Paris was a gigantic carnival of the macabre in Drusilla's eyes. The beautiful, stone bridge that arched over the river Seine appeared to her to be made entirely out of disembodied human heads, each of their mouths open in a mournful wail of sorrow.

Drusilla brought a hand to her ear and cupped it, listening to the plaintive cries that drifted across the river of blood.

"Mmm, Spike," she said turning to gaze at her lover, "the chorus is brilliant. What a wonderfully wretched harmony. I wish I had a record of it to play for my dollies. Can we get one, do you think?"

Spike lit up a fresh cigarette and looked out at the bridge and the few boats that slowly passed beneath it. "A little jaunt to gay Paree is just what the doctor ordered for us, love. Help us restore our priorities, it will."

She moved closer and snuggled her head against his neck. "You're not still cross for what I did with Angel, are you?"

"How could I stay mad at you?" he asked as he pulled her closer.

He looked at her then and she saw something in his eyes that she had never noticed before. Hurt. There was hurt in his gaze and it danced about and waved its spidery arms and gnashed its horrible teeth before fleeing to hide somewhere in the dark recesses of his skull.