Page 9 of Horn in My Side

MAL

Nonetheless this was one more thing he had to do to settle his uncle’s estate.

Regret loomed over him like a cloud. While the pet shop was the biggest albatross around his neck, selling a whole house ranked a close second.

Maybe he’d be lucky and find someone who would take the lot off his hands, but he doubted someone would buy it as-is.

Buyers, after all, would want to see a home they could turn into their own, without the remnants of the old owner.

Depending on what he found inside, it would take time to get it ready for selling.

He would have to sift through all the knick-knacks and personal items, and then arrange to sell off the furniture, plus dismantle all the enchantments or create new ones.

And since he was going to stay here for six months, it only made more sense for him to move into the house—which he owned now anyway—instead of paying for a room at the Dreametime Motel.

I should have left and let the lawyers take care of everything.

Better yet, he should have stuck to his original plan—sell the shop and walk away.

Get in, get it done, get out.

Yeah, right.

He huffed.

This is what he got for letting a pair of pretty brown doe eyes influence him.

Even though he told himself he’d hear out Jasmine’s plan, the more he thought about it, the more he leaned toward rejecting her proposal. Indeed, after speaking with the probate lawyer this morning—a crafty nine-tailed kitsune named Howard Nakamoto—it didn’t seem worth the trouble to stay.

“If Ms. Gonzalez has a solid business plan, then selling to her makes sense for the business’s longevity.

Plus, you can stay around town to sign more papers to settle Vrig’s estate,” Nakamoto had said.

“But from a financial point of view, you’d be better off selling the inventory and the shop. The land alone would fetch a tidy sum.”

Nakamoto was right. Getting rid of the lot was the practical thing to do, not to mention the Orc Historical Society could call him at any time. He should get into a taxi right now, head to the airport, and leave Dewberry Falls. He had no obligations to anyone, after all.

Yet, as he left the lawyer’s office, he found himself walking to Fantastic Tails.

He told himself that he would just be a few minutes.

However, seeing Jasmine inside the store, helping the cyclops boy pick a pet while treating him with kindness and respect instead of the usual condescension adults had for children, had struck something in him.

Somehow, it just didn’t feel right to shut everything down.

And because he’d promised her the six months or until the Historical Society wanted him—and orcs never broke a promise—he was stuck here with the pretty little human day in, day out.

He’d be working alongside her, seeing her bright smile every morning, hearing her lilting voice.

Smelling her sweet perfume as she passed by, hips swaying, that long rope of hair flicking invitingly down her back.

Gaku help him.

But maybe he’d hear back from the Historical Society before then. At least he hadn’t completely lost his head over a pretty face. No matter the outcome, whether Jasmine got her loan or whether he sold to a corporation, he had a guarantee that he would come out on top.

Squaring his shoulders, he picked up his duffel and marched up the porch.

As soon as he touched the doorknob, he heard the audible click of the deadbolt unlocking, signifying that it recognized him as the new owner.

Just as he’d suspected, Vrig had used a standard blood-based locking spell that would only open for him, or in the event of his passing, his blood heir.

“Hmm . . .”

He jiggled the knob. There was a something about the magic that felt off , like it had been worn down.

A brute-force counter spell, he guessed.

Temporary, maybe lasting only an hour or two, but effective against locking spells.

Jasmine had mentioned the paramedics had to break into the house the morning Vrig died.

Seeing as there was a large population of magic users and creatures in Dewberry Falls, he wasn’t surprised spell-casting would be standard training for an EMT around here.

Now that he was here, he would have to re-do everything to remove the remnants of the counter-spell. Better to start clean, anyway. For now, he disabled it and walked inside.

The interior was just as nice as the outside, and like the shop, it had been expanded from its original size to more comfortably accommodate an orc’s larger frame.

Dark, masculine colors like mahogany and ochre dominated the main living area, and a well-worn black leather sectional couch sat in front of the large flatscreen TV .

Walking over to the fireplace, Mal spotted a few knick-knacks and two picture frames.

The first one was a portrait of an orc couple—Vrig’s father and stepmother.

The second frame held a photo of two male orcs, an older one who looked to be in his thirties, and a gangly younger teen.

They were both smiling into the camera, dressed in their finest furs and leathers, standing outside the Urduk Horde’s family lodge in the homelands, likely during a major celebration.

The older one he recognized as Vrig. And as for the younger—he knew that lopsided smile anywhere.

Hargoth of the Urduk Horde.

His father.

Vrig was already off to college when his stepmother became pregnant, which explained why he wasn’t around during Hargoth’s fledgling years.

Then he joined the Army Corps of Engineers, so he traveled the world for an extended period.

From what Mal’s mother had told him, Hargoth had very much looked up to his older brother, and when they did reunite, they acted like best friends, picking up where they left off like no time had passed.

The last time Mal had seen Vrig was at Hargoth’s funeral, and he had been quiet and somber through the whole three-day affair, staying up until the end, watching over the pyre as the last embers died on the final morning.

He spoke a few words to Mal and his mother Morlak, promising to come if they should ever need him.

The first three years without his father had been tough, but they’d managed to get through it.

Then when he was thirteen, Morlak met Karak and the rest was history.

While Mal couldn’t ask for a better father figure than Karak, there were times he wondered what would have happened if Hargoth hadn’t been killed in that car accident.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Mal made his way toward the kitchen.

Like the living room, it was spacious, well-maintained, and sparkling clean, except for a small desk in the corner piled with envelopes and papers.

Hesitating at first, he reminded himself that all this was technically his now, and that there might be something in there that could help speed up the process of settling Vrig’s estate.

As with paper contracts, orcs did not believe in wills either, and according to ancient law, all assets went to the next of kin, split equally.

And because all orcs kept their word, there were no petty squabbles or court battles over inheritance.

That, of course, would have been fine if they were in the homelands, but because Vrig lived and worked outside of orc territory, he was subject to the human law, which made it more complicated for Mal to simply take possession of his property as Vrig’s last living relation.

All right, let’s get through this.

There were two piles on the table. One consisted of bills, junk mail, official letters, bank notices. The other was a mishmash of papers of different colors and sizes. Mal picked up an oversized sheet of yellow paper that had obviously been written by a child’s hand using crayons.

Dear Mr. Vrig,

Thank you for bringing us Pete today during assembly. I learned a lot about the chamrosh, and he has pretty wings.

Love,

Jenny Green

Second Grade

Edith Hamilton Elementary School

Underneath the writing was a drawing of what Mal assumed was Pete the chamrosh—a creature with the head of a dog and wings of an eagle.

There were many more letters and drawings from children on top of the file, expressing gratitude for bringing all kinds of creatures to the elementary school during various occasions. At the bottom of the pile were sheets of plain white paper—printed emails.

Of course Vrig still printed his emails.

Most of them sounded like they were correspondences with his buddies from the army corps, all personal stuff, so Mal put them aside. However, one particular email jumped out at him, or rather, the sender’s name did.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Tygre pic

Hey Vrig! Here’s the photo I said I’d send to you. So adorable!!

The photo attached showed Vrig holding his hand up as a small, blue catlike creature rested in his palm.

Unable to help himself, Mal rifled through the rest of the emails between Jasmine and Vrig.

They were all friendly, mostly work-related, with pictures attached of different creatures from the pet shop or repairs that needed to be done.

There was one picture that had caught his eye—it was a selfie of Jasmine and Vrig outside the shop, both of them smiling up at the camera.

“Get ouuuuuuuuuut!”

The scream lit up every danger instinct in his body and he whirled around. “What the—” He grabbed the bat that was aimed at his head and pulled it away from the assailant. “Who are—Jasmine?”

Big brown eyes grew even larger as she stared up at him, hands still raised while the rest of her remained frozen. “M-Mal?”

He lowered his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“I . . . I . . .” Color returned to her ashen face as her hands dropped to her sides. “I saw the door open and thought someone had broken in.”

His blood pressure went up a few notches. “You thought someone broke in here and you brought a bat ?” His claws raked through his hair. “What if I had been a robber? Or armed? Next time, call the police.” If she had been hurt . . .

Her nostrils flared. “There wasn’t any time, and I panicked. But how did you get in here? The EMT s said the counterforce spell they used would only last two hours and then the house would lock itself again.”

“The locking spell recognized me as the blood heir since I own the place now.”

“Blood—oh. Right.” She bit at her lower lip. “I’m so sorry. I was just . . . I thought . . .”

“It’s fine,” he said with a grunt.

“That morning Vrig passed was the last time I was in here.” As her gaze roamed around the kitchen, she ran a finger over the granite countertop.

“They took his bo—him away, but I stayed. There were dirty dishes in the sink and I couldn’t just leave them there.

I also threw out the trash, and there was stuff in the fridge that would go bad so I tossed that out too.

I thought I would do the laundry, but . .

.” Her pretty face went blank as all emotion drained out.

Or not, and it was something else entirely—the processing of grief.

“Why?” he asked, not knowing what to say.

She snapped out of her trance. “Why what?”

“Why did you clean?”

“I don’t know. It seemed . . . It was the right thing to do. Except for that”—she pointed at the desk overflowing with papers—“he liked everything neat and orderly.”

From what Mal had seen today, Vrig didn’t seem as if he had any other social interactions except for when it was related to the shop or the pets. He was obviously fond of Jasmine as well, and she of him. He was glad that in the final years of his life Vrig was not so isolated or lonely.

She inhaled a sharp breath. “Anyway . . . I suppose you’re selling the house too?”

“Yeah. But I’m moving in here for now, while I get stuff sorted.”

“I see. Oh.” Her shoulders sagged. “I guess you’re my landlord now too.”

“Landlord?”

“Vrig rented me the small apartment over the garage.” She jerked her thumb behind her, pointing toward the window over the kitchen sink. “I have last month’s rent check ready, by the way. There’s money in the bank. I didn’t spend it when Vrig passed.”

“R-rent check?” Somehow, his brain was still processing the idea that Jasmine was living here. Well, not here inside the house, but less than twelve feet away from where he too would be eating and sleeping and spending most of his days.

“Uh-huh.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I should have brought the check instead of a bat. Let me get it now.”

“No, you don’t have to—”

But she was already gone, scampering away through the back door like a spooked rabbit.

He could only stand there, trying to figure out what had scared her off.

Did she not realize that, aside from the shop, Vrig would have left him the house too?

Or maybe she had a different thought—he would evict her the first chance he got.

That would be the rational and logical thing to do; he didn’t want to be further tied down here and being a landlord was more trouble than it was worth.

Besides, he doubted that Vrig had a rental contract with Jasmine either, and that might complicate things even more when he started looking for buyers.

So, yes, he would have to evict her eventually.

However, as his gaze strayed back to the pile of papers, to the selfie of Vrig and Jasmine on top, he knew he couldn’t just kick her out of the garage apartment. Jasmine had done right by Vrig all these years, even now after his death. Vrig would want his friend to be taken care of.

I’ll tell her she can stay until the house is sold. Which won’t be until he settled things with the shop anyway, so it would give her plenty of time to find somewhere else to stay.

The sound of footsteps and a soft swish caught his attention. A small, rectangular piece of paper now lay under the back door, likely slipped under the crack. He pulled the door open, but there was only empty air. Up ahead, a light in the small window over the garage switched on.

With a grunt, he picked up the check.