Chapter 7: Sweet, Sweet Victory

“Woah there, boy!” John Henry’s voice called out in the dark. 

Spike’s eyes adjusted to the faces of gawking stage hands and other staff. Movement. Lights. All blurring together. The young fighter stumbled, falling into his coach’s arms.

“Uhp!” The strong man hoisted Spike’s tied body onto his back. Embarrassed, but with little choice, Spike wrapped his hands around his coach’s neck and let him piggyback carry him in the opposite direction of the locker rooms. Spike had no idea where they were going, but he was no position to argue. All he hoped is that he’d pass out instead of puking all over his trainer.

“Did I do it, coach?” Spike mumbled, barely coherent, mostly into the nape of John Henry’s back.

The reverberations from John Henry’s laughter were like the purr of a particularly large kitten. “And then some, kid!”

Visions of wallpapered hallways blinked in and out of existence. Spike never fully lost consciousness, as he never let himself slip from his teacher’s broad back, but he wasn’t fully aware of his surroundings either. At some point, he found himself placed horizontally on a rather comfortable couch in a warmly lit room. Someone forced his head up, and he found a canister of water at his lips. He drank, messily, not even caring that most of the liquid dribbled down his neck, collecting in small pools in the crevices of his abdominals. 

“Is he bleeding? He better not be bleeding all over that couch; it looks expensive. Oh no, he’s drooling. Prop his head up more, John Henry, come on now.”

It took Spike an uncomfortably long second to realize Varla was with them. He turned his head towards her voice, but found a pair of soft hands—not John Henry’s—on his shoulders.

“Lay still now. Easy.”

A woman’s voice; different than Varla’s. Spike went to ask for a name but was cut off by a liquid warmth flowing down his neck, across his shoulders, and into his spine. His eyes rolled back into his head with ecstasy, and he nearly told the others in the room, whoever they were, to leave before he embarrassed himself. Fortunately, he soon understood that the pleasure was nothing more than simple relief, confined to his sore muscles. The pain subsided, as did the daze, and was replaced with a slow but noticeable return to equilibrium.

The hands let go and Spike found himself looking into the face of a thin, dark skinned woman with her hair tied back. She smiled, and in that smile, Spike knew he would be alright. “Thank you,” he said.

“You’re okay,” the woman said, affirmingly. She was petit, wearing a pink, A-line dress. Standing next to Varla, in a dark purple, pinstripe pantsuit, the two women couldn’t be more of a contrast.

“I’m Sandra,” the pretty woman said. She gestured to John Henry, standing sheepishly at guard. “I believe you know my husband. Hope he hasn’t been kicking you around too much.”

Spike managed to sit up. He looked down at his body, still covered in sweat, grime, and traces of blood (either Ryan’s or his own). He was embarrassed at the state of himself, mostly because he was still, essentially, clad only in his underwear.

Sandra stood back and let Varla do the talking. She loomed over Spike, much like Ryan, and suddenly Spike felt transported back to the ring, about to walloped.

“I don’t know whether to kill your or kiss you,” the dark haired, buxom woman said.

Spike grinned sheepishly, ignoring the fact that even his face hurt. “Do I get any choice in the matter?”

The woman glared, but staid her rage. “You wore your own gear, nearly got yourself disqualified, performed an extremely risky move…” her eyes darted to John Henry, “You better the hell have not taught him that! And you knocked out the damn ref.” She winced and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “By kissing him!”

“Look, I knew I was a good kisser, but that not that good!”

“Not to bruise your ego, tomcat,” Sandra started, “but that was probably just a by-product of your magick.”

“Yes, and a great future knock-out move,” Spike said, smiling at his own achievement.

Sandra looked to her husband. “He always like this or should I check his head again?” Then back to Spike. “Truth be told, you really tested your limits tonight, sugar. Any further and you might have caused internal damage—to your bones, your organs—especially with that glyph of yours. They don't call Dynamis a double-edged sword just because, you know...”

Varla cleared her throat. She wasn’t finished speaking yet. “Which you would know if you did your homework, which I assume you haven't." She sighed. "Be that as it may, you did put on one hell of a show tonight.” Her painted lips curled into a wicked smile. “It wasn’t what I expected.”

Spike shot her a dirty look. “No, you expected me to get squashed.”

“People have a bloodlust,” Varla shrugged. “Seeing monsters tear apart pretty boys is a well-established draw in this line of entertainment.”

Overcome with emotion, and past the point of exhaustion to boot, Spike didn’t know how to defend himself. Lucky, his coach stepped in for him. He went to his side and patted him on the back (perhaps a little too hard). “Well, looks like tonight the prettyboy bit back.”

Spike smiled up at his coach. Of all the people in the room, he was the one he’d wanted to impress the most. His validation was better than any victory. With that said, Spike was not exactly primed for conversation. He looked around the swanky dressing room. A full length mirror, ringed by bulb lights, lined the far wall. A vase full of purple lilies sat on a polished table next to a bucket full of what Spike presumed to be champagne, likely expensive. If he hadn’t witnessed the rest of the arena upon entry, Spike would have assumed they had taken him offsite.

The sailor boy superstar scratched his head, cringing at the tactile sensation of his own sweat-coated hair. “Where are we anyway?”

The shadow queen outstretched her hands to both sides, nearly whacking the lovely Sandra in the face. “Private dressing room, darling. Where champions and top billing stay. Something tells me you might want to get used to it.” The woman sauntered over to a drawer and began extracting a series of champagne coupees that might have cost more than Spike’s apartment for all he knew.

This was too much. He just wanted to sleep off the terrible throbbing inside his head. He suspected his adrenaline levels would not allow this to happen for some time. He could see his hands still trembling.

In the quiet following the clash, Spike caught his breath and tried to collect his thoughts. Fighting Ryan had been straight forward enough, though he was still in doubt of his victory, believing sheer luck and a dash of last-minute studying had earned him his win over pure technique and skill.

Then there was that weirdness at the end with that creepy, tall man in the red suit. And Rage. Spike looked to John Henry, with his arm around his wife’s petit shoulders. “Hey, J.H., who was that spooky, Rasputin-looking creep in the red suit standing ringside with Vahni Rage?"

“Huh?” John Henry blinked. The wheels turned. “Ah, I know who you’re talking about. That’s the president of the Firebird Spellbreaking League, Simeon Grigorivich. And yes, he is every bit the creep.”

Spike nodded. “There was also a guy before me, Cian—

A pop of champagne and a squeal of girlish delight from Varla cut him off.

Spike resumed. “Do you know if he’s alright? He was nice to me in the locker room. Well, he wasn’t really nice at all, but at least he didn’t razz me like the other spellbreakers did, which was nice enough.”

Sandra answered this one. “The medical magi did what they could to patch him up. He’ll be able to spellbreak again if that’s what you mean. Shame though. Apparently, this was his one shot to impress Grigorivich. Firebird is bound to let him go now.”

 “Who wants champagne?” Varla said, carrying a glass in each hand, amber liquid sloshing over the side.

John politely refused. “Oh, no, bubbles go straight to my head...”

“Come now, honey, it’s a celebration.” Sandra gladly took a glass and handed the other to her husband.

“Fine,” he said, taking it. He raised a glass to. “You did great, kid. Shall we toast to your victory?”

A slinky, shadow rose from the ground and impatiently waved a glass of champagne in front of Spike. “Thanks.” He was too scared not to take it. "But I say we should toast to you, John Henry. Your training is what got me here.”

“Aren’t you a little suck up,” John Henry teased. “I am much too humble to accept, but your gratitude is appreciated all the same.” He took a sip. “Mmm. This is the good stuff. How’s your head, kid?”

“No complaints yet; why do you ask?” Spike paused. “Oh, you mean tonight? Huh, it’s still mostly a blur.” Blushing, Spike acknowledged Sandra. “Thanks again, ma’am.”

She spoke as if Spike and her had been long-lived friends. “Oh, it’s nothing doing. I was asked to be on standby. Varla doesn’t trust the other medical magi, and quite frankly, I prefer to keep things in the family.” She cupped her hand to the side of her mouth, as if letting him on a dirty secret. “Besides, it’s not purely for altruism. I’m getting paid.”

John Henry spat out his champagne. “Honey!”

She continued with the gossip. “Turns out our busboy makes one hell of a cook, so we’re trying to fund for an automatic dishwasher to lighten the load for him. John and I feed people, Varla sets up handsome men to get torn to shreds in front of blood-thirsty crowd—we all have our little careers, don’t we?”

Content, and amused, Spike sipped from his champagne. It was rare he encountered happily married couples, especially ones so well-adjusted as John Henry and Sandra. It left him with a pang in his heart. From what he remembered of his parents they were much the same.

With tears in his eyes, Spike held back from crying. “It’s not a bad family, you know, this group here.”

Varla, mid-gulp on her second glass, looked over at him. It was hard to decipher her expression, but there was a flash of warmth there that Spike had not seen before. She parted her lips, as if to say something, but was halted by the sound of heavy knocking on the dressing room door.

She snapped out of whatever sentiment had taken hold. “Who in the world?” she asked, annoyed. She put down her half-finished glass and sauntered over to the door, fixing her hair. Her shadow trailed her, hovering over her shoulder, clearly on guard.

“Yes, coming!” Varla shouted, annoyed. Spike watched her open the door with a savage grace. She stood there for a moment...and her face fell. “I’m sorry, but no solictors.” She went to close the door, but was stopped by a firm, gentle hand that was too strong even for her to fight against. She stood, sighed, and allowed the person entry.

In walked a man muscular enough to rival John Henry. An energy followed him, and upon entering the room, the energy changed. It was difficult for Spike to put a word to it. The man wore a white suit with an impressive belt buckle, cowboy boots, and had a short-trimmed beard. His hair was long, but tied in the back with what appeared to be a clip made of diamond inlays. At his entrance, John Henry’s face lit up, but Spike had never seen Varla look so grim, with her lips pursed tight.

"You handsome, old son of a bitch," John Henry exclaimed, drawing the giant man into a massive embrace (it looked like even J.H. had to exert some effort on him!)

"That's no way to greet your old tag partner," the handsome man said  said in a honey-bourbon draw that made Spike instantly melt.. He returned the hug, letting John Henry go, and tipped his hat to Sandra. "Mrs. Iron. Lovely as always. And...a pleasant evenin’ to you too, Varla. I promise, I’m not selling anything.”

There was a shyness about him that made him all the more endearing. But something tugged at him from the recess of his memory. Maybe he’d hit his head a little too hard, but there was something very familiar to him about this man.

Whoever he was, Varla was colder than usual. “But something tells me you’re in the mood for buying,” she said. “I know that look in your eyes! Don’t you—”

“Aw shucks, V,” the gentle giant said. He nodded to Spike, who, out of shyness, promptly averted his eyes. “I just wanted to see this long lion over here, is all.”

Young lion? Spike felt his cheeks tinged with warmth. Hello, daddy!

“Don’t you ‘aw shucks me’, you cad!” Varla mumbled. Her shadow guardian grew larger and larger behind her, and more feral. She noticed the change and swatted it down to regular size, the umbrage dissipating like cloud cover. "What do you want with the kid?"

“Hm?” Suddenly, all eyes were on Spike again. He pointed to his chest and was once again deeply conscious of his state of undress. “Me? Am I the kid?”

The man walked over to him, accompanied by an unusual smell—fine cologne and a scent that Spike, had he not been in a certain state of mind, would have missed as the smell of Earth after rain. “Evenin’,” he said, friendly enough. Even so, his was a very intimidating frame. Spike felt like he was reclining in the presence of a god. “Kiddo, that was one hell of a show you put on out there. You whooped that boy’s butt something fierce.”

Varla felt the need to chime in, brushing right past John Henry and Sandra, who hadn’t managed to get a word in edgewise since the stranger’s arrival “They’re even saying you overshadowed the title fight, you little scamp!” She said this with such excitement, but it was when she pinched Spike’s cheeks, like an old aunt or older relative would do, that he knew something stranger was in the air.

It was like everyone was in on a joke except him. Spike frowned, but kept his manners. He stood to greet the gentleman, finding that he was still unsteady on his feet. Even standing at full height, Spike only came up to his chest, which he could tell was barely held back by a series of buttons clinging to dear life.

Spike stumbled over his words. “Wow, you’re very…” He didn’t know what to say next—‘big’, ‘tall,’ ‘handsome’? None were appropriate. Not that it had stopped him before. “Ehrm. I’m Spike.” He extended his hand.

The man embraced it warmly with both of his own, nearly crushing it without trying. “Well met, kid,” he said, all smiles. “Name’s Colt. How would you like to come train and work for my fed, the Global Spellbreaking Alliance?”

It took Spike a second too long to process what had just happened, and who was standing in front of him, shaking his hand. The ground slipped away from him, and the world rushed past his head. He started to swoon.

“I…think I need to sit down…” Spike said, before he fell back into a welcoming, and much needed, darkness.

Next Chapter!