Jack sat down, Ronan being dragged away by Angus and incapable of looking at anything but his own feet. Razor had been repositioned to lean on the ale-stained table. Across from him sat Satan, toying with a pair of dice.

“The rules are simple,” he said. “We each take turns throwing both dice. On each turn, whoever’s add up to the highest number wins. In case of a tie, we will multiply the numbers, and if it is still a tie, roll again. The first to three wins.”

Nodding, Jack fixed him with a determined stare. “Easy enough. Ready to lose, Lucifer?”

“It’s Lou Cypher,” he replied, tossing the dice over. “Since you challenged, you may go first.”

He picked up the dice, shaking his hand to rattle them within. They were ornate things with numbers carved roughly, and appeared to be made of bone, though they felt smooth on his skin.

“If you dare lose me, I will explode.”

So that’s a feature, too?

He threw the dice. They seemed to hang in the air for an eternity, teasing him, before clattering down to the table. He baulked.

Snake eyes.

Jack’s eyes quivered, mouth twitching in anxiety. “Th-that was just a warm-up shot.”

“Are you sure you wish to throw games away?” said Satan, voice smooth and smug as he swept up the dice. Lazily, he flicked his wrist and dropped them. “Well, would you look at that?”

Swallowing, Jack eyed the cubes and bristled.

Double sixes.

With a deep breath, he steadied himself, pushing out the anger flooding him. “So, be straight here, how did you load those dice?”

‘Lou’ chuckled. “We are both using the same ones, my friend.”

“Right,” said Jack. He licked his teeth. The Devil was definitely cheating, but how? How could he figure it out?

“The loser chooses who throws first,” said Satan, sliding the dice over.

Jack snatched them up and blew on them. He’d been at enough craps tables to know when he was being swindled, and he wasn’t having any of it.

He threw, holding his breath.

Clunk, clunk.

Three and four. Not a bad result, but not great either. Almost definitely not enough to defeat whatever ‘heart of the dice’ bullshit the Lord of Hell had going on.

Satan wordlessly grabbed the dice, staring into Jack’s eyes as he dropped them to the table.

Jack shivered.

“How fortuitous,” said Satan.

His nose twitched as he eyed the pair of sixes.

“Nah,” he said. “The chance of double sixes is already one-in-thirty-six, to do it twice… what’s thirty-six squared?”

Razor sighed. “That’s wrong—every throw is its own separate probability. No wonder you lose all the time…”

You’d better hope I don’t.

“Win or lose, nothing will keep me from my true love.”

He cringed internally. That’s creepy as fuck.

“Why? My true love is bloodshed.”

Of course it is…

Satan just stared at him—an easy smirk playing across his craggy, grey, punchable face—and made no attempt to correct his fallacy. Confidence exuded from him like the blinding flash of lit magnesium. To him, he’d already won. Jack couldn’t blame him—it was already match point, and he still had no idea what the key was.

Wait.

Could that confidence be the key? He had no other ideas, so it couldn’t hurt to try. Either way, he’d lose his soul if he lost.

At least this would give him a chance.

***

With a horrendous grating, the HARDON materialised, doors flying open. Lizzie and Hannah fell out, gasping for air as Lydia and Dr. Wen stepped over them. Both’s faces fell.

Looking down, Hannah enjoyed her new-found freedom. She’d almost been crushed to death. Her ribs sprang back into place, relief invading her at the coolness of the metal beneath her palms.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Wait.

Why was the floor metal?

She looked up, a hole opening in her stomach when she noted her surroundings. Everything was metal. They’d landed in a wide storage room, full of boxes and wires and machinery that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Star Trek. Pathways ran through the stacks, giving the impression of a maze.

Dr. Wen struck off, searching out a computer terminal set into the wall. It was next to a door, so the three followed. Hannah clenched her jaw, her limbs suddenly heavy as she walked—though they were time travelling—and mystery was inevitable—they didn’t have time to waste solving it.

“This doesnae feel right,” said Lizzie, examining one of the futuristic machine parts. “Where are we?”

“When are we?” added Lydia, rubbernecking with lips pressed together.

“Ah, yes.” Dr. Wen ceased fiddling, turning to them with hands behind his back. A drop of sweat fell down his nose. “Well, it would appear we’re on a space station.”

Hannah narrowed her eyes. “In medieval Scotland?”

Chuckling nervously, Dr. Wen shook his head. “No, the twenty-fourth century, by the looks of things.”

Something hot and ragged took root in her gut, spreading into her chest and limbs. She growled. Then, she launched herself at the scientist, grabbing him by the lapels of his stupid tweed coat and shoving him against the wall.

“You were meant to take us to Jack!” she said.

He held up his hands. “That was the intention! I imagine we haven’t fully fixed the navigation yet…”

“Then take us back!”

“Wait a second,” said Lydia, easing Hannah away from Dr. Wen. “Since we have a time machine, it doesn’t really matter how long we take, and we have a unique opportunity here.”

“Says you!” She hugged herself. “I just want my friend back.”

Lizzie put a hand on her shoulder from behind. “We all dae. But maybe the future is a better place to figure oot this time travel thing, eh?”

Lydia nodded, and Hannah sighed.

“Fine,” she said. “Let’s try and find someone who knows what they’re doing.” She spared a glare for Dr. Wen. “Since this idiot clearly doesn’t.”

***

Leaning back, Jack scratched his beard. “You throw first.”

“You seem relaxed for a man about to lose everything,” said the Devil, picking up the dice and readying to throw. “You realise that this is the end?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jack waved it away, cheek resting on his left hand. His outward image was at odds with the tumult raging inside. “By the way, you’re never gonna get those Transformeow figures back.”

Satan’s mouth went agape as his wrist went limp. “What? How did you know that?”

Clunk.

It was Jack’s turn to smirk. “Three and a one. Too bad, mate.” He swept up the dice, quickly throwing them back down and checking the result.

Four and six.

“Didn’t you say this was the end?”

Lip curling, Satan snatched the dice back up. “Don’t get cocky, boy. You still lie on the precipice of defeat.” He made to drop them.

“So,” said Jack, “is it actually true you shagged a goat?”

“Oh, you insane genius. You’re Grubbs Grady-ing him!”

The Devil slapped the table. “Why does everybody ask that?!”

“So yes, then.”

“Absolutely not!” said Satan, snarling.

“Whatever.” Jack fake-yawned, exaggerating it to absurd degrees. A whole cow could have fit in his mouth. “Are you gonna throw, or not? Scared?”

“I’ll show you scared!” He snapped to his feet, launching the dice at Jack. They landed. Coming to a stop, they tipped to sides that could have been more favourable.

Five and three.

Luck seemed to be against him, but that didn’t change much. Business as usual, really. Gingerly, he fingered the dice, before dropping them on the table with a dead stare at Satan. The demon trembled, teeth gnashing.

Jack eyed his dice.

Four and four.

“A tie,” said Satan.

“Four times four is sixteen. Three times five is fifteen—I win again.”

To the side, Angus counted on his fingers. “Are you sure?”

Jack shook his head. “Just go and get a priest, you moron.”

“What for?”

“You’ll see when you get back.”

Staring at the table, the Devil slid the dice back toward himself. A sigh wracked Jack’s being, though the tension didn’t evacuate yet, his heart pounding. But he’d pulled it back. From the brink of defeat, he stood on the edge of victory. No more would they sweep his leg or call for him to be brought a body bag—

“Jack, that’s the wrong story.”

Oh, right.

“You are cheating,” murmured Satan.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who’s cheating,” said Jack.

The Devil looked up, his ashen face drained of its… greyness. He looked like Hannah had the time she’d walked in to find him dancing—drunk and naked—to the beeps of an error message on his laptop.

“This time,” said Satan, eyes set with determination, “victory will be mine. And for cheating me, I shall inflict upon your soul the greatest curse!” He raised his hand, clenched around the dice, his eyes wide and frantic.

“Isn’t self-awareness enough?” said Jack.

Satan shook the dice in his hand. “First, you will never be able to enter Heaven or Hell. When you die, your soul will be sentenced to wander the fields of… let’s say Ireland, with your only light being a lantern. And that lantern will be made of… let’s see…”

“A pumpkin?” suggested Jack.

“I was thinking a turnip, actually.” A wicked grin broke across the Devil’s face as he readied to throw. “And in this form, you shall be known as—”

“Jack O’Lantern?”

Satan’s jaw hit the table at the same time as the dice.

Jack grinned, the tension finally leaving him—though he still shook from the adrenaline.

Snake eyes.

“Guess that saying about the Devil’s luck ain’t so accurate, eh?”

Face scrunched, ‘Lou’ glowered at Jack. “How did you know?”

“I’m clairvoyant,” he said, figuring that was easier to believe than ‘I’m actually from the year twenty-twenty-two, and our most recent crises involve you, a giant cat, and a rogue magus who tried to start a pandemic. Not necessarily all at once’.

“Very well,” said Satan. “It is your turn—finish this.”

“With pleasure.” Jack threw the dice, eying them with disinterest. The first was one. His muscles seized a little, but he quickly glanced at the other and relaxed.

Five.

Razor whooped and cheered within. He’d won.

“As promised,” said Jack, “give Ronan his shit back.”

“Very well.” Sulking, Satan waved a hand, and a box full of gold and jewels appeared at his feet.

Jack gawked. “Seriously, no-one sees anything mystical about this?”

“All I see is a pair of idiots who won’t let me close,” said the barman, tone furious.

Suddenly, Angus burst through the door, red-faced and panting. A short bald man wearing black robes with a white collar followed him, eyes bleary and bloodshot. He surveyed the room.

“Got the priest,” said Angus, doubled over.

“And what debauchery have you summoned me for at this ungodly hour?” said the priest.

Grinning, Jack stood, gesturing to Satan—who cradled his head in his hands, sighing intermittently.

“Just in time,” he said. “Lou Cypher, why don’t you show us what you really are?”

‘Lou’ offered him a venomous glare, then turned to the others.

The priest raised the cross around his neck, colour draining from his face. “Mary, mother of God…”

Ronan screamed, scrambling back to the corner. Angus just stood stunned.

One howling mob with pitchforks and torches later, the Devil had been ejected from the village.