What she does know is that nothing good is ever sung in Latin. It’s some kind of magical spell, drawing the purple light out of the TV camera. Out of whoever is watching this puppet show.

Looking around the room, the Slayer realizes that there are no people here. Just like the offices in the front of the building. The director’s chair is empty.

There are no cameramen.

There are no puppeteers.

“No way. Puppets?” the Slayer snorts, talking as much to the glowing green staff as to herself. Is it possible for a magical item to make a mistake?

She’s fought a lot of evil in her time, but never anything made of felt. A ventriloquist’s dummy once, but that was a misunderstanding. Still, she knows that puppets don’t sing and dance on their own without some kind of magic and, honestly, anyone magically controlling puppets has got to be evil.

Next to what looks like McDonald’s Grimace with a plastic trumpet for a mouth, a female puppet with daisies sewn into her pigtails stops dancing. Tiny furious eyebrows appear on her face, drawing together into a scowl.

“Who the hell are you?” she asks. Inside her mouth is a half circle of fabric someone cut to be a tongue. “This is a hot set, missy!”

“You’re this dimension’s Big Bads?” the Slayer asks the puppets, feeling more than a little ridiculous. It makes her think of being a kid, talking to Big Bird through the TV like he could hear her.

“You bet your ass, sweetie,” says the puppet in the hat. He shoves himself away from the TV camera, leaving the purple light to float freely around the room. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“I guess I’m going to Fraggle Rock your ass,” the Slayer says lightly. She’s not bragging, just stating a fact. She takes a step forward, and the staff lurches away from the leader puppet’s red hair and toward the cameras. In front of the director’s chair, there is a small monitor. At first glance, it seems to be turned off. Until the Slayer notices the movement of a black flame dancing behind the glass. What was it that the spiky-shouldered vengeance demon had called it? Hell’s Own Herald. The Black Flame flag. The mark of an evil province. The Slayer allows herself a small, self-satisfied smile. “Actually, I’m going to end you and everything you’ve ever known.”

That’s a bit of a brag, she has to admit.

The red-haired puppet boy launches himself at her, his tiny woolen fists pummeling her face while the pigtailed one kicks repeatedly at her shins. It feels like being hit over and over again with a Nerf bat—not painful as much as distracting. And annoying.

The other puppets stop singing their Latin curse to join the attack. A brown dog who looks like a drowned version of Rolf the Muppet climbs her backpack, pulling at her ponytail. She rips it down and uses its body to smash the pigtailed one off her leg. Kicking the Grimace-thing in the chest sends the purple puppet crashing backward into the ABC blocks. It tootles its mouth horn in distress. The red-haired one in the hat—obviously the leader—raises his fists, bouncing on his floppy little legs.