“I got it,” the Slayer says. She doesn’t know what to make of this girl. Someone who protected the Black Flame flag and chased her into a portal can’t be trustworthy. But then why hasn’t Anya tried to attack her since they landed?

“Shall we sit down?” Anya offers, motioning toward the short tile fountain at the center of the quad. She wrinkles her nose and looks down at the Slayer’s frozen right hand. “We can give you a chance to thaw out.”

Is that the other girl’s plan? Sit in the sun until the Slayer has the use of both of her hands again? Is she one of those people obsessed with a fair fight? People like that never understand that no fight is fair when the Chosen One is given the training and strength to take on much bigger foes. Anya must have seen the Slayer fight all the demons at the Bronze. It’s not like she hasn’t had fair warning as to the Slayer’s fortitude.

They sit on the edge of the fountain, the green gem held between them. The Slayer doesn’t know if she’s ever been this close to the quad’s water feature. It’s the designated lunch spot of the popular kids. The rich and beautiful get the picturesque background. The rest fight for benches and low concrete walls. It’s ridiculous to miss the politics of high school, but she does. She misses exchanging insults with Cordelia Chase and hiding from Principal Snyder and studying for classes she’ll never use after graduation. The rules of high school make more sense than the affairs of hell.

“How did you get the gem to stop dropping us through portals?” she asks.

Anya continues to stare up at the sky, the sun streaming down onto her face. In the light, her hair is reddish blond, warm against her pale skin. “I’m a magic user. You aren’t.” She squints over at the Slayer. “Kinda dumb to steal a Creation gem without the power to control it.”

“I didn’t have a choice. I was stuck in literal Hell on Earth.” The Slayer tugs the gem slightly closer to her. “Also known as your home.”

Anya sighs. “Look, Slayer—”

“Buffy.”

Anya frowns. “Is that slang in your dimension? Or an expletive?”

“It’s my name. Buffy.”

“No! Really?”

“Really, truly. Buffy Anne Summers. Says it on my birth certificate and everything.”

“And that’s what you want people to call you? Because I recently found out that sometimes nicknames are mean.”