With a shriek, the blond vampire slammed into the slayer. The momentum sent both of them careening through the nearest window. The stained-glass illustration of a snake breathing black fire shattered as the collision of blond bodies hurtled through, then plummeted toward the ground. Jonathan ran to the hole in the wall just in time to see Darla fall to dust, leaving behind a single stake and the Super Soaker clattering between the palm trees.

And a black portal closing behind the slayer.

HUMANS HANGING AROUND with Demondale’s baddies? Protecting the Black Flame flag? The Slayer can’t believe it. It doesn’t make any sense. Any human with a brain moved out of Demondale when the sky went dark—but these bozos not only stayed, but are siding with the vampires? And they aren’t even Ren-thingies! What could they possibly be getting out of an alliance with soulless creatures that see them as chatty smoothies?

At the crossroads within the portal, she glances at the light radiating out of the green gem and addresses it directly.

“Is there an evil dimension where I could find more information on those humans?” she asks the gem. “Jonathan, Andrew, and Anya. Any of them? All of them?”

The potential portals lined up in front of her shrink down to one. Easier than expected. It gives the Slayer pause. She’s never made a direct request before.

“Could you just give me the portal home?”

The gem doesn’t answer, but the offered portal doesn’t change. She takes this as a no.

“My bad for asking. Thanks anyway.”

Falling out of the portal, she lands facing the ocean.

Clear blue waves break against the shore below. The air is misty with salty spray, and the sun is warm on her skin. Distracted as she is by her basking, it takes the Slayer a minute to realize that she’s in an empty parking lot.

Underfoot, she sees the easily recognizable International Symbol of Accessibility. A white stick figure in a wheelchair, but the background is painted orange rather than blue. She considers this odd, then remembers the girl at the vampire church telling her that being mad at things being the way they are is a clear sign that she’s an interdimensional tourist. Maybe this is a world where orange is considered friendlier than blue. Or easier to spot. She can be open to change. Call her Flexible Thinking Girl.

The staff tugs at her arm, forcing her to turn away from the ocean and face the brutalist concrete building behind her. It looks like some sort of future jail, the kind in the over-the-top action movies Xander likes, with cells made out of ice blocks or animated purple lines that are supposed to be electricity.

But the sign across the front reads: THE JONATHAN LEVINSON PRESIDENTIAL LIBRARY AND MUSEUM.