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I shook my head, "Whoever you are, you're awful."

"I've been told."

"I don't even know your name."

"You don't need to."

"I feel like I do."

"No."

"Are you always this grumpy?"

"..."

"That wasn't a no."

"..."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"..."

I grinned. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

The silence that followed felt almost...offended. Then, muttered so quietly I almost missed it, "For one of us, perhaps."

By the time the first human had discovered fire, I'd already grown bored of it. I had a perfectly respectable existence. I hunted souls that had fled judgement. Started the occasional war. Inspired exactly seventeen kings to make catastrophically bad decisions. Tempted a bishop. Haunted a monastery.

I enjoyed long walks through lakes of fire. The screams of the damned were oddly soothing after a particularly difficult day. I played Infernal Poker every third Tuesday with Asmodeus, Belphegor, and a troll named Kevin who cheated so spectacularly we all admired the commitment.

Life was... good. Predictable. Orderly. Then, about a year ago, one perfectly ordinary Tuesday... something yanked me across dimensions, without so much as a warning, or even a summons. Most of all there was no explanation. One moment I was watching Asmodeus lose his temper over a rigged hand of cards.

The next... I landed face-first in a pumpkin patch. A pumpkin patch. I, Azaren, Terror of the Seventh Circle, Scourge of the Ashen Gates, had been defeated by decorative squash.

It only got worse from there.

Eventually, I'd pieced together enough overheard conversations to understand what had happened. Apparently some mortal named Karloff—or Karlson, Karl... something… honestly, I refused to remember—had brewed a cauldron full of enchanted punch for a celebration called Halloween.

Don't ask. Humans voluntarily dressed as monsters. For fun. Then they consumed the questionable concoction. Also for fun. And wondered why they turned into monsters.

Naturally, every sensible person considered this a tragedy. Humans, however, held an annual festival. They called it Frankenfest. They baked pies. Awarded prizes. Children painted pumpkins. Someone organized a parade. A parade!

To commemorate the day their entire species collectively proved natural selection had stopped paying attention. As for Karloff...

I intended to have words with the man. Several thousand words. Some of them on fire. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to know where he'd gone. Even more unfortunately... neither did Hell. If I'd been able to reach Asmodeus, I'd have requested a very special corner of the Pit.

One with endless paperwork. Paper cuts. And motivational seminars. But the bond had severed every connection to the Infernal Realm. No messages. No summons. No infernal mail. Nothing.

For all I knew, Hell assumed I'd finally retired. Belphegor was probably enjoying my office. The miserable bastard.

While I was stranded here. With Poppy Hale.

Human.

Nurse.

Professional do-gooder.