“It’s not a trick,” Clem the loose-skinned demon said with a frown. “It’s a defense mechanism. I wouldn’t call your dependence on violence to express your feelings a trick.”

Angelus let out one of his big-cat rumbles. Anya stepped in front of him before he could take his fangs out again.

“Be nice to him,” Anya warned Clem in a loud whisper. “He watched his mother-lover die today.”

“Someone finally dusted Darla?” Clem asked. His batwing ears wagged, scandalized, as he leaned toward Angelus. “Do you want to talk about it? You don’t understand how absolutely delectable grief can be. And the grief of a man scorned. . .”

Clem greedily jiggled his fingers in the air. Loose-skinned demons consumed feelings as their main form of sustenance. Working in a bar must have been a perfect spot to absorb passing emotions.

Curling his lip contemptuously at his employee, Angelus said, “If you stay and fight, I’ll give you time and a half.”

Clem raised his hand to his forehead in a military-style salute. “You got it, boss.”

Angelus glanced down at Anya. “Are you armed?”

“Um, no?” Anya said, patting her pockets despite knowing full well that they were empty, aside from the money she’d made selling Andrew’s magical items. “I sold my knife. Should I go steal it back from Ripper? I could pick the lock on his front door. Or smash the windows with a brick.”

Angelus shook his head, the corner of his mouth nearly smiling. “That’s okay. You can borrow something from my arsenal. Come on.”

Anya followed him—past the tall bar tables full of demons splitting appetizer sampler plates and dart boards where vampires tried to hit the bull’s-eye on a photo of Count Chocula. Upstairs on the overseer’s balcony, vampires with their bumpy faces on entwined themselves around willing humans. Whether the vamps were drinking from the humans or canoodling with them, Anya couldn’t tell. The activities had a lot of overlap.

At the back of the balcony was a single door, painted black to blend in with the wall. Angelus set an equally dark key into the lock and stepped aside.

“Please come in,” he said, ushering Anya past him.

“I’m not a vampire,” she reminded him. “I don’t need a formal invitation.”

Angelus gave an untroubled shrug. “It’s polite.”

“Human manners,” she said with a snort.

Walking past him, Anya was amazed to find herself standing in a room about the same size as the lobby of Best Pressed Juicery. An ornate wooden desk faced the door with a leather chair already pulled out for guests. A Tiffany lamp with an acid-green glass shade provided low light.