Night is not something to endure until dawn.
It is an element like wind or fire.
Darkness is its own kingdom ; it moves to its own laws,
and many living things dwell in it.
- Patricia A. McKillip

*~*~*~*

Wrapped in darkness black-nailed fingers flicked the tarnished Zippo, a flickering flame popped out, and his cupped hands took on a golden glow. The flame was pulled towards the cigarette as he inhaled hungrily and soon smoke trickled out slowly through his nose.  Spike snapped the lighter closed, shoved it into his duster’s pocket, and leaned back against the coarse bark of the tree that provided his cover. His blue gaze slid up towards the Slayer’s window- a bright square of light in the night- and he stood with his cigarette dangling loosely from his lips, waiting.

Tonight’s the night. He’d told Harmony. Tonight’s the first step of taking the bitch down. She’d barely listen to him, had kept on with her pedicure, had half-heartedly offered to help, and hadn’t pressed for specifics about his plan when he’d told her he didn’t need- and didn’t want- her help. Not that he would’ve given her the details if she’d asked. But anyway she had a ‘complete trust in him’ and knew that ‘even the Slayer was no match for her Spiky.’ Huh, what a useless archnemesis she made.

He started puffing out circles of smoke, listening to the quiet pre-bedtime routine taking place inside the Summers’ house. He’d eavesdropped on the uncommitted mother-daughters chat, had patiently listened to the clinking of dishes in the kitchen’s sink and to the sound of running water in the first-floor bathroom.

He wasn’t in a hurry. He knew for a fact that Captain Knob Head was out of the picture for the night. Boys night out with a couple of fellow Initiative blocks who were staying in the nearest town. Or at least, that was what the Slayer had told Joyce. Yeah, damn Frankensteins were probably discussing their next target, some poor unsuspecting demon who’d end up with a metal snippet in his ugly head.

The vampire bristled at the thought of the violating chip in his skull. He could almost feel it, there, amongst the convolutions of his brain, waiting eagerly for his next mistake, so that it could send burning jolts of electricity down his nerves and paralyse him with pain. Spike had endured quite his share of torture under his abusive sire and her ‘Daddy’s hands and he’d learnt how to master and forget the pain. But the memory of the intense wrath of the chip was enough to dry his mouth out. He couldn’t fight against it, couldn’t throttle or pummel the cause of his agony. Like a sodding dog, he couldn’t take off his shock collar.

The familiar smell of blood drew him out of his ruminations. He lifted his hand at the level of his face and laid surprised eyes on the crescent shapes his own nails had left into his palm. He hadn’t realised he’d been so tense. But then again, thinking about the chip and Soldier Boy had a way of making him blow a fuse. Spike remembered how Dickface had strutted into his crypt to ask him about Drac’, and then the Slayer, who’d wanted to know about Harm’s whereabouts and who’d blown off some steam with a couple of punches to his face. Walzting in and out like they owned the damn place. As if he was a bloody information point.

Well they were in for a surprise. He couldn’t wait for the Slayer to quiver in fear at the very mention of his name. Ah, the thought of beads of sweat rolling down her back as she would glance around in anguish during her patrols, terrified that he might attack her out of nowhere… He couldn’t wait to become her worst nightmare.

He savoured his victory ahead of time, slipping his hand inside his pocket, not the one which contained his Zippo but the other one, which held the key to success. He admired the tiny silver box he pulled out, tilted it until it caught the light coming from the Slayer’s window, brushed his thumb against the highly decorated lid, and after a minute of hesitation he stuck his cigarette between his lips and used both hands to open his Pandora box. He knew he ought not to, for the product was extremely volatile, but he needed to see it again.

And there it was. Calynthia powder.

The vibrant purple matter cradled inside its chalice was glowing with its own internal light. Iridescent and milky, small tendrils of evanescent substance were already trying to escape and the vampire screwed the lid on and placed the box back into the safety of his duster. Finding it had been a real pain, and it had cost him a small fortune. He had no idea where he would find enough kittens to reimburse his debt. But all in good time; he’d find a way, eventually.

Joyce and her youngest daughter had gone to bed, the lights in their rooms were out, and the Slayer was in her own bedroom, shadows dancing on the glass of her window as she wandered about the room, soon about to join her mother and sister in Never Never Land. Spike flicked his cigarette butt down on the ground- adding to the growing pile already sitting in the grass- and fished inside his pocket for another one. He had to give her enough time so she would be soundly asleep when he came inside.

One day he’d have to thank Drac’ for the idea. His coming in town had been a downright revelation. When he’d learnt the Count had tasted the Slayer’s blood and she hadn’t even put up a fight… The solution to Spike’s troubles had appeared as clear as crystal. Sure he couldn’t crack skulls anymore, but that didn’t mean he was helpless. After all, Dru had gunned down a Slayer this way, using only her thrall.

Now, Spike had no problem in admitting that he wasn’t as good with mindgames as Drusilla or the Count. He’d rather beat down a fighting target than convince a bewitched victim to cut its own veins. No glory in winning if the adversary was defenceless. But with the chip in his head he didn’t have much of a choice, he needed to use his highjacked brain instead of his muscles for once. And that was where the Calynthia powder would come in handy.

Knowing about it had been a courtesy of Darla. His great-grandsire had taught Angelus, Drusilla, and Spike himself how to use it during the time they had hung out together. Spike had been a bad pupil, not liking the idea from the beginning, whereas the ponce had adored it. Yet Angelus had never been so gifted, and Spike’s Dark Queen had always have a natural spiritual power in her blood. When Grandpa had realised his own child had bested him, that Drusilla possessed abilities beyond his wildest dreams, he’d thrown a tantrum. He’d forbidden Darla and Dru to use it and both vampiresses had grudgingly humoured him, mostly so he would stop grouching all the bloody time. And so had ended the ‘Exploration of the Mind by the Fanged Four’. Spike had been glad at the time, for Darla had warned never to fall asleep in somebody else’s dreams or you’d risk becoming the dominated instead of the dominant, the prey of the dreamer’s uncontrolled imagination. But Dru had done it several times, explaining in her own words how she loved the way it’d make her ‘float in space’ or ‘fly away and be free in the ocean of pretty colours’. So yeah, Spike had been glad when Dru had stopped her little strolls in other people’s mind.

So Spike hadn’t learnt much, but he’d learnt enough. When he’d finally managed to obtain the powder he’d decided to pratice a bit, using Harmony has a guinea pig. And Hell how he wished he hadn’t. He’d always known the girl was shallow, but honest to God her dreams were tackier than the soap operas he sometimes liked to watch. Between being head of the cheerleaders squad and marrying Tom Cruise with great fanfare, the only dream he’d found funny had been the one where she’d been Princess of UnicornLand. Anyways, Harm’s mind was most likely easier to invade than the Slayer’s, but at least he knew he was still capable of entering someone’s dream.

Of course there had been the small matter of actually getting the unaware Slayer to ingest the powder without anybody finding out. But in the end it’d been a great deal easier than Spike had imagined it would be.  One day he’d passed by the Summers' house and had stumbled upon a conversation between the Slayer and her mother. Blondie apparently had some trouble sleeping- something about recurring nightmares about the First Slayer- and Joyce had suggested she try Violet Tea before bedtime as it could help relax and procure refreshing sleep. It couldn’t have been more perfect. Spike the chipped vampire, Spike the inoffensive, Spike the so-harmless-he-didn’t-even-deserve-the-Slayer’s-attention-anymore had slipped inside the Summers' home where he’d already been invited and had added a little something to the Slayer’s new sleep mixture. Et voila. So far all had fallen very nicely into place.

And the Slayer’s room had been plunged in darkness for some time now. If he concentrated enough he could hear her heartbeat ; slow, strong, steady. Spike carelessly tossed his cigarette aside. It was time. Warmth pooled in his stomach and his hands slightly trembled with anxious excitement. He took a couple of deep unneeded breaths to steady his nerves and adjusted his duster to sit just right on his shoulders.

With one powerful leap upwards the vampire disappeared into the tree’s foliage. Leather quietly brushed against leaves and soon a shadow silently landed on the roof outside the Slayer’s bedroom window. Spike glanced inside, carefully crouching to the side so he would remain unseen. Through the slits between the shutters he managed to glimpse her unmoving silhouette on the bed. He turned around to cast a furtive look up and down Revello Drive. Last chance to turn back. If the Slayer didn’t have Calynthia powder in her system and if she woke up… He was in for a beating he'd probably never recover from.

Only one way to find out. He slid the small knife he’d brought between the top and bottom panels of the old double-hung window and easily unlocked it, pushed the bottom panel up as quietly as he could, and sneaked inside her room like a common thief. For a moment he stood there, unblinking, unbreathing, utterly still. The room was half lit by streaks of moonlight seeping through the shutters and it was more than enough for his supernatural pair of eyes. She had remained motionless, but he couldn’t be more aware of her presence. Her warm pulsing scent was everywhere, blending with the smell of leather and tobacco he’d brought in, creating an intoxicating aroma, filling his nostrils, filling his head. He soon found himself recklessly walking around her bed, stealthy approaching her until he stood right next to her sleeping form.

His palms itched and his mouth watered for the sweet taste of her. How easy it would be… To just grab her, allow her a few punches, grant her just a few more minutes of life so she had the time to realize she was losing… Bodies wrestling, fists colliding, a twist of the pelvis… He would snap her neck like he’d done Nikki’s, he would sink his fangs into her carotid like he’d done with Xin, and he would drink deeply, savour this wine of gods, taint her unsoiled sheets with her blood…

His chip tingled threateningly and he sighed, bringing his mind back into focus. His eyes scanned the room for a moment and he noticed the empty mug on her dressing table. He picked it up and raised it to his nose. Herbs, violet,…and the scent of a secret ingredient. A satisfied smile tugged at his lips.

« Good girl, » he murmured, looking back at the sleeping Slayer.

He went back to her side, crouched down so their faces were at the same level, and watched her sleep for a while. Her pink lips were slightly parted, her hand was tucked under her pillow and her blond hair drapped over it. Her chest rose and sank at a slow, steady rythme and Spike pulled the silver box out of his pocket once again. Not taking any chances he unscrewed the lid just a couple of inches away from her face, brought it as close to her as he could without touching her, and watched as she inhaled a plume of purple mist in her sleep. The mystical drug was pulled into her lungs and never came out again. Spike closed the box and slunk up onto his feet.

He settled down in the armchair opposite her bed, placed both arms on the armrests, and let loose the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

« Now, » he mumbled,  « Let’s see what Slayers' dreams are made of. »