“Then I wouldn’t be able to get my powers back,” Anya said.

“And we won’t be able to save Warren!” Andrew added.

“What if saving the world is more important than saving Warren?” Jonathan asked, surprising even himself. Until this moment, he had thought that he couldn’t want anything more than to undo the moment of Warren’s untimely explosion. But, being this close to the elimination of the universe, he realized that he was pretty attached to being alive. There was no time for wishes and what-ifs here. Death was at the door, ready to take all of them, to unmake the world.

Andrew did not seem to agree. He looked even more offended than he had the day that Jonathan had proclaimed his preference for Deep Space Nine over The Next Generation.

“Slayer,” the Master hissed, his hands curving into claws at his sides. “You dare enter my private quarters? I will anoint my altar with your blood and feed your entrails to my nurslings!”

“Oh my God!” the slayer said, her face alight with recognition. The crossbow swung toward the Master. “Fruit Punch Mouth, you old so-and-so! I, like, just killed you back home! I mean, not just-just because I’ve been stuck in this hell for who knows how long, but. . .Wow.” She slid the Gandalf staff into the straps of the bulging blue backpack she wore—Andrew’s backpack—and fanned her eyes with her newly free hand. “Sorry, I am getting super nostalgic here. By any chance did we do the whole I may be dead, but I’m still pretty thing in this dimension already? Because, I’ve gotta say, it’s one of my better comebacks, and I’d hate to waste it.”

“Ha!” Angelus barked a laugh. “Fruit Punch Mouth. That’s a good one. I need to remember that for later.”

The slayer whirled toward him. The crossbow went limp as her eyes rounded.

“Angel!” she exclaimed.

The vampire’s brow furrowed. “A little familiar of you, Slayer. The name’s Angelus.”

The crossbow was aimed squarely at his chest again. “I hate this dimension,” the slayer said. Her nose crinkled. “And your ponytail. Yuck.”

The Master flew at the slayer, his feet leaving the ground and his hands outstretched. There was a whoosh of air as the crossbow fired. The shot wooden stake met the Master halfway, plunging into his heart. With a screeching discordant squall, he erupted into dust.

“Huh,” the slayer said, cocking her head to watch the dust flurry onto the floor. “The last time I did that, he left a skeleton. I guess he’s less special here.”

Darla fell to her knees in the sooty puddle her husband had left behind. Her howl of despair echoed throughout the catacombs.

“My children!” she shrieked. Her French-manicured nails reached toward the holes in the wall. “Awake and protect your home! Your father is dead, and your mother is under attack! Kill the slayer!”

Arms and legs unfolded from the burial niches. Bodies fell out of the walls as newborn vampires of all shapes and sizes answered Darla’s call. Although their faces were transformed into vampire bumpiness and their eyes were the yellow of predators, they lacked the menace of the other monsters in the room. Maybe it was their distinctly human clothing. Jonathan suddenly understood why the people in the blood farm had to wear those robes. There was something about a Bubba Gump Shrimp Company T-shirt that just didn’t scream creature of the night.