“So then,” Spike asked after a while, not seeming to notice how ill at ease the object of his affections was feeling. “Where does the single Valkyrie about town go to pull these days?”
“The Bronze?” she suggested, not really having the first idea.
He pulled a cigarette out from nowhere, lit it and blew a plume of blue smoke out into the night air. “Lady like that gets noticed.”
“Isn’t that what she wants?”
“Yeah, but not if she wants the Sunnydale Operatic Society back there to find her. Be the first place they’d look.”
“Good point,” she agreed, relieved. The Bronze plus Spike would be too much like a date for her comfort, and there would be none of that. “Okay, recap time. What do you know about Valkyries?”
“Let’s see,” Spike mused. “Scary ladies. Hang out on battlefields choosing the most valiant slain to go to Valhalla, blah de blah.”
She mulled that paltry amount of information over, dissecting it for clues. “She’s not in Valhalla, and there aren’t any battlefields around here – hopefully.”
“Plenty of slain though,” he said darkly, and she wondered if she hadn’t just caught a tinge of sadness in his voice. Eww.
“I don’t think they’re the kind she’s looking for.” She sighed dejectedly. “She could be anywhere by now.”
He nodded in agreement. “Reckon we should ask about. Nip round the demon bars…”
“You said you hadn’t heard anything on the demon grapevine,” Buffy said, indignantly. “You just want to drink!”
“Better that than wandering the streets of SunnyD without a clue.”
“I’m not drinking with you,” she said firmly. Alcohol tonight was a bad idea – for either of them.
“Fine, pet. Suit yourself,” he turned away and set off down a side street. Over his shoulder, he called back to her. “Good luck with finding Viking Girl.”
Left alone under the harsh spotlight glare of the streetlight, Buffy watched him stalk off. God, she hated him sometimes, but she could do with the help, and the night would a lot less fun alone. Who was to say that the demon bars weren’t the best place to start?
“This is not a date,” she told him in no uncertain terms as she caught up with him.
He took a long drag of the cigarette, drawing out the moment before he spoke. “I got the memo.”
“Good,” she replied. “I didn’t want you thinking this is a you and me thing. This is a me thing, with you in it.”
“Sounds dandy.”
She disregarded his remote tone. If he wanted to get all moody, then fine. He should just be grateful that she let him tag along after that night he’d chained her up in his crypt. “Just so we have that straight.”
As usual, the patrons of the dive Spike took her to were less than happy with the arrival of the Slayer and her vampire escort. Buffy took a space beside Spike at the bar as he ordered them drinks, pulling the stake out of her bag and placing it in front of her to show she meant business. The demons got the message; many shrank into dark corners or used their chameleon skin to disappear into the nasty flock wallpaper, although most just tried not to meet her eye in case she singled them out for judgement.
The place was an even bigger dump than Willy’s had been. Tatty and run down, it was smelly too, and not just with normal bar smells. The stench could only be what she thought of as lethal mix of demon B.O. and fried onions, the latter of which was explained by the appearance of a plate of Blooming Onion in front of the vampire. It oozed with unappetising fat as he broke a bit off. Ugh.
She shifted on her stool, trying to avoid the sight of Spike dipping a petal into an evil-looking dip, and tried to get a good look around her at some of the demons that were trying to be inconspicuous; maybe she’d be lucky and find that Jarnsaxa demon that had eluded her on patrol a few nights before. But there was nothing she could see that needed an immediate staking, nor were there any signs of a Valkyrie amongst them, no telltale hint of horned helmet poking above the heads of the crowd. A group of vampires were chatting conspiratorially in a booth near the rear of the bar and she memorised the faces for later reference. Past them, by the back door, a couple of Vidar were staring longingly at each other; the female’s tentacles pulsing with a colourful courting display, rainbows rippling along them like the northern lights. She was in season, and Buffy prayed they’d find room before the mating started. A sight like that might scar her for life.
In the centre of the bar, sitting alone at a stained and battered table, an old man sat in a stoop, a glass of wine before him. He wore a thick cloak of a dark material and on his head large black hat obscured his features. A pair of ravens perched, sleek as obsidian, upon on each shoulder. One was grooming its wing as it waited, primping its feathers aggressively with its sharp beak; the other was watching her thoughtfully, with twitchy beady eyes that seemed to bore into her very soul. As she stared, the man looked up at her from under the hat’s wide brim. His one remaining eye was piercing but regarded her with a keen wisdom. He winked at her slowly and vanished. Just like that.
“I think you pulled.” Spike grinned and sucked the dip from a piece of onion. The petal slid between his lips, out and in, and all over again, caressing that full lower lip…
“What? No! That old guy? Eww,” she said, tearing her eyes away, flustered. “I’d rather have you!”
That remark won her the famous cocked eyebrow, the one that came with its own posse of the curious tilt of his head and dirtiest smirk she’d ever seen. “Oh yeah?” he purred.
“Only if, like, we were the only people left, and I was drunk… and maybe not even then,” Buffy spluttered, mortified that she was even having this conversation with him. It was unfair! She had been caught off guard by his sultry tone. Voices like his should be made illegal, she thought, especially when it sounded like that, rich and dark and sinfully chocolaty, promising all sorts of sexy goodness. Or badness. Definitely badness. Eep.
“A bit of booze might loosen your twisted knickers,” he said miserably.
Okay, time to finish this. “You are not my type.”
“And that pathetic wanker at the party, was?” he asked incredulously.
Where did he get off thinking like that? Ben would make a fine boyfriend, she was sure. “I think Ben is very handsome and he’s a doctor. Mom always said I should marry a doctor. And he doesn’t want to kill me. That’s a definite plus.”
Spike looked doubtful. “Huh, right. And what does Gentle Ben think of the Slayer? Think he’ll be up for the killing?”
She felt her grip loosening on this conversation. It was time to finish it and get back to business. “Can we just get on with what we came for?”
“Alright.” Spike looked a little disappointed, but she had little sympathy. He knocked back another shot and slid off his stool, scrutinising the room as he did so. “Just a second.”
Buffy followed him curiously as he looked for someone likely to know anything about a Valkyrie. He finally picked a green… something, with big tombstone teeth and a spiny dorsal ridge. It was propping the far end of the bar, and Buffy was surprised to notice that the demon was doing the crossword in the Sunnydale Press, but by the frown it was pulling, it wasn’t getting very far.
“Spike,” it hissed nastily as it looked up at them, a forked tongue tasting the air as it spoke.
Both Slayer and vampire tensed, ready for any fight that might be coming.
“What’s a large seabird? Nine letters?” the demon asked.
Spike looked confused. “Valkyrie, Dreng.”
Dreng fussed over the puzzle, trying to make the word fit. “No, not enough letters.”
“Not the sodding crossword, you nit! Valkyrie. Have you seen one?”
“Oh yes,” Dreng nodded eagerly.
“Where?” Buffy jumped in.
“Oslo. 1956, I think. Beautiful woman. Enormous…” Neither Spike nor Buffy needed the graphic gesture the demon illustrated his point with.
Spike cut him short. “Recently!”
Dreng thought it over. “No, don’t think so. But if you see one, tell her I’m sorry about the carpet.”
Buffy sighed heavily. This was pointless. She went to walk away, planning on giving Spike a further hard time before trying someone else, when she noticed a headline on the newspaper that looked very interesting.
She snatched the paper from the demon’s hands. “Give me that!”
The demon went to protest, but stopped as Spike mouthed the word ‘Slayer’ at him. “Hey! Take it. It’s yours.”
Buffy showed Spike the headline after skimming the story. “MYSTERY WOMAN HIT BY CAR. She fits the description too. It says here she was badly injured.”
“Sounds like our gal,” Spike agreed.
“Best try the hospital. Let’s check it out.”
As Buffy slung the paper back into the bar, Spike said to Dreng. “Albatross, mate. Albatross.”