Chapter 5
Iggy
A s soon as I step out of the shower, the weak, miserable little shudder I was trying to get rid of returns. I used all of the hot water. It did nothing. According to the internet, a hot shower was supposed to cure me. I’m pissed that it didn’t.
My phone chimes from the nightstand, and when I grab it, it’s a notice from my bank. A charge has been declined. Opening the app, I scroll through my recent charges: groceries, the cab that dropped me here, three cabin rental charges for a week each, and three non-compliance fees from the county. One for each week I’ve failed to complete any community service. It was the third non-compliance fee that just declined.
Three weeks, that’s it. That’s all my life savings could cover. I’m officially broke.
Grumbling and shivering, I towel myself off and head to the kitchen stark naked. The chills can also be cured by hot beverages according to the human health forums, and there are an insane number of them ranging from medical journals to home remedy blogs. It’s mind-boggling just how freely and openly humans post about their quivering, frail body’s inability to keep itself warm. “Wear hats, galoshes, mittens, scarves. Pile on the blankets, drink hot beverages, take hot showers! Stay indoors, avoid the wind and drafty buildings or the chills will get you!” How embarrassing.
Not a single demon forum had a word to say about the so-called “chills,” leaving me no choice but to try the human remedies.
My teeth chatter as I cross the living room, and as I pass the dark fireplace, I shoot it a longing glance. There’s a lovely stack of wood piled next to it. If only. If only I could sit in the glow of a fire and lose myself in the dancing flames, I know it’d chase away these stupid chills. It’s the only remedy demons share openly and loudly online.
Have a headache? Try staring into a fire.
Trouble sleeping? Try staring into a fire.
Severed limb? Try starting a fire with your good limb and stare into it.
I fill a mug from the tap and try to ignore the ache in my bones as I stick it in the faux-wood paneled microwave. I’d kill for some coffee, but without a light for the stove, the kettle does me no good.
My hand lifts on its own, landing on the larger of my two right horns. I’ve told myself to quit touching it, but I can’t help myself. My fingers trace obsessively along the GPS monitor clamped to it. Another shudder wracks my body, a mix of chill and shame.
My stomach growls, demanding food. I’m hungry, but not hungry enough to eat another can of tuna. That’s all I have left. It took every shred of self-preservation I had to force myself into the grocery store after we were released from the courthouse. I had no way to cover the dull metal collar with its blinking yellow light that they’d affixed to my horn. The best I could do was duck my head as I entered the store. It did nothing to hide the horn monitor, but I kept ducking anyway as I ran down the aisles, throwing items into a basket. It didn’t take long for an employee to start following me, an orc in a blue button-down shirt and brown vest. Every aisle I turned down, he was there. I ignored him and kept filling my cart.
I almost abandoned it all when I got to the register and recognized the cashier, a demoness I went to summer camps with as a kid. I nearly bolted, but reason scratched its way to the surface, fighting tooth and nail to be heard over my blaring flight instinct. If my plan was to hide away for the next ninety days and wait out my probation, I needed this stuff.
She recognized me. I could tell by the smirk on her face, and as I imagined her telling this story later to anyone who would remember me, I fervently prayed she’d at least forgotten my name. I whisper the same prayer again now, as my eyes squeeze shut.
As soon as my bags were back in the cart, the orc in the brown vest reappeared. “Ma’am, would you mind stepping aside with me? I’d like to check your bags.”
“Why?”
He glanced at my horn monitor. It was his only answer, the only one he needed. I followed him, thinking we were headed to some creepy backroom, but it was so much worse. He took all of three steps before he asked for my receipt and started checking the items in my cart against it, right in clear view of everyone still in line. As he meticulously checked off each item, shame crept over my skin like snails leaving behind slick trails of ick .
“May I check your purse?” He extended his hand, clearly expecting compliance.
“No!” I turned to hide my purse from him.
“I saw you put something in it,” he insisted.
“Bullshit, you liar!” My temper flared, and for a second, I was ready to defend myself. You don’t think I have the balls to take on an orc? Just fucking watch me. Besides, if I was going to steal something, there’s no way this oaf would ever catch me. I bucked up, shoulders squaring, but his posture didn’t change in the slightest as he asked me a simple question:
“Would you rather I call the police and let them search your bag?” He glanced at my blinking monitor again. My defensiveness cracked as easy as an eggshell, and all my rage oozed out onto the linoleum floor. I handed over my purse with a little whine, practically hyperventilating with embarrassment as his meaty hand rummaged through it. Remembering it now, I prickle all over.
Despite all that, I wish I’d done a better job shopping. I’m out of nearly everything, and it’s only been three weeks.
What I wouldn’t give for some chocolate.
Fruit. Cheese. Hot buttered toast and hard boiled eggs. But no matter how hungry I am, I’m not going back out there.
Maybe I’m being childish hiding away like this, self-defeating, self-destructive even, but as I watch my mug make its lazy circle, I pose a question to Mother Darkness.
What did you expect me to do?
Was I supposed to keep my chin up, rise above my troubles, endure with poise and grace? Well, too bad. It’s bullshit to expect that of anyone, least of all me. I’ve never pretended to be the kind of person who could make the best of a bad situation.
My stomach gives another loud grumble, and as if in response, there’s a knock at the door. I startle at the sound, eyes popping wide. Holy Dark Void. Who the fuck is knocking? A deranged serial killer wandering through the woods probably. Or worse, the police.
My arms instinctively wrap my tits, hiding them from any peeping police officers. They’re here to arrest me. I knew they’d come eventually. I have a damn tracker on my horn for fuck’s sake. They obviously know where I am. Not that I’m out of bounds. I’ve stayed within the county as ordered, but I’m still what my packet calls ‘noncompliant’. I’ve yet to serve any of my community service hours. I’m sure they’re pissed about that.
My pulse races, and for a moment, I’m frozen in place as fear courses through my veins. But after a long moment of nothing but silence, I tiptoe toward the door. If I don’t say anything, maybe whoever it is will go away.
I no sooner have that thought than there comes another knock at the door, and it’s a knee-jerk reaction to shout, “Who’s there?” My teeth chatter, and there’s a shrill edge to my voice.
I hear the repeated clearing of a throat. “Um… it’s Chad. Chad Robins. Park Ranger Chad Robins.” I don’t say anything, and after a pause, he continues. “I’m here on behalf of the owner, Harty Mercer. He asked me to check in, make sure you weren’t dea- uh… make sure you were alright.”
The only name that rings a bell is Chad. But it can’t be the cowboy from the bar. It just can’t be. I tiptoe back to the kitchen to sneak a peek out the window. My heart gives an agitated stutter. Fuck. It’s him. White hat and everything.
I curse the Dark Currents of the Abyss as I slink back to the door. Who knew the currents would do something as perverse as delivering my most recent random hookup to my doorstep at this exact moment when I'm belly-skating across rock bottom. It’s too cruel. The points of my long ears burn hot with embarrassment even as another shiver shakes me to my bones.
“I’m fine!” I shout through the door. It occurs to me that if I don’t open it (not that I was going to), he won’t know it’s me. It’s not like he’d recognize the sound of my voice, we barely talked, but I should probably disguise it anyway. “You can tell the owner I’m doing great,” I say, dropping my voice a bit and adopting a southern accent. I cringe at the sound and abandon the idea.
“Glad to hear it,” he says, then, clearing his throat again, he continues. “What are the odds I’d find… er…” he falters, and I hear the scrape of his boots on the wood planks. “Could I come in?” he asks.
“No!” I pull back as if the door lunged at me. One hand instinctively clamps over my horn monitor, hiding it from view, as the other continues holding my tits in place. I don’t want anyone else to see me with this, and definitely not him, a man who’s sexy hands and forearms I’ve been picturing to get myself off. And gods, the way he ripped my panties. My neck flushes hot at the memory, burning twice as hot as my ears.
I’m supposed to live on in his memory too, and the memory of every past sexual partner, as some kind of magical sex goddess. It’s my legacy. Sort of. Not one my family can be proud of, and not the one I ultimately hope to leave behind, but still. I refuse to tarnish it by opening the door and letting him see me in my current state of disgrace.
There’s another scuffing sound, and I guess it’s him pressing himself up against the door because his next words sound like they’re being whispered right into the wood. “Do you need help? I can break through this door if you’re in trouble.”
Oh great, he thinks I’m a hostage. “Please don’t.” I roll my eyes. “I’m not dressed, that’s all,” I explain even though I don’t owe him an explanation. I go back to holding my tits with both arms. “I’m completely naked. So, sorry, but you can’t come in.” For the past few weeks I’ve been opting out of clothes. I only have two items with me: the blouse and skirt I wore to the bar, not exactly a comfy outfit to wallow in. Everything else is still in my suitcase back at my original B&B because I couldn’t muster the courage to face the hostess to retrieve it, not after the grocery store.
I wait for him to respond, but he’s silent. I lean against the door and press my ear to it. What’s he doing out there? He better not still be thinking about breaking down the door when I already asked him nicely not to.
“My apologies for catching you when you’re, um—” He clears his throat, and there’s the faintest hint of fluster in his voice. “I could swing around another day. Do you need anything from town? It’d be no trouble. I’m always coming and going,” he offers with a hopeful note in his voice.
It’s awfully tempting. My driver’s license is suspended for the duration of my probation. I had to hire a car to drop me at this cabin. It cost a small fortune. My mouth starts to water as I think of the drive-thru places I could ask him to go. I picture him returning, arms loaded with bags of groceries and greasy take out bags, and my stomach growls so loudly, I’m sure he hears it.
But I’d have to open the door. My skin crawls at the thought, and my body gives another hard shudder. It’s not worth it. I’ll starve.
“I need matches!” I blurt out. Fuck . I clamp my hands over my mouth, and my face blooms with the sharp sting of embarrassment. I can’t believe I said that out loud. I was going to say no thanks, and now I might as well have declared myself a defective, worthless demon.
“I have some in my pocket,” he says, and I don’t note any judgment, not even curiosity, in his voice. He’s human. Clearly he doesn’t understand what an awful confession that was.
“Could you slide them under the door?” I ask a little too eagerly.
“Can I get your phone number?”
“What?”
“The matches are yours either way,” he says, and the little, square book comes sailing under the crack. “But you said if I saw you again, I could ask.” The silence draws out as I stare down at the matches, stopped right between my feet. So small and unassuming, yet this tiny bundle is pure magic. I snatch it up and squeeze it to my chest. I knew it! The moment I pulled the sexy cowboy with the big dimples and square front teeth into the alcove, I had a feeling divine providence was at work, and now my suspicions are confirmed.
“You can say no,” he says.
I take back everything bad I said about the Dark Currents. Mother Darkness works in mysterious ways, and if she’s set divine currents flowing in my favor, I would be stupid to impede them.
I recite my phone number.
It’s an act of both faith and logic. Yes, I want the Dark Mother’s favor, but I’m also staying in an isolated cabin without a car or any kind of defenses. None of my friends or family know where I am. What if a bear attacks? What if there’s an avalanche? A park ranger having my phone number is a good thing. It’s practical.
“Got it,” he says, and the next moment, my phone buzzes.