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Eventually, I hear Sheryl and the rest of the servants nattering, and it breaks me out of my trance. I need to get myself together, so I instruct them to clean, and I get to calculating the tips for the night.
I get to the stranger’s tip last, counting out the gold coins with amazement at his generosity, and leave the bizarre, devil-embedded coin for last.
I stare at it, making spectacular plans in my mind of taking it for myself and skiving off as I move my palm to hover over its surface.
The coin begins to shake. By the time I realize this … it is entirely too late.
I curl my fingers to lift it from the bar’s surface, and it magnetizes itself to my palm. As it slams into my fist, I feel a burn as if I was wrapping my hand around a red hot iron, a burning pain unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
I somehow manage to turn my hand to face me, and just as I do this, green and purple streaks of color emit from the ridges of the coin as it slowly embeds itself into my hand.
“Fuuuck!”
The pain is unbearable, and I fall to my knees, watching the coin slowly sink into my muscles and bone. It sears harshly, a singing scent of burned flesh rising to my nostrils, and the last thing I hear before I fall into the black void is Sheryl calling my name.
TWO
SYSTORAK
I stand in my usual position, watching the action with no chance of getting in on any of it. I slide my jaw back and forth, an unconscious habit developed over the many ages of standing on the sidelines, frustrated, ignored, and underestimated to the nth degree.
Acting as the head Constable of security, which isn’t exactly something to scoff at, I know the king’s court like the back of my scaly hand. I’ve been accused many a time of being particularly dim-witted, a dead-eyed troll of sorts, under a bridge. I do what I can to ignore these jabs despite the river of lava that surges through me whenever it presents itself.
If I manage to stay off to the side in the grand hall, paying a keen eye … plus the extra seven eyes that run up the top of my skull … to the ongoings and make sure nothing gets too unruly, then I can get through my day mostly unscathed by their arbitrary insults.
Those observations sting more than the violence I crave. I am a trolvor demon, which means that it is embedded within my DNA to yearn for corruption and bloodshed. Yet, my position as head Constable asks for the direct opposite of that … to keep order and detect potential righteous behaviors before they come to a chaotic head.
Sometimes a part of me wants these political waltzes and duels to come to a head so then, at least, I would have something to do other than stand here with my hands cupped in front of me, my other two hands resting against my legs. It is a travesty for me to look this menacing without having any necks to break.
The archduke would have none of that, of course. He, too, comprehends the obsession for violent chaos that rests within the very soul of my demon, but that wouldn’t allow him and the other royals to get anything practical done.
Plus, I don’t think I’d even have a fucking job without him.
I continue grinding my teeth back and forth, back and forth, the enamel surely beginning to disintegrate with the velocity of the habit. Currently, two demons are battling out for the rightful ownership of land, grunting and spewing calls for unlawful invasion of property, slander, blah, blah, blah.
It all has blended together into a single, blobbing shimmer of boring discussion. The observers seated around me yawn, and I can relate.
As the subjects go on, proclaiming truths like a Shakespearean soap opera, I feel the presence of someone coming up behind me.
I turn before he manages to reach out and touch my shoulder.
“What?” I sneer.
It is a messenger from the king who recoils at my response. Fuck. Of all people to release my moodiness upon.
“The king requests your presence immediately with respect,” the messenger says, taking a bow.
The messenger is a young demon, his skin a bright, sensitive red with tinges of pink scattering over his cheeks. His apprehension reminds me of myself at a much younger age, but I scoff at him anyway, projecting my own blossoming sense of anxiety.
“This is an urgent matter, yes?” I grunt.
The messenger nods, his eyes peering at his feet.
I turn back to center stage, where one of the demons who feels the utmost slight has come to his feet, bellowing his plight on something or the other. I scan my eyes around the coliseum where my other security constables are placed … they also look quite ready to doze off.
I flick my head back to the messenger, who shakes slightly at my abrupt movement.
“Wait a moment,” I mutter and stomp over to my second-in-command.
