“What brings a bull to breeding season?” asked Lyle. He lifted the dingy white Stetson from his head and crowed over the noise of the club, “The heat, brother!”

“Welcome to the fire, Gorch Clan,” Angelus said with a forced smile. Turning on his heel, he murmured to Anya, “If those blockheads don’t die in the fight, I’ll dust them myself. Can’t have trash like that here. Last time they were here, they tried turning a pasture of cows on the outskirts of town.”

“Anya!”

Jonathan and Andrew were bounding across the club, flinching when any one demon got too close. Andrew’s turtleneck had been stretched out so that it flopped down, exposing a peekaboo glance of his neck skin. Something—or someone—had tousled Jonathan’s hair so that it stood almost as tall as his friend’s—without the miasma of stinking hair products Andrew used.

For a moment, Anya was relieved. Until she remembered that they weren’t actually her friends. Their safety wasn’t her problem.

So why was she so happy to see that they were still alive?

“You survived your flyering excursion,” she said haughtily. “Congratulations.”

“People were really receptive to the idea of fighting the slayer,” Jonathan said. “And the free drinks.”

Andrew nodded, trying in vain to pull his sagging collar over his neck. “There were some miscommunications in that area,” he said. He gave up on righting the turtleneck, simply holding it in place as he spoke closer to Anya’s ear. “I know you’re still mad about the whole counterfeit thing, and we want to make it up to you. If you’ll come outside—”

“I’m not going anywhere, Andrew,” she said sharply, pushing him away from her. “I have to make sure that the Marnoxon gem goes back to its rightful place in Arashmaharr. What you and Jonathan do is none of my business. Literally. I’m not being paid to deal with you. If you want to talk to me, you can wait until we’re scheduled together at Best Pressed.”

Andrew’s mouth opened as though he wanted to say something, but nothing came out.

For reasons beyond Anya’s comprehension, Angelus took pity on the humans.

“Maybe the two of you should take cover,” he said. “Hide until this whole thing is over. Things could get messy.”

“No way,” Jonathan said. Puffing his chest against the restraining strap of the messenger bag he still carried, he declared, “Demondale is our home! We were born here, and we’ll die here if we have to!”

Andrew broke in, index finger raised. “Actually, I was born in Ventura. I moved to Sunnydale when my parents died.”