Chapter Three

Vale

I 've never tasted anything so heavenly in my life. The crispy, golden tater tots almost mask the sour taste of her insecurity lingering in the air. Almost. I sensed her emotion as soon as she walked in, and I haven't been able to shake it since.

The tots are helping, though. Before I'm even finished with the first basket, she's waving down the waitress for another and a fresh pitcher of water. Good girl. It's the least she could do for stinking up the place with her anxiety.

My trainer's going to have an aneurysm when he finds out about this little accidental cheat meal. Though filming wrapped almost a year ago, with the press junket starting soon, I'm expected to maintain my peak physical condition. I haven't had fried food in so damn long. I wish washboard abs weren’t so high maintenance.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, the vibration feeling like a tiny earthquake against my thigh. I ignore it, just like I've been doing all evening. Whatever shitstorm is brewing can wait until I finish my tots.

She pours me a glass of water and slides it across the table without a word. I steal a glance at her over the rim as I wash down my food, my buzz quickly fading. Her short brown hair is neatly styled, a few strands falling across her forehead. Her blue eyes, framed by a smattering of freckles, are fixed curiously on me. If I were casting her in a movie, she'd be the nerdy best friend. Or maybe the bookworm secretly dating the star quarterback. Either way, definitely not the lead. But there's something intriguing about her that I can’t quite put my finger on.

“So, what's my problem?” she asks, her tone controlled but curious. It's hard to take her prim and proper exterior seriously when her insecurity hangs in the air like a storm cloud.

I lean in, lowering my voice. “I don't know how to tell you this politely, so I'm just going to say it—you taste bad. I scented you when you first walked in.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “I taste bad?” Her voice trails off and then her eyes widen with understanding. “You're talking about your vomeronasal organ, aren't you?”

I blink, surprised. "My what now?"

She gestures vaguely in the air with her hand, as if that'll explain what the hell a vomeronasal is. "You know, the auxiliary olfactory sense organ found in demons," she explains, a hint of excitement in her voice.

"I didn't know there was a name for it, but sure." Our eyes meet, and for a brief moment, I forget why I came over here. I clear my throat. "Right. You're some kind of doctor then. A therapist, I'm guessing?" She nods reluctantly. "No self-respecting demon will trust you if you're tasting like that."

She arches an eyebrow. "You were eavesdropping on my call?"

"Not on purpose." I gesture to the service window right next to us, where I was minding my own business, wallowing in peace until she showed up and interrupted with her loud phone call.

Her cheeks flush, a mix of embarrassment and indignation. "Oh, God. Well, what do I do? How do I fix my scent?”

I lean back in my seat, surveying her. "Easy. Just be confident."

She scoffs, shaking her head. "But I am confident. Maybe not in myself per se, but in the science. I know the research; I've spent most of my twenties studying magical dysfunction. But no matter what I do, I can't convince my patients to stick around long enough to try any of the treatments—"

"Wait. Wait." I lean forward, resting my elbow on the table. "Did you say magical dysfunction?" I glance over my shoulder before whispering, "You mean infernal issues, right?"

"I mean, that's not all. I specialize in magical dysfunction for all species—orcs, shifters, fae. But to answer your question, yes, that's what I came to Winter Bliss for."

"There's your problem. You can't fix a demon who can’t spark."

She scoffs. "What are you talking about? Of course you can."

I give her an incredulous look. "Seriously? I know you're new to the area and probably haven't lived in a town where demons make up the majority of the population, but our fire magic has been around since the beginning of time. Ancient problems can’t be fixed by modern solutions. If there was a cure, demons would have found it already."

"No, you're wrong, there is a cure. I've seen it."

"Let me guess, you’re a rep from one of those high intensity training camps? Or are you peddling some of those magic pills that are supposed to fix a demon overnight? Please.” This conversation makes me think of Iggy, who struggled with the same issue. Growing up, her parents sent her to all kinds of camps, hoping to fix her problem. Those training facilities only seemed to make it worse.

"No," she insists. "Because the data and the research shows those methods are not effective. They never have been. To treat the issue, you have to treat the underlying problem. For 99% of patients, it's psychosomatic.” I raise an eyebrow. “A mental block,” she adds.

I lean back, crossing my arms. “And let me guess, you're the miracle worker who 's going to fix—sorry, unblock —all the broken demons in Winter Bliss?”

Her eyes flash with anger. “I'm not claiming to be a miracle worker. I'm a scientist, and I have evidence-based treatments that have shown promising results. But I can't help anyone if they won't even give me a chance.” Her face set with determination. “So, how do I do it? How do I fix my scent?”

"I already told you. Confidence. You've got to relax." I grin.

She scoffs, shaking her head in disagreement. "You're teasing me."

"No, I’m being serious." I straighten in my seat. "C’mon, you're a therapist. Don't tell me this is a new concept for you. All you do is just relax.”

"But I am relaxed—"

My phone buzzes, cutting her off. I'm relieved humans can't scent emotions like demons because I'm sure the new rush of fear pumping through my bloodstream right now is distracting. She's perceptive though because her gaze falls, searching out the annoying buzzing in my pocket, and when our eyes meet, I see a flicker of understanding in her intelligent eyes.

"Let's practice. I'm a demon with magical dysfunction coming into your office for the first time. What do you say?"

She glances around nervously at the other tables, but they're too distracted to notice us. She takes a deep breath and turns to me. "Well, I guess first I would—"

"Stop.” I wave my hand. "Your body language is all wrong. I can see the tension running all the way from your jaw to your shoulder."

She deflates, shoulders sagging. "What should I do?"

I find myself leaning closer, reaching across the table. Her eyes widen at the breach of her personal space, but she doesn't move. "Breathing helps. And practice relaxed positions." Without thinking, I reach out, gently touching her shoulder. She's so tense, her muscles feel like granite. I rub my hand down her long, elegant neck all the way down her shoulder. "Like this. Now take a deep breath in and out."

She doesn't pull away. Instead, she follows my breathing, her body relaxing immediately at my touch. A small smile plays on her lips as she watches me closely.

"That better?" she asks.

I nod, squeezing her shoulder lightly, suddenly aware of how close we are. I can see the faint freckles dusting her nose. We're so close, I could count her thick eyelashes. "Much," I reply, my voice rougher than I intended.

Suddenly, a bright flash erupts from somewhere behind us. I jerk away, my head whipping around to scan the porch. For a split second, I swear I catch a glimpse of a retreating figure with faerie wings, but when I blink, she's gone.

"What was that?" the therapist asks, her brow furrowed.

"Did you see someone with a camera?" I demand, my heart racing. If Beck got a photo of us like this . . .

She shakes her head, looking confused. "It was probably just someone's phone going off. Are you okay? You look pale."

I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's nothing." But even as I say it, I can't shake the feeling that this moment is going to come back to bite me in the ass.

I turn back to the woman. The bitterness of her insecurity has disappeared, but a new scent has taken its place—the sweet scent of her arousal dances across my tongue, catching me off guard. I sit back down and remove my hand from her shoulder.

Her posture has eased, but there's a new tension between us, electric and undeniable. "You're not from around here, are you?" she asks.

“I grew up here, but I moved away as soon as I graduated. I'm just here for the night.” My pocket buzzes again and although I manage to keep a calm composure, I can feel the blood draining from my face.

She tilts her head, her narrowed gaze studying me. "Who are you avoiding?"

I freeze. "What?"

"Your phone. You're letting it ring, but you're scared to look at it. Which is interesting, considering how confident you seem. Why are you scared?" For a moment, I can imagine her as a therapist, sitting across from me in a plush, leather seat, jotting down notes as I pour my heart out to her. I've got plenty of issues, but nothing she can help with.

I rub my jaw, tension creeping back in. "I'm not scared. It's just m-m-my—" I cut myself off, cursing internally.

Her eyebrows rise at the stutter, but she doesn't comment. Still, I can almost hear the psychoanalysis she's already forming about me in her head. Instead, she asks, "What do you do for work?"

"I'm an actor."

She doesn't give me the reaction I'm secretly hoping for—impressed. Even in LA, where the general population is teeming with wannabe actors and other creatives looking for their big break, when I meet someone and tell them what I do for work, they still act interested. She just nods her head at the answer as if collecting more data for her mental report.

"Anything I might have seen?"

I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Nothing important.”

She leans in, her voice low. "So, what brings a Hollywood actor back to our sleepy little town?"

The warmth of her breath sends a shiver down my spine. "Some PR thing. I was supposed to be interviewed by some magazine about what it was like growing up here, but. . ."

"But what?"

"The journalist canceled at the last minute," I lie.

"Their loss," she murmurs. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, "Or is it? Maybe you're running from something. Or someone."

I laugh, but it comes out forced. "What makes you say that?"

She gestures to my pocket. "Your phone hasn't stopped buzzing since you sat down. And you're here, in a small-town bar, talking to a stranger instead of dealing with whatever's on the other end of those calls."

"Maybe I just like the company," I say, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

With the scent of her arousal—faint, almost shy, but unmistakable—still hanging in the air, I decide to take a chance. It would be a shame to let such a nice hotel room go to waste, and I need to feel good after the shitshow this day has been. “I have a room at the Emberlight Resort. It's got a jacuzzi and a nice view of the mountain. Would you like to continue this conversation over there?” Khastor's country drawl slips out. He does that when I'm tipsy or being flirtatious.

Her cheeks and neck turn a delicious shade of pink, right on the delicate curve where I traced with my fingers. Her scent grows stronger and then suddenly, it vanishes, leaving me wondering for a pathetic moment if it really happened or if I imagined it. "You don't even know my name," she says, sounding more disappointed than offended.

"That makes it easier, right? I'm only here for one night—" I cut myself off with a wince, mentally kicking myself. I’m so used to the dating culture in LA. The few women I have slept with don't even bother sticking around the full night, always gone before the sun.

I should have known that the expectations would be different in Winter Bliss. Women aren't looking for one-night flings—they're women with small-town values. They want connection, courtship, marriage, and babies. And I don't have the time or the emotional bandwidth for those types of things. I regret opening my stupid mouth in the first place.

"I should go," she says, jumping to her feet and grabbing her purse off the back of her seat.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. My name is Vale."

I wait for her to give me her name in return, but she doesn’t. She adjusts the strap of her purse on her shoulder and gives me a polite smile instead. "You didn't offend me. I just . . . I have someone waiting for me at home."

I grimace. "I didn’t know you were taken.”

She opens her mouth but seems to stop herself, shaking her head as if changing her mind. "You have a nice night, Vale. Thank you for your advice." With that, she turns and walks across the porch. I watch her the entire time, admiring her slender build and long legs, until she disappears down the street, out of view.

I've grown a pretty hard protective shell over the years from the vicious cycle of auditioning for parts and being constantly rejected—it’s the only way to survive such a cutthroat industry—but for some reason, her rejection stings.

What was I thinking, propositioning a stranger in my hometown? If word got out, Erin would have my head. Especially since she's so set on creating a fake relationship between my costar, Aria Starling, and I to promote the new movie.

And yet, I feel an unexpected pang of regret from the strange human’s absence. For the first time tonight, I'd actually forgotten about my problems for a moment.

As her scent fades, replaced by the familiar smells of the bar—stale beer, fried food, and a hint of smoke—I'm left with a strange emptiness. My phone buzzes again, and this time, instead of ignoring it, I pull it out.

Twenty-seven missed calls from Erin. Fifty-three text messages.

I take a deep breath, the taste of tater tots still lingering on my tongue. I slide my phone into my pocket. One more drink and then I’ll face Erin’s wrath.

S he wouldn't have turned down Khastor Duskfyre, my inner critic whispers.

Khastor would have remembered to ask for her name, I snark back, too exhausted and downtrodden to entertain that asshole any longer.

Once I’m finished with my last drink, I push up from my seat, and my legs wobble like I'm doing a scene on a shaky dolly track. I grab the edge of the table for support, my whole body trembling. Despite the physical instability, I keep my face carefully composed. I'm a trained professional, after all.

The bar around me pulses with the dull roar of conversation and clinking glasses. The sharp scent of whiskey mingles with the earthier aroma of bar snacks. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, inching closer to the exit.

A flash of movement catches my eye. A demoness with a double set of horns rounds the corner, her dangly gold jewelry jingling as she beelines for the exit.

I freeze in my tracks.

Holy Abyss, it can't be—

Heart pounding, I pick up my pace to intercept her before she leaves the bar and disappears into the night. "Iggy?" I call out, my voice cracking slightly.

She startles at the sound of her name, shoulders tensing. For one mortifying moment, I think I've mistaken a stranger for my childhood friend. Iggy moved far away after graduation, vowing to leave this place in her rearview mirror and never look back—just like I did. There's no way it's actually her—

She turns, and her eyes widen with recognition. "Vale? Holy Sweet Mother! What the Great Abyss are you doing here?" She blinks rapidly, as if not quite trusting her vision.

We've kept in touch over the years through the private demon-developed app where I've posted the occasional selfie documenting my transformation. But seeing the new me in person, especially in contrast to the awkward, pimply, stunted demon she grew up with, must be jarring.

It seems Iggy's had quite the glow-up herself. Gone is the moody goth who carried sketchbooks filled with fire drawings and angsty poems. Before me stands a polished adult, sporting a sleek black bob sharp enough to kill and a fashion sense that perfectly straddles the line between boss and witchy cool girl. The only unchanged detail is her signature gold eyeliner, dramatically accentuating her feline eyes.

She pulls me in for a hug, and I melt into her embrace. Despite her teenage angst and penchant for the macabre, Iggy was always affectionate. Back in school, I'd stiffen when she tried to comfort me after finding me hiding during lunch, my meal inevitably ruined by some bully's "friendly fire." I was always terrified they'd double down on the torment if they caught Iggy consoling me.

This time, I squeeze her back just as tightly, earning a surprised squeak. Maybe Mother Darkness is watching over me after all, because an Iggy hug is exactly what I need after the day I've had.

She pulls away first, searching my face with the same concern she used to show when checking for scorch marks from those combustible lunch incidents. "Are you okay?" she asks, her brow furrowed.

"Yeah, totally fine." I flash her what I hope is a reassuring smile.

"Are you sure?" she presses, and I feel my carefully constructed expression start to crack at the edges.

"Yeah," I insist, struggling to maintain my composure. "It's just . . . weird seeing you here. I thought you were still in M-M-Massachusetts—" I pinch my eyes shut and mutter a quiet "Fuck" under my breath.

Iggy glances around the bar, ensuring no one's eavesdropping. "Shit, Vale," she whispers urgently. "What happened?"

I grimace but don't answer. When my tongue seizes up like this, it's better to wait it out than try to push through.

"How about a drink?" she offers, a gentleness in her voice that makes my chest ache.

"I've already had a few," I mutter, hyperaware of my fading buzz. I shouldn't indulge anymore; I need a clear head to call Erin. But then again, maybe the alcohol will loosen whatever's causing my mouth to seize up. Erin will fire me on the spot if I can't string a sentence together without stuttering.

Iggy sets her jaw with determination, nodding once to herself. The decision has already been made. "I'll get us a couple of rounds. You grab a table," she says, already making her way to the bar.

One more drink and then Erin, I silently promise myself as I return to the table where I'd ambushed that therapist earlier. I slump into my seat, my gaze immediately drawn to the basket of cold tater tots she'd left behind. I take a deep sniff. My stomach growls menacingly, even though I’ve scarfed down one basket already. I know I shouldn’t, but I want more.

"Are you going to eat those or just eye-fuck 'em?" a deep voice booms.

"Go get your own food—" I growl, head snapping up to confront whoever dares stand between me and fried potato salvation. The words die in my throat as I lock eyes with the smug-looking demon towering over me. "Rex?" I nearly topple the table over in my haste to stand.

Rex lets out an amused belly laugh. "Mr. Hollywood," he drawls, stepping closer until we're almost nose-to-nose. His imposing frame hasn't changed a bit—broad-shouldered and solid as a brick wall, with spiraling horns that add another few intimidating inches to his height. A hint of mischief dances in his dark eyes; It's the same look he'd get right before challenging me to a wrestling match. Despite being triple my size when we were kids, he was always gentle—but never quite gentle enough to let me win. His goal was to toughen me up, to help me defend myself when he couldn't be there to kick ass on my behalf.

"I almost didn't recognize you, Vale," Rex says, sizing me up like we're gunslingers about to draw. "I don't know how it's possible, but you got uglier."

I grin at him like a maniac, a flood of nostalgia warming my chest. "And you got stupider," I retort, tipping my head forward to lock horns. Mine may be small, about the size of a roll of quarters, but the slight curve at the ends makes wrestling possible. Now that we're closer in size, maybe I can finally win my first match—

Rex's grin widens as we start to push each other back and forth. We must look ridiculous—two grown demons play-fighting in the middle of a bar—but I couldn't care less. This moment transports me back to our school days, spending every recess roughhousing in the field while Iggy watched from the sidelines, lazily sketching hex marks in the dirt.

"What's that on your face?" I pant, already breathing heavily after just a few minutes. I bend my knees, pushing my full weight against Rex. He rocks back on his heels but quickly reclaims his footing. "Did you glue a dead caterpillar to your lip?"

"The ladies love a mustache," he replies easily. My face feels like it's on fire, sweat beading along my hairline, but Rex looks perfectly composed. Not even slightly winded. Damn him .

With a swift motion I never see coming—how can someone that big move so fast?—he unhooks our horns and slips an arm around my neck, pulling me into a headlock against his chest. I don't fight it; This is our version of a hug.

"Keep practicing, buddy. Maybe one day you'll beat me," he chuckles, ruffling my hair. “Let me buy you a drink. I’ve got some food coming anyway.”

"Rex?"

“I didn't tell you!” I jab him with my elbow. He doesn’t let go. “Iggy's here too! Crazy, right?”

“What? Really?” With his arm still locked around my neck, he pivots us both to face her. She stands frozen, tray of drinks wobbling precariously in her grip. I flash her a ‘look who I found’ grin as Rex finally releases me from the headlock.

“Freak!” Rex shouts. It’s Iggy’s old nickname. I haven’t heard it in fifteen years. I’m guessing by the look on her face, neither has she.

She manages to set the tray down without spilling a drop. "What are you doing here?" Iggy asks, a little breathless, as she slides into an open seat. Rex and I join her at the table.

"I'm in town for family shit," Rex says, helping himself to a shot. "What the Void are you two doing here?"

I stay quiet, not eager to sour the mood by bringing up the journalist fiasco. At least Beck won't miss her Pilates class tomorrow .

"What family shit?" Iggy asks, leaning forward. Rex knocks back his shot before answering. "My brother Rom's engagement party was tonight."

"Rom," Iggy grumbles under her breath like it's a curse. I have to suppress a laugh. There's Iggy, slipping right back into protective mode. Some things never change. But others do. Like the fact that we’re old enough to drink.

Iggy pours a beer for Rex and passes me a fizzy cocktail from her laden tray.

I take a pull from my glass to hide my amusement. I'd never admit it to Rex, and especially not to Iggy, but I never had a problem with Rom. I liked him, actually. We probably would have been friends if we'd been in the same grade—he was a quiet nerd with a speech impediment, just like me. We even shared the same speech therapist.

In fact, Rom was inadvertently responsible for my friendship with Rex. Rom’s appointments were always right before mine, and Rex would be stuck in the waiting room with his mom, dramatically sighing to let the entire office know how bored he was.

It only took a couple of weeks before Rex marched over to me and declared, "I'm fucking sick of this place. Want to arm wrestle?" We'd play for the fifteen or twenty minutes it took for Rom's session to wrap up. Later, when Rex got held back a grade for the second time, we ended up in the same class. From that point on, we were inseparable. Real friends, not just waiting room buddies.

"You have no reason to dislike him," Rex says as he shakes his head at Iggy.

"Nobody does. That's what I loathe about him," Iggy replies, her nose wrinkling in disgust. "Why'd that dick have his party here? I thought all of you lived in Austin."

"Rom moved back. He's marrying a local girl."

An involuntary shudder runs through me. "Can you imagine having to move back here? To the land of perpetual mockery." Acting on a movie set that looked freakishly similar to Winter Bliss was traumatic enough. I couldn't fathom doing it for real.

"Where everyone sees us as losers," Rex adds glumly, absently scratching his chin.

“Would you ever move back?” I ask Iggy. Her lips press into a thin line, and I think she heard me, but then, her eyes dart to something across the room. I glance over my shoulder, trying to follow her gaze, but I can't pinpoint what's caught her eye.

"Iggy?" I repeat. "Would you ever move back?"

Wherever her mind wandered off to, it’s back. She looks at me. "Just to hook up with a local?" she snorts. "No way. Rom's insane. But for a job?" She leans back, considering the hypothetical. "Maybe. For a good enough opportunity, I’d pull up stakes and move anywhere, even this backward little tourist trap.”

I scoff, surprised there are any circumstances where she'd even consider it. "Not me. Not for a million dollars. Not for a billion." As the words leave my mouth, a chill runs down my spine. Why does it feel like I've just tempted fate?

T he world spins lazily around me as I drain the last dregs of my beer. My cheeks ache from laughter, and a pleasant fog has settled over my thoughts. There was something important I was supposed to do tonight, wasn't there? A nagging voice in the back of my mind insists there was, but for the life of me, I can't remember what it was.

Whatever. It'll come to me eventually.

At least one of us got some action tonight.

“Shut up, dumbass!” she growls, and I attempt a witty retort.

"M-m-make us—Fuck!" The alcohol, far from loosening my tongue, has only exacerbated my stutter. The words tangle in my mouth, coming out as gracefully as a demon on ice skates. Iggy winces sympathetically as I look away, cheeks burning, and chug what's left of my beer to drown my embarrassment.

Rex pulls up straight in his chair. "Who do I need to murder?" he growls, cracking his knuckles.

"Go on, tell Rex who needs murderin'," Iggy slurs, her words flowing together like spilled honey.

They're asking about my stutter, I realize. Rex is ready to defend me, just like he did when we were kids. But we're not children anymore, and I'm in no mood to rehash the clusterfuck that was my day.

"Last call!" Greg's voice rings out from the bar, a lifeline I grasp eagerly.

"I'll get us a last round," I announce, lurching to my feet. The room tilts alarmingly, and I grab the edge of the table to steady myself. A chair seems to materialize out of nowhere, nearly sending me sprawling. Stupid, sentient furniture.

I weave my way to the bar, slipping into character as I approach Greg. "Another round for me and my fellow star travelers," I intone in the gravelly baritone of Thraxxius.

Greg's eyes narrow as he takes in my swaying form. "The fuck?" he mutters, before addressing me directly. "No more. You and your friends are cut off."

Oh, Greg. Sweet, na?ve Greg. He doesn't understand that we're not the troublemaking kids he remembers. We're legal now, damn it. I reach over the bar, intent on proving my point by grabbing a bottle of vodka.

Greg's hand shoots out, shoving me back. "I said you're cut off," he snaps. "And if any of you three try getting behind a wheel, I'm calling the cops."

"Fuck you, Greg!" The words explode out of me before I can stop them. To my horror, I feel tears welling up in my eyes. Greg's face softens slightly, and I'm struck by a wave of remorse. "I didn't mean it," I hiccup, attempting to hug him over the bar.

“Vale, this is the second time tonight you've cried at my bar. Please go see a therapist or something.” He pushes me away again, gentler this time.

Greg makes a call, and when I start to panic, he assures me it's just for a ride. But when a black minivan pulls up outside, suspicion prickles at the back of my neck. It's exactly the kind of vehicle an undercover cop would drive.

As Iggy and Rex pile into the back, I claim shotgun. Everyone knows only guilty people ride in the back of cop cars, and I am an innocent, upstanding citizen with a movie to promote.

"Where are you headed?" the driver asks as we pull away from the curb.

I ignore his question, focused on more pressing matters. "Did they tell you I'm going to be in a movie?"

The driver's patience wears thin as he repeatedly asks for our destination. "What's your address? Or at least the name of a place. Are you guys staying at the Emberlight?"

After a few more fruitless attempts, I have a stroke of genius. I fish out my phone, swiping away a barrage of text messages and missed calls—when did I get so popular?—and pull up the trailer for my upcoming film.

"That's me. See?" I thrust the phone at him, nearly smacking him in the face as my character appears on screen. “I’ll sign an autograph for you.”

"I'm driving!" he yelps, the van swerving dangerously before he regains control.

I’ m about to play the trailer again for the driver, just so he has a chance to really soak it in, when he cuts Iggy and Rex a sharp look in the rearview mirror. “Sorry,” Rex grunts, and Iggy starts giggling and rolls down her window. I don’t know what’s going on, but they’re being very distracting. “This is your last chance,” he warns. “I’ll give you ten seconds to tell me an address or I’m dropping you off at town square. Sleep it off there for all I care.” He pulls over, and we stumble out onto the sidewalk.

As the minivan peels away, leaving us in the deserted town square, panic sets in. "Why'd our car leave?" I ask Iggy, my addled brain struggling to process. "Did we tip? I have a five-star reputation to uphold. This could ruin me." Worst of all, he left without his autograph.

Iggy sways in front of me, her smeared gold makeup giving her a slightly deranged look. She opens her mouth to speak, but Rex's angry stomping draws our attention.

We follow him to the foot of a familiar statue. "Alaric Infernus," Rex spits the name like a curse.

As we glare up at the bronze monstrosity, our collective anger seems to crackle in the air. I can almost smell smoke, and power begins to tingle in my palms, my fire eager for release.

Suddenly, it hits me. The important thing I'd forgotten. The reason Mother Darkness herself must have brought us back together after all these years .

A grin spreads across my face as I look at my oldest friends in the world. "We're going to murder this motherfucking statue."

If this were a movie, the camera would pan away now, leaving the audience to imagine the chaos. There'd be a montage of destruction, slow-motion debris, all set to an epic soundtrack.

But this isn't a movie. This is real life, with real consequences.

The rest of the night becomes a blur of adrenaline, fire, and the satisfying crunch of bricks breaking. The searing heat of Rex’s and my combined magic, Iggy's face twisted in shock as things spiral out of control, a deafening boom that shakes the square. Then shouting, sirens, and the sobering click of fire-proof handcuffs.

As I slowly regain consciousness in the police car, stuffed into the backseat with my friends like we’re sardines in a can, reality hits harder than any hangover. My head throbs, my body aches, and the unmistakable feel of cold metal around my wrists confirms my worst fears.

We’re fucked.

T he world swims into focus as I blink my one good eye open, the other swollen shut from debris that caught me during the explosion—at least, that's what I think happened. The details are fuzzy. My head throbs in time with my pulse, each beat sending a fresh wave of pain through my skull. I try to move and immediately regret it, my body protesting with aches in places I didn't even think existed. "Hey! Guard!" I rasp, my throat raw. Whether from shouting or smoke inhalation, I can't remember. The sleeping guard behind the plexiglass doesn't stir. "I need to make a call!" We get one call, right? I’ve never been arrested, but I’ve auditioned for enough procedural dramas to know the rules.

Iggy's voice drifts from the corner, thick with exhaustion. "Save your breath, Vale. She can't hear you."

I turn, wincing at the movement. Iggy's huddled in the corner, covered in soot and looking as wrecked as I feel. Rex's snores rumble from the bench, somehow managing to sleep through this waking nightmare.

"This is my fault," I murmur, the weight of guilt pressing down on me. Flashes of the night before dance through my mind—the statue, the explosion, the chaos. All because I couldn't let go of old grudges.

I have to get us out of here. I summon what little energy I have left, focusing it into my palms. The cell bars begin to glow red-hot under my touch—

"Fuck!" I jerk back, nearly toppling over. The smell of singed flesh fills the air.

"Fireproof," Iggy mutters. "Demon-built."

Of course. I slump against the wall, defeat washing over me. The dank cell seems to absorb all light, all hope. We're trapped, and it's all because of me.

I stare at the sleeping guard, wondering how Khastor would handle this situation. But I'm not Khastor. I'm just Vale, the screw-up who dragged his friends into this mess.

I must have fallen asleep standing at my post because the sound of a thick metal door groaning open jolts me awake. My eyes snap open, and I quickly straighten before leaning casually against the bars like I'm scoping out the dance floor at some exclusive LA club. Fake it 'til you make it, right?

A burly bailiff lumbers down the hallway, her key ring jingling an ominous tune that echoes off the stone walls. As soon as she locks eyes with me, I flash her The Scorcher.

"Well, hello there," I purr, channeling Khastor's honey-smooth drawl. "What's your name, darlin'?"

Behind me, Iggy lets out a disgusted snort. Clearly, she doesn't appreciate my finely honed acting skills. Everyone’s a critic.

"Step back," the bailiff orders, her voice gruff as sandpaper.

My shoulders almost slump forward—almost—until I notice the faintest hint of a blush creeping up from beneath her starched collar. Oh yeah, I've still got it. Even bloodied and bruised, the Vale charm is unstoppable .

"Your wish is my command, Officer," I say with a wink as I slowly back away from the bars. The bailiff's throat bobs as she swallows hard, quickly averting her gaze, as she unlocks our cell.

"You have three options," she announces, producing three pairs of fire-stop gloves. Great. Because being cuffed by normal handcuffs isn't humiliating enough. “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?” I swallow hard, my confidence evaporating like campfire smoke. “Th-that’s s-so extreme!” It becomes harder to breathe as my mind races, imagining the headlines, the career nosedive, Erin's disappointment. I close my eyes, letting out a low groan. Any hope of redemption I had left is gone. There's no going back from this with Erin.

We agree on a tribunal because when in Rome, do as the daemons do. And though one of the benefits of a daemon tribunal is the promise of privacy, I don't get my hopes up. As much as demons love security, there's no keeping secrets in a small town. Winter Bliss will find out the truth one way or another. Especially with a story as juicy as this. It doesn't matter which trial we choose; my fate has already been decided. My rising climb to stardom struck down before I even had a chance to shine.

"I don't need these," Iggy grumbles as the bailiff secures her fire-stop gloves. "Never mind.” Her glare could melt steel, but I pretend not to notice. No need to poke the angry bear—or in this case, the pissed-off demon.

The bailiff barks orders for us to line up and head down the hallway. I take my position, standing at the front of the line. My career may be over, but maybe there’s still hope for my friends? Don't worry, guys, I've got this. They can't read my mind, but I hope they can sense even a flicker of my confidence as they shuffle behind me like two depressed, detained ducklings.

All I need to do is work some Khastor magic on the judge—please, Mother Darkness, let the judge be a 'she'—and we'll be home free before the sun's up. I might not be able to save myself from the bad press, but maybe I can help free my friends. Everything will be fine. I promise. I’ll get you guys out of this mess.

As we round the corner towards the courtroom, a sinking feeling settles in my gut, heavy as a stone. The air feels thicker, charged with an energy that makes my horns tingle.

Who am I kidding? Everything is not fine.