Blood, lots of it. Spike stopped mid way to the bar and carefully glanced about his surroundings. There, stacked near the entrance to the restrooms, were the bodies of the patrons of the Fatted Calf. A quick glance at the few tables where living customers sat rigid, staring at him, drinks untouchedin front of him, and he smiled. This was interesting. Maybe this assignment wouldn't be so difficult after all.

He approached the bar where the bartender continued to dry his mug, a look of absolute terror carved into his red, spotty features.

"Give us a pint," he said slapping the bar top in an attempt to get the man's attention.

The barkeep stared dumbly over at the only living customer who did not seem paralysed with fear, the man playing darts. Spike reached across the bar, grabbed a mug and helped himself to the tap. Then he approached the dart player.

"Service is bloody awful in this place," Spike said as he sipped the warm and frothy dark ale from his mug.

The man didn't respond but let a dart fly into the board very close to the bulls-eye. Spike studied him as he readied another shot. He was big, powerfully built with slicked jet-black hair and skin the colour of burnt copper. Indian or Pakistani, he guessed. The man moved with an unusual grace not common to humans and as he readied to throw another dart, Spike noticed the mark on the back of his hand, very similar to the one that currently adorned Drusilla's forehead. There was no doubt that this was the person he was supposed to be looking for.

Spike drank some more as the man pulled back and let another dart fly. "Not one for small talk. I can respect that," he said. "Let's move along then, shall we? You're Malik, yeah?"

Another dart flew, but this time the player faltered and the projectile thunked into the wall above the dartboard.