I got out with my purse slung over my shoulder, my brother’s gun in one hand and my brother’s cage in the other. “You sent your invitation already, so you get the fuck off my lawn, or I’ll send you back to your family with a new hole. If you’re lucky, I’ll patch it before tossing you into the street so you don’t make a mess on my grass.”
As I’d expected my brother to get me into shit one way or another, I stepped so I presented as small a target as possible, extended the firearm, and waited.
The shock on his face amused me.
Revenge would be far more fun if they offered me a little challenge while I destroyed them. After all, I needed to achieve my gold standard and make the Devil cringe.
I smiled for my unwanted guest. “Did you really expect me to go unarmed after I had a gun held to my head once already today? Obviously, since you’re on my doorstep probably trying to deliver some new threat. Deliver it, then you get your ass the fuck off my property. You’ve finished your business with my brother, you’ve issued your threats, and while my brother may have broken the law, I haven’t, this is my house, and I will call the cops.”
“You’ll call the cops?”
“A bunch of men broke into my house, turned my brother into a chipmunk, and threatened me. Unlike my idiot brother here, I have a clean record and no association with you cockwombles. So, yes. I fully intend to call the cops, and if I have to shoot you first for being on my lawn and trespassing, well, that’s a pity, isn’t it?”
“How did an ass like him have a sister like you?”
“I’d say ask our ma, but she abandoned ship.” That was better than saying she’d died and left me the house since she hadn’t trusted my brother. The way I figured it, she’d been one hell of a smart woman, and I hoped she was taking over heaven along with our pa.
Nobody believed our pa had been a well-respected pastor.
He hadn’t taken the emergence well, growing up with his religious beliefs challenged by the strange and stranger. Some days, I wished the angel hadn’t come calling. My pa might’ve lived a little longer that way.
Then again, maybe not. His heart would’ve given out on him eventually.
While I usually practiced good trigger discipline, I eased my finger onto the trigger to make it clear I’d shoot if given a single excuse. “Well, what’ll it be? You going to leave peacefully, or will I be shooting you before I call the cops?”
“We don’t need to bring the cops into this.”
“You’re a lot dumber than you look. You used a transformative on him. That’s permanent. Law says I’ve gotta report his new status as a chipmunk. If you braindead morons wanted to keep the cops out of it, you should’ve done something else.”
“You’re one of those law-abiding goody-goodies?”
“I get a paycheck for becoming my brother’s caretaker, and they might be able to help me restore him back to human. If you didn’t want me calling the cops, you should have picked a different plan. Now get the fuck off my property. The safety is off, a round is chambered, and what’s one less of you thugs out to bother people?”
“I have a message for you.”
“Deliver it by mail, then, and don’t you even think about making me pay postage.”
“But—”
“I’m about three seconds from shooting you, and I really don’t give a fuck if I put the round through your forehead. You got me? If you haven’t figured out I mean business, look really carefully where my finger is resting.”
He checked, and he had enough sense to blanch. “I’ll be telling the boss about this, little girl.”
“Tell him if he wants any money out of my brother, well, you idiots should’ve left him in a form he’s capable of paying in. Leave. Now.”
He did, and he got into a black car. I made a show of clearing the chamber, popping out the magazine, replacing the round, and restoring the firearm to working order before gesturing with the weapon for him to leave.
While shooting out one of his tires would’ve appeased my temper, I let him go.
I had enough troubles without doing more than informing the assholes I wouldn’t go down without a fight.
Two
Rule one: angels did not like when people reacted to their lack of a head.
Taking my brother to the police station earned me a lot of odd looks, and while I waited for my turn to speak with the lady behind the plexiglass shield, I wondered why the cops bothered with such flimsy protection. Ever since magic had come flooding into the world, guns had made way for fancier ways of killing people, and the shields they favored might stop a bullet, but it did little good against a practitioner with a grudge.
The guy in front of me left with a slip of paper, and I went up to the counter, set my brother onto the ledge, and said, “Some mafia thugs turned my brother into this chipmunk, and they told me to pay them. I have a clean record, and I request an audience with a divine.”
A divine might help. I’d get an angel; the police worked with angels all the time, and they tended to like humans to a certain degree. I’d also get the truth and nothing but the truth out of an angel. If an angel couldn’t help me, I could ask if they could put me in touch with another divine who might be able to undo what the mafia had done to my brother.
“Name?”
“His or mine?”
“Start with his, then give me yours, please.”
“Jonas Esmaranda. He has a record, mostly misdemeanors. I’m Darlene Esmaranda.” I pointed in the direction of our house and told her where I lived. Then, because I bet one of the scarred assholes had a record, I described each and every last one of the cockwombles who’d poisoned my brother with a transformative.
The cop dutifully wrote down my report, and she pointed to one of the hard plastic and metal chairs bolted to the floor along the wall. “Sit there, and I’ll pass along your request for a divine to verify Mr. Esmaranda’s condition and listen to your statement.”
“Thank you.” I sat down where directed, put my brother on my lap, and settled in to wait. I’d never made use of an angel before, but after running with my brother and his crowd, I’d heard stories about them.
Rule one: angels did not like when people reacted to their lack of a head.
Rule two: angels really didn’t like when people cursed too much, but a little cursing was okay as long as you didn’t commit some act of blasphemy.
Rule three: definitely don’t mention anything about Jesus Christ doing anything on any crackers.
I thought the rules were a little weird, but I could understand the first rule. Of course, the only frame of reference I had was watching people stuck in wheelchairs reacting to the thoughtless reactions of others.
I’d learned early on the best way to handle those in wheelchairs was to smile, offer to help them with pesky doors, and push them up ramps as needed. Once, a little old lady stuck in her chair had needed to go up three steps, so I’d put down my bag and shoved her whole chair up the steps to get her in the store, and because I figured other humans were garbage, I’d waited for her to finish her shopping before helping her down the steps again.