It was sad how quickly he’d got used to normal things again. Life as the Zombie King, as self-deluded as he’d been, meant that magic had sustained him and his steadily-rotting body. But after Doctor Nye had placed his brain into its new home, he’d had to deal with the gradual reawakening of natural bodily functions. Normal things like eating and drinking had become astonishing adventures in sensation. A glass of milk was a delight. But now? Now it was a glass of milk again. How quickly it had lost its thrill.

Thrasher and Clarabelle came into the kitchen, still talking. He ignored them. He did that a lot lately. He just couldn’t summon the anger he used to direct Thrasher’s way. It was … gone. It had slowly evaporated these past few weeks. Thrasher had noticed, of course. Thrasher always noticed things like that. But where he had assumed that it was as a result of living a normal life, maybe even of a softening of attitudes and a growing fondness, Scapegrace knew better. The anger was gone because the anger was beaten. There was no point to it any more. It had lost.

Scapegrace was living in the suburbs of a city full of sorcerers. He was no longer deluded enough to call himself the Killer Supreme. No longer dead enough to call himself the Zombie King. He was just another citizen, just a regular guy who’d had his brain transplanted into the body of a beautiful woman. He was normal. He was average. And this was his life.

“Master?” Thrasher said.

Scapegrace brushed his luxurious hair from his face and looked up. “Hmm? What?”

Thrasher and Clarabelle looked at him with real concern in their eyes. The old Scapegrace would have heaped scorn upon them. The new Scapegrace didn’t see the point.

“I was saying that I washed the floor in the pub, just like you asked,” Thrasher continued.

“And I was saying you shouldn’t get Gerald to do that every time,” said Clarabelle. “He’s not your slave.”

“I don’t mind, really,” Thrasher said, blushing.

“You should mind,” said Clarabelle. “Scapey, it’s just not nice, the way you treat Gerald. He’s your best friend in the whole entire world and you two are my best friends in the whole entire world and best friends shouldn’t treat each other like that.”

It had been a long day. All Scapegrace wanted to do was have a shower and go to bed. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

They stood there and blinked at him.

“You’re sorry?” Thrasher asked.

Irritation flared in the back of Scapegrace’s mind, then sputtered out. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

“You … you’ve never said that to me before,” Thrasher said, tears in his eyes. Dear lord, he was going to cry.