Open
Spike was feeling distinctly better. He’d found a first aid kit in the hotel kitchen and patched himself up, and the (internal) application of some alcohol from a bottle of vodka he’d found nearby had made the bullet wound in his side more or less ignorable. Now he just needed a drink.
Preferably O-Positive.
Spike eyed the sign pointing to the bar and sniffed thoughtfully. In a world where trapdoors disappeared into thin air and demon hunters from 2007 turned up at inconvenient moments, and where the kitchens were staffed by androids, it was quite conceivable that the bar would serve blood.
He swaggered into the bar, noted that it was almost empty – not unexpected for the middle of the afternoon – and leant on the bar, automatically giving the serving android the eye. “Don’t suppose you serve blood, mate?” he asked, in a low voice. No point in shouting out that he was a vampire, not when he wasn’t sure he could fight off anyone who took exception to the fact.
It appeared they did serve blood, and not just blood but human blood at that. Spike grinned. Maybe this place wasn’t going to be so bad after all.