Jonathan found Warren’s messenger bag underneath the snacks table, untouched by any of the nearby mess. He stashed the video camera inside and, after a moment’s hesitation, the shrink ray. Touching the murder weapon made him queasy, but he couldn’t leave behind their only prototype. What if it fell into the wrong hands? What if they needed to shrink something within easy reach of a power outlet?

He met Andrew at the door, standing open after the blond girl’s mysterious appearance. Outside was fully dark, of course, but Jonathan’s watch said it was only quarter to one in the afternoon. Times like this, he missed the sun. Running through the pitch-dark of Docktown felt like jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. Less than two hours ago, he, Andrew, and Warren had talked about leaving the warehouse under the protection of an Old One, all of them finally free of the feeling that they were prey in their hometown.

Now, not only did they not have an ancient demon to protect them, they didn’t even have Warren.

Or, it turned out, the keys to their van.

“We can fix this,” Andrew panted as they ran out of Docktown. “We can bring Warren back!”

“Back from the dead?” Jonathan asked. “We can’t command-Z life!”

“We can’t,” Andrew said. “But I know someone who can. We just have to buy a Wish.”

Who the heck was that? Jonathan wondered, picturing the blond girl disappearing through the portal. And how did she know we’re nerds?

ANYA JENKINS SPANKED the side of the blender, coaxing a chunky purple smoothie into a tall plastic cup. She slapped a lid on top and called, “Kitten-kidney smoothie for. . .” She squinted at the black ink scrawl on the side. Human-Mike couldn’t spell demon names for shit, even though they were largely phonetic. “Bwomreon?”

A male M’Fashnik demon in a gray hoodie sidled over to the counter. Lizardy in the face with cranial crests that gave the impression of swept-back hair, the demon pulled back his green lips in a pointy-toothed sneer. He said, “It’s pronounced. . .” and then made a noise like a foghorn being run over by a semitruck. “Spelled just like it sounds. Idiot.”

He grabbed the smoothie and strode out of the juicery.

“It’s okay,” said Human-Mike at the cash register. He wore the same Best Pressed Juicery uniform visor and apron as Anya, although his were both adorned with MANAGER ON DUTY flair pins. “He didn’t even tip. Demons never do.”

“That’s because it’s a stupid earth custom,” Anya shot back, offended. She considered sticking both of Human-Mike’s MOD pins into his eyes. Demon-Mike never spewed casual prejudice, not even against the puny human manager who shared his name. “In hell, everyone makes a living wage and doesn’t have to beg for customers’ change.”

Not that Anya didn’t enjoy getting money from customers. She liked money. Capitalism was one of humanity’s better ideas. But she had to stick up for her demon brethren. Just because she looked human didn’t mean that she identified as one.