Chapter IV - Séance

Sitting on a stool, back propped against the bar, Spike eyed the big-breasted Shoji demon sauntering across the dance floor. The candlelight was shimmering around her body, bouncing off of her ample curves, making her translucent skin glow as she walked. Spike’s gaze slid from her firm breasts to her trim waistline and then settled on the apex of her thighs. Stifling a growl, he thought how bloody nice it would be to bury his cock between those legs. Feel the warmth of her body disappearing around him as he brought her to orgasm.

Spike moistened his lips and, shifting slightly to the left, loosened the snugness of the jeans trapping his erection. Then leisurely he allowed his gaze, still caressing the Shoji demon’s body, to reverse its path and travel up her torso until he was looking at her face. Meeting her eyes, he smiled, his most charming smile, and watched delighted as her skin began to turn a bright orange.

Seemed the bint was as interested in him as he was in her. The changing hue of her flesh was a dead giveaway in her species. He pushed away from the barstool and took a sultry step in her direction.

A tug on the sleeve of his duster stopped him.

“We don’t have time, Spike,” said Connor.

“There aren’t any slayers here yet,” Spike said softly, his eyes refusing to leave the Shoji demon. “Good or bad.”

“It’s early.”

Spike pulled his arm out of Connor’s grasp. The boy was right. It was midnight, and the Culver City Bar and Grill had only a handful of customers. There was an obnoxiously vocal half-dozen humans, out for a risky night in a dangerous demon bar, blabbering incoherently at the end of the bar. A few scattered demons of various origins were on the dance floor, moving to Miles Davis. It was the most civilized music Spike could recall coming out of the bar’s super-sized speakers. The rest of the club’s inhabitants consisted of the Muumuu bartender, Herschel, the Bracken, Connor, whatever beastie he was, and of course, Spike. The A.I. crew had staked out a few choice spots, carefully positioning themselves in case the supposed brief encounter with the rogue slayers turned into a full-fledged war.

Just then a Merish-ka demon wandered in front of Spike carrying a tray with a couple of shot glasses and a bottle of Bourbon. Broad shoulders, full-lipped and cock-eyed, she or it, Spike could never tell the difference with them, was making its way to Charles Gunn’s table. He was in his wheelchair, pressed against the wall next to the door with the flashing red exit sign. Opposite him, Herschel sat balancing his chair on two legs, an arm crossed over his chest, as he sipped a bottle of soda water.

“Why do you do that?” Connor was still talking.

“What?”

“Come on to every female demon, human or slug you run in to?”

“Watch your language, boy.” Spike turned and faced Connor. “I don’t do slugs.”

“Oh right…”

“When did you become such a bloody prude?”

“I’m not a bloody anything,” Connor stood up abruptly. “Maybe I’m just tired of fighting, quarreling and looking at females as if they were meat, or bottles of blood, like you.”

“Happy meals with legs, actually. But what’s wrong with that mate?” Spike looked directly into Connor’s eyes. “You want to settle down? Picket white fence, a sweet young honey waiting in the kitchen to bandage your wounds and spoon feed you from a silver chalice?”

“Didn’t you ever want love?” Connor sounded sincere. “Before you were turned, didn’t you want that?”

“Never,” laughed Spike. “Sounds like a fucking nightmare to me. Besides, never gonna happen to blokes like us.” Spike plopped down on the barstool. “The best we’ll ever know is the touch of a few transparent demons, or perhaps a rogue slayer or two. They’re the only ones who can handle men like us.” He patted Connor on the back.

“You and my Dad had a thing for a slayer once upon a time, didn’t you?”

“Where the sodding hell is this coming from?”

“I don’t know,” said Connor, moving a hand over his eyes. “Maybe it’s the idea of going up against a bunch of teenage girls, even if they are rogue slayers. It’s making me think.”

“You didn’t seem to mind the idea of killing a few this morning.”

“I know.” Connor was pulling his hand through his hair, which reminded Spike he had to remember to tell the boy to gel it down. Would save all that pawing.

“I don’t understand what’s got you so spooked all of a sudden.”

“I met a Slayer once.”

“And so?” Spike waved at the Muumuus demon bartender, thinking he might as well drink since Connor wasn’t going to stop talking.

“Her name was Faith.”

Spike stopped the tremor of his hand before Connor could notice it, he hoped. “When did you meet her?”

“While back. She helped Dad…I mean Angel…when he’d turned into Angelus that last time.”

“He was always Angelus,” mumbled Spike, but then he added, pretending Connor hadn’t heard his first remark. “She’s been dead a few years, you know.”

“I heard Gunn mention it.”

“She was working in Africa,” remarked Spike, his voice deliberately calm. “She was around your age.”

“Slayers have a hard life.”

“Slayers are killers, just like us and expect to die young.”

“I thought we were super heroes,” countered Connor, swallowing a mouthful of ale.

“That was this morning, mate,” Spike smiled. “Now, we are back to being a few dutiful mates doing our jobs.”

A sound that reminded Spike of the squawk of a dying bird traveled through the room as if on pieces of dust. Spike recognized Herschel’s demon coo, a warning to Spike and Connor that a powerful human had entered the bar.

He hadn’t needed to bother, though. Both Spike and Connor had sensed all four of them as soon as they’d stepped onto the sidewalk leading up to the main entrance of the Culver City Bar and Grill.

~


Bloody hell, these were a cocky bunch, thought Spike. The first slayer, a tall brunette was damn muscular, almost manly, but only about seventeen. She was humming along with the jukebox—a tune way too old and civilized for the likes of her. It was Sinatra, or Mel Torme. Then Spike nodded to himself. It was Mel, one of his classics. This girl had no business knowing that tune. She must be the leader, decided Spike. Only a seasoned killer would hum “Blue Moon” while strolling into a demon bar.

The other slayers were on her heels – well-polished three-inch Jimmy Choo heels at that. They were quite posh, her ankle boots. Spike almost nodded his appreciation for her taste. He did remember a few things from his days in Sunnydale about Slayers and shopping, no matter how hard he tried to forget.

He drew in a mouthful of air, exhaling slowly as he watched the rest of the slayers troop in behind the leader. A redhead tossed her short curls as she sashayed her nicely rounded hips from side to side. Next, a black slayer, a little older than the other two and shorter than Spike, had smooth, blemish-free skin so dark it was violet. She was like the Shoji demon in the candlelight, nearly invisible except the light found all of the right spots on her curvy body. Her head was shaved bald, too. But her heavily lashed eyelids and perfect figure recalled another dark-skinned beauty Spike had tussled with long ago.

The last slayer was a blonde. As she walked by, something got caught in Spike’s throat and he took a swig of his drink, thanking the Powers That Be for its timely delivery. He’d have to let Connor, or maybe Hershel, handle her, if it came to that.

Then he felt Connor flinch beside him as the slayers settled up to the bar.

Connor was acting more strange than usual, lamented Spike. Whatever was going on with him, it bloody well better not get in the way of what they might have to do tonight. If Sylvester Corleone was right, these four pretty girls had to die.

Spike spun around on his stool and gestured to the bartender for another drink.

to be continued...