I called everyone into the front room well before the sun was up. Mum assured me that he wouldn't attack before dawn because rules are rules. I didn't expect that Vorghammul would delay if we were late, and I had no idea how long Krag could hold him alone. In any case, I had a final gift for everybody. Well, hopefully not final, but you know. It might have been.

  "Gather 'round, everybody. Who's missing?"

  "I believe that Ms. Elanthe has yet to descend. Boots, Krag, and Noctura are all outside."

  "That's fine, this actually doesn't concern Elanthe, just all you demons. Pemberton, you're to pass this on to those not present. I am granting you all paid vacation upon my death or your injury."

  Everyone looked confused, aside from Mum, who, brow furrowed, was trying to see the angle. "See it yet, Mum?"

  "No, Master, I confess I do not. What is this 'vacation'? Is it some sort of servant?"

  It never occurred to me that the concept of vacation didn't exist in Hell. "Vacation is when your employer keeps paying you, but you get to go do whatever you want, wherever you want, and still get paid. Get it? You're still one of my crew, but you can be anywhere but here. It's a get-out-of-jail-free card. If I get whacked or you get hurt, you can 'bamf' right out of the battle to somewhere safe. Get it now?"

  I was met with blank looks. It was like three pairs of Boots' eyes looking back at me, only Boots was outside.

  "Perhaps an example. Mum, you're going to be pretty useless in this fight, right? No offense meant."

  "None taken, Sir. Fighting has never been a part of my skill set."

  "Right. So Vorghammul backhands you and breaks your nose, right? You can then simply leave to go anywhere where the battle isn't. I am pre-authorizing your withdrawal."

  "Where would I go?"

  "Anywhere. You could go back to the cottage. You could go back to Hell. You could go to Cuba for all I care. The point is that you have authorization to withdraw from battle with my blessing and not get killed."

  "Oh. Oh my. That is very kind of you indeed, Sir. And we stay on your payroll, even while we're gone?"

  "Correct."

  "For how long?"

  "I authorized two weeks if you're injured and one hundred eleven years if I'm killed. In writing. Right here on these parchments."

  "One hundred… One hundred and eleven years, Captain?" Pemberton exclaimed. "Do you know how expensive that will be?"

  "Pemberton, I'll be dead. How much do you think I'm going to care if you all keep getting paid out of Ol' Darkie's pocketbook once I'm gone? I'm making you responsible for getting these properly filed before dawn and informing the three who aren't here."

  "You are truly a champion of Hell, Captain. A true champion. It has been an honor to serve with you, and I do hope I am still doing so sundown tonight."

  * * *

  Elanthe looked at herself in the mirror, hating the person she saw.

  Murderer.

  Her eyes were red and puffy; she looked terrible. She'd been awake and rubbing tears from her eyes all night. Buttercup had been unable to help her as she'd never managed to fall asleep. No dreams if you don't sleep. No Buttercup.

  She looked at the bed where two outfits were laid out. The dress Chuck had purchased for her from Stefania, and some barely clothes from Calista that were too big for her in multiple dimensions. One outfit wasn't fit for wearing into combat, and the other wasn't fit for wearing in public. If at all. To add insult to injury was the armor Pemberton had procured for her.

  Outrageous. Humiliating. Absurd.

  The poor imp had tried everything to take it back from her before she opened the package, but she'd refused. It was a well-intentioned gift from Chuck, and she was going to keep it. She took a deep breath and slowly released it, the seed of an idea popping into her head. Could she combine three wrongs into a right?

  She stripped off her nightie and pulled on Calista's outfit. To her shock, it molded itself to her size until it fit perfectly. She did some test squats, kicked out her legs, and windmilled her arms. This was amazing. Calista was right; she did have complete freedom of movement in these obscene clothes. Maybe she wasn't acting like a slattern when she wore them, and it was just the clothes.

  Elanthe frowned at her own thought. "That wasn't very generous of you, Elanthe. She's been nothing but nice to you." She looked at the 'armor' and pulled it on over the workout clothes. As before, it conformed to fit her body perfectly. She wouldn't get caught dead admitting that she'd ever put it on, but flimsy or not, it was more armor than she'd had on a few minutes ago. Twenty percent coverage—more like ten percent coverage… Five percent coverage was better than zero. Hopefully, if a demon took a swipe at her, it would aim very carefully for her nipples.

  Over the succubus wear, she pulled on her dress. It would be a shame to get blood on it, but she had no choice. She wasn't about to go out in public dressed like Calista. She hoped she wasn't going to die. She didn't want anyone to discover her wearing those things.

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  Now, if she could get a hold of her emotions, she'd be ready.

  * * *

  The eastern sky grew brighter as dawn threatened to break, painting the sky in shades of blood and ash. Vorghammul watched it with satisfaction, rolling his massive shoulders in anticipation, and waiting for the instant the first rays broke the horizon. Twenty-six demons had arrived by midnight, then three more during the small hours. Now another sixteen had filtered in, wanting to get in on a quick fight. His total force numbered forty-five. It was not a mighty host, but it was certainly sufficient for the day's work.

  More than enough to crush one paladin and his pathetic band of misfits.

  "Commander." Krazzakk materialized at his elbow. "The reinforcements are positioned. Do we wait for more?"

  "No." Vorghammul's hand found his axe handle. "We move on my word. We hit fast and hard before that gargoyle can raise the alarm, and they can properly position themselves on the bridge. If we get over before they're set up, this will be over before it begins. We need to wait until the first rays of light strike the bridge to cross. Then it will be all legal-like, and there won’t be any paperwork."

  The bridge stood empty in the pre-morning light, its toll station abandoned. Perfect. He'd catch them still yawning, still pulling on their armor. The cottage door would open to sleepy defenders stumbling into a massacre.

  Except the door opened now.

  Vorghammul straightened, watching figures emerge from the structure. The paladin came first—that walking bag of suet. His armor barely reflected the weak light, battered and faded. His chestplate had clearly rusted brown before a small effort was made to clean it up. Pathetic.

  At his foot stalked a hellhound, and Vorghammul's lip curled. How the puppy had grown in the space of three days was beyond him. No longer soft and playful, its black fur rippled over muscle, ember eyes blazed, and smoke curled from its nostrils. Still young, still gangly, but more dangerous than last time. Still not a real threat. Still too young.

  Then the nightmare mare trotted into view, and Vorghammul's satisfaction wavered. He recognized the liquid shadow coat, the purple fire eyes, the bleeding hooves—a proper demon steed, this one, capable of shadow-stepping and trampling armored warriors into paste. He didn't realize his foe had one.

  But his confusion deepened as a small figure sat astride her. Not Chuck. Not the succubus he'd glimpsed during his reconnaissance. A girl, and a small one too, wearing… wearing a dress? What kind of tactical decision was that? Put your weakest rider on your strongest mount? The heat started to rise in Vorghammul's face. He was being mocked. But could she be a spellcaster, perhaps? If true, that could cause problems.

  The imp appeared next, three and a half feet of grey skin and amber eyes, ledger clutched to his chest. Pemberton. Vorghammul's jaw tightened at the sight of him. Three days of paperwork. Three days of bureaucratic torture. That imp would lose his thumbs today. He'd pull them off. No! He'd bite them off. Chew them as the imp watched.

  Then the contract devil and professional irritant, parchment held before his face as he walked, reading with the intensity of a scholar discovering forbidden knowledge. His lips moved silently, cigar bobbing. "Remember to bring your filing fee," growled Vorghammul. "I've got your filing fee right here." He flexed his fist so hard his skin creaked.

  Vorghammul scanned the bridge, the road, the village beyond. Waiting for the militia to pour out. For the village to send reinforcements. For someone, anyone, to back this ridiculous band.

  Nothing.

  No militia formed ranks. No villagers rushed to defend their homes. The defenders numbered six: one marked paladin, one hellhound puppy, one nightmare mare wasted on a child, one imp, and one contract devil too absorbed in reading to notice a demon horde massing against him. The succubus was missing—probably fixing her hair. She'd be tasty, once he'd disposed of the rest.

  Laughter started low in Vorghammul's chest and built until it boomed across the clearing. His entire warband heard it, knew what it meant. Several demons chuckled in response. Others began checking weapons, eager now that victory looked certain.

  "Look at them!" Vorghammul gestured at the pathetic group organizing itself near the bridge. "This is what stands between us and glory! Abandoned by a village too cowardly to send even one farmer with a pitchfork!"

  Krazzakk grinned, revealing rows of needle teeth. "Easy pickings, Commander."

  "The easiest." Vorghammul drew his axe, taking a few practice swings and imagining the heads that would come off in short order. He raised his voice so every demon could hear. "No more hiding! No more waiting! First, we take the bridge, then the village before they remember they're supposed to be afraid!"

  He stepped from the treeline, axe held high. "Down to the bridge! When the sun strikes your skin, charge. Not before!"

  Forty-five demons surged forward with a roar that shook the morning air, loping down the slope toward six defenders who stood between them and conquest.

  * * *

  Irina woke, surprised by the glow in the eastern sky. How unusual that she had not woken up with Ignatz, who was always up well before the sky started to brighten.

  Irina reached across the bed, her hand finding the familiar shape of her husband's shoulder. She shook him gently.

  "Ignatz? The sun's already up."

  He didn't move in response and made no sound. He seemed strangely limp.

  Irina sat up, her heart suddenly pounding. She shook him harder. "Ignatz?"

  Nothing.

  She scrambled to her knees, hands trembling as she touched his face. Cold. His chest didn't rise or fall. She pressed her ear against his ribs, listening for the steady beat that had lulled her to sleep for forty-three years.

  Silence.

  "No." The word came out broken. "No, no, no." Tears burst forth and ran down her cheeks.

  Irina set her arms on his shoulders and sobbed. He looked so peaceful—he’d simply drifted away while having a pleasant dream. She ran a hand along his jaw, stern even in rest, and kissed him.

  Her chest heaved. Tears blurred her vision as she pressed her forehead against his. "You old fool. You weren't supposed to leave me first."

  She stayed there, clutching his cold hand, confused and unsure as to what to do. Her tears tapered off as the shock of it gave way to country practicality. There would be time for tears later, but she needed to hold herself together for a little while. There were things that needed to be done. Somewhere deep inside, acceptance settled like stones in her stomach—death was no stranger to country folk. He'd served the village for decades, never resting, always carrying the weight of Thornwell's independence on his shoulders. They'd both grown old. His heart had decided it was done. He was a good man.

  Irina kissed his forehead one final time, then rose on shaking legs. She pulled the blanket up to his chin, tucking him in as if he might still feel the morning chill. Her hands smoothed the coverlet with practiced care.

  She couldn't do this alone. Not the arrangements, not telling the village, not any of it.

  Stefania. She needed Stefania.

  Irina wiped her eyes, straightened her nightdress, and pulled on her robe. Her fingers fumbled with the belt. She gave up after the third attempt and let it hang loose, clutching it closed instead. Walking through the house felt surreal—everything looked the same, but nothing would ever be the same again.

  She opened the front door and stepped into the morning light, headed toward Stefania's house two doors down. Her feet carried her forward while her mind remained numb, focused only on reaching her friend before she shut down entirely.