Spike walked into the Fatted Calf Pub on London's East End with a limp Drusilla leaning against his shoulder as though she had one too many pints of bitters. She had been growing progressively weaker since leaving Paris, barely touching the conductor he had brought her on the train that passed beneath the English Channel.

He helped Dru to the back of the tavern where he sat her in one of the cosy wooden booths. It was strange, walking the streets of this old neighbourhood again. They'd been here together so many times, had spent time in this very pub more than a century earlier, when a human predator's bloodlust had outmatched that of every vampire in London and claimed the attention of both the papers and of Scotland Yard. He drew so many Bobbies into the streets, that careless lad, that Spike and Drusilla themselves had nearly been caught one night with their fangs in the neck of a Whitechapel whore. They'd left town after that, waiting for things to cool down. But before they left, they ate the young man who had nearly cost them everything. So much for the "Ripper. "

Now Spike watched as Drusilla's head lolled back against the white plaster wall. The rage had left him for the moment. All his thoughts had been consumed by concern for her well-being, and that meant that for now, he would do whatever Laibach instructed him to do.

Dru's eyes fluttered open to look at him. Something was missing from her gaze, the spark that made her what she was, held in check by an ancient power. His Drusilla had been taken from him and he would do anything to get her back.

"Rest a bit, love. Got to see a man about a spot of business. I'll be back to collect you shortly."