Drusilla didn't make a habit of leaving her dungeon during the day. She didn't trust the false sunlight any more than she trusted the bracelet on her wrist or the people who had pulled her here. But the footsteps of the little Slayer ghosts - echoes of the battles that had been fought here, before Taxon - that haunted the walls were making it impossible for her to sleep. They'd been restless ever since the true Buffy, her Buffy, had arrived.

She stepped out into the hall, running a hand over the brickwork and feeling the pulse of the stones. Something was here. Or a someone. Not right, though. Wrong enough to fight with.

The Slayer ought to be more careful with her invitations.