Chapter 8: Lesson the First

"You ever done anything like this before?"

Have I ever had a vampire beat the crap out of me before? No, can't say I have.

"Beat a man into the hospital once outside of a bar downtown," I said, as my gaze drifted from around the room back to the vampire. "Define this."

Spike raised an eyebrow. "Huh. Fantastic." He slunk away from the wall, much like he had in the hospital room. "And this being defined as training for defense against the boogeyman."

We were in a good-sized room made of brick. Four small windows pocketed the top of the room, only letting in sheaths of light, which was sensible as one of us was deathly allergic to sunlight. The ground was made of hard concrete, with large stuffed mats covering the majority of the floor. A wooden bar ran on two sides of the square room, with huge white symbols drawn into the brick. A rack of weapons held swords and staves and small knives, all carefully placed on little pegs on a soft purple board.

"This isn't defense," I said sharply. "I'm definitely going to kill something." Kill something. I tested the waters. To someone in the outside world, that phrase would most likely get me arrested for threats. Here, it seemed to be a badge of honor.

The vampire seemed to miss my suspicion.

"Lady bugs don't count." He sneered.

My eyes narrowed. "This is stupid. I'm a 'Slayer' as much as the rest of them. I should be with them—"

"With your other girlie-mates?" He asked, mocking me at every step. Spike took off to the mat, his boots scrunching on the plastic. I remained firmly on my place on the concrete, arms crossed and glaring. "Who've been training for months while you've thrown around some fisty-cuffs, calling it off as a fight only because you've got Slayer strength? Not bloody likely."

"So what? I'm your padowan, to your Obi?"

"Sodding hell," Spike sighed, rolling his eyes. I could tell he was itching for another cigarette. I knew he was, because I was. "Are you going to be one of those twerps who thinks this is all a bloody joke? If you're another Andrew, then I just can't fucking do this . . ."

Spike gave in and picked up his cigarette box. A silver lighter was produced from thin air and once again, the vampire stood, smoking to calm nerves. Everything about him screamed fed-up and uninterested, but there was something more too it. His face was too clean, too sharp, his clothes too black and cold. It was as though he had been dipped into a pool of eternally clear water and from then on, he was perfectly angled. He alone stood against the blurry facades of reality and now with this new clarity, he could see the world for what it truly was. Unfortunately for the rest of humanity, he was far from impressed by what he saw.

When he looked up, his icy eyes were almost too much to bear without thinking of daggers and silver and steel and ultimate deaths.

"I'm going to tell you two things," he said. "One, this ain't gonna no picnic. This isn't an escape from the real world and your chance to be a hero hasn't arrived. In fact, it never bloody will. This is not a joke or a game. This is life and these are real people and those are real demons out there. Real demons that won't think twice about snapping you in two or drinking you so dry, you'll beg for the end."

He paused, looked down to his cigarette, took a drag and stared at the floor for a moment. "In the long run, a whole shit load of what you do really won't matter. No one will know who you are, and no one will bother to ask. You are to history, as what big fat N.Y policemen are to criminals. You are dust in the wind."

Spike dropped the nearly burnt out cigarette under his shoe again and we paused to hear the fire sizzle away.

"Second thing. When you fight, you fight to kill. You don't fight to have fun, to get a rush, to get a buzz. You fight the demon to kill it and that's all there is to it. You let it live and that can lead to more difficult . . . complications. You have one single bloody doubt in your head and you won't live to see the next sunrise. Guarantee it, ducks. Either because you're dead or undead and sunlight generally is unfavorable to us."

Spike dropped his steely gaze and shoved the ashes off the mat with a flick of his ankle.

And just like that, the moment he looked back at me, time had returned to its normal forward run. I didn't feel like I was in a vacuum, where both time and space began and ended. He was ready to get to work.

Spike stepped onto the mat.

Despite the fact that this sorry son of a bitch really rubbed me the wrong way, there was no doubt in my mind that things were about to get interesting.

"So you said you'd been in a couple of bar fights. Means you might have a pretty good hook. Let's see it."

Spike spread his arms open, inviting my punch. I, who had expected for a sudden wild flying attack from the vampire and had stood with my fists closed and waiting, stepped back, all weight on one foot and crossed my arms. My eyes dark, I raised an eyebrow, letting the other fall slightly. It was a perfect glare.

"Look, just hit me alright!" Spike sighed. "Promise you won't hurt me a lick." There was flash of something. Flash of . . . a dare?

"Thanks for saving me from that trauma." I continued to glare.

"Just do it." Spike snapped. His voice was laced with defiance, but it was colder this time. "Just pretend I'm the bloke that stole your car. Or the bastard that tried to pick you up and wouldn't go away. Or the dick who tried to take your pool table."

I grinned, smug at the irony. Alright; let's play pretend.

I stepped forward, throwing my weight into my right arm, my strong arm and hit him directly in the side. He looked like he tasted a mildly spicy pepper.

"Eh." Spike said. "Got the right motion down, but I've had grannies hit me over the head harder than that."

He spread his arms again and I went for the chest, around the solar plex.

"Keep your fist straighter. When you curve it, you loose power. Which apparently, you need a lot of."

He seemed to be made of stone, black hard stone. Two shakes of this stuff and a man twice his size would have gone down on his knees already, begging for mercy.

Hm.

I twisted down onto my own knees, aiming below the belt for a perfect shot, then out of now where his hand appeared and clenched around my fist.

"Ah, ah, ah. None of that. That's cheating."

In retrospect, this was easy to have seen coming. It would have happened sooner or later but looking back, I seriously wish it had come later. Way later.

His free hand swung up and then a pain like I had never felt before rammed its way into my jaw. I tumbled backwards, and hit the mat. The momentum kept me going and I leaned over, the pounding in my mouth traveling up to my head. Any higher in my head and there would have been a concussion for sure.

"Shit!" I yelped and looked at my hand to make sure there was no bleeding. "What the hell was that for?"

I jerked my jaw back and forth, hearing definitive pops with each movement.

"My turn." Spike grinned a truly nasty grin. "It was my turn to hit you. Sorry if not all of us here hit like a patsy."

"I do NOT hit like a patsy." I pulled myself from the ground, the sudden rush upwards making my head spin slightly.

"Yes, you do. But if you're not completely worthless, I can fix that."

I swung for his head this time, immediately got blocked and was rewarded with a crack to the nose with his elbow. I hit the mat, bouncing again.

Spike wasn't grinning. He was wearing a smirk of supreme seniority. And it wasn't an enjoyable smirk. My feet were never as fast as I would have liked them, but honestly, there was nothing to lose. I kicked left, right, each time being deflected. I went in again by the arms, but was shunned away. I kicked and punched at different places on him too but a quick step to the side, or duck, was all he needed to defeat the Big Bad Slayer.

Why was I even doing this again? I reached out, punching far too slowly, he grabbed my arm and tossed me over, landing with a crunch on my shoulder.

Get up. I told myself. Get up. You definitely did not hear a crack in your shoulder.

"Yeah, a dislocated shoulder's a real paralyzing factor, ain't it?" Spike began to circle me. "Now that I've got your attention, you should know that, well, frankly, you suck. I've known cocker spaniels who throw better left-hooks better than you do."

Flipping him the bird would do very little right now but it might give me some small fraction of pleasure.

"And honestly, I think Buffy's wasting her time with this one. A thousand years— though I might have— is not worth spending a chimpanzee to say 'Mama'. But then again that task might be easier."

Spike stopped his pacing. He stared on ahead as though focusing on something not in the room. "But I'll do it. Because she . . . needs more soldiers and sadly, this is the best of the lot for now."

God, what I wouldn't give to know what happened between these—

"Now this can hurt a lot, or just a little," Spike said suddenly and grabbed my wrist. I didn't know what was happening until he had my arm above my head.

"Wait, Spike—"

He jerked.

SNAP

He let my arm fall down by my side and I turned away, tears slicing the ridges of my eyes. But if I cried now, I couldn't look at myself without wanting to barf. I coughed and the tears slipped away. The pain, now at a low agony, was making my stomach hurt. I wished I had eaten something, or anything in the past two days.

"So obviously, you know my name." He said this with a small grin of smug pride. "I think I missed yours when I didn't care to listen."

"Bit late for salutations, don't you think?" I snarled from the floor. He had begun to pace around the room, not fast or quick, as if he was irritated. Spike walked just to burn off energy. But then as he spoke again, it was sharper, more to the point.

"What's your name, kid?"

"First of all, its not 'kid'. Or any of those other stupid British terms so you can just stop there." I heaved myself onto my feet, twisting my arm slightly and wondering if instead of relocating it, Spike had actually broken something. But the pain wasn't making me sick anymore, now infrequent like waves. "My name is Reid. Reid Robinson."

I couldn't see his face, for his circling put him behind me, but out the corner of my eye, I swore he raised his thin eyebrow in disbelief. Right, like he was one to point fingers.

"Can you still fight?" Spike asked tonelessly and cornered around me again, nodding towards my shoulder. He wasn't worried about the pain; he just needed to know if class would be cut short today. I nodded.

"Great. So basics."

He stepped a few feet ahead of me, much like he had before but much of the malice was gone. Spike was just simply bored now.

"Punch out again, but don't move afterwards. And punch like how you'd really take down some baddy."

I rolled my eyes, sighing, embarrassment kept in my throat. My fist stopped inches from his face. He didn't blink. Spike then moved around my side, looking at what I could only guessed to be my positioning. Spike nudged my back foot forward, my weight shifted and suddenly I felt more balanced. He did the same with my front right foot, and I knew this was what it meant to be grounded. He pushed my left elbow in more, bringing it up so it was firm against my body.

"The less flailing you do, the less things they can grab." He muttered and continued to circle, looking for more areas to critic. "Now pull back to a stand." And I did. "Now punch out." I did, trying to remember the exact positions I had before.

"No." He nudged my foot, straightened my hips and shoulders. "Again."

I punched. Again he moved certain things, never happy. Again, I stood then punched out, really trying and each time failing utterly. After what seemed to be hours of this, Spike finally sighed.

"Switch. Left arm now."

I didn't know if I had finally gotten it right or he just couldn't take the screw-ups again and again. But from the way he kept sighing and rolling his eyes, it was most likely the latter.

The sunlight that spilled in from under the closed blinds said it was late afternoon, if not just about sunset. By this time, my shoulders were sore and not from the previous dislocation of one. I don't know if I was better or worse by the end of it.

"Come on now, can't you tell your off-balance?" Spike sighed as he jerked my arm down slightly.

"I don't think I'm off balance," I grumbled. Spike walked around to face me, his eyebrows raised in mock-surprise.

"Oh, is that right?" His mouth twisted into a snarl as he grabbed my wrist, yanked me forward and drove a rough palm into my chest. My legs immediately fell out from under me and I rolled onto the floor.

"I think we are forgetting lesson the first," Spike said and crouched down before me again. "You have no bloody clue what the sodden' hell you're doing and I do. So it'd do you wise to shut up."

The plastic mat crunched under my fists. I willed every ounce of hate and fury to drive right into my eyes, hoping sparks would literally fly from my face. My mouth turned down into a hideous scowl. His eyes narrowed in front of me as though he challenged me to do anything about my situation. Several long moments passed and neither one of us changed our loathed expression.

"Try something," he began. "I'd love to see."

"Fuck you."

Spike snickered. "That's what I thought. They're really letting in anybody these days." He shook his head and stood. "Now, get out. It's embarrassing."

I don't think I've ever slammed a door harder.

Ericka wasn't in the room by the time I returned later that night. My wanderings had dumped me out around Housing Section B and some girl, who obviously hadn't seen me before, gave me directions to how to get back to Section D, and I was back in my room around nine.

Water was rushing from the metal tap in a hot blast of steam and a roar into the long white bathtub. Soft cotton shorts and a huge black shirt lay over the white sink and a recently used toothbrush sat wet in its holder. I was positioned on top of the closed toilet seat, trying very hard to remove my boots without causing too much agony. The left shoe sat beside the tub, tossed away in gladness, but the right one was being particularly difficult.

My foot twitched as I eased the leather over my heel. The movement shot a spark of pain up my ankle and I grimaced. Finally I stripped away the boot and rolled my foot around to get blood flowing properly again. I rested my head in my hands, a dull thrumming in my head a constant reminder. Frankly I didn't remember Spike beating me this much. Maybe the whole car crash had something to do with this.

Wiping my nose, I slid onto my feet and pulled off the jacket, my shoulder twisting painfully, then I pulled off my shirt. A sharp yellow and purple bruise in the dead center of my chest in the shape of an open-hand was the most definitive mark. My shoulder was slightly swollen and dotted green in various areas. The other one bore marks of injury as well, but they were faded mostly. That was mostly likely the car crash. The rest were because of my new favorite Mr. Keating, save for the poetry and the Robin William's flavored hilarity.

Cloth scrapped against my skin as I unhooked my bra and pulled out of my jeans and undergarments. The steam from the bath clogged the room but I took at as a white escape. The water scalded my toes but then after a daring plunge, I slipped all the way into the bathtub. Of course it was fire hot but then, my body became numb and the water was a dry sting. I soaked, the water burning my flesh but easing my bruises into a nonexistent state. The pounding in my head drew up in intensity and so I dove below the water, where there was nothing to be heard but the delicate drum drum of my heartbeat.

As a little girl, I always found water to be a very odd thing. Beneath it, you looked like a completely different person but to you, the outside world was the same. It could kill you but you needed it to live. Too much and you would die, too little and you would die still.

A gurgle of air bubbled up to the top as I breathed out and broke the surface.

I quickly bathed and climbed out, the dirty water now rushing down the hole at the bottom of the tub. A quick few but violent brush strokes tackled my wild red hair and after sliding on my clothes, which surprisingly didn't hurt as bad as before, I left the bathroom. Ericka was lying on her bed reading a book.

"God, took you long enough," she moaned the second I entered the room. She snapped the book shut and grabbed her clothes.

"Sorry if I inconvenienced you with trying to doctor up my bruises and possibly a broken rib." I said low enough to where she would hear me but it would seem like I was trying to sneak something by her.

"Yeah . . ." She froze at the door. "What?"

"Spike's my new play pal. Buffy thinks it's not fair for me to jump in with the rest of you guys so Spike's my private 'tutor' now." I saw a haphazardly made sandwich sitting on a napkin on my bed. I didn't even try to look guilty as I ripped into it.

"What does that mean?"

"Like hell if I know." I muttered through bites.

"But it's Spike, I mean, THE Spike." She turned away from the bathroom, her brow furrowed in thought.

"He has a very kinky name." I rolled my eyes. "Whooptie freakin' do."

"He's killed two Slayers, you know?"

The sandwich tasted like ash in my mouth. "Of course."

"Yeah, so back in the Boxer rebellion in China and one in the seventies I think, New York."

"Ah, such good memories of home," I said dryly and popped the last bit of sandwich in my mouth.

"No, you don't understand," Ericka said, finally looking at me in the face. "Spike is deadly. Like really deadly and you don't want to go pissing him off."

"There are two types of deadly?" I mocked her. She frowned. "Oh, give it a rest. Spike's on strict orders for there to be no bashing of heads in or draining of blood. I come down to Buffy's private training room everyday after lessons and we battle. I might become quite the Karate Kid."

"It's just not that simple," Ericka said, almost pleading. "Don't overestimate these complicated things—"

"God, why does everybody tell me that?" I leapt off the bed. "Spike, vampire. Me, Slayer. I don't slay him and he keeps his fangs to himself! That's it!"

"It's really not," Ericka said. "He can get inside your mind."

Words suddenly leapt into my throat, searing my cheeks and burning my teeth. "Kind of like how you want Willow to get inside your pants?"

Ericka's mouth dropped as her eyes were suddenly emblazoned with hate.

Damn it, I really should have savored that sandwich. It was probably the last thing she'd bring me for a while . . . or, you know, ever.

"Get out." She hissed.

"Gladly, you whiney little bitch," I snarled. I dove into my bag and began shuffling things around.

"Get out!" Ericka barked. She was standing now, her finger pointing to the door and her chest heaving with rage.

"Just one damn second," I muttered.

"No, not one second! Get out!" She strode over my side of the bed and just as her hands clapped onto my back, my hands grabbed a pack of cigarettes and a small box of matches. She yanked me to my feet and pushed me out the door.

"GET OUT!" Ericka roared and slammed the door in my face.

"I really hope you're happy, you pathetic excuse for space!" I bellowed and pounded on the door. "The sooner you get over yourself and your big dumb secret, the better we'll all be off! Stop moping around and grow a pair!"

I stood, heaving in the hallway for a minute before I whipped around to hiss at onlookers. They scampered off and I strode away.

This time I swear I would walk until my feet bled.

I tried finding those spiraling staircases again, but what I actually got was a bunch of scrambling around closed hallways, cursing and the occasion kicking of doors in frustration. Every now and again a window would catch my eye, and I would pause, taking a moment to look at the world at night.

It was cold outside; I could feel it, though perfectly warm inside. Moonlight snaked along miles of grass and the dying trees. Off in the distance I caught a glimpse of Willow's tent. Guilt poked at my ribs before, with an internal scowl, I moved on, searching desperately for something that wasn't to be found.

Now, up this flight of stairs I found a single door upon a small landing. Most doors I had tried had been firmly locked but for the interest of simply doing something, I reached up and kicked the door. It flew back, swinging back so fast around the other side of the wall, there was a crack and up at the top of the door; the wood had been dislocated from the hinge. Grinning for no reason at all, I strode through and a sharp wind electrified my senses. The hair on my arms tingled and the back of my neck shivered. I walked out onto a stone wall.

It was medieval in structure, with low hunches of stone surrounding the walkway. It circled around, diving off onto another part of the house. Below in the grass, there doors and weapons lying on the ground. The place seemed to fit the description of a fighting area. About a fourth of the way around I found a spot and sat down. Striking the match on the stone, it burned bright, then simmered, and the flame found my cigarette.

Ericka was being stupid. I didn't need to worry about Spike. He was a vampire. So what? I let out a small humorless chuckle as smoke unfurled in front of me. Like she cared. She was just being a bitch.

And then there was the vampire. Not one of my finer exists.

Vampires. Sure. I can totally kick their asses. Because apparently, they exist. Demons too. The things that go bump in the night; they were all real. And I, by my birthright, was meant to hunt them down. I, an orphan from New York, am going to save humanity. It won't come to that. It can't. Maybe Buffy's got enough buff to save us all. Because, I, of all people, definitely can't save anyone.

My head rolled back against the stone.

"What the fuck are you doing, Reid?" I muttered. Just go home. You can't do this.

Above me there were stars littering the sky.

How could something so big and furious look so small? As I stared, something across the circling wall caught my eye. It moved fast and I glanced over. A shadow shifted and there was a spark of light that was bright and then gone in an instant. Gray shadows lifted away from this object and I realized it was smoking.

Huh, so another Slayer likes the cold comfort as well?

Suddenly the figure moved and something thin shot into the air above them and it took me a moment to realize, they were waving. Frowning slightly that someone intruding on my moments alone, I raised my hand as well.

"Lonely putz," I muttered and took in a deep breath. That was the last time I looked over there for the night, afraid of inviting company. But the figure never moved again, never admitting I was there.