Page 72 of Demons Dig Donuts

Well, part of it.

“This isn’t everything—” Indy protested.

Mr. Heiss growled. “Get dressed.”

“I will absolutely tell Gammy you’re being mean.”

“Get. Dressed. Now.”

“God, you’re grumpy.” Indy pawed through his clothing. “Do you need some coffee? More donuts? Maybe you do need some fellatio—”

Mr. Heiss snarled impatiently, grabbed Indy’s arm, and the room vanished.

Indy should have seen that coming.

When he was able to focus on his surroundings again, he stood in the parking lot of a giant strip mall. There was a nail salon, a veterinarian’s office, a Mexican restaurant, and a barber shop flanking a Chuck E. Cheese. Indy recognized the area as being outside of the Somerstown city limits and a fair distance from downtown.

The Sonic pajamas were gone at least, but they had been replaced by a pair of plain blue jeans, an oversized black-and-purple ombre turtleneck sweater, and his purple combat boots. Indy was certain he didn’t have a drop of makeup on, and a quick investigation of his pockets revealed nothing but two pennies and a matchbook.

Indy checked his nails and was pleasantly surprised to find that they’d been redone. It was a fresh set of black pointed tips with purple acrylic bows to match his sweater.

Okay, fine.

Cute.

He still had Dill’s ring on, of course, but he would have also liked some mascara or at least a damn coverup stick. It was a good thing it was so early in the morning. The parking lot was deserted except for Mr. Heiss’s limo, so there was really no one else around to see how horrible Indy looked right now.

Other than Mr. Heiss.

Who still had a death grip on Indy’s arm.

Indy made a face, gesturing at his extremely modest outfit with his coffee. “What? Couldn’t find coveralls for me?”

“Shut up.” Mr. Heiss stared off to the side, his head turned as if listening to something.

The parking lot went poof, and now they were behind the strip mall, next to a bunch of dumpsters, old pallets, and the gutted shell of an old arcade game beside a door that presumably led into the Chuck E. Cheese. Leaning against the arcade game was Azazel in his human form, smoking a clove cigarette.

He wasn’t alone, but it wasn’t Tanze or Underwood he was with.

Oh no.

It was Luke.

A changeling.

As a mortal man pushing somewhere around fifty, he was gorgeous. White, tan, shaved head, perpetual salt-and-pepper five-o’clock shadow, intense facial features, and eerily bright lime green eyes. He could have been in some Vogue spread selling fancy designer clothes, but that was the issue.

At one time, he probably was.

At least, whoever the original owner of his face had been.

Changelings were supernatural beings who hailed from the eternally fucked-up land of Faerie. The myths around their creation and function varied, but one characteristic remained the same—their ability to assume the form of any creature they desired. There were limitations—again, the details of which weren’t always clear or consistent—but Indy had always heard they had to consume whatever they wanted to turn into.

As in, if they wanted to be Brad Pitt, they would need to eat Brad Pitt.

Yummy.

Not.