Who's a good boy?

It was Smith’s first cup of coffee in his new house.

It wasn’t his first house. He had a home once. A family. A jealous, angry stepmother ruined that. You’d think a half-god who’d lived nearly four thousand years would have owned several homes, saved ancient trinkets, invested wisely, maybe even been a billionaire.

But that wasn’t Smith.

He lived on the land. He believed in only taking what you could carry—even though the man could literally carry a mountain. He didn’t want this house. He liked his life the way it was.

But somehow, he’d become a surrogate father to a sixteen-year-old sorceress. And don’t ever call her a witch—she hated that word. She preferred sorceress. She was quirky and insisted her name was colder spelled Stacyeee. Three e’s.

And as if that weren’t enough, Smith now lived with a talking cat, a talking goldfish, and a shapeshifting dragon who spent most of her time disguised as a Yorkie.

This was his life now.

Smith poured his coffee—eight spoons of sugar, ten spoons of powdered creamer. Smith liked things hot and sweet.

He stepped out onto the porch.

A ferocious roar came from across the street.

Standing in the yard was the biggest dog Smith had seen since his little excursion to Hell. Bruno. Part Irish wolfhound, part something else. Massive. Territorial. One hundred percent asshole.

Smith liked that.

The bark said everything: I’m the boss. And when I get the chance, I’m going to bite your dick off.

Smith looked down at Mister Whiskers, the talking cat.

“That so?” Smith said.

Mister Whiskers squinted at the dog. “He doesn’t like you. Then again… who does?”

The back-and-forth went on for days.

Smith never taunted Bruno. What Smith did was worse.

He ignored him.

And when he did acknowledge him, he kept it cheerful.

“Who’s a good boy?” Smith called. “You’re the good boy.”

Bruno lost his mind.

Mister Whiskers sighed. “He really, really hates that.”

Smith took a slow sip of coffee, smirked, then looked down and patted Mister Whiskers on the head.

“Who’s my good boy?”

Smith walked back inside.

Mister Whiskers watched him go and muttered, “I really do hope he bites your dick off.”

Stacyeee became friends with Maggie, the girl next door. They were roughly the same age.

Stacyeee even shared her secret with Maggie.

They complemented each other perfectly—Stacyeee’s love of magic, Maggie’s love of science.

Maggie had two younger brothers, Lucas and Evan. Ten-year-old twins better known as the Terror Twins.

One night, Maggie’s parents had to go away. They asked if Stacyeee could sleep over and help with the twins.

Stacyeee bubbled with enthusiasm.

It was Smith’s first night of freedom since becoming the adopted dad.

Stacyeee took Mister Whiskers with her. He himself was excited to go because he had a thing for Maggie’s cat, Miss Agatha.

Matilda had a friend too.

Even though Bruno didn’t like her, there was another dog—Peanut, a jack-russell-chihuahua—who adored her. He knew her secret and kept insisting they could make it work.

Barnabas the goldfish didn’t like any of them. He requested to be placed on the highest shelf.

Smith decided to call up his buddy Bob, the werewolf, and have a guy’s night out.

Meanwhile, Stacyeee and Maggie were having a great time discussing magic and science, casting harmless little spells on the Terror Twins.

Mister Whiskers did his best Pepé Le Pew impression. Miss Agatha pretended she didn’t love it.

Matilda and Peanut chased each other around the living room.

Then everything changed.

Maggie’s father was a renowned archaeologist. Unknown to all of them, an ancient relic he’d uncovered on a dig in Syria sat locked inside a hidden safe in his library.

Very bad people noticed.

They were known as the Trio.

Sebastian the vampire.

Miranda the witch.

Malachi the demon.

They were hired muscle for the Sisterhood of Lilith—seven women, all descendants of Lilith, the first woman before Eve.

The relic was the key to resurrecting her.

Bruno sensed them first.

The others were too distracted to notice.

Bruno barked.

Mister Whiskers dropped the act. “Stacyeee! Trouble’s coming—and it’s not good!”

“What is it?” Stacyeee asked.

“Vampires. Witches. Demons,” Miss Agatha said. “Pick one.”

Mister Whiskers blinked. “You can talk?”

“Do you think you’re the only familiar?”

Stacyeee stood. “This isn’t my first rodeo.”

The front door exploded inward.

“You cannot enter,” Stacyeee said.

Sebastian smirked. “That shit only works on amateurs.”

From the shelf, Barnabas shouted, “Protection spell—now!”

Stacyeee cast it.

Miranda sneered. “Little girl, I am five hundred years old.”

Agatha yelled, “The library! They want what’s in the library!”

A battle broke out. They tried to hold their own. Before Matilda had a chance to shapeshift, the witch flicked her wrist and sneered, “Not tonight, little doggie.” Barnabas shouted instructions from the shelf until Miranda silenced him with a sharp gesture. “That’s enough out of you, you stuffy old fish.” Peanut charged forward, barking once. Sebastian looked down at him and smirked. “And what exactly are you going to do?” Peanut turned and ran, hiding.

Bruno fought hard. Then he realized this couldn’t be won.

Only one could stop it.

Bruno ran.

Not away.

To get Smith.

Stacyeee tried to call Smith. The witch blocked it.

Bruno heard her trying. He knew he was the only one.

Bruno found Smith at a strip club.

Music thumped. Neon lights flickered.

Smith looked down at Bruno. “I don’t speak dog.”

Bob took a sip of his drink. “I do.”

Smith sighed. “What’s he saying?”

Bob’s expression changed. “The kids are in danger.”

Smith stood. “Checks, please.”

They were in Bob’s beat-up ’65 Chevy seconds later.

Bruno barked again.

Bob nodded. “Library. Witch. Vampire. Demon.”

Smith swore. “The Trio.”

They arrived not a minute too soon.

Bob transformed and charged. “I got this!”

“Bob, no—”

Bob flew through a window.

He stood up, brushed off glass. “That witch is packing serious heat.”

Smith grimaced. “Magic?”

“Yeah.”

Smith looked up. “Then we call the specialist.”

“Prudence,” Smith said. “I know you can hear me. I’ve got a witch problem.”

A distant, disembodied voice replied, “Dinner and a movie.”

Smith closed his eyes. “Fine. Dinner and a movie. But nothing else.”

Purple smoke rolled in.

Prudence appeared. “You’re no fun, big boy.”

Another voice rang out. “Well hello, sis.”

Miranda stepped onto the porch.

She cast a spell.

Prudence calmly opened an umbrella. The magic rebounded.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Prudence said. “A witch is no match for a reaper.”

Miranda vanished.

“There,” Prudence said. “Your witch problem is solved.”

She smiled at Smith. “Friday night.”

She disappeared.

Smith looked at Bob. “Ready?”

Bob cracked his neck. “Dibs on the vampire. Hate vampires.”

Bruno barked.

Smith asked, “What’s he saying now?”

Bob listened. “He says he no longer wants to bite your dick off. He wants the demon’s. He owes him one.”

Smith smiled. “Fair enough.”

The rest didn’t take long.

And Bruno wasn’t joking.

After the smoke cleared, purple smoke returned.

Prudence looked at Maggie. “Your father found something he should never have found.”

A voice echoed, “Give us what is ours.”

The Sisterhood of Lilith stood before them.

Their leader stepped forward. “You are no match for us, Reaper.”

Prudence laughed softly. “You’re right. None of us are.”

The air grew heavy.

“But I know who is,” Prudence said. “And you know him too.”

Fear crossed their faces.

“Shall I say his name?” Prudence asked.

“This isn’t over,” the leader hissed.

“It never is,” Prudence replied. “But don’t come back here. I’m taking the relic. You’ll never find it. Begone—before I say his name.”

They vanished.

The Terror Twins looked up at Smith.

“Who is he?”

Smith chuckled. “You’re family now. You’ll meet him one day.”

These days, Bruno and Smith are best friends.

Every morning, Bruno meets Smith on the porch. Smith pats his head and calls him a good boy.

Maggie is now Stacyeee’s apprentice.

Matilda is having her first litter. Peanut is the father. Don’t ask how.

And the Terror Twins call Bob Uncle Wolfey.

Life goes on.