Theft
It's all Joss's; I own no part of it.
"I killed the slayer," the vampire said.
The streetlight at the entrance didn't quite illuminate the whole alley. The two vampires stood all the way at the end of it. The night was still, no breeze. Conrad shuffled his feet nervously, waiting for his companion to respond. The noise sounded loud in the stillness, and Conrad grew bolder.
"I killed the slayer," he said again, with more confidence.
The other vampire made no response. He might as well have been sculpted harshly in ivory until he lifted one hand to take a long drag of his cigarette. After a long moment, he exhaled one scornful, smoke-lined word. "You?"
Conrad nodded quickly. "Yes, me!" He paused a beat for effect, then took his boast a step further. "I'm halfway to your record now, Spike."
"You killed the slayer." Spike was skeptical. "The blonde one?" He knew there were two; he just wanted to be sure they were both talking about the same one.
"Yes, the blonde one. She's dead as of last night."
"The one in Sunnydale? Goes by the incredibly stupid name of Buffy?" Spike wanted to be very clear on this.
"Yes, that one! How many times do I have to tell you?" Conrad was beginning to feel a little outraged. "Buffy Summers. Goes to the university. Hangs around with some red-haired chick who wears fluffy clothes and does magic."
Spike gritted his teeth. It had to be the same one. He snuffed out his cigarette and turned to Conrad. "You actually killed the slayer? You killed her? How could you do that?" He took a threatening step toward Conrad.
Conrad was confused. He'd expected respect and adulation from the older vampire, not this menacing outrage. "I—I—I don't understand. What do you mean, 'how could I'? She was a slayer, wasn't she? Slayers are made for killing."
Spike stepped back. With an effort, he controlled his fingers' shaking as he took out another cigarette. "I mean, how did you do it? I've been trying to kill that girl for years."
Conrad shrugged. "It wasn't hard. I just took her alone and by surprise. I had a few friends along, of course." He smirked. "After all that hype, she didn't even fight that much."
Spike's control snapped. He growled, face shifting into vamipiric ridges. He flew at Conrad, pinned him against the wall, and grated out, "I've got news for you, chum. She wasn't yours to kill, you hear? You had no right to kill my slayer!"
Conrad tried to choke out a reply, but he couldn't speak around Spikes hand holding him up against the wall by the throat. His feet beat a defeated rhythm on the brick wall, then he collapsed.
Spike dropped him in disgust before kicking his limp form a couple of times. He left the alley briefly and returned carrying a political sign on a stick. "I love election years," he commented to Conrad's unconscious body. "They make staking so convenient."
A moment later he paused at the entrance to the alley and looked back. His teeth gleamed briefly in a grin as he surveyed the small heap of dust in the alley with a "McCain in 2000" sign stuck jauntily in it.
"Nine-point-seven for artistic expression," Spike voted for himself.
He was rather fond of Olympic years, too.
He left the alley slightly cheered by the violence of dispatching the vampire who had killed his slayer, but with an underlying sadness that she was gone.
