Zac sat on the cold stone floor of a random corridor, chewing on something that claimed to be "Jalape?o Cheese Tortilla" but tasted like spicy cardboard. With no microwave in sight, he had attempted to heat the MRE pouch over a wall torch. The result was a lukewarm, rubbery disappointment.

  “This shit tastes like it was made by someone who goes to taco bell on Cinco de Mayo,” he muttered, tossing the half-eaten pouch aside.

  He stood up, intending to head back to his room. He needed some alone time. Badly. Just the memory of Skarg’s musky scent, before it was overlaid with the smell of burning fur and whiskey, was making his legs feel dangerously wobbly. He needed to lock his door and… meditate. Yes. Meditate on the mysteries of the universe. Specifically, the subject of wendigo anatomy.

  The problem was, he was completely lost.

  The keep was a gothic labyrinth designed by someone who hated guests. Corridors stretched into infinity, lined with towering arches and suits of armor that seemed to watch him pass. Shadows pooled in corners, whispering secrets he couldn't quite hear. Every turn looked identical. The silence was heavy, oppressive. It felt like the castle itself was shifting, rearranging its layout to keep him trapped.

  Then, a voice cut through the gloom. It was distant, but distinct.

  “-absolutely unacceptable! The velvet must be crushed, not folded!”

  Zac perked up. He didn’t recognize the specific complaint, but the tone was familiar: high-drama dissatisfaction. Without anything else to do, and feeling a creeping unease at the castle’s malevolent silence, he decided to walk toward the angry shouting.

  As he got closer, other voices joined in.

  “And that’s final! If I hear of even one more incident while things are being moved, amputations might be necessary!” a deep, smooth voice declared. It was Nock.

  “Yes, yes, yes! Of course, Master! Of course!” a jolly, wheezing voice laughed.

  “These incompetents will be reconstructed after this, sir,” a third, more serious voice clipped. “A ten… no, a fifteen percent fire rate for the poorest performers. Encourage the others.”

  Zac turned a final corner and emerged onto a balcony overlooking the Grand Entryway. He vaguely remembered this space from his upside-down arrival, but it had changed. It was no longer empty.

  It was a sea of steel and motion.

  Hundreds of soldiers in full, black plate armor were marching in perfect lockstep, carrying an endless procession of boxes, trunks, weapon racks, and furniture. They moved with mechanical precision, a single organism of labor. They carried a massive, floor-to-ceiling mirror with a frame of gilded bones, treating it with more reverence than a holy relic.

  ‘Wow,’ Zac thought, watching the synchronized lifting. ‘They must do a lot of team building exercises. Or fear building exercises.’

  In the center of this river of steel stood Sir Nock. The lion was out of his armor, wearing a crimson silk robe open to the waist, revealing a sculpted golden chest. He was directing traffic like a maestro conducting a symphony, pointing a manicured claw at various crates.

  “Careful with that! That is the silk from the weavers of Arachne! It bruises if you look at it wrong!”

  Trailing behind the courtly feline were two lesser demons. One was a hulking, porcine creature, maybe an orc, maybe an anthropomorphic warthog, wearing a leather apron and carrying a clipboard he clearly wasn't reading. He was laughing, a wet, snorting sound, seemingly delighted by Nock’s stress.

  The second was much smaller, barely taller than Zac. It was a scrawny, rodent-like thing with twitchy ears and nervous energy. It held its spindly arms in front of itself like a begging dog, barking furious orders at the massive, armored soldiers who completely ignored it.

  “Timon and Pumbaa from Hell,” Zac whispered, suppressing a giggle.

  He scanned the hall. No Marchosias. No Bune. No furious wendigo on fire. Just Nock and his lackeys.

  Zac’s heart didn’t race, but his breath hitched. Nock looked glorious. The silk robe, the commanding presence, the hint of danger beneath the fussiness.

  ‘Okay,’ Zac decided, smoothing his own robes. ‘Maybe I can get swept away by the current. Maybe I can accidentally bump into the Knight-Captain and find out if a lion’s tongue really feels like sandpaper.’

  He started down the stairs, putting on his best ‘lost and helpless’ face.

  Zac reached the bottom of the stairs, perfectly positioned to intercept the lion. He cleared his throat, preparing a cough that was equal parts "damsel in distress" and "come hither."

  Cough-cough-

  CRASH.

  A sound like a collapsing building echoed from the hallway where the procession of armor was headed. A massive plume of dust and grey smoke billowed out into the Grand Entryway, engulfing the rear guard of the movers.

  Nock spun around, his mane bristling. “NO!” he screamed, clutching his chest. “That better not have been the lavender bath bombs! They are discontinued!”

  With a swirl of crimson silk, Nock sprinted toward the disaster. The warthog and the rodent scrambled after him, the rodent screeching, “Prepare the reconstruction vats!”

  “Wait!” Zac called out, reaching a hand toward the retreating lion. But Nock was gone, vanished into the dust cloud.

  Zac was left standing alone in the middle of the Grand Entryway, surrounded by the silent, marching soldiers. They continued their work as if nothing had happened, carrying crates past him with eerie, mechanical rhythm.

  “Excuse me?” Zac said to a passing soldier carrying a hat rack. The soldier didn’t even turn its helmet.

  “Hey, buddy?” He waved a hand in front of another one hauling a chest. Nothing.

  “Hello? Can anyone tell me where the bathroom is? Or maybe the exit? Or where the hot lion went?”

  Frustrated, Zac stepped directly into the path of a soldier carrying a small, velvet-lined box. “Hey! I’m talking to y-”

  The soldier didn’t stop. It plowed right into him.

  Zac stumbled back, his foot catching on the edge of the rug. He flailed, grabbing the soldier’s pauldron for balance. The armor, surprisingly light, tipped. With a clatter of metal, the soldier fell over.

  But it didn’t grunt. It didn’t yell.

  Instead, the helmet rolled off, and the breastplate split open.

  There was no body inside. No demon, no ghost. The suit was filled to the brim with writhing, glistening earthworms, beetles, and centipedes. The mass of bugs spilled out onto the obsidian floor, squirming in a collective, mindless pile.

  Zac stared. He frowned deeply.

  “Gross,” he stated.

  He didn’t like bugs very much. It wasn’t like he was on a crusade against them or anything. He respected their place in the ecosystem. But he wasn’t the type of person to save a bee under a cup and walk it all the way outside, just for it to fly back in his face. And then you’re jumping back, closing your eyes, and smacking the little bastard you just saved out of the air. You tried to do a good deed, and it just flew right at you with hate in its little insect heart. You had no choice. You stood your ground. It wasn’t your fault it attacked you out of nowhere. You were justified.

  Zac nodded to himself, vindicated by this internal monologue. “Yeah. Self-defense.”

  He looked down at the writhing mass of bugs trying to reassemble into the shape of a man. “You guys are gross,” he told them. “But as long as you keep your pants on… or your helms on, I guess… we’re cool. Just… stay over there.”

  He looked at what the worm-soldier had dropped. The velvet box had spilled its contents. Lying on the floor amongst the worms was a small, incredibly ornate crystal bottle. It glowed with a soft, golden light and smelled divine, like something spearfished from an endangered whale, vanilla, and pure, concentrated ego.

  Zac picked it up. The label was written in elegant, flowing demonic script: Celestial Silk - Mane & Tail Rejuvenator. For the Beast Who Demands Perfection.

  “Oh,” Zac whispered, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Jackpot.”

  He looked down the hallway where Nock had disappeared. He had the bait. Now he just needed to find the lion.

  Zac hurried down the corridor, clutching the bottle of Celestial Silk like a holy relic. He stepped carefully, giving a wide berth to the worm-soldiers marching past, eyeing their joints with deep suspicion. He did not want to know what happened if you accidentally stepped on a greave and squished the operator.

  Another massive crash echoed from ahead, closer this time. A concussive blast of air and stone dust rushed down the hallway, hitting Zac full in the face.

  He stood there for a moment, blinking grit out of his eyes and coughing into his sleeve. “Okay,” he wheezed. “Note to self, learn to duck when loud noises happen. The whole ‘fearless statue’ routine is bad for lung health.”

  He brushed the grey dust from his black robes and rounded the corner.

  The hallway ended in a scene of catastrophic structural failure. A massive section of the ceiling had collapsed, creating a wall of rubble that completely blocked the passage. The soldiers carrying the furniture were marching in place against the debris, their mindless programming unable to process the obstacle. Zac saw a few crushed gauntlets and sabatons twitching in the pile, bugs leaking out and trying to reform.

  In front of the blockage, the demonic Timon and Pumbaa were having a meltdown.

  “Sir Nock! Are you alright?!” the warthog shouted at the pile of rocks, wringing his meaty hands.

  “We’ll get you out!” the rodent wailed, claws scrabbling at a boulder twice his size. “And we’ll find the architect responsible for this! I’ll have him decommissioned! I’ll have him composted!”

  Zac walked forward, stepping over a twitching, disembodied pauldron. He grabbed a chunk of concrete and hefted it, testing the weight. “Wow,” he said casually. “This looks like it will take a while to clear. Is this the only way to the exit?”

  The demon duo jumped as if electrocuted. They spun around, eyes wide with shock as they noticed the human standing between them. They both took a synchronized step back.

  “Human?!” the warthog stuttered, his tusks quivering. “What the fuck?”

  “What are you doing here?!” the rodent hissed, baring needle-like teeth. “Did you do this? Are you a saboteur?”

  Zac looked between them, offering a friendly wave with his free hand. “Oh, hey guys. I’m Zac. Did Nock get crushed, or is he, like, on the other side? Because that robe was doing things to me, and I need closure.”

  The demons’ posture shifted instantly from shock to aggression. They leaned forward, bristling.

  “Why do you want to know about the Master?” the warthog grunted, snorting a cloud of angry steam.

  “Why is a human even breathing the same air?” the rodent spat. “Vermin! Trespasser!”

  “Whoa, easy,” Zac said, taking a step back. “I’m Ose’s Avatar. Just transferred in. I just wanted to see the lion again. Specifically in the revealing robe. For… strategic assessment.”

  “Lies!” the rodent hissed. His beady eyes darted down to Zac’s hand. He pointed a trembling claw. “You thieving snake! You dare take one of Sir Nock’s treasures?!”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Zac looked down at the bottle. “What, this? I found it on the-”

  “THIEF!” the warthog snorted in rage, stamping a hoof. “The Great Nock needs that to reduce tangles! His mane is his glory! You seek to sabotage his volume!”

  “Hey, hey!” Zac yelped, stepping backward as the massive pig-demon lowered his head to charge. “I was bringing it back to him! I’m pro-volume! I support the mane!”

  The warthog didn’t listen. With a squeal of fury, he charged.

  The warthog was a freight train of muscle and fury, closing the distance in seconds. Zac didn’t flinch but he did brace for impact.

  Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the high, vaulted ceiling.

  Andras dropped like a stone. He landed squarely on the charging warthog’s back, driving his knees into the demon’s spine. The momentum and impact slammed the warthog face-first into the obsidian floor with a sickening crunch. The pig-demon skidded across the stone, sparks flying from his tusks, and came to a halt inches from the toes of Zac’s boots.

  Andras crouched on top of his unconscious victim, perfectly balanced. His head swiveled a full 180 degrees with a soft click of bone to look directly at Zac. His golden eyes were bright with mischief.

  “You might not want to be in this part of the keep for a while, darling,” the owlman drawled, lighting a cigarillo with a snap of his fingers. “I’m testing new traps on that poof lion’s soldiers.” He gave a soft, hooting laugh. “The living armor is nearly as stupid as the holy paladins, so it makes for wonderful research. Very accurate data points.”

  Zac just nodded, staring. His mind was miles away from traps or data points. ‘If Nock was crushed to smithereens,’ he thought, admiring the way Andras’s coat flared around him, ‘then the owl will definitely do. Oh my hero. Swooping in from above. So dashing. So lethal.’

  “Andras!” the rodent demon hissed, practically vibrating with rage. “You avian arse! Antagonizing our Master Sabnock! Sabotaging the move!”

  Andras turned his head back around to face the threat, looking bored. “It’s called ‘security auditing,’ you glorified rat. You should thank me.”

  The rodent let out a furious, high-pitched cheeping sound that grated on the ears. He waved his spindly arms in the air, weaving a spell of pure filth.

  The air around him darkened as thousands of bugs swarmed from the cracks in the walls and the seams of the crushed armor. Beetles, centipedes, and worms coalesced into a swirling vortex. Nearby suits of living armor tore apart, their constituent insects joining the storm. Gauntlets, greaves, and sabatons floated in the air, carried by the buzzing cloud, forming a jagged, metallic tornado around the tiny mage.

  Zac leaned over, peering past Andras’s shoulder. “Wow,” he whispered. “That’s… a lot of bugs. Is he going to build a mech suit out of beetles? Because that’s gross, but also kinda cool.”

  Andras sighed, smoke curling from his beak. He drew his cutlass with a scrape of steel. “Bug magic. Why is it always bug magic? It’s so messy.” He glanced back at Zac, winking. “Stay close, pretty thing. This might get a little sticky.”

  “Attack!” the meerkat shrieked.

  A heavy iron gauntlet shot out of the swirling bug-vortex like a cannonball. Andras didn’t even flinch. With a lazy flick of his wrist, he slapped the gauntlet out of the air with the flat of his cutlass. The metal projectile careened sideways and slammed directly into the forehead of the warthog demon, who was just groggily pushing himself up. The pig-man went down again with a grunt.

  “Amateurs,” Andras sighed.

  The meerkat screeched in frustration and thrust both hands forward. The entire swarm surged, a chittering, crawling tidal wave of insects.

  “Argh! I hate the bugs!” the warthog yelped from the floor as the wave washed over him, burying him in a mound of writhing chitin.

  Andras moved. In one fluid motion, he hurled his cutlass. It spun through the air, burying itself deep in the sconce of the torch nearest the meerkat. The impact shattered the mount, and the torch fell, extinguishing instantly as it hit the bug-carpeted floor.

  The meerkat squeaked in terror at the sudden darkness and leaped away, scrambling toward the light of a torch on the far wall.

  But for Zac and Andras, the darkness was an open door.

  Zac felt a rush of cold air and the firm, unyielding grip of the owlman. The world dissolved into shadow. He wasn't scared but the sensation of being yanked through the fabric of reality was disorienting.

  Vision returned in a rush of vertigo. They were high above the hallway, perched in the deep shadows of the vaulted ceiling supports. Zac looked down at the distant floor, where the confused bug-mage was still looking for them, and made a mental note to hold on tight.

  Then he realized he already was.

  His legs were wrapped securely around Andras’s waist, his arms locked around the owl’s neck. ‘Totally planned that,’ Zac thought with a wicked grin. ‘Knew it would come in handy.’

  Even through the thick, tattered greatcoat, he could feel the lean, corded muscle of the rogue beneath. The soft, fluffy feathers added a delightful texture to the embrace, a plushness that made Zac’s thoughts wander into dangerous territory. He tried, and failed, to stop himself from thinking about how nice that extra padding would be cushioning those slim, athletic hips during… strenuous activity.

  Andras was hovering, his massive wings beating silently, keeping them aloft in the gloom. He looked down at Zac, his golden eyes burning with an intensity that made Zac’s breath hitch. The smirk on his beak was distilled trouble.

  “Pure little avatar,” Andras whispered, his voice a smoky caress right against Zac’s ear. “I wondered why everyone seemed to be struck by Cupid when they saw you. But up close… the scent is intoxicating.”

  The owl leaned in, running the sharp, curved edge of his beak along the sensitive cord of Zac’s neck. He inhaled deeply, a sound that vibrated through Zac’s chest.

  Zac melted. His grip loosened, his body turning to liquid heat in the owl’s embrace. He tilted his head back, moving his mouth blindly toward the owl’s beak, ready to surrender absolutely everything.

  Andras pulled back just an inch, his eyes glinting. “Would you scream for me if I asked you to?” he murmured softly.

  Zac nodded dumbly, his eyes half-lidded. ‘Fuck yes I’ll scream for you,’ he thought, his mind a haze of lust. ‘Maybe from a bit of pain… not sure what an owl demon is packing, but at his height, I probably won’t be disappointed. Probably ribbed. Or barbed. God, I hope it’s barbed.’

  “What do you want me to scream?” Zac whispered, breathless. “Your name? Or maybe you want me to call you a-”

  Before he could finish the sentence, he felt the arms around him vanish.

  Andras let go.

  Zac hung in the air for a split second, staring at the owlman, who gave a cheerful little wave as he dissolved into the shadows of the ceiling.

  “BASTARD!” Zac shouted as gravity remembered he existed. He tumbled backward into the empty air and began the long fall to the stone floor below.

  Zac watched the fight unfold below him with the detached interest of someone watching a nature documentary, completely ignoring the fact that he was currently plummeting toward a terminal velocity impact.

  ‘So that’s what the top of a bug-tornado looks like,’ he mused calmly as the wind rushed past his ears. ‘Fascinating structure. Very vortex-y.’

  Below, the meerkat mage looked up, his beady eyes widening as he saw the flailing, cursing human dropping toward him like a bomb. He opened his mouth to shout a command, but he never got the chance.

  Andras rose from the floor.

  He didn't step out of a doorway or drop from the ceiling this time. He rose directly out of the meerkat’s own shadow, cast long and sharp by the single torch on the wall. He materialized inside the swirling vortex of insects, the bugs parting around him as if repelled by his very presence.

  The meerkat looked back, shocked, and began waving his spindly hands frantically, trying to command the swarm to attack the intruder within its midst.

  Andras didn’t hesitate. His large, taloned hands shot out, wrapping around the meerkat’s scrawny neck. He began to squeeze.

  The bugs rushed inward, a chittering wall of death closing in on the owlman. The meerkat, though choking, managed a twisted, victorious grin as his swarm prepared to devour his attacker.

  Andras smirked back.

  He sank.

  In a blink, he dropped straight down into his own shadow, dragging the struggling meerkat with him into the inky void. The bugs slammed together in the empty space where they had been standing, a confused cloud of chitin and legs.

  Across the room, near the extinguished torch where Andras had thrown his weapon, the shadows writhed.

  Andras surged up from the darkness, still holding the meerkat by the neck. He slammed the demon backward, directly onto the blade of his own cutlass, which was still buried sideways in the stone wall.

  There was a sickening shnk.

  The meerkat’s head was severed cleanly from its body.

  The effect was instantaneous. The swirling tornado of insects lost its cohesion. With a sound like heavy rain, thousands of bugs simply stopped flying and fell to the stone floor, a lifeless carpet of crunch.

  Andras released the headless body, letting it slump to the floor. He turned just as the warthog, finally recovering from his earlier concussion, roared and charged again.

  With casual grace, Andras spun and delivered a devastating side-kick to the warthog’s temple. The massive pig-demon stumbled sideways, dazed, right into the center of the hallway.

  “Ooofff!”

  Zac slammed into the warthog’s back with a cry of pain.

  The impact knocked the wind out of both of them. The warthog collapsed under the sudden weight, cushioning Zac’s fall just enough to prevent broken bones, but not enough to prevent significant bruising. Zac rolled off the unconscious demon, gasping for air, staring up at the ceiling he had just fallen from.

  “Okay,” he wheezed. “Ow. That… that hurt. A lot.”

  “Good job,” Andras said, casually pulling his cutlass from the stone wall with a screech of metal.

  Zac sat up, rubbing his ass. The warthog had provided a significant amount of cushion, but gravity was still a harsh mistress. “Good job for what? Being a projectile? Falling with style?”

  “You…” Andras turned his head 180 degrees to look back at Zac, his expression unreadable. “Uh, you…” He trailed off, staring at Zac for a few long seconds, his golden eyes searching. He seemed to shake himself, correcting his head orientation with a click and walking over.

  “You didn’t break,” the owl said simply. He looked down at the warthog demon, who had begun to roll over and moan groggily. Without breaking stride, Andras swung his cutlass in a casual arc. The warthog’s head separated from its shoulders. The moaning stopped.

  “So,” Zac said slowly, watching Andras wipe the blade on the headless corpse’s leather apron. “If you’re done with your trap stuff… maybe you can show me where you’ll be staying? We can think of some funny traps together. It would be nice to know where things are trapped beforehand, too.” He laughed nervously, glancing at the pile of rubble blocking the hallway. “I don’t think I’d be laughing along with the prank on some of these. Getting crushed by a ceiling isn't really my kink. Yet.”

  Andras looked from Zac to the hall full of rubble and frowned, his beak clicking shut. “I did mention you should avoid this hallway.”

  “But like,” Zac pressed, getting to his feet and wincing, “what about tomorrow? Or the next hallway? I prefer my limbs attached.”

  The owl’s eyes narrowed. “If I tell you, then the others might find out. Secrets are currency, little avatar.”

  Zac nodded, stepping closer. “So, will you let me know before I die? Or should I just wear a helmet to breakfast?”

  Andras sheathed his sword with a fluid motion. He looked contemplative, his head tilting to the side.

  “A little early morning debriefing,” Zac offered, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. He stepped into the owl’s personal space again, undeterred by the earlier betrayal. “You could quietly tell me what rooms to avoid… and maybe I give you a little massage… with my tonsils.”

  Andras’s feathers puffed out visibly, doubling his size for a split second. His wings twitched.

  Zac pushed, sensing an opening. “Our little secrets together. Just you and me. Partners in crime.”

  The change in Andras was instant. The playful smirk vanished. His shoulders stiffened, and the warmth in his golden eyes turned to ice. He took a sharp step back, putting distance between them. The rogue who had been flirting a moment ago was gone, replaced by a walled-off fortress.

  “Partners,” Andras scoffed, the word tasting bitter in his mouth. He looked away, staring at the shadows in the corner of the room. “Yeah. Like I could trust someone like you with my plans. Don’t flatter yourself, kid. You’re just another asset to be managed.”

  He turned his back on Zac, his greatcoat swirling around him. “Go find your lion. He’s probably crying over his conditioner somewhere.”

  “I think he might be crushed to death,” Zac called out to the corsair’s back, gesturing vaguely at the rubble pile. “Just saying. Mane conditioner might be the least of his worries.”

  Andras didn’t respond. He began to pull the shadows around himself like a cloak, the darkness in the room deepening and swirling at his feet. He was clearly preparing for his brooding exit.

  “Anyways,” Zac continued, undeterred. “Not dying to a Wile E. Coyote style trap would be nice. I’m good with secrets. You can trust me.”

  The owl stopped. His head turned 180 degrees with that unnerving click to sneer at Zac. “That remains to be seen. Someone who spreads their legs as wide as you do often spreads their lips just as easily.”

  Zac nodded thoughtfully. “If you’re into that, just give me some time to make sure I clean up a bit first. Hygiene is important for ass to-.”

  Andras’s feathers ruffled violently, puffing out until he looked like an angry, fluffy storm cloud. He turned his body around to match his head, abandoning his exit. “Like you could even take it like I give it,” he snarled, stepping closer. “A little virgin like you would be wailing and sobbing before I even got going.”

  “Oh yeah?” Zac stepped forward, matching the owl’s energy, chest to chest. “You’d make me cry, huh? Pull my hair a bit so everyone else could hear me begging?”

  “Yeah,” Andras hooted, a dangerous light in his eyes. “I’d fuck you right against Marchosias’s door. Let the whole keep hear you break.”

  “Oh, hell yes,” Zac breathed, his eyes dilated. “I’d be wailing for the Captain that I was being defiled, and he would probably rip the door down to stop you.”

  Andras’s hand shot out, grabbing Zac’s arm and yanking him close. His beak was inches from Zac’s face, his breath hot and smelling of smoke. “Good thing you’re a tight little thing,” he hissed. “Because I’m not concerned with your pleasure. Only mine.”

  Zac felt his heart flutter, not with fear, but with pure, undiluted thrill. He leaned in, closing his eyes, tilting his head up for a kiss.

  “I love you,” he whispered.

  The effect was instantaneous. Andras looked like he had been shocked by a high-voltage cable. His eyes went wide, his feathers stood straight up, and his grip on Zac’s arm spasmed.

  “What?!” he squawked.

  Before Zac could land the kiss, the owlman vanished. He dissolved into his shadow so fast it created a vacuum.

  Zac, leaning his full weight into a demon who was no longer there, fell forward. He landed face-first on the stone floor, directly into a pile of dead, crunchy insects left over from the earlier battle.

  “Gross,” Zac mumbled into the bug carpet. “Worth it, though.”

  Zac picked himself up off the floor and took a moment to survey the scene. The hallway was a masterpiece of carnage. To his left lay the decapitated body of the warthog demon, still twitching slightly. To his right, a headless meerkat. The floor was carpeted in a layer of dead, crunchy insects that crunched sickeningly under his boots. Further down, the corridor was blocked by tons of rubble where Andras had collapsed the ceiling on Nock’s unsuspecting movers.

  His stomach rumbled, a loud, demanding growl echoing in the silent hall. But that wasn’t the only biological function he had left to wither.

  A giddy smile spread across his face. He had almost kissed the dashing, dangerous demon. He had felt the heat of Andras’s body, the strength in that grip, the delightful friction of his feathers.

  ‘Oh, he is so playing hard to get,’ Zac thought, practically skipping over a severed demon arm. ‘The whole “we can’t be partners because I’m so bad and untrustworthy” routine? Classic bad boy defense mechanism. He’s terrified of intimacy. I can fix him. I can absolutely fix him.’

  He rubbed his hands together gleefully. ‘And then,’ his mind wandered into forbidden territory, ‘I finally get to see what owl dick looks like. Is it cloacal? Is there a hemipenis situation? The scientific community demands answers, and I am willing to do the field research.’

  He checked his pocket, ensuring the bottle of Celestial Silk conditioner was safe. That was his ticket to Nock later. But for now, he had a more pressing engagement.

  He needed to find his room.

  If all the demons were busy at the moment… Marchosias brooding, Skarg on fire, Bune cleaning up, Halphas working out, Nock digging himself out of rubble, and Andras fleeing from emotional vulnerability, then Zac could be busy too. Busy thinking about getting busy with the demons.

  He dusted the bug parts off his robes with a few brisk swipes, adjusted his collar, and marched off down the hallway with renewed purpose.

  “Alright, Castle,” he announced to the empty, blood-stained air. “Show me the bedroom. Demon-seed dumpster needs some alone time.”

  He turned a corner, leaving the carnage behind, humming a cheerful tune as he ventured deeper into the labyrinth, ready to locate his quarters and vigorously appreciate his new afterlife.