Chapter 7
Iggy
Four weeks earlier.
T he handcuffs that bind my wrists clink together as the three of us—me, Vale, and Rex— await our hearing. We’re seated behind a long black table, dressed in hideous orange jumpsuits, and my skin burns under the disgrace of this forced attire. It reeks of school uniforms and my parents dressing me like my sister, hoping I’ll turn into her. This is why I don’t wear clothes I haven’t picked for myself. They always feel like they're stealing something from me.
But it’s the fire-stop gloves that are the real mockery. With or without them, I pose no threat. And the shame of it, of being fireless, doesn’t just ride along my skin. It eats at my soul.
The room is cavernous, the walls roughhewn, and even if I didn’t know we were thirty feet underground, I’d swear I could feel the weight of the world overhead trying to crush us. It’s hard to breathe in here.
We rise at the bailiff's order. The one and only judge enters the courtroom and takes his seat at the bench. He’s a deep red demon with cool undertones that make him almost purple, and he’s nearly as wide as he is tall, but it’s the scowl that’s practically folding his face in two that has me worried.
We chose wrong.
The tribunal was a terrible idea. I can feel it in my gut. Chills run up my spine, and a nervous sweat breaks out across the back of my neck.
“The tribunal is not bound by any predetermined sentencing guidelines,” the advising bailiff warned us back in our cell. In opting for the tribunal, we opted out of a lawyer, leaving us responsible for pleading our own case. “Under tribunal law, the judge has full authority to issue any punishment he deems fitting to the crime.”
That was enough for me to vote no initially, but then Rex came back with a counterpoint. One I couldn’t ignore.
“There’s an upside. Like all things demon, a tribunal’s rulings are kept private.” He said he knew from personal experience but didn’t elaborate. “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 this night never happened.”
“Is that true?” I asked the bailiff. “What would happen if, say, an employer tried to run a background check on me?”
“If the company is headquartered within the county, they would receive a highly redacted copy of your record, consisting of dates and a one-word verdict, either guilty or innocent. A company outside the county would have their request for records denied entirely,” she said. It’s not the answer I was hoping for. The Emberlight Resort is within the county, but maybe this is all premature anyway. Maybe we’ll be found innocent. I’m in.
“Sounds good,” Vale says reluctantly, and that makes three of us.
“Excellent.” The bailiff lights up. “I’ll contact the judge immediately. He likes to adjudicate these cases as quickly as possible to keep everything hush hush.”
And now we’re here. What happens next isn’t a trial. It’s the judge shouting, and Vale pleading to take all the blame, and Rex elbowing him to be quiet, and me hissing at both of the stupid idiots.
It’s chaos.
We’re found guilty on all charges: vandalism, criminal mischief, aggravated criminal damage, negligent and reckless use of fire, and conspiracy to commit property destruction.
“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.” Vale snorts. “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 gasp. Vale swears. Rex’s head drops to the table with a groan. The judge continues on, railing against our affront to history, but I hear only fragments. My ears are too full of static. He means to humiliate us. That much is clear, and the shame of our sentence is not lost on us.
Humans cringe at the idea of being paid for things they think shouldn’t involve money: sex, friendship, family, etc. But humans are backward as fuck. They don’t see the fallacy in their own logic. When partners exchange pleasure for pleasure, the value one partner places on the other is conveyed in the effort they put into making the other feel good. When value for value isn’t possible, money opens the way for more complex exchanges. An employer pays a worker, and the salary conveys the worth the employer places on the worker’s contributions to the company.
Money literally represents value in the clearest, cleanest, most honest way possible. It belongs at the heart of every meaningful transaction.
For the next twelve weeks, we will have no value. The judge has deemed us worthless.
“My wife! She needs me,” Vale shouts out in desperation. My head snaps up in surprise. What? Is he concussed? He’s not married. I’m sure he’s not.
But then a petite human in a pixie cut steps forward and claims to be his wife. My jaw drops. She’s lying. She has to be. There’s no way the judge will buy this. But he does, or at least he goes along with it, and it turns out the bailiff wasn’t joking when she said the judge has the authority to issue any punishment he deems fit.
As we shuffle our way out of the courtroom, I have this one small comfort—my sentence is less horrific than Vale’s. I wasn’t assigned a spouse. Thank you Mother Darkness. Thank you every god of the pantheon. I shudder at the very thought.
W e’re uncuffed, allowed to change, and ushered to a small office where we meet our probation officer, a large orc woman in a tight-fitting khaki uniform. Her name badge matches the nameplate on her desk: Gertie Dale. “Alright, the terms of your probation are spelled out here. You will each need to sign a copy indicating you understand them.” Her voice is gruff and matter-of-fact, like she’s reciting a well-worn script. She hands us each a packet of stapled papers, then proceeds to summarize for us.
“You are confined to the county for the duration of your twelve-week probationary period. You are not permitted to set foot in any establishment that is licensed as a bar or liquor store during this time. All of your driver’s licenses are suspended as of today, and you are each responsible for completing two hundred and fifty hours of community service by the end of your twelve weeks. That’s roughly twenty one hours a week.” Vale groans loudly, like he’s been punched in the gut, and I make my own soft sob.
Officer Dale rolls her eyes. “You know in some cultures, people just volunteer their time out of the kindness of their hearts. Community service is not that big of a deal. That’s not to say you can skip it,” she adds quickly. “Should you fail to complete a minimum of twenty hours of community service in a given week, you’ll be fined a thousand dollars a week, up to twelve thousand dollars total, and you’ll still be required to complete all two hundred and fifty hours. Those don’t go away.”
“Before I release you, I’ll be fitting each of you with a GPS monitor to track your whereabouts. That information comes to me, and I will log any violations and report them directly to the judge. I will also be giving you time-stamp devices. This device must be activated by your deputized community service compliance officer before they can start logging your time.”
“Who’s that?” Vale asks.
“You are each responsible for finding your own qualified candidate to serve as your CSC officer. The instructions are all in here.” She taps the packet, but then reminds Vale that his wife is his compliance officer. “You other two better get on that quick. Your community service starts Monday and your fines will start accruing the following Tuesday. You’ll also be checking in with me every thirty days. It’s another thousand dollars if you miss a check-in, and jail time to boot, if the judge deems it. So, don’t be late.”
P resent day.
I look over at Chad Robins the Park Ranger, studying his profile. We’re seated close enough I can smell his aftershave and the starch of his uniform. He looks exactly how I remember him from the bar, back when I thought he was just a random guy with sexy forearms and a cock I wanted to ride.
And now what do I think?
He’s an imp , a superstitious part of my brain insists. Like the gods of the pantheon and the Abyss itself; I’m not sure imps actually exist, but I like the idea of them. Agents of chaos roaming among us, working havoc in the world, sometimes for good, sometimes for evil, often for no reason at all. They give me comfort.
Chad is human, but he’s a crafty one, imp-like if not an actual imp. It’s not something I saw coming when I first spotted him, not with those dimples and his cute little hat tricks, but now that I think about it, what a perfect disguise. I wonder just how much I’ve underestimated him.
He appeared out of nowhere in my hour of need and laid friendship on the table like a fucking pro . A brilliantly impish move, far craftier than I would have given any human credit for. And even though I’m on the losing end of our bargain, my pulse flutters and I bite my lip, turned on by how smoothly and unassumingly he negotiated our terms. It took me a second to realize that’s what he was doing.
There’s no shame in taking advantage of the kindness of strangers. It’s almost a shame if you don’t. The world is full of do-gooders, walking, talking take-a-penny trays, just begging to be used. Use them. Because if you don’t, you might just find yourself indebted to family or friends and not repaying them is as shameful as working for free.
I make a mental note to be more careful around him in the future, but at the same time, I let my eyes roam freely up and down his body, not shying away from any parts I care to admire. He’s driving. He won’t notice.
He’s wearing his white hat again, and I’m starting to suspect it’s his cowboy affectation, his small-town charm, that’s to blame for my underestimation of him. His sleeves are rolled up, showing off his thick forearms, and I recall it was equal parts them and his large hands now firmly gripping the wheel that first drew my attention back at the bar. And that was before I knew what his fingers could do. I find them twice as beautiful now, and I have to tear my eyes away before I get too hot and bothered.
I wish he’d asked for something easier to make good on, or something fun like sexual favors. I would've happily boned him for however long it took to make us square, but he went straight for friendship, and now I’ll have to repay him like a friend, tit for tat with interest equal to my gratitude. Again, it’s a bad deal for me, but, fuck, is it hot. I touch the side of my neck just to confirm that I am indeed perspiring ever so slightly.
There is an upside for me, and that’s that friends will do more for you and with fewer questions. Take Vale and Rex, for example. I haven’t seen either of them in years, but if that statue had been a person they’d burned and blown to bits, I'd have helped them bury every last bloody piece.
So at least there's that.
I can pretty much ask him for anything, so long as I know it has to come back to him in some way. Which is why I don't hesitate to make my first request. “Run me by the court house, would you?” If I’m going to be racking up debt to him, I can’t afford any more county fees.
“Sure thing,” he says, and at the next stoplight, he hangs a left.
When I get inside, Vale is seated in the lobby across from Officer Dale’s office. “Is Rex in there?” I ask, nodding toward the closed door.
“Yup. You don’t look so hot,” he says as I take the seat next to him.
“Same to you, scruffy,” I retort, and he chuckles as he rubs a palm over his stubble. Clean shaven and immaculately coiffed, that’s his usual movie-star look, but today, he looks like a dryer sheet that’s been tumbling for too long.
“What a fucking month, huh?” He rubs at his temple.
“Tell me about it.”
We sit quietly for a few minutes before he clears his throat. “Hey, I wanted to run an idea past you.” He glances at me but doesn’t meet my eye. That doesn’t bode well. “This doctor I’m working for, or fake married to or whatever,” he stumbles, “she’s a special psychologist. If you want, I could set up an appointment for you to see her.”
I pull back and give him a hard look. “Excuse you. A special psychologist? What exactly do you think is wrong with me?”
“The iddies ,” he mumbles quietly, but I can’t believe he’s said it out loud. I hiss at him to be quiet as my head swings around to make sure no one is close enough to hear. “She could treat you, or at the very least, diagnose you,” he adds quickly.
“Oh yes, please! Have your little doctor friend create a file on me, officially label me as defective, and send it off to some national medical database so that it follows me around the rest of my life,” I hiss at him. “Can she tack on a DNA sample and credit report too?” Outside of my immediate family, Rex and Vale are the only two people who know I can’t make fire. And that’s already too many people.
“You didn’t destroy the statue, Iggy. You should have let us tell them.” He crosses his arms and shakes his head. The officers noted only two fire marks on the scene. It was an opportunity. If I’d told them I can’t make fire, they might not have booked me, but instead I told Rex and Vale if they valued their lives, they’d keep their mouths shut.
“Like they were going to believe you two drunk idiots, anyway,” I huff.
“Maybe they wouldn’t have, but they’ll definitely believe her. She’s brilliant,” he says, and I catch the smile he’s trying to hide.
“Oh, Sweet Mother Below.” I roll my eyes at him. “Are you seriously falling for some small-town doctor just like in your movie?”
“Life imitates art.” He snorts. “She’s more than a doctor. She’s a scientist, a psychologist in a highly specialized field,” he says, sounding way too impressed. “If you had an official diagnosis from her, my lawyer says your appeal would move quickly. You could be done with all of this in a day or two. You could go home , Iggy. Don’t you want that?”
“You talked to a lawyer about me?” I growl.
“It was all hypothetical. I didn’t mention your name.” He throws his hands up, showing me his palms, like that’ll convince me he’s innocent. “But yeah, of course I did. You shouldn’t be here. It’s not fair.”
“It’s too late.” The damage is done, and it’s my own stupid fault. With the number of shots I pushed onto Rex, the big guy could have broken a lot more than a statue. I’m just glad neither of them were seriously hurt.
“It’s not too late. We’re only thirty days into a twelve week sentence. Let her diagnose you.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I said no!”
He snorts and mutters to himself loud enough for me to hear. “I told her it didn’t have anything to do with her. Demons are too fucking stubborn for their own good.”
Rude.
W hen the door opens, I cut in line ahead of Vale. He shouts after me, “What the fuck, Iggy?” and I throw him the finger.
“This is what you get for talking to lawyers and doctors about me behind my back,” I say as I push past Rex with a quickly murmured, “Hey, buddy,” before I close the door and take my seat across from Officer Dale.
“Miss Henix,” she says my name like a weary sigh. She’s wearing the exact same khaki uniform and her hair is braided the same way as it was thirty days ago. It’s enough to give the impression that she never leaves this place. “I certainly wasn’t expecting to see your pretty face today, seeing as how you’ve been blatantly non-compliant with your community service.” She shifts back in her chair and raises a green eyebrow at me like she’s expecting a good excuse. I have none.
“I’m glad I could exceed your expectations?” I say and flash her a big smile.
She snorts a laugh. “Cute,” she says. “But cute isn’t going to pay off your fines. You’ve already accrued three thousand dollars in non-compliance fees, and you’re staring down the barrel at four thousand! Your time stamp device hasn’t even been activated yet. Do you still have it?” she asks. I pull the bracelet-shaped device from my purse and place it on the desk between us.
“Brand spanking new. Not a scratch on it,” I say, hoping that might count for something.
“It’s not supposed to be new. It’s supposed to be seeing regular use. Was that not clear? You were supposed to find a volunteer position at an appropriate institution and a supervisor willing to swear in as your community service compliance officer. Have you even started looking?”
“Yes! I’m working on it,” I say, a blatant lie.
“Well, you better work faster. You have until Monday to start logging hours. Otherwise, the judge will issue a warrant for your arrest, and the remainder of your twelve week sentence will be served behind bars.”
Fuck.
I ’m in and out in twenty minutes. When I get back to the truck, Chad asks if I have any other errands to run. Based on his obliging smile, I’m assuming he’s tallying up the extra I’ll owe him for additional excursions. I make the same calculation before reminding him of his offer to pick up my luggage from the bed and breakfast. It’s worth it. I need my stuff.
“Right! We’ll swing by there, and then head to my place,” he says and starts the engine.
“I thought I was staying with your niece,” I say as he pulls away and we head across town.
“We live on the same property,” he says.
“Oh, good.” That’s handy. “You’ll be close by if I need anything,” I say.
He glances at me and a slight blush warms his cheeks, turning them a very yummy pink. “A stone’s throw,” he says and shoots me a flirty soft smile. Damn it. I definitely should have counter-offered with sexual favors. I’d like to crawl into his lap right now.
Instead, I’m going to need to start writing down what I owe him. Conveniently, there’s a pocket notebook up on the dashboard. “Can I have this?” I ask as I snatch it up and flip it open. It’s full of tight, neat handwriting, and without thinking, I read aloud from the top of the page, “Meeting you is as delightfully unexpected as a fresh spring rain on a bright, sunny day.” I snort a laugh as he snatches the notebook from my hand.
“That’s private,” he says, and the blush in his cheeks goes from pink to red.
I laugh, I can’t help it. “Are you planning what you’ll say when you ‘unexpectedly’ meet someone?” I ask. Come on, that’s funny.
“I like to prepare for all sorts of scenarios,” he says gruffly. “If I meet someone special, I don’t want my head to go blank, choke and miss my shot. I want to have a good line ready. That’s not so dumb, is it?” He glances at me, and I can tell he’s genuinely asking.
“No,” I admit. Not when he puts it that way. “It’s not dumb. In fact—” I straighten in my seat as a brilliant idea lights up my brain. “I could help you!”
“Help me?”
“Yeah. I’ll help you come up with conversation starters, pickup lines, or whatnot. I’ll even help you practice so that you sound natural when you’re making your moves and reelin’ in the ladies.” I wiggle my shoulders and make a kissy face at him.
He shoots me a questioning sidelong glance.
“What?” I ask. “You’re helping me. I’ll help you.” Tit for tat. “Because we’re friends .”
“Because we’re friends,” he repeats.
“What do you say? Does this sound like an acceptable way for one friend to repay another for their kindness?” I ask. Come on, agree to it, I think at him loudly as I bite my nail. I need this. I have a negative bank balance and very few useful skills. If I’m going to pay him back, I’m going to need to take advantage of every opportunity that presents itself.
“You want to help me pick up women?” He glances at me, his brow crimped.
I flash back to the night at the bar as I watched him hop from one woman to the next, trying to pick up anyone and everyone. At the time, I found it amusing, but now–I don’t know. My stomach gives a little uncomfortable twist. I push the feeling aside. “Yep, I want to help you bag every babe in the whole town,” I say with my most confident smile, the one I’ve been practicing for interviews.
“I’ll think about it,” he says, but he doesn’t sound too enthusiastic.
“What’s there to think about?” I ask with an edge of desperation. “You need my help!” I insist. “You are way too free with your adjectives. You stack them up like pancakes and pour on the syrup. It’s too much. Good ad copy is punchy, enticing. It makes its point in the fewest words possible.” I feel it the moment I move into marketing mode. My brain kicks into gear. I focus. I’ve never thought about flirting as a type of marketing, but with two seconds to consider it, I’m a hundred percent sure the rules of the industry apply here.
“I’m not trying to advertise myself,” he says with a dismissive snort.
“Then that’s your first mistake. You’re a tall, sexy guy with dimples, for fuck’s sake.” I gesture at him up and down. “The visuals are delivering. Your ad copy must suck if you’re not sealing the deal. Let me help you.” This I’m good at. I know what I’m talking about. I really could help him if he’ll let me.
He gives me a dubious look, but eventually he nods. “Alright, if that’s what you want.”
“Yeah, it’s what I want!” I grin and slap the dashboard in my excitement. “This is great! We’re going to wallpaper your bedroom in moist panties. I’ll have PETA on your ass for all the thigh meat you’ll be chomping. Your cock will be so wet, we’ll have to fit it with a life vest. You’ll be balls deep in–”
“We’re here!” he shouts and hops out of the truck.
Oh. I look up to see a two-story tudor home with a brown roof, white brick, and green trim. What a cute place.