The Importance of Imagery

by Mistral Amara

 

Genre: Drama

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: It's Joss's graveyard, we just slay in it.

Summary: Post-"The Gift." Several months have passed since Buffy's death. Will Spike keep his promise?

 




The moon was a scoop of orange sherbet on the bowl of the night sky, and it hung low enough that you could reach out with your spoon and take a bite—

Nuts to that.

The orange ball that was the moon hovered over the graveyard, waiting for the creatures of the night to come out to play—

Get a grip, mate, she's fourteen, not four.

The orange globe of the moon hung low over the cemetery, its amber light flowing like mist over the fresh-turned earth, slinking between the rows of graves, throwing the cold marble headstones into stark relief. Ranks of stone angels stood bitter vigil, resentful of the evil deeds they would soon be called upon to witness on this hallowed ground.

Well. Not exactly going to take the Nobel Prize for Literature, but then his name wasn't William-the-Bloody-Shakespeare, was it? It would have to do. He took a drag from his cigarette and lengthened his stride, barely noticing his surroundings as he cast about in his mind for a next sentence.

A cry split the night.

Well, of course it did.

He leaped into action, a black-clad hunk of a night thing—

Absolutely not! Recycled prose was bad enough, but he'd used that phrase to describe the poofter.

He was a dark warrior, defending his former prey against those like him—

He was the Night Avenger, undead champion of the living—

He was a whip of a man, and he cracked through the night—

Oh, hell. He was a vampire.

He was, at the moment, a very late vampire, and no tall tale of derring-do, no matter how carefully fabricated, was going to appease the dark-haired beauty who, he was certain, was currently pacing the floor and planning the stream of invective she was going to loose on him for being late, just as soon as she checked him over for injuries. And he'd stand there and take it, the way he always did on those rare occasions when he turned up too long after sunset for her highness's comfort.

Might as well face it; he was Bit-whipped.

Well, Bit, it's like this: last night I killed three vampires, a Peltov demon, and two bottles of tequila; and then I overslept. Baby, I'm a bad, rude vamp.

Oh, yeah, that was going to go over well, that was. Today of all days. He shook his head in self-disgust and quickened his pace again.

Just then, a cry split the night. It was human, female, and young, and for a moment it didn't register as anything other than the after-effects of his imagination. Then awareness kicked in, and he turned and raced towards the sound, hurdling headstones and vaulting shrubbery.

He rounded the corner of a gargoyle-encrusted mausoleum to find a pair of vampires toying with a teenaged couple. The boy, a strapping lad who would probably be on the football team come next month, was trying to retrieve his girlfriend from the two monsters, who were indulging in a game of keep-away. They passed the girl back and forth, laughing as she shrieked and whimpered, whichever vampire was free at the moment taking casual yet brutal swings at the boy as he tried to reach the girl. Lucky for the kids, it was the vampire version of light horseplay, or they'd both have been dead already.

Without hesitation, Spike launched himself at the vampire holding the girl. He connected with a satisfying thud, driving it to the ground and knocking the girl free. He rolled across the vamp and up to his feet in one smooth motion, then kicked it viciously in the face as it tried to rise. He drew a stake from inside his coat, dropped to one knee, and buried it in the vampire's heart.

A growl alerted him to the attention of the second vampire. He sprang up and whirled in time to see the vampire grab the boy by the throat and throw him forcefully against the wall of the mausoleum, where he crumpled to the ground, moaning. The girl cried out and ran to her companion—a risky business, but the vampire ignored her, focused on Spike. It charged at him, fangs bared.

It was bigger than him by far, with a longer reach and more muscles, so he decided to avoid a direct confrontation. He waited until it was almost on him, then slipped to one side, letting it go by, spinning around behind it to stake it in the back. It exploded into a satisfying rain of gritty particles.

"Well," said Spike. "That was hardly worth the jog over here." He glanced over at the two teenagers. They were both on their feet again, and Spike got his first good look at them. The boy was sandy-haired, fair-skinned, and already sporting a dozen bruises. He was bleeding from several places besides; but he was holding himself upright and watching Spike with a mix of relief, wariness, and cautious optimism, one arm protectively curled around the girl.

The girl was in better shape physically, but her clothing was torn in several places and she was shivering as she clung to the boy. She couldn't be more than a couple of years older than the Little Bit; she had curves in all the right places, but the face below the blonde curls was still girlish, her cheeks padded with unshed baby fat.

Spike patted his pockets, searching for a cigarette to replace the one he'd lost in all the excitement. Finding one, he stuck it in his mouth and looked at the teens narrowly. "What were you thinking, hanging about in a graveyard after dark?" As if he didn't know.

They looked at each other guiltily. "We didn't mean any harm," said the girl.

"Th-thank you," the boy stammered, stepping forward to offer his hand. Spike ignored it.

"New to Sunnydale, are you?" he asked, lighting his cigarette.

"No, sir, we've lived here all our lives."

He chuffed smoke at them. "Then you bleeding well ought to know better!" He glared at the boy. "A gentleman does not take a lady into unnecessary danger."

"I didn't mean to—"

"It doesn't matter what you meant. You couldn't protect her." Been there meself, he thought sourly.

The youngster bristled. "I was doing all right!"

"Look, kid—"

"Please," the girl interrupted, "It doesn't matter now. Those—freaks—they're gone now. We're safe."

"You bloody well are not," Spike snapped. He reached down inside and unleashed the demon just enough to flash angry yellow eyes at the idiotic children. "Go home! Now!"

They stared at him, frozen in terror. The girl recovered first and ran, tugging the boy along behind her. Spike watched until they were well out of the graveyard.

"Stupid humans," he said. "Why do I bother?"

The answer came in a vision of dark hair and blue eyes.

"Well," he confided to the gargoyles, "at least now I have a reasonable excuse to give the Little Bit for being late. I suppose I'll have to embroider the fight some to make up the time." He straightened his clothes and dusted himself off. "Pity I don't have at least one good bruise to show for it."

His duster billowing out behind him like a bat on the wing, the Night Avenger stalked off towards the Watcher's home, under the cool orange gleam of the sherbet moon.



The End



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