Spark and Burn Read online

  “Not my fault,” Spike said again, averting his gaze. Dru despised him because of Buffy, had left him because of Buffy—and blamed him. “The Willow-witch dug her up and put the breath back in, not me.”

  “You still haven’t killed the Slayer,” Adam accused in a deep, unemotional monotone.

  Spike glanced up. Dr. Walsh’s monster mutt stood where Drusilla had been. Constructed of human, demon, and electronic parts, Adam had been another Initiative project gone awry. Spike had struck a bargain with the calculating, built-to-be-indestructible soldier of the future: He’d deliver the Slayer like a lamb to the slaughter, and Adam would remove Spike’s chip.

  “But you didn’t deliver,” Adam reminded him.

  Spike’s eyes narrowed. His plan to isolate Buffy had failed, so Mr. Bits had reneged on their deal. The Slayer had ripped out the superfreak’s power supply, saving the world from the army of demonoids Adam planned to create.

  But the sodding chip is still lodged in my brain.

  “Get it out!” Suddenly furious, Spike lunged at Adam and dropped to his knees on the floor when the manufactured mutant vanished.

  “The nasty blue shocks aren’t the lie, Spike,” Dru said with petulant disappointment. “And the lit’le tin soldier knickknacks aren’t to blame.”

  “Blame for what?” Spike asked.

  “Why you can’t kill her,” Dru said as her brooding countenance morphed into a perky blond in pink.

  “You couldn’t kill her before you got the chip,” Harmony said. “You had plenty of chances.”

  Yeah, I did, Spike thought. That was why he had come to Sunny D. in the first place: to kill the Slayer.

  He should have tried harder.

  New Orleans

  September 1997

  Fuming, Spike stepped onto the balcony of the second-floor flat he shared with Drusilla. Jaw clenched, he gripped the black wrought-iron railing. He adored Dru, but she was in a particularly selfish snit, and he was nearly to the point of driving a chair leg through her cold, dead heart. The impulse was born of frustration and would pass, hopefully before he dusted the dark beauty who had empowered his existence.

  “She bloody well better snap out of it,” Spike muttered. The aromas of spiced shrimp, fried catfish, and gumbo rose from nearby kitchens, aggravating his craving for blood. Still, despite his hunger and sour mood, the midnight humidity dampened his anger as well as his white-blond hair.

  At times like this he missed the old days, when Dru could be swayed with the promise of puppies for dessert or a new game to relieve her chronic boredom. Her favorite was an ingenious variation of Russian roulette played with potential victims. She feasted on the winner.

  A woman’s playful shriek drew Spike’s attention to the mass of humanity clogging Bourbon Street below. The vibrant strains of live jazz and blues streamed through open doorways as the crowd ducked in and out of clubs. Most of the revelers held carryout cups of liquor that numbed wary natures and dulled senses, making them easy prey for the lazy undead that roamed the French Quarter. Their screams were absorbed by the blare of saxophone and trumpet, bawdy songs, and laughter.

  Across the street, a man in an LSU sweatshirt stopped to tie his shoe. He disappeared suddenly, yanked off his feet and into the unforgiving dark between buildings. His friends kept walking, drinks in hand, exchanging lewd remarks with girls in doorways, unaware that one of their mates had gone missing.

  The after-dark, anything-goes atmosphere in New Orleans was a magnet for ravenous demons of all types, but especially vampires. Attracted by popular myth, the undead had infiltrated the local black-magic set and turned an urban legend into fact. Spike had tired of the scene weeks ago, but Dru had been too weak to move.

  “We’ve got to move now, though, luv,” Spike muttered softly. Braced for another fit of childish pique, he turned to go back inside.

  Dru lounged on a Victorian settee with red cushions. One slim white arm was thrown over her eyes. The feathered fan she clutched in her other hand trailed on the floor. A pale gossamer gown emphasized how frail she had become.

  “You’re still cross.” Dru did not uncover her eyes to look at him. She could sense Spike’s moods and what was on his mind with disconcerting accuracy. “It smolders like hot coals just beneath the surface, waiting to be stoked.”

  “I’m not upset,” Spike said. “I just needed a moment alone . . . to think about what you said.”

  “Shhhhh.” Dru dropped her arm and placed a finger to her lips. “The fire mustn’t get out, Spike. I couldn’t bear to watch my dollies burn, melting like black butter in a pot.”

  Spike started to roll his eyes but checked himself. He had to cater to Dru’s warped sense of pertinence if he wanted to make it to the West Coast before the Night of St. Vigeous.

  “No need to worry about your dolls, pet.” Spike smiled to reassure her.

  Dru sat up slowly and gazed wistfully at the steamer trunk in the corner. It held all the personal treasures she refused to part with, including the dolls she had stolen or purchased in shops. Only one or two had survived years of dolly discipline unscathed.

  “Poor lit’le poppets,” Dru said. “Nobody to pull their hair out or twist their pretty heads off or scold them but me.”

  “And you do it with such delightful cruelty,” Spike said, trying to hide his irritation.

  Shortly after Dru’s health started to fail, he had given her a china doll with dark ringlets to cheer her up. Dru’s attachment to her porcelain and plastic playmates had grown stronger as she had grown weaker. If he found the du Lac Manuscript and cured Dru’s affliction, he imagined she would burn the dolls to celebrate her recovery. In the meantime, she had to have them.

  “We’ll take the dolls with us,” Spike said, “but we have to leave tonight.”

  “What if you can’t find a proper four-poster in California?” Dru’s brow knit in consternation.

  “Don’t you fret about that,” Spike said. “I’ll take care of it the way I always do.”

  Drusilla took comfort in surroundings that resembled the late nineteenth century, and Spike had never failed to provide the appropriate pieces and accoutrements. He wouldn’t let her down this time either, even if he had to raid a Hollywood movie warehouse to provide the desired décor.

  “But it’s too hot to travel,” Dru complained with a languid wave of her fan. “And I don’t think I’ll like being in a place called Sunnydale. I see a death by sun, Spike. A morning rain of ashes and soot . . .”

  Dru closed her eyes as though to swoon, but Spike knew it was a ploy. She had a tendency to overdramatize the flashes of the future she saw but couldn’t interpret. He didn’t take her warnings lightly, but he had more immediate concerns. The journey would be intolerable if Dru didn’t want to go.

  “This is a one-time-only chance, Dru,” Spike explained patiently. A power vacuum had been created at the top of the vampire hierarchy, and he was going to fill it. “The Master is dead.”

  Dru scowled. “Killed by the Sunnydale Slayer.”

  “And I’m going to kill her.” Spike walked over to the settee and knelt down. “No one will dare challenge the vampire that killed three slayers for fun. I’ll be the new master of the undead minions, and you’ll be my princess.”

  “I want a bird,” Dru said with a faraway look. “A yellow one that sings. And a party with cupcakes.”

  “Done.” Spike lifted Dru’s hand and brushed his lips over her translucent skin. She needed to feed before they left town. “Canary, party, cupcakes.”

  “With fluffy pink frosting.” Dru stared into space with a vacant smile. “I think I’ll like being a princess.”

  Rising, Spike grabbed his black duster off a chair and paused at the door. “Pack your plastic people, luv.”

  “But Miss Edith fusses so when she’s locked in the dark,” Dru whined.

  “A good spanking and no supper will shut her up before you close the lid,” Spike said, humoring her. “I’ll be back soon with a ca
r and a bite for the road.”

  Spike took the back stairs and left the building through the alley door. He headed away from the Bourbon Street festivities to scout through low-income neighborhoods. He needed an old car, one with a backseat big enough to carry a steamer trunk.

  “Like that,” he said, pausing in the shadows across the street from a run-down corner service station. He watched a man in a blue uniform fill the gas tank of a large sedan. A symbol of luxurious excess when new, the gas guzzling DeSoto clunker was now older than he would have liked, but it would have to do.

  The man had left the keys in the ignition, and Spike didn’t have time to shop around. The Night of St. Vigeous, when vampire strength was greatest, was next Saturday. Every vampire that fancied itself a warrior would be courting the newly Anointed One, vying for position, hoping to take the old Master’s place. Spike would be late to the gathering of aspirants, but hardly at a disadvantage. None of the others could match his wits, skill, or daring, and none would be smart enough to realize it.

  As the man replaced the nozzle, Spike started toward the station, prepared for a quick kill and getaway. He caught a lucky break when the customer went inside to pay. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Spike turned the ignition key, shifted into gear, and took off.

  “A no-hassle hijack for a man in a hurry.” Spike grinned as he sped toward the mall to pick up something younger for dinner.

  Chapter Two

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  For one hundred and twenty-two years, Spike had been an element of the dark. He had blended into the night as he moved through it, a shadow of devastation and death. Now darkness mocked the loneliness and self-loathing that corroded the core of his being.

  It was a familiar feeling, the last emotion he had experienced as a human so long ago.

  From beneath you . . .

  The words whispered through Spike’s thoughts. Something dreadful was coming. Or was it here? Delirious and exhausted, he couldn’t tell.

  . . . beneath me . . .

  He stopped pacing the small confines of the storeroom and slammed his forehead against the wall, but the past could not be purged, or ignored.

  “William.”

  Cecily? Spike turned, scanning the dark. Or the hideous Halfrek, perhaps? The “justice” demon, who granted the vengeance wishes of children, sounded remarkably like the woman he had once loved.

  She appeared beside him. As always when he thought of his first love—which wasn’t often, until recently—he saw her in the white gown with the lavender print collar she had worn the evening of their last meeting. Cecily studied him with detached disdain before she spoke.

  “Your heart is dried up like a prune, William. It’s not got a bulge in it now, has it?”

  Spike’s heart had once swelled with adoration, watching Cecily glide down a stairway to join a gathering of friends. He had basked in her radiance—

  “Effulgence,” Cecily corrected—

  He had idolized her before she had battered his still-beating heart to a bloody pulp.

  “Metaphorically speaking, of course,” Cecily said, reading his thoughts. A decidedly unladylike sneer curled her lip. “You were nothing to me then but an embarrassing nuisance to be swatted away.”

  Spike could see that now. Truth often reveals itself too late to be of any use, he mused. In hindsight it was obvious his infatuation with Cecily had been a foolish fantasy.

  “And now you’ve abandoned the magnificent evil you were, to become a simpering buffoon once again,” Cecily said. “And mad as well.”

  “Go away,” Spike said.

  “Gladly.” Cecily smiled as she began to fade. “You’re beneath me.”

  Beneath her station and contempt, Spike thought. At the party in London, Cecily had dismissed him without mercy or concern. He had not even been worthy of her scorn. Cruelly rejected, he had fled into the streets.

  “William, the bloody awful poet”—Wrapping his arms around himself, Spike had recited the lines that popped into his head as he stumbled over the cobblestones—“skipping down the lane. Good boy, bad boy, all the sodding same.”

  London

  1880

  Blinded by shame and tears, William ripped the poem into pieces as he rushed away from the house—and from Cecily. The torn papers fell when he bumped into a gentleman walking the opposite way with two ladies.

  Scooping the pages off the street, William lashed out at the stranger as he rose to move on. “Watch where you’re going.”

  “Or you could take the first drooling idiot that comes along,” one of the women remarked snidely.

  The insult smarted with truth, William realized as he tore down the street. He was a blubbering dolt, wanting only to wallow in his hurt and humiliation.

  Taking refuge in an alley behind a tavern, William sat on a bale of straw and tore the offending verses into smaller bits. However, the destructive tantrum did nothing to soothe the ache in his heart. Cecily had not just spurned his affections. She had annihilated his dignity and crushed his poetic soul.

  “And I wonder, what possible catastrophe came crashing down from heaven and brought this dashing stranger to tears?”

  The voice jolted William from his self-pitying indulgence. Intrigued by the unique accent, he turned his head. Standing in the glow of a single lamp, the woman was a vision of angelic sympathy despite her dark gown and somber cloak.

  “Nothing. You shouldn’t be alone.” William looked away, embarrassed by his distraught state.

  “I see you. A man surrounded by fools who cannot see his strength, his vision.” She moved closer. “His glory.”

  William stared into her wide, knowing eyes. How was it that this beautiful stranger could see so clearly what Cecily could not—or would not?

  Her demeanor changed suddenly. She danced a few steps closer to him, as though addled or drunk, spouting nonsense. “That burning baby, fish swimming all around your head.”

  William jumped up and raised a warning finger. He had been shamed enough tonight. He would not be robbed by a daft harlot as well. “Uh—that’s quite close enough. I’ve heard tales of London pickpockets.”

  The woman held his gaze and smiled.

  “You’ll not be getting my purse, I tell you,” William said, backing up.

  “Don’t need your purse.” She bent forward slightly, teasing him. “Your wealth lies here”—she touched his waistcoat, over his heart, then placed her gloved hand on the side of his head—“and here—in the spirit and imagination. You walk in worlds others can’t begin to imagine.”

  “Oh, yes.” Enthralled by her words and the sultry lilt in her voice, William pushed aside his unease. He had never met anyone more fascinating—or frightening. By what magic did this woman know his innermost thoughts?

  “Uh, I mean, no.” William closed his eyes and swallowed hard, coming to his senses as though breaking free from a spell. “I mean, Mother’s expecting me.”

  The woman was not deterred, and he was powerless to resist her bewitching charms. He flinched as she played with his collar, but he didn’t pull away.

  “I see what you want,” she said softly. “Something glowing, glistening. Something . . .” She removed her hand and smiled as she held his uncertain gaze. “. . . effulgent.”

  Her use of the word startled him. He was certain it could not be a coincidence. Were they connected somehow? Kindred spirits bound by destiny to meet in this dark London alley? A man of science would believe him daft for thinking it. It made perfect sense to a poet.

  “Do you want it?” The woman’s dark eyes shone with an impassioned light, promising everything William had ever dared to dream or desire.

  “Oh, yes.” William tentatively touched her shoulder. The woman was a dark mystery. He sensed he should fear her, but he was done running. She reeked of immense power, and he wanted it. “God, yes.”

  When her angelic features changed into a grotesque visage of deformed bone and yellow eyes, he w
as not afraid. He held her penetrating gaze and tensed as she leaned toward him. When her fangs first pierced his skin, he experienced a moment of pure ecstasy that was quickly followed by a rush of terror and pain.

  “Ow! Ow, ow!” Fear struck like a cannonball in William’s gut, and his eyes widened with realization: He was dying. He struggled for a moment, crying out, but as the life flowed out of him, so did the wretched misery. As his heartbeat slowed, then stopped, he was suspended in a gray realm between being and non-being.

  Then the salty tang of blood touched his tongue. The taste seeped into his veins, infusing him with a strength he had never imagined, whetting his appetite for more. She grabbed his hair and pulled his lips away from her breast.

  “There he is,” she cooed. “My very own son and bosom companion. My sweet—”

  “William,” he rasped. Hungry and disoriented, he couldn’t break free of the woman’s powerful hold.

  “Sweet William.” She scowled. “I don’t care for it. It reminds me of posies, ashes, ashes, all fall down. You must choose something that suits a noble creature of the dark.”

  “Is that what I am?”

  She looked past him, locked into her own thoughts. “Poor Drusilla, all alone. Grandmother and Angelus don’t want to share, and he said I should make myself a playmate. So I did.”

  This time the insult would not go unanswered. Pulling out of her grasp, William clamped his hand around her slender neck. The intensity of his rage and reflexes was unexpected, and he took care not to tighten his grip. “I won’t be your toy, Drusilla.”

  “No.” She smiled. “Of all the knights in all the lands I picked you and made you mine forever with a kiss.”

  “Forever.” He released her with a nod that sealed the pact. For the first time in his short life, someone besides his mother wanted him.

  Sunnydale

  September 2002

  “I didn’t want you.” Spike’s demon mother stood in the corner of the storeroom. “I should have dashed your brains out and saved everyone, especially me, from the tedium of your insufferable rhymes and company.”