"I have received," Valerius says, scrolling, "fourteen complaints. In 24 hours."
"From who?"
"Several residents filed multiple times. As is their right under Section 4, Subsection B, Paragraph 12 of the community charter." Valerius pockets the phone. "Which you helped draft, Flynn. I shouldn't need to remind you."
Flynn's jaw does the cable thing again. Harder this time.
Valerius clasps his hands behind his back and walks the property border. My property line. His Italian shoes step precisely along the invisible boundary, and I swear he can see it. Some elf nonsense. Boundary magic. Ley lines. Whatever it is that makes elves obsessed with borders and zoning laws.
"This neighborhood maintains standards." He pauses at the fence gap between our yards. Examines it. "Standards that are, at present, being violated by both properties."
"Now wait a minute." Flynn steps forward. "My lawn was immaculate before these birds?—"
"Your lawn has fourteen unauthorized ornamental installations and—" Valerius crouches, touches a divot, rubs the soil between his fingers like a forensic analyst. "—significant turf damage. You are in violation."
"I didn't PUT them there."
"Accountability is not contingent on intent. Section 7."
Flynn's hands ball into fists at his sides. The knuckles go pale green.
Valerius straightens. Brushes invisible dirt from his knee. Now he looks at me. The eyes are pale blue, almost white, and absolutely empty of warmth. Like staring into a glacier that's filed a lawsuit.
"You have seventy-two hours. Both of you. Restore full compliance with the community aesthetic code, or I will initiate eviction proceedings."
"You can't evict someone for flamingos!"
"I can evict someone for this many concurrent violations, property damage to communal green space, and—" He glances at the tire tracks in my wildflowers. His tire tracks. "—failure to maintain the street-facing planting strip."
"YOU ran over the planting strip!"
He ignores this. Turns toward his car. Pauses.
Snaps his fingers.
The sound is crisp. A single clean crack, like a branch breaking in winter. And from the trunk of his Audi, which should not be large enough to contain what comes out of it, two shapes unfold.
Stone. Grey. Winged.
Gargoyles. Each one carved from granite, with clawed feet and flat, empty faces. They hit the sidewalk and the concrete cracks under their weight. Their heads swivel. One locks onto my yard. The other onto Flynn's.
"They'll be monitoring the property divider." Valerius opens his car door. "Seventy-two hours."
The gargoyles settle onto my crushed wildflower strip like grotesque bookends. Their stone eyes don't blink. A flamingo approaches one, pecks its foot, and the gargoyle's head rotates forty-five degrees with the grinding sound of a millstone.
The flamingo retreats.
Flynn and I stand shoulder to shoulder in the ruins of my herb garden, watching a silver Audi reverse off the curb and glide down the street like nothing happened.
"So," I say. "That's Valerius."
Flynn exhales through his nose. A long, slow breath that carries the weight of years.
"That's Valerius."
The gargoyles stare at us. Unblinking. Unmoving. Carved smiles fixed in permanent, bureaucratic malice.
CHAPTER 4
