Page 18 of Demons Dig Donuts

“King?”

“Yes, Indy?”

“You are such complete ass at telling the future.”

As predicted, the monsters took Indy.

And yes, there was a lot of blood.

Namely from Indy kicking the big scaled monster in the face repeatedly and doing his absolute best to claw out his eyes.

Maybe not gallons, but he’d tried his best.

Gammy was too weak to cast anything potent, and she had to settle for giving all the monsters itchy skin.

King sang, which was probably the most effective weapon they had right now.

Indy was ready to pop some of his nails, but a humanoid monster with long floppy ears like a rabbit ordered the others to put gloves on him.

This would have been a perfect time for Dill to make an appearance and do some more of that protective rescue stuff he seemed so fond of, but there was no sign of him. Indy had no idea how to summon Dill, so all he could do was wait.

He tried to call Mr. Kalt—he still had Indy’s soul and such contracts allowed for the equivalent of sending a mental text message—but there was no answer. Even though he had no such contract with Mr. Heiss, Indy tried to call him too, and again there was nothing.

Great.

So, there he was, tied to a chair with red-and-green Christmas mittens duct-taped to his hands in a small dank room with metal racks, dusty brooms, and a single damp cardboard box full of bleach.

A closet.

They’d stuck him in a damn closet.

Floppy Ears had taken King, but he had to be close because Indy could still hear him singing off in the distance.

For an extra fuck you, ol’ Floppy had put a circle of blue salt around Indy.

The exact kind to keep ghosts away.

As soon as the door shut, Indy asked, “Gammy? Still here?”

“Yes,” she said, just a whisper in his ear. “I’m here.” She materialized, but she was even more transparent than before. “Well, this sucks a big one, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, you can say that again,” Indy grumbled.

“It would seem that your little skull friend isn’t exactly the best prognosticator.”

“Huh?”

“He’s crappy at predicting the future.”

“Yeah, that.” Indy studied Gammy’s thin apparition. “Hey, are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Oh, I’m fine, sweetie cakes.” Gammy shrugged. “My spiritual connection to the physical realm is being weakened without my anchor objects a tiny bit—”

“What? Are you about to Patrick Swayze out of here with the lights and shit?”

“No! Maybe. Hmm.”

“Gammy.”