Spike followed Angel.

  He had enliste
d seven demons: a large male vampire, an adult green demon with horns, an adult red demon with horns, and a shaggy-haired child creature, in addition to the red and green monsters and the angry vampire husband. He ordered the recruits to stay a discreet distance back from the trio of Slayer friends. He didn’t want to show himself and force a premature confrontation before they found Buffy.

  In Sunnydale all things seemed to gravitate to the rundown and abandoned buildings in the industrial district. The transformed Buffy was no different.

  As Angel and company moved between two brick buildings, Spike’s band of magical makeovers was ambushed. A Frankenstein monster, a medieval black knight, and three small skeletons with sabers swooped out of an abandoned service station. The knight raised his sword and charged Spike.

  “I don’t have time for this.” Spike grabbed the sword and kicked the knight’s chest, knocking him off his feet. Clasping the hilt of the sword like a knife, Spike drew the blade back to impale Frankenstein’s monster, and Little Red tackled a skeleton. The connected-bones fell in front of Spike, throwing off his aim. The sword went through the padded shoulder of the monster’s jacket and pinned him to a warehouse wall. “That works.”

  The new minions routed the remaining skeletons, passing their bad-guy initiation.

  Spike hurried after Angel with his subordinates marching behind, but their delay had allowed the Slayer’s friends to vanish in the industrial labyrinth. The warehouse district was a demonic playground, and he couldn’t isolate Angel’s trail in the thousands of evil essences that permeated the buildings and alleys. He had no choice but to push on, hoping he would stumble across Buffy’s rescue squad.

  Fate, however, was still playing favorites. Ordinarily that would have made Spike suspicious and wary, but someone new had entered and changed the rules. As Spike stormed through an empty factory full of large vats and an intricate network of pipes, he saw Willow run past an open delivery door ahead. He sprinted forward, exiting the building just as the girl ghost turned left.

  “Got you now,” Spike said. “Lead on.”