Viv and Rinny slumped against the oven door, gasping for breath, Rinny somewhat over-dramatically. Viv had long, thin cuts down her arm, three lines like fingernail tracks. Rinny's bangs were scorched to nothing. From inside the stove, something shrieked and gibbered in languages long dead. From the tone, they were curses of the most dire sort.
"Where did you get that cookbook again?" asked Rinny.
Viv ignored her. She hauled herself upright and limped to the counter, where the stained tome rested. "Now that we've basted the imp," she said, "we just have to bake the Hell out of it."
The Paradox Of Tarleton’s Pebble
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