Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
After spending the night in my new home and sleeping on my cloud-like bed, I feel well-rested and confident.
I arrive on time for my meeting at the livery yard.
As I haven’t been to the stable yard before, I couldn’t zap myself there using my pocket gateway, so instead I got as close as I could and then got a taxi.
Everything was going so well until I was ushered into the yard office.
“Your kind isn’t welcome. You really should have been more transparent on the phone,” the manager hisses at me.
He lets go of my arm with a shudder and promptly pumps hand sanitiser from a bottle on his desk into his palm. Vigorously, he rubs his hands together.
What? Does he know I am part demon? Does everyone know, do I smell of sulphur? Oh my God, that must be it, I must have a demon stink.
“Our livery rates discourage humans. I have never had a human request a stable before—this is unprecedented. This equestrian centre is a human-free establishment.”
Oh. Relief floods me. By my kind he means human.
The yard is a human-free establishment—what a load of codswallop.
I stare at him, grinding my teeth. I’m stuck, because if I tell him I am not entirely human and I am half-demon, he will laugh at me for lying, or worse, call the Hunters’ Guild to arrest me.
To think I wasted taxi money to get here just to be insulted.
He is a boggart, an English fae. Sometimes people call them house-elves; in Ireland, they are called brownies.
Tall, blond, and wiry, the fae sniffs at me with disdain.
Even though he is wearing horse gear from head to toe, he looks like he hasn’t seen or been near a horse in his life.
He’s so spick-and-span, the thought “all the gear and no idea” comes to mind when I look at him and his immaculate, shiny boots.
But as he is the manager of an equestrian centre, he must have the experience, right?
What seems more likely to me is, the human grooms that are outside scurrying around are the ones doing all the work.
Human-free establishment, my ass.
I almost look back at him with a sneer, a rude reply on the tip of my tongue, but I stop myself. Whoa, what the heck is wrong with me? My nana would be ashamed of me, the thought hits me in the chest.
The guy is a boggart; they are renowned for being clean and tidy. That’s what makes them so unique. Perhaps it’s the owner of the yard that sets the no-human-client rules? Maybe he will get into trouble for even having me on the premises.
To protect myself from going all demon-evil I have to do better; I have to be morally beyond reproach. I tap my fingertips on my thigh rhythmically. The canter-strum calms me.
I need to nail the virtues…urm…when I look up what they are. Courage…and something…I squint at the thought. I think there are seven of them, or is that seven sins? I roll my eyes. It doesn’t matter. In the meantime, it’s time to set my rules…
Rule number one: Don’t be a dickhead.
Rule number two: Be kind—always.
Rule number three: Don’t lie to yourself.
Rule number fou…I need to write these down.
The boggart is looking at me as if I am nuts—I’ve been silent for too long. He points at the door with a glare and even taps his shiny foot impatiently.
Oh heck, it’s a shame I have to break a rule right off the bat.
“It’s not for me,” I say, scratching my nose.
With a slight cringe and a shake of my head, I shove my hands behind my back and cross my fingers.
“The stable is for my employer’s horse. He is a demon, Mr…
” I look at the guy’s brown jacket that is placed carefully over his chair, “…Brown.” The lie sticks in my throat, and I swallow down my nervousness.
One small lie doesn’t mean I’m evil…this is for Bob.
“Mr Brown is a barrister for the guilds.”
The guilds enforce the law and prevent crime and civil disorder. The dominant races have their guilds controlling their people, with everyone overseen by the Hunters’ Guild. Which means the guilds are scary and important.
“Oh, Mr Brown…why didn’t you say so?” the boggart says, nodding his blond head as if he and my made-up Mr Brown are besties. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “When will Mr Brown be able to come and sign the livery agreement?”
I huff out a breath, dramatically look around, and drop my voice to a whisper. “Mr Brown is incredibly busy, and he is currently off-world.”
“Off-world?” The boggart whispers back, his voice filled with awe. I nod and put a finger to my lips as if to indicate it’s a secret. He nods back and glances around his—apart from us—empty office. “Of course, of course, say no more.”
“It also depends on whether I find the yard satisfactory. I’m unsure if we’re going to stable Bob here. Mr Brown expects only the best.” Oh God, am I laying it on a bit too thick?
“Of course, of course, let me show you around.”
The livery yard ends up being perfect. It has sixty stables split over several yards.
Some are the American-style barns with the stables enclosed under one roof, with the stable doors overlooking an internal walkway and an external window at the rear.
My favourite yard is where I score an empty stable.
The yard is one of the smaller ones, with only ten stables.
Each large box overlooks a pretty central courtyard.
Designed in a traditional brick style in a horseshoe shape, the adorable stables have a clock tower and a cockerel weathervane.
The facilities are also crazily good, with two huge international-sized indoor riding arenas and three smaller outdoor riding arenas.
There is also a horse walker, a lunging ring and all-year grazing.
There is also a farm ride, so like the estate I can hack Bob out without having to venture onto any roads. The place is incredible.
By the end of my visit, Stuart, the boggart yard manager, is eating out of my hand. He even arranges transport for Bob and all my horsey equipment to be collected from John’s. I pay up front for the full year, and Stuart allows me to sign the livery documents on Mr Brown’s behalf.
Phew.
Oh heck, I will at some point have to magic up a Mr Brown, but after reading a particularly interesting demon book last night before bed, I have a rough plan for that.
I lounge on the red leather sofa, a cover on my lap and a mug of tea in my hand, as I flick through the giant tome balanced precariously on my chest. I should do this at the desk.
The book is so old that I should probably be wearing the fancy white gloves that historians wear to look at old books and parchments.
Instead, I’m sipping tea a little too close to it, and I’m in danger of dripping the liquid onto the pages.
I am an idiot and I’m not thinking. My brain has short-circuited, and I can focus only on the words.
The book has my undivided attention; it is absolutely fascinating.
If I can do what the text indicates…if it is within the scope of my powers… I should…urm…be able to change my face.
Yeah, my face. It seems from further reading that not only can I change my face but my body type and sex…and if I want to, I could switch into an animal form, too. Wow. It’s crazy.
This is one of the reasons demons are so dangerous. This is the reason John kept demanding to see my real face. According to this book—I tap my finger on a page—I can look like whatever I want.
Freaky.
Wide-eyed, I take another mouthful of tea and shiver.
The book isn’t an instruction manual. It hints at how to do things, but it doesn’t give any clear directions or details.
Ahh, magic users are so mean. With the whole, you could do this…
but nah, I’m not telling you how because you should have proper people around you to show you.
Reading between the lines, I think I have a rough idea of what I need to do.
I gulp some more tea and my heart pounds in my ears.
The thought of being able to look like anyone is thrilling.
The possibilities are endless, as it’s not just hypothetically shifting into a person or an animal. According to this book, it’s everything, including clothing and weapons.
Can you imagine…
I’m in a scary situation, and bam, I look like John with all his muscles.
Come on, who is going to mess with John?
Or if I need to blend into a crowd or disappear into a small space?
Being able to change my appearance to blend in is a game-changer.
It’s not like I’m unmemorable; you see my white-blonde hair and there is no missing me.
I’ve always been a pretty girl—oh woe is me, I have long blonde hair and pretty blue eyes, the universe is punishing me…
sob…sob. Ha. I am not moaning about that, but being pretty in this world puts me at risk from the predators.
It makes me an easy target. Add being half-demon without protection to the mix, and I’m doomed.
From my understanding, when shifters turn into animal form, they have to remove their clothing to do so.
A friendly shifter guard at the estate once told me that shifters can use a witch’s potion to shift with their clothing.
But the potions are expensive and difficult to get hold of, and they’re only really available if a shifter is on friendly terms with a talented witch.
The guard sneered at the idea of taking a potion.
I have no idea why…I guess most shifters are men and getting their bits and pieces out in public isn’t an issue for them.
According to this book, demons don’t need to strip. Everything…clothing, jewellery, weaponry…should shift with me. If I can just learn how.
I tap the book in thought. It all hinges on this question: was my father a first-level demon? If he was, there is a possibility that I will also have that level of power, or at least a small version of it anyway.
I have hope, as when the pocket dimension turned into my home, I realised I must be relatively high on the power scale. Why would it adapt so quickly if I wasn’t?
My point is, I would enjoy nothing more than being able to go about my day unnoticed, without the risk of an inappropriate touch or comment. Ultimately, without fear.
Everything I’ve got to do to keep myself safe is almost overwhelming. I have so much to do. I’m so alone.
I’ve never felt so scared or so free.
The nervous excitement I feel at the endless possibilities, but also the stress of pending failure, gives me a mild headache. I put everything away and decide that what I need is to get some fresh air.
I need to go ride Bob and then get some food-shopping.
Which is kind of exciting…I’ve never shopped for food before, and to me, going into the supermarket and filling the trolley with stuff is exciting.
It is such a normal thing to do, a small thing that proves how controlled and insular my life with Arlo was.
Time will tell if my freedom is a good or a bad thing.
I hope I have the time to learn…as I have a horrible, nagging feeling that things are going to get worse.