All of a sudden Anya’s mission to track down the Marnoxon gem had become a mission to save the world. She might not have been sure about wanting to stay on earth past New Year’s Eve, but that didn’t mean she wanted it destroyed by some Chosen One teenybopper. Especially since, without her magic, Anya wouldn’t be able to seek shelter in a pocket dimension.

As they passed under the faux-gas-lamp streetlights that lined downtown, Drusilla seemed to recover from her psychic attack. She had left her dolls back at the Bronze, but her arms were draped around Spike’s shoulders, holding him with the same reckless affection that she’d shown Miss Edith.

“Nasty slayer,” she said with a pout. “She ruined my encore. My poor babies will never get to hear the end of my song.”

“You play the same set every day, ducks,” Spike said, combing his painted nails through Drusilla’s dark brown hair, having zero effect on her sausage-link curls. “The stage-door Johnnies can come back tomorrow.”

“But who knows what I will be tomorrow?” Drusilla mused. Her tongue laved one of Spike’s sharp cheekbones; then she rubbed her lips together, contemplating the taste. “Live performance exists only in the fleeting present. It is created in the moment and murdered by replication. Much like love.”

Spike’s face dropped into an expression that reminded Anya of a kicked dog. He flipped up the collar of his long coat, hiding his wounded expression inside the leather. Drusilla didn’t seem to notice, taking the shift in movement as an excuse to skip ahead, dancing in the shadows between streetlights.

Angelus slowed his pace just enough to fall into step beside Anya, who studied the hard line of his jaw. Were there ugly vampires? Did the average-looking get invited to eternal life? This one, Anya had to admit, was more handsome than she would have expected of Demondale’s notorious club owner. A big Cro-Magnon forehead. Hard brown eyes. The latent intensity of a jungle cat.

It was a pity about the little ponytail.

Vampires so often clung to outdated styles. Hence Spike’s punk-rock peroxide dye job and his and Angelus’s thick leather coats despite Demondale’s mild climate. Anya had never quite figured out why the undead had such a penchant for leather. It made them all so squeaky and cow-scented. Hardly the sort of thing that struck fear into the hearts of the innocent—or so she assumed. Her body had a beating heart, but certainly not an innocent one.

Angelus pointed his large forehead toward the sulking Spike and prancing Drusilla.

His mouth pulled to one side in a smirk. “They’ve been together for over a hundred years,” he told Anya, sotto voce. The low rumble of his voice made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, not unpleasantly. “A century of dating puts a strain on even the most obsessive relationship.”

“You’d know something about that, old man,” Spike said, without turning around. With a swipe of his boot, he kicked an empty Doublemeat Palace cup off the sidewalk. The Styrofoam floated gently into the gutter. Spike swore under his breath, throwing a dark look over his shoulder at Angelus. “At least my sire stuck by me, instead of running off and marrying Daddy. How many kids do you reckon the vicar and his wife have got now?”