Twain pushed his way to the front of the line. “If I could?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Not another. Border races must submit proof they’re free of blight. Brand new rule, comes from the top, nothing doing without a certificate.”

“Hey, can we go?” One of the demon pairs, next in line behind the beastfolk woman, held up a certificate.

The man cast it a glance. “C’mon through.”

The bear beastfolk grit her teeth. “You’re kidding.” She whirled on Twain. “And you, no cutting!”

“I can detect blight,” Twain offered.

Fixing him with a stare, the man hooked a single brow. “You’re a mage?”

Twain opened his hand, revealing a dazzling ball of moonlight.

The other contestants drew back. A few cast him glances. Mutters flew around him. “If he’s a mage, what’s he doing here?” “What a waste of talent.” “A drow? Fuck.” “Damn, wish I had magic…”

“No magic allowed in the Arena,” the man warned him.

Twain closed his hand, extinguishing the ball. “Right, but would you accept if I searched this woman and her companion…” he glanced around, then nodded at the smaller beastfolk beside her, whose species he couldn’t immediately make out. “…for blight?”

Unimpressed, the man sniffed. “Needs a certificate.”

“I can’t…” He paused.

“Thanks, but I don’t think he’s letting us through no matter what,” the smaller beastfolk woman sighed. She nudged her companion and walked away.

Twain watched them go. He glared at the man, then spun on his heel, braid snapping behind him.

At the back of the line, he jogged past Spar and grabbed the smaller beastfolk’s hand. “Wait.”

She glared at him. “What?”

“Hold still, both of you.”

The bear beastfolk hesitated. Taking advantage of the momentary pause, Twain muttered the spell under his breath. Closing his eyes, he reached out and tapped both beastfolk on the forehead.

“What the—”

“Mmm, so cool.”

“You’re both clean. Here.” He drew his handkerchief from his pocket and ran his hand over it. A copy of the certificate the demons presented earlier materialized where the handkerchief had been.

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“Is this…” the smaller beastfolk gasped.

“Careful. The illusion will disrupt if you let the fabric deform too much.” Carefully, he handed the handkerchief off to the beastfolk.

The bear beastfolk shook his hand. Though they stood about the same height, her paw enveloped his hand, and her grip clamped his to death. “Thank you, thank you so much.”

“Go quickly, the illusion won’t last forever.” Twain smiled and nodded at the table.

“Hey! Hey, mister, we found our certificate,” the smaller beastfolk called. They pushed into the crowd and vanished.

Spar nudged Twain. “So uh, what’s your plan for you? Got another kerchief?”

“Eh?” Twain asked, glancing up at him.

“Moon elves are a border race. You’ll need proof for yourself, too.”

Twain frowned. “Shit.”

“Right. Anything more productive than that…?”

He glanced over his shoulder. They were still last in line. No one had joined behind them. “Why don’t we go get one? We aren’t that broke…”

The demon ahead of him in line turned back and snickered. Three sharp horns topped his head, one thrusting from each temple, the third pushing through his bangs at the center of his hairline. Gold rings festooned his face and ears, and a heavy gold chain looped twice around his neck, making his bright red skin even flashier. “Good luck. It was a week’s wait for ours, getting tested, getting the test verified, running back and forth, yadda, yadda. See you next tournament.”

“Well… that’s not going to work,” Spar muttered.

Twain pulled his pack over his shoulder and knelt. He rustled through it. “I was hoping to save this for later, but I guess it’s now or never…”

Spar and the three-horned demon both craned their necks, curious. Spar noticed the demon watching and shot him a glare, which the demon ignored.

Twain came up with a tiny jar, half full of a fine mica-like powder. He winked at the demon and pocketed it.

The demon frowned. “You can’t kill the officials.”

“I think you’d better mind your own business, friend,” Twain replied.

Scowling, the demon turned back around. “I’ll report your ass, swear I will.”

His companion, a busty, muscular demoness in a very tight black bodysuit, grabbed his arm and shook her head. If not for her blue skin, she could have passed for a human, her two nubby horns barely long enough to push through fluffy navy hair.

Spar winked at her and raised his eyebrows. She frowned back and whipped away from him.

“Ouch, rejected.” Twain laughed.

“She’s just shy. Give her time, she’ll come around.”

The demon whirled. “Leave Mare alone.”

“Mare? It’s fated,” Twain said, amazed.

Angry, the red demon shoved Twain. “Shut your fucking mouth. I’ll report you right now.”

Twain staggered back into Spar. He pushed off Spar, straightened to his full height, and glared down at the demon. The demon’s horns reached his nose, and the demoness barely reached his chest. “Excuse me, sir.”

“Back the fuck off. Stop trying to steal my girl.”

“I don’t give a shit about your girl, quite frankly.”

“Keep your horny-ass friend off my fucking girl,” he snarled back.

“That sounds like a heaping pile of not my problem,” Twain said.

“Fuck you, crossdressing motherfucker. You trying to be a woman with that long-ass braid?” the demon growled.

Twain tried to bite back his laughter, but couldn’t. It burst out. He stumbled back and slapped Spar on the arm.

The demon glared from Twain to Spar and back again. “What?”

“Fucking hell,” he wheezed at last, barely able to speak. He shook his head. What a shot in the dark. How the hell did he hit the bullseye so quickly?

“My good friend here is a habitual crossdresser. It’s a long-time hobby of his,” Spar explained eloquently.

Twain glared at Spar. “Oh, excuse you? A hobby? Is that what we’re calling it?”

The demon backed away. “Don’t touch me, you freak.”

“What, are you going to get crossdressing cooties?” Twain rolled his eyes.

“Saemel, please,” Mare whispered.

Saemel snorted and dismissed them with a toss of his head.