In the chat room—that big, white, blank space between the dimensions with portals to all of them—my interdimensional imp had substance and size. He no longer fit on my shoulder or on top of my head. So he stood beside me. His potbelly looked thinner than usual and his bandy legs stronger—we’d been working too hard. A lovely scattering of warts decorated his chest and his bum. His tattered wings stretched from above his head to his heels. They fluttered in agitation.

His normally gray-green skin flashed between yellow and pink. He was scared and we were in danger.

I knew that. I was as scared as he. Maybe more so.

My scar, which ran from right temple to jaw, pulsed and burned, a clear warning that I needed to either fight my way clear or flee. Rapidly.

I couldn’t accept either option.

“If this is such a bad idea, why’d you bring me this far?” I asked, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.

“I brought you here to scare you into going home.” Scrap’s actual voice came through deeper than his normal telepathic communications.

I caught sight of the demons on guard duty in the distance. Their bright blue, stacked-tire bodies with pink feather ruffs at neck, wrists, and ankles loomed larger with each giant stride toward us. Think the Michelin man decked out for an Easter parade.

“B’Cartlins,” Scrap whispered. “Their stupidity makes them more dangerous than their size. They need everything repeated six times before they understand.”

“I think I want to hide.” No shadows presented themselves in the limitless white. The B’Cartlins grew by the heartbeat as they approached. Without a thought, either of them could squash us to unidentified road pizza.

“No trespassing in the chat room,” one of them boomed. Demons took seriously their duty to keep everyone in their home dimension.

I covered my ears against the cannon roar of sound.

“Imps go anywhere, anywhen,” Scrap announced to them with authority and dignity.

“No imps outside Imp Haven. Those are the rules,” they both repeated by rote.

Full blood, or Midori, demons aren’t terribly bright.

“If we stay very quiet, maybe they’ll forget we’re here,” I said quietly.

If we needed to remain quiet, why were we talking? It was either that or run away and leave this essential errand unfinished.

“I have to do this, Scrap.”

“I know. This is going to cost me some warts. I worked hard to earn these!” He heaved a sigh that might provoke a hurricane. “You couldn’t wait for backup?” He produced a black cherry cheroot out of nowhere and lit it from a flamelet atop his thumb.

“I don’t have backup anymore.”

“What about more information?”

“I dismissed my archivist.” I would not think about Guilford Van der Hoyden-Smythe, PhD. I would not. I had to cut Gollum out of my life and my heart.

I did not like where this conversation was leading. So I took a couple of steps toward where I thought the proper portal should be.

Scrap grabbed my arm and steered me in the opposite direction. My frail human flesh began bruising beneath his solid, unrelenting grip.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” I asked, trying to peel his talons off my forearm.

“Unfortunately, I am.” He led me at a ninety-degree angle to the guardian demons.

The burning along my scar flared higher. The B’Cartlins were the least of my problems.

In the blink of an eye, an elegant brass door with stained glass panels to either side loomed before us. It just showed up to block our way. No dark spot in the distance that grew larger as we approached. One minute nothing but white stretching on forever, misting to more white to hide corners and angles where floor or ceiling met wall. The next heartbeat the door became a solid barrier.

Or a chance at salvation.

A blob of mottled bile green and sulfurous yellow flesh pooled across the entrance, sort of growing out of the white on white.

“You know there’s a reason Donovan told you that few beings who faced the Powers That Be have survived the encounter, and never a human,” Scrap grumbled, eyeing the blob between the door and us.

“I can’t trust anything the former gargoyle says. He betrayed his calling and his creation. For that he doesn’t deserve to raise his daughter Lilly. He lies as easily as he breathes.”

“He didn’t lie about this.”

“Then we’ll just have to make sure we get what we want before they execute us.”

“Today is a good day to die.”

“As good as any,” I replied, not sure I believed my own lies.

The blob stirred, raised a bulbous head with two intelligent eyes and a parrot beak. At least eight legs stretched outward, flicking their tips.

I recoiled before it could strangle me. Another eight or more legs kept it anchored to the suddenly shifting ground.

Or were those my knees shaking hard enough to upset my balance?

“Mind if we pay a visit?” I asked.

The beak snapped once, hard enough to break my body in two if it chose.

I accepted that as a yes, and stepped around the beast—I didn’t want to chance it changing its mind and grabbing me with one or more of those tentacles. With one deep breath for false courage I grabbed the lion’s head door knocker and let it drop. I wished I had some scotch to help with the courage thing. It didn’t have to be single malt. A cheap blend would do better; I could drink more of it faster.

A loud bong resounded around the chat room, bouncing off walls that shouldn’t exist, compounding with each repeat of sound. Tsunamis of noise built and echoed. The bong grew louder yet, more insistent.

I had to grab my ears. Then I collapsed to my knees and shrank within myself.

Still, the knocker flapped and boomed and let the entire Universe know that someone had the audacity to approach the Powers That Be without an invitation.

That’s me, Tess Noncoiré, Warrior of the Celestial Blade, who bounds in where no one else dares, and bullys my way through.