Surprise sent Jonathan staggering back a step. “Do you think British people go around calling people peasants? Like at a Renaissance fair?” he asked. “Wait. Rowan? Like Rowan Atkinson? You renamed yourself after Mr. Bean?”

“What? No!” Tucker said with a haughty laugh that verged on frenzied. He pulled Jonathan over to the side, whispering in a voice much closer to the one Jonathan remembered. “After Blackadder. Come on, man. You’re making me look like an idiot here. I’ve got a new reputation to uphold. How’d you even recognize me?”

Jonathan started to answer and stopped. It was clear from Tucker’s new look—the shoe-polish hair dye, the leather duster, the motorcycle boots—that he was trying to be an entirely new man on the other side of the grave. The same way that Willow the vampire didn’t wear the same pink fuzzy sweaters as Willow Rosenberg, the nice girl from Temple Beth Torah. A new look seemed as crucial a part of the vampiric process as learning hand-to-hand combat. But Tucker still just looked like Tucker. Under the bumps and fangs and Lost Boys ensemble, he had the same sort of overeager puppy-dog face that was genetic to the Wells boys.

Not that Jonathan was going to say that to him. One wrong move around a vamp with something to prove would result in his gruesome death. Sort of like when Tucker was alive and would throw over the board when he was losing games of Catan. Only with fangs.

“I knew you for a long time, Tuck—I mean Rowan,” he said, his throat tight. “We camped out at Comic-Con together. We saw a sneak peek of Starship Troopers!”

Tucker accepted this answer without question. He peered—rudely—over Jonathan’s head, scanning the demons closest to them. “Where are the other two loser musketeers? Did Warren doctor you guys some red wristbands so you could score free drinks after we kill this slayer thing?”

“Um, no. Warren’s dead,” Jonathan said. He held up his blue wristband. “And my ID still says that I’m nineteen. I’m here to help take down the slayer. Andrew and I already faced her twice and she was—”

“Did Andrew get the bite?” Tucker said, suddenly more interested. “I told him to volunteer for the blood farm program at the Church of the Eternal Night. Being undead is the only way to survive in this town anymore. You heard what the Mayor was saying about expanding the sunshade all over California? There’s not gonna be anyplace for blood bags like you. Sorry.” He stopped himself with a haughty chuckle. “Blood bags is what we vampires call the living.”