“Dey’s been in dat gad danged ting for tree days,” the demon complained. “And deys keep makin’ a ruckus! I ain’t get any sleep! I reckon I should jus’ shoot dem basterds, but de neighbors said, don’t do dat, Tolly, dat’s wrekin’ dem property values! What you gon’ do is, you gon’ call dat dere Mr. Magician. So, here we is.”
Tolly was a hunched, gnarled, ancient creature. If Damian had to guess, the thing had been around since before the Council of Elders was first formed. It had greenish gray skin, and, surprisingly, still had horns, but they had withered into two small curls that curved up his head, masked by thin, gray hair. He plucked his black suspenders. His bushy gray eyebrows, hanging over his eyes, furrowed, as he waited on Damian to respond. The creature’s features were all sunken
