"So's that," River says to the zhirel's back. Softly; too softly to hear, perhaps.

Perhaps not. Slayer senses.

(Pick a word. It doesn't always mean what you think.)

Her head turns slightly; it's a moment more before her eyes follow, and meet Spike's. She's poised, wary: not like she was, not trembling on the edge of violence, but uncertain and waiting and watchful.

Improvised stakes protrude from a pocket of her long brown duster, and her pale fingers curl loosely around the smooth wood of the quarrel.