Zac went flying backward, yelped, and was instantly caught in the King's telekinetic grip, choking as he was pulled through the air.
"Now," Belial hissed, his horizontal pupils dilated with absolute malice, "let's see how your tight, virgin-"
"Ahem."
Marchosias coughed loudly, dropping back down to one knee. "My King," he said quickly, his voice straining. "The Avatar will not be a good spy if he... if he needs diapers."
Belial froze. He looked from the jagged, blooming metal torture device, to Zac's squirming, leopard-print rear, and then down to the kneeling Wolf Captain.
With a yell of pure, unadulterated frustration, Belial broke his magical hold. He telekinetically tossed Zac directly at the wolf.
Marchosias caught the human with a grunt, his bad leg buckling slightly under the sudden weight, but he held on tight.
"You Broken Antler fools are so... so..." Belial stammered, pacing furiously and waving his hands in the air, searching for the right word to encompass his absolute disdain.
"Masculine," Skarg grunted from the floor.
"Beautiful," Nock sighed, still clutching his wilted rose.
"Evil," Andras drawled, inspecting his talons.
"Organized?" Bune's Right Head offered hopefully.
"Buff," Halphas squawked, flexing his pudgy bicep.
Belial stopped pacing. He clenched his fists so hard his leather gloves creaked, and took a long, slow, deep breath, his chest expanding as he fought the urge to spontaneously combust the entire room.
"Thankful that such an intelligent and well-reasoned King is in charge of our unit," Marchosias said smoothly, slowly standing up straight while keeping Zac securely cradled in his arms.
Belial sputtered in rage. The goat King opened his mouth to unleash a tirade of infernal damnation, but words seemed to fail him. He settled for a furious, inarticulate bleat, turning on his cloven hooves and storming out of the war room without another word, his blood-red suit shimmering with barely contained wrath.
Marchosias turned around to face the others, still holding Zac securely against his chest. "That went quite well, I think."
Bune shook both of his heads, gesturing helplessly at the wreckage. "The table is broken, and he left the Pear of Anguish right in the middle of the room!"
"Pears kind of suck," Zac said, leaning his head against March's broad shoulder. "Apples are better. And he forgot that spiky thing."
Andras sighed, a long, weary exhalation of smoke. "You're so stupid," he muttered, turning to take his seat at the far end of the ruined table.
Skarg puffed out his chest, his fiery tail lashing behind him. "Pears are such a fuckable shape," the wendigo declared proudly before stomping back to his own chair.
Halphas looked around the room, his pigeon-beak clicking in annoyance. "He just took the gavel! That was mine! What the shit?" He grumbled, waddling back to his seat and popping a fresh protein shake into existence.
Nock approached the terrifying, jagged metal torture device with a critical eye. "This might make a great hat rack," he mused. He gently placed his fedora on one of the wicked iron spikes, then effortlessly hoisted the heavy device and carried it with him to his seat.
"Stop that!" Bune yelled, rushing after the lion. "The Pear of Anguish stains terribly!"
Zac looked up at Marchosias, his eyes wide and shining. "You really gave up a big promotion just for me."
Marchosias looked down into Zac's eyes. A soft, incredibly rare smile touched the scarred corners of the wolf's muzzle. "I don't think you would have enjoyed Belial's attention."
Zac batted his eyelashes, leaning into the warmth of the Captain's fur. "So are you going to torture this virgin in his stead?"
Marchosias's smile vanished, replaced by a firm frown. "No."
"Oh come on, March," Zac whined, nuzzling closer. "Not even in my dreams?"
Marchosias's tail gave an involuntary, rhythmic wag against his leg. "No."
Zac's grin widened, wicked and entirely unrepentant. "If you wanna turn into Wolf Mommy again, I'll suckle your milk."
Marchosias immediately dropped Zac. The human hit the stone floor with a yelp, and the Wolf Captain slowly, stiffly, walked to his seat at the head of the table without looking back.
Zac smiled, brushing off his leopard-print onesie, and looked around the room. It sounded like the demons were going to be stuck in their real, lore-accurate forms for the foreseeable future after being hit by the simulacrum's gavel. Maybe March didn't change because he was micro-dosing holy energy this whole time, Zac mused, remembering the burning angelic wings.
He took in the sight of the warband.
There was Skarg, or Furfur, as he was truly known, no longer a hulking beast of ice, but a slender, muscular deer-man with soft brown fur, elegant antlers, and a tail made of dancing, crackling fire.
There was Sir Nock, or Sabnock, stripped of his golden illusions, revealing the rotting, zombie-like lion beneath. His fur was patchy and grey, his body covered in battle scars that peeked though his elegant smoking jacket, and yet, somehow, he still managed to look arrogant and commanding as he adjusted his fedora on the anal-torture device.
There was Andras, the owl-man, leaning back in his chair and puffing on a cigarillo, pretending very, very hard that he wasn't secretly relieved that the rest of them hadn't died on the ridge.
There was Bune, the two-headed (sometimes three-headed) dragon butler, frantically fussing over everyone, trying to wipe imaginary stains off the broken table and scolding Nock for his new hat rack.
There was Halphas, the Earl of Violence, a plump, man-sized pigeon in a big sweatshirt, aggressively chugging a protein shake while simultaneously clutching a loaf of sliced bread in his other feathered hand.
And finally, there was Marchosias at the head of the table, leaning heavily on his cane. He looked incredibly tired, grumbling under his breath, utterly fed up with the chaotic, dysfunctional family of monsters he commanded.
Zac hugged himself, a warm, giddy thrill running from his leopard-print slippers to his faux-cat ears.
Why are the demons so… hot?