“I have one.”

It would be magnificent if not for the scorched fur, the edges of stitched hide crisped black by demon fire, the faint stink of blood that clings coppery to the interior.

His arms are still folded, the carve of his frown preoccupied — with the logistics, perhaps. Thot pauses in her grooming to tilt her chin up after the attention her brow is getting.

“Would it surprise you terribly to hear that my name is not actually Richard Dickerson?”