“Come off it,” Spike said with a snort. He was nursing the cigarette he’d taken from Ripper on the way out the door. The ember blazed menacingly orange in the darkness. “You schemed and you failed. It’s not like you tripped and fell into printing your own money. What did you think would happen when someone found out it was fake? Own it. You’re humans living in Hell on Earth. You’ve got to have a bit of the baddie in you to want to stay here.”

Jonathan shuffled his feet. Like Warren and Andrew, he had grown up idolizing the genius supervillains in the comic books he read. He had always liked the idea of defeating his enemies by using the one thing he had that they didn’t: his wits.

But he hadn’t meant to defeat Anya. She wasn’t an enemy. At least, she hadn’t been before she’d found out that they’d given her counterfeit money. Now it seemed more likely that she’d be their adversary than their friend.

The idea made Jonathan deeply sorry. The vengeance demon was certainly tactless. And unpredictable. But she was an unusually good strategist. She’d spent all day saving Jonathan and Andrew from all sorts of dangers. And yet, Jonathan had been too ashamed to even apologize for paying her with forged bills.

She was right to send them into the night unarmed.

“You two are on foot, yeah?” Spike asked, idly scratching the scorched skin on his knuckles. “There weren’t any cars parked at your place when Angelus and I went by.”

“Our van is stuck in Docktown,” Jonathan said. “The keys exploded with our friend Warren. If everything goes well, I guess we’ll have to call a locksmith. Or learn how to hot-wire it.”

“I bet the warlock could get it running again,” Spike said, pitching the end of his cigarette at the door of the Metaphysical Boutique. The filter bounced off the glass and fell to the pavement, still smoldering. “Not that he’s in the mood to do any more favors tonight. You two can take your papers around downtown. Hit the restaurants and neighborhoods. I’ll take my bike out to the edge of the sunshade, check out the graveyards and other demonic hidey-holes.”

“You ride a motorcycle?” Andrew asked, breathless with interest. “What kind? Roadster? Cruiser? Sport?”

Spike cocked an eyebrow. “You ride?”

Andrew shrank back, shoulders going self-consciously concave. “No, but I’ve always wanted to. Balance isn’t really my strong suit. I’ve got this inner-ear condition. Do you think that would go away if I were a vampire? I know that the bite that saves can heal, like, cancer and stuff, but I’ve seen vamps who have to wear glasses and I wonder if my Ménière’s disease is more like an astigmatism. It’s not fatal, just sort of annoying.”