Behind the straitjacketed figures are four besuited creatures that must be demons. Smiling horrible smiles on faces frozen and cadaverous. Whiter than even the palest vampire. So upright, with ramrod posture that reads as aristocratic rather than hellish. Their black suits are tailored to their tall, skeletal bodies. They float down the street. Actually float, like Thanksgiving Day balloons with shiny leather shoes six inches from the ground, casting shadows beneath.

The one in the center holds a sharp metal scalpel. The tallest has his long-fingered hands wrapped around a small wooden box. The other two twirl their hands, as though each is spinning a cat’s cradle with invisible thread.

The Slayer is rooted to the spot watching these demons approach. She rarely feels the urge to retreat, but seeing sunlight reflecting off an ordinary surgical scalpel makes her want to run screaming in the other direction. Monsters have come at her with plenty of weapons in the past—swords and clubs and claws. But doctors’ instruments? The implied precision is spine-chilling.

Without warning, the straightjacketed cronies surge toward the Slayer. Their footsteps make no noise, even as they gallop on their knuckles. The three of them surround her, bodies bouncing and spinning like people forever hyping themselves up to break-dance but never actually getting down to business.

She doesn’t hear the whoosh of air that would normally precede a punch landing in her kidney, but pain detonates in her side, surprising her into dropping the staff. It spins itself on the ground, pointing toward the floating demons, as though there could be any doubt that they were the epitome of evil in this dimension. The cronies are just a distraction.

Someone pulls hard on the backpack full of magical artifacts, yanking the Slayer backward. She throws the point of her elbow. It bashes into a bandaged face that makes no sound of protest in response. An arm wraps around her throat and presses down hard against her esophagus. The straitjacket canvas is musty and rough. The Slayer gasps for air. Spit bubbles at the corners of her mouth.

She rears back, reverse-head-butting the crony. Its grip loosens just enough for her to get a gulp of air. Her hand fastens on the restraining arm and she flips the crony over her shoulder. Keeping hold of the end of the overlong jacket arm, she yanks it toward the next-closest crony, who swipes at her in a clumsy punch. She ducks, quickly buckling the arm that tried to choke her to its friend’s back.

Running between the cronies, she grabs at all the arms that reach for her, tugging and buckling, until she’s lashed them all together. The three cronies can now only spin each other in furious circles, no matter how hard they pull. A daisy chain of straitjackets.

With the cronies distracted, the Slayer scoops the staff up off the ground, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath. When she looks up, she can see the empty-handed smiling demons giving her a silent golf clap. It feels unnecessarily sarcastic.