Ripper pushed the book away like it had wronged him. “Yes, yes, fine. You’re right. But it does say that it was then recovered to fight Yoldar.”

“And, Anya,” Andrew said, leaning on his push broom. “You should know that Constantinople is called Istanbul now.”

“What?” she squawked, turning to Ripper for confirmation. “Why? Since when?”

“Can’t say,” Jonathan said, his cheeks bulging as he held back a laugh.

“People just liked it better that way,” Andrew said with a snicker.

The two of them dissolved into giggles. The sight of their mirth made Anya furious. Never had she missed her magic more. If her connection to the Marnoxon gem had been intact, she would have sent them both to thirteenth-century Constantinople to face the wrath of Renjej the Gooey One.

“Oh, um, Mister Ripper,” Jonathan said, suddenly sobering. He clutched his feather duster to his chest. Streaks of spiderweb clung to his sweater. “All the glass is cleaned up, and if you tell us where to put the books, we can sort them out. It’s just that, um—”

“What?” the warlock interrupted. “Spit it out!”

“Do you think we could order something in for dinner?” Jonathan squeaked. “We’ve sort of been on the run all day, and I guess Angelus ate when he, um, killed your friend, but the rest of us have only had some chocolate.”

Anya wanted to disagree, to starve the traitors who had filled her pockets with lies and her heart with false friendship. But her treacherous human frailty gave her away. Her stomach gurgle was louder than Rayne’s death rattle.

Cursing the hospitality of vampires, Ripper ordered a pizza and paid the delivery guy in counterfeit bills. He put the change in the register. Anya craned to see inside the till and was horrified when she could see the black plastic where ten- and twenty-dollar bills should be.

“Ripper, did you not make a single sale today?” She gasped.

“It was a bad day for business,” Ripper said tersely, slamming the drawer shut and locking it with a small silver key. “My partner was murdered, and the store was ransacked by vampires.”

“Right, of course,” Anya said. “But you were open before and after those incidents. Have you considered a paint job? It’s not like this place is drawing in the walking traffic. It looks like a tax office.”

“It does not!” Ripper said, affronted. “You take that back!”

“The walls are gray! I’ve seen offices in hell with more cheer. And you could use a catchier name.”

“It’s a shop full of one-of-a-kind supernatural artifacts. What do you want me to call it? ‘Uncle Ripper’s Magic Box’?”