10:38 PM, read the clock.

That was a bit of a fib.  He’d wound it ten minutes fast, once, and for some mysterious reason had never bothered to fix it.

He shot up, jammed on his boots, then up the ladder and out the door he went, scratching all manner of wicked blueprints in his rotten old brain.

He had some time to kill, so he decided to kill it at a bar.  The place was pretty dead, even for a place that catered to The Dead.  He sidled up to his old stool at the end, and scowled at the stooped little barman as he waddled over with a bottle of liquid gold.

“Uh, hey, Spike,” said Willy, filling a tall water glass to the brim with booze.  “I didn’t know you were.  You know.  Allowed.  In here.  Anymore.”

“I go where I please, ponce.”

“Sure, sure, yeah, sure….”

The juke was banging out some awful trash: some cheeky cow with a robot voice bleating on and on about the secret weaponry of her tiny, tinfoil heart.

‘I think I did it again
I made you believe
we're more than just friends’

Just as Willy turned to leave, Spike tipped the glass and drained it in one go.

“Fill.”

‘Oh baby, it might seem like a crush
But it doesn't mean
that I'm serious'


“Turn this rot off,” he said.

Willy cast a few nervous glances around the room.  “Sorry, can’t do it.  Not my dime.”

‘Cause to lose all my senses
‘That is just so typically me
Oh baby, baby…’


Spike grabbed the barman hard by the lapels.  The chip gave him a tiny buzz, just to remind him it was still in there.

“Whose, then?” he asked.  “I’d like to compliment him on his taste in art.”  

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?”

Just then, the bathroom door swung wide.  The bastard who swaggered out was instantly recognizable.  He was tall and swathed in muscle, topped with a pair of craggy horns.

He was also alone, this time.  The demon closed the distance with a half dozen slow, heavy strides.  Spike tossed down the second drink and smeared his mouth with his sleeve, as loose and cool as a caged snake.

“I thought I told you,” the demon snarled, “you aren’t welcome here.”

“Yeah, I remember.  ‘Cept, there’s only one of you, now.  It hardly seems fair.”

“What hardly seems fair?”

A trigger snapped in his shoulder.  He fired off an uppercut that sent the wanker sprawling to the ground.

“Guys!” Willy pleaded.  “Guys, guys, c’mon.”


‘Oops!...I did it again
I played with your heart,
got lost in the game
Oh baby, baby…’


Spike stalked across the tiles. The rage was a force of gravity inside him.  Spring-loaded tendons in his neck and arms stood out like cords of iron, threatening to break the skin. 

His prey was halfway to his feet and he was trying to shake out the cobwebs when Spike rammed a knee into his scaly chin.


‘Oops!  You think I'm in love
That I'm sent from above
I'm not that innocent’


Spike picked the demon up and tossed him at the juke.  The monster’s weight shattered the glass top and put a merciful stop to the song.  He started pouring punches into the helpless git like a machine-gun.  The blows cracked iron ribs, and shattered every bone of his ugly face.

‘Meet me at midnight,’ she says.

Because she SAID so.

“I TURN INTO A BLOODY PUMPKIN AT MIDNIGHT,” he roared.

Willy squinted at him, mouth agape.  Even the crippled wreck of the demon squirming in his grasp stopped sniveling, and handed him a puzzled look.

Spike blinked back at them, as baffled as anyone by the words.  He took a moment to regain his wits, then he sent the horned plonker down to Dreamland with a crisp right cross and stomped the hell out of there.

He felt savagely real and alive when he got back on the street, slashing and weaving through the slow parade of weekend foot traffic with warm blood on his knuckles.  He licked his lips and stroked his hair.  Lit the night up with a sinister leer.

The vampire circled like a vulture for almost an hour, cooking up all manner of post-chip schemes.  He could turn all the inmates in Sunnydale’s loony bin, perhaps, unleashing a half-wit army upon the masses.  Or maybe something with a mummy, this time.  Spike had always wanted to do mummies.

~*~*~

The booze wore down quickly, alongside his supply of borrowed blood.  When he finally stopped moving, he was slumped on a park bench across the way from the Magic Bollocks.

A clock in a window read 11:43.

He slipped into the alley that ran behind the shop, and broke open the back door with a grunting shove.

The inside was inviting.  Still and quiet and amber-lit, it could’ve almost been romantic.  He’d toyed with the idea of being fashionably late, but earlier was better.  He could think things through.  Lurk in shadow.

He ran his fingers along a row of books.  They felt like dry leaves to him, and the sensation immediately made him think of the Watcher.  He realized that the blighter had left his mark in the dump, after all.  Every stone and stitch and leathery spine was soaked in his starched buggery.

When the clock ticked to twelve, Spike wandered down into the stockroom, not wanting to be caught waiting around like a whipped doggy.  Her scent was still lingering down there, somehow.  He wove through long trains of it, past the boxes she stacked, trying to pretend he was there for another reason.  For any other reason, really.

He prowled down an aisle of musty knickknacks.  There was a trio of grim little statuettes carved from onyx, a wreath of silver thorns, a bejeweled goblet, a horned wolf skull.  He took care not to touch any of them.  Spike well knew the pitfalls of mucking around with mystical rubbish, even if the rest of Buffy’s Wanker Brigade didn’t.  To say the Witch was playing with fire would be a spectacular understatement.  She was playing with bloody atom bombs, and when one of them finally went off, Spike doubted she’d be the only one to get burned.

He fixed his gaze to one particularly curious item.  It seemed to be sculpted from ancient wood, the kind that becomes as smooth and solid as marble after a few centuries of marsh water. Intersecting rings surrounded a small brass gasket of some sort, with chambers that reminded Spike of a mechanical heart.  In the center of it was a keyhole, surrounded by tiny scribbles of writing he didn’t recognize.   The heart itself was glowing and hissing – just slightly, but enough to stand up the hairs on the back of his neck.

Why?

Why now, you stupid bauble?

He took a step back, and tried his best to diagnose the problem.  An iron candlestick had fallen against one of the rings, and the hissing noise came from the vibration where metal kissed wood.  There even seemed to be a tiny plume of steam forming there, like the cracked seam of a radiator cap.

He had a panicked thought about a fire burning the whole shop down, and all of them blaming him for it, and how that would be just his bloody luck.  So, he made his move, slow and certain, his arm like a serpent tenderly winding through the grass towards the kill.  With a gentle tap of his finger, he tipped the candlestick upright.

The hissing sound cut off immediately, but the little metal engine in the middle kept glowing, even brighter than before.  He stood there for a few moments, eyeing it warily.

Suddenly, he heard the jingle of tiny chimes, and a door slamming shut.

Bugger, he thought.

That’ll be Her Royal Highness.  Prompt as a Sunday liturgy.

And probably just as warm.

He listened to her footsteps creak slowly across the floorboards.  She didn’t say jack, and eventually the sound just stopped altogether.  He lit a smoke.

It was maddening.  She was up there, alright; probably propped on a table, swinging her little legs.  Not anxious.   Not pacing, nor checking the clock every ten seconds.  If only once, he’d like to see her burn, the way he burned.  Just once he’d like to…

A scream rang out.

Spike flew up the stairs.

The girl was a shrieking fireball.  She whirled sideways, smoke and flame leaping off a photo negative of her beloved body, her burning arms painting the world in sharp red shadows.

The instant he saw it, Spike went shagging mad.  The memory of that night at the Bronze skewered him like a pair of swords, because he was too slow again, too late again.

And so, without a plan in his brain, he ran to her, and threw his arms around her, and buried his face in the bonfire of her hair, thinking he was ready – that this was the end and that he was ready now.

But, as soon as he touched her, it stopped.  The blaze vanished, like a wish blown on a birthday candle.

They held each other tight for a long moment and then slowly unwound.  Her face fell into view, and he gasped out a tear because it was still her beautiful face.  There was soot on her cheeks – just as there was soot and ash all over her arms and caking the tatters of her scorched, black clothes – but they were otherwise unspoiled by the flames.

“What?” he said, still shell-shocked and grasping for words.  “What?”

She was shaking her head, tears beading in her eyes.

“Are you?” He started patting her arms and shoulders, and felt so ridiculous doing it that he coughed out a laugh.  “I mean… are you okay?”

“Fabulous.  Next dumb question?”

He led her to the checkout counter and popped her up there.  “What the sodding hell happened, Slayer?”

“I don’t know.  I was just sitting there and… poof.”

“Poof?”

Her kit was a truly unsalvageable mess.  Patches of her skin peeked out through ragged, smoking holes.  He started taking the blouse off, and felt her stiffen under it.

“Are you for real?!” she squealed.

“Well, you can’t wear them!  What if they go up like bloody New Year’s again?”

Her eyes shot wide.  She hadn’t thought of it this way – or any way, yet, he imagined – and now that she had she hopped down behind the checkout counter and started ripping the rags off like they were coated in poison.

When she was done she stood, naked as a jay and clutching her tender, blushing bits tight.  He scoffed at the pageant of false modesty.

“Shut up,” she said, “and just give me something.”

Spike yanked off the coat, muttering curses, then balled it up and threw it at her.  He turned away while she pulled it on – not for her sake but for his own.  In a way, Buffy Summers was more cuckoo than Drusilla, and learning how to play along with all her Jekyll-Hyde games was driving him to his wit’s end.

Especially when I always get to play with sodding Hyde, he thought.

She circled back into view, latching the final button.  “Okay, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Tunnels.  Back to your place.”   He gave her a hopeful look.  “To get some clothes,” she added.

“Forget it, Slayer!  I’m not giving you any more sodding loaners!”

She groaned and rolled her eyes.  “Spike…”

“No, none of this ‘Spike’ rot!  You sod my sheets, you steal my bloody tee-shirt–”

“You had, like, nine of them–”

“–you say, ‘Meet me at midnight,’ and then you come here and burst into sodding flames!  Do I even exist to you, pet?!”

He took a step back, realizing he was roaring at her now.  She was staring at him with that strange, guarded look in her eyes, the one that was impossible to read, even for him. 

“Never mind,” he said.  “Drop it, let’s just go.”

He started to walk in the direction of the stairs, but he bumped into something.  Something big.  He looked up.

And up.

In the next moment he was airborne.  A punch sent him crashing into a bookshelf, and then to the floor, where the tomes rained down on him like miniature boulders.

He shook out the cobwebs as quick as he could, but by the time he got to his feet the dance party was going full steam, the Slayer slashing at her unexpected partner with balletic kicks.  The beastie swept her aside with an arm like a tree trunk, and she came skidding across the floor towards him.

“Friend of yours, love?!”

“Was about to ask you the same thing,” she said, panting out the words.

During this brief respite, Spike got a better look at the bugger.  Blokes often slung around the term, “Ten-feet tall,” in reference to demons, but the fiend was that plus change.  Its body was armored like a beetle – thick, interlocking black plates seemed sewn directly to skin the color of overcooked steak.  The head was a nightmare of cruel biology.  Red eyes like fired coal overlooked a big frog’s jaw full of butcher knives.  The eyes themselves were mechanical and empty, added as an afterthought to help the mouth seek out its gruesome fortunes.

Talking was out, he decided.

The Slayer bounded to her feet.  “You ready?” she asked.

He nodded grimly.  As they closed in on the giant prat, Spike got that odd sensation again – the one he always felt whenever they fought side-by-side.  It was as though there were a secret conversation going on between their bodies, carved in particles of air.  When she circled left to draw the monster’s attention, he automatically leapt in, stabbing a kick at its kneecap and following it with a perfect, steaming uppercut to the boy bubbles.

Unfortunately, Big Boy’s bubbles were more like cannonballs.

“Ow,” he said, shaking out his wrist.

The giant roared and sent a fist the size of a butterball turkey slamming down.  Spike whirled out of range at the last possible moment, and watched the blow smash through the floorboards.

Buffy sprang from the left with wild looping punch, but it fell just shy of the monster’s chin.  Of all the most devilish defenses, being too bloody tall suddenly seemed like the best.  It batted her away like a fly, and then resumed its plan of smashing the vampire into a quivering slurry.

Spike ducked and weaved under its attacks, searching in vain for a weak spot.  In the corner of his eye, he saw the Slayer lurch back to her feet.  He jived Big Boy into missing wide with a punch near a wall.  Its fist dug deep into the brickwork, and while the beast struggled to get it out, Spike beat a hasty retreat back to Buffy’s side.

“What’s the plan, love?” he asked. “You hit him low, and I’ll hit’em lower?”

“Just keep him busy for awhile,” she said.  “I’ll be right back.”

He was about to tell her where to stick that plan when she dashed off into the recesses of the shop, vanishing into shadow.

Keep him busy for awhile, he thought.

Shall I sing him a diddy, perhaps?  Read him a bloody bedtime story?

He scotched the scenery for a weapon, finding only broken boards and musty books and tangles of crystal jewelry.  He went for one of the boards: a broad plank splintered to a point at one end.  As he charged at the fiend it suddenly occurred to Spike that he should probably be more terrified of his arsenal than his foe.

A second before he reached it, the big monkey finally got his paw out of the jar.  Spike began a futile duel, dodging and weaving and firing the occasional cricket swat at a mammoth shin.

By the time it boxed him into a corner, he was fresh out of ideas.  He felt almost thankful when it scooped him up in one paw, and plucked the oversized stake from his grasp with the other.

At least it’ll be quick, he thought.

As though in reply, the demon pinned him against the wall, and hoisted the wooden shaft like a Roman’s spear.  An unmistakable look of glee crossed its alien features.

Time cooled and slowed.  Spike spied the girl running across the second floor rampart, a blade flashing in her hand.  The part of him that was very old and wry smiled at the joke.  No matter how fast she ran, no matter how clever her scheme, she was gonna be too late.  She would lose the race.

Then maybe she would know the secret of the dream.  Not like William the Bloody Fool, not every night.  But once or twice.  Every now and then, she would save him.

Suddenly, this seemed like more than enough.  He sneered into Death’s sharp fangs.

Yeah, yeah.  Do it, England...

The wood slammed through his chest.  He closed his eyes and waited for his body to go the way of all things, and for the wretched world to shatter forever.

A second passed.  Then another.

When he looked again, the creature’s head was wobbling like a loose doorknob, and a rattling sound was pouring out of its throat.  Buffy sat astride the monster’s thick neck, her sword plunged neatly between its eyes.  As Spike watched, the hellish fire inside them gradually faded, but her own were blazing hot lakes.

The monster didn’t drop him.  Instead, the arm itself crumbled to bits, like a sand castle in a storm wind.  He sank to the floor.

The Slayer was on him in a flash.  She grabbed at his face and neck, tested the stake with a shaking hand.  She was stuttering a bunch of nonsense words at him, but he could barely hear her over the rumbling tide of his stolen pig’s blood.   He started tugging feebly at the stake.

No, not stolen.

You bought it mate.  Bought and paid and stamped and signed.

“Don’t,” she said.  “Don’t touch it.”

The sound of a choked tear in her voice laced into him like a fang.  It snapped him out of a very heavy orbit, and when he looked down he saw that the wood had gone in a bit high.  Instinctively, he yanked at it with both hands.

He fought for words.  “What… you plannin’ on… fetchin’ the surgeon, love?”

He kept pulling.  When it slid out a couple of inches, he screamed.  That snapped her out of it, it seemed, because she suddenly shifted gears and decided to help with the chore, tucking the board’s base against one shoulder like a rifle butt.  There was a flash of white agony when it tore free, then the pain faded to a misty drizzle.

Buffy tossed the stave aside.  When she knelt in close to touch the wound, he flinched away.

“Let me see it,” she said.  Hard voice.  Like iron.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Let me see.”

She peeled open his shirt like something precious was beneath it. Their gazes met for a blistering moment, and he thought he saw something in her green eyes.  It was sharp and soft at the same time, like a lighthouse beacon painting a black wave white.  And even as the look scalded him, he thought:

She didn’t forget it.  She said she wouldn’t and she didn’t.

Not even in the grave.

She kept at it.  That wet look that was almost love.  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and for a flash he thought that maybe he really had dusted, but that the Devil somehow misspelled his name.

Ain’t you sweet?

AIN’T YOU PRECIOUS, TOSSER?

“Said I’m fine,” he growled, jerking himself free.  “I’m–”

He glared down at his chest.

There was nothing there.  No hole, no scar.

“–fine?  Bloody hell.”

They traded a chary look.

“Buffy…”

“Yeah,” she said.  “Let’s just… Go.  Okay?”

“Yeah.  Brilliant plan.  Let’s.”

They eased to their feet and prowled catlike to the front door, taking care to inspect every creak and shadow along the way.  When they reached the threshold, Spike gave the handle a sharp pull.  After the initial crack it blew wide with a great gust of wind.

He stood looking at what was on the other side for what felt like a very long time, his brain trying to calculate it for future reference.  But it was no use.  The current madness had no number. 

The hot swathe of Main was gone.  There were no slightly boozy processions of spotty youth.  No electric lamps or cars idling at red lights.  No sound or scent at all.

Instead, there was a field of pristine snow.  Miles and miles of it, as far as the eye could see.