“Maybe one of you could pay for a taxi.” Anya panted, staggering down the aisle. “Or hijack a car. I’m not picky. I’m just tired of walking. I worked today, and you know that Human-Mike thinks that if you have time to lean, you have time to clean.”

“Both Mikes say that,” Andrew said. “I think all managers might.”

“Not so fast.”

At the top of the aisle, the slayer held the Super Soaker in two hands, the Gandalf staff tucked awkwardly under her armpit. She pumped the bloodstained piston twice, her finger on the plastic trigger as she inched forward.

“You know what’s in here?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah. Holy water,” Jonathan said. “I’m the one who filled it.”

“I helped,” Andrew interjected, readjusting his bag straps. “I held the funnel.”

“You stole it from us today,” Jonathan said to the slayer.

“Oh my God, was that today?” the slayer asked. The Super Soaker momentarily sagged in her arms. In the overhead light, she looked suddenly exhausted. Shaking out her hair, she recovered herself and took aim again. “Fine, so you can touch holy water. If you’re human, what are you doing hanging out with the worst of the worst? Are you, like, servants? Or familiars? There’s a word for it, hold on. It’s on the tip of my tongue. Robards? Reynards. . .?”

“Renfields,” Andrew answered pleasantly. “Renfield was Dracula’s human helper. Only in the movies, though. In the book he mostly just ate bugs in a sanitarium in a pretty offensive portrayal of mental illness.”

“We aren’t Renfields,” Jonathan said. He gestured to himself with the urn. “I’m Jonathan. This is Andrew and Anya. We’re, uh, mostly human.”

“Then why are you in a vampire church?” the slayer asked. Waving the Super Soaker’s nozzle, she gestured at the floor-to-ceiling windows illustrated with stained-glass nightmares. Although compared to the oil painting in the Master’s bedroom, the gory pictures in the glass weren’t all that bad. She narrowed her eyes. “I know you aren’t blood sacrifices. You aren’t dressed the part.”

“Those hideous black sacks?” Anya asked. “No, thanks.”

“Then why are you protecting the Black Flame flag?” the slayer asked.

Jonathan tightened his grasp on the urn. “Because you want to use it to end the world.”

“Yeah,” Anya said. “And as people who live in the world, we take offense.”

The slayer goggled at them. “You live in the worst world. Ever. Trust me, I’ve been exploring the others.” Snorting, she gave a cheeky shrug. “I say exploring, but I mean exploding.”

“You mean like how you exploded Warren?” Jonathan asked.