Zac’s afternoon lessons with Bune were proving to be an exercise in extreme mental gymnastics. Bune was currently lecturing on the etymology of high-ranking names, specifically focusing on Lucifer.

  “You see, Zachary, ‘Lucifer’ translates to ‘Light-bearer’ in the ancient celestial tongue,” the Left Head explained, tapping a pointer against a dusty scroll. “He was meant to be the dawn-bringer, the most radiant of the host.”

  Zac, however, had already pivoted. “Light-bear, huh?” he mused, leaning back and letting his leopard-print tail swish thoughtfully against the chair leg. “I mean, it’s a bit of a cheeky name, isn’t it? Since they hadn't invented the word ‘twink’ yet, they just called him ‘light bear’, it's basically ‘little bear’.”

  Bune’s Right Head recoiled, looking flustered. “Little... Bear? I assure you, the Morning Star is anything but ‘little,’ and his follicular density is quite low. He is remarkably smooth.”

  “Exactly,” Zac pointed out. “Twink energy. But it makes me wonder something else… are there any actual bear demons? Like, big, hairy, ‘growl-at-you-while-they-pin-you-to-the-forest-floor’ types? I feel like there's a gaping void in Hell's monster seduction coverage.”

  Bune adjusted his silver-rimmed glasses. “Well, President Purson and King Balam are known to keep pet bears. Massive, armored beasts that can crush a man’s skull with a single swipe of a paw.”

  Zac sighed, a long, rattling sound of disappointment. “No, Bune. Not real bears. That’s not hot. That’s just… oddly Canadian. I’m talking about the vibe. The aesthetic.” He adjusted the fleece of his onesie, feeling the soft fabric bunch up. For a moment, he imagined himself as a lonely archivist who spent his days in this dusty library, only to steal away into the dark corners of the keep at night to be ‘visited’ by a secret bear-demon lover.

  ‘Maybe one of the lieutenants has bear-man helpers,’ he thought wistfully. ‘Like Timon and Pumbaa, but... fluffier. If I could just get defiled by a lesser demon, then March wouldn't have to worry about the others, right? It would be like a loophole. “Sorry Captain, the intern did it.”’

  But the real thing that kept his footie-pajama-covered leg bouncing in excitement, was the Conditional Dream Rotation. Fat chance that he paid even the slightest bit of attention after that bomb had dropped after lunch.

  Marchosias had finally agreed to it. After the chaotic brawl in the dining hall, the Captain had realized that if he didn't give his lieutenants some kind of outlet for their collective obsession with the Virgin Avatar, the castle would be rubble by Tuesday. The rules were strict: one lieutenant a night, no actual psychic damage, and absolutely no carry-over into the waking world.

  Zac was still a little salty about Skarg being an asshole… the wendigo really could have mentioned that the "dream-feeling" wouldn't stick around after waking. It was the ultimate blue-balls, ruined orgasm, unexpected pleasure-denial when he had woken up… But… as Zac looked at the ink-stained parchment on his desk, his anger softened into a weird, perverted appreciation.

  ‘I’m basically a protagonist in a 4K, ultra-high-def, first-person VR porn,’ he realized. ‘Sure, I don’t get to keep the physical sensations, but the spectacle? The avant-garde performance art of it all? As a connoisseur of the finest smut, I have to respect the craft.’

  He looked down at his latest drawing. He had abandoned the wolf-dog and moved on to Nock. The lion man was depicted standing heroically, holding a sword high with a triumphant, toothy grin on his muzzle. Because of the quill’s tendency to blot, it looked less like a noble knight and more like a lion that had been caught in an explosion at a soot factory, but Zac was proud of it nonetheless.

  “Is that... a bush?” Bune’s Left Head had asked.

  Dinner had gone just as quickly as the afternoon lessons, a blur of high-fructose syrup and sexual tension. Zac barely remembered eating his waffles because he’d spent the entire meal staring at Marchosias with the intensity of a dehydrated man eyeing a gatorade. March had what Zac craved… and it wasn’t electrolytes.

  The Captain, for his part, was vibrating with awkwardness. He was trying desperately to act like everything was normal, but Zac knew the truth now. The wolf wasn't just a stoic commander; he was a vincel… voluntarily celibate. Zac had never encountered a specimen in the wild before, and he absolutely refused to believe Marchosias was telling the truth about wanting it that way. No, the wolf was clearly just scared. Scared of the passion, scared of the intensity... scared of fucking.

  Zac had spent most of the meal disassociating, vividly imagining a scene where he and Marchosias were sitting on the edge of a bed, blushing furiously, asking each other "Is this okay?" and "Are you nervous?" ten times before finally, cutely sharing a soft, whiskery kiss.

  “You’ve been chewing that same piece of waffle for nearly fifteen minutes,” Bune’s Left Head interrupted, shattering the daydream.

  Zac blinked, realizing the dining hall had emptied out, leaving only him and the dragon butler. He swallowed the now-pulpy mass of blueberry dough. “I was just... savoring the mouthfeel,”

  “I’m sure,” Bune sighed, gently steering Zac toward the exit by his shoulder. “Once the last of your lessons are finished, you will be able to go to bed. I imagine you are quite excited for that.”

  Excited didn't even cover it. Zac’s mind was racing. The debate over who got to invade his dreams and "psychically torture" him had been the highlight of the afternoon. Even though Zac had generously offered an "anything goes, free-for-all, first-week-trial-period" orgy, March had insisted on a structured schedule.

  One demon per night. A calendar of curated nightmares. To the demons, it was a tactical rotation; to Zac, every day on that calendar felt like his birthday, and he was dying to see who had won the rights to his subconscious for the night.

  As they walked, the stone walls of the keep seemed to ripple and stretch. They passed a doorway that Zac was fairly sure had been the library an hour ago, but now it looked like a broom closet for oversized scythes. The castle’s non-static floor plan was a nightmare for navigation yet Bune was walking with purpose.

  “No more story time?” Zac asked with a wide, jaw-cracking yawn, his hood’s fleece ears flopping forward. “I had a great idea for a drawing of Halphas. I wanted to capture the lighting while he’s... cocking his gun.” Zac’s eyes glazed over for a moment. “Mmmm. High caliber.”

  “No,” Bune responded, stopping in front of a pair of massive, reinforced wooden doors that smelled of musk and old hay. “The Captain has decided that your theoretical education is not sufficient on its own. Practical skills are now required.”

  Bune shoved the doors open.

  “Tonight,” the butler announced as the sound of stomping hooves and angry shrieks filled the air, “you will have your first riding lesson.”

  The infernal stables were exactly as Zac remembered them: a subterranean cathedral of iron and musk. High above, bat-winged creatures shuffled in the rafters, their leathery wings sounding like turning pages in a book. The air was a thick soup of sulfur, old blood, and the raw, primal scent of beasts that had never known a leash.

  Without Marchosias there, dressed in that unfair, heart-stopping battle armor, Zac found he could actually focus on the architecture. The stalls were made of black-iron bars thick enough to hold an elephant, etched with glowing runes that hummed with a low, vibrating power.

  “Since the Bicorns seem to have a... violent allergy to your presence,” Bune’s Left Head explained, gesturing toward the empty, blood-stained stall where the previous horse had met its end, “the Captain has suggested a more... robust mount. Something with a nervous system less prone to spontaneous combustion.”

  Zac wasn't really listening. He was busy admiring the way his leopard-print tail trailed behind him on the obsidian floor. Suddenly, the shadows in the corner of the room didn't just move; they exploded.

  A massive, motorcycle-sized weight slammed into Zac’s chest, driving the air from his lungs with a sharp oof. He hit the floor hard, pinned by paws the size of dinner plates. Above him, a face straight out of a heavy metal album cover loomed. Goremaw, the Great Warg of the Broken Antler, looked down at him with eyes like glowing embers. His muzzle was wrinkled back, revealing rows of yellowed, needle-sharp teeth dripping with a thick, viscous saliva that sizzled slightly as it hit the stone next to Zac’s head.

  A low, bone-shaking growl vibrated through Zac’s entire body.

  “Down, boy,” an amused, hooting voice drifted from the gloom.

  “AHHHH!” Bune’s Right Head shrieked, all four of the butler's hands flying to his faces. “The Avatar! He’s being eaten! Bad dog!”

  But Goremaw didn't bite.

  Animal instincts are a strange thing, and the instincts of a demonic predator are stranger still. Most creatures sense fear like a physical scent, a cocktail of pheromones and frantic electromagnetic signals that tell a hunter This is prey. Goremaw was a creature built to feast on terror. He knew when a man was bluffing, and he knew when a soul was ripe for the crushing.

  But as he looked down at the strange, leopard-print human, he felt... nothing. No spike of adrenaline. No sour tang of fear. Instead, Zac just smelled like blueberry waffles and a very specific, concentrated brand of horniness.

  Goremaw’s ears gave a confused flick. He tilted his massive head, his growl turning into a puzzled whine.

  Zac, far from being terrified, reached up. His small, human hand looked ridiculous against the coarse, obsidian fur of the warg’s neck, but he didn't hesitate. He began to scratch right behind the beast's ear.

  “Aren’t you the good boy who saved me from the mean horsie the other day?” Zac cooed, his voice a soft, adoring melody.

  “DON’T TOUCH HIM!” Andras shouted, bursting from the shadows. The owlman’s usual cool was gone, replaced by a frantic, hooting panic as he rushed toward the scene.

  “BAD DOG!” Bune yelled, scrambling forward with a heavy iron poker. “No chewing on the Avatar! He’s in mint condition!”

  But as the two demons reached them, they skidded to a halt.

  Goremaw wasn't attacking. He had let out a long, high-pitched whine of pure, unadulterated pleasure. The terrifying warg, whose bark was designed to send the most devout paladin into a state of permanent cardiac arrest, suddenly slumped. He fell over on his side with a heavy thud, his massive tail beginning to thump against the floor like a rhythmic sledgehammer.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  The warg let out a short, demonic bark, a sound that usually meant I am about to feast on your family tree, but here, it sounded suspiciously like a happy yip.

  Zac laughed, rolling over in the straw and fleece to scratch Goremaw’s massive, scarred belly. “Oh, you are a good boy, aren’t you? Huh? Huh? Whosagoodboy? Is it you? Is it the big, scary puppy?”

  The room fell into a stunned silence, broken only by the rhythmic thumping of the warg's tail and the sound of Goremaw’s happy, wet panting. The beast’s tongue lolled out of his mouth, dripping saliva onto the floor as he squirmed under Zac’s touch, begging for more.

  Andras and Bune looked at each other, then back at the floor. The great Marquis and the Duke were standing over a human in a onesie who was currently spooning the warband’s most lethal tracker.

  “HEY! STOP THAT!” Andras finally hooted, his feathers ruffling with a sudden, sharp spike of jealousy. He stomped his foot, his golden eyes narrowing. “You’re... you’re upsetting him! He’s a soldier! A killer! He’s not a... a lapdog!”

  Goremaw and Zac both froze. They turned their heads in perfect synchronization, looking up at the huffing owl demon with identical expressions of "Why are you ruining this for us?"

  Goremaw let out a low, disapproving huff and tucked his chin back into Zac’s chest, clearly choosing his side. Zac just grinned, his hand still buried in the warg’s fur.

  “You sound a bit cranky, Andras,” Zac teased, his eyes twinkling. “Do you want a belly rub, too? I have two hands.”

  “Like you would even know how to rub me,” Andras scoffed, his feathers puffing out in an indignant display of wounded pride. “Pure hands like that wouldn’t know the first thing about tugging my-”

  “Andras,” Bune growled, both heads turning to glare at the owl simultaneously. The air in the stables grew heavy with the smell of scorched ozone. “You will keep your mutt on a leash while you are in the Captain’s house. I will not have his halls smelling of wet warg and... whatever it is you do in your spare time.”

  Andras shifted his focus to the butler, his golden eyes flashing with a sharp, predatory anger before cooling into something far more jagged and cruel. A slow, mocking smirk touched his beak. “I’ll take a mutt over a purebred any day, Buney-boy. You know what they say... and who would want a fucking nut-case dog.” He let out a sharp, owl-like hiss, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “You just wish you were a mutt, you tri-polar snake.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Bune’s frame seemed to bulge at the seams for a moment. His midnight-blue scales bristled, and his necks thickened as if the third, brutish head was fighting to tear its way into existence. But with a visible effort, he smoothed his tattered tailcoat and let out an exasperated, weary sigh.

  “Get Goremaw off of the Avatar,” Bune commanded, his voice tight but controlled. “We are here on business, not for your petty verbal sparring.”

  Andras took a deep breath, his feathers settling back into place as he reclaimed his nonchalant posture. “Fine. Goremaw, get over here.” He whistled, a sharp, commanding note. “You can eat that when March realizes all this spying is just a waste of time and lets us have some real fun.”

  “The Captain has a plan,” Bune said, crossing all four of his arms over his chest. “Or he is forming a plan. He does not waste time.”

  “He’s wasting all of our time by trapping us here,” Andras countered, lighting a fresh cigarillo with a snap of his talons. “The old wolf has finally lost his mind. He didn’t even question the outfit. The man is leading a warband and he’s let a human walk around dressed like a plush toy.”

  “The onesie?” Zac managed to grunt from the floor. He was currently pinned under Goremaw’s massive, furry paw, trying to defend his face from a very enthusiastic, very wet tongue. “It’s... it’s growing on me. It’s breathable.”

  Bune nodded in agreement, his Left Head looking thoughtful. “It is an easy-to-spot pattern in the library. He did not make it very far when he tried to escape earlier. I saw a flash of leopard print behind the ‘Genealogy of Ghouls’ section and intercepted him instantly.”

  “Fucking idiots,” Andras said, shaking his head and blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “Goremaw, that’s enough. Let the little snack go.”

  Zac and Goremaw both froze, looking up at the two high demons with identical expressions of guilt. Goremaw’s ears flattened, and he gave Zac one last, mournful lick before his instincts shifted. Instead of letting Zac go, the warg decided that if he couldn't have scratches here, he would take the human to his den.

  Goremaw leaned down, gently but firmly grabbing Zac by the scruff of his leopard-print hood. He began to trot toward the back of the stables, dragging Zac along as if he were a prized chew toy he intended to bury for later.

  Zac, surprisingly, didn't fight it. He just went limp, his arms tucked into the fleece, enjoying the sensation of being accepted into the warg pack. ‘This is fine,’ he thought.

  “THE AVATAR IS NOT A CHEW TOY!” Bune nearly shouted. The butler rushed over, his four hands reaching out to grab Zac by the ankles.

  A bizarre and undignified tug-of-war ensued. Goremaw growled, a playful but stubborn rumble, pulling Zac toward his pen. Bune planted his heels, his scales scraping against the stone, and tugged Zac back toward the stable aisle.

  Zac felt like a piece of taffy being stretched to its breaking point. His leopard onesie groaned under the strain, the fleece ears on his hood twitching with every yank. He looked up, his head lolling between the dragon and the wolf-beast, and made eye contact with Andras.

  The owl demon just leaned against a pillar, took a long drag of his cigarillo, and slowly shook his head, his expression one of utter, weary disbelief.

  “You guys know I have a spine, right?” Zac wheezed, his voice muffled by the hood. “It feels kinda good but it has limited tensile strength.”

  “With the way you keep bending over for everyone, it’s surprising to learn that spine has any strength at all,” Andras said, finally stepping forward to wrestle Zac from Goremaw’s grip.

  The warg did not want to let the human go, leading to a frantic, toothy struggle. By the time Andras had successfully extracted Zac, the owl demon was scowling, holding his hand away from his body and vigorously wiping thick, viscous warg-slobber onto a handkerchief. “What’s gotten into you, boy?” Andras muttered to the beast. “You didn’t even maim him in the slightest. You’re losing your edge.”

  “Goremaw is a good boy,” Zac said, unfazed. Even though he had just been freed from the literal jaws of a demonic wolf-hyena-hybrid, he was already reaching back out, his hand subconsciously burying itself in the coarse black fur of the warg’s neck. “And I think I’ve solved my mount problem. Just get me a saddle and I can ride him. It’s good training for... riding Marchosias.”

  Zac’s voice trailed off into a hazy murmur. He hugged himself, swaying gently on the spot, his eyes glazed over as he vividly imagined the ‘rhythmic’ training sessions he’d have with the Captain. What sort of gates did a wolf-man have? As long as they got galloping Zac didn't care.

  “No. Absolutely not,” Andras hooted, snapping his fingers to break Zac’s trance. “Goreboy, Gore-Gore, Gore-eo’s and Cream… come here. Let’s get out of here. Don’t pay attention to that leopard-print whore.”

  “There is no way you are riding that mutt,” Bune agreed, his Left Head looking scandalized. “It doesn’t follow orders. We have no warg saddles,” the Right Head added, “and it will shed black fur all over your uniform. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get warg-hair out of soul-fleece?”

  Zac, however, wasn't listening to the logistics. He had found a large, jagged object on the floor, what he thought was a sturdy stick. “Fetch!” he cried, tossing it with all the grace of a man who had never played a sport in his life.

  The ‘stick’ was actually a massive, calcified femur. Zac’s aim was terrible; instead of sailing down the stable aisle, the bone went high and wide, sailing over the iron bars of one of the many closed pens where Marchosias kept his most temperamental war mounts.

  Goremaw didn't care about aim. He barked happily, like a gravel crusher, and launched his motorcycle-sized body over the pen’s gate in a single, powerful bound.

  CRASH.

  The silence of the stables was instantly obliterated. From inside the pen, a chorus of terrified, high-pitched neighing erupted, followed by a wet, guttural roar. The heavy iron door of the pen began to shake violently, booming under the impact of heavy bodies slamming against it.

  Zac looked back at Bune and Andras, his leopard ears flopping as he tilted his head. “Whoops.”

  “YOU ALREADY ATE!” Andras yelled, sprinting toward the pen.

  “NOT ANOTHER BICORN!” Bune shouted, both heads screaming in unison.

  The two demons didn't wait for Zac. They ran toward the shaking stable pen, Bune ripping open the wooden doors and Andras drawing his cutlass, both desperate to prevent Goremaw from turning the Captain’s cavalry into a buffet again. Zac stood there, watching the chaos with a small, proud smile. ‘He really is a good boy,’ he thought.

  The stable pen was a whirlwind of black fur, silver feathers, and flying straw. Andras dove into the fray, his tattered greatcoat snapping like a whip as he grappled with the warg’s thick neck. For a moment, it was a terrifying display of demonic strength, Andras straining against the beast, his talons digging into the coarse fur.

  But then, the violence didn't just stop; it dissolved.

  The moment Goremaw realized it was Andras, his posture shifted from lethal predator to an overexcited toddler. The low, bone-chilling snarl turned into a high-pitched, enthusiastic yelp. The warg abandoned the cowering, half-mangled Bicorn and turned his full, sloppy attention to the owl demon.

  Zac watched, mesmerized, as Goremaw’s massive tongue, thick as a steak and twice as wet, lathered Andras’s face, beak, and head-tufts.

  “Ugh! Gross! Stop! Goremaw, off!” Andras sputtered, his usual suave composure vanishing under a tidal wave of warg-spit. He tried to maintain his "bad boy" image, shoving at the beast’s chest, but his feet were slipping on the bloody straw. He looked less like a Prince of Hell and more like a man losing a wrestling match with a very hairy rug.

  Finally, Andras managed to grab the warg’s harness and began dragging the wagging, wiggling, motorcycle-sized puppy out of the pen toward Zac. “You’re a bad boy, Goremaw,” Andras muttered sternly, though he was busy wiping his beak with a sodden sleeve. “A very, very bad boy.”

  Behind them, the pen door swung shut with a mournful creak. Bune stood over the eviscerated remains of the Bicorn, his four hands pressed to his faces in a gesture of pure, unadulterated despair. “Why does this happen every day?!” both of his heads shrieked toward the rafters. “The paperwork! The reconstruction fees! I am going to have a stroke, and then who will polish the silver?!”

  Zac barely heard the butler’s lament. He was staring at Andras.

  The evil owl, the sower of discord, the rogue who dropped chandeliers on people... had a very happy dog. Zac’s mind, fueled by years of reading questionable fiction, immediately began re-evaluating the demon’s character profile. How could a sociopathic, anti-social, lone-wolf serial killer have a pet that clearly adored him? As far as Zac was concerned, Goremaw was a literal windstorm that had just blown away every red flag in the building.

  Zac watched as Andras finally stopped struggling. The owl demon let out a long, weary breath and loosened his grip on the warg’s collar. He closed his eyes, finally accepting the torrent of wet licks across his face-feathers.

  And then, he whispered it.

  “I know, buddy,” Andras murmured, his voice losing its jagged edge, sounding almost... tender. “You’re a good boy. That dumb horse was trying to steal your toy.”

  He glanced at Zac for a split second before hiding his face back in the warg’s fur.

  Zac’s heart didn't just flutter; it did a full Olympic floor routine. ‘Oh, he totally can do feelings!’ Zac thought, his eyes wide and shining. ‘I was right. The rogue has a heart. The bad boy is just misunderstood!’

  Zac hugged himself, his leopard-print tail practically twitching with excitement. ‘I can fix him,’ he promised himself. ‘I can absolutely fix him. And then I can watch him and the dog play together while I make us waffles in the kitchen. It’s the perfect ending.’

  Zac strolled up to the owl demon, his leopard-print tail swishing behind him with newfound confidence. "I didn't know you were such a good daddy to your doggy," he cooed, his voice dripping with faux-innocence. "You know, if you ever want company bringing him out for a walk, I wouldn't mind a bit of dogging."

  Andras finally managed to wrestle Goremaw into a sitting position. He stood up, dusting off his greatcoat and attempting to reassemble his mask of detached cruelty. "Dogging? What exactly does that imply?" He raised a suspicious, feathered eyebrow. "Goremaw is fine with his normal three walks and an hour of playing fetchies… I mean fetch!.. I mean, killing the innocent."

  "Oh, you silly owl," Zac said, reaching out to brush a stray clump of warg fur from Andras's lapel. The demon flinched, but didn't pull away. "Dogging doesn't have anything to do with the dog per se. Goremaw would just be an excuse for us to wander off into the wild together."

  Zac's eyes drifted past Andras, staring dreamily into the middle distance. "Then, out in the wild... what is that? A rainstorm? Oh no! And when we find ourselves all wet, we need to strip down to get warm and dry. And we accidentally touch hands." Zac clasped his own hands together, sighing. "Our eyes lock, and you tell me it's been a long time since you've been in a silly situation like this. And I laugh and agree it is quite ridiculous."

  Andras stared at him, his beak hanging slightly open. Even Goremaw had stopped panting, tilting his massive head as he watched the human perform.

  "Then you look at me," Zac continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, "and ask if you can say something else ridiculous since the situation is already so crazy. I nod, thinking you're going to say some dumb pun or mention that the dog is going to get our jeep all dirty. But instead... you ask if I want to kiss, and then-"

  Zac stopped, blinking his eyes open. The fantasy dissolved. He looked around.

  Andras was ten feet away, walking briskly toward the back of the stable, furiously snapping his fingers to coax the reluctant warg to follow him. He looked like a man fleeing a crime scene.

  Zac frowned, his lower lip jutting out. "I know the kid comes first, but communication is important in a relationship, my love! Please don't ignore me when we're talking!"

  "WHAT?!"

  Andras spun around so fast he tripped over his own feet. He stumbled backward, his arms windmilling. Goremaw, sensing an opportunity for playtime, barked happily and launched himself at the off-balance demon.

  Andras went down hard, hitting the straw with a squawk of surprise. Before he could recover, the warg was on top of him, straddling his chest and pinning him with affectionate weight. Goremaw immediately resumed his assault, a massive, sloppy tongue slurping up the side of Andras's face.

  "You tell him, Gore-iental Express!" Zac cheered, clapping his hands. "You tell that naughty demon that he shouldn't run from his feelings!"

  "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU SAYING?!" Andras sputtered, spitting out a mouthful of warg fur. He flailed, trying to reach for the hilt of his cutlass, but Goremaw’s weight was immense, and the owl demon couldn’t find any purchase in the slippery straw. "GET OFF! BAD DOG! THIS IS MUTINY!"

  Goremaw just wagged his tail harder, thumping it against Andras's ribs like a drum, delighted by the game of "pin the master."

  Zac leaned against a stable pillar, watching the chaos with a content smile. ‘Yep,’ he thought. ‘Definitely fixable.’

  Before Zac could continue sexually harassing the murderous demon, he was distracted by Bune finally reappearing from the tack room. In the short moment it took for Zac to properly appreciate the butler’s rolled-up sleeves and ruffled outfit… which made the dragon look like he had just returned from a nap that included a lot of thrusting… Andras had sunk into the shadows, pulling Goremaw with him, once again retreating from his emotions.

  Zac had lost his prey, but he now knew even more about the resident bad boy. The way to his heart might not be through elaborate Rube Goldberg-like traps designed to one-shot elephants, but through a much more furry and honestly derpy alternative. And Zac already had an ace up his sleeve: the hellhound seemed to like him.

  'Just wait until I begin carrying warg treats with me,' Zac grinned wickedly. 'If your dog loves me, you will too. Dogs and owners take after each other, right?'

  “Finally, that backstabber is gone,” Bune’s Right Head huffed, dusting imaginary lint from its lapel.

  “Are you alright, Zachary?” the Left Head questioned, looking him over with concern. “That dirty warg did not hurt you, did it?”

  Zac was indeed a bit bruised from being tackled by the dog, just as he was bruised from being tossed around by the various demons for the past sixty-ish hours, but his leopard-skin suit stopped anyone from seeing the damage. “Actually, I found it quite calming to pet Goremaw,” Zac said. “Maybe we can convince Andras that I need his dog to be my emotional support animal.”

  “Emotional... what?” Bune asked in genuine confusion. “Goremaw has been Andras's steed since the Fall. That dumb dog is the only one the owl can’t push away.”

  ‘Dumb dog, huh?’ Zac thought. ‘Well, I guess I’m a retarded poodle because Andras would have to hide his dick inside of himself to keep me off it. Now, how best to get him to see that Goremaw loves me and we would be good dog dads together?’

  Bune attempted to regain Zac's attention by dragging him further down the aisle to inspect the other options.

  “Behold, the Giant Vesper” Bune announced, gesturing to a massive bat hanging upside down, its leathery wings wrapped around itself like a cloak. Zac approached, hopeful, but the bat simply screeched at a frequency that made Zac’s teeth hurt and shuffled further up the rafter, clearly wanting nothing to do with him.

  Next was a basilisk, a crocodile-like creature with surprisingly long, muscular legs designed for sprinting. It looked terrifying, until Zac got close, at which point it hissed, scrambled backward into its water trough, and submerged itself completely, leaving only two judgmental eyes above the surface.

  There were camels with three humps and mouths full of razor-sharp shark teeth that spat acid when he looked at them. There was a bull made of what looked like polished bronze that snorted actual gouts of fire, but extinguished itself and played dead the moment Zac touched the gate.

  But the worst blow came from the Arachne-Weaver. It was a massive spider, easily the size of a minivan. Zac, trying to be open-minded, had approached it with a friendly smile. The spider didn't try to eat him. It didn't try to wrap him up for later. Instead, it frantically began spinning a web across the front of its stall... not a trap, but a wall. A solid, opaque barrier of ropelike silk designed solely to keep him out.

  “Denied by a spider,” Zac muttered, watching the creature seal itself away. “That’s a new low.”

  By the end of the rejection humiliation ritual, Zac was ready to give up. He didn't care if he had to carpool with Nock or Andras. Their vehicles were good enough, and he didn't mind riding bitch. In fact, wrapping his arms around Andras's waist on a motorcycle sounded infinitely better than seeing all of Marchosias's exotic pets treat him like he was radioactive.

  “There is... one more,” Bune said hesitantly, stopping in front of a small, low-walled pen near the back.

  Inside was a rock.

  “A rock?” Zac asked flatly.

  “A Pygmy Aspidochelone,” Bune corrected. “Though 'pygmy' is relative. It is an island-turtle.”

  It looked just like a large, jagged boulder, until Bune tossed a piece of raw meat from a bucket near it. Slowly, with the sound of grinding stone, a head emerged. It was a snapping turtle’s head, beak sharp and eyes ancient and mean. It snapped up the meat with terrifying speed, then looked at Zac. It didn't run. It didn't hide. It just blinked slowly.

  “He doesn't hate me!” Zac cheered.

  Ten minutes later, Zac was sitting atop the Aspidochelone’s jagged shell, his legs dangling over the sides of the massive reptile. The creature was roughly the size of a coffee table.

  “Now, grip with your thighs!” Bune instructed, holding his arms up as if spotting a gymnast. “Maintain your center of gravity! The Aspidochelone is known for its... stability.”

  Zac looked around the stable. He looked down at the turtle. He looked back at Bune.

  “Bune,” Zac said. “I don’t think we’re moving.”

  “Patience!” the Right Head chided. “He is building momentum!”

  Zac waited. The turtle let out a low hiss, blinked again, and then slowly, painfully slowly, lifted one massive, clawed foot. It placed it down about six inches forward.

  “There!” the Left Head clapped. “Progress!”