“Oh my God. Willow Rosenberg?” Andrew gasped.

The vampire girl let out a catlike hiss. “Willow Rosenberg is dead. It’s just Willow now.”

“Vampires love a mononym,” Anya observed to no one in particular. “Look at how well it’s worked for Madonna. She’s a thousand if she’s a day.”

“This here is my right-hand gal, Willow,” the Mayor said, beaming at the furious redhead. “She’ll accompany you to see the Master and his missus so you can see for yourself just how safe we are. And if on the way back you decide to chat with our public relations team about your experience today, just tell Jeff at the front desk.”

“The Master.” Angelus grimaced as Drusilla jumped up and down, clapping and crying, “Family reunion! Family reunion!”

“Come on,” barked the vampire Willow. “Let’s get a move on.”

“Just a moment, Will,” the Mayor said. “I need a private moment with the human boys.”

Willow gave a nod of acknowledgment, pushing Spike and Angelus out into the hall. She looked Drusilla up and down and gave an approving flick of her eyebrows. “Nice dress.”

“Thank you,” Drusilla said, swishing her skirt back and forth so that her striped tights showed. “It’s dyed with the blood of virgins.”

Willow reached out, rubbing the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, maintaining intense eye contact with Dru. “Ingenious,” she purred.

Anya started to leave, but Andrew caught her hand, holding her still as the door swung closed. Jonathan resisted the urge to smack Andrew’s hand away. There was no reason for the demon girl to hang back with them. Her only connection to Warren was in failing to bring him back to life.

The Mayor’s bright smile dimmed to its lowest wattage, the closest thing to a frown he seemed to be able to conjure.

“I couldn’t let you boys go without saying how sorry I am to hear about Warren’s passing,” he said, clasping his hands. “I can’t say I was never tempted to Ascend myself. But it’s a risky business changing from one species to another. He’ll be very missed around this old place. Never had such reliable IT. What a waste.” He reached into his desk and pulled out a long white box of See’s chocolates. He extended it to Jonathan. “Take this with my deepest condolences. And don’t forget to vote in November.”

THE SLAYER FINDS herself at the base of the stairs leading to Sunnydale High. Or whatever they call it in this dimension.

Her school. Go Razorbacks.

Not that she’s been to school in—who knows how long? Time doesn’t add up right switching between realities. She doesn’t even know if she’s technically still sixteen. How long has it been since she landed in Demondale? How many weeks did she spend stealing lunch money from vampires and torturing vengeance demons? How many days did she sleep on the bus? How long has it been since she got wished away?