“It’s Crowley, actually.” He managed to stretch the phone cord enough to reach his dressing gown and shrug into it. “Tell you what, Miss Wood, why don’t you meet me at the West 100th Street entrance to Central Park, and we can talk further.”
“Why there?”
He smiled. “You’ll see when you get there.”
“All right. They gave me the day off from the diner—I can be there in an hour.”
Bernard fumbled for his watch on the end table. It was twenty past ten in the morning. Perfect. “I’ll meet you there, then.”
One hour and a half later, Nikki finally approached the corner of 100th Street and Central Park West, pushing a stroller with a sleeping Robin inside. “Oh dear,” Bernard said, stepping on the cigarette he’d only half-smoked. “I rather hadn’t intended young Robin to come along.” If the creature was to appear as scheduled . . .
“I told you I ain’t got no bread, man. How’m I supposed to pay for a babysitter?”
What was it she said last night? “Ain’t got no family left now.” “Very well,” he said after a moment. “You have a great deal to learn, Miss Wood—it won’t be easy, it will be incredibly dangerous. But it’s also necessary—perhaps now, more than ever. Vampires and demons, you see, prey on the weak, and they thrive on chaos. This city has seen its fair share of chaos of late, and I suspect it will only get worse. Your job is to fight that chaos—quite literally.”
“How much this gig pay?”
Bernard had been afraid of that question. “I’m afraid it doesn’t as such—however,” he added quickly when Nikki turned the stroller around and started to walk down Central Park West, “I have spoken with my superiors.” He started walking quickly to keep up with her. “You’ll be pleased to know that they have agreed to a stipend that will allow you and your son to live comfortably.” At that, she stopped walking; Bernard caught up to her. “I have a flat just down the street from here, and you can stay there.”
Nikki turned around. “A stipend? Real bread?”
“That’s right.”
“Robin’ll be taken care of?”
“Absolutely.”
She broke into a big grin. “Right on, Mr. Crowley. Tell me what I gotta do.”
“The first thing you must do is come with me.”
Bernard led Nikki into the park, then hung an immediate left, taking them around the duck pond and into the North Woods.
Robin woke up and looked at the pond.
“Those are ducks, Robin,” Nikki said with a smile.
“Ba!”
Very soon they were off the paved path and in amongst the trees.
Nikki was having trouble navigating the stroller over the snow-covered dirt. “We supposed to be here?”
Allowing himself a small smile, Bernard looked at his watch. Just about noon. “Oh, it’s a public park. We can be anywhere we want. Ah, I suggest you continue forward.” He turned and walked back behind the stroller. “I’ll keep an eye on young Robin here. You go on ahead.”
Nikki hesitated. “Only reason I’m trustin’ you is ’cause you knew about vampires. If you’re messin’ with me—”
“I’m not. This is serious business, Miss Wood—we both have a sacred responsibility. Now, you’re older than most Slayers are when they’re called—and generally, they’ve had plenty of training.” And no children. “We’ll have to catch you up in fairly short order. It will involve intense training and a great deal of study.”
With a snort, Nikki said, “Figured those days was over when I dropped out. Guess not. But still—I’m a lot stronger than I used to be, and it ain’t from throwin’ plates round the diner. Somethin’s happened to me, and you’re the cat who knows the score. So I’ll buy your rap, Mr. Crowley, but only ’cause I ain’t got no choice.” She took a breath. “So what do I do?”
“Just keep walking forward.”
Nikki did as Bernard asked.
His watch struck noon. Nothing happened. This will look incredibly foolish if the Council’s information was faulty.
But no, the only thing faulty was his cheap watch—it was fast. Within seconds the air stirred, and a hot wind seemed to come out of nowhere, blowing the dead leaves into a whirlwind on the ground.
Robin started crying. Bernard started sweating—he was wearing a thick winter coat, but this wind felt like it came straight from the Gobi.
A fissure opened in the very air in front of where Nikki was standing—a portal, and through it came a small creature with green fur, huge fangs, sharp claws, and blood-red eyes. This was the Morvag demon the Council had warned him about.
Seeing Nikki, the beast leaped at her, claws out. Nikki threw up her arms in a defensive posture, which resulted in the Morvag slicing through the sleeves of her down coat. Feathers went flying out into the cold air.
“That was my only coat, you jive turkey!” Nikki lashed out at the Morvag, making up in strength what she lacked in finesse. She punched the creature, knocking it to the leaf-and-snow-and-dirt-covered ground. Then she stepped on its stomach, which caused it to let out an earsplitting howl.
Robin’s cries grew worse. Perhaps the child sensed the danger, or perhaps he was just cranky, the way newborn babies were. Either way, the combination of the Morvag’s howling and the boy’s crying was giving Bernard a headache right behind his left eye.
The Morvag slashed again at Nikki from its prone position, which was enough to get her to dance out of the way and then trip on a tree branch that was lurking under some snow. Nikki fell to the ground as the Morvag got up.
As the Morvag charged at her, Nikki kicked upward at the creature’s head, snapping its neck instantly. It fell to the ground, dead.
“That’s it?” Nikki sounded almost disappointed.
Bernard raised an eyebrow. “It’s—” He winced; Robin was still crying. He raised his voice. “It’s your first demon, Miss Wood. Trust me, they get a good deal more difficult. I merely wished to show you what you can do.”
As she got to her feet and moved back toward the stroller, Nikki said, “What, beat up a green dog?”
“That was no dog, Miss Wood, that was a Morvag demon. While they’re minor members of the daemonic pantheon, they are still quite dangerous. And it’s not everyone who can break such a creature’s neck with one kick.”
At that, Nikki grinned. “Yeah, I did do that, didn’t I?” She then knelt down at the stroller. “Hey, it’s okay, Robin, baby, Mama’s here.” She started to reach for her son, then noticed the shreds that were all that remained of her coat’s sleeves. Shrugging out of the coat and letting it fall to the ground, she then picked up Robin and cradled him in her arms. She seemed completely unaffected by the low temperature, which Bernard thought might well be a by-product of her calling.
After Nikki had cooed at Robin for a few moments, he quieted down. Only then did she look over at Bernard. “So it gets harder, huh?”
“Considerably. As I said, Morvag demons are at the bottom of the food chain, as it were. Most of what you’ll be facing will be vampires, like the monster that killed your grandmother.”
“Sounds groovy to me, Mr. Crowley.” She put Robin back into the stroller. As she buckled it, she said, “I’m gonna need me a new coat.”
Chapter Four
New York City
July 5, 1977
11:15 p.m.
The air in CBGB’s was filled with smoke and sweat and alcohol, and Penny could feel the thrum of the bass guitar in her rib cage. Jacko, the lead singer, screamed into the microphone, the mic’s head halfway into his mouth. Next to him, Davey, the lead guitarist, pounded away on the strings—one of which broke at some point during the song, but he kept playing. Donnie was hitting the drums so hard Penny thought his arms would fall off. He was using two bass drums, too, the beat slamming into Penny’s toes.
But Penny’s eyes were on the source of the vibrations in her ribs: Ricky, the bass player. He had curly blond hair that he cut real close—not all wild like most boys di
d. That was why Penny loved seeing punk bands like Apple Corpse. They didn’t do what other bands did.
She turned to look at her roommate, Phyllis, who was pressed up against the bar next to her. They weren’t as close to the stage as Penny would have liked, and they could only see bits and pieces of most of the band members through the crowd in front of them.
But from this angle, they could see Ricky perfectly, which was all Penny cared about.
Penny leaned in to Phyllis’s ear and shouted, “Aren’t they great?”
Phyllis just shrugged.
Rolling her eyes and sipping her rum and Coke, Penny stared back at Ricky. His zebra-patterned T-shirt was nice and tight, and he looked so hip in his leather pants. Somebody squeezed in toward the bar next to her and tried to get the bartender’s attention, but she didn’t pay him any mind.
When the song came to an end, everyone screamed and applauded, Penny as loudly as anyone.
Jacko screamed into his mic, his distorted voice barely understandable over the PA system. “Thank you, CBGB’s!” The cheers got louder. “That was ‘Kiss My Teeth.’ I wrote that one on the toilet.”
“Yeah, we can bloody tell,” said someone with a British accent to Penny’s left. It was the guy who had squeezed past her. Her knees getting weak at just the sound of that accent, she turned to take a good look at him—
—and instantly fell in love. Not only did he have the accent, but he had blond hair that was even hipper than Ricky’s, and he was wearing all black—ripped T-shirt, jeans, and leather with studs.
All thoughts of Ricky fleeing from her brain, Penny asked, “You don’t like it?”
“It’s bollocks. Give me Sid Vicious any day.”
Jacko screamed. “We got one more song to do! It’s called ‘Bollocks.’ ”
The blond man winced as he lit a cigarette, striking a match on the bar, which Penny thought was just so cool. “Americans should never use the word ‘bollocks.’ Ever. Should be a bloody rule, it should.”
“You have a really hip accent.”
Penny looked to her right to see that Phyllis was staring at the blond man also. In fact, Penny thought she saw drool coming out of her roommate’s mouth.
Whatever other conversation might have followed was drowned out by Donnie slamming on the drums to open up “Bollocks.”
Phyllis squeezed past some dude and moved so she was standing between Penny and the stage, which also put her closer to the British guy. She shouted, “What brings you here?”
The blond guy—whose cheekbones were just out of sight—leaned in close, giving Penny a great look at his eyes. He had a scar on his left eyebrow, and Penny wondered how he got it. Probably in a bar fight, she thought, shivers going up and down her body.
He said, “Heard this was the joint where the Ramones and the Dead Boys and the like got their start. Wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
At that point the bartender came over, and the British guy was ordering a drink. Penny tried to give Phyllis her sternest I-saw-him-first look, but Phyllis only had eyes for the Brit.
“Bollocks” ended, and the place erupted. Jacko screamed, “Thank you, New York!”
Hilly Kristal, the owner of the club, jumped onto the stage. A purple bandanna, sunglasses, and a thick red beard combined to almost completely obscure his face. He wore a black jacket with gold butterflies sewn on the lapels, unzipped to reveal a black T-shirt that said “The Guiding Light,” and bright red pants. “All right, you rock and roll animals!” he screamed into the mic. “Open your hind legs and clap your paws for Apple Corpse! Keep your tails in their cages, ’cause next up are the incredible Cryers!”
“That’s a sad name,” the blond guy said after taking a drag on his cigarette. Then the bartender handed him a pint of beer. “Apple Corpse, I mean. The Cryers ain’t bad. Honest, and all that.”
“But . . .” Penny hesitated. She wanted to defend Ricky, though she also found that she wasn’t caring as much about Ricky right now.
Phyllis jumped in. “It’s a play on words. Apple Corpse instead of apple core.”
“Yeah, I get that—it’s pants. Tryin’ to sound macabre, but they just end up lookin’ like poofters.”
Frowning, Penny asked, “What’s a poofter? I mean, I can tell it’s bad from the way you said it, but—”
“I believe you Yanks use the word ‘faggot’—but that’s what I call this thing.” He held up his cigarette. “I gotta say, since I met you two, my night has looked up.”
Penny felt her heart melt. “Really?”
“You have really got it goin’ on,” Phyllis added.
“I’m called Spike.”
“Spike,” Penny whispered. It was a great name, one that sounded like violence and passion and all those things that Ricky didn’t have. God, what was I thinking, falling for a bass player? This Spike dude is much hipper. “I’m Penny.” Phyllis elbowed her in the ribs, and she added, “And, uh, this is my roommate, Phyllis.”
“Penny and Phyllis?”
The roommates exchanged glances and shy smiles. They always got this. In perfect unison, they said, “Two Ps in a pod!”
“Bloody charming.” Spike took a sip of his beer. “Guh. I keep forgettin’ the rules of world travel—never eat the meat in China, never drink the water in Mexico, and never drink the beer in the States.” He put the pint down and moved it away. “I thought I’d get to see the bloody Ramones, at least. S’why I came to this dump.”
Penny’s face brightened. “Oh, they’ll be playing on Friday. They’re headlining a whole punk weekend.”
Phyllis added, “We’re planning on coming—maybe we’ll see you then.”
Spike just took a drag on his cigarette. “Excellent. See, the Ramones, they’re a band, not like these tossers. Just a buncha words thrown together pretending to be meaningful. It’s not poetry, not like what the Sex Pistols or the Ramones do—or even the Dead Boys.”
Her eyes going wide, Phyllis said, “You’ve seen the Sex Pistols?”
Grinning, Spike said, “I have. Plenty o’ times.”
“Wow. I wish I could see them.”
“Well, maybe someday you will, pet.”
Why can’t he call me “pet”? Penny tried not to sulk.
Spike continued, “I don’t know about you two, but I could use some air.”
Before Penny could answer, she felt a finger tap on her shoulder. She turned to see Ricky standing there. “Hey there, foxy lady. Why didn’t you come up to the stage?”
“Oh, uh, well, uh—” Penny didn’t know what to say. She was supposed to go back to Brooklyn with Ricky and the rest of the band to that Irish pub they all liked, and then maybe back to his place, but ever since seeing Spike, she realized how shallow and meaningless her crush on Ricky was. He was some really, really good eye candy, but he didn’t have any substance to him. Spike, she could tell, was a real man.
As if to prove Penny’s thoughts correct, Spike stepped forward, putting himself between Penny and Ricky. “The birds’re with me, mate.”
“ ‘Birds’? What’re you, some kinda British fag?”
“No. This,” Spike flicked the cigarette into Ricky’s face, “is a British fag. And I suggest you back off—now.”
Ricky hesitated.
Then Spike leaned in. “I said now.”
“Yeah, okay,” Ricky muttered, and then went back toward the stage.
Penny stared at Spike with loving eyes. Next to her, Phyllis did the same. “Wow, that was so out there,” she murmured.
“Weren’t we gonna get some air?” Spike asked.
“You wanna come back to our pad?” Phyllis asked. “It’s not that far—just a quick cab ride.”
Spike nodded. “I’m feelin’ a bit peckish, actually.”
Quickly, Penny said, “There’s an all-night Chinese place around the corner.” She had been hoping to get Spike to a bar or something first, so she could find a way to ditch Phyllis. Maybe she could pull it off at Chung Wah’s
.
“And they deliver, too,” Phyllis said. “We can order in.”
“Sounds good to me, pet,” Spike said, putting one arm around Phyllis, and another around Penny. It didn’t last, as the club was too crowded for them to make it through three abreast, but they stayed close as they moved to the exit.
Dammit, dammit, dammit. Penny could not catch a break tonight. She’d finally met the man of her dreams, and Phyllis had to horn in on it. And she’s the one who gets called “pet.” Twice!
Jacko was waiting for them when they stepped out onto the sidewalk. The white awning with the CBGB/OMFUG logo and the club’s street address hung over them. “Where you takin’ them?”
“Not that it’s any o’ your business, mate, but they’ve invited me to their flat for a nightcap. Unless you’re givin’ me a better offer?” Spike stood nose-to-nose with Jacko.
After a second, Jacko looked away.
God, I can’t believe that. He just backed off. If anything, it made Penny feel better about dumping Ricky.
Spike walked past Jacko, being sure to knock into his side as he passed, and raised his arm. A Checker Cab was coming up the Bowery and veered toward the curb to get them. Like a true gentleman, Spike held the door for Penny and Phyllis. Penny got in first and told the cabbie their address.
Then Spike turned to look at Jacko. “By the way, mate—your songs’re poxy. You ain’t fit to spit on Joey Ramone’s shoes.”
It wasn’t until Spike got in and closed the door that Jacko responded. “Joey Ramone ain’t nothin’, you hear me? Nothin’! Ramones’re a flash in the pan, man! You’ll see!”
Penny smiled across the rear of the cab at Spike, who was sitting in the rumble seat. “That was wonderful.”
“You really showed him,” Phyllis added. “Uh, you do like Chinese food, right?”
“Chinese ain’t bad—best meal of my life was in China, matter of fact.” Spike lit a fresh cigarette. “But I was hoping for something more local tonight.”
* * *
The flat—or “pad,” as the birds called it—was one of the ugliest places Spike had ever laid eyes on in over a century of life. He wasn’t sure what disgusted him more: the awful wood paneling, the orange shag carpeting, or the ugly painting over the couch. Then there was the couch itself, which was some color not found in nature.
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