Dawn squinted hard as she eased her aching neck out of its crooked position between the seat and the window. Her mouth tasted coppery.

She turned and saw Spike in the driver's seat.

"What's going on?" She was more than a little irked at this second kidnapping attempt.

Spike frowned at her for a moment. "You don't remember."

Dawn lowered her eyebrows. "Remember what?"

"Nevermind. S'better this way."

.....

The lasting image in his mind was of the blood. It was everywhere; dripping from the walls, puddling on the floor, spurting into the air, pervading his senses. And it was their blood. Spike vomited at the sickening arousal he felt as the demon urged him: drink.

The spell had failed. There was no sudden strength, no last hope, just a chorus of screams as bones crunched, flesh tore, and those rivers of blood blanketed everything with the stench of sweet, young death.

Spike bolted. As he ran through the corridors, the absence of pulses pressed like lead on his own silent heart.

But then, a beat. Faint, irregular, but there. And familiar. Dawn.

And he had no regret at what he was leaving because he could hear her breathing close to him -- as he could hear her now.