Gods And Monsters

Chapter One:

Sunnydale, California, U.S.A.: 2001

The door of the stone crypt swung open, and Spike ambled out into the silent graveyard. He turned his eyes skyward, admiring the clear, cloudless atmosphere, as he dug a hand into the front pocket of his worn-out black jeans.

A flawless canvas of blackness, redeemed by the glittering of countless stars.

Withdrawing a pack of cigarettes, he lowered his gaze to retrieve and light one. With a clicking rotation of the sparking gear and brief pressure on the gas, a tiny flame ignited. It licked at the cigarette, catching it, and went out as the red button was released. Returning the silvery, zippo lighter to his pocket, he tucked it deep down so as not to risk it falling out. He brought the cylinder to his lips and inhaled.

He exhaled, slowly, savouring the bitter fumes of tobacco. Happening to glance up at the sky once more, he frowned. Spike felt certain that his eyes must be deceiving him, for what other explanation was there when one star in particular appeared to be growing larger? With every passing second, it seemed closer and brighter, which was impossible.

The so-called "star" became a plummeting ball of fire, blinding as it entered the ozone. Squinting, he shielded his eyes from the blaze as they followed the trail of white-hot light and smoke. It disappeared behind the horizon of towering trees.

"Bloody Hell." He cursed under his breath, rendered momentarily immobile by shock.

Coming to his senses, the still-glowing butt of his cigarette fell from his fingers as he kicked into a sprint. Spike ran in the direction of what he guessed was the zone of impact. What he discovered upon arrival was entirely unanticipated.

Where the innermost heart of a dense forest once stood, an immense crater now occupied. The cavernous pit was ringed by a round embankment of crumbling soil, and the demolished, fragmentary carcasses of trees bordered the ledges, which dropped off at a rather sharp angle.

He began the plunging descent without hesitation, and lost traction almost immediately, stumbling haphazardly down the steep, jagged slope. However, he was able to regain his footing and proceed without much difficulty.

Precipitation began to fall, increasing in tempo and pressure rapidly. Within seconds, it was pelting the earth in a torrent of rain.

Spike found himself gawking in bewilderment at the foreign design branded onto the ground. The earth was scorched, dirt blackened in an intricate, circular stamp of intertwining Celtic knots. His eyes grew wider still. Drenched thoroughly, his clothes stuck to his skin, his hair flattened and dripping. But he paid the rain no mind, far too preoccupied to care.

At the very centre of the imprint lay the outline of a body, surrounded by the singed remains of flattened foliage. As he drew nearer, he realized that it appeared to be a woman. A very human, very stark-naked woman. She was out cold, positioned on her side, and her knees were slightly bent.

Thrown off-guard, his startled eyes travelled upward from her graceful feet, along the length of her lean, overlapping legs and petite frame. Rivulets of water drops trickled along the curves, slopes, and dips of her body. Curling tendrils of jet-black hair were scattered about her head, which faced the endless expanse of night above her.

A single delicate, simple swirling vine of faded, beryl blue-green war paint adorned her cheekbone, beginning at her temple and tapering off at the corner of her lips. An identical design was mirrored on the opposite side of her face.

The curling marks resumed at the linear jut of her collarbones and ceased at the blades of her upper back, while a few dashes of broken lines tattooed the length of her spine. Her shoulders were narrow, but strong, and decorated in the same manner of artistry, sinews of lean muscle taut beneath the slender bands of pigment encircling them.

Her pale, painted skin was dusted in smears of grime and mud, with the occasional smattering of tiny, drying droplets of blood. The purplish-grey stain of bruises mottled every inch of her. They were accompanied by burns, lacerations, and scrapes of varying degrees and sizes.

Dropping to a crouch beside her, Spike cocked his head curiously. He brought two fingers to the pulse in her neck, just below her jaw, and his brow furrowed. Her heartbeat was irregular, a rapid rhythm of four rather than the usual two. "What have we here?" He murmured to himself.

A glint of metal in his peripheral vision caught his eye. There, in the dirt, he discovered a silver key with two teeth. He lifted it by its snapped, honey-brown leather string and examined the small skull carved at the top. Instinctively, Spike pocketed it.

His own sense of decency prompted him to remove his pinstriped, crimson button-up and wrap an arm about her lower back. Lifting her onto his lap, he slipped the shirt around her bare shoulders, enveloping her torso in the fabric. He scooped her up into his arms effortlessly, and rose to full height as he stood.

Her body was limp, unresponsive for the entire return journey to the tomb Spike called home.