Chapter Two – Gently Watching…

1998 - Winter



It was a dark cold, cold night. Not that that really mattered in California, especially not on a Hell Mouth. The blokes were dressed in tacky thin shirts, and drenched in cheap cologne and the chicks were in push-up bras and dolled up to the eyeballs – all so desperate to get laid. Not that it helped them any.

He was in some flashy night club. Too much fake smoke, and too many untalented bands – but it was packed. Hell, it was heaving. Prime with wall-to-wall snacks and appetisers. But he wasn’t going to ruin his dinner. A snack wasn’t going to be good enough tonight, not when gourmet dining was right in front of him

His eyes circled the dance floor, before honing in on the girl he’d had followed here. She was dancing. Her youthful body, curling and writhing with another to the heavy beat.

He focused in on her scent; it stood out easily from the others. His kind could recognise her in the middle of the sea, on a huge pile of refuse with fairies casting spells around her head.

Her.

The One.

The Slayer.

He’d been in this town, Sunnydale – more like SunnyHell – for a few days. Just enough time to steal a place to crash, acquire the odd obligatory minion and set up his plan to kill the resident Slayer.

She wouldn’t be his first.

Or his second.

She’d be his third.

Not that he wouldn’t have tried for more over the years, but in between the bitch in China, the cunt in New York and this one here, he’d had family….business to deal with. Which had, at the time, taken precedence. Against everything, anything…

Not anymore.

Now the family was over.

Finished.

And he could continue to live his un-life once more.

Free.

Free to gain the recognition and respect he deserved far out from under the wing of ‘Daddy Dearest’, before he moved on to the next ‘Chosen One’ that was called. Hell, he could get a belt – punch in a hole for every one he downed. And every one that bastard could never get.

He shifted his focus, bouncing lightly on the balls of his combat-boot encased feet as he scanned the room, looking for all the outs, the easy kills, the wanna-be saviours. Thankfully he found plenty of the first two, and none of the third.

Well, none, except for the Slayer.

Hatred burned through his amber orbs as they followed the object of his contempt off the dance floor. She was heading for the exit – after some yuppie vampire looking for a meal. This was getting easier and easier.

Waving off the minion he’d brought with him to help entice the Slayer into a vulnerable position, and then naturally towards a violent end, he followed her out.

The cold night’s air hit his face as he let the doors bang shut behind him, sending tingles across his long-dead pores. With slow measured steps he followed the sound and the scent of a fight to the death.

Or at least, to the death of the vampire.

He situated himself at the mouth of the alley. Intimidating, but comfortable in his position, he leant against a set of crates piled high, and watched the fight unravel before him with an assessing eye.

She could move; he’d give her that. But already her weaknesses were making themselves known. She dropped her left shoulder too much when she hit with her right fist and her balance wasn’t as great as it could have been.

This one would put up a fight. Just like they always do. But he would win. Just like he always did.

He could feel it.

---

With a final thrust of her stake, the fledgling before her turned to dust with a satisfying scream of agony. Wiping a tendril of hair out of her flushed face, she was half tempted to say ‘Another one bites the dust’ but she wasn’t quite that pathetic.

Yet.

For a moment she though back to her date who would be – although knowing Jake she used the term lightly – worrying about her. She must have been out here for at least ten minutes. The vamp hadn’t been anything more of a run-of-the-mill vampire, but still something seemed off about the night. Made her feel vulnerable and oddly afraid, and she was eager to get it over with. It was taking it out of her tonight.

Sighing, she spun on her heels, and was about to take a step when a slow, derogatory applause stopped her. Raising her head with a flick of her hair the Slayer assessed its source.

‘Bout five foot eleven, peroxide blonde, lots of leather with an extra side dish of attitude. A twelve on the hot-o-meter.

But also, she quickly evaluated, majorly lacking in the pulse department.

“Who are you?” She asked, no quiver of fear in voice, though a shiver shot imperceptibly down her back when he smiled back evilly.

“Your executioner.” He replied, his face slowly morphing into its true visage as he stepped up to the ring.

---

The Slayer swallowed. It was so far her only betrayal of being afraid. He was impressed. And that said something.

“Cute.” She replied, her eyes cold, and he watched as her fists tightened around the still-held stake.

The Vampire smiled again, and then the fight was on.

A furious flurry of kicks, blocks, punches and interceptions took place, but soon, too soon, the Slayer began to tire. Her left arm, it was dislocated, and her right leg had been smashed too many times. More hits made it to her supple flesh then ever should have. More kicks connected then ever before. She was bloody, beat and broken. And she could feel it.

The end. It was coming.

The Vampire noticed it too. The resignation he saw in her eyes. He recognised it, had hungered for it – had seen it in the other slayers, and in countless victims before her. He revelled in it.

A muted cry escaped her lips as his heavily booted foot met with her exposed shin, and she felt something snap.

He saw his opening and dove with the perception and precision of a well trained killer. He circled around her in a flash, his foot coming up to completely break her leg as he twisted her into his arms in an odd parody of a lover’s embrace. Immobilised, exhausted, beaten and broken, the Slayer could do nothing but cringe to the pain as her head was jerked back and cold fangs sank into her neck.

Her pride would not allow her to cry out.

The Vampire drained her quickly. There was not much blood left; most was still seeping from the many open wounds on her exposed body. With a satisfied growl, he dropped her to the ground as her heart finally slowed to a stop. Wiping the few drops blood from his mouth he kicked her to the curb of the alley for the club manager to find in the morning and absently drew his stained thumb into his mouth, savouring the last few drops of his victorious meal.

With a violent snarl he collapsed back into the wall behind him and felt his shoulder snap back into place. It would heal. Hell, with the vivacious infusion of Slayer-blood in his veins it was practically a hundred percent already. Pushing himself up, he reached inside his duster pocket for his cigarettes and lit one up. The familiar habit of drawing the nicotine into his dead lungs filled his jazzed body with a much needed instillation of calm.

His eyes found the Slayer’s dead body as he smoked. Her vibrant red hair was already beginning to dull as death took her. Her wide, brown eyes stared sightlessly back at him. He smirked in her direction and flicked the cigarette butt over to her lifeless corpse, watching the dying ember burn a hole through her tawdry, thin top.

Turning on his heel Spike moved out of the alley, easily blending momentarily with the Goth crowd that had just exited the Bronze, before slipping flawlessly into the shadows.


TBC...