Well. This isn't turning out the way she'd expected. And just what had she expected, anyway? To break the spell when she put her hand into that red glowy bubble surrounding Spike and Willow? To be the hero for once, instead of the victim? To show him she really was sorry for the way she'd been treating him, and that her forgiveness was unconditional, that she would endanger herself for him because he was worth it? Whatever. Clearly her course of action could have used a little forethought.

Where am I? she wonders, and then jumps a little because she has spoken the words aloud. Her voice is jarring in the still night air of this eerie place she's found herself. The words reverberate, bouncing off the cobblestones beneath her feet and the crumbling brick and stone of the faceless buildings crowding either side of the narrow alley.

She holds her breath, half expecting an answer to come floating out of the deep, haunting shadows all around, and if that happens she will run, just take off and sprint blindly away from the sound because wherever she is, it feels wrong, it feels cold, and nothing good can emerge from that blackness.

When the silence spins out and she's marginally convinced she's not about to be attacked and strung up by her entrails, she turns in a slow, tight circle, taking in the big picture—which is just more of the same. Biting her lip and gathering her courage, she starts walking. Because … what else is she gonna do?

What would Buffy do? Besides kill Dawn for being here in the first place, that is. And be way more prepared to fight anything that might slink or ooze or lumber out of those ominous shadows intent on crushing the life out of this uninvited guest. Buffy has been training her, sure—but she is far from earning her Slayer stripes, and even on routine Sunnydale cemetery sweeps, with Buffy hovering so close Dawn can hear her breath at her back, she manages to miss the heart by a good half-inch on every third vamp. Not exactly a record that inspires confidence. Plus, now, she's completely defenseless. The stake Buffy all but glued into her hand back in the basement (a few minutes ago? Was that all?) is gone. Dawn is alone and unarmed in unfamiliar territory that may or may not be a hell dimension, and she knows quite enough about hell dimensions, thank you very much, having done a fair amount of morbid research when Buffy was gone and everyone assumed she was in one. Things Dawn shouldn't have read from books she wasn't supposed to touch are projecting on the movie screen of her mind, all shredding teeth and ripping claws and terror and torture and dark, dark, dark—forever.

Which is why, when she turns a corner and slams face-first into Spike, she lets out an ear-piercing scream and comes perilously close to wetting her pants before recognition and sweet harsh suffocating relief sweep over her. He grabs her by the arms before her knees buckle, and she lets out a half-sob as she gazes up raptly into those sharp, concerned blue eyes.

"Christ, Bit, what are you—"

"I just wanted to stop the spell, I swear, that's all I was trying to do. You guys were really scaring us back there, and I just wanted to get you out, make it stop. We thought it was going to kill you. I don't think it was working anyway. Where's Willow? Where are we?" The words tumble out of her in a rush because she is so happy to see him, so intensely relieved because safety is a given now, a guarantee, and no matter what's lurking around the next corner, she will be all right. It's Spike.

He glances back into the shadows behind him and then looks at her, shrugging lightly. "Not sure," he says. "Not sure it matters. Main thing is to get you out of here. Come with me."

He takes her arm and begins to lead her back the way he'd come, Dawn resisting, insistent on getting all her facts straight because something here isn't right. She feels it, the wrongness. "Spike, wait a second. Wait. You haven't seen her?"

"Who?" he asks distractedly, tugging her along impatiently as she drags her feet.

"Willow." Dawn frowns sideways at him as she picks up her pace to keep up with his long strides without having her arm torn from the socket, and why is he walking so fast anyway, when he seems as clueless as she is about where they are? "Willow Rosenberg, resident witch in charge of this spell and probably our key to getting the hell out of wherever-we-are. Ring a bell? She has to be here somewhere, Spike, and hang on a second!" She jerks to a stop and plants her hands on her hips stubbornly.

He spins to fix her with a frustrated glare, working his best expression of intimidation that she's long been immune to, ever since she realized her strength of will matched his own. She glares right back.

"Spike, we've got to find her."

He seems to size her up for a moment, and then his expression softens and he sighs unnecessarily and leans against the brick wall behind him. "Don't know how to say this, Bit," he says, and her heart skips a beat. "I know it's going to come as a shock, and I hate to be the one to lay this on you, but maybe then you'll understand why we've got to get you away from here."

"What are you saying?" Dawn asks, her voice trembling. He's not looking her in the eyes. She can't read him when he's not looking her in the eyes. "Spike?"

"I found her." He nods as if to indicate the exact spot. "Lying in the street, drained. Dead. 'Bout an hour ago, maybe more, maybe less. Can't be sure, time's different here."

Dawn feels sour bile rise at the back of her throat, and when he reaches for her she draws back violently. "No," she says. "Don't."

"You have to come, sweet, don't you understand? There's something here. Something evil. It's coming; I can feel it. It wants you—just you. We can't just stand by and wait for it to find us."

Dawn raises watery blue eyes to his and jerks away again when he reaches once more for her hand. Something …

"You have to come, Dawn. Come with me, now!" His tone is becoming more commanding, less pleading, and she knows that in a moment he will stop trying to convince her and just take her, and that wrongness is everywhere, it's all around now, choking. She shrinks back one more time from his grasping hand, turns a bewildered gaze on him.

"Spike? What are you doing?" she asks hollowly. "Willow—?"

"Is dead, I told you. Dead, as you're going to be if you don't move your ass and follow me like a good girl. Do you want to die, Dawnie?"

Do you want her to suffer?

Never.

Her lips part, as her jaw slackens. Already huge eyes widen even more. "You don't call me that."

He looks exasperated. "What?"

"Dawnie. You never call me Dawnie." Without realizing it, she is backing slowly, steadily away from him.

"Oh, bloody hell, Dawn, will you stop being such a— Where do you think you're going? Come back here!"

"Who are you?"

He laughs, as if he's going to shake his head and roll his eyes and tell her to stop this buggering foolishness right now and think about what she's saying, and for a moment she teeters on the edge, wanting to believe she's reading the signals wrong, that she's disoriented and shaken and quite possibly dreaming, or making up horror to mask horror because she's a masochist because all teenagers are masochists, and this is Spike, who would never hurt her (if he could help it)—

And the next moment, as she's still teetering, he grabs her around the waist and yanks her to him so suddenly her neck whips backward and the strength rushes from her like a ragdoll as needle-sharp teeth sink into tender flesh.

To be continued…