The car with the flashing blue lights pulled alongside Nurd. It was white, with writing on the side, and wasn’t even half as pretty as Nurd’s car. There were two men in uniform in the car, one of whom was waving at Nurd. Not wishing to seem impolite, even if he was a demon, Nurd waved back. The men in the other car looked quite annoyed at this. Nurd suspected that perhaps he had given them the wrong wave, but he didn’t know enough about the habits of this world to be sure of what might be the correct variety.

The white car pulled ahead of him, and then braked, forcing Nurd to slam his foot down hard on his own brake pedal. If his seat belt hadn’t been fastened this time, Nurd would probably have gone through the windshield. Instead the belt pulled him up short, winding him.

Now Nurd didn’t know a lot about driving, but he could tell that the men in the white car had just performed a distinctly dangerous maneuver, and he had half a mind to tell them what he thought of them and their little blue lights. Then the two men got out of the car and put hats on, and a little warning signal went off in Nurd’s brain. He knew Authority when he saw it. His lips moved as he tried to read the word on the back of the car.

PO-LICE.

One of the police tapped on Nurd’s window while the other walked round the car, holding a notebook and still looking annoyed. Nurd found the button that rolled the window down.

“Evening, sir,” said the man at the window, wrinkling his nose at the unpleasant odor emerging from the vicinity of Nurd. Nurd saw that the man had three little stripes on his shoulder. Nurd thought they looked very fetching.

“Hello,” said Nurd. “Are you a police?”

“I prefer policeman, sir,” came the reply. “That’s quite the outfit. Off to a costume party, are we?”

Nurd didn’t know what a costume party was, but the policeman’s tone of voice suggested that “yes” might be a good answer.

“Yes,” said Nurd. “A costume party.”

“Any idea how fast you were going back there, sir?”

Oh, Nurd knew the answer to this one. He could tell from the little red numbers on the dashboard.

“One hundred and twelve miles per hour,” he said proudly. “Very fast.”

“Oh yes, very fast, sir. Too fast, one might say.”

Nurd thought about this. In his current mood, it didn’t seem possible that one could go “too fast.” There was just “slow” and “very fast.”

“No,” said Nurd. “I don’t think so.”

One of the policeman’s eyebrows shot up like a startled crow.

“Can I see your license, please, sir?”

“License?”

“Piece of paper with a photograph of you on it without your Halloween mask, says you can drive a car, although in your case it might have a picture of a rocket ship on it as well.”

“I don’t have a license,” said Nurd. He frowned. He liked the sound of a piece of paper that said he could drive, although he couldn’t imagine to whom he might show it, policemen aside. Wormwood might have been impressed by it, but Wormwood wasn’t here.

“Oh dear, sir,” said the policeman, who had just been joined by his colleague. “That’s not good, is it?”

“No,” said Nurd. “I’d like a license.” He composed his monstrous features into something resembling a smile. “You wouldn’t have one that you could give me, would you? Even if it doesn’t have my picture, it would still be lovely to own.”

The policeman’s face went very still.

“What’s your name, sir?”

“Nurd,” said Nurd, then added, “the Scourge of Five Deities.”

“Scourge of Five Motorways, more like,” said the second policeman.

“Very witty, Constable Peel,” said the first policeman. “Very witty indeed.” He returned his attention to Nurd. “A foreign gentleman, are we, sir?” he said. “Visiting, perhaps?”

“Yes,” said Nurd. “Visiting.”

“From where, sir?”

“The Great Wasteland,” said Nurd.

“He’s from the Midlands, then, Sarge,” said Constable Peel.

The one called Sarge hid a smile. “That’s enough, Constable. Don’t want to offend anyone, do we?”

“Not only does he not have a license, Sarge, he doesn’t appear to have any license plates,” said Peel.

Sarge frowned. “Is this a new car, sir?”

“I think so,” said Nurd. “It smells new.”

“Is it your car, sir?”

“It is now,” Nurd said.

Sarge took a step back. “Right you are, sir. Step out of the car, please.”

Nurd did as he was told. He towered at least a foot above the two policemen.

“He’s a big lad, Sarge,” said Peel. “Don’t know how he managed to fit in there in the first place. Mind you, he smells funny.”

Nurd had to admit that it had been a bit of a squeeze getting into the Porsche, but he was quite a squishy demon. Some demons were all hard bone, or thick shells. Nurd was softer, mainly because he hadn’t taken any exercise in centuries.

“That’s quite a costume you have there, sir,” said Sarge. “What exactly are you supposed to be, then?”

“Nurd,” said Nurd. “The Scourge of-”

“We got all that the first time,” said Sarge. “Do you have any form of identification?”

Nurd concentrated. On his forehead, a mark began to glow a deep, fiery red. It looked like a capital B that had been drawn by a very drunk person. Its appearance on his skin was accompanied by a faint smell of burning flesh.

“You don’t see that very often, Sarge,” said Constable Peel. He looked quite impressed.

“No, you don’t,” said Sarge. “What exactly is that supposed to be, sir?”

“It is the mark of Nurd,” said Nurd.

“He’s a nutter, Sarge,” said Constable Peel. “Nurd the Nutter.”

Sarge sighed. “We’d like you to come along with us, sir, if you don’t mind.”

“Can I bring my car?” said Nurd.

“We’ll leave, er, your car here for the moment, sir. You can come along with us in ours.”

“It’s got pretty lights on the top,” explained Constable Peel helpfully. “And it makes a noise.”

Nurd looked at the policemen’s car. It still wasn’t as nice as his, not by a long shot, but it was different, and Nurd felt that he should be open to new experiences, especially having spent so long in the Wasteland with no new experiences at all, some curious noises from Wormwood apart.

“All right,” he said. “I will travel in your car.”

“There’s a good Nurd,” said Constable Peel, opening one of the rear doors. Nurd got the uncomfortable feeling that Constable Peel was making fun of him. Constable Peel also made sure to keep the windows rolled down in order to let the smell out of the car.

“When I assume my throne,” said Nurd, “and I rule this world, you shall be my slave, and your life will be one of pain and misery until I choose to end it by turning you to a small mass of red jelly that I will crush beneath my heel.”

Constable Peel looked hurt as he closed the door behind Nurd. “That’s not very nice,” he said. “Sarge, Mr. Nurd here is threatening to turn me to jelly.”

“Really?” said Sarge. “What flavor?”

Then, with Nurd squashed in the back, they began the drive back to the station.