Skarg dragged Zac out of the mausoleum's rusted gates and into the night. The cold was still a physical presence, but out here, under an open sky, it felt cleaner. The graveyard stretched in every direction, a city of the dead under a bruised violet moon that dripped blood-colored light. In the distance, a faint, angry red glow pulsed against the horizon, a wound in the fabric of the world. Faintly, carried on the wind, Zac could hear screams, not of terror, but of rage and exertion, the sound of a distant, endless battle.
Skarg kept a punishing pace, his massive hooves crunching frozen bones underfoot. Zac, practically jogging to keep up, found his thoughts drifting back to the wendigo's raw power and… short fluffy tail. His heart, which had remained stubbornly placid in the face of mortal terror, had given a distinct, enthusiastic thump. 'Right,' he thought with a flicker of satisfaction. 'So the fear-blocker works, but the horny-inducer is still fully operational. Good to know.'
They were passing between two toppled mausoleums, their marble angels weeping frozen tears, when a new sound cut through the night, the slow, deliberate clop of iron-shod hooves.
A rider emerged from the violet gloom, and the scene transformed from a horror movie into a dark fairy tale. He sat atop a pale destrier whose eyes glowed corpse-green, its mane a tangle of what looked suspiciously like funeral shrouds. Hanging from the war-saddle in neat, murderous rows was an arsenal that could equip a small army: a gleaming longsword, a heavy, flanged mace, a pair of matched pistols with mother-of-pearl grips, and a wickedly curved saber.
The lion headed man astride the beast was magnificent. Broad-shouldered and golden-furred, he wore a three-piece suit of mirror-bright plate armor, the breastplate shaped like a tailored waistcoat, the pauldrons flared like lapels. His own mane was braided with silver rings and tiny, screaming souls that provided a faint, melodic chime. He was every dashing, dangerous prince from every storybook Zac had ever secretly read.
He reined in, his gaze sweeping over the scene with aristocratic disdain. His eyes, the color of molten gold, lingered on Skarg with contempt before flicking to Zac. A sneer curled his lip.
"Skarg," he said, his voice deep and diction pronounced. "Still playing with your food, I see. Do try to clean up after yourself. Your last meal left stains all over the western necropolis." He looked Zac up and down, his expression one of utter dismissal. "And you've chosen a scrawny one this time. Barely a mouthful."
Zac barely registered the insult. His brain was too busy cataloging the perfect fit of the lion's armor, the regal set of his shoulders, the sheer, breathtaking fantasy of it all. This was a demon, a soul-eating monster from the pits of Hell… who looked like he'd walked off the cover of the hottest romance novel ever written. The internal struggle was brief and brutally one-sided.
Skarg's growl was a low rumble of thunder. "He is not food, you preening housecat. He is a… package. For the Captain."
"A package?" Nock raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow. "It looks more like a stray you found in a dumpster. If you're not going to eat it, at least put it out of its misery."
The sheer, casual cruelty of the remark was chilling. But Skarg had finally had enough of the taunts.
"He is the President's new AVATAR, you arrogant fool!" he roared, the word echoing off the tombstones. "And he is MY responsibility!"
The change in Nock was instantaneous and absolute. The sneer vanished, replaced by a dazzling smile. The contempt in his eyes was instantly supplanted by a warm, charming light. He swung down from his saddle with a liquid grace that made his heavy armor seem weightless. The Prince Charming mask snapped perfectly into place.
"The Avatar!" he exclaimed, his voice now filled with delighted surprise. He strode forward, completely ignoring Skarg. "My deepest apologies, little champion! I did not realize… Skarg's brutish company must have been so terribly distressing for you." He bowed low, a perfect, courtly gesture. "I am Sir Nock, Great Marquis."
Zac, who had a memory like a steel trap for insults, decided at that moment that his new lying ability might come in handy for social situations as well. He smiled back as if he hadn't just been called a dumpster stray.
Before Skarg could react, Nock moved with a fencer's speed. A gauntleted hand closed around Zac's waist, hauling him from Skarg's grasp and settling him sideways across the saddle. Zac's back was pressed to an armored chest, Nock's mane tickling his ear. The heat radiating from the lion was a welcome furnace against the cold.
"Hold tight, pet," the lion's voice purred directly against his throat. "Allow me to escort you. A person of your station deserves a far more civilized welcome."
Skarg's roar of pure, possessive outrage shook snow from the tombstones.
Nock just laughed, a low, delighted sound. He spurred the pale horse, which launched itself forward with unnatural speed, leaving Skarg in a cloud of dust. Zac, plastered against the lion's chest, told himself to be wary. He told himself this was a performance, a cynical ploy for favor. But it was hard to focus on cynicism when he was being held in the arms of a literal fantasy knight, the vibration of his purring laugh rumbling right through him. He decided, for the moment, to simply enjoy the ride.
The pale horse carried them out of the graveyard's rusted gates, and the world fell away. The ground simply ended, plunging into a jagged canyon of red-black light. The air rushed up to meet them, tasting of hot iron and sex. Without hesitation, Nock spurred the horse over the edge.
Zac yelped, a sound that was half shock, half exhilaration, as they plunged into the abyss. The wind screamed past them, but Nock's arm was an iron bar around his waist. Then, a furious roar echoed from above. Skarg had leaped after them.
The massive caribou landed on the sheer obsidian wall of the chasm, his hooves finding impossible purchase, and began to run, dropping onto all fours. He was a terrifying, bounding beast of muscle and frost, his antlers cutting through the air as he gave chase.
The descent became a chaotic, breathtaking race into a vertical city. The Pit wasn't a hole... it was a wound, and its inhabitants had built their metropolis in the scar tissue. Forges carved into the chasm walls belched green fire, their hammer-falls echoing like a giant's heartbeat. Brothels beckoned with neon-red runes that spelled out acts Zac couldn't read but the signs showed things he didn't know were anatomically possible. They thundered down the spiraling, city-block-wide steps, weaving through the Pit's brutal industry.
Nock expertly guided his destrier around a massive, iron-bound mine cart overflowing with freshly forged, still-glowing swords. Skarg, relentless, used the cart as a ramp, launching himself into the air, antlers aimed directly at them.
Nock, with Zac still held securely in one arm, drew his longsword with his free hand. With a graceful, almost contemptuous ease, he parried the tip of Skarg's antler with his blade. The shriek of enchanted steel on demonic bone was deafening. The impact sent a shudder through the horse, but Nock held firm.
"Your form is as crude as your manners, you brute!" Nock yelled over the wind.
"I'll show you crude when I'm wearing your mane as a loincloth!" Skarg roared back, landing on the wall and resuming his four-legged pursuit.
The sheer speed and vertigo should have sent his heart into overdrive, but it remained stubbornly calm. 'Well,' Zac thought with a pang of disappointment, 'there go amusement park rides for the rest of my afterlife.' He sighed and decided if he couldn't have the thrill of fear, he'd take the thrill of the fantasy. He relaxed, leaning back into the solid warmth of Nock's armored chest, the vibration of the lion's purring laugh rumbling through him.