It felt good. He had always loved the brawl, the challenge, everything all fists and fangs. Much more satisfying than all that bleedin’ ‘art of the kill’ garbage Angelus and Darla always used to waste time oohin’ and aahin’ about. Tonight, though, the fight didn’t last long enough. Spike even tried to prolong the battle, but the two vamps were young and inexperienced – who was turning these idiots anyway? he wondered. Even givin’ them every opportunity, they were reduced to dust in a matter of minutes.

Spike growled, his fist meeting the brick wall of the alleyway in frustration, and anger, and pain. Again, then again. Then the right hand. Again. Maybe the physical pain would...

“Oh, stop!”

The voice was full of distress and he spun toward the sound, ready to lash out, to maim, to kill.

It was the woman. The ones the fledglings had been about to make into a meal when he’d happened upon the scene. Mindin’ his own damn business. Immediately he was stuck by the horrifying thought – bloody hell, he hadn’t been protectin’ her, had he?

He assured himself he had not. He’d just been lookin’ for a fight, like any self-respecting evil demon should be of a night.

“Please, stop. Your poor hands – look at them...” she trailed off as her eyes lifted from the bloody mess of his hands to his eyes.

He was in game face. Why wasn’t she runnin’ for her life? Screamin’, damn it? Couldn’t he have that, at least? The ability to instill fear in mortals who didn’t know he was incapable of hurtin’ them? Had that, too, been taken from him?

Enraged, furious with fate, he leapt toward her, fangs bared, yellow eyes flashing.

The woman flattened herself against the brick wall in terror.

“Please, I can’t, I only meant...” The sight and scent of her rampant fear soothed Spike to some degree, which worked to his advantage. If he’d touched her, he’d be screamin’ and clutchin’ his head in agony, wouldn’t he? And how bleedin’ scary was that?

“That’s better,” he snarled, pinning her to the wall with his presence. “You’re wise to show fear, because, woman, I am all your nightmares come to pass.”

He watched as she closed her eyes and turned her face away from him, waiting for him to strike. She didn’t beg or plead or cry. Just clutched her fear close and shut him out.

Bugger it all to hell.

She was wearin’ her hair in the same style Joyce had started favorin’ before she died.

Spike pushed away from her and turned to go, mangled hands already reaching for a cigarette, as his features shifted back to their human form. Satisfaction was becoming a damn bitch to come by.

“Thank you for saving my life.”

He froze. What the hell had she just said?

He didn’t turn back to her. His hands were shaking – bloody shaking – as he went ahead and lit his fag. He took another step away.

“I’ve seen you before.”

He spun back to face her, leather whipping around him. Black menace.

“Who the bleedin’ hell are you?” he demanded furiously.

“Emily Huggins.” Her voice had gained strength. “I own the flower shop,” she went on, nodding her head to the back door of the small flower shop they were standing next to.

“I’ve seen you back here before, usually sometime shortly before midnight. Almost every night the last couple of weeks.”

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t...

“I’ve seen you taking flowers from those I’ve had to put out.”

Spike swallowed, his face a frozen mask.

Emily relaxed a little when he said nothing. More importantly, when he didn’t jump at her again or try to eat her.

“I always dislike having to put out flowers that are perfectly fine, just a moment past their prime. It seems such a waste. But I know they won’t sell in the morning, so I...” her voice trailed off. “I just, I just wanted you to know that, well, you’re welcome to them.” Her chin came up in defiance when he leveled icy blue eyes on hers. “Please take as many as you want. I want – I’m happy to have them find a home.”

Spike took a drag off his cigarette, and inhaled deeply, his jaw clenched. He couldn’t think of One. Bloody. Thing. To. Say.

He turned and strode away, duster billowing about him.

Sometimes image really was everything.

“I meant what I said,” Emily called after him.

As soon as he was certain he was well out of her sight, Spike broke into a run.

~*~

His crypt was dark. He rarely bothered to light candles anymore. Nothin’ to see anyway. And he belonged in the dark. He was a vampire, right? Creature of the night.

No light for the likes of him.

He went straight to the refrigerator. Time to mix up a little Buffy cocktail. One part Slayer blood, three parts whatever else was on hand.

In all his years as a vampire, he had never craved blood like he craved hers. He carefully doled out his dwindling supply in small portions, like a money less addict planning his next fix from what was available. Just so much per day. All at once? Or a little now, a little more later?

And then he would sip it, savor it, licking the glass clean greedily. He could taste her in every drop. Hot and strong and powerful.

Buffy.

He’d gone from the weakened, almost skeletal state that Dawn had found him in to the strongest he’d ever been in a few short weeks. He was still too thin, his face too full of shadowed angles, but strength surged through his veins, and the power he could unleash while fighting truly terrified his opponents.

He gloried in the strength her blood gave him. Relished it.

The aphrodisiac qualities of Slayer blood were ruthlessly ignored. He couldn’t – couldn’t fantasize. Wouldn’t. The first time her blood had rushed to his groin, he’d almost doubled over in pain at the very thought of seeking out or providing himself with sexual gratification. So he simply – didn’t. He had power, didn’t he? And he had the power to deny and ignore whatever he damn well wanted to ignore. His lips twisted. Master of his own domain, he was.

Spike ran his tongue along the edge of his glass, swiping up the last tiny droplet of blood. At this rate, Buffy’s blood would be completely gone in less than a month. Would he be able to keep down blood that was not spiked with the powerful blood of his Slayer? He didn’t know.

Didn’t care, either.

~*~

During the long hours of the day, he was, for the most part, trapped in his crypt by the sunlight. More and more often now, with his Slayer’s blood singing in his veins, he found himself escaping into the sewers, searching for some beastie dwelling in the vast underground of Sunnydale to pummel and kill. Searching for something – anything – to occupy his mind, his body, his fists. But sometimes he still lay in silence atop his bier, flirting with desperately needed sleep.

And she would come to him.

Sometimes she came in dreams. One dream flowed into another, differing radically in mood and tone. He knew they were dreams. Just dreams. He should be able to open his eyes and the images – both good and bad – would be dispelled. But he couldn’t. His eyes refused to open. The dreams held him tightly in thrall, and he couldn’t break away. The images pressed into him relentlessly, without mercy.

He and Dawn were on the tower. But this time, this time, Doc proved no deterrent for him. Spike was able to toss the strange little demon to his death, preventing him from cutting Dawn. When Buffy finished with Glory and joined them atop the tower, there was no need for her to leap. Buffy and Dawn embraced...

He could hear Willow in his mind, telling him to run, to get up the tower. But he couldn’t move. He looked down, only to see that his feet had grown roots and were firmly planted deep in the earth. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t. Budge. But he could hear Dawn screaming, crying out to him for help, calling his name. He could see Buffy falling, falling. He was stuck in the ground, unable to move an inch as he watched her die. Again...

They were making love. Oh god, she felt so good, better than he’d ever imagined. He was moving within her, deep, strong, and she was there, right there with him, responding to every touch, every thrust. Their eyes were locked together and he could feel her, feel her tightening around him. She was coming, coming, and she was calling his name. His...

The tower didn’t seem as tall this time. He knew he could defeat Doc. He felt strong, invincible. He tried to convey his confidence to a terrified Dawn. But she couldn’t hear him, couldn’t seem to see him. He swaggered across the grid work toward Doc, but the little man didn’t turn to face him. Instead he kept advancing on Dawn. Spike was angry at being ignored. People shouldn’t ignore death when it walked up behind them. Spike charged him, leaping at him in a tackle that would take them both down quickly. But he flew right through the other man, landing on the hard metal between Doc and Dawn. Enraged, he rose and repeated the motion with the same result. Then he realized. They couldn’t see him, couldn’t even sense him. He was invisible to them. He stared at the space his hands should occupy. Even he couldn’t see them. He wasn’t there. He didn’t exist. He was dead...

She was sleeping in his arms. Naked and warm against him. He lay awake listening to the strong beat of her heart...

“It’s your fault, yours. You incompetent scum, you worthless, soulless demon. She’s dead because of you. You’re responsible.” The Watcher and Harris advanced on him with stakes raised to strike. His arms were pinned behind him in a relentless hold. He struggled to break free, twisting around to see what it was that held him so tightly. It was Dawn, her eyes glittering with malicious hatred...

He knocked the knife from Doc’s hands, watching it as it fell into the rubble far below. Doc couldn’t cut Dawn. She was safe. He’d saved her. Buffy and Dawn turned to him and smiled...

They were fighting. He and Buffy. Fists and words flying furiously. And he could hit her without his head exploding...

She was still alive. Alive. Oh god, oh god, she’d been buried alive...

They were making love. She knew exactly how to move to make him groan, how to touch him to make him gasp. They’d done this hundreds of times, thousands. He knew her body better than he knew his own, and she knew his. He was going to come, could feel the beautiful build up of pressure, the wild pleasure. Then his fangs were buried in her neck and he was drinking her, coming violently inside her, taking her and – oh god, no, draining her, turning her, even as she called out that she would love him forever. Forever and ever and ever...

Sometimes she just came to him. He could swear he was awake, open eyed and staring into the dark emptiness of his crypt. He couldn’t see her, but he could feel her presence, could catch her scent in the air which grew heavy around him, weighing him down.

Buffy.

And then, her touch. Ghostly fingers whispering over his flesh, tracing delicate lines against his pale skin. Her touch was so soft. It soothed him, calmed him. Then it aroused him, making him ache for more.

Buffy.

Her breath warmed his flesh; words he couldn’t make out were spoken softly against his ear, his throat. He wanted to understand her, wanted to know what it was she was telling him, why she was coming to him, what she wanted, needed. Please, love, stay here with me. Stay here. Stay.

Buffy.

But of course she didn’t. He could feel her presence slipping away, leaving, and he tried desperately to hold onto – her, her essence. He wanted to cloak himself in it, wrap it tightly around him, cling to it. But he never succeeded. She always slipped away.

Buffy.

He didn’t know which was worse – the dreams or the waking visions, the passionate scenarios of sex, and joy, and saving, or the nightmarish ones of failure and death.

When he woke it was always the same. In those first dark moments, dreams and reality were so mixed up and twisted in his mind that he couldn’t differentiate between them. Every single time he woke, he honestly did not know if Buffy was dead or alive. Just. Did. Not. Know. His mind worked frantically to sort through all the dreams, all the pain, all the horror and the guilt and the hope until reality could be ascertained. Until he knew for sure.

Until the world crashed down around him again.

No. No.

She was dead.

His Slayer was dead.

It was like losing her all over again every time he woke. And, every time he woke, he laid there, his face pressed against his upper arm, buried in the crook formed by his bent elbow, as the agony of loss started screaming its now familiar path through every cell of his body all over again.

Buffy. Buffy.

He hadn’t cried since he’d held her body through the night in the morgue.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d come,” Giles admitted. “You’ve been pretty reclusive since, er, well, since –“

“Dawn told me you wanted to talk, Watcher,” Spike interrupted. “She asked me to come.” His tone strongly suggested no other incentive could have brought him to this meeting.

“Yes. I shall have to thank her then.” Giles didn’t bother to mention that, to his knowledge, this was the first time Spike had spoken to anyone other than Dawn since he’d left the hospital the morning after Buffy’s death.

Giles was seated behind his desk in his small office just off the training room at the Magic Box , while Spike leaned with seeming negligence against the closed door, his hands buried in the pockets of his duster. The blond’s eyes seemed fixed on some spot on the floor just in front of his feet.

Giles studied him for a moment. “You seem to be regaining your health,” he offered. It had been close to a month since Spike had been back among the living, as Willow had rather oddly phrased it.

Spike shifted uncomfortably, before raising his head, and just for a moment, meeting the other man’s eyes.

“Haven’t thanked any of you lot for lookin’ out for me,” he acknowledged. “Bit told me ‘bout the research and the offers of blood.” He glanced at Giles’ arm as the Watcher’s hand went to his left wrist instinctively. Spike looked away. “’ppreciate it,” he muttered.

“Yes, er, well,” Giles was stammering a bit as he often did when he felt out of his element. “You were very helpful to us when we were on the run from Glory, and I felt – we all felt that Buffy would have wanted us to try to help you.”

Even though his head was bent downward again, Giles could see the strong line of Spike’s jaw tighten.

“I’ve been curious about the condition we found you in. Do you have any explanation? Do you know what caused the problem with your inability to –er, eat? Or, for that matter, what caused things to go back to normal?”

Spike looked over Giles’ shoulder at the shelves of books lining the back wall of the office. “That what you wanted to talk to me about?” he asked after a moment.

“I am interested in that, yes. But there are some other things of greater importance right now.”

“Let’s get straight to the good stuff then, shall we?”

Spike remained in his slouched position, but his shoulders tightened a little as he braced himself for the Watcher’s words. He was expecting it, after all. No way the blasted Scoobies were gonna let the bit keep spending so much time with him. After all, evil, right? He hoped that if he played it cool and kept the temper Angelus had always chided him for under control, he might be able to salvage a couple of nights a week with his girl.

“Right then,” Giles sighed. “I will admit, it pains me to have come to this conclusion. But what it is – what I need – oh bugger it.” He gathered himself. “Actually, I was hoping I could persuade you to help out with some problems that have arisen.”

Spike’s head came up in surprise, and he allowed a small smile to soften the curve of his mouth briefly. “Oooh. That hurt, didn’t it, Rupert?”

It was the nearest Giles had seen to the old Spike since Buffy’s loss nearly two months ago. There was even the faintest trace of a smirk on the vampire’s lips. But it was quickly gone, and when he spoke again, his tone was serious.

“What’s the problem, Watcher?”

Giles briefly explained how demon activity seemed to have fallen off both before and after Glory’s destruction but now appeared to be on the rise again, and about the difficulties they would have in fighting new threats without Buffy.

“You’re lookin’ for muscle, then,” Spike summed up.

“I guess it could be put that way, yes.”

“I’m in.” The words were stark, spoken without hesitation.

”I can only offer to pay you a small amount, I’m afraid,” Giles added, and the blond frowned.

“You can keep your bleedin’ money, Watcher.” Spike’s voice was tight. “I said I’m in.”

The Watcher studied Spike openly, trying to read him. The vampire looked older somehow, he realized. Weary, worn, angry. And hurting. He kept to himself so much now, coldly refusing – ignoring – what few overtures they extended. At one time, not so very many months ago, he had sought out their company, had at times, seemed to almost crave it, to be a part of their group. Now, though, he seemed not only disinterested, but almost hostile to the idea of being with any of them. Buffy’s gone, Giles told himself. Spike no longer needs to seek our company to be near her. That was logical, right? So why, then, didn’t Giles himself buy that explanation?

Only Dawn seemed capable of touching him on any level at all now. And Giles had to admit he was somewhat impressed with the devotion the blond was showing the young girl. Several times in the last week he’d overheard Dawn giggling as she shared with Anya something Spike had said or done. There had been so little laughter in her life for so long…

Giles straightened in his chair, and got down to business.

“Apparently, we have a dragon in the area.”

Spike cocked a brow. “I remember seeing a dragon or two when the portal opened.” He’d been lying uselessly on the ground where Doc had thrown him, helpless to get back up the tower to Buffy and Dawn, helpless to protect them, to save them. Helpless to stop Buffy’s descent as she jumped and he watched her fall. Falling, falling. Helpless, useless, as he watched her body slam into the ground only a dozen feet from his own. Useless as he watched her die.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and swallowed, attempting to force away the visions of his failure.

Failing, as always. They never left him.

“In monitoring police records, Willow has come across half a dozen reports of a dragon in flight over the last few nights.”

Giles spread a map of the area out on his desk, and Spike pulled up a chair, turning it around to straddle it as he leaned over the desk to watch as Giles indicated the places the dragon had been spotted.

“There aren’t any reports yet of it landing in populated areas, or attacking people, but we can surmise that such an occurrence will come about. And I hope we can act before it does.”

“What’s the plan, then?”

Giles allowed himself a faint smile. “We’re still working on the details, of course. But a dragon is quite large, or at least reports indicate this one is. There aren’t that many places it can be concealing itself. And since we stand little chance of bringing it down while it’s in flight, we need to find its lair.”

Spike didn’t hesitate. “The caves, here,” He indicated the area just outside Sunnydale where there was a large network of caves. “Some of the caverns are quite large. Plenty of room for a dragon – or several, for that matter. Any idea if there’s more than one?”

“No. You just said you thought you remembered seeing a dragon or two. How certain are you that you saw more than one?”

Spike tried to remember. Had he seen more than one dragon, or had he only seen the same one circling? He wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to spend any more time visualizing that night. It filled his dreams and nightmares enough as it was.

“Sorry,” he said. “’m not sure.”

“One will be problem enough,” Giles cautioned. “More than one…” he let his voice trail off.

“Or a breeding pair,” Spike added.

Giles’ mind had played with that idea with a sense of dread, and he tried to ignore the fact that there seemed to be a bit of anticipation in Spike’s voice.

“Tara has a lot of knowledge of dragon lore. We’re not sure if any of that will be of use to us, but since we seem to be without the latest edition of ‘Dragon Hunting Made Easy’,” his dryly sarcastic tone made Spike’s lips curve again briefly as the other man continued, “we’ll be taking a hard look at what she knows. Weaknesses. Strengths. Things we need to prepare for.”

“Don’t know how likely it is, but if it can breathe fire like in legends, that’ll be a problem for me,” Spike reminded him. “For you, too, I’m sure, but, still, I’m more flammable than you lot.”

He stood, moving his chair back to its original position.

“I’ll go have a look around the caves tomorrow,” he told Giles. “See if anything looks promising.”

“Can you get there safely during the day?”

“Can always find ways to get about,” Spike assured him. “Hellmouth,” he added as if that explained everything. Which, in a way, it did.

“But I thought – er, I mean. I understood vampires slept during the day. That they had little control over that need.”

Spike eyed him solemnly as he lit a cigarette. “Sleep is highly overrated, mate.” He took a long, satisfying drag on his cigarette, ignoring Giles’ disparaging looks at the curling smoke.

“I’d be terribly interested in learning...” Giles broke off abruptly, realizing it wasn’t really the appropriate time to ask Spike to tutor him in vampiric habits and culture, even if he would dearly love to access his first hand knowledge. If Spike continued to work with them, perhaps he could persuade the blond to provide him with information currently unavailable to the Council. Anya’s words about ‘knowing thine enemy’ had rankled. How accurate were the Council’s texts? he wondered. Were there inaccuracies that needed correcting? The next Slayer, whoever she was, may be in need of more complete information, and he felt it was his duty as a Watcher to do everything in his power to gain that knowledge.

“There are other matters that we’ll need to look at once the dragon has been taken care of,” Giles changed the subject. “Glory’s minions, for instance –”

“—are not a problem.” Spike finished for him.

Giles raised a brow in question.

“Not a problem, Watcher.”

Spike didn’t elaborate, but Giles didn’t need him to. Spike had been hunting.

“They’re all taken care of?” he asked.

“Near as I can tell.”

“Very well, then,” Giles said by way of thanks. “And Doc?”

Spike’s entire body went rigid, and Giles hoped he’d never see the expression on his face directed at himself or at anyone he cared about. The smooth, chiseled, lines of Spike’s still too thin face twisted into a mask of fury infinitely more frightening than his vampiric features.

“Not. Yet.” Spike gritted out, voice icy with hatred. And determination.

Giles felt a shudder go through his body. He could almost pity Doc when Spike at last found the little demon. Almost. But not quite. He’d cut Dawn. Opened the portal. Forced the death of his surrogate daughter. Ripper peeked through.

“When you find him, I’d like to be there for the finish,” he told Spike. “If I can’t be there – well, then, my shout at the pub afterward.”

Spike nodded. “I plan to make it painful,” he warned. “Blood. Gore. Screams of agony.”

Giles met his eyes steadily, and repeated Spike’s words from earlier. “I’m in.”

The two stared at each other in complete understanding.

~*~

She was touching him, her hands moving over his back with long, soft strokes. Spike moaned as she leaned down to whisper into his ear, and he felt the warm caress of her breasts against the cool skin of his back.

Buffy.

Even distracted by the brush of her flesh against his, he kept listening closely, trying to understand what she was saying.

He never could.

~*~

The caves just outside Sunnydale were familiar, and easily accessible, territory for Spike. Apparently some former mayor of good old Sunnyhell had been very demon friendly, and had had city engineers connect the city’s elaborate underground tunnel system directly to the caverns in several places. Why did that not surprise him? He’d stayed in them during his search for the Gem of Amarra, and later, Harmony’s little gang had made it their headquarters during her brief and rather endearing attempt at a reign of terror. Adam had housed himself here. He’d even stayed somewhere in their vast depths with Dawn while Buffy ran off to keep Willow from getting killed by that bitch hell god, Glory.

The caves were complicated, huge, and largely unexplored by the human populace. Perhaps the humans were smarter that they generally behaved, he thought. The underground labyrinth was usually infested with examples of half the demon species currently inhabiting the earth. The Hellmouth was a powerful draw to many demons, usually the worst types, and then the worst individuals of each type. The legendary power of the Hellmouth, the hundreds of prophecies that seemed intertwined with it acted like a magnet to those who loved chaos and destruction.

But not today.

The unusual emptiness of the caverns told Spike something big was up. Big enough to be a dragon?

And if it was a dragon doing such a good job making the other demons scarce – just how powerful was it?

He explored with care, taking his time to be thorough. The caves could be very confusing, and he was glad he was familiar with them. Wouldn’t pay to stumble into a mess and not be able to find his way out, would it? Though he had to admit, a bit of a set to would be nice, and he certainly hoped to come across at least one demon today capable of giving him a bit of a challenge before he killed it.

Spike wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the Watcher’s request for his help. He liked killing things. He was good at it. If he couldn’t kill to feed, as he hadn’t been able to since the Initiative had performed its little unauthorized medical experimentation on him, then killing demons was an alternate outlet for him that he enjoyed. It served to soothe the demon within, and his vampiric need for bloodletting. So, for those reasons, he supposed he was glad the Watcher had approached him.

He wasn’t sure he understood why he’d been asked though. Hadn’t the Slayer’s death proved his incompetence? Why would any of the bleedin’ Slayerettes think he was capable of coming through on something important? He hadn’t that night, had he?

The night at the tower.

None of them had actually come out and blamed him out loud, but he knew they were aware of just whose fault it was his Slayer was dead. He couldn’t even look into their eyes; couldn’t bring himself to face the accusation he knew he would find there. He supposed they were just looking for muscle, maybe even expendable muscle, and he fit the bill more that anyone else who happened to be available right now. Harris was probably laying his hopes on the ‘expendable’ part, hoping for a way to be rid of him without having to wield the stake himself.

Wanker.

He was a Master Vampire from the most elite and powerful line of vampires ever to exist. Aurelius. A weasely little demon like Doc should have proven no problem for him, and for the ten thousandth time, he tried to understand just where and how he had failed so tragically. Had he simply been unprepared for Doc’s tricks? Had he been too cocky, too sure of his own prowess as a warrior? Or had the fact that it had mattered more than ever before been his downfall? His reckless disregard for his own safety and well being had usually served him well in battle. Only when protecting another – usually Drusilla, or in the case in question, Dawn – had he acted with hesitation that had led or contributed to defeat.

Spike felt a sudden stark fear run through him. What if Dawn was endangered again, and he failed again, this time leading to her death?

Dawn. Dead.

Failing her. Again.

Failing his Slayer. Again.

He put a hand against the wall of the cave momentarily, enduring the wave of sickness he felt. Sod it all anyway. Caring about people was damned inconvenient. Not to mention truly terrifying. And fear was not a sensation he was accustomed to feeling or dealing with.

Caring about Dawn, a girl so unable to protect or defend herself, was even worse than caring about Dru or Buffy. At least they’d had the natural weapons of strength and power at their disposal.

Things Dawn was without. The fear of failing her rocked him, and the nausea increased. He swallowed.

Sonofabloodybitch.

He wasn’t going to fall back into the state he’d apparently descended to just after his Slayer’s death.  He damn well couldn’t. He had responsibilities, sod it all.

How unbloodybelievable was that? Bleedin’ tragic, it was.

Gathering himself, he went on.

The smell of rotting human flesh assaulted him just around the next curve in the passage he was following. Well, that didn’t help the nausea, he thought in disgust. The lack of sanitary measures by some demons was appalling. Didn’t they have a care for others? Especially for demons such as vampires who had a highly developed sense of smell?

The smell led him into a large cavern, currently empty of anything living. Spike took in the pile of human and animal body parts, some of which had been gnawed on, and most of which appeared to have been torn painfully from their host. Something fairly large, then, he’d wager, if it could tear a person apart limb from limb. Or something extremely powerful. Or both. Vampires could tear the heads off of humans or off of several other varieties of demons, but only when fully vamped and in the midst of blood lust. He’d never known vamps to tear off arms and legs and pile them up. Not to mention the vast amounts of blood covering lots of the bits in the pile. No vampire worthy of the name would let that amount of blood go to waste.

He ran his mind over the demons he could think of whose behavior and feeding habits fit this scenario. Half a dozen came to mind off the top of his head. Two could be safely ruled out, he felt. Emg Demons and the Nepthys had never made their way out of the jungles of South America. They were closely related, both pretty noticeable and always traveled in groups of at least a dozen. He was sure he’d have heard something if any of their kind had been spotted anywhere in the vicinity. And Sangga Demons, though they loved stockpiling their meat in just such a fashion, had little taste for human flesh, so he could probably cross them off the list too.

He raised the torch he was carrying, exploring the rest of the chamber. There were some very large, very deep and very fresh claw marks in the stone floor in several places. Balls. Some of those gouges were nearly five inches deep. In his experience, something that could claw that deeply into solid rock should, if at all possible, be avoided. And if the claw marks had been made by the same creature that was responsible for the pile of half eaten limbs and the occasional torso, he could cross two more possible demons species off his mental list. That left Geks.

Or something he had no previous knowledge of. Which would include dragons.

After another hour of examining the chamber and the adjacent passageways, Spike decided to go back to the Watcher with his information. The Scoobies could organize one of their all night research sessions. They pulled them often enough. They must enjoy them.

While they cracked the books, he thought he might work out for a bit in the training room of the Magic Box. Bloke should never get too complaisant. Maybe it was time to start training in earnest.

A little stronger. A little faster.

A little more likely to be able to protect Dawn against any threat to her that might arise.