“She didn’t get kicked out,” Angelus rumbled, glowering at Darla. “She left. To sire hundreds of strangers and pollute our bloodline. Seems like every newborn vamp in town is my sibling.”

Darla’s sunny smile disappeared. “I left to bring about the advent of the vampiric era. To bring our people into dominance! I know you love your little nightclub, but feeding the masses isn’t the same as creating them.”

Angelus stared up at the ceiling. “Ugh, you sound just like him now.”

“Just like whom, Angelus?” asked a new voice. A hidden door opened behind the pulpit. Out slid the oldest vampire Anya had ever seen. There was almost nothing human in his face. The usual transformed vampire snarl was compounded by wrinkles of age. Around his mouth and the tip of his nose was a permanent ring of blood-tinged skin. His ears were as pointed as his long fingernails. Light bounced off his hairless pate. His eyes were burning red.

“Speak of the devil and he shall slide out of a trapdoor,” Spike muttered. “Good to see that the Church hasn’t lost its flair for the theatrical.”

Anya felt Andrew and Jonathan inching closer to her again. This time, she let them, feeling equally uneasy. The Master was legendary—in that he was so old that that he was practically a living myth. A vampire so powerful that no one knew his real name. It was said that he was so ancient that he had been created within the first two generations of vampires, closer to an Old One than a human. Even Drusilla cowered at the sight of him, backing away from Darla and behind Willow.

“Master, darling,” Darla said, her perky face reinvigorated as the Master descended the steps toward her. “Did we wake you?’

“The old coot still sleeps during the day?” Angelus snorted, and elbowed Spike in the ribs, gesturing with his thumb in the universal sign for get a load of this guy. Anya wasn’t sure if she was impressed by his fearlessness or worried that he was going to get them all slaughtered. The Master was more than strong enough to kill everyone in the room without breaking a sweat. If vampires could sweat.

“I received a call from the Mayor that I am supposed to show you Hell’s Own Herald,” said the Master. He spoke with a mild lisp, the words fighting to get around his huge fangs. “Although why such a ragtag group should be given a private viewing of a significant relic is beyond even my comprehension.”

“Yeah, well, you’re just the flag’s guardian, not the decision maker, aren’t you?” Angelus scowled.

“Angelus, if you can’t be nice—” Darla warned.