The sun had just set, and it was time to patrol. Instead of heading to the cemetery, though, Spike was walking toward the Magic Shop to pick up Willow. Most of the shops on Main Street were closed; only the Magic Shop tended to draw an evening clientele. He had just paused for a moment to flick his cigarette to the ground and stamp it out when he heard it, a muffled scream. Unbidden, his bloodlust rose in anticipation, and he took a few steps in the direction of the sound. He shook off the demon, tried to regain his bearings. What was he, a bloody ambulance chaser? He couldn't feed any more, and besides, he didn't want this. He didn't want any of it.

He'd drawn close enough to hear voices, a loud, deep voice threatening murder, a higher, more feminine voice, pleading. Then, the voice changed, no longer plaintive but angry: "Get the hell away from my daughter, you bastard!" He found himself running closer and turned a corner into a back alley to see a woman, her daughter behind her, something large and ominous raising its arm to her. Spike didn't stop to think. He felt rage, and he acted. He hurled himself at the large figure, fangs bared and aimed at the throat–and fell to the ground with a roar and a searing headache. A human! Not a demon attack! Through the mist of pain, he saw the woman take advantage of the man's momentary inattention to pull something out of her purse. The hiss and subsequent agonized cry told Spike that it must have been pepper spray. He huddled on the ground, his head aching from the force of the chip's pain, the groans of the mugger, and the screams of the woman and her daughter. Then he saw flashing lights–oh good, the police. The bloody, ineffectual Sunnydale police.

They were cuffing the mugger, talking to the woman, who was explaining that the blond man with the black coat had tried to save them. Spike grimaced to himself. Yeah, and a fine job of it he'd done. Chalk up one more failure for William the Bloody. The woman had saved herself, her and her daughter. He couldn't help remembering another woman, another daughter–and an axe.

Spike wasn't a hero. He never would be.

He felt a presence next to him and looked up. It was the daughter, a mite of a thing, all wispy blonde pigtails, skinned knees and tear-streaked face.

"Mister? You ok, mister?"

"Yeah, kid." He sighed. "I'm okay."