Demon Lord 6: Garnet Tongue Goddess by Morgan Blayde

“That will probably work.”
    “How are you still alive?” Holy muttered.
    I slanted her a killing stare.  “You said something?”
    “No.  Nothing at all.”
    Moving toward the stairs, I shuddered at the thought of a bunch of rug-rats with my DNA running amok in the world.  It would be the end of civilization as we know it.  The idea made a zombie apocalypse sound like a really good idea.
    We went to the floor with the monitor room.  I figured Teresa kept her crew handy to that location, separate from the stars on the first floor. 
    Passing the monitor room, my heightened dragon-half hearing easily picked up Teresa’s voice—more of a delighted cackle at first.  “This is pure gold.  This is going to be our best season yet.” 
    I paused outside the door to gather intel. 
    A male voice said, “No one’s going to believe some of this stuff isn’t CGI.  Damn, even I don’t believe we captured this without a blue screen.”
    Teresa cackled again.  “As long as the ratings are good, who cares?”   
    I could smell old traces of Christie, but nothing fresh, telling me she was off duty.  I moved on until I smelled her scent strongly through a side door on the left.
    “Here we are.”  I put my hand on the knob.
    “You’re not going to knock?  Just barge in?” Holy asked, frost in her voice.
    “I’m being considerate.  She could be asleep.”
    “Then the door will be locked.” 
    I tried it.  The door was locked.  I used a little extra-human strength.  The trim of the door gave way before the lock itself shattered.  I raised my voice in mock surprise.  “Oh, look!  The door seems to be broken.  Good thing we’re here to keep her safe.”
    “Wild coincidence,” Holy deadpanned.  “Guarding you is turning into a real education.”
    “That’s because only my life matters.  Ask any social justice warrior.”
    I went in and made room for Holy to follow.  The air smelled of dust bunnies, burnt metal from a soldering gun, and Christie of course.  The space was windowless, large, with one corner hidden by four-sectional rice-paper screens.  I assumed a bed was in there.  I heard the voice of a TV and saw its light through the screens.  Christie was the type who enjoyed watching TV in bed.
    Another corner had a rickety dresser that looked like it came from a thrift store.  Above it hung a four-foot Chinese paper lantern, a frosty orange color.  It cast Halloween highlights across the walls and the work-tables occupying the center of the space.  Three metal, backless stools were there in case of company.  The work-tables were loaded down with tools, electronic components, and a coffee maker.  I also saw a stack of steamer trunks.  Something told me those contained her cosplay props.
    Just outside the screens, against the wall, a small refrigerator hummed quietly.  It was the mini kind of fridge used at many colleges.  The power cord plugged into an orange extension cord that poked through a hole drilled in the baseboard of a wall.   Holy peered about with the same curiosity I displayed, taking a few more steps in than I had.  This let me close the door behind her. 
    The floor wasn’t exactly level.  This caused the door to swing open a little now that the frame was broken.  I fixed that by grabbing one of Christie’s screwdrivers and wedging it under the door so it stayed where I wanted it, ensuring privacy.
    Holy crept on cat-feet across the floor, somehow avoiding creaky boards.  She stuck her head through a gap in the screens, and pulled it back out.  Facing me, she mouthed the words, “She’s asleep.”
    I walked over.  The floor groaned with my movements.  I brushed Holy out of my way.
    She whispered. “Why is she sleeping in a Power Ranger costume?”
    “What makes you think she’s not a real Power Ranger?  You’re a real demon, as unlikely as that seems.”
    Holy used her normal voice.  “Not everything on TV is real.”
    Christie spoke in her