Chapter 9

Paloma's car rolled slowly back into the parking lot around 3:00 A. came to rest in front of the motel office. Fred and a not-much-the-worse-for-wear Dilip Singh came out to greet it and found its two occupants so exhausted and battered that they could barely stand.

"Rough night?" Singh asked blandly.

"Bullfight," Paloma smiled through cut and bloodied lips. "Fuckin' rodeo." She hoisted herself out of the driver's seat with a grimace.

"Oh my god, shouldn't we take you to the hospital?" Fred exclaimed over the string of expletives that issued from Spike's mouth when his feet hit the ground.

"Stopped by on the way. 'S okay, nothing life-threatening. Guillermo's got some busted ribs, though. I'm gonna take a bath."

The vampire confirmed her report by hissing in pain when Fred grabbed him around the middle to support him.

"Sorry!" she squeaked, hastily shifting her hold up to his arm and shoulder. Together they staggered to their cabin and limped inside, and with a clumsy effort she got him onto the bed, where he lay back with a groan.

There wasn't a spot on him anywhere that didn't hurt like a fiddler's bitch, he reflected. At least this ass-kicking was ending on a soft comfy mattress instead of a vault, or a sidewalk, or the floor of a cave.

"What happened?" Fred scurried from bathroom to bed, bearing linens, and began cleaning his wounds with a damp towel. "What was that about a bull?"

"Bunch of naughty schoolboys went into the toolshed and made a minotaur."

"WHAT?"

"Uh-huh. Big 'un, too. Horns 'n everything." The wet cloth on his face felt wonderful. "Took forever to kill it. Helluva fight."

"Is the little girl okay?"

"Yeah, she missed most of it; it threw her through a window and her head got stuck in the fork of a tree." The towel was under his shirt now, cool and soothing.

"Can you sit up a minute and pull this up? I want to make sure you weren't gored."

Wincing, he moved to a sitting position and allowed her to tug his T-shirt up under his armpits. At the sight of the massive bruising covering his chest and back she drew an audible intake of breath. Spike turned at the sound and was surprised to see tears in her eyes.

"It'll mend, Pigeon; it always does."

"I know, it's just...it must hurt so much." She wiped her eyes and nose on the towel and unthinkingly began to mop his torso with it again. He gazed at her, at a loss for words, too unaccustomed to being the recipient of open compassion to know quite how to respond.

"You're going to look like raccoons," she sniffled, "Big black shiners. Look at this poor eye; it's swollen up like a pingpong ball. And I'll bet at least one of you lost some teeth."

"'Loma swallowed a couple. Chupas shed 'em like sharks anyway, I think. And I've still got m' fangs." He morphed and grinned at her, baring his upper canines, then rapidly shifted back. It made her laugh but it hurt like hell.

"With a bit of luck it'll be the only pair like it for miles, too. Three slayerettes hunting are really startin' to thin the ranks."

"You missed one, you know," she informed him. "A guy. He came into the office right after dark and jumped Dilip. It's okay," she added quickly, at Spike's look of alarm. "I got a knife from the kitchen and killed him."

"What - you cut his head off? With a kitchen knife?"

"No, I staked him."

The alarmed look became one of confusion.

"With a metal knife?"

"It had a cardboard cover on it."

He continued to stare blankly.

"Wood pulp."

Click.

"Christ, Fred, that's BRILLIANT!" he beamed.

She smiled modestly and squirmed a little. "I'm thinking of submitting it to 'Hints From Heloise.'"

His abdominal muscles were screaming now. He eased back onto the pillows and stifled a yelp. Fred toyed absently with the towel in her lap.

"Would I have liked Illyria?"

He considered the question. "Dunno. She was nothin' like you. Smart and all, but had an ego the size of Greenland, and bloody arrogant. Didn't give a shit about us lowly peons 'til she lost some of her power and had to live amongst us. Which, now that I think on it, is the story of my life, so I can't very well criticize her."

The throbbing in his face became a crew of busy little jackhammers, and he was forced to shut his eyes against the light. Through a haze of pain he heard, "Do you want an icepack?"

Grunting hurt less than nodding.

He fell asleep before she returned, and dreamt of being on the floor of the repair shed. It was daytime, and concrete and dirty motor oil scratched his face and palms and elbows. Outdoors in the driveway Gunn was telling customers, "Don't go inside. There's a bull in there. Muthafucker'll mess up your vehicle." He wondered what purpose he served the business by lying on the floor, and then a mechanic was leaning over him and punching him in the face repeatedly, keeping a steady cadence, and apologizing tonelessly with each blow, "Sorry. Sorry. Sorry."

Then something cold blocked the fist. It was soft and made a liquid sound, and a woman's voice crooned, "You're just having a bad dream."

Author's Note: "Guillermo" is Spanish for "William."