Andrew slung the messenger bag’s strap across his chest, grumbling under his breath about feeling off-balance.

Crouching, Anya sneaked around the headboard and motioned for the boys to follow her. The three of them slunk forward. Piles of candles were burning on the floor. The silk and furs on the bed were gray with the dust of burst fledglings.

The slayer and Angelus were bo-staff-fighting, using the Gandalf staff and an empty candelabra respectively.

“Seriously, Angel,” the slayer was saying as the olive staff and the metal body of the candelabra clacked together from side to side. “Not having your soul I can forgive. You’re a vampire. But that rat tail is a crime. You look like an exotic-pet guy. Do you have an iguana on a leash somewhere in your crypt? Or a ferret? I know you definitely don’t have any hair product because you are looking frizzy.”

“I told you to use some of my gel,” Spike said, holding his dislocated arm in a corner.

“Shut up, Spike,” Angelus grunted.

“Yeah, there’s such a thing as too much hair product, Billy Idol,” the slayer said.

Angelus reared back, aiming for the slayer’s head as he brought the candelabra down hard. She blocked him, holding the Gandalf staff in two hands. With a flick, she wrenched the candelabra out of his grasp. It flew overhead and clipped Drusilla in the collarbone. Rotating herself one hundred and eighty degrees, the slayer came up and kicked the disarmed Angelus square in the chest.

None of them noticed as Jonathan, Andrew, and Anya went scurrying out of the room.

The blood farm was hazy with greasy gray smoke. The flaming fledgling had fallen into a heap in the corner of the antechamber. His hair and Hawaiian shirt had burned away, leaving only his flesh to feed the fire. His skin had crisped and charred like cheap bacon. Bits of muscle and bone peeked out in patches as he continued to roll against the wall, trying in vain to put himself out. The smoke had an aroma that both reminded Jonathan of barbecue and made him nauseous.

Dry-heaving, he plugged his nose with his free hand. He was almost through the door to the staircase when he saw Andrew stop in the middle of the room to wrestle out of the many bag straps. He flailed as Anya tried to get him to keep moving.

“We need to save them!” Andrew said, ripping open the blue backpack. Withdrawing the neon-green Super Soaker, he pumped the piston rapidly and shot a stream of holy water onto the smoldering door.

“We’re already in middle of our heroic deed!” Jonathan said, shaking the Urn of Fernda. Somewhere in its depths, the Raphael action figure rattled.

Andrew didn’t turn away from the sleeping people. Timidly plucking at their plastic tubing, he swallowed thickly. “They’ll die down here!”