Buckling himself into the driver’s seat, Jonathan craned around to check the carpeted back seat. Boxes of Warren’s things were stacked against the walls, awaiting donation. The Urn of Fernda sat nested inside a pile of long-collared button-down shirts, its screaming stopper peering over the top of the box.

“Glory insisted on a prettier vessel,” the Mayor had told Jonathan and Andrew when he returned the urn to them. Along with another box of chocolates to thank them for their service to the community. “But, hey, you got a little prize in the bottom there! Like a toy in your cereal box, how about that?”

Warren’s Raphael Ninja Turtle action figure had been lying at the bottom of the urn. The black flame hadn’t burned it, but it had imbued it with an inverse sort of radiance. A dark aura surrounded it, pulsating with evil.

Jonathan and Andrew agreed to bury the toy in place of Warren’s corpse. There wasn’t room enough to bury a full body in the cemetery these days anyway. And who knew what kind of unholy powers would be contained within an action figure that had been steeped in hellfire? What if it passed its nastiness on to the miniaturized Tucker and the Fyarl? Or the other toys in the house? Jonathan had never been quite convinced that Toy Story wasn’t a documentary. He wasn’t going to risk all of his Jedi figurines being poisoned by the literal Dark Side.

Besides, Warren would have liked that his final resting place included a hum of disquieting power. It was a very Warren vibe.

Driving the van with his window down, Jonathan called out a greeting to the Glairy demon undulating in the grass at the park, slowly absorbing a screeching possum into himself. Two jogging chaos demons, their antlers streaming goo behind them, encouraged Jonathan to honk as he drove by and cheered as the van trumpeted “The Imperial March.”

Demondale had become a friendlier place since the Battle at the Bronze. Those who had fought together smiled at each other instead of growling. Andrew said that Best Pressed was drawing lines full of demons offering to pay for one another’s juices to show their gratitude. Tips had apparently tripled.

Jonathan did wonder if some of the increase in tips had something to do with Anya quitting. How she had convinced Ripper to hire her full-time, Jonathan would never know. She had even persuaded the warlock to change the name of the store.

Parking the van out front, Jonathan peered up at the new awning. It was just as gray as the last one, but it now read RIPPER’S MAGIC SHOP.

Anya scuttled out of the shop, shouting something over her shoulder before the door abruptly swung shut in her face—possibly by magic.