Chapter Six #2
I watched the bear inside, sitting on his rear, feeding himself fruits from the ground.
Maybe I’d been delusional, but he seemed less angry.
His claws traced the skin carefully, peeling it at the specific angle he preferred.
Little fuzzy ears wiggled as though dancing with joy for food.
My type of bear. Shifting myself around in the mud, my tailbone ached, and something in me partially wished I’d stayed inside Butters’s fence and allowed him to peel my skin like fruit.
Halfway done, caked with mud and sweat and a pissy attitude, I rose.
Laken’s irritatingly perfect face flashed in my mind, grinning ear to ear. “I told you I could help,” he’d say. “I always know better.”
Wait… why did I care what Laken would say? I didn’t.
Half because I couldn’t admit defeat and half because I’d drag myself through quicksand before admitting I was wrong—I moved my feet.
Four down, four to go.
Benedict: five, moki raccoon, receives breathing treatments / TROUBLESOME.
Moki raccoons have the ability to actually cause things to disappear, playing into their playful lore.
Also making them desirable for thieves, as they’re quite intelligent.
They’re rumored to be shape-shifters. But as a good mischief maker never tells his secrets—there’s never been any proof to support that.
A couple years back, Benedict had been found after being stabbed in what was assumed to be some kind of jewel robbery. The wounds stunted his magic and ability to climb.
Benedict was Benedict. He snatched the food from my hands and ran. Somehow, pieces ended up in my hair. As the raccoon scuttled away, I followed his fixed stare to the gate. My stomach sank. No—oh my Gods, you little bastard-ass raccoon.
Never before had I seen an animal look so humanlike with the mischief blazing in his eyes.
The muscles of my legs tensed, preparing to launch.
He wanted to run, to escape and have a fun chase.
Time stood still as he peered back at me, and I lunged.
Missing Benedict, the air ripped straight from my lungs as I collapsed onto the ground.
Snorting dirt up my nose, food spilled everywhere.
No worries though; two little raccoon hands scooped it up.
Short-winded, I huffed and puffed and… collapsed with defeat into the dirt. What’s the point?
This would kill me. These animals would be the cause of my death.
With a straight neck and tall shoulders, I stood firmly in front of the hellblazers’ coop.
Hellblazers: Chicken Soup, Chicken Noodle, Roasted Chicken, Fried Chicken, Chicken Broth, Chicken Sandwich, Spicy Chicken Sandwich, Chicken and Waffles, approximately seven to ten years old, VERY SENSITIVE AND RUDE / saved from illegal fighting pits. They were literal hell.
Seeing them again, their feathers and murderous beaks, resurfaced feelings and memories I wished I could scrub from my mind. Three years ago, I’d left Honey Brooke. Before that, Laken had vanished. But a week before that, everything had gone up in flames.
My father had left for a five-day trip to save some creature he’d told me nothing about—and he’d never leave me in charge alone unless he had to. Trust me, he’d asked old friends and even the neighbors before coming to his last resort—and he’d regretted it every day since.
Long story short, the chickens escaped me.
Laken had been helping but didn’t come that morning; go figure.
The hellblazers ran loose in town. After chasing them for miles, we circled the town while others watched, laughed, or whispered.
Until the fire started. Until the town center building burned and smoke choked their condescending voices.
It took half an ocean of water, pounds of hay, and Laken Augustus to save the day.
I stood in front of a crowd with lethal glares aimed at me, soaked with water and sweat.
Half my clothes were crisps, my hair frayed and damp.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I couldn’t breathe.
The barbs of their abhorrence pierced my throat and forbade me to speak.
Petrified, I retreated and went to turn before Laken grabbed my arm.
And even from him, I pulled away. In conclusion, I really hated these fucking chickens.
I was just a woman, praying with everything inside of me I would not become a chicken’s lunch.
Their enclosure contained a set of miniature houses stacked atop each other as their coop occupied the middle.
Wooden pillars supported the roof, and I hugged close to one as I entered their gates of doom.
Leaning against the wood, I carefully tilted and peered around its edge. Nothing alarming—yet. Even the bucket on my arm shook from my nerves.
Step by step, I felt lured deeper into their evil lair.
Something morbid and suffocating festered in the air, raising the hairs on my back.
From behind the coop, a yellow-feathered chicken stepped onto the battlefield and faced me—a warrior prepared for battle.
Fried Chicken. My body jolted to a stop, my bones petrified from her stare.
But as more time passed, more feathers and bony feet appeared from all angles around me.
I’m clucking surrounded.
Frozen in fear brought on by childhood trauma, I couldn’t see an escape route. One too many mistakes were made today.
Seizing their opportunity, the devilish bastards charged. I’d be eating chicken in front of them for the rest of my life if I survived this, I decided.
Feathers on their chests rose and I knew what followed.
Unleashing my body from its deadly stance, I launched myself back. My clammy hands slid right off the metal handle of the bucket. Time slowed as it flipped through the air, spilling and slinging pellets. In my hair. Down my dress, between my boobs.
Mother-clucker.
The bucket clattered to the ground, but I didn’t care.
I threw myself through the door as flames burned behind me, at my heels, and on my dress.
Turning to shut it, my fingers trembled.
I drowned in sweat. Fear. Relief. They’d technically been fed, even if I’d accidentally scattered it through the yards. My job was done. Or almost.
Two creatures remained. First—Blaze the baxlin. Blaze: three, baxlin dragon, never grew past infancy. Blaze was the creature my father had gone to get when the incident occurred. I’d never gotten to know him.
Rolling over on my filthy hands and knees, my sweat-induced curls clung to my cheeks, but I gave those little hell-blazers one last stare. Narrowing my eyes, I made a commitment to them. “You will peck at my feet one day, little bastards.”
I pulled myself up, leaving any trace of my dignity somewhere in the dirt.
Because of his size, Blaze stayed inside, though I hadn’t seen him since I arrived. Assuming he’d been hiding, I needed to seek.
Covered in more than dirt and mud, on the verge of tears, I opened the small cage on the kitchen counter Laken explained in his letter. Pulling out the blankets, my eyes darted around the tight space until I saw the tiniest dragon tail peeking out from the edge of a miniature quilt.
Baxlins are large Northern dragons. Blaze, however, seemed to have stunted growth, seeing as he could probably fit in the palm of my hand.
I wished I had the patience to deal with this within me. I exhaled sharply, closed my eyes, and gathered myself. “Look… I know you’re scared under there. But I also know you’re hungry. And I know I’m losing my mind. So I am going to pull your blanket off and I utterly beg you not to panic.”
No argument.
I grabbed the edge, and small midnight wings stretched out as if he’d just awoken. Scales armored his miniature body, but strong legs unfolded. He turned to me on all fours, scratching the pouch on his belly, and for the first time today—something looked at me as if I was good.
It wasn’t his small size forcing my lips to turn up, but the big, pining eyes staring at me as if I were its mother.
I smiled softly for the first time in days. “Hello, Blaze.”
As if he heard something in those two words he’d been waiting for, he crawled into my hand, curled up, and lay down.
“Having a hard time?” My voice sounded heavy with exhaustion. As his head pressed further into my palm, I took that as a yes. “You and me both.”
After refilling his bowls with little bits of meat, I pushed my hand out for him to dismount, but he didn’t. Instead, his tail curled around my fingers as he reached into his bowl, grabbed some pellets, and stashed them inside his belly pouch. Lying back down, he refused to leave.
“Blaze,” I warned, harsh and short, “what are you doing?”
Nothing.
“Blaze.” I tilted my hand in an attempt to dislodge him.
Nothing. He wrapped around my finger.
Not to be mistaken, I didn’t mind the little creature; however, my nose turned up a bit.
It wasn’t him; it was feeling as though I’d been dragged through a pigsty and rolled through a pile of porcupine quills.
But his tail tightened, and I realized perhaps I wasn’t the only one feeling like trampled shit.
Last on the list: Gordon, the goldfish in the bowl. His notes were easy to understand: leaps from bowl occasionally / diagnosis unknown. Considering he was swimming in his bowl at the moment, I sprinkled some food in and called it a day.
I needed a nap.
And perhaps later, something a little stronger.
Two steps up the stairs, a knock came at the door. Holding Blaze in one hand, I gripped the rail and squeezed my eyes shut. It’s fine. This is fine. Everything will be fine.
Twisting the knob and opening the door, I realized just how wrong I’d been. It was not fine. This was not fine. Everything was not fine.
A man with a brown satchel, a pointed hat, and a full envelope stared back at me. If there’s one thing everyone knows, it’s that a man with a satchel and pointed hat has never meant anything good. My gut grew arms and punched my organs, knowing something had to be bad.
“Can I help you?”
His dark gray brows arched high above wide brown eyes, wrinkles folded at their corners; the weathered skin of his face suggested he hadn’t aged well. “I’m looking for Chester McCarthen.”
Chester. I held back a laugh. Nobody in Honey Brooke called my father by his real name.
“He isn’t here.” I shuffled my feet, shifting my weight. “And he isn’t coming back.”
Thinned lips and a muffled sigh made me uneasy. “Are you the new owner? Next of kin?”
Why did my mind blank? Was I the new owner of McCarthen’s Sanctuary for Magical Creatures? It was the first time I’d been referred to as such, and it shook me. It was mine. Not my father’s. Not the town’s. Not Laken’s.
“Yes, I am. What is this regarding?”
The pointed-hat man studied me, taking me in for better or for worse. “I have papers to deliver.”
“What kind of papers?”
He handed over the envelope. “Last notification of outstanding debt papers.”
Oh, my mother of a poisonous porcupine Gods. Sometimes, when things continuously get piled on top of you and life drags you through the mud and the muck, all it takes is a gust of wind to topple it all.
This was my gust of wind.
“Outstanding debt?” I peeked at the papers. “How much money are we talking?” Scanning the words, I found it. Twelve thousand macs. “What in the fuck for?” Excuse my language, but what? How? Why? Why did this envelope feel like it had my name on it now?
Gods… that man. Twelve thousand in debt. How was this place still standing? How much damage had been done? The sanctuary used to function from donors and sales; where had they gone? My father truly let himself go and took the sanctuary with it.
The man’s eyes awkwardly darted side to side, the space between us filled with an uncomfortable silence.
“The building…” he started and stopped. “The building the hellblazers burned down a couple years ago.” He had to be joking.
“Your father paid to fix it with a loan using the sanctuary as collateral and that is the remainder.”
You don’t say. “How do I know this is real?” I asked, assessing him from head to toe. “How do I know you aren’t just trying to swindle me?”
Frowning, he dropped his belongings with a thud, opened his coat jacket, and pulled out… a license: Honey Brooke Bank Collection Agency.
I hummed. “I don’t know, sounds fake.” It seemed like exactly the thing someone impersonating a debt collector would show. Zeroing in on it further, his name, Collin Reds-worth, sounded familiar.
“You went to school with my little sister,” he scolded. Ah. That’s right. Chloe Redsworth.
I made a face. “Fine, I believe you.” I placed Blaze on my shoulder and examined the papers. “Twelve thousand macs. Okay, okay.” Forcing my glare to the man, I hid my panic behind bit lips. “When do you need it by?”
His features did not move. “Thirty days.”
Smothering my seething pain and sinking hope, I shrugged and bit my cheek. “Thirty days. Is that thirty days from today? Thirty days from tomorrow? Are we counting weekends or is it thirty weekdays?”
Collin didn’t even blink; it seemed unnatural. His chest didn’t rise and fall. If I weren’t mistaken, I’d say he wasn’t even breathing. “Thirty days from today.”
I made myself smile. “Yes, well, thank you for stopping by. I’ll get the money to you in thirty days.” Absolutely. No doubt, no worries. Let me just pull it out of my ass real quick.
With a quick nod, he tucked away his folders, closed his bag, and made for the gate. I waved, happy and calm and completely composed. Little runt of an ass walked as if a stick were up his. If one more man with important papers showed up in my life, I’d be receding into the woods.
Closing the door behind me, I sank into the floor and knocked my head back, loosening my reins. “How the fuck am I going to get twelve thousand macs in thirty days?”
That “something stronger” sounded good right about now.