Spike woke with a snarl. His hand went to his chest and he rubbed where he'd been staked in his dream turned nightmare.

"Damn cheerleaders," he spat as he ran a hand through his sleep tussled hair, "can't trust a bleedin' one of 'me." He glanced around for his cigarettes.

Scritch-scratch.

Spike froze. He glanced over to see if the sound had awakened Drusilla. She was asleep, still curled in a tight little ball, thumb in her mouth. His cold, black heart ached with love for her.

Scritch-scratch, scritch.

Brow furrowed intently, he listened carefully and attempted to locate the source. It seemed to be coming from behind the heavy blankets over the window that had protected them during the day from the burning rays of the sun. The scratching was replaced momentarily by a low, snuffling sound. Spike relaxed slightly. Dead folks who owned the place must have a pet of some sort, sniffing about now, looking for its dinner.

"Go away," said Spike, "or you'll be the evening meal."

The noise ceased and Spike grinned. He lay back upon the floor and began to contemplate what would be in store for his merry little band this night, forcing thoughts of Slayers and dreams from his mind for the moment.