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part five

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Another night had come. Her life seemed a stream of nights wandering through the dark places. Graveyards, morose backstreets. The places the demons lived, where most humans would not interfere. But she would hunt them to their homes, track them where they walked. And her life sometimes seemed to just be a series of long nights, walking quietly through the dark, hunting.

She had seen them earlier, and thought she had tracked them well. If she could find their den, she could take them by surprise near dawn, when they slept.

It was a pack of demonic wolves, preternaturally intelligent. She could tell from their cries, the way they moved-- tactically, with a purpose. They communicated with each other.

She had wounded one, its blood trailed down the asphalt where she walked. A muddy puddle betrayed a hauntingly large paw print. She bent to touch it. It engulfed her hand with its expanse.

They were large of size and numbers. She would need to be prepared when she found them.

She sighed, shifted her now-familiar crossbow on her shoulder. With the increase in activity, she'd needed a far range weapon nearly every night.

Its weight was heavy on her back.

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He was very close now, he knew, as he sat at the kitchen table, pouring over his research. He was alone in the house.

He wrote, the sound of his pen moving a quiet rustle. His left hand was a black blur of ink, where he inadvertently dragged it across the page.

He liked it here. It felt like a home.

He continued to write, trying to think of the exact translation for the verb... no, he'd better look it up.

He stood, looking across the table for the dictionary. He swayed, and caught the table edge.

A burning sensation filled his temples, and grew in intensity. His joints were weak. And it subsided.

He sat down again, shaking off the disturbance, book in hand.

He turned it to the appropriate section. His vision blurred slightly. A subtle pain had settled into his veins. And he new what it was.

But he could not, would not feed.

He continued his studies, the dull pain spreading in him. It was almost a comfort, it felt right, somehow, that he should suffer.

He was very close to finished. Just another key phrase and he'd be done.

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Dawn waved goodbye to Janice, and picked her geometry book up off the car seat next to her.

"Come over for milkshakes tomorrow?" Janice asked casually.

"I don't think I can, there's some stuff going on here, I should really be home for a while." Dawn was embarrassed, things were so transparent. They probably thought social services was after her again. She was sure their eyes disapproved.

"Ok, well you hang in there, Dawnie," said Janice's mom. She smiled. Sometimes she wondered, worried about the Summers girl. But not her place to pry.

"Ok, I will. Bye Janice, thanks again!"

"Sure," said Janice, picking something out from beneath her finger nails.

She got out of the car, waved again and closed the door. And she walked down the familiar path to the front door as the headlights faded in their progress down the street.

She closed the front door, and saw Spike sitting on the stairwell, staring at his hands.

"Hey," she said kindly, "You want to play some cards with me?"

He looked up, his eyes her red. She was struck by his expression, like raging despair. It frightened her.

"Spike," she said, backing away unconsciously, "What's wrong?"

"I'm not..." William whispered, his tone shaking, "I'm not real."

"What...?"

"I feel so real, the things I see... but I'm not real," he said, "How can I be here and not be real?"

"Spike... William--"

He stood up.

"I thought I was somehow back again-- inhabiting the body, but back. But I'm dead, Dawn. I'm long passed away. This man I inhabit, he made me. A projection of memories, feelings. All the books agree. I'm an illusion."

He began to pace through the living room. He felt the blood hunger like a slight sickness in his limbs. It would grow worse with time...

She followed him with trepidation.

"But it doesn't feel that way. I think I'm myself... I know it. But there it stands. I'm a projection of his mind, his consciousness made by him-- made *from* him."

"It's ok..." she said, stepping towards him from the entryway.

"No..."

"It's best not to think about it," she whispered, remembering the psychiatric wards with their babbling inhabitants. A key, a girl. Nothing.

"But how can I see her and want to do so much-- and not be real?"

Dawn looked down. She was drawn to him in compassion.

"It's ok. I'm not real either," she said gently, reaching out to touch his arm.

"I was something else once, you see. Before all this. I was this green ball of energy. Until-- until someone else thought I should be a girl. And I was a girl. But I'm not really a girl at all... though-- though I feel like one-- People usually treat me like one. But it's always in the back of my mind."

He looked at her, his face was gentler, calmer. He couldn't imagine her being anything but the kind, good creature before him.

"Look, I can't go and meet the green swirly thing," she said, "But we can almost meet Spike... you can learn about him, just come with me."

She took his hand and lead him towards the door.

"I'm not sure if it'll be safe for us Dawn," William said, looking out into the night.

"You'll protect me," Dawn said, walking into the night.

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