Robin had always loved the carousel.
Still, even as they looked at giraffes and zebras and lions and penguins and monkeys, Nikki’s mind had been wandering. Robin pointing excitedly at some animal or other had usually been enough to drag her back to the present, but then she’d find herself mentally back on that damn boat basin, clutching the stake.
Or she’d be thinking about a Slayer in Peking in 1900, and the fact that the vamp who had killed that girl was now stalking Nikki.
She was used to being a target. Every bloodsucker in the city wanted a piece of her, and every one of them would’ve loved to be able to make the same claim as this William cat—that they iced a Slayer. But that was because Nikki had been spending four years making their lives miserable.
But William the Bloody had come to New York just so he could kill Nikki Wood—or, more to the point, kill the Slayer. It wasn’t because she’d messed with his rackets or kept him from feeding. She was cool with cats who wanted to kill her because of what she’d done.
It was being killed because of who she was that didn’t sit right with her.
“Mama, you okay?”
Nikki blinked, then looked down at Robin’s big brown eyes. “I’m fine, baby boy.”
“You don’t seem fine.”
Chuckling, Nikki said, “Sorry, Robin. Mama’s just distracted, that’s all.”
“What’s Crowley need you to do?”
“There might be somethin’ goin’ down in Sheep Meadow at sunset.” Nikki looked up. It was getting dark awfully fast. Sure enough, dark clouds were starting to move in.
The carousel was right on one corner of Sheep Meadow, which was pretty big, so Nikki and Robin wandered around it. At Nikki’s prompting, Robin started explaining about the outlaws he’d been chasing on the carousel. Apparently, they were tiger rustlers, who’d stolen tigers from the zoo, and it was up to the Lone Ranger—Robin—and Tonto to get them back. The outlaws had really fast horses, but Silver was faster than any of them, and Robin got the bad guys.
Nikki heard every word Robin said, and she nodded occasionally or said, “Outta sight” or “Right on” to acknowledge his accomplishments in stopping the evil tiger rustlers, but she was also watching the people in Sheep Meadow. Over here, some kids smoking joints. Over there, two hippie cats playing acoustic guitars and singing off-key to an audience of about a dozen people with hair just as long. Several hot dog stands, all with lines. Sunbathers, most of whom were packing it in now that the light was going away. Kids throwing Frisbees around. A brother playing fetch with a big golden retriever.
But nobody who looked like they were performing magical rituals. Nikki had been doing this long enough to recognize the signs, even when folks were trying to hide what they were doing, but the people in the Meadow today were just out to be cool.
Then it got even darker. “Robin, honey, put your galoshes on.”
“But Mama—”
“Do what I say, Robin,” Nikki said, even as the first drop hit her on the face with a mild splash.
By the time Robin had climbed into his galoshes and put his raincoat on, it was pouring. Most of the people in the Meadow had scattered, and Robin and Nikki were doing the same, heading northwest toward the 72nd Street transverse. They’d catch the CC train there, take it back to the Gem. By the time they reached the paved walkway that would lead them to the transverse, it was pitch-dark out.
So Nikki shouldn’t have been entirely surprised when a vampire jumped her.
And after she managed to knock the vampire to the ground, she was even less surprised to recognize the face that looked up from the wet pavement at her, illuminated by the lightning that sizzled through the air.
William the Bloody, aka Spike.
He wore a leather jacket over a ripped black T-shirt, dungarees with a hole in the left knee, and metal studs all over. He even wore a chain around his neck with a small gold padlock on it. She saw the scar over his left eye where he’d been cut by the enchanted sword, and again Nikki found herself thinking it might come in handy.
Hell with that—didn’t do her any good, neither.
Out of the corner of her eye, Nikki saw that Robin had run to hide behind a park bench. Good boy, Robin. Although she did what she could to avoid it, this wasn’t the first time she’d gotten sucked into a fight when Robin was around—and even if it had been, they’d practiced what to do in case Nikki was attacked when they were together—and her baby boy knew to stay hidden until it was safe.
“Let’s get this over with, shall we, Slayer? My name’s Spike, and I’ve come to kill you.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said as she punched him. Then she turned and cartwheeled, kicking him twice in the face. Whirling around, she found that Spike had gotten back to his feet very quickly. He had his game face on now, and he was grinning like a fool.
“Well, all right—you got the moves, don’t you? I’m gonna ride you hard before I put you away, love.”
“You sure about that? You actually look a little wet and limp to me.” She smiled. “And I ain’t your ‘love.’ ” Then she attacked, kicking him again.
He returned with a kick of his own. They sparred back and forth for a minute—this Spike dude was incredibly fast, and a lot stronger than most of the bloodsuckers she’d tangled with.
Somehow, he knocked her down. Her coat protected her from the wet pavement, at least, but the rain pelted down on her face. Spike straddled her and started whaling on her—he got two punches to her face before she managed to get her left arm up to block the third one.
That surprised him enough to make him hesitate; she hit him, then bent her knees and kicked him in the stomach with both feet.
She didn’t let up her assault, because she knew she couldn’t afford to. This wasn’t one of Reet’s turkeys. Spike knew his business, and Nikki had to keep punching and kicking if she was going to win this fight.
Moving faster than Nikki thought was possible, Spike managed to grab her right arm as she tried to punch him in the face. Then he yanked it down and turned her around, pinning both arms.
Spike was standing behind her, and she could feel his hot breath on her neck. She struggled but simply could not move her arms.
A garbage can fell over. Spike hesitated.
Nikki took advantage, slamming her head back into his face, for once regretting her Afro, as it blunted the blow. Still, it was enough to get Spike to let go. She elbowed him in the stomach, then grabbed his left arm and flipped him over, sending him tumbling down the rain-soaked walkway.
Time to end this. She pulled out her stake and threw it unerringly at Spike’s heart just as he got up.
And he caught it.
Agape, Nikki stared at him. For nine months, ever since she’d perfected the move, she’d been tossing stakes at vamps and killing them. She hadn’t failed to dust one that way yet.
Until today. Spike reached up and slapped his palms on either side of the stake, stopping it short of his heart. It was like he’d been expecting it.
Spike grinned, still holding the stake. “I spent a long time trying to track you down. Never really want the dance to end so soon, do you—Nikki? Music’s just started, innit?”
A fist of ice clenched Nikki’s heart.
He knows my name.
Spike tossed the stake to the ground, then jumped up onto one of the knee-high brick walls that bordered the walkway and kept pedestrians from falling down the incline on the other side of it.
“By the way,” he said with a big grin, “love the coat.”
And then he was gone.
He knows my name.
“Mama?”
Nikki whirled around to see Robin coming out from behind the bench. Then she turned back to look at where Spike had been standing a moment before.
The son of a bitch knows my name.
For four years, the way she’d kept Robin safe was to never let anyone know who she was. All anybody knew was that she was the Slayer.
&nbs
p; Until now. This vampire—who’d already killed one Slayer—knew her name.
What else does he know?
She walked over to her son, still standing next to the concrete-and-wood bench, and knelt down so she was face-to-face with him. The rain was running in rivulets down her face, but she didn’t care. She said, “You did a good job, baby boy. You stayed down, just like Mama told you.”
“Can we go home now?” Gone was the excited little boy talking about how he and Tonto stopped the evil tiger rustlers. Now Robin Wood was just a scared four-year-old boy.
Much as it pained Nikki, though, home was no longer an option. If Spike was looking for her, it meant he knew where to find a Slayer. He probably knew about the Pohldak thing, and so he was lurking in the park.
And he knows my name. So he might know where I live.
Shaking her head, she replied, “Nuh-uh—it’s not safe there anymore. How ’bout I leave you over Crowley’s house? You can play with those spooky doodads you like.” She smiled, trying to put a good face on it. Of course, most of Crowley’s doodads weren’t safe for Robin to play with, but the Watcher had a bunch of child-safe ones he let Robin fool around with when he was there.
However, her baby boy wasn’t gonna be bribed by magic. “No, I wanna stay with you.”
“Yeah, I know you do, baby.” Nikki sighed. This conversation was breaking her heart. “But remember, Robin honey, what we talked about? Always gotta work the mission.”
Robin looked down, his face sad.
I gotta nip this in the bud. “Look at me,” she said gently but firmly. Robin looked up. “You know I love you, but I got a job to do. The mission is what matters, right?”
This time, Robin didn’t nod as quickly—but he did nod, and even gave her a little smile.
She smiled right back at him. “That’s my boy. Come on.” Grabbing Robin’s left hand with her right one, she rose to her feet, and they started walking toward 72nd Street. They’d just take the CC uptown to Crowley’s pad in the Ardsley building instead of downtown to the Gem.
Suddenly Robin slid his wet hand out of Nikki’s, and he turned and ran back. Turning around, she called out, “Robin?”
He bent over and picked up Nikki’s stake from the wet ground.
Chuckling, she said, “Thanks, baby boy. Now come on, let’s get to Crowley’s.”
Been so focused on Darla, I didn’t pay attention to what Crowley was saying about Spike. But I’m done with that—William the Bloody’s gone on his last rampage, if I have anything to say about it. . . .
Chapter Ten
New York City
July 10, 1977
12:10 a.m.
Heathcliff cursed as they left the latest bar. They’d been all over the Village, dealing with the hippies and the beatniks and the other live bait that went into those joints. No sign of no British bloodsucker. The two of them had been going since sunset trying to find this dude, and now it was past midnight, and they hadn’t found jack. Reet was not gonna be happy.
He looked over at his partner, who insisted on being called “Shades” on account of the large maroon plastic sunglasses he wore all the time. “Least it stopped rainin’. But if we don’t find this cat soon, I’m gonna start rampagin’.”
“I dig, brother, but if we don’t find him—”
“I know, I know.” Heathcliff thought a minute. “Look, he a punk honky, so why don’t we go to that joint down on the Bowery?”
Shades gave him a look that would’ve been more effective if not for his eyewear. “Brother, can’t you read? You saw the fuzz report on this dude—CBGB’s was where he was last seen with those chicks he killed. He ain’t gonna be goin’ back there unless he a total fool.”
“Maybe he is a total fool.” Heathcliff sighed. “Look, we done tried everything else. What we got to lose, man? Worst comes to worst, we got a whole club full o’ live bait to chew on.”
For a minute, it looked like Shades was going to say something, but his mouth was hanging open for a couple of seconds before he said, “Yeah, okay. I’m fresh outta bright ideas. But let’s take a cab.”
Three empty cabs passed them by before one stopped to pick them up. Heathcliff wanted to eat the guy once they got to the Bowery, but Shades pointed out that it’d be stupid to kill one of the few cabbies who’d actually stop for two brothers. Heathcliff had to admit he had a point.
The sight they saw at CBGB’s was enough to make Heathcliff want to vomit. Dig them crazy threads. There were dozens of white folks milling around and going in and out of the club with their spiky hair and ripped shirts and leather pants and metal studs and other crazy-ass fashions. One messed-up cat was wearing a shirt that was the British flag. Heathcliff tugged righteously on the wide lapels of his suit jacket and shook his Afro-covered head. “Let’s wait over here,” he said, pointing to the entrance to the Palace Hotel next to the joint.
“Say what?” Shades said. “We can’t be—”
“He got to be comin’ out eventually, man, and I ain’t gonna be seen with those cats.”
Shades started to say something, then looked at the crowd again. “Right on, man. Brothers got a rep to maintain, after all. These honkies belong in the NCAA.”
Frowning, Heathcliff said, “Say what?”
“No Class At All.”
Heathcliff laughed and took out a cigarette, offered it to Shades, then took one of his own. As he lit up, he asked, “You think the Yankees’ll take the pennant this year?”
“Nah, man, it’s the O’s year. You seen Jim Palmer pitch? Who the Yankees got can match up to that?”
“You crazy.” Heathcliff took a drag on his cigarette. “Yanks won the pennant last year, and this year they got the same team, ’cept they got Reggie Jackson now. Reggie can take anybody’s ass over the fence, including Jim Palmer.”
“Yanks got lucky last year, and then the Big Red Machine showed them what’s what. ’Sides, Earl Weaver’s forgot more ’bout managing than Billy Martin ever knew. Five bucks says the O’s win the East.”
Heathcliff laughed and shook his head. “I’ll take your money, fool. The Yanks’ll go all the way this year and next year and every year after that. They the best team in baseball.”
“Fool, you livin’ in the past. The Yanks ain’t been nothin’ since Mickey Mantle’s day. Now that was a ballplayer. It’s a damn shame he got hurt and let that good-for-nothing fool take the home run record back in sixty-one.”
“They both fools,” Heathcliff said. “ ’Sides, they ain’t got the real home run record.”
Shades threw up his hands. “Do not be talkin’ ’bout Josh Gibson again.”
“I saw Josh Gibson play, Shades. He made Babe Ruth look like Bucky Dent.”
“Maybe, but he didn’t play in no major leagues, so he don’t count, you dig?”
Sighing, Heathcliff said, “Maybe, but I still say the Yankees’ll win the pennant.”
“No way. Hell, the Mets’ve been a better team than the damn Yankees.”
Heathcliff snorted. “Not this year.”
Barking a laugh, Shades said, “I heard that. Hirin’ Joe Torre—what the hell that cat know about managin’ a baseball team?”
They went on for a while, watching the crowd, especially when there was a pause between songs. The other reason Heathcliff wanted to stay outside was the music. Far as he was concerned, nobody’d made a single piece of music worth listening to since Leadbelly and Robert Johnson died, and this punk stuff was the worst. Just a bunch of angry white boys playing out of tune and screaming into microphones.
Thinking about Josh Gibson, who died just before Major League Baseball allowed black folks to play, Heathcliff thought, Like they got a damn thing to be angry about.
He was about to give up and try somewhere else when he caught a whiff of a vampire’s scent. Looking around, he saw the spiky blond hair and the rest of the face that matched the description the fuzz had been given, down to the scar on his eyebrow.
Nudging Shades—wh
o was in the middle of talking about his last meal, a hot little mama he picked up at Reet’s club—Heathcliff said, “That’s our man.”
Shades took a final drag on his cigarette and then dropped it to the pavement. As he stepped on it, he shook his head. “What is that, a padlock on his neck? I do not get white folks.”
Their target was standing outside the club, wearing a ripped black T-shirt and leather pants—plus the lock on a chain around his neck that Shades had noticed. Heathcliff had to admit that this one, unlike most of the people around him, pulled the look off. He looked like a fool, but a cool fool.
But still most definitely a fool, especially if he came back here. Heathcliff didn’t see why anybody would come back to where they’d been eyeballed by folks that talked to the fuzz. That was just asking for trouble. They needed to get this punk to Reet’s before he messed it up for everyone.
The vamp lit a cigarette of his own, then started walking the other way down the Bowery.
Heathcliff nodded to Shades. They split up, Heathcliff going straight forward, while Shades worked his way up to the rooftops. They’d get the drop on him in a few minutes, once they got away from witnesses.
Staying at least twenty feet behind him, Heathcliff lit up another cigarette. The blond dude crossed Houston Street and then eventually turned left down Stanton Street. Heathcliff smiled. Shades oughtta be able to take him there, and then we start rappin’.
But when Heathcliff turned onto Stanton, there was no sign of his quarry.
What the hell—?
“Up here.”
Heathcliff looked up to see the blond dude standing on a fire escape, his hand around Shades’s neck and holding him over the side. Shades’s specs had fallen off somewhere, and his brown eyes—which Heathcliff couldn’t remember ever even seeing before—looked downright scared. His legs were dangling in the air over the street, like he was trying to ride a bike in the air.
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