By the time their procession came across the edges of Kett, dawn was rolling in. Soft orange illuminated the rolling hillsides, casting tall stalks of golden wheat in halos. Ira enjoyed walking through the farmlands more than he had liked walking through the forest laid around the rim of Heneth. It was easier to breathe without the imposter trees looming, boxing him in on all angles. It may have also had something to do with the lack of shadows and the way the flat fields made it easy to track the Prince out of the corner of his eye. 

Ira hadn't been able to shut his eyes since that night with Mayvalt in Heneth. The Prince unnerved him--the trees unnerved him. Angels, everything this far south from Manhattan unnerved him. Well, except one thing maybe. 

"Oh my angels," Ira cursed, his voice softer than the wheat rattling in the morning breeze. "Is that banana bread? I swear I can smell banana bread. Please tell me Hell has banana bread. Wait--do grannies go to Hell? I don't know how I feel about eating some evil grandmother's banana bread. She probably put walnuts in it. Did she go to Hell for ruining perfectly good banana bread?" 

The Prince snorted ungracefully and tilted his head at Ira, eyes slanted suspiciously. "Are you going mad? Because that's something I'd like fair warning on before you start foaming at the mouth and climbing walls." 

Ira figured he probably was. Angels, he felt half dead. His mind was sluggish like his skull was full of batter, his every cell screamed in some form of discomfort. His skin ached from the sun, the weather, the mud. His muscles tore under the stress of near constant movement. His eyes hadn't been able to focus for twenty-five miles at least. 

There had been a point a few hills back when the skin of Kett had become first visible, just a few stranded shacks and billowing pillars of hearthfire smoke, when Ira had assumed he'd slipped into a walking dream. Or, like, a mirage. Until the Prince had huffed something incredibly tour-guide-ish like, "up ahead you'll see a few huts and some devils, now this may just look like Heneth but we've actually made it to Kett. Please, no flash photos."

Well, he probably hadn't said it like that. Or anything like that. Must have been the batter in his head again--which if it was banana bread batter, Ira could live with that. 

"Evil grannies," Ira reminded. "Odds good or bad?" 

Bezel--only because Ira was too tired to battle himself on what suited the demon best--shrugged and said. "You're the only Heimrian here, Bishop." 

That sounded like it came dangerously close to revealing what Ira, as the resident Heimrian, wasn't supposed to know. That human souls didn't go up or down, they just looped, but he didn't press and Bezel didn't elaborate. Because if Ira opened those flood gates--yeah, no. It was a terrible idea. Especially when Ira was so tired he couldn't even summon the vitriol required to call Bezel by his official titles. 

"We need to find an inn." Bezel said. 

Ira squinted up his foggy eyes and pointed at the sun cresting over the soft meadows and well-kept fields. "What for? It's nearly daylight, anyway. We can't waste time playing vacation. We have to find Majan Rah." 

"Mahan Raj." Bezel corrected. Ira shrugged. "And where else would Mahan and his crew be? Hell doesn't do Airbnb." 

"That's," Ira tensed his dry throat like it greatly pained him to admit, "actually a good point." 

"I've been known to have a few every couple of centuries." Bezel said. 

"Don't push your luck." Ira replied. 

"Alright, but just one more if you'll allow me, darling." Bezel said before turning his golden eyes on Ira as if waiting for permission. Ira scrunched up his face at the obvious sarcasm before he groaned and gestured with his hands for Bezel to continue. "Wolves are most active in the dark, which makes it the best time to find one. Ze'ev are particularly good at hiding their dens--hence all this mess in the first place. They'll wait for it to come out on its own and follow its usual periods of activity."

Ira blinked before scrubbing at his face wearily. "Woah, this is just like NatGeo. Can you say that again but in a British accent? I think I'll be able to focus better." 

Bezel rolled his cat eyes--which was incredibly disturbing. Ira didn't really mind that the man had animal eyes, but he had obviously never seen a cat roll it's eyes before and the imagery felt disjointing. "Nothing will happen again until tonight. Let's just find you a bed, or a bale of hay at this point." 

"I'm fine." Ira bristled defensively. 

"You're not." Bezel snorted. "Not if you're talking to me about bread. That was a give away, darling." 

"Banana bread." Ira corrected with a grouchy huff. "And everyone loves banana bread." 

"Well, then I'll point out that I've called you darling several times and you've yet to snap my head off about it--so, once again--not fine." Bezel said in a tone as cocky as a chicken coop--and okay, right. Ira knew that didn't make sense but he wasn't about to agree with the Prince that his brain was firing on its' last few cylinders. 

"You have?" Ira blinked. "Well, don't do it again." 

"Sure thing, dear." Bezel agreed swiftly. He caught Ira's wobbly elbow and steered him down the last hill before soft grass and paved dirt melded into red brick walkways. 

"Ugh," Ira muttered under his breath. "Damned tricky devils." 

Bezel made an amused huff through his nose. Ira was tired enough to almost believe he meant it.

Kett was like Heneth. In the way that any intersection street in America with a Walmart and a McDonald's was familiar looking. The houses were clearly hand built, like in Heneth, but maybe with a little more infrastructural knowledge. The mud and straw thatches had been replaced with wooden panels lined in classic shingle fashion. The houses were bigger, too. Less single room and more cabin-like. The gray cobble streets were replaced by smooth clay brick, even and aligned all the way to the edges. Raised curbs walled the streets, making small walkways from the heavier foot traffic up into the residences. Ira could almost picture a newspaper boy skipping up each path, waving the Sunday Times. Polished, but with the same old-timey whimsey that Heneth had done well. 

"I hate to be the one to say it, but something's wrong." Bezel murmured at Ira's side. 

Ira rolled his eyes. "Well, obviously. We're here, aren't we? Forget the locust, seeing us roll into town is the true sign of bad times ahead." 

He was laughing as he said it, finding some sort of humor in their misfortune, but the jovial mood wasn't shared. An unwavering tug on Ira's arm halted his progression into the picturesque vacation town. He turned to take in the sight of the Prince. He was posed like a meerkat, with his spine stiff and his head tilted upwards like he was scenting the air for jackals. Ira followed his gaze, trying to see whatever it was that had his fur raised. 

There were smatterings of smoke stacks here and there, billowing up from sculpted chimneys. A few opened windows, a couple of laundry lines hung with patched and worn clothes. And of course the mouthwatering scent of baked goods on the breeze--which Ira wished he could see, like a cartoon character floating on his nose along the trail but, nope, no such luck. Ira's stomach gave one last painful pitch before falling back into dejected muteness. 

"I give in." Ira admitted with a lame shrug. "What's going on?" 

Bezel narrowed his housecat eyes until they were as predatory as a jaguar's. "There's no one around." 

Ira practically melted in relief. He exhaled from his nose until his chest was deflated. "Angels, you scared me for a second there. Is that it? There's no one around? Come on, Bez-" He flinched before rushing forward. "Isn't having less demons around a good thing?" 

"Context." Bezel shrugged. He didn't seem to care about Ira's skipping tongue, still too caught up in his suspicious glancing. Ira was glad for that, at least. 

"Context?" Ira muttered skeptically. "Care to elaborate, Mister Monosyllable?" 

He did, although begrudgingly in that laconic way of his. "Kett is a farming town, darling. Work starts before the sun but we passed the fields on the way in." 

Ira remembered that. The first sign of civilization had happened as far back as fifteen miles outside of town. There were vacant barns built alongside wide pens. Reflecting under Bezel's direction, Ira realized the pens had been empty. Of livestock and of farmers. It hadn't seemed strange in passing. Well, maybe it had but this was Hell. What wasn't strange? And Ira still hadn't gotten a clear answer on what sort of livestock he'd been expecting in Hell so he'd felt lucky at the time to skip past the emptied stables. 

Ira's sluggish brain twitched, sending electric pulses out across the muddy slosh of pink matter. "They weren't at the fields. . . and they're not in town. . . so where are they?" 

Suddenly, Bezel's weariness felt deserved. Ira's skin crawled with goosebumps. He straightened his spine and inhaled the streets with a new uncertainty. Smoke, drying shirts, baking. Those things implied people--or, demons. Whatever. Invisible demons? No, okay, that was silly. Wasn't it? Actually, maybe not. This was, again, Hell. But Bezel didn't mention it as a possibility to Ira chalked it up to the sludge in his skull. 

Bezel's head swung jarringly left, his gaze distant and pinned over Ira's head. Ira recognized the motion from time he'd spent with both Melchior and Mayvalt. The Prince, like a well trained hunting dog, was hearing something far beyond Ira's capabilities. Still, knowing that didn't stop Ira from twisting to follow the source. 

There was a tall red clay building in the distance. It was bigger than any of the cabins near them, built to be two stories tall with a tented hay roof. The chimney was made to run up the side of the wall instead of out of the roof and it was spewing heavy black soot. 

"What?" Ira whispered, aware of how loud he'd be to the pensive devil hovering at his shoulder. 

Bezel glanced down at him, his features neutral and relaxed despite the unease sicking into the pit of Ira's empty stomach. "It's really loud inside there. I can't make out anything specific, it's too much chatter." 

"Like everyone in town?" Ira asked. 

Bezel hummed thoughtfully and took a step away from Ira. He swung his gaze each and every direction he could, ears leaning and twitching. "No. Some of these cabins are occupied. Mostly children. The adults though." And he nodded back towards the distant building. 

"Cool, yeah." Ira grumbled bitterly. "So, we're totally going over there. Aren't we?" 

Bezel raised an eyebrow. "What gave it away?"

Ira shrugged mockingly. "Oh, I just asked myself: what's the dumbest and most reckless thing we could do in this situation? And went with that." 

Bezel scoffed playfully and slipped his kris down into the pale of his hand. "Nonsense. It'll be fine. I won't let anything happen to you." 

"Nice sword," Ira cooed sarcastically. "What did your sister say about it, again? That it's useless?" 

Bezel's fingers twitched around the handle of his weapon in a manner that, for one flash of a second, seemed rooted in genuine protectiveness. Ira hid the prickle of interest that sparked with a cough and turned to face down the two story brick house. 

"Fine, but I'm gonna get real stabby if anyone even looks at me funny." 

Bezel eased ahead, leading the way through the vacant brick streets. Ira trailed behind him, hoping he looked more like backup than a lost puppy. They passed several more houses on the way up the hill towards their target, some with tantalizing pies cooling in open windows, but never did Ira see a citizen of Kett. The ghost town was eerie. It filled Ira with so much dread he was almost glad when the first stirrings of life drifted down to him. Voices, muffled and distant. They were coming from the large house--no, not a house. Not exactly. Ira finally made it close enough to read the lettering on the bronze plaque swinging above the front door. Hogfly's Tavern & Inn & Legal Advice

"Well," Ira chortled, "found our inn." 

Bezel nodded, seemingly just to let Ira know he heard him, before he stepped forward to grab the door. Ira's heart dropped to his muddy shoes. His body was flying forward before he could process it, his fingers ensnared the Prince's wrist and yanked his hand away from the copper doorknob. 

"Woah," he gasped, "you're just walking in? That's the grand plan?" 

"It's. . . a bar." Bezel said, or asked? His tone was light and uncertain like Ira was the one acting crazy. 

"It's. . .yeah, I mean. Sure but not, like." Ira sighed and released the devil's arm, his scowl required an impressive amount of muscle strength so he dropped it after making his point. "Still."

"Those were a lot of non sequiturs." Bezel remarked, flickering his fingers like he'd counted them. "It's an inn. We're weary travelers. We'll draw more attention by acting suspicious." 

"Careful, you're gonna use up all your good points and spend the next ten thousand years quoting sitcoms and reposting memes." Ira grumbled. 

The Prince just raised an eyebrow--angels, how was he so infuriating while doing nothing? Ira groaned his surrender but lowered his hands down to his hips anyway, where he could rest the palms of his hands on the cool wood of his Ossein daggers. Sheathed the way they were, the bone was less visible. But not any less deadly. The Vestige was heavy on Ira's shoulders, burning cold like a limb in necrosis. He shuffled his shoulders to settle the Fifth Prince's cloak--which, she had never asked for back and Ira had kept--to make sure the blade wasn't visible. Bezel watched him fidget for another minute (which really did not help him calm his fidgeting) before he gave an approving nod and turned for the door again. This time Ira let him open the door, wincing as the metal joints squealed and a hung bell rang. 

The noise came first--washing over Ira like a tsunami. He cringed back from the shouting, cursing, laughing, and whooping. A gentle tug at his elbow steered him past the threshold, into the sights and scents. The tavern was beer soaked, grainy air permeated the wooden interior. But there was also the too-good-to-be-true scent of roasting meat and rising dough. Ira almost whimpered, and then really did as a man twice as tall as an oak tree stumbled into his side. Ira flinched closer into the Prince, eyeing the rowdy patrons with thinly veiled disgust. 

They were demons, alright. Most the stumbling drunks were Halflings, Ira noted. There was a barmaid running back and forth between tables with a set of golden horns poking from her brown locks. So, a He-Goat. There was another He-Goat behind the bar, slinging glass cups full of amber liquid up and down the smooth table. The glasses were snatched up by the Halflings who jeered and downed them in seconds. 

Ira angled his eyes towards the Prince and frowned. "Farmers? These guys seem--I don't know. Not like early risers." 

Bezel dipped his chin in acknowledgment. His eyes rolled back and forth through the crowds, seeking. "Come on." He said, gripping Ira's arm more firmly. He half dragged half steered Ira towards the back left corner of the busy bar. Demons crowded in on all sides, elbows throw wide and legs kicking in wobbly dances. Bezel deflected most--okay fine, all--of them with quick jabs. Ira just wished he'd maintain their bubble without holding him close like a child. 

Bezel deposited him at an empty table in a lonely corner of the main room, stuffing him down onto a stool before he could protest. Ira instantly began to shiver--no wonder none of the drunkards came that way, there was a bitter draft coming in from the nearby window. The fireplace was on the opposite side of the tavern and not even the warm glow of it seemed to reach. 

"Do you want a drink?" Bezel asked. He planted his flat palms on the sticky table surface, half bent so Ira could hear him without shouting. 

Ira screwed up his eyebrows and scoffed. He wanted to complain, and he wanted to do it loudly, but he figured this was part of the devil's blending in plan. "I'm twenty." He said instead. 

"You're in Hell." Bezel scoffed back. "And close enough." 

Ira narrowed his look into a pointed glare and crossed his arms. Bezel straightened his spine and rolled his eyes before disappearing back into the jostling crowds. Ira slumped down once he was by himself, giving into his all consuming exhaustion. It did feel nice--angels, a lot more than just nice--to rest for a moment. His legs burned in such a way he felt like he was still walking, like if he dared a glance under the table his phantom limbs would still be kicking. So, he didn't look. Well, at his lap anyway. He angled his head down towards the table top and took careful glanced up through the blond hair hanging over his forehead. 

The patrons were mostly Halflings. Or, beings Ira assumed to be Halflings. They appeared human at first glance but with strange animal features crudely jammed into their bodies. A woman as pretty as a gargoyle danced on a table, swinging a green and scaly tail with each spin. A man downing ales at the bar, tossing the liquid into his snout and down his thick throat. Ira shifted on his stool. How did Bezel make the animal thing work so well? His golden cat eyes seemed perfectly ethereal. There was a man slumped at a table a few feet from Ira with eerily glowing eyes--but they just gave him the creeps. Maybe it was the content of angelic blood? Were angels just, like, super pretty? 

Ira flushed pink and shook his head. Nope, definitely not the point. 

He swiveled on his chair, chasing the sights and sounds of the tavern more boldly. If this was the inn, Mahan must be there somewhere. Which was. . .not helpful. Ira had no idea what Mahan looked like. 

A glass clunked on the table top to Ira's back. He flinched and leapt back around to stare up into the Prince's blank face. Bezel pulled out the stool opposite Ira and slunked down into it. Ira's eyes fell to the two cups sitting center stage between them. His irritation spiked up before he could tamp it down. 

"I said I didn't want-" 

"Brothers." Bezel cursed. "It's rootwater. Non-alcoholic. Now drink it, okay?" 

Ira's words curled on his tongue and fell back into the pit of his chest. "Oh, uh. . . thanks."

"Uh huh." The Prince grunted into the rim of his own rootwater glass. He took languid sips, like a cat savoring a pitcher of cream. But Ira knew better. With each lazy tilt of the glass, his eyes darted in a new direction. His ears twitched a little more. 

Ira looked down into the surface of his own beverage. The liquid was soil dark and still. It reminded him of flat Cola. His fingers inched towards the handle of the glass but never quite wrapped around it. 

The Prince exhaled sharply and set his own cup back down on the table. "What? Don't trust me? You can go ask the bartender to make you another if-" 

"No." Ira interrupted forcefully. "No, it's not like that. Just. . . ugh, this is so dumb but. . . if I drink this I'm not gonna, like, get stuck in Hell forever? Or turn into a lizard? Or-"

Bezel laughed the way ice cracked and shook his head. "No, Ira. You won't turn into a rat." 

"Oh," Ira pouted. "Well, now I'm just disappointed. Rats are pretty cute." 

Bezel snorted and took another sip of his rootwater. "You think so?"

"Yeah, why not?" Ira shrugged. "I'm a New Yorker, rats and I have a special bond. It's like peanut butter and jelly." 

"I hate the comparison of rats and sandwiches. Just don't like those things in the same sentence." Bezel grunted into his drink.

Ira rolled his eyes. "Purist." He teased before lifting his cup to his lips. The rootwater was a little thicker than he'd expected. Like drinking watery sap, but it wasn't the worst thing he'd tasted. That prize definitely went to Father Pine's meatloaf--although Ira didn't know how messing up meatloaf was even possible. His stomach yanked again. Oh, great. Now he wanted Father Pine's cardboard-like loafed meat. Angels, he was about five minutes away from eating his own hand, or the table, or the floorboard, or the next demon to knock him with an elbow. 

"Here you go, lads."  Ira flinched, eyes widened at the pretty young barmaid placing plates full of sliced bread and carved meats on their table. "Sorry for the wait. Thing've been busy at Hogfly's lately." 

Ira turned a questioning look at Bezel but he didn't look confused. Right, no. Of course he wasn't. He must have bought the meals when he grabbed their rootwater. 

"We don't mind waiting." Bezel smiled--charmingly? Charming? Ira rubbed at his eyes but it didn't change. He was definitely charming? His pink lips were turned up into a cocky grin, his posture slouched and relaxed. And then he began to talk, in some chipper tone that was illsuited to the smooth as glass voice he said it in and Ira understand he wasn't looking at his Prince anymore. He was looking at the Prince that server girl was looking at. One who wasn't a Prince at all, just a humble travler. One she was safe to confide in.

"What's the occasion? It's like Red-Sea in here but I didn't think they celebrated this far inland." Bezel the traveler asked.

The He-Goat waitress giggled and tucked her wooden tray against her chest. "Aye, no. Not a celebration exactly." A whooping shout drew her attention and she grimaced as another devil climbed up onto another table. "Though, can't says I fault ya for thinkin' so." 

Bezel leaned on his elbows, his eyes glowing where they met the barmaid's face. "I'm sorry to see this place so full, selfish as it makes me. My companion and I were hoping to stay here for awhile but this inn must be full by now-" 

"Oh no!" She flushed pink at her own quickness and glanced down nervously at her hooves. "I means to say our inn isn't full, sir. We have one room still available. Unfortunately, another party has paid out our other four rooms for the time bein'." 

"One party?" Bezel echoed, his tone so mockingly curious Ira didn't know how she didn't see the puppet strings illuminated by the hearth fire's light. "But this place is," he spread his open palms. 

She laughed and tucked a string of curled brown hair behind her ear. "Aye but these folk all live in town. They don' need a room, sir." 

"Ah," he clicked his tongue, "well obviously not, then. Sorry, silly questions." 

"Nonsense!" She blushed, leaning forward. 

"Well if you'd allow me one more then." Bezel smiled softly. 

"Certainly, sir." She nodded eagerly. 

"You said this wasn't a party, so what kind of gathering is it--exactly?" 

She snapped back, rigid as a corpse. Ira winced. His foot reflexively soared across the underside of their table, knocking hard into the Prince's ankle. But if it hurt, he certainly didn't act like it did. To Hell with it then--literally. 

Ira set his glass of rootwater back on the table and leaned forward on his elbows. "You know about the Z-" he inhaled, "wolf. Don't you?" 

The Prince and the barmaid fit Ira with equally wide and shocked looks. Her rosy pink cheeks turned snow white. 

"I-" she choked, her eyes darting back and forth across the rowdy crowds. Ira doubted anyone was still sober enough to eavesdrop but he didn't mind her careful consideration. It meant she was willing to spill. With a little pressure. Ira could bat his eyelashes, but honestly nothing sounded more unpleasant and pitiful. So he went with what he did best. He reached into his belt, wrapped his fingers around his tooth dagger and slammed it down on the table top. Her mouth dropped open, gaping at the Ossein he was so openly displaying. 

"Wolf's tooth." Ira said truthfully. The best way to lie was by rooting it in as much honesty as he could, so he tacked on his fib at the end. "My partner and I hunt them." 

"We do?" Bezel repeated slowly. 

"We do." Ira nodded at him before turning back to the He-Goat girl. "And we've heard you folks have a wolf problem. True or not true?" 

She nodded slowly, her eyes locked on the shut front door. "Aye, sir, but there's already a hunting party in town so-" 

"Yeah?" Ira barked his laugh. "How's that going for you?" 

She scowled down at her hooves. "Honest, lad. Not well. You can see for yourself, yeah?" She glanced pointedly around the brimming tavern. Ira tried to focus on the important parts--so, the part that wasn't how he was 'lad' and Bezel was 'sir'--but it was difficult. "No one wants to work anymore. They say the wolf is down by the fields day an' night. Ask me, it's just petty excuse to drink themselves into the dirt. But, aye, the sheep did get ate." 

"The sheep. . . got ate." Ira tried to compute that in his glitchy brain. "The empty pens outside of town?" 

"Aye." She bleated. Ira distantly wondered if He-Goats ate lamb. Did that raise morality issues? Did morality issues exist in Hell? All irrelevant, and nothing he would have even humored if he had an hour more of sleep to run off of. "An' now none'll work. The crops are just going to rot in the dirt unless the visitors can kill the Beast." 

Ira's dry throat flexed painfully. "Not a Beast." He corrected sharply. His fingers wrapped around his dagger, slipping it back into his belt. "Wolves aren't Beasts. They're something else." 

The girl opened her mouth, perhaps to level more wisdoms at him or to offer him a refill of his rootwater but whatever she was going to say was suddenly cut short by the sound of the front door slamming on the rusty hinges. The girl yelped like a kicked puppy and rushed back to the bar. The dancing, whooping, tussling, and laughing stopped like someone had hit pause on the TV. Hogfly's was silent enough that Ira almost swore he could hear bubbles popping in the barrels of beer behind the bar.

He went rigid in his seat, tossing a careful glance over his left shoulder towards the entrance. A party of five strolled into the room, chins held high and shoulder firmly set. They were Halflings like most of the Kett citizens currently stood frozen and waiting. The first into the tavern, the one who had thrown open the door with a violent clang, was a boy. Like, actually a boy. He didn't look any more than twelve but he commanded the crowds in a way that had the much older farming folk skittering into each other to carve him a wake through the crowd. His hair was flame-red, catching in the light so it flickered like live embers. His ax-ish face was covered in a scattering of pink freckles. His orange complexion made his glowing copper eyes seem almost natural. He skipped towards the bar, hopping up onto a barstool with impressive ease and laid his flattened palms on the wood.

"Give me somethin'." He snapped in a high-toned whiny voice. "Somethin' strong 'nough to kill a cow."

The barkeeper bowed his head. Intimidated? Ira wasn't sure what was so scary about a middle schooler--well, actually. On second thought. Either way, that bartender made no attempt to ask for ID. 

"Maybe save the drinkin' 'til after ya've killed that damned dog." 

The temperature in the bar dropped another five degrees at the interruption. The preteen at the bar swiveled on his stool, keen orange eyes wide and seeking. As if in answer, a crowd parted near the fluttering fire pit. A devil was left in the center of the clearing. An older man with skin the color of wheat and feathers poking from his cheeks. He hiccuped and leaned against the brick mantle, swaying on his worn leather boots. 

The foxish boy slipped off his chair and slunked across the tavern, his eyes slanted and lips peeled back over a set of razor sharp fangs. The devils scattered like chickens in a coop, squawking as they made space and averted their eyes. 

"Ira." 

Ira flinched, peeling his eyes away from the boy. Bezel was leaned forward, his hands clasped under his chin so he could rest his weight on his knuckles. His eyes were nothing like that boy's. They were feline, sure. Golden, yeah. A little emptier than a drained juice box--but Ira didn't feel cold when he looked into them. 

"Eat." The Prince murmured, his voice softer than cotton. "Before it goes cold." 

A scream cut the air like a knife. Ira's head snapped to the side just in time to see the foxish boy raise a fist full of plucked feathers into the air victorious. Ira's stomach dropped painfully, his throat dried. 

"Darling." 

He glanced back at the Prince. Bezel tilted his chin back down at the plate. Ira inhaled as much air as he could manage without drawing attention with his gasping before he turned his fork down to the carved meat still throwing up little white steam trails. He picked at a piece of brown roast and lifted it into his mouth. It was tasteless, so he wasted as little time with chewing as possible before forcing it down his throat. He narrowed his eyes, slimmed his world down to nothing more than a chunk of grilled carnage and a buttered loaf of bread. He ate slowly and mechanically. 

Blending in. Yep, super natural. Nothing strange about them. Just another Halfling and his He-Goat companion--for as long as Ira's weakened rams horns lasted anyway. Which couldn't be much longer. They were nearly nothing but a shadow thirty miles ago. 

"Eisen." A cold female voice cut through the whimpering in the air. "Give the gentleman back his plumage." 

"He disrespected me." The boy, Eisen, said. His tiny voice was whip sharp. 

"And now I consider the matter settled. Give it back." She ordered. Eisen huffed and whined but the woman didn't say anything else so Ira assumed he handed back the torn out feathers. Footsteps echoed, creaking along the wood towards the bar. Chairs scraped out, stools being arranged. And then, after a beat of silence, the door opened to a rush of exiting devils. The tense air settled as a new sort of vacancy took place. Ira knew, without removing his eyes from the bread he was disassembling with his pinched fingers, that the He-Goat staff, the five new arrivals, and Ira's Prince were all who remained at Hogfly's. 

"Take bites of it." Bezel instructed as if nothing violent and or disturbing had taken place. "Stop playing with it." 

Ira cast him a sharp glare before dropping his hands to his lap in defeat. He felt too sick to risk another mouthful. Everything was ashy and bitter on his tongue anyways. Even the rootwater had gone sour. "Stop telling me what to do." He hissed out in a whisper. 

"Then start blending in." Bezel clipped, leaning back on his stool. 

Ira glowered. His eyes flickered unwillingly to the bar. The foxish boy was parked back on his chair, downing something bright blue that sparked when it touched his lips. Beside him, her chin posed on the back of her hand in boredom, was a woman with night-dark hair and oval eyes the color of an endless abyss. She made bitter faces at the drinks offered to her. 

There were only three of the five at the bar, the last of them was another woman. She was thin and pale, her limbs unnaturally long. She looked like that taffy kid from that movie about the candy-hoarding wack job. Her hair was the texture of vulture wings, with a few tawny feathers in her own cheeks and throat. They suited the hawkish cut of her narrow amber eyes. "The feathers, really? Had to pluck his feathers, Eisen?" 

Eisen cackled, tossing his head back as he did. "Was my right, Ashok. When a devil disrespects another, ya go for their mark. Everyone knows that." 

"But the feathers?" Ashok groaned. She took a glass and downed it. 

"One day someone's going to scoop out those eyes of yours, boy." That voice was deep as the ocean floor, rumbling at a volume that begged Ira to press his flat palms into his ears. When he followed the sound of it towards the crackling fireplace he found another devil stationed there, his back turned to the bar so he could warm his opened palms in the fire's light. He was as broad as a mountain. His gray hair was buzzed close to his skull, thin enough to display a couple pink scars on his head. Which wasn't really the most eye-catching part about his head. That prize definitely went to the four-foot long horns emerging from his skull. 

"I'll die as I live, Betok." Eisen shrugged callously. 

"Will that be soon?" The crow woman perked up in interest. 

"All of you shut up!" Ira had to set his bones into gridlock to avoid flinching. His eyes fell back to his plate and his fingers resumed picking at the cooling meat strewn about his dish. The voice was new and commanding. It rose the hairs along the back of Ira's neck. "Another word and I'll carve off your marks myself. Disappointments, every last one of you." 

Mahan. That had to be Mahan. But Ira couldn't bring himself to look, couldn't find the courage to summon up even one little glance. He placed another chunk of chewy bread on his tongue and forced it down into his stomach with the help of some rootwater. His cup was uncomfortably loud when he placed it back on the table. 

"Excuse me." 

Ira's mouth dropped, his eyes fluttering up to Bezel. He tried to catch his gaze but the Prince was already moving. He stepped away from their table and crossed to the bar. Not quite towards the crew parked there but close enough for Ira's heart to pitter pitifully against his constricting ribs. The wolf hunters turned to watch him, and that Ira really didn't like. He sucked in as much oxygen as his lungs could hold and flitted his eyes towards the back corner of the bar. Perched as far from his crew as he could get, Mahan occupied a table. His boots were up on the table, crossed at the ankles. He tossed a knife in his hand lazily, flipping the blade through the air and snatching the handle. Everything about him was dark. The air around him, the sound of his breathing, the color of his empty eyes. 

"Ye-yes? How may I help ya, sir?" The barmaid squeaked, rushing towards Bezel to meet him before he crossed any closer to the devils. Ira was thankful for that, at least. 

The Prince contorted his handsome face into his best customer service smile and said. "Would it be possible to get that room now?" 

She flushed pink, nodding so furiously Ira worried her neck would snap right then. She spun on her hooves and collected a small bronze key from the wall besides the bottles of mysterious liquids. "An-anything else for you, sir?" 

Bezel grinned in a way that seemed to say, 'well since you asked', "Could you give me directions to anywhere I could buy supplies? Just items for our travels. Clothes, food. We had to leave Heneth in a big rush, unfortunately. A new Beast. Just terrible stuff, really." 

Ira stuffed more bread into his mouth to give his face something to do besides roll his eyes. The barmaid lifted her eyebrows, glancing at Ira and then at his belt where his Ossein blade was but she seemed to understand that their new story wasn't meant for her and just nodded without poking any holes in their retelling. Which seemed to be more about dumb luck and her unwillingness to involve herself with Mahan. Okay, more so that bit about Mahan. Ira Rule and stupid dumb luck weren't really on speaking terms at the moment. 

"Certainly, sir. You'll wanna get yourself down to Miss Rabberty's farm. She's always fittin' new clothes for the younger boys." She pulled a bit of parchment from under the bar and scrawled a crude map with a chunk of wax. She handed the paper to Bezel with a sheepish smile. "We're not so big on markets here. Not a lot of outsiders to cater to so we tend to look out for our own but just tell 'er Dwyvalt sent ya." 

"Thank you, Dwyvalt." Bezel smiled before walking back to Ira, his face suddenly blank and empty again. Ira tried not to be offended by that. "Done?" 

"Huh? Oh." Ira blinked before sitting up straighter, looking down at his picked plate. There was still a quarter of bread left so he picked it up and nibbled at the edges, nodding. 

"Give me the mon-" he lowered his voice and held his flat palm out. "-what my sister gave us." 

Ira loosened the pouch at his hip and slipped it into the Prince's hand. He stuffed it into his cloak just as discreetly. Ira swallowed his bread and stood up from the table. "I can keep carrying it. You know since I'm so reckless with my soul and all that." 

The Prince shook his head like Ira had started speaking French. "How would that help me? You aren't coming." 

Ira's jaw smacked against the floor before he was able to pick it back up and tighten the screws holding it together. "Excuse me?" He scoffed. "Did you just--that felt very dismissive, Princess." 

Bezel set the room key on the table. He had the audacity to look completely unphased by Ira's rising temper. "I'll be quick, don't worry."

Ira sputtered. He hoped the smoke curling from his ears was unnoticeable in the hazey bar. "Worried? Angels, I'm not worried! Irritated? Irked? Irate?" 

"Ira." 

"What?" He spat, arms crossed over his chest. 

"Oh, no." The Prince amended, lifting his palms up in surrender. "I was just giving you some more synonyms for your list." 

Ira rolled his eyes but snatched the room key off the flat table. "What am I supposed to do here?" 

"Take a bath?" The Prince suggested. "You've been covered in mud and blood for two days."

Ira's cheeks flamed pink. He huffed, toeing his shoes on the worn wooden floorboards. "I'm just supposed to take a bubble bath while you go off on your own? What if you need, I don't know, backup?"

"From?" Bezel chuckled. "Evil grannies? Walnuts in my baked goods?"

"Sure, yes!" Ira snapped. "Or. . . something!" 

The Prince leaned forward. He brought his lips to Ira's cheek, whispering so close his voice sent vibrations into Ira's jaw bone. He stiffened, his teeth sinking into his lip to tamp down the instinctual need to retreat a step. "Blend in, remember? Eyes open, ears up." 

Ira forced his eyes down so they wouldn't flutter back towards Mahan or his crew. "Blend in." He muttered bitterly. "Sure." 

Bezel nodded before stepping around him. He crossed the tavern and was out the door before Ira could even swallow down the lump of uncertainty in his throat. He straightened his shoulders and strolled forward with what he hoped was a smile. "Excuse me, miss?" He called to the He-Goat waitress. "Do you have hot water?"