Shielded

By SJ Smith

At the club on Thursday night, Molly saw the man of her dreams.

It surprised her to see him in the Rathskeller. It was a small place, barely enough room to swing a cat but it could afford to pay musicians and tonight’s feature was a young man, small and spare, his hair stained the same color as the yellow stage lights, spilling over his face and obscuring his eyes.

He pushed music the way a dealer might drugs, sending notes out into the thick smoky air, a rainfall of bright silver that warred with the darkness. He was too good for the Rathskeller, his music ringing clear in her head even over the roar of conversation around her. Too skinny for Molly’s tastes, she liked a little meat on her men but put that guitar in his hands and she forgot the rest, his music telling her stories she’d never thought she’d hear outside of her dreams.

Dee didn’t understand, she whined and pointedly looked at her watch, turned around and stared at the ineligible young men and women who populated the bar. “Can we leave?” she finally asked. “It’s Ladies’ Night at Radio GaGa and if we hurry, we’ll make it before the prices of the drinks change.”

“Go without me.”

“Molleeee, you know I can’t do that,” Dee whined. She shot a pointed glance around the bar and lowered her voice to just under shouting. “It can’t be safe.”

Molly reluctantly turned her attention from the guitarist to look at Dee. She wasn’t a friend, more like an annoyance Molly put up with. “If you want to go, Dee, go. I want to see this guy.”

Dee’s face wrinkled. “Him?” She gathered up her purse and jacket. “God, Molly, your taste in men is just the pits. He won’t even come up to your shoulder.” With that, she flung her accoutrements around her shoulders and sashayed out of the bar.

Molly didn’t bother watching her go. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. To see him, really see him, without the haze of sleep, to know he was real and not some figment, some weird fantasy; there was no real way for her to describe her feelings even to herself, much less unromantic Dee.

When the set was over, she slipped off her bar stool, sneaking towards the stage where she could approach the guitarist. He was exchanging remarks with the next musician, monosyllabic words that got lost in the cloud of cigarette smoke that hovered over their heads. The newer musician cocked his hand, using the lit end to point to Molly and said in a smarmy voice, “Looks like you got a fan.”

Her guitarist favored her with a lifted eyebrow and said, “Maybe.” He shouldered the woven bag that held his guitar and stepped off the stage. Molly waited helplessly; tethered with the string of music he’d played earlier. The other musician cackled past his cigarette and Molly tuned him out, her attention focused on the guitarist.

He slipped to the bar, collecting money from the bartender who handed over the bills as if they might be slices of his own flesh. The guitarist didn’t count the money, just shoved it in a pocket. Taking a good grip on the guitar, he pushed past the few other patrons and hit the street.

Forcing her nerveless legs to follow, Molly scurried after him, hesitating at the door. The rain earlier had washed things clean; gave everything that liquid sheen that wouldn’t dry out until tomorrow morning. Even the skies seemed clearer and the moon let the sparks fly out across the wilderness that was this part of the city. She hesitated, checking both ways. She stepped onto the cracked sidewalk, teetering on chunky heels, her eyes wide. Neither direction seemed the way he’d take and she bit her lip hard, wondering how she’d lost him so quickly.

“Hey.”

The quiet voice spun her around, her hand automatically fluttering to her throat. Her heart burned in her chest as if it were a fire doused with kerosene. Squinting, she made out his figure, nearly blending into the bar’s wall and let out a gusty sigh. “It’s you,” she said, her fingers clutching at her necklace, smoothing it back into place.

“That’s what they say,” he said. There was a pause then he asked, “You following me?”

Molly nodded hard, taking a cautious step closer to him. She wasn’t quite sure what to say. “You’ve got a lot of talent.”

That eyebrow went up again, mirrored by a corner of his mouth. “That’s new.” He scratched at the back of his neck in embarrassment. “Most people think the songs are weird.” His pale eyes narrowed slightly, a calculating gleam hovering in them.

“Oh, no.” Molly realized her hands were flailing enthusiastically and tried to bring them back under control. “Your songs…I mean, the sheer imagination of them.” She backpedaled, seeing his eyes shutter closed. She hated when she gushed and here she was, just letting the words fall out of her mouth like Niagara Falls. “But…I have to know something.”

“What?” he asked warily. His eyes glittered under the street lamps.

Molly wrapped her hands around each other to keep them still. “Um…” she gulped. “You see, I, oh, this is just gonna sound bad.”

His interest piqued, eyebrows relenting and rising again. “You’re not a talent scout, are you? Because, next time you approach someone, you might want to rehearse.”

Molly stomped her foot. “No. God, no. I’m…I’ve been having…these dreams.” She twirled the weird lock of prematurely grey hair that had appeared when she started high school. “Weird dreams. Hear me out,” she said automatically then grinned sheepishly when she realized the guitarist was still standing there, waiting. “Sorry. I’m used to people running when they hear me say that. But I’ve dreamed about you before. All of you; the Warrior, the Jester, the Witch, the Key,” Molly said, wetting her lips. “The Watcher, the Vengeful, the Champion, the Unwilling.” She opened her eyes and stared down into his, letting the final name drop from her lips in a near whisper. “The Wolf.”

“You dreamed about Sunnydale,” he said, somehow sounding a lot less concerned than Molly had expected. He frowned slightly, adjusting his grip on the guitar. “What else?”

“I,” she shook her head, still trying to decide why he wasn’t more excited. “I don’t know. I still don’t know. All that I know for sure is there’s something coming. Something big and something bad. Something they need you for.”

The guitarist put a finger to his lower lip. “Did you tell anyone else about your dreams?”

“No.” Molly rolled her eyes. “They’d think I was crazy.” She laughed shortly. “I mean, seeing you…I never really thought they were real.” She hugged her arms around herself, glancing towards the sky. The stars glittered there, unaware. “They are real, right?”

He shrugged, glancing skywards. “Yeah. Well, they were. A long time ago.”

Molly opened her mouth, not quite sure what was going to come out of it. “A long time ago?”

He studied the guitar in its woven bag. “Girl, fighting the hordes of darkness, on top the Hellmouth. It’s almost a fairy tale. Not that I don’t believe you. I mean, you’ve got that witch’s lock,” he gestured at her grey streak, “and prophetic dreams. It’s just not your fault your warning didn’t come sooner.”

Molly shifted her weight uncomfortably. “What do you mean, sooner ?”

His voice was gentle as he said, “That war was over almost fifty years ago, girl. All the people who fought in it are dead. ‘Cept me.” He hooked a thumb at his chest, his shoulders straightening in remembered pride. “Wasn’t supposed to survive, that’s what they said. I was to be the sacrifice.” His lip quirked at the humor of it. “Shows you what they know. I didn’t die.” He was lost in the memories for an instant, silhouetted against the alleyway. “It wouldn’t let me die.” He smiled slowly, turning his attention to Molly. “It left me here to do a job.”

Molly shivered, suddenly wishing she’d never exited the bar. “Listen,” she said, “m-maybe I made a mistake.”

“Nah, you didn’t make a mistake. You recognized me.” He somehow managed to strut while standing still. “Recognized ol’ Spike. It’s a good thing. Been a long time since someone’s known who I was.” His hands stroked the neck of the guitar in its bag then turned the caress into a grasp and the guitar into a club.

Molly shrieked, flinging herself back, raising her hands in protection. The weight of the guitar battered through her defense, smashing into her face. She fell to the asphalt, the rough surface ripping her clothes and cutting her skin. She couldn’t see out of one eye and the other was blurry.

“See,” the guitarist said, squatting next to her, the guitar resting on his thighs, “I’m the last one. The First, It left me here, to guard against any more Slayers or witches or werewolves or barmy vampires with souls.” He cocked his head to one side, his face changing, becoming harsher. Molly whimpered as he leaned closer, his fetid breath brushing her skin. “I’m the shield against you stupid humans trying to fight back.” He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers, his skin icy.

She tried to scream but his hand slipped down over her mouth. He picked her up with his other arm, and she dazedly thought he was incredibly strong, too strong. Something sharp scraped her neck and pain exploded through her body. Molly tried to fight but it ­ he ­ was too fast. The sound of her heartbeat thudded in her ears, almost blotting out everything else.

And then there was nothing.

Spike tossed the body into the dumpster along with his guitar, staring down into the garbage as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “See, now, if you’d kept your mouth shut, you’d still be alive. But no, you had to follow me.” His shoulders twitched in a half-shrug, mirrored by the corner of his mouth and a twist of his eyebrows. “But I’m the shield. And you got in the way.” Spike reached in, closing the girl’s eyes.

“Sorry. But I was just doing my job.”

 

~Fin~