It was a toaster.
A dragon, it was not. A car wreck, no. A high-stakes rooftop battle with a masked baddie, no way. No, Anastasia Greene—27 years young, toddler queen, emergency chocolate hoarder—fell victim to a toaster.
Okay, so it was an ancient toaster. Maybe demonic. Most likely bitter.
All she needed to do was reheat her leftover mac and cheese. But the lights flashed, the machine sparked, and before she could yell "Fire hazard!" it jumped off the counter like a metal piranha.
POP.
Sparks. Smoke. One resoundingly humiliating obituary in the making.
Here lies Anastasia. She outlived fifteen toddlers, one food fight riot, and a rabid squirrel at summer camp. She fell to breakfast.
When she opened her eyes, she was hoping for fluffy clouds or a tunnel of light.
Instead, she received. lava. Lots and lots of lava.
And, of course, a chandelier constructed of bone. Which was—y'know—whimsical.
"Oh no," she grumbled, rising up onto a black-marble ground. "I died and went to a Hot Topic."
Out of the darkness came three very tall, very horned individuals dressed in fitted suits.
"Bravo, mortal soul," another of them spoke in a dramatic tone, unfurling a scroll with drama. "You have been chosen for an important hellish assignment based on your terrestrial credentials."
"I possess a CPR certification and once struggled with a toddler from a duct," Anastasia replied matter-of-factly. "Unless Hell is running low on juice box salespeople, I believe you have the wrong woman."
Another demon tweaked his monocle. "Conversely. You are precisely what we require."
"Why do I have the sense that I'm about to be hired without a job interview?"
A door slammed open with a theatrical burst of smoke, and in came the most disheveled five-year-old she'd ever laid eyes on.
He sported a miniature black cape, flaming red ringlets, glowing golden eyes, and—yep—was chewing on the tail of a cowering bat plushie.
"This is Azriel, High Lord of the Ninth Pit and Demon King Reborn. He torched his last five nannies."
Azriel grinned up at her with a wide smile and belched out a small puff of fire.
"Hi," he chirped. "You new mommy?"
Anastasia gazed.
"Oh hell no," she said.
But ten minutes later—after accidentally high-fiving a demon butler, being handed a legally binding nanny contract written in blood and glitter ink, and being hugged by a child who smelled like brimstone and applesauce—
She was officially:
Anastasia Greene, Royal Babysitter to the Demon King.
Also: 100% in denial.
"I'm suing that toaster," she muttered, as Azriel climbed onto her back like a backpack and declared war on nap time.
From the corner, a deep voice growled: "Don't coddle him."
She turned—and almost collided with a seven-foot block of brooding muscle, obsidian armor, and smoldering judgment.
"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
"I am General Malachi. The boy's father."
He appeared not to have cracked a smile since the last ice age.
Anastasia raised an eyebrow. "Okay. Where do I file a complaint?"