Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Hell was an ugly place to live.

Blitz didn't mind the noise, or the smell, or even the occasional hellshake. But the view sure could use some improvements. Then again, if things started looking better, someone might get the impression they were supposed to like it here. It had been another hard winter. Not the worst, but not a picnic by any means. Hard winds that sank icy teeth into the bones and threatened to burst leaky pipes. It had actually snowed, just a little, but a dusting was noteworthy for Hell. And that meant business had been slightly slower too. They were making enough to cover the bills, but not enough to fix the van, or replace anything that wasn't absolutely necessary. And, with the furnace crapped out, again, the Sin City vacation they'd all been looking forward to was on the rocks. Slot machines and chorus girl shows would have to wait until summer. If at all.

Shit.

At least the windchill was dying down enough for him to go outside with nothing but a slightly thicker version of his usual coat. And a cup of hot java did wonders to chase away the cold. He sipped, winced, and remembered the need for creamer. He turned from his sullen contemplation of Imp City's smoky, hazy facade to fetch a dollop of pumpkin spice sweetness. Just because the landscape was shitty didn't mean his coffee had to match. The container he pulled from the fridge was... empty.

“Wonderful.” Blitz tossed it in the trash. Black coffee fit a crappy mood. Maybe it was just going to be that kind of day. A saying of his father's came to mind: “Bad cup o' joe, your day's gonna blow.” Shitty and crude, but, just like his old man, it carried a grain of truth. He drained his glass in four long swallows, put the unwashed mug in the sink—reminding himself to also do the dishes later—and went upstairs to armor himself in cheap soap for the day ahead. This cramped two-story shotgun shithole wouldn't pay to fix itself.

It was time to get to work.

One shower, a cocky glance in the mirror, and a finely pressed (and mostly fresh) suit later, he was ready. With a spirit buoyed by coffee and spite, he skipped across the hall and knocked on Loona's door.

“C'mon Loonie Tooney! Time to get out there and bash some brains to earn our bread!”

Her answer was a throaty growl and the thump of a plushie hurled against the door. “Fuck off...I'll come in when I feel like it.”

Blitz frowned. This again? It wasn't exactly unusual for Loona; she wasn't an early riser, and she did tend to roll into work an hour late two or three times a month. But, to call her recent attendance spotty would be to shame a Hellmation. She stumbled into the office an hour late at least once a week, or sometimes not at all. She was sleeping too much. And even if she intended to spend some of the morning window shopping or dicking around on Deddit, she'd usually be up and showering by now. All that makeup took time to prepare. Occasionally grouchy and hard to please? Yes, but she liked to look her best.

This was the six or seventh time this month she'd still been bed-bound while he was already fit for work. Irritation threatened to blossom into real anger and he did his best to quash it. He'd normally rouse her with an infectious hug, but when he'd tried that last week, she'd thanked him with a punch in the gut and a snarl to stay the hell out of her room, couldn't he read? Shouting and jerking the blankets away fared even worse. But, he couldn't let her go soft. They had too much to do. Restraining his enthusiasm might help. He padded across the threadbare carpet and touched the nest of blankets, wearing a hopeful smile. “Ah ah ah, c'mon now pumpkin, can't stay in today—I need my best receptionist!” A low grumble. He frowned. “You feeling okay sweetie?”

Loona sat up amid a mess of ebony bedsheets and glared moodily past her silver mane, her oversized Fuck Your Fugly Face t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. “Personal space, D—ugh, Blitz,” she snapped. “It's too early for this.”

“It's 7:30, Looney. And we got places to go and idiots to slay! You can't keep doing this—we've got a schedule to keep!”

“Whatever. My alarm didn't go off.” She caught the look of mingled irritation and concern on his face and bristled. “I'm fine...just slept shitty, that's all,” she grumbled, arming sleepy seeds from her eyes.

“You've been sleeping a lot,” he tried. “You sure you're feeling okay? You know you can always talk to m-”

“I said I'm fine.” The words guillotined any further discussion.

Blitz hesitated. A lack of booze on her breath ruled out a hangover. Maybe she was just feeling crappy. The house was a little too cold. Damn furnace. Another snapping match between them wouldn't help. “Well, I gotta snag M&M and head into the office. You good to ride your bike?”

She grunted in reply and waved him on with a casually upraised middle finger as she stumped into the bathroom. “Sure.... I'll be there when I get there. Any coffee left?”

“Sorry, we're out.”

“Fuckin' wonderful. I'll get the usual mess from Hellbucks before I crash in.”

He smiled. That was a little more like it. “All right, see you when you get there in an hour, pumpkin!”

She yawned and spared him a single glance, already scrolling through her phone. “Whatever.”

He grinned and blew her a sugary kiss. “Love you!”

Not even a grunt this time, just a click of the bathroom door and the rattle of pipes as their shower cranked on. He went out to the company van, trying to quiet his worries and reclaim a little of the morning's counterfeit cheer. The van didn't help; his bulky, spurious old bitch at first refused to start. He completed the morning's ritual of snarled curses and delivering the requisite number of kicks to the drive shaft. Eventually, the mechanical ghosts were appeased long enough for him to leave. The drive to M&M's brownstone high rise gave him plenty of time to air his worries in shouts, honks, and several aggressive mergers that ended in upraised middle fingers all around. He parked and cheerfully honked the horn, producing a familiar bullhorn from the glove box.

“M & M! COME ON, WORK'S A WAITIN' AND FUCKOS NEED WASTIN!”

A window on the 7th floor rattled up and a familiar wizened crone aired her displeasure. “Shut the fuck up, street rat!” A bottle tumbled down to smash against the hood of his car. “You pull this shit one more time and I'll punch YOUR clock!”

“Thanks Gladys, love you too, you crazy old twat!” He called, adding a few more encouraging horn honks.

A brick followed the bottle. Blitz deftly turned the van to spare the windshield another crack and applied the horn a few more times, hoping his star employees would be quick.

True to form, Moxxie and Millie arrived at 7:45 on the dot. Their punctuality never ceased to amaze him. The smaller imps made their morning greetings. Millie bounded into the back seat, followed by her less than enthusiastic husband. The door stuck—again—until Moxxie gave it an extra hard tug, then a kick for good measure.

His sharpshooter settled in, fastened his seatbelt and favored Blitz with a guarded smile and a carefully neutral, “Hello, Sir.”

“Mornin, sunshine!” Blitz bugled, slipping into his roll as the Bitchin' Boss with the ease of long practice. “Just what I wanted to see on a miserable Monday—my favorite marvelously monogamous murderers!”

Millie beamed and flashed him a thumbs up. “Mornin' B! Nice alliteration!”

His grin widened and he stomped on the gas. The engine stalled. Blitz rolled his eyes and began delivering a few more kicks, working the clutch like it owed him twelve grand.

Millie bounced beside her husband and fastened her seat-belt only as an afterthought. “We gonna get rich today?”

“You know it Mills! Ooooh, yeah! Big day today, I can feel it in my pants!” The engine turned over and the van roared to life. “Yeah baby, there we go!”

Moxxie groaned. “Sir, I didn't need to know that before I've had my morning seltzer.”

“Well, now you do, so you can't say I didn't warn you when we get busy lat—”

An inarticulate scream of rage split the morning as the lobby doors burst open and Gladys Spunkelecrief appeared, white hair in rollers, flower-print nightgown flapping as she brandished a rolling pin in one hand and a meat tenderizer in the other. “COME HERE YOU NOISY RAT!”

Blitz drove the gas-pedal to the floor and they shot forward, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust to go with a spray of crimson glass as the old bat managed to connect solidly with one of their retreating tail lights. Blitz had to give her some credit; her aim was improving.

Millie sent her screaming Landlady off with a cheery wave, then tucked in beside her husband. Her broad grin shrunk by a few molars when she noted the empty passenger seat. “No Loona again today?”

“Ah, she had a rough night.”

Moxxie frowned. “Another one, huh? I guess we can get along without her. Again.”

“Shut up Moxxie, she's a growing girl and she needs her beauty sleep.” Blitz whipcracked, jamming the brake perhaps harder than necessary at the next stoplight. Leave it to Moxxie to throw more gas on the fire of a father's worries. He abused the accelerator a little more, angling around a struggling pickup and leaving the shrieking driver to cough exhaust as he sped through another intersection in blatant disregard for the red light.

“We can manage just fine without her for an hour,” Millie soothed.

“I suppose so. We're very used to it by now, after all,” Moxxie muttered, but softened as his wife shot him a Look. “Anyway, do we have any pressing clients, Sir, or are we winging it again?”

“We've got a couple of suckers lined up for the week, but today, we're wingin' it, baby! You don't go breaking a system that produces results!”

“Results and a vacation would be nice,” Moxxie sighed, and Blitz pretended not to notice.

One fifteen minute abortion of a car ride (and two narrowly avoided vehicular fatalities) later, they pulled into their building's lot. Blitz jumped out, his jaunty spring still intact. Their good luck held: The elevator decided to work and they trooped down the hall, thanking their good fortune to beat Verosika and her quintet of sluts into the building again. Or, at least the idiots who'd moved into the space across from I.M.P.. It still smelled too much like his Ex for Blitz's liking.

They had someone waiting for them outside already. A tall, stoop-shouldered demon stood by the office door in a heavy tan overcoat and matching hat, pulled low in a futile attempt to hide his disgustingly bulbous eyes and salty sea-farer's scales. Blitz perked up and slowed his pace.

“Excuse me, are you Mr. Blitz?” The apparition's voice was a muddy garble that showered piss on Blitz's good mood.

“Depends on whose askin',” the imp replied, casually tucking one hand on the butt of his flintlock. “Are you a creditor or a competitor? And if you're trying to sell something, you can get lost right now.”

“What?” The fishman blinked overlarge eyes and doffed his hat, revealing a bald, scaly pate. “Oh, neither—I'm a customer. I'd like to hire you for a job, if you're available?”

Blitz brightened at once. “Well slap my can and call me lucky, it's your day, Pal! Waiting for us at the door, huh? I can respect that kind of eagerness in a man.” He grinned with a circus clown's glee and threw open the door. “I'm Blitz, the o is silent, and you're welcome to hire I.M.P.!"

The sinner enfolded Blitz's offered glove in a clammy mitt. “R. C. Dovecraft, sir. The pleasure is mine.”

“Great, great,” Blitz said, retrieving his hand and surreptitiously wiping it on Moxxie's coattail. “Now, how about we go to my office and fry up the details, hmm?” Blitz ushered the wobbling demon across the foyer and immediately regretted the show of professionalism; with his door shut, the enclosed space began to reek of spoiled fish almost at once. Mondays. He settled himself behind his desk and favored Dovecraft with his best salesman's smile. Loona said it made him look like he'd eaten a lemon dipped in piss, but hey, it worked at least forty percent of the time. “So, Mr. Dopesnap, what can I.M.P. do for you?”

The fishy freak settled into the chair opposite Blitz with a decidedly unpleasant sound of wet canvas. The stink doubled. Blitz added 'burn that chair' to his growing list of end-of-day chores. “Well, sir,” the monstrosity burbled, “I was hoping to acquire your services in a mission to execute some most disreputable and churlish persons, who through their barbarism and violence, caused me to awaken in this charming cesspool of unsegregated masses.”

“Uh huh...so, what I'm hearing is you want us to wack a couple people. Well, good news for you, we have a special 50% deal this week—only another half of our usual fee for every extra body you want in a bag!”

The fish blinked, turning his hat over in nervous webbed fingers. “Oh, well, I have money. I suppose I could afford a little more if the job will be that difficult for you. Er...do you offer rates by the dozen or half dozen?”

“Only good for every perfect pair. Sorry buddy, but we've got to keep the line moving.”

Dovecraft looked a little crestfallen. “Oh, well, it's a good thing I've saved up then. You'll have your work cut out for you with a dozen miscreants.”

“First come, first serve!” God, Blitz thought, this was too easy. Thank Satan for the occasionally easy mark. “Let's see what we're talkin here, fish fry.”

“Ah, yes.” Fishy fumbled out a large black and white snapshot. Men in white suits mostly hidden by voluminous black robes stood around a table draped in gaudily regalia and weirdly twisting symbols daubed in paint that might have been gold in a full color portrait. The fantastical outfits clashed jarringly with their assortment of jauntily slanted bowlers and porkpie hats. Blitz's money was on secret sex cult. The big drippy eye in the center of the table certainly indicated a bunch of freaks who Liked to Watch.

“Eh, before I was regrettably sent to this bastion of blasphemy, I was a member of this most excellent fraternity of brothers. We banded together in the pursuit of ancient knowledge, combing old tomes revealed only to those most worthy to acquire learning beyond the furthest stars. Our plan was ambitious and we toiled night and day, acquiring books and scrolls of every date and vintage in the quest to understand and awaken our slumbering brethren and reach that most vaulted realm beyond...”

Oh shit, another one who liked to Talk. Dovecraft began to ramble and Blitz tuned him out, nodding in most of the right places as Fish Fry stood and began gesticulating. Blitz tried to ignore the scent of spoiled seafood and checked his phone to see if anyone had sniped the rare My Tiny Horsie figurine he'd found on HellBay last night. The prize was still his!

“...and these vile betrayers must be punished to the fullest reach of Hell's most formidable forces!”

Blitz roused himself just in time to hear the end of this gilled geek's rant and fixed his easy grin back in place. “So, if I understand, you want us to off the rest of your bros after they traded you up for some star-spangled skank, huh?”

Dovecraft blinked owlishly again. “Well, that's rather crude, but I suppose it is an accurate summation of the current proposi—”

“Say no more! Your vengeance is now guaranteed by the Immediate Murder Professionals!” Blitz jumped up, seized the disgusting beanpole's clammy hand and pumped it vigorously. Christ, the stink was unbearable. “Now, if you'll just sign here.” He reached under his desk and brought out The Ledger. As far as reliable filing went, it wasn't great; Moxxie hated having their only master list of clients restricted to a single huge book. Blitz had finally agreed to let Loona start digitizing years' worth of client information, but he preferred the Ledger.

Dovecraft fumbled out a pen and signed his name. “And how much will this be, Sir?”

Blitz had the figure ready. He pitched a number at least four thousand more than he thought the job merited. It was always a haggle with even the cheapest of demons. He decided to push his luck. “And, cash in advance for a job like this, of course—this is Hell, after all!”

“Oh, of course. I can cover that.”

Blitz blinked and watched with carefully guarded awe as the demon fumbled out a wad of slightly damp bills and began to lay them out on the blotter. No argument. No bargaining. Just cash, in advance, neat as you please. Talk about a marvelous Monday.

“There—I think that's all, Sir?”

“Ah—yeah, that'll do it!” Blitz took the offered wad by one soggy corner. He made a mental note to have Moxxie handle them. That pipsqueak could afford ringworm or typhus or whatever disease this fugly bastard was obviously carrying.

“Thank you again, Mr. Blitz.” Dovecraft flashed what he clearly thought was a winning smile. The sight of all those mossy teeth made Blitz thankful he'd decided to save breakfast until coming into the office. “Your services shall surely please the—”

“Yeah, you're veeeeeery welcome!” Blitz threw open the door and began shunting Dovecraft away. “We'll contact you when the dastardly deed is done and that cadre of cock-blocking cape wearers are sleeping with the fishes!” A gentle push ushered the freak out onto the landing. Blitz made opening the window his first priority. Imp City's morning smog had never tasted so good. He turned to find Moxxie and Millie looking at him with raised eyebrows.

“Well...that was quick. And rather disgusting.” Moxxie said.

Blitz grinned. “Yeah, but that idiot paid in advance—with ten grand!”

Moxxie choked on his seltzer. “He—he what!?”

“Yeah, I know!” Blitz brandished his wad of hundreds. “He cost us an office chair, but we just made enough to fix the van!”

“And get a real coffee maker!?” Millie begged.

Blitz executed a delighted pirouette. “A big fat Hellrueig, Mills!”

“Finally!” She bounced in her seat and brandished a machete in a manner that would give Jason Voorhees pause. “Who do we get to whack today?”

“A fat lot of freaky fish-loving weirdos who spend their time looking for stars or some shit.” Blitz was already opening the armory and pawing through weapons. “Mmmm...I dunno. That idiot talked too much. Somebody fucked him over and now he wants us to wipe out all his buddies.”

Moxxie paused in the middle of loading his favorite twelve gauge. “Huh...That sounds a little like the guy we got last month, doesn't it? The one who wanted us to kill...what was it, a body snatcher? Ward, or something?”

Blitz shrugged. “They all tend to blend together after a while.” He readied his favorite assault rifle, kissed the slide, then racked in a magazine. “Ooooh, yes, did you miss Daddy? Daddy missed youuuuu. I promise you'll get to pulp all the bwains you want today, Julia.”

Millie joined them, hefting her favorite ax. “I'm gonna give you such a workout today, Amos,” she cooed, sharpening the blade with a few strokes of whet stone.

“Good choice, Mills. And make sure to bring the broad sword and the cheese grater. I'm feeling...vindictive today.” Blitz reloaded his flintlock and clapped his hands. “All right gang—let's do this!”

Moxxie smiled tightly. “I would, Sir. But—” he looked pointedly at Loona's still vacant seat. “We can't go anywhere until Loona gets here. We need the book. No Loona, no book. No. Money.”

As if on cue, Loona finally arrived, armed with a supersized cup of coffee and the morning's supply of doughnuts. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Christ what the fuck is that reek? It smells like undouched succubi twat in here.”

“Thaaaaaat is the smell of money, Looney!” Blitz cracked his knuckles. “We just made bank!”

“Thank fuck I missed that.” She dropped a bag of donuts on the board room table. “Here's your breakfast, morons. I'll go get the Book.”

“Atta girl!”

Pointedly ignoring Moxxie's frown, Blitz set to work readying their pile of arms for the morning of bloodshed. Loona settled into her accustomed place and assumed The Position; feet up, chair back, one bottle of bottom-shelf hooch thumped beside her coffee. Out came her phone while she waited for the computer to warm up.

Blitz readied his flintlock and flashed her a grin, perching at the edge of a too-cluttered desk as inspiration struck. “Hey, you wanna come with this time, Loonypoo? It's gonna be a real massacre—plenty of extra work to go around, and I know you love to flash those pearly whites!”

She didn't even look up. “No.”

Blitz faltered. He didn't let her accompany them often—and Loona was always game for a little action. “Are...you sure?”

“I said no, didn't I?” She fetched a long-suffering sigh and unlimbered the Grimoire. “And someone has to stay here to mind the Craponomicon.”

“I guess. If you're sure—”

Loona rolled her eyes and took a hit off her bottle. “Blitz, just go do your job and get the fuck out of my face.”

“We'd be able to do it if you actually showed up on time for once,” Moxxie snapped. “Do you have any sense of professionalism, or is this just going to be the new normal?”

Loona glared. “Sit on a moldy cactus, Possum Boy.”

“All right fine, you stay here, hold down the fort while Daddy's away!” Blitz risked a quick hug and felt her stiffen. Another bad sign. He backed up, pointedly not looking at his employees. Feeling their eyes burning into his back throughout the morning's gruff exchange was bad enough. And, maybe she just needed some time alone. Everyone woke up on the wrong side of the bed now and then, right? Right. He picked up his flintlock and retreated into the comforting familiarity of bloodshed. “Come on, gang—we've got some robe-wearing rejects to put in the ground—and all over the wall!”

***

Several hours, a dozen body bags, six gallons of acid, and a spare tank of gas later, the crew popped out of the portal, bringing with them an even greater, ranker miasma of fish. Millie spun around to hurl one last molotov through the portal, lighting up the target's blood-spattered den. Spilled kerosene ignited in a audible fwoomp! Blitz lit a celebratory cigar from a burning ceiling timber before the whole works collapsed and the portal snapped shut. “Aaaaah, I love it when a jackass begs for his life!”

“Did you see that guy in the stupid pointy hat?” Millie chortled. “I think he wet himself before Moxxie took his head off!”

“He did make quite a mess,” Moxxie beamed. The rifleman hefted his shotgun and grimaced, shaking a streamer of unidentifiable gunk from the end of the barrel and the attached bayonet. “Ugh...and they made a mess of Stanley.”

“Nothin' a little elbow grease can't fix, right Moxx?” Blitz spun on his heel and clapped a hand to his weapon master's back. “My little pew pew princess can fix anything!”

Moxxie jumped and dropped the weapon. The stock hit the carpet and shattered into splinters and the ejection port popped free with a tinny 'twang!' of buckling steel as the last round in the tube went off with the embarrassing pop of a firecracker underwater. All three imps stared at it.

Blitz sucked on his cigar. “Wow...that sucks.”

Moxxie fell on his knees. “Stanley!”

Blitz made a cursory inspection of his private arsenal; flintlock, holdout pistol, second holdout, assault rifle. Everything looked okay. He shrugged. “Probably just time to send her over the hill, Moxx.”

Moxxie shook his head. “But...this was my Grandfather's! I can't just—we have to fix him!” He picked up the weapon, only to watch as the whole thing nearly snap in two. Moxxie whimpered. "Oh Stanley!"

Blitz slapped his shoulder heartily. "C'mon, Moxx-with what we just made we can buy you a new one!"

“You name your weapons?” Loona asked. She finally looked up from her phone, sniffed, and lurched back from the messy trio. “Ugh, what the fuck is that reek?!?”

“That's the stink of money, honey!” Blitz crooned.

“It smells like shit!” Loona lurched away in open disgust, waving a hand in front of her nose. “Jesus, I hope the paycheck will cover the fumigator we're gonna need to clean out this stench!”

Blitz dusted off his hands, his grin a mile wide. “Baby, we just paid for a week's worth of hot ramen and a new coffee machine—and a new drive shaft for the van!”

“Good, does that mean I can go home early for once? This place smells like ass.”

Blitz glanced at her, noting the narrowed eyes and impatiently tapping foot. “Yeah, it is kinda rank. You got somewhere you need to be? We sort of have some paperwork we need to fill out?” He saw her upper lip curl in a contemptuous snarl and raced on. “—I mean, I'm sure I could get Moxxie to help me take care of it. You go on ahead, sweetie. Enjoy your afternoon!”

“Fine, whatever. Later.” The hound pulled on her coat.

Blitz racked his brain for something to salvage the moment. “Hey, uh...how about we all go out to dinner—my treat?”

Loona keyed off the computer. “I've got plans.”

“All right, then I'll grab us some grub on the way home—how about a Hellburger?”

“Sure.” Loona pocketed her phone.

“The usual?”

“Yeah, you should know it by now.”

“Oh, they've got a special going this week.” Blitz bounced across the room in sprung boots, tail almost wagging. “New Deadlight coke! It's supposed to taste like nightmares! And it comes with a free plushie! Do you want the toy, or—”

She glared. “For fuck's sake Blitz. I'm not a little kid anymore. Get your head out of your ass for once and stop treating me like a goddamn puppy!”

“Hey, don't talk to me like that, young lady. You know that attitude of yours is getting rea—”

She stalked out before Blitz could even build up a head of steam, closing the door hard enough to rattle the glass facing.

Moxxie stared. “What the Heaven was that?”

“She hates fish, and this place smells like ass, just like your opinions, micro dick.” Blitz watched her go, feeling his gut twist. But, it was just Loonie being Loonie. She had her moods, after all. He foisted the pile of invoices into Moxxie's hands. “Here you go, Moxx—handle this shit for me. I've got important work in my office to take care of before we close up.” Blitz bounced off before the sputtering sharpshooter could formulate his reply, shutting the door with rare finality.

Millie glanced out the window in time to see their fuzzy receptionist mount her bike and take off in a roar of exhaust. A frown spoiled her normally sunny face. “I guess that's that.”

Moxxie sat down harder than necessary. “Well, that was charmingly rude. She's late. She dresses like a homeless goth teenager, and now she can't even be bothered to do her job.”

“Yeah. That was...a little harsh.”

Moxxie picked up a stack of waiting paperwork and began the laborious task of finishing the after-action report by hand. “It's just like her, though. Always pawning her job off on the rest of us.”

“Maybe, but she's usually not that blunt about it. Something's up.” Millie glanced between him and their boss's closed office door. “I'll help you take care of this in a sec. One of us has to go talk to Blitz.”

Moxxie grunted. “Better you than me, honey.”

Millie spent a few minutes tidying the office armory, giving tempers time to cool. A brief survey of their weapons made her frown deepen. She was no gunsmith, but even she could tell Moxxie's shotgun was probably toast without a lot of work. And the slide on her favorite pistol was stuck. A closer inspection revealed that the whole mechanism had warped to fuse with the frame. At least the thing hadn't blown up in her hand. And the rank odor of spoiled fish lingered. Maybe Loona had been right to beat feet early. She put both guns in a Special Job pile, washed her hands, and then slipped into Blitz's office. He hadn't bothered to lock the door. It was a promising sign. "Hey B, you got a minute?"

"Sure thing, Mills, just lemme finish this." Whatever work Blitz had been intending to polish off was still sitting in his in-tray. Her boss was putting the final figurine atop an impressive stack of small horse plushies. Millie had to smile. It was just so Blitz. He beamed at the completed tower and stood back, framing it with his phone. "Fuck yeah, look at that pillar of equine perfection! This shit is going right onto Voxtogram!"

"It looks great." Millie gently shut the door and sat on the corner of his desk. “Blitz, we need to talk.”

“What, do you and Moxx need some time off for-”

“No, no we're fine. We need to talk about Loona.”

His eyebrows lifted. “She's been sending Moxxie faxes again, huh?”

“No, Blitz. Ah need you to be serious for a moment. Please.” She placed one hand over his. Her tone had shifted, dropping to a low, almost motherly cadence he had only heard a few times before, when all her patience had finally worn down, and straight talk was needed.

Blitz turned in his chair. “All right. What about Loonie?”

“Blitz, she's a mess.”

He blinked. “Ah, c'mon Mills, that's a little harsh.”

“Is it?” Millie pressed, gold eyes intent. “All Ah ever see her do is play on her phone. She's showin' up late more and more often. She's gotten really snappy lately, even for Loonie. Hell, she practically just bit your head off over nothin' today.”

Blitz bit his lip. “All right... I've noticed it too. She has been a little more prickly lately.”

“Is somethin' going on?”

“With her? No. She's fine.” The words came out too quickly and they both heard the lie for what it was. Still, he pressed on. “C'mon, Millie. You know how Loona gets. She's just having one of her moody spells.”

“Maybe. But Ah've never seen her this crabby before, and she's been snapping at everyone lately—even our clients. Have you talked to her about it?”

Blitz's smile faltered. “Of course I have!” He sat up, reflexively kicking his desk for emphasis. Piled ponies wobbled dangerously. “Don't tell me how to raise my kid!”

“Ah'm not,” Millie soothed. Her smile briefly returned and she touched his shoulder. “Calm down, B. It's been a pretty rough winter this year. Ah know we been losing some business. Have things been okay at home?”

“Sure. Well, it's been a little chilly. The furnace went out again and we haven't had enough cash to cover that yet. She's never minded a little cold now and then.” He rocked in his chair without being aware of it, watching the topmost pony in his stack wobble back and forth. “I guess the hot water's been on the fritz too. She doesn't like cold showers?” But that sounded lame, even to him.

“Maybe.” Millie kicked her feet and looked out the window, brow furrowing. “What does she do for fun?”

“What are you, her therapist?”

“No, Ah'm her coworker. And you're her daddy,” she reminded him gently. “ And we've been workin' together for goin' on two years now but she doesn't really open up to...well, anyone. If we can't figure this out, no one will.”

“She's...uh.” Blitz floundered and shrugged, hiding behind a gulp of ice cold coffee. “She's not all that talkative lately.”

“Even at home? She's got to have something that makes her smile?”

“Besides terrorizing Moxxie?” The joke fell flat and she smiled, waiting patiently. He'd always be a clown. He was making too many jokes. Another sign of nerves. “She's got her music, but the neighbors haven't sent me any noise complaints in a while, so she probably hasn't picked up her bass in...” She watched him do the mental math. “Shit, a few weeks, at least.”

“She's got to have something else.” Millie pondered. “How often does she get out?”

“She started hanging out with Tex and his gang a last October, but that's, maybe...twice a month, if we're not busy. And, you know how things were around All Hallow's Eve. We had clients coming out the woodwork.” He thought about it. Opening up to one's employees went against every good HR recommendation in Hell, but... Millie was Millie. So, he let a little more truth finally see the light of day. “And, at home, lately she's...” he shrugged. “Moody? We used to watch shitty movies together once in a while, but now she just holes up in her room. Again.” A nervous shuffle of boots on carpet. “And she's sleeping too much.”

“You been keepin' tabs on her?”

He glared. “What—she's my girl. A Dad can't worry?”

“Course you can. And we keep comin' back to the same thing.” Millie's smile was still soft, but her voice gained an edge of parental concern. “Ah think Ah know what's wrong. Don't you?”

“She's got fleas? She thinks I'm an embarrassing dick and wants to move out? What?”

“No.” Her smile turned sad. “She's lonely, Blitz.”

He blinked. “That's...kind of a leap.” His traitor hands, more prone to tell the truth, began fiddling with a pen.

“Really?” Millie pressed. “When was the last time you saw her with anyone?”

“I told you, she's been hanging out with Tex.”

“Ah know, but when was the last time she brought a friend home?” Millie picked up one of Blitz's ponies and began bouncing it on her palm, making the mane jostle and sway. “When was the last time she talked to you about what she does when she goes out?"

“Does that matter?”

Millie shrugged. “Girls like to share the tea, B. She doesn't tell you about any of the parties or trips she takes?”

“What's wrong with that? She likes her privacy.” Considering all the caution tape and warnings on her door, that was an understatement.

Millie stared. “Really? Blitz, come on. Do you even ask?”

“Of course I do!” he snapped. “I don't let her go out with just anyone! But it's always 'cool' or 'fine' or 'okay.'” In point of fact, Loona had made no secret that her business was Her Business. Any attempt to pry too deeply into a night's outing quickly descended into monosyllabic answers or, worse, a groan and a slammed bedroom door. He shrugged. “I told you—she's a private girl.”

“And there's nothin' wrong with that, but she's not talking. To you. Maybe not to anyone. Has she even brought a boy home? A girl? Anyone, even just for the night?”

Blitz bit back the reflexive bark and thought it over. The question made him feel vaguely wrong footed. Picturing Loona doing the horizontal bop with anyone made him see red. They had an understanding; if you go out, be safe. Use protection. If you dip into something naughty, be sober when you get back. But he couldn't remember the last time they'd had a spat about anything as simple as recreational fun, chemical or physical. Or when she'd even mentioned anyone serious. She'd just holed up in her room, growing colder and snappier as winter darkened. Warning signs he'd seen and tried, fumblingly, to counter, with gifts and little freedoms.

Millie was waiting patiently, and he shrugged to cover an awkward silence. “All right, so she's kind of a loner. That's her thing. What do you want me to do about it? Hang up friendly puppy posters around town?” He waved a hand through the air, framing the text with a carnival barker's showmanship. “'Good girl, rough exterior, likes spooky goth chic, secretly craves belly rubs'?"

“C'mon, be serious. Just for a minute?” Millie bit her lower lip. “Blitz...Ah'm only a couple years older than she is, but Loona's.... Well, she's not happy. In fact, I can't remember the last time I saw her smile in the office.”

“Well if you've got any suggestions, I'm all ears,” He bit out, mostly to cover up the ice pick jabbing between his ribs.

Millie pondered, lazily kicking her feet and watching the pony crowning the top of Blitz's obelisk wiggle dangerously with every swing. “Mmm...sounds like she needs to get out a little more.” She perked up. “Oh, what about your friend Stolas? His daughter might like Loona. She had the whole Hate the World, But Hey that Darkness Stuff is Pretty Cool vibe goin' on at Loo Loo Land." She smiled. “And you two already get along like a house on fire.”

Blitz chuckled. “That high-borne bird? Mills, Loonie's a street girl. You know how tough she is. I've seen her drain a fifth of tequila in the morning and then eat the bottle for breakfast. When I took her to a club for her 18th birthday, she lit the bar on fire.”

Millie's eyebrows rose and her grin returned. “Really? Hot damn.”

“Okay, well, that was actually my fault, but that barkeep gave me the shittiest pour this side of Blighttown, and he grabbed my ass with one of his tentac—” he caught her glare and quickly swerved back on topic. “Anyway, Stolas' kid's a noble—she's had servants for everything. Loonie would probably accidentally set her hair on fire with one good burp.”

“How do you know? Ain't it worth a try?”

He frowned and crossed his arms. “Why are you so dead set on this?”

Millie was implacable. “Blitz, you're the one who's always goin' on and on about how much of a family we are. Well, I know family. Mine's fuckin' huge. And when you see someone in your family in trouble, you gotta help em' out. That's just the right thing to do.” Her voice softened. “Don't you care about her?”

“Of course I do! She's my girl and I'll kill anyone who says otherwise with a rusty spoon in the ass! But...” He ran a hand over his face and sunk back into his chair. Exhaustion let him bring out a little more ugly truth. “Look, when we went topside to stick it to that teeny-bopping twat Verosika a few months back, I was too...too...”

“You?”

He mentally flinched as the truth cut like a razor blade. “Yeah, and she kinda bit my head off for it.” 'And you deserved it.' The familiar thought came, whispered in a voice of razor wires and burning canvas tents. 'She was a snotty brat about it, but you were an ass. Again. Like always. You don't deserve her. She's just tolerating you. She's going to leave.' The words clanged through his head, threatening to turn into a maelstrom he couldn't afford to drown in. Not here. Not yet. So, he glared out the window and shoved the voices back inside his mental lock box. “She's grouchy, she sleeps too much, she barely talks to me anymore, and if I try to squeeze her into something else, it'll just backfire again. And...” He flushed and shrugged. “I don't want to hurt her.”

Beside him, one of the lower horses in his tower finally shifted. A rainbow mare with glittering mane popped out of the tower and the whole thing crumbled in a heap, sending adorable plastic ponies scattering across the office in a technicolor flood. One bounced off Blitz's right horn with an eye-wateringly adorable 'squeak!' before tumbling to the blotter. For once, his usual bark of profanity was absent. He glanced at the mess, then glared at the shuttered office window. “Sometimes I feel like I'm as shitty as my old man, just in different ways.”

He hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud until Millie pressed a hand to his cheek. He tensed, preparing a snarky joke to cover his folly, but her smile was still soft. Still too kind.

“Blitz, if yer a shitty dad, then Ah don't wanna see a great one. You ain't the best, but she could do a helluva lot worse. Ah been here for goin' on two years now and Ah ain't never seen that girl want for anything. Even when we were just startin' out and didn't have two stale crackers to rub together and we had to off a mob boss to make enough cash to keep the business, you made sure she had food, and hooch, and a roof to come home to.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You want what's best for her, don't you?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. So do we. How about you come over tonight, have dinner with me n' Moxx. We'll scheme something up that'll work.”

Blitz tried not to gape and mostly succeeded. “Really?”

“Really. It's spaghetti night—you ain't lived till you've tried Moxxie's spaghetti.”

“All right, then.” The urge to make light of the whole situation with an easy sex joke rose, but, for once, he resisted. “I'll see you lovebirds in an hour or two.”

Blitz collected his ponies, listening to Millie summarize their conversation for Moxxie. To his surprise, the fussy pipsqueak didn't protest. Maybe it was a good sign. They drove home in a comfortable silence and Blitz dropped them off. He returned to find the house quiet. Loona was out. Somewhere. He showered, changed and sent her another text.

'Hving dinnar wifh MnM. Chikkin in fridge. Helpyou rself Looney.'

Dinner. Together. Hot damn. They rarely invited him over. Maybe that was why he kept sneaking in, braving a rickety fire escape for a few peeks through gaped curtains. Trying to figure out what made them tick. There had to be some secret.

It couldn't just Work. It never did.

With the day washed off and his suit exchanged for a comfortable pullover, a leather jacket, and jeans, Blitz had to admit he was feeling slightly more optimistic about things. A double helping of spaghetti did wonders. For all the shit he gave his second-in-command, Blitz had to admit Moxxie's skill with a saucepan more than equaled his impeccable marksmanship. Two beers had also loosened him up enough to put his booted feet up on an empty chair. “So...what we need to do is set Loona up with Octavia. This'll be a sinch.”

Moxxie sipped his wine. “With the two of you in tow,” he added. "Because that's a recipe for a good time."

Blitz rolled his eyes. “Well, duh. I'm not about to let Loona go running around with some Bird.”

“So, you'll just...invite yourself along?” Moxxie pressed. “Sir, don't you think Loona will see right through that? She's rude and loud, but she's not an imbecile.”

Millie smiled and refilled her glass with more whiskey. “That's not the important thing, Moxx. No matter what, they're going to know something is up. We just have to make sure it feels as natural as possible.”

Blitz idly twirled a forkful of spaghetti, eyes narrowed. Good beer and better food guided the cruise liner of thought to inspiration island. “Oh! What about a cruise? Lots of time away from work, a fun place to run around in the sun, maybe see a few sights. You know...maybe with all of us on hand—just to make sure things don't get too wild?”

“We'll never afford that, Sir. And as much as Prince Stolas enjoys your company, I doubt you could convince him to foot a bill that large.” Moxxie sipped his wine. “And...none of us can afford a vacation yet.”

Their boss rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks Moxxie, you're always a fountain of optimism. We've got to think of something, and I don't hear you spouting ideas.”

Millie stepped in with almost diplomatic grace. “I think what Moxxie's trying to say is that we need to start a little smaller, Blitz. It doesn't have to be some kinda big production – small and nice might even be better. I mean, neither of them seems to get out much.”

Blitz paused with his third beer halfway to his mouth. “How would you know that?”

Millie beamed and wiggled her phone. “I started stalking their Voxstogram accounts while Moxx was cookin'!” she chirruped gleefully.

Blitz dropped his half finished Helliken into his spaghetti. “You WHAT!?”

Unperturbed, Millie popped open the App. Her thumbs flicked rapidly over the screen as the two men hovered beside her. A kaleidoscope of images unspooled; Loona, tucked into her chair at work. Another showed the hound trying on a few new outfits at her favorite store. Hanging a kick me sign on Moxxie's back—he made sure to save that one for later. Complaints about bad coffee, irritable coworkers, and as much mopey, sarcastic darkness one would expect from a girl with Loona's sunny disposition. Looking through his daughter's posts made Blitz feel vaguely scummy. She'd meant all of this to be public, after all, but it didn't take a genius to know the intended audience definitely did NOT include her coworkers, and especially not her adoptive father.

“So, she sits around all day posting on Deddit and watching videos on Helltube...” Blitz said. He killed his beer and shook his head. “Fuck, my daughter's life is sad and lonely.”

Moxxie glanced between his wife and his boss. “You're stalking lonely teen girls on Voxtogram? Honey, I love you, but even I find that a little creepy.”

Millie threw her napkin at him. “Octavia doesn't seem so bad,” She'd pinched Moxxie's phone from the counter to scroll through the other girl's posts.

Blitz glanced over her shoulder, feeling even sleazier. Reading in bed, stargazing with Stolas, sharing an uncomfortable selfie with Stolas. Grumpily watching TV with Stolas. He was starting to see a pattern. One post in particular drew his eye; the teenage noble perched in an oversized shirt, her hair in rollers, round face covered in green beauty mud. Stolas sat beside her, his face a mask of heavy, complimentary makeup that accented the freaky avian's large eyes and gaping beak perfectly.

Moxxie's face clouded as he caught sight of the picture. “Well...that's going to haunt my nightmares for a few weeks,” he said, but he glanced at the image again in spite of himself. “Not bad, though.”

“Definitely belongs in the circus.” Blitz took a hit off his beer, discovered it was empty, and opened another as he added reluctantly, “She did a good job.”

“Hey, they're both really into makeup—that's great!” Millie bounced in her seat and actually clapped in delight.

“They're moody emo teens who listen to dour music and think their fathers are embarrassing, intrusive dickheads,” her husband commented dryly. “The goth makeup fixation kind of goes without saying, honey. … God, they are perfect for each other.” He made a face.

She gave him another gentle punch on the shoulder. “Oh hush, you. Hey, that's it—why don't you and Stolas go to the mall with them? They both seem to really like this Stylish Occult place—it's in at least half of Octavia's posts.”

“Loonie does love blowing our hard earned green on trashy shirts and stockings,” Blitz admitted.

“I wonder where she learned how to handle money,” Moxxie teased. Blitz glared and Moxxie shrugged. “Sir, face it; it I hadn't been embezzling funds from our account for the last year to make sure you didn't blow it all on horse toys, office pets, and moss balls, this company wouldn't exist.”

“All right, nobody likes a smart ass unless it's my ass in their face,” Blitz growled.

“Boys.” Millie's motherly tone amputated the pissing match that surely would have followed. “We need to focus here. Blitz, call Stolas and let's hear what he thinks?”

“Well...all right.” Brows beetling in irritation, Blitz dialed their office's most regular, non-paying visitor. Even if this blew up, at least Loona might have some fun. And maybe he could find a way to worm out of one of the upcoming monthly visits with the Prince. Millie was about to remind him to activate the Speaker mode, but to no one's surprise, the call was answered on the first ring.

“Ohhhhh helllloooooo my little Blitzy!” Stolas' voice sprung from the speaker in a sugary coo fit to make the object of his obvious (and definitely unrequited) affection roll his eyes. “It's been soooo long since you've called. You must be so busy, I keep missing you at your office.”

“Yeah, we've been whacking a lot of nutjobs lately.”

“You may want to hire a new receptionist though; that charmingly edgy dog of yours seems to keep losing my messages.” Stolas chuckled. “I think once saw her eat one. It was quite amusing.”

“That's my daughter you're talking about, you big mouthed bird dick!” Blitz snapped before he could stop himself. Millie smacked the heel of one hand against her brow and gave the taller imp a hearty kick to the shins under the table. “Ow! But, yeah, now that you bring her up, I wanted to pick your brain about something.”

“Ooooh? You know you can always talk to me about anything, my little imp.” Millie couldn't resist the urge to playfully bat her eyes at the owl's overblown attempts at seduction. Blitz pretended not to notice.

“Yeah. Look, I've got the day off tomorrow. Loonie's been feeling a little down and, I wanted to, you know, make sure she gets out a little more. She really likes that stylish occult store—”

“Oh, yes, my owlet quite enjoys that one too. Oh! Oh, I know what you mean!” They almost heard Stolas dancing with barely contained glee over the phone as the penny dropped. “You want to arrange a little play date for our daughters! Oh how marvelous—Via does need to get out of the house a little more, too. And, now that I think about it, I could use a new suit as well.”

“Fantastic,” Blitz groaned, utterly failing to sound enthused. “We'll meet you there tomorr—”

“Via!” Stolas' voice interrupted him “Oh how timely! My owlet! My dear friend Blitzy wants to introduce you to his daughter Loona tomorrow, won't that be smashing?”

Moxxie rolled his eyes and gestured at the phone with both hands in a 'didn't I tell you' gesture.

Blitz nearly flipped the table as he jumped to his feet, voice rising into a hectoring snarl. “NO YOU FUCKING FEATHERBRAINED RICH PRICK! IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE A SURPRISE!!!”

A cooing laugh drifted out of the speaker. “Calm down, Blitz. You don't take me for a complete fool, do you?”

“You really don't want me to answer that, asshole.” Blitz dropped back into his chair. “So, you're up for it?”

“Oh absolutely. And I think I can convince Octavia to come along easily enough.” He paused, and when the owl spoke again, the playful coo was gone. “And, surprises are lovely...but I wouldn't spring this on Loona if I were you, Blitz.”

“Are you telling me how to raise my kid? Because I don't need that from you.”

“Of course not, Blitzy!” The phone rattled as the flustered Prince nearly dropped his end of the line. “But, well, if she's anything like Octavia, being open about this kind of thing will help. A lot.”

Blitz drowned his reflexive retort in beer long enough to see the sense in the owl's words. “All right, fair enough. We'll see you there tomorrow around noon. And remember, Bird Mouth, this is about our daughters. If you try fucking my sweet ass in one of those little changing booths-”

“Stop giving me ideas, you rascal.” Stolas chuckled. “Ta ta, my charming little carnival clown.” The line went dead.

Blitz almost threw his phone at the wall, then thought better of it at the last minute. This was a day of rare restraint for him. “Well, there we go, gang. We've put our foot right in it.”

Millie whooped and clapped him on the back. “I'm sure it'll go well! You just have to be on your best behavior, B.”

“Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of.”

***

Blitz stayed long enough to finish another beer and drop a few more inappropriate jokes. It was the last thing Moxxie needed after a long day, but he bore it well until his boss finally left. The sharpshooter sighed and turned to his lover, beginning to clear the table. It was a relief to have a quiet apartment to enjoy again. “Finally, blessed silence.”

“Oh come on, Moxx. This was fun. We never have company. And he actually used the door this time.”

“I suppose. But... Millie, don't you think you're taking all this a little too personally?” He asked. “You're going to an awful lot of trouble for our receptionist....and she never does much for us.”

Millie shrugged, killing the last of her second whiskey and coke of the evening before piling dishes into her arms. “Aw, C'mon, Moxxie, Loona's a sweetie once you get to know her.”

Moxxie downed the last of his wine and joined her at the sink, rolling up his shirtsleeves, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Dear, she once pissed in my morning coffee,” he reminded her, scrubbing sausage grease from their largest pan. “And then waited until I'd finished the entire pot to tell me.”

“She just has an odd way of showin' she likes you.”

“If that's affection, I hope I never piss her off,” he snorted, adding more soap to the sink.

“Funny man.”

“Yeah, funny like her attitude lately.”

“C'mon, Moxxie. Loona's okay. I know she's rough, but she's one of ours. Gotta keep our little murder machine running smoothly, don't we?” His wife stepped forward and hugged him close, soap-sudsy hands crossing at the wrists just above his tail so she could clasp his rump and deliver a playful little squeeze. “An' this fine ass o' yours has tightened up since you cut back on all that coffee.” She winked. “Maybe she did us a favor.”

Moxxie's cheeks flushed a dark scarlet, but he had to laugh. It was unavoidable. “How do you do that?”

Millie smiled and cocked her head. “Do what?”

“Be so... you? You can see the bright side to everything. To anyone.” His smile turned a little wistful and, fueled by wine and good food, he kissed her between the eyes. “It makes me wonder why you picked me, sometimes.”

Her smile widened, taking on a slightly impish curl and she kissed him full on the mouth, lips lingering, letting the touch build into something slow and sweetly passionate. “You just answered your own question, baby. Now...” Her hands flexed again and her hips pitched against his in a slow, sensuous roll. “Let's finish up these dishes. I wanna show you just how happy I am I snagged you.”

Moxxie grinned and nibbled her neck. “Couch, or bed?”

Millie grinned. “Whichever's most convenient?”

All in all, the night hadn't been a total disaster.

***

Across the Pentagram, Stolas hung up the phone and sent Pringles away. A surprise call from Blitz had brightened a frightfully dull evening—especially since the imp rarely phoned of his own accord. And never to ask for anything so...personal. Or public. Perhaps he should have asked for a Favor in return for this little outing. Most demons would have. But the prospect of seeing his favorite imp in daylight—and with both their daughters in tow—was reward enough for now. A play date!

Excitement bubbled over into the need for action. Stolas donned his robe and swept through the palace to tend his evening blooms with water and sprinkles of feed. Blitz could hardly have called at a more complicated time. Things in the Pentagram were too stressful of late. Few demons seemed to realize that a noble's position required more than sitting around, looking fabulous, and spending money. Duty called—and more often that he would have liked, lately. Territorial disputes were beginning to break out more frequently and investments in blood and coin needed to be protected. One or two of the Overlords bordering this section of the Pride Ring had asked the owl to serve as a mediator. It was a job he loathed, but accepted as part of his duty as the reigning noble in this pocket of the Pride Ring. If things kept getting out of hand, he'd have to see Warden Rufus again—assuming the hungry wolf of Imp City didn't already have things in hand, or at gunpoint.

Stolas opened the small fridge in one of the side kitchens and retrieved two slabs of zebra meat. The bulbous floral fiend by the window turned, opening razor petals like a begging dog. He tossed the bloody treat in and patted the undulating mass while creepers writhed and digestive acids sloshed. “Oh, that's such a good boy, Preometheus!”

And, of course, home was still rather tense. But...this was also business as usual, especially since Blitz had entered his life. Nights of passion, guarded conversations between silk sheets, a bed that finally felt full, if only for an evening. Then the next day it was back to business as usual. Every offer of extra outings rebuffed. Every hand hold too loose or too tight. Nothing seemed to go quite right. Every time he tried to get closer to the little rascal, Blitz balked. Stolas had never met a man so stubbornly alluring.

More plants and magic soothed his troubled mind as he tried to plan out how best to broach tomorrow's outing to Octavia. She was too quiet lately. Perhaps this would help her open up. The Prince admired a blossoming carnivorous lunar zinnia, and opened a window to let the hungry thing devour a few errant bats that might fly by. A familiar swish of silk alerted him to his wife's presence an instant before she spoke.

“Talking to the red dickhead again?”

He bit back a sigh and forced his voice to remain level. “He's not coming over again, Stella.”

“Not tonight. The full moon's still three weeks away,” she noted with barely concealed scorn.

He plied a roaming creeper with a much-needed drink, watching the leaves curl to catch and greedily devour the water. “It's not business. It's nothing to do with the estate. It's just a jaunt to the mall tomorrow.”

“Yes. A jaunt. With out daughter.”

He turned to look at her fully, eyes narrowing. “Listening in on other peoples' conversations?” A trace of bitterness crept into his voice despite all his efforts to steady himself.

“Hardly. You're just very predictable, Stolas.” The towering swan crossed her arms, draped in a silken robe, and wearing a smile that held an answering edge that was as depressingly familiar as the flow of this conversation. Just like the last dozen conversations they'd had. But that was wrong; a conversation was civil, dignified, reciprocal. That word was too polite for barbs exchanged at decibels loud enough to shake glass and leave him in need of a stiff drink and an hour in the outdoor greenhouse.

“I thought you liked predictability.” He retorted. An argument threatened. They were always close now, it seemed. It didn't take much to set off his wife's famously bombastic temper. And he worried less about the fate of nearby plants than he did for his daughter's restful sleep. Avian voices carried too well in the palace, and both of them had a tendency to get rather loud. He held up a placating hand. “I don't want to fight again, Stella.”

“You never want to talk about things, either.” She said.

“Because it's never a talk with you,” he bit back. “It's always a shouting match, and today, I'm too tired.”

“But you don't mind embarrassing us with that little night nudge of yours every fucking month. And now you're corrupting our daughter with a bunch of fucking plebians?”

“I haven't even asked her yet,” he sighed, feathers perking. “And it's just a trip to the mall. For Satan's sake, she needs to get out of the house—and you know she's more than earned a little trip into town, even if it is full of the lower classes.” He glared, plying his next plant with almost enough water to drown the poor thing. “She doesn't mind. I don't see why you do.”

“You don't have to ask her.” Stella glanced away. “We both know she'll go with you. She always does.”

“That's not fair—”

“And neither are your only contributions to this house,” She spat, “Sleeping around and spending money.”

Now, his temper did flare, enough to match a flush of embarrassment. “Please, Estelle. You hardly spend as much time with Octavia as you used to.”

“Because she's always spending her nights with you.”

“Really, a weekly movie or a trip to the garden takes up all of her free time?” Pewter cracked on the open windowsill. He'd put his watering can down too hard. “You could try joining us once in a while.”

“And you could do with acting like an adult instead of a spoiled child, always running after your filthy little play toy instead of helping with the estate.” She retorted, feathered train spreading. A dangerous predator preparing to charge. “But I forgot, that's my duty.”

“I suppose meeting with Overlords and listening to the demands of Kingpins doesn't count for real work?”

“Why do you even bother—that's what we have a Warden for, you idiot!”

“Rufus can't take care of every transgression that happens in Imp City,” he snapped. “And that's part of our duty, too—or did YOU forget?”

“And you're doing such a good job. Playing mediator to a bunch of filthy mortals when you're not chasing around your red fuckboy.” She sneered. “It's no wonder Octavia spends so much time in her room. She's just as embarrassed by you, Stolas.”

He took a deep breath and went to her, fighting the anger that wanted to put a cutting edge to his reply and the stronger urge to flee to the greenhouse with its comforting, silent plants. “Stella, I'm not trying to steal her for myself. I know you want her to start acting a little more prim and proper, but she has to get out of the house once in a while. And it's just for a day. Please, darling?” He touched her shoulder gently. “She's lonely.”

“She's a growing girl, Stolas. And she's always been moody. Just look at her artwork.”

“I have. She's not doing well. I've noticed it, and I know you have too.” He fought the urge to fidget with his robe and instead held out hands that wanted to lock together in a nervous twist. “Please, Stella. She needs a little break.”

She glared for a moment, then relented with a tired sigh. “Fine.” The day must have proven particularly productive. Signing Contracts always put her in a good mood—political conquest was about the only thing that did these days, it seemed. And at least they'd avoided another shouting match. Barely. “Just...please for fuck's sake, don't embarrass us. Again. And keep an eye on her? The culture vultures are starting to circle.”

“All right.” He touched her arm deferentially. “I'll see if I can talk her into going to Anduriel's little shindig next week, too. It might be good for her to see some of her schoolmates outside of the Academy.”

Stella relaxed a little. “Yes, that would be good.”

“And you could take her out for a ride again, soon?” He suggested as gently as he could. “Putting Hades and Persephone through their paces seems to help her relax.”

She shifted restlessly. “She does need the practice. We're getting rusty.”

Stolas pressed his luck. “How often do we have to talk about her like this, Stella?”

She jerked away, eyes blazing. “Until you find common sense enough to start acting like a proper Prince and husba—” She caught herself before her voice could rise and, in a rare show of restraint, spun around and glided away with one last exasperated hiss. “Enough—enough. I'm going to bed.”

“All right.”

They parted. Tension hung in the palace like invisible smoke. Stolas took longer than he needed to see to the rest of his plants. It was the best way to unwind after another (near) marital clash. They were bickering more and more often these days. It wasn't good for Octavia, but he didn't know what else to do, apart from buying his owlet proper earplugs, and that would send entirely the wrong message. He just...had to find the right moment to talk to Stella, properly.

But tonight wasn't the night. And he had other business to see to.

Sweeping instrumental music led him to his daughter's abode in the west wing, the volume already turned up loud enough to drown out any extramarital noise. It made something in his gut clench in shame. He waited until the song ended and rapped on the door during the slight pause between tracks. “Octavia? May I come in?”

The music dialed low enough to let him clearly hear the sound of the lock disengaging, and that made his heart hurt. But when the door opened, she was smiling faintly, and that lifted his spirits more than a dozen bars of gold or a week with Blitz. She sniffed. “You're over watering the carnivorous zinnias again. I can smell them from here.”

“Perhaps," he admitted. "I've let them go thirsty for a day too long.”

She stepped back and he followed her in as she returned to her easel where a half-finished oil painting waited. He tried not to stare, but, it was hard. Considering her refreshingly cheerful mood, the picture was...well, mildly disturbing. A lumbering monster wreathed in shadow, all bared teeth and bulbous eyes and a forest of writhing, half-seen limbs. It looked rather like the covers of those barbarian fantasy novels she loved. He perched on the edge of her bed. Inset jewels in the domed ceiling overhead winked and sparkled in the mellow light of her artist's perch. It was a perfect place to escape after a long day—or a marital spat.

“So...how was your day, dear?” He asked, fighting the urge to wiggle his slippered feet.

She shrugged, adding a few more dabs of paint to her latest creation. He didn't mind; he'd interrupted her flow, and watching her work was a rare treat. “Okay.”

“Mm-hmm... well, tomorrow's Saturday. I have the whole weekend off, for once. We could do something fun?”

“All right.” Stroke, stroke, stroke. Brilliant white paint added a disconcerting sheen to a half-seen eye leering from the shadowy corner of her portrait.

Stolas plunged ahead. “How would you like to go to the Mall tomorrow? I need a new suit, and we could stop by that Fashionable Occult store you're so fond of?”

“It's Stylish Occult, Dad,” she corrected. “And...sure, I guess?” She cocked a brow, waiting for the rest.

Blitz's warning reared, but he pushed it aside. If Loo Loo Land had taught him anything, Via needed—no, she deserved transparency whenever possible. “If you don't mind, I thought we could go with my friend Blitz and his daughter?”

Her face instantly darkened. “You want to take me on another date with your weird red asshole? Christ, Dad, don't you ever learn?”

“No, not a date, dear. It's nothing like that, I promise. It's just the mall. And he wants to introduce you to his charming hellhound daughter Loona.”

“Why?”

Well, this was more than he'd expected to spill, but in for a penny, in for a pound. “He thinks you'd get along well together, and I tend to agree. She likes Stylish Occult, too—perhaps a bit too much, from what Blitzy tells me. I, well, I think you might like her. And,” he added hopefully, “it's a chance to get out of the house again? You've been cooped up in here for too long. It might even be fun? Please?”

Octavia frowned. “You know Mum's not going to like it. She hates that red asshole. And hellhounds.”

“Perhaps, but she's agreed that it might be good for you to get out of the house.” He shrugged. “I'm not saying you have to make friends, Via. Just...try?”

She shrugged noncommittally, a little of her old caustic armor reappearing. “All right. I could use a new skirt or three—and some more preservative spread.” She hefted a palette without looking. "Hold this."

He took it, holding the surface steady while she mixed green and white to the appropriate shade of sick yellow. “More, already? I thought you just bought some the other week?”

“Finishing that mini hydra was harder than I thought.” She pouted, flicked her brush and added two more daubs of color. Another pair of eyes glared up at them from a corner. “It sucked up the juice like a sponge. I'll have to get the big jar this time.”

“Whatever you need, my little artist.” Stolas said, admiring her easel. “Lovely work, by the way. Your use of color is superb. And very creepy.”

She brightened at once. “Thanks—it's for Mr. Pickman's fantasy painting class. We're doing emotive studies this week. He says we need to 'exercise our primal emotions through our art.” She smirked and her voice dropped to a smoky imitation of the old demon's purr “Draw something strange. The oldest and strongest emotion of demonkind is fear,” she lifted paint-smeared fingers and waggled them in burlesque terror. “And the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknoooOOOooown.”

Stolas looked at the monster with slightly raised eyebrows. “And what does this represent—fear of your preteen molting season? It was bad, but not that awful—and you looked much better than this gooey monstrosity.” He meant it as a joke, because whether she'd meant to or not, he could see the second beast rearing in the background. Create what you know. Well, that was easy to interpret. Not enough to have one monster on display. Two were needed for a proper fight. He thought to mention it, then decided to keep the observation to himself.

She rolled her eyes and dusted her tail against his knee. “No, it's just...I dunno, the future, I guess?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really? A future of goo.” He touched her forehead, wiping away an errant smear of forest green paint. “How avante garde.”

She laughed softly. “Ah, all right, that's a load of crap. I just tried to make it look as weird as possible. And I might have taken some inspiration from Goya.”

“You certainly have that down.” He hesitated, then plowed ahead. He'd promised Stella, and putting this off would only further strain things between them. “And, speaking of outings, your mother would like you to accompany her to Anduriel's party next week.”

“Slaanesh's birthday, I know.”

“You don't sound particularly...enthused?” he prodded gently.

She shrugged. “She's all right, I guess. Though, she can be a bit of a snide bitch now and then.”

Stolas frowned. “Really? You used to get along so very well with her?”

“Well, now she thinks books are stupid.” Octavia glanced aside. “And they all call me Princess Gut-Grabber.”

Another rock and a hard place. Gods couldn't anything be easy? “I'm not saying you have to really like her, darling, but your mother does have a point; part of being a Princess is keeping up appearances, and sometimes that means keeping ties with people you might not especially enjoy.”

She huffed. “All right. Do I have to wear the heavy gown again? I could barely move in that monstrosity last year.”

“No, I think a simple dress would do for this, but check with your mother. She's much more mindful of these things than I am.”

She stretched lightly. “At least we'll find a good color together.”

He looked at her intently. A night breeze crept through the cracked window and ruffled her feathers gently, exposing a dab of paint on one cheek. He licked the ball of his thumb and wiped it away. “There. Such a messy artist.”

She brushed at his hand, but he caught the slight smile wanting to creep across her beak. “What, I was in the zone. Sometimes you have to make a mess to do good work.”

Stolas smiled. “Very true.” There was one more thing he wanted to ask, but he hesitated. It was personal, and awkward, and it might spoil their mood, but sometimes it paid to be brave. He reached out and took one of her oil-spotted hands in both of his. “Via...are you any happier?”

She stilled and looked up at him with huge, vulnerable eyes from beneath sooty lashes. Her mouth firmed. “That's...complicated. I guess?”

“I'm not trying to pry, dear, but...I am here, if you want to talk? About things—school, or...or anything?”

Octavia shifted, pulling her hand free, wrestling with something. Perhaps everything. He was still trying to learn her moods. “Thanks, Dad. I like talking with you. And, tea with Mum. When she's free.” She brushed fitfully at her hair. “School's going...okay.” He noted the slight pause but let it pass for now. She searched for the words, idly twiddling a brush in fingers, suddenly a bundle of nervous energy. His owlet shrugged and finally met his eyes again. “I just wish you two wouldn't shout quite as much, you know?”

And there it was, laid out for the world to see. It hurt, but he let it. He deserved it as much, maybe more than Stella. “I'm sorry, darling. We...we are trying, but she's...and, well, your mother, and I'm...well...”

“You?”

Another pang of guilt stabbed Stolas' heart, and this was just as deserved. “Yes. And your mother's very spirited.” He tried a crooked smile. “That's not always a bad thing; you've got plenty of that in you.”

Octavia's eyebrow lifted a fraction. “How would you know?”

“I hear you singing to that band...what is it, Spaceship Dinosaur now and then.” The Prince brushed another blot of emerald paint from his daughter's forehead and winked too hard. “You didn't get that angry roar from my side of the family, that's for certain.”

She flushed in mingled embarrassment and pride. “It's Starship Velociraptor.” Then she smiled, just a little, and that helped more than she would have believed. “Well, it's like Mum says; better to let it out. And I can't always make it to the workshop when things get loud.”

“I know. And I'm sorry. Again.” He tried another smile, and this one felt too wide. Too earnest. “I'll try to talk to your mother, see if we can work some of this out.”

“All right.” Two words, but there was no real belief in her eyes. Stolas couldn't blame her. It was a promise he'd made before. He'd tried, and so had Stella. But things were always too tense, or the estate seemed to demand too much of their time, or another tabloid story would appear. And it was just so...so difficult. Hell was intent on keeping their little boat swirling in a torrential squall of emotional fury. So the war continued, and he did his best to sooth his troubled daughter with quiet evenings, and gifts, and a little star gazing. It wasn't enough, but it was all he could do for now. Maybe this would be good for her. At least she'd have another girl closer to her own age to talk to, outside of school or a carefully controlled party.

“Well then. It's getting late. I'll leave you to your work, dear.” He tried a hopeful smile. “Unless you want to come star-gazing with me?”

She shrugged. “Nah, I think I'll finish this big beast and turn in early. Kinda tired.”

“All right.” Up close, Stolas could see faint circles under her eyes and guilt wormed in his gut. They'd kept her up more than once with their shouting this month. She needed to take advantage of all the restful nights this little hell offered. He kissed her brow. “I love you, Starfire. Don't stay up too late?”

“What if I get inspired?” She asked.

He lightly tapped the bridge of her beak. “Rein it in, my little Goya.”

She brushed his hand away, but at least she was smiling again. “Okay, okay. Night, Dad. Love you too.”

Stolas left her daubing with oils and listened at the door for a moment. The music rose, but not to its former volume. And as he retreated down the hall, the deadbolt remained untouched, and that lightened his heart more than anything. Perhaps, for one night, the manor could be peaceful.

                                                                        ***

Loona stretched on the couch, sipping a beer and browsing through Hellflix. It was nice to have the house to herself for an hour or two. Let Blitz have whatever kind of weird, intrusive dinner party he wanted with Moxxie and Millie. It's not like she cared. Alone was good. Never mind that the house felt a little too empty without her father bouncing around or watching a rerun of My Tiny Horsie again. She put on a cheap horror movie and went to make some popcorn while the credits rolled.

Sounds of carnage from the living room and bursting kernels helped kill the quiet. Loona checked her phone, browsing through social posts. A few pictures from Tex she immediately liked. But no messages. Nothing from Tex, or his girlfriend Andromeda. Or any of the other hounds in the big Alpha's little group. She shouldn't be surprised. People didn't talk if you didn't reach out. And she'd tried, but things were still awkward. She always felt like an outsider. A runty omega who'd never truly belong.

She paced restlessly back into the living room and reclaimed the couch as the opening kill bathed the screen in technicolor blood. Frankie vs Jackson was stupid, but a little cheese might go well with the beer. Popcorn crunched. Alcohol gurgled. Dead soldiers piled up in one of the empty pizza boxes stacked on the coffee table for every slaughtered teen. The movie didn't grab her. And the beer wasn't helping. She shifted restlessly. Time on her bass might help. But her fingers refused to play, and at least tonight she knew why.

For all of her grousing, leaving work early hadn't improved her mood. She'd gone to the local record store, hoping to use a little of their earnings to pick up a new album and a few strings. Mix Masters was dingy and catered to enough moody metal for her taste. And the owner wasn't half bad, for an ogre. But Johnny was out for the day. And she'd arrived at the counter to find his bleach-blonde fuckwad son Melvin eyeing her. Great.

Loona ignored his leer and slid him the her haul.

Melvin hefted Verosika's album. “This the last one?”

She cocked a brow. “Yeah. What do you care?”

He turned electric pink vinyl over in big, scared hands, then put it under the counter. “Not for you. Bitch,” he said, rolling the slur with calculated malice.

Her temper kindled. Of course; he'd made a pass at her two weeks before and she'd brushed him off. “Look, I've got money, dude. Just let me buy the stupid thing.”

He grinned, displaying crooked yellow teeth begging to be knocked loose. “Mmm... I don't think so. It's my shop. I don't have to sell to some dirty bitch if I don't want to. And I've got a troll in my pocket who'd just love to have it.”

“It's not your shop, Melvin,” she reminded him. “It's your Dad's.”

“And he's not here, so I make the rules today,” the ogre sneered. “And I don't think I want to sell Verosika Mayday's latest album to some stuffy kennel cunt who won't even put out.”

This was all she needed. Loona clenched an unseen paw and tried hard to bite down on her anger. She should have expected it, especially from this creep. But a night's broken sleep with too many weird dreams, a boring day at work, and a few lingering stares on the way here hadn't helped. This was the icing on a shit sandwich she was very tempted to smash into this smarmy prick's ugly face, no matter what kind of trouble it might bring.

“Fine,” she bit the word out. Giving him a piece of her mind would only add to his pleasure. “Just gimmie the strings then.”

“I think I need these too.” To her further disbelief and mounting rage, the packet of strings joined the album.

Loona's temper, barely collared at the best of times, slipped a few more links of mental choke chain. And started to snarl. “There's plenty right there behind you,” she insisted, just barely managing to keep the words intelligible through a suddenly aching jaw. “Just lemme buy my shit and go, Melvin.”

“How about a kiss first, poochy?” His piggy eyes smoldered. “Maybe I'll even throw in your change, if you give a little extra? Those long muzzles gotta be good for something.”

She didn't think. It just happened. Her fist arced out, hammering into his face with force enough to break steel. Melvin's jaw didn't stand a chance. She felt bone and muscle buckle under the blow and felt an instant rush of primal joy before he crashed backwards into a display of Vetallica lighters and crumpled on the floor with a satisfying jangle of metal to go with his glottal cry of pain.

“Ew bidch! Fuggin' bidch!” He howled. “Ew bruk bai dose!”

Loona shook blood from her knuckles, lip curling in disgust. “You're lucky that's all I broke, fuckstain!”

“U'll fic da Wrrdun oh yew!”

“Sure, limp dickless,” she snarled. “Good luck with that. I'm just a dumb dog, right, you piss-drinking baby fuck?” She reached over the counter and claimed her merch for compensation and stormed out, barely resisting the urge to kick over a stand of Assholes from Bonetown bobbleheads.

“Huggen Kennel kunn!” The slur stung, even through a broken jaw.

Melvin lurched up behind her, holding onto the counter for balance, his reflection a distorted beast in the glass front door, blood pouring from the ruins of a pulverized face not even a mother could love anymore. He saw the stolen goods, and screamed it again, actually managing to make the words intelligible through a mouthful of broken teeth. “KENNEL KUNN! UR BAHNED!”

Loona froze. Her free hand grabbed the door frame and steel twisted like silly putty. Her shoulders locked as she fought for control. Fuck, it would be so easy to pretend to sneeze and light the place up. With all the cheap wood, it would burn like a torch. And he deserved it. It was a wonderful fantasy.

Instead, she bared her teeth in a hard grin and shot him the bird. “Fuck you, dickless. I wouldn't come back for a signed album.” She contented herself with slamming the door hard enough to shatter the glass front. At least he couldn't shoot her in the back with the hatchet under the register.

The screaming had attracted a few onlookers; Imps and sinners with nothing better to do than watch a good show. Some seemed disappointed when she didn't set the place ablaze. Whatever. Fuck them. Fuck everyone. The seething hound jumped on her bike, keyed the engine, and roared away, barely paying attention to traffic. She nearly side-swiped a passing car on the way back to the shitty, narrow house she shared with Blitz. She shouldn't have let it get to her. She shouldn't have pulped his face, and now she couldn't go back. The next closest store was a dozen blocks away in an even uglier part of town. But...

'Kennel Cunt!'

The words rang in her head like discordant metalwork clanging on concrete. It wasn't the first time someone had tried that little trick or the hundredth. Most of them just wanted to see what the hound would do. After all, they were free game down here. Lowest of the low, fuzzy fleabags little better than fire-breathing property, even for imps. She'd heard all the names. Bitch. Flea Bag. Barkhole. Mongrel. Dogshit. Kennel Cunt. It was all one way of doing the same thing. Poke the pooch with a sharp stick because it's got teeth, and if it bites back, you show it who's boss. Balancing defiance and subservience was a lesson most hellhounds learned early, and well. Hell always found a way to break the strongest of them in time. Even if you found a good 'master' or made your own way in the world, they'd all see you as nothing but furry trash, and they'd make sure you knew it. Every day.

And now here she was, hours later, still furious, and furious with herself for being so furious.

“Fucking snaggle-toothed cumstain,” she snarled to the open air.

And there wasn't anyone to talk to about it. Blitz would listen, of course. He'd also be stupid enough to go down to the shop and burn it to the ground. And she'd join him to light the match. And, then they'd both be in hot shit creek without a paddle, or even a boat. At least it was just an ogre. If she'd tried that on a real long-time sinner, they'd smash her flat—or round up enough buddies to make sure the job got done. But, that was Hell; nothing was fair.

Maybe it was time to reach out. She scrolled through her phone and dialed Tex. He'd know this ache better than anyone.

The phone rang four times, five. Six. Then the message clicked on. “Tex. Thrill me. Leave a message.”

She sucked in a breath. “Hey, Tex. Sorry to bother you. I...uh...” she stared at the movie, searching for words. But she couldn't sum up everything rolling through her head. The phone waited through ten seconds of dead air, and long after the words could have any weight, she went with; “It's...it's nothing. Forget it. See you later.”

Loona hung up and slumped back on the couch. For this, she needed someone real.

And that was just it. There was nobody else. No one she felt close enough to. The other hounds in Tex's little group were nice, but she didn't know any of them well enough to unload about... this. Not if she wanted to be taken seriously. Not if she wanted to belong.

Shit.

She stared up at the ceiling, the movie forgotten, her popcorn going cold. She sipped her beer. The feeling of being small, and dirty, and useless began to creep in, and she tried to drown it with more alcohol and cheap thrills. It helped, a little. She turned on her side, watching the horror show without really seeing it. The final kill spattered the screen with gore and the credits rolled as her last beer died and she tried to savor the buzz. She'd burn through the carbs and the booze in no time flat. But there wasn't anything stronger in the house.

She wouldn't cry. Absolutely not.

The next movie in the que came on and she watched the badly rendered bloodbath unfold, tail restlessly flicking. A shaky engine purr and a thump of booted feet on concrete announced Blitz's return. He came in, bringing a faint whiff of spaghetti and saw her on the couch. The house was too long and too narrow for them to truly enjoy. Only an imp an a desperate hound would live in two-story shithole better suited for demolition. The first floor offered almost no privacy; limited space demanded a straight-shot open concept. It was why they kept a gun under the coffee table in a spring clip. There was no mistaking her pose from the front door, but, true to form, he tried on a smile. “Hey Loonie. Did you have a good afternoon off?”

“No. It fucking sucked.” The words came out with only half the fury she'd intended. Even finding the energy for real anger seemed like too much work now. “Stupid pricks.”

He came in from the kitchen and perched on the arm of the couch, keeping his distance, but close enough to offer himself, if she was willing. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.” Just an hour before, she'd been eager to vent. Now there was nothing but a coal of self-disgust and vague resentment. Then it burst out. “I went to Mix Masters for the new Verosika album. Melvin decided to be a hound-hating dick who wanted a blowjob to go with his twenty, so I knocked out half his teeth and broke his nose. Then I burned the place to the ground.”

"He...he did what!?” A flickering whirlwind of emotions crossed his face; rage, hurt, sympathy. Pity. The last one was the worst. “That fucker—I'm glad you burned it d—”

“Of course I didn't burn it down.” She broke in. “I just broke his nose. We'd get into too much shit if I torched his place.”

On screen, the masked killer reared up, filling the awkward conversational hitch with a shriek of counterfeit rage to go with Blitz's genuine snarl. The springs in their old sprung couch creaked gently as he sat down beside her. “Fucking pimple-pocked pissant. You're right. He didn't deserve it—your beautiful blowtorch is made for way better things than burning down that shithole. Fuck them.”

His small hand enfolded hers. She started to jerk it away, then gave in, and squeezed. Just a little. She needed something. And he was here. “Fuckers.”

A familiar conversation hung suspended between them, filling in all the mental blanks. It was a story he'd heard before, and seen out on the town with her, enough times to fill in the gaps himself, often with his own fist, right before she joined in, and then they had to flee. His jaw set.

“Sounds like a real Doctor Fuckula to me. Screw that prick.” He scooted a little closer, and she drew her legs up to make room for him, even as her tail curled around his waist. It was good to take a little warmth. It didn't make her weak. “Sorry your day sucked, pumpk—Loona.”

She sighed and lightly kicked a throw pillow. “That's every day here.”

“Maybe, but we don't have to let em' win.”

“Nothing else to do.”

“How about we go to the mall tomorrow? My treat?”

She considered, then slowly sat up. The beer in her gut rolled, and finally drowned enough of the afternoon's singular unpleasantness to let her meet his eyes and see the open, almost embarrassingly hopeful smile on his face. Trying too hard. Again. A slight flush that had only a little to do with drink colored the bridge of her muzzle. “You don't have to.” She shrugged moodily. “It was just a record.”

“Course I don't have to. But I want to.” He opened one of their last two beers, pulled from the very back of the fridge and offered it to her. Then he opened the last. “It'll be fun?”

“All right. I didn't have anything planned tomorrow anyway.”

“Is it cool if Stolas comes too? He's got a kid—the one we took to Loo Loo Land. He wants to see if the two of you will get along.”

Loona paused, the last beer halfway to her mouth and looked at him stonily. “Really? Some asshole plays the old 'Kennel Cunt' card today, and you think it's a good idea to set me up with a silver-spoon-sucking sparrow?” She snorted. “God you're stupid sometimes, Blitz.”

“Sure I am. But what's the worst that can happen?” He asked and grinned. “Tell you what—we'll get Bird Mouth to pay for everything. Go hog wild. You know that feathery freak has deep pockets.”

“Fine. But I don't have to like her.” Loona grumbled. They sipped more beer together, watching bad effects outdone by worse acting. For a low-budget piece of Sanitarium garbage, Sharkicane was at least entertaining cheese. The hound killed her beer and put her feet up on the coffee table and asked; “Is she at least going to be a little cool? I'm not babysitting some silk-clad teenage rich girl who also thinks dogs are gross.”

Blitz shrugged, carefully not looking at her. “She seems like your type. Moody, edgy, lays into her dad like it's going out of style. Lots of eyeliner and black.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. She spent the first ten minutes of our little Loo Loo Land shitshow ripping the place apart for being a shameless corporate ripoff.” He nibbled a bit of popcorn. “Oh, and then she called me a dickhead and shamed the mascot into crying.”

Loona finally smirked. “At least she calls it like she sees it.”

Blitz risked an answering smile. “Just like youuuu dooooo my pretty puppy pwincess.”

“Fine, fine, whatever. We'll go to the stupid mall,” she sighed, munching cold popcorn “I'll hang out and be a good pet for the day.”

“I think old Bird Mouth was hoping for a friend?”

“No promises.”

“Maybe try?”

She grunted noncommittally around more beer. “All right, fine. I'll try.”

At least tomorrow had to be better than today.