Spike, wiping dust out of his cranial folds.

Angelus, spinning the flail at his side with increasing speed, gearing up for another strike.

There’s a notch cut in the center of the dowsing rod. How much damage can it take before it stops working? She can’t risk it.

Darting into the kitchen, she casts around for something else she can use as a weapon. The overflowing trash can is plastic. The Batman-bust cookie jar is useless—and empty. On the stove, there’s a nonstick skillet ringed in crispy yellow egg bits. Gag. But there’s a wooden spoon balanced on the rim. That’ll work.

As the vampires burst into the kitchen, the Slayer grabs the spoon and breaks it over her knee. Leaving the green gem and staff under the watchful eye of the ceramic Batman, she grips her two makeshift stakes.

Spike is first through the door, hefting his sword in both hands. The lapels of his coat fall to the side as he rears back, exposing his tight black T-shirt. The Slayer aims for his left pec and stabs half the broken wooden spoon at him. He throws an arm up to block it. The wood splinters against the sleeve of his jacket, not even leaving a mark against the leather. Grinning at her, he opens his mouth—to say something overconfident and Britishy, she’s sure. A swift kick in the sternum silences him. And sends him sailing into the LEGO orb on the table and over the side.

“Bloody hell!” he shouts, thrashing to his feet. “Do you know how much landing on a LEGO Death Star hurts?”

“I don’t even know what a Death Star is,” the Slayer says.

Avoiding a wallop from Angelus’s flail, she drops to the floor and covers her head as magnets rain down from the newly smashed fridge.

“What? They don’t have Star Wars in your dimension?” Angelus asks.

“No, they do,” the Slayer says. “It’s just for dorks. Now, where did Jonathan hide the Black Flame flag?”

“Why would we tell you that?” Spike asks, dusting plastic bricks from his coat. “When we could just kill you?”

“The Master failed to kill me twice.” The Slayer laughs. “You think you have a shot?”

“First of all, we’ve got weapons,” Angelus says. “And all you’ve got is a dirty spoon.”

He’s got a point.

Dodging another blow from the flail, she runs into the living room. From the wall, she tears down the decorative sword and shield. Hefting the shield, she realizes too late that it’s as featherlight as a disposable pie pan. The sword is only slightly better—it’s made of decent metal but butter-knife blunt. Too late to back out now.

“Come on, Slayer,” Angelus says over the whoosh of his flail slicing through the air. “You’re forestalling the inevitable. Put down your toy sword and give in. We’ll give you a quick death. After some light torture.”

“How generous of you,” the Slayer says. “Especially since I killed your sire. Have you had time to grieve Vampy Faye Bakker yet?”