“Ding, ding, ding! What do we have for our winner, Bob?” I reply cheerfully.
The cell goes quiet, all except for the steady bouncing of my ball against the wall. I clear my throat. “Um...you should probably go,” I point out. “Don’t want to get caught and end up where I am, right? Well...unless you want to hide out too. But let me just tell you, it takes way longer to get punished than you think it will. I mean, I broke so many laws! What the hell is taking them so long?” I shake my head. “The paranormal judicial system needs some serious work.”
He blinks. I bounce.
During his silent gaping, the prison alarms start going off really loudly and red emergency lights begin to flash. I point at the flashing lights and gesture for him to run along. “See? You better hurry up.”
I pull my borrowed headphones back over my ears and blare some Backstreet Boys to drown out the noise. I sigh and shake my head when the militia reject starts to fiddle with the lock on my cell door instead of making a break for it like I told him to.
Suddenly, there’s an explosion of magic and sulfur, and my door bursts open. Sitting up, I cough and glare, waving my hand in front of my face to try and dispel the black glittering smoke that’s now filling my cell.
Dammit. I was having such a nice day today, too.
Scarface runs up and grabs me, and that’s when I stop being Miss Nice Cockatrice.
One second, he’s hauling me to my feet, and the next, I grab his wrist, spin faster than he can blink, and I pivot. Using my momentum and strength, I lift him clear off the floor and flip him over, sending him crashing onto his back. His head smacks against my metal bed frame with a sickening crack, and just like that, the dude is out cold.
“Maybe next time, you’ll listen to me,” I tut as I dust off my hands and lie back down on my bed.
Getting comfortable again, I grab one of the magazines that I keep stuffed under my thin mattress. Flipping to the article the guard Paul told me about, I’m just getting to the part about how chandeliers are a necessity in creating an awesome she-shed, when two prison guards come running in. They take one look at my open cell door, the magic smoke still polluting the air, the unconscious male on the ground, and turn gaping looks at me.
I give them a bright smile and point down at Scarface. “Hey, Paul. Could you clean that up for me? I think he wet himself.”
Paul lowers his gun and pulls off his SWAT-style helmet. “Another one?” he asks, jerking his chin toward my uninvited cell guest.
I shrug my shoulders and give him an apologetic smile. He shakes his head and nudges the unconscious jail-breaker with his boot. “Damn. We need to up our security. We aren’t used to so many supernaturals trying to break someone out of here,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as he frowns in thought.
“Yeah, it’s very disruptive,” I tell him.
He grunts in agreement. “Good thing your ride is here,” Paul mentions casually as my unwelcome cell guest groans loudly from the floor.
I squeal and start clapping excitedly, which startles both guards. “Yes, finally!” I shoot up from my cot and thrust both arms out, ready for the required shackles whenever a prisoner is being transported.
Paul releases an amused chuckle, and Terrence—the other guard in my cell right now—gives me some judgement-laced side-eye as I giggle and wait like a kid on Christmas morning for the cuffs to click into place.
I’m finally going to be sentenced and booked into Nightmare Penitentiary. I can’t fucking wait.
My knee bounces up and down rapidly. The movement jingles the links connected to my tail chain, my ankle chain, and my wrist chain. I’m two people away from freedom, and it’s so close I can almost taste it.
The armored car ride over here was thankfully uneventful. I was thoroughly searched by a dour female guard once I arrived, and then I was grunted at by the most useless lawyer I could find. After all that excitement, I was led to this side room where all the other prisoners are waiting for their time in front of the judge.
“Judge O’Vine likes it when you look nervous,” a large wolf shifter to my left announces.
I turn to her, ready to announce that it’s not nerves but eager anticipation that has me all bouncy, but she keeps talking.
“He likes the contrite pretty ones, so you should be fine. Mind your manners and don’t let any foul language sneak out. You’ll have probation in no time,” she adds, looking me over like she can read my rap sheet with just a glance.
I offer her a sweet smile and start compiling a list of swear words to use in my head. I should’ve gotten that neck tattoo I was planning on, but there just wasn’t time. Damn my matriarch for fucking with things and throwing me off schedule.
The dirty door in the yellowing tiled room suddenly opens, and I look up. “Case 11764,” a deep voice calls.
I shoot up out of my seat like a rocket. “That’s me!”
The wolf shifter next to me snickers, and I can almost hear the accusation of rookie in it. I ignore the aural jibe and square my shoulders, trying to look as rough and unapologetic as possible.
I’m escorted into a room that looks like it was decorated by a woodchuck. Every inch of it is some different form of lacquered or polished wood, and shiny mahogany benches sit atop a duller floor of the same material. A waist-high partition separates an empty viewing area with two tables, and I breathe a sigh of relief that no one is sitting there waiting to either break me out or speak on my behalf. That would be super inconvenient.
I take a spot behind a table next to my toadstool of a lawyer, which is difficult, because they have my tail chained down to my legs, and it makes sitting awkward. I look down at the yellow, orange, and red feathers that tip my scaled tail and make sure they’re all accounted for. Nothing I hate worse than losing pretty tail feathers. They’re a cockatrice’s pride and joy.
I get myself settled as much as I can and look up to find a—surprise, surprise—mahogany judge’s bench. A massive black-robed figure shuffles papers as I take my place, and I can’t help but stare at Judge O’Vine because the dude is a massive minotaur.
I’ve never seen one in person before. I’m completely taken aback by just how gargantuan he is. I run my surprised green eyes over his furry arms and his serious rack—of horns, that is.
I’m tempted to immediately shift my hair until it’s blood-red, instead of the ombré yellow-orange that I love, but I decide to wait. I’ll keep that as the pièce de résistance in case my sailor mouth and give no fucks attitude doesn’t get the job done.
The prosecutor clears his throat. “Sentencing case 11764: The Supernatural People against Sinclair Denali, a female cockatrice shifter who has been convicted of: Breaking and Entering, Grand Theft Auto, Indecent Exposure, Disturbing the Peace, Public Endangerment, Reckless Driving, Evading Arrest, Assault, Assault with a Deadly Weapon—”
“It was a glitter bomb,” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “How is a glitter bomb classified as a deadly weapon?” I demand, internally smiling when the judge glares at me and slams his gavel down twice.
“The defendant will remain silent until all charges are read,” he warns and then turns back toward the suited man reading off my offences.