Summer in Orcus

by T. Kingfisher

“Do you think angels really have claws?” she asked the weasel, slowing down a bit. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” said the weasel. “I have claws, and I eat eggs and mice and rabbits. Sins are probably a lot tougher than eggs or mice.” “What about rabbits?” asked Summer. “Don’t mess with rabbits.”

They’re monotremes, they sweat milk through bare patches on their belly, so it’s not so much milking as wringing the platypus out like a towel.

“Oh, well, albatrosses.” Reginald flipped his wing. “Prophets and poets, the lot of them. Not bad-hearted, but you ask one the time of day and he tells you time is an illusion, and how is that getting anything done?”