The Slayer shrugs. She’s spent her entire life litigating her name with strangers. Her first-grade teacher was convinced that her real name had to be Elizabeth and only referred to her as such for the entire year. Although, looking back, the Slayer is pretty sure Mrs. Sullivan was a demon. The kind fueled by the tears of children. Why else would she read Watership Down to a roomful of six-year-olds? All those rabbit murders haunted her for life. She had to be the only person alive creeped out by bunnies.

“What I don’t understand—other than why you wouldn’t just go by your middle name. That’s socially acceptable, isn’t it? Anne the vampire slayer?” At the Slayer’s blank stare, Anya lets the name thing go and continues, “Okay, then, what I really don’t understand is why you went all the way to Arashmaharr. Another dimension, part actual, literal hell. Not Demondale’s diet version. And you slaughtered all the vengeance demons who could have wished you back home.”

“They wouldn’t have!” the Slayer says. Anger makes her breath quicken. “Vengeance demons are liars.”

“Vengeance demon is a title, not a species. That’s like saying all ice-cream truck drivers are clowns.”

“What? That doesn’t make any sense—”

All at once the Slayer remembers that Anya screamed something before tackling her. For Arashmaharr.

The Slayer jerks back, fighting to keep hold of the gem while her other hand swings the freeze ray into Anya’s face. The extension cord is torn in half, but she hopes Anya won’t notice.

“You’re one of them,” she growls.

“Part-time,” Anya readily admits. “I also work at a juice bar. But yes, vengeance has been my job for a long time. And even though you killed basically all of my coworkers, I don’t want to fight you, Buffy Summers.” Reaching out, Anya nudges the freeze ray away from her nose. “Especially not with a broken toy gun frozen to your hand. I just want to understand. Something brought you to Demondale. And something made you decide to go on an apocalypse spree. So, what was it? Bad breakup? A warlock’s trick?”

“I’ve never met a warlock,” the Slayer says.

“That’s what they want you to think,” Anya says.

The fountain burbles behind them. Unlike in the Slayer’s home world, there are no empty chip bags floating in it. Painted fish swim on the tiles at the bottom. After a moment of hesitation, the Slayer plunges her frozen hand in, drowning the freeze ray. The water is so warm against the frost encasing her hand, she’s surprised it doesn’t steam. The splintering ice creaks and pops.

“My parents are divorced,” she tells Anya.

Anya nods sagely. “And it was your fault that their marriage failed.”