He leaned against the doorway of the Tobacconist and looked around, surveying the scene before him. The pavement was full of people; people walking home from work, or from the shops which were now closed, bundles and bags hanging from arms. There were few young men on the streets these days, except for the soldiers, walking with purpose towards unknown destinations. Several young girls began to appear, tarted up for the evening, though at half seven it was still too early for the actual prostitutes to appear. All in all the pickings were quite good on this cool September evening.

He stood there watching; unaware of the picture that he, himself, presented. A man of average height, in his mid twenties, perhaps, with light brown curly hair, and film star cheekbones. He was wearing workman’s pants and boots, topped with a brownish ribbed jumper, but a close observer would see no calluses on his hands and dismiss him as a labourer. A scarred eyebrow marred the perfection of his features, which only added to his attractiveness. Perhaps an out of work actor, or even a lightweight boxer; there was a hint of well-toned muscles beneath the loose clothing and something dangerous in his look. It was in the attitude with which he leaned against the doorway, and the in angle of the cigarette that hung from his mouth. Not to mention the way he looked at the people passing by as though he were judging mince pies at a county fair.

Spike stretched lazily, and stubbed out his cigarette on the pavement. The tobacconist emerged and locked the door, and looked at Spike with annoyance for loitering outside his establishment. Spike gave him a sardonic smile and moved on. There was no point in killing the old man. He would only have to find a new Tobacconist shop, and this one was right handy when he needed a pack of Players. The old man hastened off, unaware that the convenience of his shop to the Mayfair Hotel was all that kept him alive.

Spike strode down the street, his air of confidence earning him furtive glances from the people he passed. He wasn’t quite ready to eat yet: he felt like walking first. He and Drusilla had already killed this evening. They had shared an old lady that they had lured into a dark alley, shortly after sundown. However, Dru didn’t really understand the concept of sharing all that well, so Spike was still hungry. Dru had decided to return to their room at the hotel. Sometimes she could be as lazy as a lioness after a kill, Spike thought with a smile. There she would play with her tea set and her dolls as though she were a child, or listen to the radio they had bought. Drusilla loved the radio. Not caring for the technology, she seemed to think that it was magical voices from another world. She was particularly fond of Adolph Hitler, when the BBC played a portion of one of his speeches. She would sit mesmerized through his ranting and raving. Spike wasn’t sure how much of it she understood; her German wasn’t anywhere near as good as his, but she seemed to find him a kindred spirit.

Spike himself found Der Fuhrer to be more of an irritation than anything else. Sure, he had a plan for World domination; good luck if he could pull it off. Spike had known master vampires with similar plans, and somehow things just always seemed to go wrong somehow, bollixing up the entire works. Dru had even predicted, in that fey way of hers, that Hitler would come to a bad end in a cellar somewhere. But until that happened, he would cause all sorts of chaos and havoc, and mess up the nice unlife he and Dru had got going for themselves. Even now, the folks he chatted up were starting to regard him with suspicion, wondering why he wasn’t in the Army or the bleeding RAF, the big heroes of the day. Of course, he had a story, which worked very well, even engendering sympathy. And he didn’t have to convince them long…just long enough to get them into the nearest back alley. Still, it was an inconvenience, and Spike resented being stuck in England at wartime.

Now America, Spike thought, was where he would love to be right now. A country untouched by war, full of fat, lazy, carefree people. People who had the good sense not to care about a war taking place on a whole different bleeding continent. But travelling was awkward for a pair of vampires under any circumstances, and right now, it was especially difficult. Even travel within Europe had become almost impossible, requiring all sorts of identity papers, which Dru and he didn’t have. So, for the moment they were stuck in Jolly Old England. Well, at least they didn’t have to deal with rationing, Spike thought with a chuckle. No shortages in the old diet for them, though Dru hoarded silk stockings and nail varnish, fearing that supplies would soon dry up Even petrol wasn’t a problem because they had no automobile. Therefore, unless the Germans actually started bombing the place, they were fairly well off. The Mayfair was a pleasant hotel. He and Dru had been there for years, since they returned from the continent.

Ah those had been good days, Spike reflected as he walked. In the prosperity following the Great War, Spike and Dru had hit the Riviera. Nicking some expensive clothing, and resurrecting the posh accent of his youth, Spike and Dru had lived and dined discretely amongst the rich and famous. Of course, Dru’s lower class accent would never withstand social scrutiny so she played mute. It was very effective…the young, rich, William Atherton III with his mysteriously ailing wife were an attractive and popular couple. In a few short years, they were able to amass a small fortune in stolen money and jewels. It was at a casino in Cap d’Antibes that Spike had met the infamous Dracula, doing his Romanian Count routine, which was so popular with the ladies. The two rivals had competed for a while, but they soon had the sense to realize that too many mysterious disappearances were bringing suspicion upon them and destroying the cash cow they had been cultivating, so they parted ways. Dracula left for Spain and Spike and Dru headed back to England to enjoy their ill-gotten gains. Their needs were few; all they required was a quiet room with heavy drapes and a private bath, since it would be awkward at best to have to wash off blood in a public loo. The Mayfair was perfect. They paid each year’s lodging in advance, the management never questioned their odd hours, and they were careful never to bring supper home with them. So it was a satisfactory arrangement all round.

Spike had walked some distance, and the crowds were thinning out now. No problem. He had until dawn, and the night shift would soon be emerging, the lowlifes and prostitutes who were a large part of his diet. Their deaths raised the least hue and cry.

Suddenly, Spike’s reveries were interrupted by the loud wailing of air raid sirens going off throughout the city. Probably another drill, Spike thought, though he turned his steps back towards the Mayfair. But instead of the usual all clear signal, the skies were suddenly lit up with the fire of the anti-aircraft guns. What were they shootin’ at up there, Spike wondered? The sirens grew louder and more insistent. The people around him were running, their evening stroll now a mad dash for safety. Spike began to hurry back towards the hotel. But he had wandered far from the hotel, more than several kilometres. A loud explosion sounded from a few streets over with a bright flash of light, and Spike realized with horror, that the bloody Germans were actually bombing London! Dru!-he thought with a flash of fear. Bloody hell! She’s all alone! Spike began to run.

The bombs continued to fall. Unlike the vulnerable humans around him, Spike could not be killed by a bomb, unless he were somehow beheaded, or impaled with wood, but falling debris and flying shrapnel could incapacitate him and keep him from getting to Dru. She would never understand what was happening, and would probably go out into the thick of it. She worshiped chaos and this would be just her cup of tea. So he hurried, head down, pushing past all obstacles. Until he ran head first into an air raid warden blocking his way. A loud whistle startled Spike into reality. The bulky Warden was taller than Spike by a head, and outweighed him by several stone. He grabbed Spike by the shoulders.

"There, there, me lad. Better look where you’re goin’. Do you ‘ave a shelter?"

Spike had no time to fight with the man.

"Listen, mate, I’ve got to get back to the Mayfair Hotel. My wife and, and kids are there!"

"Sorry lad, that’s too far away. You’ve got to go to the nearest shelter. And that’s right ‘ere!" He pointed to a stairway, down which several people were running.

"I can’t. My wife…" Spike began.

"She’ll be safe as ‘ouses, and the kiddies too. The Mayfair ‘as a grand shelter down below in the wine cellar. Been there meself durin’ the last drill. But you’ve got to go ‘ere. Look! This street’s bloody impassible roight now, anyway."

Spike looked up and saw that the street behind the warden was full of smoking rubble. He realized that the man made sense. He’d never get through that mess in time to help Dru. And unless he wanted to get his own sodding head knocked off, he’d better go to the shelter. Bloody hell! Reluctantly he followed the warden’s pointing finger and descended the stairs into a small cramped basement, which was already filling with people.

Spike looked around the dimly lit room. Humans! Lots of them. Smelling of body odor, cheap perfume, sweat and fear, mostly fear. And what was that? Fish and Chips, by God. Spike surveyed the crowd and saw an elderly man, clutching a greasy newspaper packet. The smell of the fish reminded him that he was hungry. Good, thought Spike, a nice little treat for afters. The warden shut the door, as the shelter was filled to capacity, and even a bit beyond. Spike squeezed himself onto one of the benches lining the walls of this dank little stone room, lit by a single bare bulb, and took stock of the situation.

There were about twenty people crammed into the small space. And the only exit was the same way he had come in. So, no way to do a snatch and grab. He was stuck in here for the duration. He looked at the people around him. Across from him, a couple of shopgirls clutched each other in fear. A few middle-aged women sat slumped together on one bench, most likely charladies coming home from a hard day cleaning rich people’s houses. They looked more exhausted than frightened, glad to be sitting down. A mother and two small children sat huddled together, the three of them looking stunned for the moment. Spike assumed that the brats would start wailing any minute now. A couple of old timers, a man and woman, looked positively excited at the prospect of something new to liven up their lives. The old man with the fish and chips waved to them shyly. A trio of schoolboys, too young for the army smirked in a corner. A heavily painted prostitute, just starting out for the evening, sat grumpily, probably annoyed at missing out on her favourite corner. Spike had seen her around before. And had, in fact, eaten a couple of her chums. The three middle aged men and the warden were the ones Spike was concerned with. If Dru were here, the two of them could take on the whole bleedin’ crowd, no problem. But nineteen to one was odds even Spike could respect. Especially when a few were big burley farmer types like the Warden and his pals. So, it looked like dinner would be delayed a bit whilst he was stuck here in this hole. But there was no harm in choosing a tasty morsel to chat up and take along with him when the festivities were ended.

Outside the shelter, the sirens wailed and explosions shook the night. At first silent with shock, the people began to speak quietly amongst themselves. The old man with the fish and chips kept peering furtively into his bag, obviously shy about eating in front of the others. Finally the old lady said, "Wilbur, for heaven’s sake, eat your dinner! We’re not about to starve to death here. We can handle it."

Wilbur smiled shyly and began to eat his fish. Next to him the two small children having suddenly noticed that they were in a dark room full of strangers began to cry. Bloody perfect, Spike snarled to himself. Can’t anybody shut those brats up? The fish man handed the mother his packet of chips. She smiled gratefully and handed the chips to the crying children, who calmed down immediately upon receiving the treat.

Spikes’ stomach rumbled furiously. Why couldn’t he have just found a victim, drained him and been home with his Dru by now? Instead he was undergoing slow torture, like a boy in a candy shop with no money and his hands tied behind his back.

"You there!" It was the prostitute who spoke up, addressing the warden, "How long do we have to stay in this bleedin’ hole?"

"Now, now, miss. There’s no call for language loik that in front of the young’uns, " the warden spoke up harshly, He then addressed the crowd at large, " We ‘ave to stay ‘ere until we ‘ears the all clear siren. You’ve ‘eard it in drills. Then we can all go ‘ome." He looked at the woman, "Or wherever."

The two shop girls had noticed Spike, and were looking at him flirtatiously, and giggling. They looked as though they had just come from the cinema. Spike smiled at them. They were both desirable in their own way, but he rather fancied the smallish blonde one. She had a saucy smile and a large chest. The evening was looking up. After the all clear he would offer to escort the young ladies home. He winked at the girls and started another flurry of giggles.

The farmer bloke sitting next to Spike noticed him flirting with the girls. He stared at the vampire with interest and not a small amount of suspicion.

"Hello, lad." He began. "Tom Johnson here."

Spike smiled politely, "Spike Williams here. Think the bombin’ will last long?"

"No tellin’," answered the man as he warmed up to the topic that Spike knew was coming, "So tell me, what’s a fine strappin’ lad like yourself doin’ out here on a night like this? "

Spike didn’t rise to the bait, "Just walking home from the cinema like everybody else, mate."

"Oh…and what do ye do? For work, that is."

"I’m a writer. I write books. "

The farmer seemed rather at a loss at this, having never met a man of letters before. Spike hid a grin. The farmer soon recovered.

"You write books, eh? Seems kind of a poncy profession for a fine young chap like yourself. I would think you’d be in the army." There, it was out.

Spike sighed, for the benefit of the shop girls as well as the farmer. "Wish I could be, but I was rejected."

"Rejected!" Exclaimed the farmer.

Spike sighed again. "Bum ticker. Feel this." He put his hand on the farmer’s arm.

"Blimey, your ‘and is as cold as ice!" The farmer exclaimed, so surprised that he dropped his aitch.

Spike took his hand back and rubbed both of his hands together as though trying to warm them. He shook his head sadly, "Circulation is all bollixed up. It’s a poor show, I realize. I even volunteered as a clerk, being a writer and all, but they wanted nothing to do with me. They were afraid. They said I could drop dead any moment." This last was almost whispered, but by this point everybody had grown so silent that the statement carried across the whole room, and everybody gasped.

The shop girls were consumed with pity. Spike smiled at them bravely. They sighed, totally smitten. The Blonde nudged the Brunette who reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of chocolate cremes. They passed them down the row to Spike, who accepted them with a smile.

"Ladies," he said, "Thank you kindly, but I can’t eat rich foods like these, I’m afraid. Would you mind awfully if I shared these with my neighbours?" The girls, trapped, could only nod, as Spike handed the candy around. There were just enough pieces for everybody to have one. The goodwill in the room increased as the odor of chocolate filled the air.

A particularly loud explosion shook the small room. The children began to cry again, and even the schoolboys looked pale in spite of all their bravado. The shop girls clutched each other in fear and even the prostitute clutched her neighbour, the old lady, who was too frightened to object. Spike could smell the fear and terror increase in the room. He expected as much…humans were a cowardly bunch. But then the old man spoke up.

"Now then folks, We’ve had a bit of excitement here this evening, but we’re all safe and sound, right? How about a little song?"

A song? Spike was astounded. But the old man began in a firm voice, a popular music hall ditty, sung in a broad cockney accent.

"Oh, Oive got a lovely bunch of coconuts.

All lined up and standin’ in a row.

Big ones, small ones, some as big as your ’ead."

To Spikes astonishment, the people began singing along with the foolish song, hesitantly at first, then with more spirit. Spike could sense the fear lessening. He watched, fascinated against his will by these humans who could sing about bloody coconuts in the face of death. The song came to an end, and one of the charwomen chimed in with "Oh the sun shines over, the white cliffs of Dover, " and the crowd was off again singing the sentimental songs of the Great War. One after another, as soon as a song ended, somebody else would begin another.

As they were finishing up with a touching rendition of. "There’ll always be an England," one of the charwomen began to cough and choke, turning very red in the face. She seemed quite ill, and her friend seemed very concerned. "Perhaps a drop of whiskey?" she asked looking around the room.

The people looked around at each other, but no whiskey was produced. Spike sighed, and reached into his pant’s pocket and produced a flask. He passed it to the coughing woman, who swiped the top with her sleeve and took a practiced swig. No stranger to whiskey, Spike surmised. Her coughing subsided, and everyone looked at Spike gratefully. She passed back the empty flask, which Spike pocketed.

One of the boys spoke up, telling a silly riddle he had learnt at school that day. His chum tried to top him with another one. The people smiled in amusement at the boys. The small children had fallen asleep during the singing, on their mother’s lap. She looked at the boys fondly; perhaps she had one that age at home. Spike began to wonder what she had been doing out in the street with such young children when the bombs began to fall. He opened his mouth to ask, but stopped, suddenly aghast at himself. What did he care why she was out? Did he need her bloody life story? Probably fleeing an abusive husband. Or looking to sell the tots into white slavery. Did it matter? He looked around; what did he care about these people, this cross section of London society? They were only food to him; the shop girls, old people, the children. They were all the same to him, the predator. Surely Dru wouldn’t be moved by a little singing. No, not bloody likely.

The notion of King and Country meant nothing to Spike. He lived beneath society, so he didn’t much care whether he had a King or a Fuhrer. He didn’t much like the Germans with all their regimentation and marching about, but he admired their ferocity. He had expected the British to fold like a cheap suit when the Germans finally made their move. But here it was, at last, and his countrymen weren’t folding. True this was only the beginning, there was undoubtedly more to come, and worse, but he had the feeling that these people would stick it out. Strangely enough, they looked at him, Spike, as a person like them, not knowing that he was of more immediate danger to them then the bombs outside. He had a strange feeling, and he wasn’t sure he recognized it…almost a kinship with these humans, and a desire to let them continue their foolish little lives. It gave him a feeling of power, like a Roman Emperor deciding the fate of a Gladiator. He looked at the shop girls, with their painted faces and cheap dresses, at the exhausted charwomen, gruff farmers, the grinning boys and sleeping children. When the all clear sounded, would it be thumbs up or down?

Suddenly a new siren rang out in the streets. It was the all clear, and their ordeal was over. The warden sprang up, and opened the door. The people stood up; stretching after three hours sitting cramped together. The charwomen wearily picked up their bags and started for the door. The boys ran out, knowing that their parents would be frantic. The mother gathered her sleeping children, the farmer helping her with them. The shop girls came up to Spike, simpering. He looked at them, hungrily. Then, abruptly, he turned on his heels and walked away into the night.

It took him most of the rest of the night to get back to the hotel. He had stopped and fed on a few near dead victims he found in the rubble of a bombed out building, escaping right before the rescue squad arrived. He got back to the Mayfair, half expecting to find rubble, but the hotel was intact, and Dru was excitedly listening to war news on the radio.

"Oh, Spike, it was so exciting…the fires and the blood. Boom!" She began to dance around the room.

"Dru pet, I’ve been thinking. This bombing is going to be bloody inconvenient. I’d like to leave England."

Drusilla stopped dancing and looked at him, trying to read his tone. Dru could read him better than anyone.

"And where would we go, pray tell?"

"Darla’s living in Paris, isn’t she? Perhaps we could go there." They could smuggle themselves onto a channel boat. They’d done it before.

"Oooh Spike, that would be lovely. We could see Darla again, and Paris is so fun. Let’s do go, my dangerous boy."

"Whatever you like, love." He stood up and held her close, " I worry about you here with the bombs."

"Yes, my Spike." She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly clever and wise, "and Spike, will there be Germans there?"

Spike licked his lips in anticipation, "Yes love, lots of Germans."