The floor was tinted-black glass, like the windows on the Mayor’s car. Through the darkness, Anya could see most of the demons playing pool and some of the dance floor. She stepped across it carefully, unable to stop herself from imagining falling through.

“I assure you, the glass is very sturdy,” Angelus said. He hopped up and down to prove it, making Anya wince.

“In my human life, I saw a child fall through a frozen pond,” she said, reaching out for the leather chair like a lifeline. When it was within her grasp, she threw herself into the seat with a sigh. “The memory of the ground opening and swallowing him whole has never left me, even after all this time. Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“Not that ridiculous. It sounds like a memorable sight,” Angelus said. With another small dark key, he unlocked a steamer trunk pressed against the wall. The lid was inlaid with daggers and knives of all sizes and shapes. “What’s your weapon of choice? I’ve got a bunch of swords here. Cutlasses, scimitars. A gladius if you’re feeling old-school.”

“I was born in a year that only had three digits. I’m always old-school,” Anya said. Sitting higher in her seat, she peered into the trunk, seeing only a mass of razor-sharp silver staring back at her. “Do you have anything Viking-ish in there? Like a swordstaff? Or maybe a skeggøx?”

Angelus looked up from stuffing daggers in his boots. “A what?”

Anya furrowed her brow, working out the translation from Old Norse to English. “A beard ax? It’s like a regular chopping ax but with a nifty little curve behind the blade for your hand. So you can punch the ax into your enemies. The last time I really had to protect myself without magic, I was still human. And I was mostly protecting myself from the idiot Vikings I was dating.”

“Did you date a lot of Vikings?”

“More than one. Less than a longship.”

Blinking rapidly, Angelus turned back to the trunk. “I should have an ax or two. I don’t know if they’ll be authentically Viking. I never spent much time in Scandinavia. Once I left Ireland I went south for warmer climates, you know.”

The weapons bumped and clattered together as Angelus dug through them, continually pausing to set aside pieces that he seemed to like for himself. A longsword engraved with Celtic knots. Daggers with leather-wrapped hilts. A small war hammer.

“Here,” he said, proudly withdrawing an ax and holding it overhead.