"Pemberton! I'm glad to see that you're still alive, you glorious imp."

  "I would return the sentiment, Sir, but I am not entirely sure that you are."

  I smiled at the dry wit I'd come to miss over the past few days. Sure, my face was still a mess of cuts and bruises, and I was going to have a scar across my forehead for the rest of my days, but it didn't seem to be that important. I was glad to see the imp in his impeccable three-piece suit. "Where have you been, chum?"

  "Chum? With all due respect, that seems mighty familiar, Sir. I took a vacation as ordered. Two weeks of bliss, thanks to your prescient order. I'm now ready to get back to work. According to Mum, you have yet to file an after-action report."

  I tried to do the mental calculation of how much time passes in Hell compared to the real world, but once again, I couldn't figure it out. I’m pretty sure it’s nonlinear on purpose. The battle was two days ago. "Well, I'm glad to see that you're recharged. Where did you go? Some tropical island with white sand beaches and turquoise seas? Maybe a mountain chalet where you could watch the snow fall? Do tell. Where does a Pemberton go when he wants to relax?"

  "Well, Sir, if you must delay my work with idle chit-chat, I decided to scout the world from which you came. It took me two days of digging through the Infernal archives to find your personnel folder, and might I say that you were a nasty piece of work that truly deserved to end up in Hell—how you avoided damnation is a mystery to me, given that Hell’s had its eye on you for over forty years. But I found your world; it's a nice place. It was overcast and rained the whole time I was there.

  "I found this wonderful organization called the Department of Motor Vehicles, which took me in on an internship. Have you heard of it? Let me tell you, it was quite entertaining. Zero real consequences for making a hash of things. I confess I really let loose and deliberately messed things up to annoy the patrons, just like my boss told me I could."

  I wanted to punch him in the big, pointy nose for every person who ever had to stand in line at the DMV to register their car. Instead, I smiled and laughed. "You're a natural for that job."

  "Indeed. I could do it in my sleep. In fact, I made it a point to. What a wonderful rest. But, Sir, it is time to get serious. You're delinquent in filing your reports. Some penalties accrue by the day. Don't you worry, Mum says that we witnessed the entire thing. Is it okay for me to do a first draft based on his recollection and then come to you for corrections and signatures?"

  "I couldn't think of anything that would make me happier, and if there’s a question about the delay in the report, write that I was engaged in mop-up operations, so we only just finished tomorrow."

  "You are a natural at this, Sir. A natural. I'll get right on it." He stood to leave.

  "Pemberton."

  "Sir?"

  "Could I go back to my old world? Like I am today, not like I was."

  "From what I know, Sir, for it is a one-way trip for your kind. You died in that world, so there is no going back."

  I mulled that over and found solace in it. What's done is done. I can't fix the past, but I can forge a new future, even if it means hanging out with demons and devils. It made me think of the two that were still missing.

  "What happens to a demon when they enter flowing water?"

  "They get banished back to Hell in disgrace. It's a black mark against their records to have done something so stupid as to get themselves dismissed from an assignment so easily. Why do you ask?"

  "Krag and Calista. They both got dumped into the stream."

  "Ah. Well, Sir, given as they are both ranked at the bottom of their archetypes as it is, not much will change for them."

  "How do you know they are bottom-ranked?"

  "Standard procedure when filling out initial personnel requisitions. Fill them from the bottom of the list first. Get the worst ones out of the selection pool. All of your assignments were the lowest-ranked demon available to fill the spot."

  "That doesn't make sense. What about you?"

  He looked at me over his glasses. "You know you're in Hell when the better you are at your job, the more your boss damages your career. Will there be anything else, Sir?"

  "Yeah. See if you can get those two back here. They're too good for Hell.

  "With pleasure, Sir."

  * * *

  "Mum! Get in here!"

  I could hear him in the kitchen. It was time to fix dinner, but I had questions. I'd read over Pemberton's report, and it seemed that my contract devil deserved credit for this win, but I wanted to make sure. Yelling reminded me that my ribs were the reason I was in bed.

  "Master Chuck, can we be quick about this? Tengen doesn't like it when I leave the kitchen."

  "She'll have to deal with it." I waved him to the chair where he sat uncomfortably. "I'm reading Pemberton's report. I noticed that it states unequivocally that the territory was rightfully claimed and subdued two days before the battle. Explain."

  He perked up. "Oh, yes, my Lord. I knew in my bones that there was something I had missed. It happens to my kind when dealing with contracts. So I kept reading and reading and reading until I figured it out.

  "The original contract from two hundred years ago, yes? It included a map of the village. Two hundred years ago, the village's chapel was the one where you fought Gashi, not the current one. Father Yaqub and his chapel lie outside the boundaries of the village per the contract, so he is not a resident of the village."

  I leaned back with a slow whistle. "And it makes no difference what his opinion is or how he votes."

  "Correct."

  "Then we could have gotten the recognition signed with a two-to-one vote, after Vladimir was given the boot."

  "Technically yes, but no."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "You and your conditional approvals. What don't I know?"

  "Franz and Stefania would never have signed in that case, because in their minds the vote was denied. So you had technically won, but without the signed paper…"

  "We still would have had the same situation on our hands."

  "Precisely."

  "It is a bit perverse to think that maybe it was my divine luck that scooted Ignatz off his mortal coil. His passing is a big loss to the community, but in fact, his death saved them all."

  "As if he'd stood beside you on the bridge, Sir. Ignatz was so principled that he'd have been shaking his fist at the horde even as it tore into town. Without his passing, Thornwell would definitely have been put to the sword—one hundred percent chance, regardless of the technicality. Men slaughtered, women defiled, babies eaten, village burned. That's the standard procedure."

  "And we won thanks to Elanthe's ride."

  "Yes, and thanks to Krag's holding of the line, and thanks to Calista keeping the enemy off you, and thanks to you being too damn stubborn to give up. May I be so bold as to say that you were breathtaking to watch despite the beating you were receiving. Every time you got hit by a demon you shone brighter. It was terrifying. I'm glad I'm on your side, whichever that may be."

  I pondered that for a few long moments. "You left yourself out, Nebuchadnezzar Aristophanes Aloisius Hieronymus Chrysanthemum. We couldn't have won without you either."

  * * *

  The sledgehammer crashed down, shattering the boulder into fragments.

  "Stand still, guardian," Vorghammul growled, hefting the tool again. Sweat poured down his scarred chest in rivers as he worked out his frustration. "Fight me proper."

  Another strike. More fragments.

  "Thirty feet tall." Crash. "Four arms." Crash. "Granite—not limestone, no. Granite." The boulder disintegrated into gravel. "Where did they find such a monster?"

  He'd been at it since his return to Hell, reducing an entire quarry to dust. Each rock became that damned gargoyle—the one who'd held him like a squirming child, whose mere roar had frozen his warband of hellions, whose presence had turned certain victory into humiliating retreat.

  Small wings flapped behind him.

  "Leave." Vorghammul raised the sledgehammer without turning.

  "You have a message, Vorghammul the Destroyer."

  The quasit's squeaky voice grated worse than fingernails on a blackboard. Vorghammul spun, sledgehammer rising.

  The quasit thrust a scroll forward like a shield. "From Administrative Processing!"

  Vorghammul snatched the parchment, tearing the wax seal off of it with one claw. His eyes tracked across the page. Then back. Then down to the bottom of the page.

  Twenty-nine thousand, six hundred and twelve gold pieces.

  "WHAT?!"

  The document listed twenty-three demons by name. His demons. Each charged one thousand gold for setting foot on the bridge during his invasion attempt, plus one messenger who had delivered his ultimatum. Plus administrative fees. Processing charges. Even a toll-collector threat charge.

  "UNPAID TOLL LEVIES?!" Vorghammul's roar echoed across the quarry. "I FILED A CONQUEST DECLARATION!"

  The quasit backed away, wings twitching. "The notice explains—"

  "I declared military action! The bridge was forfeit!"

  "Yes, but the territory was properly claimed and subdued before your official declaration. It just hadn't been filed yet—"

  Vorghammul grabbed the quasit by the throat, snatching him out of midair. The messenger squeaked, pointing frantically at the envelope.

  "The back—the back of the page!"

  Vorghammul flipped the document. Instructions covered the reverse in tiny script. Form 222-847-B for toll dispute resolution. Form 1203-Q-17 for conquest-related fee appeals. Form X-29 for expedited administrative review requests.

  "File within thirty days or the charges become permanent liens against your operational budget and may result in garnishment of future compensation pending tribunal review as outlined in subsection—"

  Vorghammul hurled the quasit into a pile of gravel.

  The messenger scrambled upright, dusting off his wings, and took to the air to better stay out of the war demon's reach. "I bear an additional message from Lord Azgoranthee. He directs you to handle this matter with discretion. He says that the Demon King finds the situation amusing. He said that it is best if he continues to do so."

  Vorghammul crushed the scroll in his fist.

  That damned bureaucrat. That cursed contract devil. That Light-sent paladin.

  He'd lost. Not honestly. Not through strength and steel, but through paperwork and technicalities. There was going to be Hell to pay, and he aimed to collect.

  * * *

  Elanthe lay in bed—her new bed. The one Stefania had sent for her when she discovered that she'd been sleeping on a pallet made of hay stuffed into a poorly sewn bedsheet. Elanthe had lied, saying that Chuck's room was actually hers and that she'd given it up because he was so injured, but she wasn't at all convinced Stefania had bought it. The quilt she'd sent with the bed was covered in flowers and smelled clean. She felt wrapped in love when under it.

  Her broken arm throbbed despite the willow bark tea Mum had brewed per her instructions. Once again, she’d done everything to the limit of her endurance to exhaust herself. She'd spent hours riding Buttercup around the village scouting for anything unnatural, checking the outlying farms for signs of demonic incursion. Without Calista to patrol and with Chuck still confined to bed, it fell to her, and she wasn't about to let it slide. It also gave her a chance to chat with villagers out hunting and gathering firewood, who universally told her that she shouldn’t be riding with a broken arm.

  She was surprised that she missed Callista, despite her being an oblivious sexpot. Not just because of the extra duties she shouldered, but she hadn't realized how nice it was simply to have another girl around, even if she made the boys stupid just by breathing. It was an odd nest that she found herself in, but she was happy to have it.

  She had chosen this role.

  She had chosen to swear her life to it.

  Elanthe stared at the ceiling beams. She'd kept herself from dwelling on her actions by exhausting herself. Through patrolling, dinner, her bath, and the agonizingly long process of changing into her nightclothes with only one functioning arm. If she sat still for too long, the thoughts about what she'd done ate at her. She'd heard Mum speaking with Chuck about Ignatz's death and how it was the one thing that ensured their victory, but it tasted like ashes in her mouth. She began to cry herself to sleep again. She didn't know how she would bear it.

  Buttercup shifted in the barn below, and Elanthe felt the mare's presence as she drifted off. The nightmare had been restless since the battle, her form flickering between the gentle gold palomino and Noctura's shadow-wreathed menace. She could sense the elf's discomfort but didn't know how to react to it—didn't know what to reflect. She could see what Elanthe didn't want to admit.

  She was no longer a pure elf maiden.

  Thank the Light that Buttercup was there to make her dreams tolerable. Tonight, the mare carried her through a beautiful landscape of rolling hills and wildflower-filled meadows, the kind of place where innocent elves still danced with their fairy ancestors. The path wound deeper into a forest that grew darker with each stride, until ancient yew trees formed a cathedral overhead and night-blooming flowers carpeted the ground beneath them.

  Elanthe's breath caught. She knew this place.

  The standing stones appeared suddenly, as if stepping through an invisible veil. Beyond them, a temple of black stone rose from the forest floor, angular and severe. The only place in the elven lands that none could enter uninvited.

  On pain of death.

  A figure waited at the iron gate.

  "No, Buttercup, no. We mustn't go there."

  The mare snorted and shook her head, but did not deviate from the path. Beneath Elanthe, the golden coat rippled like water, darkening to liquid shadow. Purple fire kindled in the mare's eyes.

  "Buttercup, please. It is forbidden. Do not take me there."

  Noctura continued undaunted. Elanthe seized the flowing mane with both hands and pulled in terror, trying desperately to divert the nightmare's path, but only caused her to slew sideways while maintaining course. She attempted to dismount but found she could not. Panic seized her, and she thrashed, desperate to stop this transgression.

  "Wake up, Elanthe! Wake up!"

  She could not.

  The nightmare halted within speaking distance of the figure at the gate.

  "Well met, Elanthe of the elves. I am Hekáthen. It was the words I wrote that you spoke when you knelt before Chuck."