Her eyes rolled upward and she smiled. "The nasty kitty has eaten up all the squeaky little mice, Spike," she said as she reached up to weakly caress his face. "Crushed their bitty mouse skulls in his teeth. Be careful he doesn't try to eat you up too."
Usually he would try to find the hidden meaning in her bizarre ramblings, but tonight he just didn't have it in him. His patience had grown incredibly thin over the past twelve hours.
"Cats and mice. Right. All very helpful," he muttered as he turned to gaze about the pub.
The establishment was nearly empty. The barkeep stood at his station drying the same glass mug over and over and a patron played a solitary game of darts. A guitar-screeching remake of the old Aretha Franklin tune Chain of Fools was on the sound system. Again his mind skipped back over the long years of his
existence and he recalled an age of great composers and fine opera, an era before electricity changed music forever. Then rock, and then punk, and images skittered through his head of mop-top boys and screaming girls, and then boys and girls both
with spiked hair and painted faces and an anger they could never put a label on.
London was always evolving. And no matter how far he strayed away from the city, Spike evolved right along with it.
Spike was on his way to ordering up a pint when he sensed that something was wrong. He had been so caught up with Drusilla that he hadn't noticed the pungent smell mixing freely with the fragrant aromas of the old watering hole. Despite the stench of cigarettes and urine and stale beer, that one smell, that coppery aroma, made his mouth water.
