“Right, well, before we do that, it’s looting time.”

Cheshire giggles at my declaration and Bashe rolls his eyes at me. I rise to my feet and immediately stumble as a wave of nausea washes over me, but Cheshire is still holding my hand and steadies me. I grimace at the moment of weakness and extract my hand from hers.

I survey the nightclub: a dead hunter, three dead figments, and a small wooden object where I killed the hunter’s hound. That last one intrigues me, but I suspect the majority of my loot is going to come from the corpse formerly known as Shane.

I saunter over and pick at his body. I pull the dagger from his mutilated throat with a wet squelch and wipe it off on his gambeson, which is looking very appealing to my safety-seeking sensibilities. An extra bit of protection between me and a stray crossbow bolt sounds just delightful.

I take the no-longer-burning axe in both hands and give it a few swings, but my injured arm twangs at me and I clearly do not have the upper body strength to be any good with this thing. I toss the axe aside and rifle through the dead man’s pockets.

Sadly, his pockets are pretty bare. In a belt pouch I find an empty vial with a weird stopper, but that’s it. I grumble at Cheshire and Bashe, “Do you guys not have phones?”

Cheshire snickers at me and winks, which I take to mean she got the reference, while Bashe frowns and answers, “Not in the Labyrinth, no. How do you know what a phone is if you’re from a world without magic?”

“What? Literally what the fuck? Why would magic be necessary for phones???” What is this setting what is this setting what is this setting??? “Okay, just so we’re on the same page: what is your idea of a phone? Because I’m thinking of a little handheld device that you can use to call people or send them messages across vast distances, or interact as part of a global communications network.”

“Right,” Bashe nods. “A machine that fits in your pocket that you can use to access the digital realm, more formally known as Mimisk’s throne world.”

I blink. “Sorry, did you just say that your phones work by literally accessing another layer of reality?”

“Uh, yeah? How else would they work?” Bashe is looking increasingly befuddled and how fucking dare he when he’s the one spouting nonsense.

“Okay, you know what? Just gonna shove that one aside and deal with it later.” I steal Shane’s belt and sheathe the knife in it, then loop it around my waist and get it comfortable.

I scan the figment bodies and find one of them wearing an outfit that looks acceptable and likely to fit. I ditch my shirt-turned-bandage but keep the skirt, then strip the corpse and throw on a loose top (shoulderless and flowy) and some torn leggings. It’s not a perfect look by any stretch, but it feels a little better than what I was wearing before and certainly better than walking around shirtless.

Next on the looting agenda: the item I presume to be the dead hound’s anchor. Up close I can see that it’s a wooden carving meant to resemble a dog, with a spiked collar around its neck and a hunting horn held in its mouth. Hmm. I glance over at Cheshire, who’s joined me at my side, and ask, “So, am I right in assuming this thing is an anchor and that dog was a homunculus?”

She claps her hands and smiles. “Look at you, clever girl that you are. That creature was called a goblin dog, and they are indeed classic homunculi of the Wild Hunt, with this carving the traditional anchor.”

I give Cheshire a shrewd look. “You mentioned before that it’s better to manifest you with a purpose-built anchor. This wasn’t made for you, but it does seem to click with your shapeshifting trick. Think it’ll work, wolfie?”

“Only one way to find out,” she grins.

I pick up the carving and hold it out in front of me. My last manifestation was rushed, so I’m going to make up for it this time with a bit of extra flair. “I am Maven Alice, the newborn demon of Blood, Gluttony, and Fear. By my will, by my desire, and by the Throne of Shadow itself, I command: let this carving become the anchor that shall give form to my geist that she might serve me well. Let the stuff of dreams become her body, and let her shape that body to our whims. Rise, Cheshire, O geist of mine, and fulfill my every wicked design.”

The image I bring to mind is not Cheshire’s catgirl form but that moment of crystallized glory when I beheld her as a wolf. The anchor, matching, the carving of a hunting hound. The words, given care and detail to stand out from the base incantation. My will, pulsing out into the world, reaching for the fabric of Pandaemonium–of the Labyrinth–and commanding it to obey.

The carving vanishes from my hand in swirling shadow, and Cheshire vanishes too, reappearing as a great white wolf when the smoke clears. I reach out to trace my fingers over the wolf’s fur and she nuzzles my hand, mismatched eyes gleaming. It’s a hard thing to measure, but something about her feels different this time, a sense of presence and coiled tension like a predator about to pounce. I find it exciting.

I return to the dead man and consider stealing his gambeson vest.

Pros: armor is armor, armor means less getting stabbed, and it’s probably not that heavy.

Cons: still probably a bit heavy, and not my colors.

Eh, okay those are pretty shit cons. Gambeson it is. It takes me an annoying amount of time to get the vest off the corpse and onto me, my arm twinging all the while, but eventually it’s done and I feel slightly more protected. The thing is damn heavy on my shoulders though. Well, realistically I know that it’s probably not that heavy for most people, but I am a weak frail baby and not suited for physical exertion of any kind.

Still, I’ll survive. I look to Bashe. “Okay, I’m ready. Lead the way.”

I follow Bashe out of the club and into the night air, wolf!Cheshire padding at my side. The streets are vacant now, all the figments away inside their homes or inside more locations like the one we just left. It’s eerie to see a city looking so empty, especially since there aren’t any cars here.

Bashe takes a second to orient himself and then takes off at a brisk pace, and I trail behind with Cheshire. I give the wolfie some skritches behind the ears and ask, “So, where are we going, exactly? You mentioned a shrine, and I want details.”

The wolf leans into my attentions and responds, “It’s the shrine to the city spirit, the local eidolon. Every city has one. They’re tied into the city in ways deeper than anything else, and maintaining a symbiotic relationship with one is crucial to the health of the city. Also our best bet to find a good healer, because most priests have a bit of healing ability.”

From ahead, Bashe calls back, “If the Myriad are still anything like they were when I left, it’ll be one of the kindred that fixes you up. They’ve got a serpentkin with sacrificial transfusion, last I was there.”

I glance at Cheshire. “Mind giving me some exposition on healing? Fucker over there only gave me the barest hints of detail when I asked last time.”

The wolf grins, which is creepy, and says, “Sure. There are four kinds of healing magic in Pandaemonium, which we can break into the two categories of classical healing and transfusion. Within classical healing we have preservative healing, which acts fast but can only slow the progression of injuries, not truly mend them; and restorative healing, which can mend wounds but acts slow and requires an understanding of what’s broken and how to fix it to get much done. The spell keeping you in working order, [Indulgent Vitality], has excellent preservative effects but weak restorative effects, owing to the way it doesn’t ask you to have any medical knowledge before casting it.”

Hmm. Interesting limitation. “So the person we’re going to see, the healer, I’m guessing they’re not just a fantasy healer but also an actual doctor of some kind.”

“Likely, if they know any restorative healing, but if they just use sacrificial then that might not be the case. Transfusion is very different from classical healing: it manipulates life force directly rather than working through a physical medium. Sacrificial transfusion allows you to take your own life essence and pour it into someone else, healing them and harming you. It’s much quicker and more effective than classical restoration, but it can very easily be lethal to the caster, especially if you aren’t careful or underestimate the wound you’re trying to heal.”

Okay, I’m vaguely familiar with that trope space. A life for a life, that very old-school equivalent exchange approach to healing magic. “And the last one?”

Cheshire pauses for dramatic effect, and when she speaks again her voice is dripping with excitement. “We call that one parasitic transfusion, and I think you’ll quite like it. Instead of sacrificing your life essence for someone else, you steal the life essence out of a victim. It’s the quickest and most effective way to heal yourself, bar none.”

My mouth is watering, but it sounds a little too good to be true. “What’s the catch?”

Cheshire chuckles, then tells me, “Two catches, actually: the first is that using any kind of parasitic transfusion weakens your ability to take healing from other sources, to the eventual point of becoming immune to the others, even sacrificial; and the second catch is that using parasitic transfusion is addictive and makes you want to use it more.”

“I’m not sure those are big enough downsides to dissuade me,” I admit. “If I commit to that path I’ll be planning to rely on it anyways.”

“I thought you might say that. It’s something we can look into after we fix your arm and have a chance to examine your spells again.”

The rest of the walk goes in pleasant silence, the comfort of petting a big fluffy wolf making up for the continued pain in my arm. At a certain point in the walk, the city shifts: I take a step forward and the whole architecture of the city changes, becoming more ornate and weathered, still modern but like one of those very old cities that still shows its history despite modernization.

Interesting. “Is this like, a district thing?”

Bashe is the one to answer. “The city is divided into wards, so yes. Each one reflects a different part of another world.”

We reach the shrine itself soon after, the city opening up into a wide open space where all the buildings fall away before a vast temple-like structure of marble and basalt and statues, but the real crown is the massive tree growing out of the temple. The highest branches of the tree came into view as we shifted into this new ward, but up close the great tree is magnificent, its leaves a spectrum of colors from the crisp reds and yellows of fall to the fresh greens of spring.

I’m starting to feel exhausted again as we approach the shrine, my arm aching and my head muddled. I thought I was fine after waking up from my brief nap, but turns out that wasn’t really a nap and I’m still horribly injured and overexerted.

There are two guards waiting at the entrance to the shrine, and they look at us warily as we approach. They’re both jackal-headed like Anubis, and have deep brown skin from what I can see of their arms. They’ve got nice armor: the main body of it looks like mail and plate, with proper plate greaves and vambraces (plus a helmet), and it’s all been painted white. They’ve each got a spear-and-shield thing going, and they don’t point the spears at us as we approach–which seems nice of them–but they clearly have them at the ready.

The one on the left calls out, “What business do you have? The Carnival aren’t welcome in this ward, hunter.”

Huh? Oh, shit. I look down at the gambeson I stole from Shane and wince. Before I can say anything, though, Bashe is already stepping forward with wide arms and a friendly expression.

“Apologies, friend,” the incubus says. “I’m afraid my companion’s garb has given the wrong impression. We fought the Carnival, just a few hours ago, and she took that bit of armor from one of them since she was lacking. I’ll swear by the Weaver that we don’t work for Averrich, if that’s what convinces you.”

There’s a brief shiver in the world, and the guards look between each other before nodding. The one on the right says, “Understood. Then allow us to greet you more warmly, and ask in more pleasant terms why you’ve come to our hallowed hall.”

“My companion and I both took injuries fighting reavers, and we’ve come to request treatment.” He pauses, then adds, “And I’d like to speak with Esha, if I may. It’s been some time.”

They usher us inside, and the rest of it is a blur. There are people inside the shrine, lots of people, though Cheshire points out most of them as figments. We’re taken through hallways to a chamber where a serpent-man in a very modern doctor’s uniform asks questions that Cheshire fills in for me while I’m laid down on an examination table, and at Cheshire’s prompting I focus on the sensation of [Indulgent Vitality] and will it to fade.

The wound in my arm becomes visible again, blood seeping from it, bone showing, pain spiking, and right away the snake doctor starts casting spells and fetching tools. I’m offered painkillers and take them, and then he begins cleaning my wound with some liquid solution and what look like alcohol swabs.

A numbing agent is introduced to my arm, which combined with the painkillers does a lot, and then as soon as he can poke my arm and get no response he starts digging in and picking out bone shards, which I watch with fascinated horror. He mutters that it’s a miracle I’m not in worse condition after a blow like that, and I silently thank Cheshire for turning me into a demon.

He talks me through the process of what he’s doing, explaining how he’s using preservative magic to keep my blood inside my body, restorative magic to regrow bone (using the collected bone shards as raw material), and finally a sacrificial spell to infuse the whole area with life essence and knit it back together. That middle part takes the longest, though I don’t know quite how long, and when he’s finally ready to cast the final spell it takes only minutes for the flesh of my arm to regrow, skin flowing over it.

I’m made to drink lots of water, which I imagine is to help replenish lost blood, and then I’m taken to a bed while the snake doctor goes off to recover from using the spell (“sunlight and fresh mice,” I’m told).

Cheshire is at my side when I drift into exhausted sleep.