Chapter Eight
Rex
W ell, this is embarrassing.
I hang my head, rubbing my wrists because I know what’s coming—handcuffs. It’s what usually happens when I let loose.
Absolute disaster. Unholy chaos.
After exploding ole Alaric Infernus into tiny bronze bits, the police took the three of us into custody and straight into the drunk tank. I got a few hours of shut-eye in our cell before the door burst open with a clank that would’ve woken the dead.
It’s the crack of dawn on a Saturday, but this demoness bailiff is all business, reading us the riot act about our crimes and their consequences.
“You’ve been charged with vandalism, criminal mischief, aggravated criminal damage, negligent and reckless use of fire, and conspiracy to commit property destruction.”
Sounds about right from what I remember.
Vale puts on his charming actor face and sidles up to her. I’m not saying he shouldn’t try the flirt tactic; he’s a good-looking guy nowadays. I’m just saying I wouldn’t bet money it’ll work on this particular demoness.
Short and stocky, the bailiff’s dark hair is graying at the temples and her thin looping horns are decorated in arcane engravings. An old-school Devout probably, not one to be impressed by a pretty boy from out of town. She’d be the sort of demon to keep to traditional practices, which you tend to find a lot of in Winter Bliss. Though demons are in the minority worldwide as far as people groups go, the volcano here has been a historic hot spot for us.
Vale tries his best to talk her into letting us go, but she closes her file folder with a harsh snap.
“You have three options, and you must decide as a group: trial by judge, trial by jury, or plead your case before the daemon tribunal. Which will it be?”
“A trial?” Vale gasps. “Th-that’s s-so extreme!”
I can’t imagine something like this would be great PR for his new movie.
“The tribunal.” I stand from where I was slouched against the cinder block wall and approach the bars. “We choose that.”
“Hold on,” Iggy says. “Is that better for us? I don’t want to get disappeared down a deep, dark hole, never to be seen or heard from again.”
“That can’t happen,” Vale snorts. Then turning to the bailiff, he asks, “Can it?”
“A daemon tribunal is not bound by predetermined sentencing guidelines,” she replies. “Under tribunal law, the judge has full authority to issue any punishment he deems fitting to the crime.”
“Okay, yeah, but there’s an upside.” I step in. She’s not telling the full story. “Like all things demon, a tribunal’s rulings are kept private. They never share records with outsiders, not with other cities, the state, nobody. We’ll serve whatever sentence they give us, and once it’s over, there’ll be no record of it anywhere except here in Winter Bliss. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, it’ll be like last night never happened.”
Iggy asks her questions about background checks and employers.
I turn to Vale.
“Sounds good,” he says reluctantly. His eyes dart between me and the bailiff.
“Excellent.” Her demeanor brightens, eyes alight with a golden gleam. “I’ll contact the judge immediately. He likes to adjudicate these cases as quickly as possible to keep everything hush-hush.”
I nod. The judge can throw the book at us, but there’s no way it’s gonna be that bad. It was a statue for fuck’s sake. We didn’t kill anybody. Barely harmed ourselves, to be honest.
The bailiff pulls out her cell phone and sends a quick text before grabbing a stack of bright-orange fabric from a cabinet. “Change into these jumpsuits. We just deep cleaned the tribunal court, and you all smell awful.” Her phone pings and she lights up. “The judge is on his way. Chop, chop!”
We’re dressed in identical ugly orange, shackled with handcuffs and fire-stop gloves, and marched into an elevator within minutes. The cramped space grows cooler and cooler the farther we travel underground. The ancient court. As a hot-blooded creature, I feel instantly on edge, vulnerable. It doesn’t help that my hands are restrained. We’re led into a huge dark space that looks more cavern than courtroom. Black rock walls, rough-hewn and shiny, surround us, and there are honest-to-goddess torches along the walls. We pass several rows of benches for an audience as the bailiff sits us behind a long table at the front.
The minutes drag on, and I hear rustling behind us, a handful of people taking seats. Fuck, we have an audience. I’m feeling less hopeful the longer I watch the fire flicker strange shadows in this cold, creepy room. The shifting light highlights engraved reliefs of demons in various forms of torture and agony. How many sons of bitches in the olden days were sentenced to be cast into a lava pit or have their fucking horns cut off for petty crimes?
Maybe this was a bad gamble. Why the fuck did my friends listen to me? A daemon tribunal! This could go very, very wrong.
My forehead drops to the tabletop and I rock my horns side to side, just to feel the responding thunk on the hard surface.
Perfect timing for another major life fuckup.
I spend months obsessing over an engaged woman, then the moment my parents come into town to watch my younger brother fall in love with a woman not already engaged to someone else, I blow up a statue in the middle of town.
Right on cue, Rex.
Once the family loser, always the family loser.
“ALL RISE FOR THE HONORABLE JUDGE SILAS GRIMSHAW!”
I jolt. Fuck, old girl has a set of lungs on her. Iggy elbows me in the ribs as she stands. I lumber up, my limbs protesting the whole way. My whole body feels like a bruise stuffed into a too-tight jumpsuit. Despite the fact I chugged water from the drinking fountain on the way in like a dying fish, it hasn’t helped the hangover.
An old demon, skin tone a dark purple-red, in a long velvet robe takes the high seat. He looks like my high school wrestling coach, complete with a disapproving frown.
Yikes. This isn’t looking good.
“The ancient court of Mount Winter Bliss is now in session,” the bailiff shouts again before slamming some kind of ceremonial staff three times on the ground. My temples pound to the painful, sluggish beat of my pulse. “Please be seated and come to order.”
The judge is silent, staring us down one at a time, starting with me. My butthole clenches, but I do my best to stare back with a blank face. If I look away, I’d come across as guilty and weak. If I look upset, I’m guilty and angry. If I try to put on the waterworks, I’m guilty and lying.
What I really am is hungover and regretting every decision I made last night. I think. At least, the ones I remember. I couldn’t care less about the statue, but I really do miss my mustache.
I’ve been in trouble with the law enough to know it’s best to stay quiet. Never speak up. That’s just self-incriminating stupidity.
Vale takes the opportunity to stand up and launch into a dramatic monologue. I shoot him a death glare even though he’s trying to fall on his sword and take all the blame. For an actor, he’s going fantastically off script and the judge is not having it.
I stand up and use my elbow to try to shove him to his seat which just ends up in us tussling until the bailiff and judge are both banging their respective noise implements, shouting, “ORDER IN THE COURT.”
Guess we’re fucked then.
I plop to my seat and glare at a torch along the wall, watching the flames dance. Something about the curving shapes reminds me of Birdie—her hips in motion, her sinister little smile right before she tells me off.
What time is it?
I glance around but there are no clocks. I think it was half past nine when we left the jail cell, which means her wedding is about to start. She’s getting married. Real soon. Which means right now she’s probably sitting in her wedding dress, fixing her pretty hair or putting on the last touches of makeup.
She’s starting her life while mine is falling apart.
Goddess, I’m such an idiot.
“Guilty on all counts,” the judge says once the noise quiets down. “Your deplorable actions have not only scarred the heart of our beautiful town square, they’ve also disrespected the memory of a legendary figure, a great man.”
“A great asshole,” Vale mutters.
I have the presence of mind not to pick up the insult train.
"As punishment befitting your shameful crimes, you are hereby sentenced to twelve weeks of probation and two hundred and fifty hours of unpaid labor."
I groan and drop my head on the table with a rough thunk.
Fuck ! I’m stuck in Winter Bliss for three more months.
The idea of being trapped in this town for that long while Birdie is a frequently fucked newlywed is some ninth level of torture. There’s no way I’ll ask for an extension to stay at The Deviled Egg. First, I can’t afford it if I’m on some free labor contract. Second, as a local criminal, I’d just embarrass Orla and Miss Eda. Third, I can’t see Birdie in the blissed-out honeymoon stage.
Even I have my limits.
Homeless on a park bench it is. Maybe I could stuff a sleeping bag in the storeroom at Perkatory without Rom noticing.
“My wife! She needs me,” Vale shouts.
Wife? He isn’t married. I know that for a fact with all the dating he does in Hollywood. The more he and the judge talk, the more confused I get. His wife owns a therapy clinic in town? But he hasn’t been back to Winter Bliss in years. Then, a thin human woman I’ve never seen before walks forward and stands next to Vale, claiming to be his wife. What the actual fu—
The judge bangs his gavel and the bailiff responds with her staff. The clanging echo makes my eyeballs ache. I drop my forehead back to the table just to feel the cool table on my pounding skull.
Soon after, the bailiff leads us out of the ancient court and back up the elevator. We’re uncuffed and told to change back into our singed and smelly clothing then dropped in the small, dingy office of our new probation officer—Gertie Dale.
Gertie sounds like Birdie. Easy to remember.
The stone-faced orc lady shows us these metal rings that clamp on our horn. They can track our location to make sure we don’t leave county lines, don’t drive (our licenses are suspended), and don’t go anywhere that sells alcohol.
Nice. Just great.
She explains that the biggest requirement of our probation is volunteering for 250 hours, about twenty per week, with any local community project willing to take us on, which means we have to find someone to sign off as our Community Service Compliance Officer. That person, our handler so to speak, will wear a metal bracelet thingy that helps them track our hours.
Working for free is a shame to demons, declaring us worthless, essentially. I swallow. My parents will be mortified. There’s no way I can show my face around Orla and Old Ethel during my sentence either. But I can take the hit to my ego. For a demon, I’ve always been a loser. Nothing new.
Gertie gets through the whole spiel, fits us with our red blinking horn clamps, and makes us sign some paperwork before handing us our own manila folder along with the bracelet for our volunteer leader person. They have to swear in or some shit and start logging our hours by Monday. Any weeks we miss come with a huge fine.
Yadda yadda.
Final-fucking-ly, we’re let go. I tear out of there. My phone is dead as a doornail, but I’ll check in with Vale and Iggy later.
Every demon for themselves, and right now, I’ve got one goal—grab my bag at The Deviled Egg before Miss Eda or Orla get back from the wedding. I’m sure I’ll see them around town in the next few months, but I can’t face them today. Soon enough, they’ll hear gossip that I made a total ass of myself, and I’m sure they’ll be glad to have me in their rearview.
I sneak into the B&B from the back just like Birdie showed me. My duffel bag is right inside my bedroom door. Man, I’m gonna miss this cute-ass place. The wallpaper is a warm yellow with flowers, the comforter is the perfect thickness, and those pillows are made with real deal goose down feathers. Those ladies really know how to make a house feel like a home. And despite me living here for months, the room still smells good, like fresh sheets and the warm wax from a recently burned candle.
It feels like every second I stand here, I'm polluting their perfect house more with my smoky clothes and body odor.
Mother Below, I’m a wreck.
My mom is still in town too. Realizing I have to explain why I’m not going back to the airport with the rest of the family sends me into a mild panic. Fuck!
I rush into the bathroom and take the most efficient shower of my life. I don’t have time for a full shave but use my clippers to even out the absolute hack job I did to my glorious mustache. I decide to keep the scruffy five-o’ clock shadow already coming in since it kind of blends together and looks half decent now. Toweling off, I pen a quick note to Miss Eda and Orla on the back of a receipt.
I got into a spot of trouble, and even though I’ll be around a little longer, I’ll stay out of your hair. Thank you ladies for being the best host moms in the world. I didn’t deserve a hospitality that felt so much like home, but I sure appreciated it.
Big hugs, Rex
I leave it along with a $100 bill on top of the dresser, wishing I could give more, but money is gonna be tight working for free for the next three months. With a longing glance at the kitchen after I head downstairs, I barely resist raiding the fridge, opting to pick up an apple from a bowl at the dining table instead.
Then I’m out the back door and headed to the only place I can think of—the library.
My best bet is to beg my future sister-in-law, Noelle, to let me work for her. I can haul boxes or build shit or whatever. Oh, maybe she’ll even let me drag a cot into a corner of that big closet in the back to just sleep there. It smells like a bunch of old books which is kind of gross but I could set up some air fresheners or something. Pine air fresheners. It’s better than an alleyway, at least.
I’m just down the first two blocks when a flash of white falls out of a window.
I blink and rub my eyes, taking a bite of my apple. I haven’t eaten much of anything this morning. Is this a blood sugar crash? Am I hallucinating?
Because that curvy little lady picking her way out of a bush sure looks like Birdie.
Birdie in a wedding dress.
Her veil tangles briefly on the windowsill before she struggles free and hurries up alongside one of her horses.
Unable to stop myself, I edge closer. She’s only a couple buildings down from me as she quickly unties Mimi, the younger of her mares. Gigi, the mama, is right beside her. Two picture-perfect Umbran horses, all gray hide with rock-mottled bellies, lavender hair, and black horns. And they’re both saddled up with some frilly white decorations along the leather. Cute.
I guess the bride and groom are meant to ride off into the sunset on them. Though that doesn’t seem to be what Birdie’s doing now.
It’s still morning.
She just jumped out of a window.
Her movements are halting and quick.
I stop in my tracks, dumbstruck, questioning again if I’m hallucinating, dreaming something impossible into existence. Last night, I imagined her like this—pretty and glowing in a wedding dress with her animals—but the reality is not quite what I had in mind.
Is she . . . running away?
My chest rises and falls as I sink deeper against the wall holding me up, unable to look away.
With the grace of a skilled rider, Birdie hops up on the slat of a fence, grips the pommel, and jumps into the saddle. A vision in all white, her veil and dress gust around her like clouds in slow motion. Her skin glows in the sunlight and that strapless top is doing her every favor possible. Fuck, she’s a stunner. As her face turns my way, looking down the street with wild eyes, a light rain starts, little more than a mist, even as the sun shines above.
The gods are kissing the earth. That’s what demons call a sun-shower. An omen of good fortune.
Without a backward glance, she leans forward and steers Mimi out the garden gate and onto the empty one-way road in the opposite direction. The street is silent except for her lightly clopping hooves. The horse dances sideways for a moment, a little jumpy all of a sudden, before taking off in brisk trot.
“Aylin!” a familiar voice calls out as both rider and horse wind up into a canter. “ Kusum !” Miss Eda only makes it a few feet out of the front door before stopping. Her wife and Old Ethel come out next.
Gigi grows antsy, stomping and snorting as Birdie and Mimi race off. I come up beside the older mare with a hand on her flank, sidling up and talking low to calm her. I try to feed her the rest of my apple. She takes one bite then shakes me off, yanking at the reins keeping her hitched to the garden fence.
“Shh, girl. Your baby’s alright. Birdie’s got her. It’s alright, sweetheart.”
Her eyes flash to me, and I try to pour all my energy into calming her. Umbran horses are emotional creatures. Bred for the volatile environment of living on volcanic mountains, they can withstand high heat and are faster than fast.
“You think she went home?” Birdie’s mom asks the other two, still not seeing me. “We should follow in the car.”
“Don’t do that,” I call out.
The ladies all look over in surprise.
“Birdie looked upset,” I say. “And these horses are easily spooked by their rider’s emotions. Mama here wants to catch up with them.” I pet down Gigi’s nose, keeping an arm slung over her neck to try and calm her. “A car won’t help, but she might.”
Birdie’s mom hugs herself. Orla takes her shawl and puts it over her head to shield her from the rain.
“You can ride that thing?” Old Ethel grimaces, lifting her hand over her brow to keep her vape dry.
I nod, jaw tight.
Gigi’s a damn good horse , I want to bite back at the old demoness. She’s only stomping and snorting up a smoky storm because she wants to get going. Instead, I shake off my irritation, knowing it’ll only upset the horse, and start to untie her from the post.
But first, I need information.
“Why’d Birdie run off?” I ask, keeping my eyes averted, trying not to get too hopeful. I imagine her finally coming to her senses and leaving that slick-haired douchecanoe in the dust. At the eleventh hour, sure, but a win’s a win.
“Randy never showed up,” Orla says.
My body and mind lock up. He jilted her ? I glance to see all three women glaring, the two demonesses eyes ablaze with fury.
My chest lights with no small amount of my own. That smelly waste-of-spunk loser!
I crack my neck, slowly leading Gigi out of the garden and onto the road.
How dare he? Birdie as a pretty runaway bride makes total sense. But him leaving her?
I want to light his car on fire. Throw rotten eggs down his chimney.
My vision goes dark and wavy. I’m sure my eyes don’t look quite right. They always turn creepy as fuck when I let the rage take over.
Gigi hops and snorts a thick plume of smoke, so I hold her face and bring our foreheads together. When her eyes find mine, her third eye is open—a shiny deep-black with a ribbon of orange fire in the middle.
The third eye only opens in times of acute distress. One of the Umbrans lesser-known abilities is the strong emotional bonds they develop with their riders, especially in times of crisis.
Her body language tells me she’s more than ready to race off to chase after her daughter, but the eye tells me we’re bonded.
Let’s. Fucking. Go!
My anger is hers. My nervous energy is hers. The tiny flicker of hope that I can catch Birdie once and for all is hers too.
The realization rattles me in a new way. If Birdie’s heartbroken, her horse may be too. That’s a different kind of emotion than anger or fear. All of those can sharpen the senses of the horse.
But a heart sick horse is dangerous. They’re not above landing themselves in a whole heap of trouble, even life-threatening.
I imagine Birdie bucked off with a broken neck in a ditch and everything inside me finds a new purpose. That’s not fucking happening . It’s up to me to stay in control if we’re going to get them both back to the ranch safely.
I grip the reins tight under her face and lock eyes once more, resolving as much to myself as to the giant beast of a horse magically connected to me.
“It’s you and me, sweetheart. We’ve got this.” I give her another firm pat, round her side to grab the pommel, and fly up into the saddle. Testing out my seat and control, I lead her in a circle around the women watching me slack-jawed.
“I’ll find Birdie, ladies. Don’t you worry.” With a brief nod, I squeeze my thighs and tap my heels. Gigi doesn’t hesitate.
We’re off like lightning with two runaway girls to catch.