Ehtab summons me to his throne room the day before our plan is to be put into motion. It's a struggle to keep the nauseated expression off of my face as the four red guardsmen lead me to the elevator.

Act as if he doesn't know, I tell myself over and over as the elevator descends into the pit. He's going to try and throw you off your game.

As soon as the elevator opens, I'm thrust into a whirlwind of chaos. The doors to Ehtab's chambers are thrown wide open; people in white lab coats stream in and out, some carrying small objects like candles or what look like hymnals, others move long wooden pews inside. The smell of incense hangs heavy and cloying in the air, covering the sulfuric scent of Hell.

Are we having a church service?

That seems like a rather odd choice for a demon.

Ehtab stands in the middle of the chaos in his human guise, observing and directing the scientists. He turns around when the guards announce my presence.

"Ah, Hunter!" he exclaims, a broad smile on his illusionary face. "Did you think that I forgot about you?"

So, he's playing the jovial host, I note. Be calm, be cool, and be respectful. "No, my Lord."

Ehtab nods. "Well, I did not. Tell me, what do you think of our preparations?"

I make a show of looking around the chamber. There are even more torches illuminating the space, but the light is never reflected in the inky black pool in front of his throne. A pulpit has been erected in front of the massive throne and rows of pews are being set up on either side of the long pool.

Well, I'll be damned. It looks exactly like a church service. Was Ehtab planning on giving God a big, purple middle finger as he chucked one of His angel's children into the pool?

"Very impressive, my Lord. I like the torches."

Ehtab chuckles in that fake-amusement way people in power put on for us lesser beings. Suddenly, the laughter cuts off. An icy hand grips my heart as Ehtab stares sharply at me.

"Why does she smell?" he demands of the guards, nostrils flaring like a bull.

Oh, that. I start breathing again, relief coursing through my body. I've once again grown nose-blind to my own odor. The brownies offered to bring me soap, but I refused. It wouldn't do for the guards to notice that I started smelling like lilac or lavender when I hadn't been offered the option of a bath. Because of that, I wasn't offended when they started visiting me with masks over their mouths and noses.

"Uh ..." one of the poor men stammered.

"It wasn't in our orders," another answered, leaning away from the furious demon.

Ehtab whirls in a cloud of dust, emerging in his real demonic form. "XENIA!" he bellows, leathery bat wings sweeping a dozen lab coats off their feet. Someone cries out about their leg being broken and is hastily dragged out of the room.

Ah, crap, I forgot that he's actually naked.

Kayleigh's mother runs up to the demon lord. "Yes, my Lord?" She's carrying a computer tablet in one hand and a stylus in another.

Ehtab looms over the woman, red flames dancing between his bovine horns. "Why has no one offered this Hunter a bath?"

For the first time, I spy fear in the woman's eyes. She noticeably swallows, hands shaking. "I ... I didn't think ..."

She doesn't get to finish her excuse, because Ehtab cuts her off. "I will not have her foul body odor profane my temple," he growls, baring an impressive set of fangs as I try my best not to feel offended. "She will have a bath every day as well as have access to fresh clothes. Those will be burned," he adds, pointing at my robes and scarves.

I flinch as if physically struck, hands clenching. These garments are a part of my identity—one that I forged out of the broken ruins of my old life. I can't lose them ... but I can't earn Ehtab's ire. If this is the only sacrifice that I have to make, then I must make it without protest.

The good doctor's hands tremble at her sides, either in fear or irritation. "Yes, my Lord," she breaths, bowing low. "Take her to the women's wash room!" she orders the guards.

Ehtab watches this exchange over his shoulder, bovine nostrils flaring. "Go! NOW!"

Two guards grab me under the armpits and practically drag me out of the temple. I chance a look back before the doors swing closed and can't help but privately smile at the doctor's discomfort.

------------

There's nothing in my clothes that I fear to lose, other than the garments themselves. So when the guards take them, dump them in an empty shower stall, and set them on fire right then and there, I've accepted their fate. The harsh, stringent odor of lighter fluid drifts across the shower stalls to the one where I'm currently scrubbing off weeks of dirt and grime.

How are they not setting off the fire alarms?

"Hurry up," one of the men grouses, tapping his booted foot outside the stall door.

"Lord Ehtab wants me clean," I call back, and smirk as he groans.

When I'm done, I stick my hand outside the shower stall for a towel and emerge with it wrapped around my thin frame. Four adult men stare at my damp blue hair, wiry body and myriad scars.

I won't lie; it gives me some cause for concern.

"Are you going to stand here and watch me get dressed? Because that's where I draw the line," I tell them.

My words galvanize them into action. They make for the door and shut it tightly behind them. I wait for a few minutes, just in case someone decides to be bold. When the moment passes, I walk over to the long wooden bench in front of a series of lockers and eye the clothes I've been given. Soft, baggy ivory-colored pants; a long brown split tunic with a braided leather belt; a lightweight ivory-colored over robe that reached to my ankles; and a thick brown scarf. There is also Unitarian black underwear and a bra.

If I didn't know any better, I would think that someone was trying to approximate my old garb. It isn't the same, but there is still some familiarity in the clothes.

When I emerge from the bathroom, hair still rather damp but wound up in the scarf, the guards jump to their feet. I have to force myself to not roll my eyes. Not these guys, too.

I'm taken back to my room where supper waits for me.

I eat in silence, idly perusing one of the dozens of magazines I've yet to finish. It's not like I'm going to come back.

After my tray is taken away and darkness falls, a brownie pops out of a portal next to me.

"The demon-hunter is ready for tomorrow," she says in a high, light accent.

That's a relief. It's taken the brownies a few days to find Glaris. Although, I'm not surprised that he's still hanging around. What's surprising is that he's still alive and not up some bounty hunter's wall.

"He's procured a horse for the girl."

That catches my interest. I never asked him to get the kid a horse.

"What does he think of the plan?" I ask the brownie.

The little brown creature shrugs. "He believes it to be risky, but knowing what the demon lord plans to do with her, he agrees that it's for the best."

"Good. And what about the texts?"

"We've removed as many as possible without drawing attention to their loss," she tells me. "They've been secreted away in the barn, ready to be attached to the enfield when the time comes."

I've asked the brownies to harness Egon up when the time comes and give the enfield control of the documents. I know that he's smarter than he's led me to believe, so I have no hesitation about putting him in charge. Neither the brownies nor I know what are in the scrolls they've stolen, but I figure that any information is another nail in the demons' coffin.

Besides, if Winston and I get waylaid, at least the scrolls will go with the girl.

I nod, staring at the door to the office. There's a real possibility that I might die trying to get out of here.

I've been in tough situations before—such as the lindworms—but I always held onto the confidence I had in my abilities and training.

But now? Now I don't know.

How can I take this risk and possibly never see my parents again? How can I let a demon rip apart the world and make it anew in his image?

I can't.

I just ... can't.

"Is that all, miss?" the brownie asks, breaking through my heavy thoughts.

I slowly turn my head to look at her. "Are you going to be all right?" I ask with newly-discovered altruism.

"Yes, miss," she replies, bobbing her head. "Brownie magic is elemental and cannot be traced by any spell cast by humans."

Strange. She doesn't sound so confident. But I don't call her out on it. I'd do the same thing in the face of adversity.

"You'll be free one day," I tell her.

"So we pray," she tells me, then calls up a silvery portal and vanishes.