She wondered if he could absorb body heat, even if he couldn’t generate it.

“Are you flirting with me?” she asked him, regaining her sense. “Or are you just snacky?”

“Can’t it be both?” Angelus’s lips twitched into a satisfied smirk as he started to stroll toward the church door. “Better keep your boys close if you don’t want them drained and dished out for Sunday supper.”

“It’s Tuesday. And they aren’t my boys—” Anya tried to explain, but Andrew and Jonathan cut her off by latching themselves on to her arms like barnacles.

She shook them off. “What did I tell you about looking like veal? Be normal, for God’s sake,” she said.

The inside of the vampire church was vast and ornate. The terra-cotta floors shone, as did the rows and rows of mahogany pews. Fallen angels with taloned hands looked down from the ceiling’s many frescoes, their black bat wings rendered in horrible veiny lifelikeness. Behind them, a silver full moon was painted above verdant hills, eclipsing all but the yellow glow of the sun’s rays, a hint of the light behind the false dark.

Drusilla plunged both of her hands into the blood-filled baptismal font. She took a deep drink out of her overflowing palms, loudly smacking her lips.

“Do you know, I was very nearly a nun,” Drusilla told Willow as blood dripped down her chin and chest. “Until my daddy Angelus found me and tortured me for weeks.”

“You were tortured?” Willow asked, face open with fascination. “You’re so lucky.”

“I know,” Drusilla said wistfully. “Nothing’s ever been as good since.”

At the far end of the room, the pulpit stood taller than anything else. And behind it was a wall of painted black flames licking up at the words To do aught good never will be our task, But ever to do ill our sole delight.

Jonathan read the inscription aloud, his face scrunched in confusion. “What is that?” he asked Anya and Andrew. “Is it from the vampire bible?”

“There’s no such thing as a vampire bible,” Angelus said, crossly. “It’s probably just a quote from Baldy Redlips himself. He’s exactly the kind of narcissist who would paint his own words on the wall.”

“What?” Spike exclaimed, appalled. “That’s Paradise Lost, you uncultured swine. Did you never read a book when you were alive, Angelus?”

Angelus puffed up his chest and schooled his face to look indifferent. “At least I didn’t waste my life praying to turn into Lord Byron and doting on my mother!”

“Hey, you leave my mother out of this!” Spike yelled, shoving Angelus into the nearest pew. “You know how hard it was for me to kill her!”

“Praise darkness!” a pert voice cried out behind them. “The prodigals are returned home.”

In an archway leading to some shadowy back room was a small blond vampire woman. She wore a powder-blue skirt suit with matching heels. Not that anyone could focus on her clothes when her transformed vampire face was so heaped in makeup. Anya had never seen yellow vampire eyes adorned with false eyelashes before, much less complemented with hot-pink spots of blush and matching lipstick. The overall effect was more disturbing than any of the imagery stained onto the windows.