Zac was on his knees in the hallway outside the war room, tears streaming down his face in rivulets of pure despair. He wasn't crying because of the near-death experience with the imps. He wasn't crying because he was overwhelmed by the demonic war. He was crying because he had just been offered a buffet of prime, A-grade monster meat and told he was allergic to protein.

  “NO!” he wailed, pounding his fist against the cold stone floor. “OSE FUCKED ME!”

  Bune hovered over him, wringing all four of his hands in distress. The butler had reverted to his two-headed form, his third, vulgar head having retreated in the face of such raw, confusing emotion.

  “There, there, little avatar,” the Left Head cooed, patting Zac awkwardly on the shoulder with a claw. “It’s not so bad. The imps are gone. The Captain saved you.”

  “THERE’S ALWAYS A CATCH!” Zac sobbed, snot bubbling unglamorously. “AND THIS IS HELL! HE SENT ME TO HELL!”

  The Right Head tilted, looking genuinely perplexed. “Well… yes. This is Hell. What did you expect? Did the brochure mislead you?”

  “Should we turn the temperature up?” the Left Head asked solicitously. “Is it too cold? Humans are fragile. Do you require a specific humidity level for optimal emotional regulation?”

  Zac sniffed loudly, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his nice black robes. His eyes burned with a righteous fury. “I don’t care about the humidity! I care about the fact that I am surrounded by six of the hottest, most dangerous, most incredibly specific demonic archetypes in existence, and I can’t touch any of them!”

  He stood up, pacing frantically in a small circle. “If I ever see that leopard again, I am going to wring that kitty’s neck! And not in a sexual way! I mean actual, non-erotic violence! To send me on a mission where I can’t get busy with the physical incarnations of my dark and questionable sexual fantasies is literally the most asshole thing anyone has ever done, ever! It’s a war crime! It’s cruel and unusual punishment!”

  Bune’s heads exchanged a look.

  “I believe,” the Right Head whispered, “he is suffering from acute reproductive frustration.”

  “Fascinating,” the Left Head murmured, taking notes on a mental clipboard. “Is this common in virgins? The volatile emotional state?”

  “I can hear you!” Zac shouted, turning on them. “And yes! It is common! Especially when the virginity is enforced by a hot wolf who can hyper-beam things into atomic particles!” He slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor again, hugging his knees. “I just wanted to be knotted,” he whispered miserably. “Is that so much to ask?”

  Bune sighed, a twin-stream of sympathetic smoke. “Come now, Avatar. The Captain has a plan. And surely, serving the war effort is its own reward?”

  Zac looked up at the dragon with dead eyes. “Bune. Look at me. Do I look like I care about the war effort? I came here for the benefits package.”

  “Well,” the Right Head said brightly, trying to pivot. “The kitchen has prepared lunch. We have… food?”

  Zac’s stomach gave a treacherous rumble. He sniffed again. “Waffles?”

  “Edible food,” the Left Head corrected. “You eat it, and then you are full.”

  Zac sighed, a long, rattling sound of defeat. “Fine. I’ll eat waffles. But I’m going to be bitter about it.”

  Much to Zac's dismay, and despite Bune’s promises, there were no waffles.

  Bune led him into the formal dining room, a space that felt less like a place to eat and more like a place to hold a seance for a murdered king. The room was vast, the ceiling lost in shadow. Tall, arched windows lined one wall, looking out onto a swirling grey mist that pressed against the glass. Zac frowned. ‘We walked deep into the castle,’ he thought, disoriented. ‘Like, subterranean deep. How are there windows? And why is it foggy? Is the castle haunted by weather?’

  The room was lit by hundreds of tall, white candles in heavy silver candelabras that dripped wax onto the black tablecloth. At the very center of the impossibly long table, next to the Captain’s imposing high-backed chair, a single place was set.

  On a fine silver platter sat a severed Bicorn head.

  It was roasted, the skin glazed and crackling, but unmistakably a head. Its eyes were closed, its lips pulled back to reveal teeth, and its spiral horns had been polished to a shine. A garnish of what looked like blood-parsley was tucked behind one ear.

  Zac stared at the head. He looked up at Bune. He looked back at the head.

  “Nope,” Zac said, turning on his heel.

  “But Avatar!” Bune’s Left Head protested, hurrying after him. “It is a delicacy! The cheeks are quite flavorful! Tender as butter!”

  “Where’s the kitchen?” Zac demanded, striding back out into the hallway. “I’m finding the waffles. Or cereal. Or dry toast. Anything that doesn't have a face.”

  “I can cut it for you!” the Right Head offered helpfully. “You won’t even have to look him in the eye!”

  Zac ignored him, beginning his own impromptu inspection of the corridor. He was hungry, caffeine-deprived, and emotionally compromised. How was he supposed to have a proper breakdown without coffee?

  He threw open the first door on his left. Inside was a collection of wooden and cast-iron devices. Racks, wheels, iron maidens, that looked profoundly uncomfortable and stained with things Zac didn't want to identify. ‘Nope. Torture gym. Moving on.’

  He tried the next door. A room filled with cages suspended from chains, the floor slick with fluids. Something in a cage growled wetly. ‘Nope. Petting zoo from hell. Pass.’

  He opened the third door. It opened into nothingness. A pit, circular and smooth-walled, dropping away into absolute darkness. Zac leaned over the edge, squinting. He couldn’t see the bottom. Curious, he kicked a small pebble into the void.

  One… two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine… ten… elev-

  SCREEEEEEEEEEEE!

  An eldritch shriek, a sound of pure, alien hunger, exploded from the depths, echoing up the shaft with enough force to ruffle Zac’s hair.

  Zac was yanked backward by his collar as Bune slammed the door shut with all four hands, leaning his weight against it.

  “Please do not be rude!” the Left Head scolded, dusting off Zac’s robes with frantic motions. “You could have been hurt! Or worse, eaten by a Void-Leech! They stain terribly!”

  Zac looked back at the door, unphased. “Whatever made that sound probably wasn’t a hunk like you, Bune. Sorry, new roomie!” he yelled at the wood. “Just be glad I didn’t think that was the toilet!”

  He started back down the hall, a bounce in his step. The near-death encounter faded instantly, his fear-suppressed brain treating it as nothing more than a mild surprise.

  Bune finally broke. The butler looked exhausted. “The kitchen,” the Right Head sighed, pointing down a perpendicular corridor, “is this way. Please. Do not wake anything else up. This place is dangerous for a human. You cannot just open doors willy-nilly.”

  Zac beamed, turning to the dragon. “Thank you, Bune! You know, I’m so glad you volunteered to help me get settled in. It’s nice to have a friendly face. Or two.”

  The dragon man straightened, preening slightly under the praise. Both heads nodded vigorously, fangs gleaming in toothy smiles. “Of course, Zac! You are such a unique avatar. Yes, yes, whatever you need. Since we will be keeping you here until the Captain finalizes his plans, we must ensure you remain… pristine.”

  “Pristine,” Zac repeated dryly. “Like a collectible action figure in its original packaging.”

  “Exactly!” the Right Head beamed. “Mint condition!”

  “Even though I made you leak?” Zac said casually over his shoulder as he turned toward the kitchen corridor.

  Bune choked. Both heads sputtered, cheeks darkening to a deep, embarrassed violet. “I- that- it is complicated! Dragon physiology is complex! It was a hoarding response!”

  The butler quickly accelerated into his fast-walk shuffle, his larger frame allowing him to easily outpace the human and hide his flustered expression. “Let’s get you something to eat!” the Left Head declared loudly. “You look a bit scrawny. Much smaller than the normal paladins we receive. No meat on your bones at all.”

  “Are they buff?” Zac asked, jogging slightly to keep up. “Like Halphas? Ugh, do you know where he works out? Is it somewhere up in the Pit? I bet he has a gym membership in Hell.”

  “No, no,” Bune coughed, regaining his composure. “Unfortunately, it sounds like that sky-rat will be making his nests here for the foreseeable future. He didn't even pick up his bullet casings!”

  Zac stopped dead in the hallway. “Oh, fuck.”

  He had been too emotionally compromised after Marchosias had kicked him out of the war room... something about rolling around on the tactical map table and cry-yelling about his celibacy and not caring about anything but getting his back blown out by a demon... to fully process the Captain’s orders.

  Lockdown.

  The wolf had told the other demons they were grounded. Whatever duties they could complete were to be done from the keep. Everything else was curtailed.

  “Does that mean…” Zac whispered, eyes widening. “He will be working out here? They’re all moving in?”

  Bune stopped and looked back. “Yes. The Captain insisted. To keep an eye on everyone. It’s going to be a logistical nightmare.... Skarg eats enough for a platoon, and Nock requires a humidity-controlled armory for his capes.”

  Zac looked around the austere, gothic hallway as if seeing it for the first time. The shadows seemed deeper, the alcoves more inviting.

  They would be here. In the massive keep. The evil, tempting, incredibly stacked demons would be sleeping under the same roof. Eating in the same dining hall. Walking these same dark corridors at night.

  Hope blossomed in his chest like a nuclear mushroom cloud.

  ‘I can do this,’ he thought, a thrill running through him. ‘The game isn’t over. It’s just moved to a smaller arena.’

  A ping of guilt blipped through his mind. Whoever found him alone in a corridor at night first might get punished by Marchosias. The Captain had been very clear about flaying flesh from bones.

  ‘But that’s okay,’ Zac rationalized instantly. ‘It wouldn’t be my fault. It wouldn’t be their fault, really. It’s totally natural. It’s meant to be. I am the irresistible force, and they are the moveable objects. Fate will find a way. And if Fate needs me to “accidentally” leave my door unlocked and wear nothing but a smile, then who am I to argue with the cosmos?’

  He grinned, a wicked, predatory expression that mirrored the monsters he was lusting after.

  “Bune,” Zac said sweetly, starting to walk again. “Where did you say Halphas was going to be staying? I should probably… inspect the area. For... personal reasons.”

  Bune’s heads dismissed Halphas with synchronized sniffs of disdain. “That bird will likely roost in the highest tower he can find. He likes drafty places.”

  The butler pushed open one of the massive double doors and gestured grandly for Zac to enter.

  The Hell Kitchen was a cathedral of culinary violence. It was vast, echoing, and relentlessly gothic. The ceiling was lost in soot-stained shadows high above. Massive black-iron fire pits lined the walls, large enough to roast a bull whole. Rows of rotisseries, bristling with spikes, hung silent and cold. Tables made of butcher-block thick enough to stop a cannonball stretched down the center of the room.

  It was also completely empty.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  Zac wandered in, his footsteps echoing on the stone. “Where is everyone? Where’s the food? Where are the cooks? Don’t you guys feed an army?”

  Bune walked in, his claws clicking on the floor. He laughed, a dry, rasping sound. “We do not take care of the lesser demons or the fodder here. The barracks have their own mess halls. This,” he gestured to the cavernous space, “is the Captain’s personal kitchen.”

  Zac looked at the industrial-scale equipment. “This place is a party house! Did he throw killer ragers back in the day? Why else would one person need the capacity to cook the whole farm at once? Was he a frat wolf?”

  “Party? Captain Marchosias?” Bune snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. “You are quite the funny one, little virgin. If the wolf heard you starting rumors about him attending parties, he would be most upset. He considers ‘fun’ to be a tactical error.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Zac snapped. “You’re the real virgin here, hoarding me like a mint-condition comic book you’re afraid to open.” He spun around, facing the dragon. “Why don’t you want to fuck me, too? I’m totally scale-positive! Losing my V-card to a dragon would be so fucking awesome! Think of the bragging rights!”

  Bune froze. He looked around the empty kitchen nervously, his four hands pulling together and wringing anxiously. His cheeks flushed a deep violet.

  “I… I… you…” the Right Head stammered.

  “It is not a matter of want,” the Left Head whispered, eyes wide. “It is a matter of… preservation.”

  With a wet, tearing sound, the Third Head erupted from Bune’s shoulder, scattering scraps of the butler’s shirt.

  “YES!” the Middle Head roared, its red eyes locking onto Zac with manic intensity. “LET US CONSUME THE VIRGIN! GET INSIDE OF ME, YOU PERFECT LITTLE HARLOT!”

  “No!” the left head shouted, head-butting the Middle Head. “The Hoard! He must be kept pristine!”

  “If you eat him, when will we find another?!” the righ head cried. “They don’t make them like this anymore!”

  The Middle Head shook off the blow, its ripped ears flicking back. “BUT HE SMELLS LIKE HE WANTS IT! LOOK AT HIM! HE’S PRACTICALLY MARINATED IN NEED!”

  “I do want it!” Zac shouted, throwing his arms wide. “Soft vore can be hot if done tastefully! I’m open to experimentation!”

  “It is exciting, yes,” the Left Head admitted breathlessly. “The lust for the virgin is intoxicating… much better than the gleaming of gold…”

  “IT WOULDN’T BE SOFT VORE!” the Middle Head licked his chops, drool sizzling on the stone floor. “HARD VORE! CRUNCHY! YOU’RE GETTING SWALLOWED WHOLE AND SCREAMING!”

  Zac frowned, his enthusiasm dampening slightly. “Okay, wow... surprisingly hardcore. Maybe we meet in the middle at ‘firm vore’?”

  “The Captain would be upset with us!” the Right Head wailed, practically in tears. “Not only would the virgin be no more, but the wolf might force us to leave! He’ll banish us!”

  The Middle Head growled, a deep, frustrated rumble that shook Bune’s entire frame. “FINE!” it bellowed. With a final, resentful snarl, it retracted back into Bune’s body.

  The Right Head looked down at his ruined clothes and sighed. “This is my third shirt in two days. The budget for uniforms is going to be ruinous.”

  The Left Head looked at Zac, his golden eyes filled with a mix of hunger and fear. “Please do not tempt me, Zac. You are indeed a stunning and alluring specimen. But I have some impulse control issues that the Captian has been helping me with for a long time.”

  Zac sighed, slumping against the butcher block. “So medium vore is off the table then? That’s disappointing. I was willing to negotiate on the chewing.”

  Bune turned away, frantically trying to pin the tatters of his shirt together with his claws. “Yes, it is off the table! Now, please, focus. What do you want to eat? A light snack? Something less rich than Bicorn brain? Perhaps a nice soul-salad?”

  Zac looked around the empty kitchen. “Where’s the freezer? You’ve got to be keeping those waffles somewhere. You promised me blueberry.”

  “There are no waffles in Hell,” Bune said solemnly. “We do have crepes, though. The Succubus Guild makes them.”

  “FUCK CREPES!” Zac wailed, tossing himself dramatically onto the pristine butcher block table. “Crepes are just weak-ass pancakes with an identity crisis! Anyone who says they are healthier is just lying to themselves! Of course eating one slice of cake is healthier than eating the whole thing! Hell blows so much! No sex, no waffles, just thin, French disappointment!”

  He began to kick and flail, throwing a temper tantrum that would have made a toddler in a toy store blush. He was mid-wail about maple syrup when a bellow ripped through the kitchen, shaking dust from the rafters.

  “I FOUND YOU!”

  Zac blinked as a massive, furry blur slammed into Bune. Skarg tackled the butler with the force of a battering ram, sending them both crashing into a rack of iron pots.

  “Trying to claim the virgin for yourself, you scaled hoarder?!” Skarg yelled, trying to pin down the dragon’s arms. But Bune had four arms, two heads, and a very active tail, making him a logistical nightmare to wrestle. “He’s mine! If anyone’s fucking him, it’s me! I saw him first!”

  Zac slid off the table, watching the brawl with interest. He smiled wickedly. “Yeah! Get him, Skarg! If you knock him out, no one will be around to stop you from feeding me your… demon meat… for lunch.”

  Skarg froze. He looked over at Zac, his icy blue eyes wide with a lustful expression that was equal parts hunger and hope. “Demon… meat?”

  Approximately one second later, the deer demon’s head was engulfed in a torrent of violet fire.

  “DON’T YOU IGNORE ME!” Bune’s Right Head roared, exhaling the blast point-blank.

  Skarg shrieked, rolling away and flailing on the ground, slapping at his smoldering face. “MY EYES! YOU GOT IT IN MY EYES, YOU BASTARD!”

  Bune stood up, dusting soot from his already ruined clothes. He looked remarkably unruffled for someone who had just been tackled by a wendigo. “That will teach you to interrupt a culinary consultation! We were discussing breakfast foods!”

  Zac frowned, crossing his arms. “I thought you were the rough one, Skarg. You couldn’t even knock out a butler to get inside a virgin? I’m disappointed.” He shook his head theatrically. “I guess Bune really is the hunk around here. Look at him handle that firepower.”

  Bune sputtered, cheeks darkening again. “I… well… I simply… it is my duty to maintain order!”

  “He’s just a butler!” Skarg groaned from the floor, rubbing his singed muzzle.

  “I am Duke Bune!” the Left Head snapped, drawing himself up to his full, impressive height. “Great and Strong Duke of Hell! Commander of Thirty Legions! Master of Necromancy and Wealth!”

  Zac blinked. “Wait. A Duke?” He looked from the dragon to the caribou. “Why is a Duke working for Marchosias? Isn’t March just a Marquis? Doesn’t a Duke outrank a Marquis?”

  Bune’s heads looked at each other, a silent communication passing between them. The Right Head cleared his throat. “Technically, yes. A Duke is considered a higher-ranking demon in the infernal hierarchy.”

  “However,” the Left Head continued smoothly, “rank is… fluid in the Pit. I am in a position that works for me. Taking care of the Captain’s affairs is quite fulfilling. He allows me certain… liberties with my hoard. And his castle is the safest place for my… collection.”

  “Plus,” the Right Head whispered, “Marchosias is scary. We don’t want to make him upset.”

  “So you’re a submissive Duke?” Zac asked, grinning. “Working for a dominant Marquis? That is… incredibly hot. Please continue.”

  “He’s not submissive,” Skarg grunted, shoving Bune hard as he stood up. The butler stumbled back into a prep table with a clatter of silverware. “He’s a pussy. There’s a difference.”

  Zac considered this, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “So, a dominant Duke working for an even more dominant Marquis? That works for me on a lot of levels. The power dynamics in this house are delicious.”

  Skarg ignored the commentary, looming over Zac until his shadow swallowed the human whole. He smelled of tundra, burnt hair, and raw musk. “Those lady-boys wouldn’t know the first thing to do with you,” the wendigo rumbled. “They don’t even feed you when you’re hungry.”

  He reached out, his massive hand encompassing Zac’s entire bicep. He lifted Zac’s arm as if inspecting a cut of meat, bringing it to his nose for a deep sniff. He frowned, dropping the arm. “You must be freezing. No muscle. No fur. Just soft, fragile skin.”

  “That is why we are here, you oaf!” Bune snapped, straightening his cravat. “He needs sustenance. He is a picky eater. He rejected the Bicorn head.”

  “Picky eater?” Skarg snorted. “He said he’s willing to eat all varieties of meat earlier.”

  Without warning, Skarg grabbed the back of Zac’s robes and began dragging him towards the massive walk-in larder at the back of the kitchen. “Come on. If you won’t eat bicorn, we’ll find you a haunch.”

  “I want your meat, not dead horse brain!” Zac protested, stumbling along. But then Bune, refusing to be left out or outpaced, grabbed Zac’s other arm. Zac’s train of thought derailed as he found himself suspended between the two behemoths, feet barely touching the ground. He felt a giddy thrill run through him. ‘Manhandled by monster men. Check. Another item off the bucket list.’

  “If he is hungry, he will eat what is provided,” Skarg stated with primal certainty. “It is a fundamental law of nature. Starvation cures pickiness.”

  “I ate a lot of frozen waffles and chicken nuggets in my past life,” Zac murmured, his head lolling slightly as they marched him forward. “I’d be okay with nuggets, since waffles sound like a no-go in this dimension.”

  “Do you hear that, Skarg?” Bune’s Right Head asked, exasperated. “Do you hear what I am working with here? Nuggets!"

  Skarg stopped abruptly, causing Zac to swing slightly between them. The wendigo turned a lecherous grin on the dragon. “Nuggets,” he growled, his voice dropping an octave. “You know all about nuggets, don’t you, hoarder?”

  Bune’s reaction was instant. The Left Head looked scandalized, eyes wide with shame. The Right Head curled its lip in utter repugnance.

  “Vulgar!” the Right Head hissed.

  “Crude!” the Left Head agreed. “He obviously does not mean gold nuggets, Furfur!”

  The air in the kitchen instantly turned ice-cold. Skarg stopped walking. Zac felt the tension ripple through the wendigo’s arm, stretching him ever so slightly as Bune kept moving for a fraction of a second longer.

  “Don’t,” Skarg whispered, the word a dangerous rumble that vibrated in Zac’s chest. He turned his head slowly, his icy blue eyes locking onto Bune’s golden ones. “Don’t you use that name.”

  “Or what?” Bune hissed, drawing himself up to his full height. His midnight-blue scales bristled, and both heads glared down at the wendigo. “Do you really wish to try me? All of me?” The threat of the Third Head hung heavy in the air.

  Skarg released Zac and stepped into Bune’s personal space, attempting to loom over him. “You fuss over the Captain like he’s a weak baby,” he snarled, nose-to-nose with the dragon’s Left Head. “Do you think he is fragile? Should I test him like Andras does? What would happen?”

  Skarg then tossed a heavy arm over Bune’s shoulder, forcefully turning the butler to face Zac. “What if I nudged March and this little Jezebel together? Just a push. Just a suggestion.”

  Bune’s eyes went wide with horror. Zac’s eyes went wide with hope.

  Skarg grinned, showing too many teeth. “The wolf might actually have fun. Don’t you think that would be good to see? Instead of him brooding in his tower like a tragic monk?”

  “Yes! It would be totally awesome to see!” Zac blurted out, unable to help himself. “March wouldn’t flay himself, and then I’m free to get down with the rest of you! It’s a win-win! That's something you can do?!”

  Zac raised his hand for a high-five with the wendigo. Instead, he was knocked flat on his ass by Bune’s massive wing as the dragon shoved himself violently away from Skarg.

  “Fine!” Bune snapped, adjusting his cuffs. “You are such a baby about the name thing. When is the last time a magician even summoned you properly? Centuries? Move on!”

  “Just because you can multitask with two brains doesn’t mean the rest of us like having our days wasted with bullshit summons from pimply mortals who can’t be bothered to do the summoning right,” Skarg growled. He reached down, hauled Zac to his feet, and resumed dragging him toward the back of the kitchen. “Who’s got time for some petty human bullshit anyway?”

  Bune rolled all four of his eyes loudly, a sound like marbles clicking together. He grabbed two torches from the wall sconces. “Come along then. Let’s see what we can find that the avatar will put in his mouth.”

  They descended a spiraling stone staircase into the cold. The air grew frigid, smelling of iron and preserved death. The Hell Pantry was less a place for food storage and more a morgue for giants. Massive slabs of meat hung on rusted iron hooks that looked strangely, disturbingly bipedal. There were barrels marked with glowing containment runes. In a damp corner, luminescent purple mushrooms grew on large, pulsating sacks. Shelves were lined with jars filled with things that looked like they belonged in an aquarium or a pet store back on Earth, pickled eyes, preserved tentacles, and what looked like a jar of fairy wings.

  Zac shivered violently, his breath fogging in the air. He watched, disgusted but fascinated, as Skarg walked dutifully toward a hanging corpse, maybe some sort of monkey, hopefully, and ripped a leg free from the meat hook with a wet tearing sound.

  “You don’t have nuggets either,” Zac chattered, hugging himself and standing close to Bune for warmth.

  The dragon looked down at the shivering human and shook his Left Head. The Right Head yelled at Skarg, “That is for Friar Fridays! Put it back! That does not belong to you!”

  “The Avatar is hungry,” Skarg grunted, ignoring him. He sat down heavily on a crate, the leg on the ground and a flint in his hnads. He began to strike the flint against the side of a large wooden barrel.

  “This isn’t the cook space!” Bune shrieked. “What are you doing, you imbecile?!”

  “The Avatar is cold,” Skarg said simply. He reached over with his free hand, grabbed Zac by the waist, and pulled him onto his lap. The wendigo was a furnace of body heat. He resumed striking the flint, sending showers of sparks flying directly at the old wooden barrel.

  “STOP! STOP! STOP!” Bune wailed, rushing forward. “THAT IS ALCOHOL, YOU IGNORAMUS! That is 200-year-old Hellfire Whiskey! If you damage the Avatar with your incompetence, or blow up the wine cellar, I am going to have words with the higher ups!”

  Zac found himself the filling in a very muscular, very aggressive demon sandwich. Bune had tackled Skarg, trying to wrest the flint away, and Zac was pinned between the dragon’s chest and the wendigo’s lap.

  “Mmph!” Zac grunted, his face pressed into Bune’s cravat. ‘Okay, usually this is the dream scenario, but I prefer my internal organs on the inside.’ He tried to wiggle, but Skarg’s legs were like tree trunks and Bune was heavy as a statue.

  “Are you trying to kill the Avatar?!” Bune snarled, his Right Head inches from Skarg’s muzzle.

  “Are you?!” Skarg spat back, bucking his hips. “You don’t feed him and you bring him down here to freeze! Look at him! All small and cold and weak and soft and…” His voice trailed off into a low, rumbling purr.

  “Hey, what’s going on down here? Are you two…” A new voice drifted down the stairs, amusement thick in every syllable.

  Zac managed to crane his neck, looking up from where he was sandwiched with his legs spread rather compromisingly wide. “Do you wanna join in too?” he gasped.

  Halphas stood on the stairs, holding a cardboard box under one arm. He was back in his ranger leathers, looking effortlessly cool. “Maybe you can knock out Bune so we can have some fun finally!” Zac pleaded.

  Halphas laughed, shaking his head. “Slow down there, you eager flay-bait. Can a bird get moved in first? I just came down to see what was burning.”

  Everyone froze. They turned to look where Halphas was pointing.

  The barrel Skarg had been striking sparks against was not just smoldering; a merry little flame was dancing on the lid, licking at the resin-sealed bung. The cold, dry wood gave an ominous creak.

  Bune’s heads shrieked in unison, a sound of pure panic.

  Skarg looked up and smiled, a simple, happy expression. “This should warm the Avatar up.”

  BOOM.

  The world jerked sideways. Bune, reacting with supernatural speed, grabbed Zac and hurled him away from the blast zone.

  Zac had a moment to think, ‘Wow, I’m going really fast,’ as he became a human projectile.

  He slammed into Halphas with the force of a cannonball. The eagle let out a surprised squawk as they tangled together, crashing hard into the pantry wall. The box Halphas was holding flew into the air, showering them with shiny, aluminum-covered bags.

  Zac groaned, disentangling himself from a dazed Halphas. He sat up, rubbing his head. The pantry was an inferno. The explosion had shattered neighboring barrels, and blue hellfire alcohol was spraying everywhere.

  Skarg was rolling around on the floor, yelling, “MY FUR! NOT THE MANE! IT TAKES HOURS TO GROW THIS OUT!”

  Bune stood amidst the flames, his butler’s uniform blazing. Both heads were screaming at the top of their lungs, ignoring the fire to focus on the bureaucracy of the situation.

  Left Head: “I AM TELLING THE CAPTAIN!”

  Right Head: “THIS IS COMING OUT OF YOUR PAYCHECK, FURFUR!”

  The fire was spreading fast. Jars on the shelves began to pop from the heat, spewing pickled tentacles and fairy wings into the blaze. Thick, black, acrid smoke filled the room, choking the air.

  Zac coughed a few times, waving the smoke away. He looked at the chaos: the burning wendigo, the screaming dragon, the stunned eagle covered in snack bags.

  He shrugged.

  “Well,” he muttered, picking up one of the aluminum bags. It read Spicy Nacho MRE - Jalape?o Cheese. “Jackpot.”

  He stood up, tucked the bag into his robe, and calmly walked back up the stairs, leaving the demons to their disaster.