There really had to be a better way of doing this. A way that didn’t end with her being exhausted and covered in vamp dust--and sometimes blood--by the end of the night.
Even tired as Gwen was from her patrol, however, she was still alert. And the cold shiver up her spine was a clear warning that something was following her--just as good a warning as the crunch of leaves underfoot, just far enough out of sync with her own pace to belong to another.
A sharpened wooden stake slid into her palm from the holster hidden beneath her sleeve, and the Slayer whirled, weapon poised to pierce the undead heart of whatever new enemy thought they could get a jump on her--
--An iron grip closed around her wrist, stopping her hand before her weapon could reach its target. The low chuckle accompanying the cold hand on her wrist sent a spike of terror through Gwen, but it was dispelled an instant later when she saw who the hand belonged to.
“Dammit, Arthur! I could’ve dusted you, sneaking up on me like that!” she snapped, yanking her wrist from his grasp and returning the stake to its holster.