There were many conflicting emotions bubbling through Zac as he followed Bune to the dining room for breakfast. The outfit was not what he expected.

  It was not a set of satanic mage's robes, all dark silk and mysterious hoods. It was not a full plate of spiky black armor that screamed ‘minion of darkness.’ Zac would have even approved of a suave, red tuxedo to really go for that sophisticated, ‘deal with the devil’ look. That would have been kinda cool, and surely Marchosias would have found a tailored suit acceptable for a boy-wife.

  But what he got… what he was currently wearing… set off wildly conflicting emotions.

  He caught his reflection in a tall, ornate mirror as they passed it in the hall. He was wearing a fleece, leopard-print, zip-up onesie. It was complete with a long, swishy tail and a hood that had two perky little cat ears stitched onto it. Bune had been adamant that Zac put the hood up, insisting that otherwise, the uniform was not "regulation."

  It was fucking cute as fuck.

  Zac knew this for a fact, because the moment he’d put it on, Bune’s pupils had dilated, and the dragon had started making a low, rumbling, purr-like sound. The comfortable, warm fabric was incredibly soft, and it felt like it had been tailored just for him. Bune had even told him it was woven with soul-thread, making it surprisingly durable and resistant to stabbing.

  Of course, that comfort was immediately undercut when Bune had added that the suit could still become a “human soup bag” if the wearer was bludgeoned with enough force. But by then, Zac was already focusing on the real negative.

  Ose.

  That pussy-ass little shit was a leopard. And now, every time Zac looked down, he was reminded of the bored, handsome, naked demon who had sentenced him to a life of enforced celibacy with the threat of creative, eternal torture held against his head.

  ‘Dammit,’ Zac thought, filled with undefinable melancholy, his new tail swishing behind him. ‘Why does leopard print have to give off such slutty bottom energy?’ He sighed, a quiet, mournful sound escaping his lips.

  “Meow.”

  “Did you say something, Avatar?” Bune’s Left Head asked as he pushed open the dining room door.

  The Right Head looked back at Zac and let out a sound that was dangerously close to a squeal. “Oh, you finally look at home! It was so sad seeing you in those drab robes, so out of place. Now you look like a proper demonic avatar!”

  Zac just shook his head, feeling the fleece ears flop around ridiculously. He entered the dining room. It looked the same as the night before, but without the epic battle of good and evil swirling overhead, it just felt… empty.

  At the head of the table, Marchosias was fast asleep, his head pillowed on one arm, a plate of untouched, perfectly cooked steak sitting in front of him.

  Zac walked in, his slipper-like footie pajamas making him utterly silent on the stone floor. He gave Bune a nod and gestured toward his previous seat, where a plate with a few sad-looking waffles sat waiting.

  “Be right there,” he mouthed.

  He checked to make sure Bune was distracted, directing a zombie waiter to polish a candelabra. The moment the dragon’s back was turned, Zac bolted.

  He moved with the silent, predatory grace of a housecat about to knock a glass off a table. He didn’t run, he flowed, a blur of leopard-print fleece. He rounded the end of the long table, his target in sight.

  With a final, silent leap, Zac landed directly in the Captain’s lap.

  The wolf stirred. He shifted, a low grumble rumbling in his chest. “Who…?”

  Marchosias’s eyes slowly fluttered open, amber pools of confusion and sleep. He looked down at the leopard-print figure nestled on his lap.

  “Ose…?” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred. “What… what are you doing? I told you I wasn’t interested in…”

  “Morning, Captain,” Zac chirped, leaning his head against the wolf’s broad chest. “Sorry, I didn’t realize this seat was taken. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Marchosias stared, his brain slowly, painfully, booting up. This wasn’t Ose. This was smaller. Softer. And it was purring. He was purring. Oh god, he was purring.

  Marchosias’s eyes opened wider, the sleepy confusion slowly being replaced by a dawning, frantic awareness. His hands, acting on some primal instinct, settled on Zac’s waist, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into the soft fleece.

  His voice was becoming firmer, losing its drowsy slur. “Did… did something happen? You look…” He trailed off, leaning in, his muzzle pressing against the crook of Zac’s neck. He inhaled deeply.

  Zac’s heart hammered in his chest. The feeling of those rough, calloused paws rubbing his obliques, the hot breath on his skin, the wolf’s bedroom eyes still heavy with sleep… it stole his voice. His brain bypassed all thoughts of sex and went straight to a fantasy involving a summer home in the Hamptons, a shared golden retriever, and contentious arguments about thread counts.

  “Meow,” he managed, rubbing his tailed rear into the Captain’s lap. “Do you likey the kitty?”

  Marchosias’s eyes snapped fully open. He let go of Zac as if he’d been burned. “Avatar! You… I thought… When I saw the leopard print, I thought you might have been… defiled.”

  Zac raised an eyebrow, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. “There’s still plenty of time if you want the maiden voyage, Captain.”

  Marchosias grabbed Zac by the waist, lifted him off his lap, and turned the human to face him, holding him suspended a few inches off the floor. “Zac,” he said, his voice a low, serious growl. “The avatar of a demon… often takes on aspects of their patron’s appearance after… a contract is sealed.” He looked Zac up and down, from the fleece ears to the slippered feet.

  As he spoke, Zac noticed the Captain’s fingers were unconsciously kneading the soft fabric of the onesie, a rhythmic, cat-like motion against his sides.

  Zac couldn’t help it. He squirmed in the wolf’s grip and let out a loud, vibrating purr.

  Marchosias choked on his breath. He immediately, though gently, tossed Zac off to the side. Zac landed on his butt with a soft thud.

  “Bad Avatar,” Marchosias growled, his voice strained. He stood up, turning away to straighten his uniform. “I was… I was just concerned that you were no longer a virgin. I did not realize that you were simply… wearing… something.”

  Zac pulled himself up using the edge of the table, his purr still rumbling in his chest. “You can dress me however you want, Captain. I thought you might like me in a suit. You’re so professional and it would be so hot if you just ripped it off of-”

  A loud, hooting shout of laughter exploded from the other end of the dining room, shattering the charged atmosphere. Zac and Marchosias both froze, turning toward the sound. Andras was leaning against the doorway, a fresh cigarillo in his beak, shaking with silent, wheezing laughter.

  Andras managed to contain his laughter, though his shoulders were still shaking. He sauntered into the dining room, his gaze flicking between the flustered wolf and the purring, leopard-print human.

  “My, my, Captain,” the owl drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “How long has President Ose been here? You’re being a terrible host. There was no pomp. No circumstance. No formal announcement of his arrival.” He suppressed another wave of laughter, his feathers ruffling.

  Andras strolled over to his seat and dropped into it, propping his boots on the table. In front of him was a plate of something that was actively wiggling. Zac watched, fascinated, as the owl unsheathed his cutlass, stabbed the undulating meal with the tip, and brought the squirming morsel to his beak.

  Zac swished his new tail, giving Marchosias a final, playful wink. The Captain was already slumped back in his chair, a hand covering his face in a gesture of profound defeat.

  Zac strolled over to his own plate, grabbed the sad, cold waffles, and began nibbling on one. “So,” he said, looking down at his spotted onesie. “Does this really make me look like Ose?”

  Andras nearly choked on his meal, letting out a strangled squawk.

  “You look much smaller,” Bune’s Left Head offered from the doorway. “And softer.”

  “And you do not track litter everywhere,” his Right Head added with a sniff. “You are a significant improvement.”

  Marchosias slowly pulled his hand away from his face. He looked at Zac again, his expression now analytical, the earlier fluster replaced by a cold, strategic assessment.

  “Its not terrible,” the Captain said, his voice a low rumble. “No lesser demon would dare look President Ose in the eye long enough to know the difference. The resemblance, however superficial, will grant you an aura of authority.” He paused, his amber eyes narrowing. “And fear.”

  “You… you really think so, Cap?” Andras asked, his voice cracking with suppressed laughter.

  Marchosias sighed, a long, weary sound that spoke of artistic regret. “This wasn’t what I expected when I commissioned his uniform. It is a bit… revealing.”

  Zac looked down at himself. He was covered, literally from head to toe, in thick, fluffy fleece. The only skin showing was the oval of his face. ‘Revealing? What is he talking about?’

  “But,” Marchosias continued, staring at the onesie with a critical eye, “we all know Ose is like Skarg.... A nudist. The pattern alone implies a state of undress.”

  Andras choked. He spat a half-chewed grub across the table and erupted into a fresh wave of hooting, wheezing laughter.

  ‘Wait… if the leopard print implies I’m naked… that means I’m basically walking around looking like a naked leopard demon.’ A innocent grin spread across his face. ‘Oh yeah. That could really, really work in my favor.’

  “Do you think it is too crass, Andras?” Marchosias asked, genuinely concerned. “Too on the nose? I knew I should have been more specific with the tailor.”

  “It’s perfect!” Andras howled, slapping the table. “Don’t change a thing! It’s a masterpiece!”

  “Really?” Marchosias looked unconvinced. “I guess it will have to do.” He looked back over at Zac, who was now double-fisting his waffles, a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

  “Yes, it is nice,” Bune said, walking over and gently fussing with Zac’s fleece ears, straightening one that had flopped over. “It is very clean. And quiet. Not ostentatious at all.”

  That was the last straw for Andras.

  The owl collapsed, his laughter finally overwhelming him. He slid out of his chair and sank directly into a shadow on the floor, his hysterical, muffled hoots echoing from the darkness as he vanished.

  “I hate that owl,” Marchosias growled, glaring at the empty chair. “What was so funny?”

  Zac shrugged, taking another bite of waffle. “Does he have some weird history with Ose or something?”

  “No more or less than the rest of us,” Bune’s Left Head said, still fussing with Zac's hood. “He just has a terrible sense of humor.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Zac finished the last of his waffles, licking the blueberry jam from his fingers with a satisfied sigh. Once Andras had laughed himself into the shadow realm, the rest of breakfast had been a quick and blessedly quiet affair. Marchosias was finishing his steak in grim silence, leaving Zac otherwise alone at the massive table with Bune and the zombie waitstaff.

  The meal was over and he was in the company of a very handsome (if fussy) dragon butler. But he was missing something… something vital.

  “Bune,” Zac called out, his voice echoing in the cavernous room. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Any time, Avatar,” the Left Head replied, turning from where he was clearing Marchosias’s plate.

  “You know, humans often summon me to ask questions,” the Right Head added conversationally. “It is one of my primary functions. But since you are a special case, I won’t even charge you your soul for the answer.”

  Zac leaned forward, his expression deadly serious. He looked the dragon butler in all four of his golden eyes.

  “Where the fuck,” he said flatly, “is the coffee?”

  “Oh, that,” Bune’s Left Head said, glancing nervously toward Marchosias.

  His other head lowered its voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We don’t bother talking about things like that. Or alcohol. Or drugs. It is… discouraged.”

  “Even poppers?” Zac asked, horrified.

  Bune’s heads nodded solemnly in unison. “The Captain does not like mind-altering substances in his home,” the Left Head explained. “He says they are a weakness. Bad for a soldier’s discipline.”

  Zac leaned over, peering down the long, empty table toward Marchosias who was yawning loudly and stretching his massive frame. “Is he Mormon?” Zac whispered.

  Bune looked at Zac with an expression a parent might give a child who had just asked if the cows bled milk, fond pity for his profound, adorable stupidity. “The Captain,” the Right Head said slowly, “is the Captain. That is all.”

  “But there was booze in the pantry,” Zac pushed. “Were they left over from his college party days? Did he do one too many keg-stands and gave up the sauce after a legendary hangover?”

  “No,” Bune shook his heads as he collected Zac’s empty plate. “They were for cooking and now we will not be able to enjoy bourbon brazed barbeque bishop this week.”

  Zac nodded, his mind already spinning. ‘Hot and straight edge. Okay. That’s cool with me. As long as he doesn’t get all upset if I spike the punch bowl and we get shwasted at the holiday party. And then I get him under the mistletoe, mmmmm…’

  He closed his eyes, a dreamy smile on his face. He slowly raised his arms to hug himself, swaying gently in his chair.

  ‘Oh, they were both so tipsy,’ his mind raced, painting a vivid picture. ‘Making out right on the dining table in front of all the other lieutenants. Everyone was whispering and taking pictures, but Zac didn’t care. Fuck ‘em. He was fucking the boss right in front of them, and they could all kiss his ass at work the next day, because he was about to get promoted to Personal Assistant. Very personal.’

  Scrape.

  Zac’s eyes snapped open. His chair was being pulled back from the table. Bune stood over him, both heads looking down with an expression of stern finality.

  “It is time for lessons.”

  “Lessons?” Zac asked, his brain still having difficulty pulling away from the thought of Marchosias’s lips tasting of spiked eggnog.

  “Yes,” the Left Head stated. “The Captain’s orders. If you are to infiltrate the Holy City, you must be educated. Etiquette. History. Theology.”

  “Your indoctrination begins now,” the Right Head added grimly. “Come along.”

  “NOOOO!” Zac yelled, his dreamy fantasy shattering into a thousand pieces of cruel reality. “I haven’t even had caffeine yet! This is madness! This is a violation of my human rights!”

  He launched himself at Bune, his hands like claws as he ferociously tried to scratch the dragon. Sadly, his fingernails just skidded uselessly off the butler’s nigh-impenetrable scales with a series of pathetic skritch-skritch sounds.

  Realizing that direct assault was ineffective, Zac changed tactics instantly. He collapsed in Bune’s grip and began to wail, turning his head toward the head of the table.

  “MARCH!” he cried, his voice thick with fake tears. “The dragon is being mean to me! He won’t give me coffee and he’s talking about school! Save me!”

  Marchosias looked up, once again pulled from his endless disappointment. He made direct eye contact with Bune, a silent, weary communication passing between them. Then, the wolf shook his head slowly.

  Marchosias marched over to where Bune was holding the squirming, leopard-print human. He looked down at Zac with no sympathy whatsoever.

  “Bune,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “You have my full permission to use the strappado, if necessary.”

  With that, Marchosias turned and left the dining room, his footsteps echoing with grim finality.

  Zac watched the wolfman go. “Did… did you just say Bune could use a strap-on?”

  The wolfman stumbled, his stride faltering for a split second. His tail, which had been swishing with authority, tucked in sharply. But he didn't turn around. He just quickened his pace and disappeared down the hall.

  Zac’s eyes went wide. He looked up at Bune.

  “So,” he purred. “About those… lessons?”

  “No.” Bune hoisted Zac up by the scruff of his leopard onesie, lifting him until his feet dangled a foot off the floor. “Library time.”

  Bune carried Zac down the hallway, holding him at arm's length like a particularly noisy, thrashing sack of cats. Zac wailed, his legs kicking, his arms clawing uselessly at the air, but he was ultimately unable to reach his draconic handler.

  “School? Are you kidding me?!” Zac shouted, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “I’m not here for studying! I’m here for extracurriculars! WAAAH! I hate books! And all the stories were wrong! Not a single professor ever wanted a quick handy during office hours! Education blows!”

  Bune reached a pair of massive, iron-bound doors. Desperately trying to keep Zac from clinging onto the doorframe, he kicked one of them open, swung the wailing human back, and, with a grunt of effort, underhand-bowled him into the room.

  Zac slid.

  The polished black floors, smooth as glass, offered absolutely no resistance to the high-thread-count fleece of his onesie. He shot across the room like a leopard-print curling stone, coming to a slow, graceful stop as he bumped gently against the base of a towering bookshelf.

  He lay there on his back, staring up at the impossibly high ceiling, his momentum and his will to fight completely spent.

  “Fuck you so much, Ose,” he whispered to the gloom. “Fuck you to Hell. Or, uh… somewhere you wouldn’t like to be. Like a library. Or a church. Yeah. Fuck you to church.”

  He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. Bune was just turning away from the doors, which for some reason were now bound shut with heavy, newly-manifested iron chains. The dragon butler pulled a pair of delicate, silver-rimmed reading glasses from his coat and perched them on the snout of his Left Head. The Right Head, meanwhile, was looking around the gothic library with an expression of pure, unadulterated bliss.

  “Ahh,” the Right Head sighed, a puff of contented smoke curling from its nostrils. “The smell of ancient parchment, bound souls, and quiet contemplation. What a wonderful place to be.”

  Zac looked around, and his jaw dropped.

  This was Marchosias’s personal library. It wasn’t a room; it was a cathedral dedicated to knowledge. Bookshelves, carved from a dark, petrified wood, soared stories high, disappearing into the shadows of a vaulted ceiling held up by pillars shaped like weeping angels. Rolling ladders, tall enough to give a god vertigo, were propped against the shelves. Stained-glass windows, depicting not saints but scenes of famous infernal military victories, cast pools of blood-red and sapphire-blue light onto the floor.

  There were reading nooks with high-backed leather chairs, each with its own floating globe-lamp that shed a soft, warm glow. In the center of the room, a massive, circular table was covered in star charts and astrolabes that moved on their own, tracking the movements of alien constellations. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and something else… a faint, electric tang of ozone, as if the very knowledge contained in the books was a living, breathing entity. This wasn't just a library; it was a fortress of the mind, and it was the most beautiful, terrifying room Zac had ever seen.

  Zac stood up, drawn by the sheer, overwhelming presence of knowledge. He reached for a book on a nearby shelf, its spine bound in what looked suspiciously like human skin, the title embossed in writhing, silver script.

  “Not that one.”

  Bune was suddenly beside him, quickly and firmly ushering Zac away from the shelf and toward a large, empty desk. “There are some things a human mind is not meant to know,” the Left Head said, his voice unusually grave.

  “We do not need you ripping your own eyes out on your first day of lessons,” his Right Head added with a shudder.

  Zac looked back at the forbidden book. “You know, when you say things like that, it just makes me want to read it more. Is that reverse psychology? Because it’s working.”

  Bune simply hoisted Zac up and deposited him into the massive, high-backed desk chair. “Being a spy will be significantly harder if you are blind. Now, stay.”

  Zac was not enjoying this very much now. ‘Total boner-kill,’ he thought, kicking his slippered feet back and forth in the demon-sized chair, his legs dangling a foot off the floor. ‘Did Ose lie to me? Was there really no contract at all, and I’m just in regular Hell right now? Am I already serving my time, and he just gave me some evil, sexy sliver of hope to be cruel?’ His hands balled into fists. ‘That leopard is so getting kicked in the nuts.’

  Bune returned, a towering stack of books held in one pair of hands, and a fresh sheet of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell in the other. “Just a few basics today, Avatar,” the butler said as the heavy stack of books landed on the desk with a deafening thump. “I don’t want to overwhelm you on your first day.”

  Zac rolled his eyes and took the parchment and ink. "Lecture away, Bune. I am one hundred percent not going to listen to a single word you say."

  “What?” Bune sputtered, seeming to read his expression. “But you must study! It is vital for your role as a spy in the Holy City! If you are caught, you might be questioned, or worse, inquisitioned!”

  Zac looked up at the desperate dragon-professor and gave him his most earnest, convincing smile. “Yeah, I’ll totally listen. You got it. I’m all ears.”

  Bune beamed, both heads nodding in satisfaction.

  The lecture began. “Now, a foundational moment in celestial-infernal relations,” the Left Head began, pacing back and forth. “The First Schism. It began as a minor skirmish between the Dominus Angels and Lord Belial over the final bag of divine fertilizer meant for the Tree of Knowledge. You see, it was a very messy breakup… and they began to fight over the smallest things…”

  Zac tuned him out completely. He had never used a quill before and found it surprisingly tricky to get used to. He’d drawn a lot in school (how else was he supposed to pass the time without a phone?) so he was curious to try the new medium. The ink was thick and black. He dipped the quill, trying to get the feel of it.

  “…but that is why, to this day,” Bune’s Right Head droned on, “we will not give an inch, not even on the most trivial of territorial disputes. It is the principle of the matter!”

  Zac looked down at his parchment. It was a mess. The quill kept blotting, leaving thick, uncontrolled pools of ink. But through the mess, a figure was beginning to take shape. A very blotchy, but undeniably powerful, drawing of Marchosias ripping his tunic open, throwing his head back, and howling at the moon.

  ‘So bad-ass,’ Zac thought, a satisfied smile on his face as he added a few more lines to define the Captain’s impressive abs. This was a much better use of his time.

  After another hour of droning history, Zac was bored out of his mind. The idea of the entire eternal war being a cosmic, never-ending messy breakup between God and Lucifer was kind of interesting, sure. But then Bune described Lucifer.

  “…and he was the most beautiful of all creations,” the Right Head sighed romantically. “Blond hair like spun gold, eyes like the morning star, perfectly proportional, with soft, unmarred skin and the voice of an angel…”

  All Zac heard was: ‘Twink.’

  Zac didn’t have twinkphobia… he just had a severe, incurable case of daddyphilia. The moment Lucifer was described as a hairless pretty-boy, Zac’s interest in the entire war plummeted to zero. He was just about to ask if God was the sexy, bearded silver-fox in this cosmic divorce, when a clawed hand reached out and plucked the parchment from his desk.

  Zac yelped, reaching out in a panic. “Hey! Those are my notes! Give them back! They’re in… code! A secret human spy code! You wouldn’t understand!”

  He nearly fell out of his chair as Bune held the drawing at arm's length, both heads tilting as they examined the blotchy ink. Zac watched, horrified, as the dragon took in his masterful depiction of Marchosias wolfing out, complete with heroic abs and a dramatic howl.

  A slow smile spread across the Left Head’s face. “I did not know you were an artist, Avatar.”

  “It’s from a movie!” Zac shouted, his face turning beet red. “A human movie! I didn’t even like Zootopia! It had weird political undertones!” He stopped, registering what the dragon had just said. “Wait, artist? Me? I mean… yes. Yes, I am. A visionary.”

  “Oh, you have captured Goremaw’s carnivorous rage quite nicely,” Bune’s Right Head mused, twisting the parchment this way and that, trying to make sense of the erratic, blotchy line work. “The bared teeth, the powerful chest… a striking likeness. Though I believe you’ve made him a bit too… lean.”

  Zac stared. “Goremaw? The warg? That’s not… that’s supposed to be-”

  “A fine first attempt,” the Left Head said encouragingly, handing the drawing back. “Perhaps with practice, you could be the warband’s official portrait artist. A noble calling.”

  Zac took the parchment, looking down at his drawing of a shirtless, howling Marchosias. He had poured his heart, his soul, and his libido onto this page.

  And Bune thought it was a picture of the dog.

  Zac slowly flipped the drawing over, hiding the image of the misidentified Wolf Daddy. “So, God’s mad because Lucifer gave his adopted kids some Adderall, and now everyone has to die forever,” he summarized flatly. “Got it.” He looked up at Bune, his eyes pleading. “Are the lessons over now?”

  Bune chuckled, a dry, rustling sound. “God did not ‘adopt,’ as that would imply Adam and Eve had parents who gave them up. It is more correct to call them God’s ‘gooey clay babies.’ Or, at least, that is what you should call Adam. I suppose Eve is a ‘rib baby.’”

  Zac nodded slowly. “Okay. Cool. Are we done?”

  “No, silly,” Bune chuckled, both heads shaking. “We haven’t even begun to talk about the petty back-and-forth throughout the breakup. God and Lucifer just kept escalating. It was a mess. God even killed Lucifer’s pet.”

  Zac’s blood pressure skyrocketed. “WHAT?!” he shouted, leaping to his feet. “NOT THE PET! WHAT THE FUCK, GOD?! That’s the one line you don’t cross! Ever!”

  Bune agreed passionately, a rare moment of perfect, unified emotion between his heads. “Draco was a wonderful feral!” the Left Head lamented. “Such a treat to host. He never blew noxious gas in the castle, and he always loved having that soft scale on his belly rubbed.”

  The Right Head sniffed, a small puff of mournful smoke escaping its nostrils. “I knew we should have suggested a scale splice when he was molting...”

  “God had Lucifer’s dragon killed?” Zac whispered, the pieces falling into place with a horrifying click. “So… you’re saying there are no dragons on Earth because of God?”

  Bune picked up another heavy book from the stack. “Yes,” he said grimly. “That is exactly what I am saying.”

  “But… but… but…” Zac stammered, his mind reeling with the implications. “If there were dragons… one of them totally could have kidnapped me! Taken me back to their lair! Made me their hoard-bride!”

  “And they would have, too,” Bune said, clenching a fist. “A dragon cannot resist a virgin. It is biological. An imperative.”

  “Aahh!” Zac gasped, clutching his chest as if he’d been shot. “You mean… God cock-blocked me?! He cock-blocked me from getting turned into a dragon’s damsel in distress?!”

  Bune looked at Zac, his four golden eyes filled with a grave and terrible understanding. “Do you see now, Avatar? Do you see why we cannot allow Heaven to win this war?”

  Zac’s resolve hardened. His earlier boredom, his frustration, his selfish desires… they all coalesced into a single, burning point of righteous fury. His eyes blazed with a newfound, holy (or unholy) determination.

  “I get it now,” he said, his voice low and full of venom. “Those bitches are going down.”