Hell's Heir: A Spicy Paranormal

Romance Bz Briar
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 Hell's Heir

BZ Briar

Boundless & Curious Publishing

Copyright © 2024 by BZ Briar. All rights reserved.

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eBook ISBN: 979-8-9872320-8-8
Standard Print Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9900532-0-5
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 Dedication

This is No Ordinary Love

I love you
 Contents

Dear Reader
1. JUDGE
2. JO
3. JUDGE
4. JO
5. JUDGE
6. JO
7. JO
8. JUDGE
9. JO
10. JUDGE
11. JO
12. JUDGE
13. JO
14. JUDGE
15. JO
16. JUDGE
17. JO
18. JO
19. JUDGE
20. JO
21. JUDGE
22. JO
23. JUDGE
24. JO
25. JUDGE
26. JO
27. JUDGE
28. JO
29. JO
30. JUDGE
31. JO
32. JUDGE
33. JO
34. JUDGE
35. JO
FIND ME, FOLLOW ME!
Thank You
Acknowledgements
 Dear Reader

I am so happy to share this story with you! Before you begin, I want to ensure you have a good reading experience. Please
check my website for content and trigger warnings.

Content & Trigger Warnings

Please read responsibly.

Onward you go! I hope you love Jo and Judge as much as I do.

BZ
 1

JUDGE

I broke Lucifer’s cardinal rule when I lost control and backhanded Michāel. Now, I would kneel before my king and sire,
before all demons in the open sky throne room. With the easy grace born from a lifetime of stripping before witnesses, I
released the buckles of my leathers, stripped, and dropped to my knees at the foot of his throne. Lucifer raised one finely
arched brow, his dark eyes impatient. I had incurred his wrath, and I would take his ire to shield the remaining Hēlans from my
actions.

My gaze dropped to Lucifer’s long black fingernails, drumming along the throne’s armrest, clicking out an irritated, staccato
rhythm. On his middle finger, the Ebon Horn Ring reflected torches and tortured faces in its many facets. Without that ring, he
would never have enough power to subdue me or hold the royal seat of Hell.

We waited. Lucifer would let all of Hell soak my submission in as part of my prolonged punishment. A thousand eyes burned
into my naked back, raking down the deep, ragged scars born across the body of Hell’s only blood-heir.

I was Lucifer’s wingless shadow, neither demon nor angel. Unworthy. I’d been made in his image, but for the gilded, curling
horns I inherited from my mother, marring my forehead.

My gaze found the ring again. A ring made by angelic hands from demon flesh to enhance the magic of a realmweaver. My
mother had been our Moirahēla, the avatar of Hell, the ultimate weaver of the realm. She had been the conduit of Hell’s power,
Hēla. Her mighty horns had been shorn, shaped, and finally come to rest on her lover’s finger. That ring reminded me that love
was a devastating weakness to be used against you and break those you’d sworn to protect.

Lucifer pulled his black iridescent feathered wings tight against his back.

Michāel dropped to Lucifer’s side, white feathered wings rustling. “Your sacred laws have been trod upon, brother. An
example of your excellent fucking grip on this shit hole. If you want any more favors, you will do something before I do.”

Lucifer had three rules, and I broke two. The first law of Lucifer’s Hell was to obey the King. The second rule was death to
those who rebelled against angels. The third was just for me; I was to never raise my hand against another in Hell. If the
demons hated the half-breed son of their Moirahēla, they loathed my weakness and subservience more.

“Your Judge thinks he is above the law because of his pathetic realm magic. Not unlike you, brother.”

I did not think I was above the law. Had I not done everything that Lucifer asked? Except lay hands on Michāel. I erased any
tension from my body that might betray me, but could not ease the fine tremor in my fists and the subtle twitch to my lip that
hinted at my anger. I took the brunt of his cruelty, deflecting his focus from the inhabitants of Hell—they suffered enough for my
mother’s failing.
“I demand retribution.”

I glared at Michāel, hating him down to the marrow.

“Wasted,” Lucifer said, his powerful voice resonating in my head. He stood, pointing a long-taloned finger at me. The realm
responded to his gesture, responded to the ring.

Stone liquified, ripping up from the ground to wrap around my wrists. Hēla held me back and drained my power into her
depths at the ring’s command. Sharp fear tried to make me weak.

Demons murmured. This was different.

Michāel slipped his heavy sword from a golden sheath, and Lucifer gave a subtle nod.

I lifted my chin and stared into the darkness of his eyes, swirling black pools—his eyes, so like mine. As a child, I’d begged
favor and forgiveness with my pledges of loyalty at his feet wanting his love and protection. I had only known the anger and
madness of those black eyes.

Lucifer lost the ability to love long ago. I could not remember a time before rage obscured the colors of his eyes and buried
paternal urges. Madness had not diminished his angelic beauty.

If I were to be beheaded, I would look upon his beautiful face. Anger simmered and I knew it would obscure my fear for the
Hell I’d leave behind.

I choked on the roiling thoughts, swallowed the bloody memories, and made myself still inside. In this last moment, I would not
let the Hēlans see weakness.

“You are my greatest disappointment. Do what you will, Michāel,” Lucifer said dismissively.

I blinked away a pang of something I couldn’t name.

Silver streaked in my blurred vision. My muscles bunched in reflex. I tried to lunge. Restraints bit into my wrists until blood
dripped down my hands.

Michāel’s sword arced high and fast. With a flash of cold white light, he severed Lucifer’s hand from his body, sending it
sailing into the throng of wailing demons.

Hēla roared in my mind, her power shuddering through me. Michāel thrust the blade into Lucifer’s chest, gripping his shoulder
and pulling him the remaining inches to the hilt and into a hug. Black blood ran, slicking the floor, staining Michāel’s tunic.

Lucifer’s beautiful face slackened, the edges of his form chipping away like old paint, turning to ash and drifting up into the air.
I couldn’t remember a time before Lucifer, a time before my sire. Lucifer’s head dropped back to look up into the churning
coal-colored sky. The corners of his lips turned upward in a subtle, sad smile.

Michāel lifted his leg, planting his boot onto Lucifer’s abdomen, and kicked the body free of the blade. A snarl ripped from me;
lesser demons fled. Michāel’s eyes found mine. “Hell’s loyal dog,” He murmured. “Well, Judge?”

Hēla’s power surged into me, flooding my mind with promises that we could reclaim the kingdom, reclaim all of Hell.
No.

Shackles broke away, and I stayed down. Hēlans did not want me. I failed them.

“No?” Michāel smirked, his gaze swept over my thick, curling horns and down my body. “Good. I rather like you on your
knees.” He kicked Lucifer, sending the body wheeling down the dais in a flurry of dust that sucked up into the atmosphere
before it hit the floor. Gone. Lucifer was gone. “Disappointing, indeed.”

Surveying the crowd, Michāel grinned, a smear of black blood down one cheek. “First to claim the ring can have this shit
hole.” Except no demons that had tried the ring could wear it and none were worthy of my mother’s power.

Cries and shouts of fury rose from the writhing mob.

Realmweavers were a rarity in Hell; they were fighting over something they could not even wield. Gleaming, sweaty bodies
fought, until the throng parted to reveal a pale mass.

Hēla hissed in my mind, urging me to move. I was unworthy. How could I heal what my parents nearly destroyed? I was the
worst parts of them both, unrecognized by my people. Only the realm itself wanted me and I did not trust Hēla’s judge of
character.

The pale mass broke free—not even a demon. A young dead man? Small and soft compared to the demons surrounding him.
Human. A newcomer, someone who slipped through an Ebon Gate unnoticed. Sensing my question, Hēla offered up the man’s
name to me. Hooch. Hooch clutched a withering black finger, flesh turning to dust in his hands as he pulled the black ring off
and shoved it onto his own finger.

I expected instant Nothingness, like many Lucifer toyed with in the past. With an erratic jump, Hooch spooked the demons to
his right and left. They scurried away, wings flapping. Demons hissed and growled. When I could finally tear my eyes away,
Michāel was gone, and my sire’s throne was empty.

A human with realm magic, then? Could that be all? Henry “Hooch” William Monroe. Twenty-five years old at the time of his
death. A petty thief and murderer, died from multiple gunshot wounds—a crime syndicate pawn—and the new King of Hell.
That was all Hēla could offer now that he wore the ring.

Hooch climbed the dais in a bloodied black band t-shirt and ripped jeans. He sank onto the narrow-backed throne like it had
always been his. His hair was dark, slicked back with dried, crusted blood that made it look black or brown. He twisted his
hand, admiring the facets of the ring with a smirk. It fit him perfectly, and I hated him.

Below, some lingered to see what the new King of Hell would do, and others fled, fearing a display of power or revenge. A
few power-hungry demons edged closer. There was nowhere for the last scion of Hell to escape. Numbness crept in on me at
the edges.

“You,” Hooch called, eyes flicking from the fleeing crowd to me, “Naked dude. Come here.”

My gaze stuck to the places where dust and soot clung to the stairs. Lucifer. A maelstrom swirled inside me, and I crammed it
down. I had chosen to remain in my role when I chose not to fight for the ring. I had chosen to protect Hēlans from whatever
monster ascended the throne. I would swear myself to their new master and serve.

“Yes, my King.” I left my garments where they’d fallen and rose to my feet.

Hooch’s smirk transformed into a grin. “My King? Oh, oh, oh. I like that! It has a good buzz to it, don’t you think? And Mrs.
Bates didn’t think I’d turn into anything worth a damn. Is she here? My 8th-grade math teacher?”

Millions of faces flashed through my mind, my power touching every soul not yet burned up in the Catacombs. I traveled
through each human face, each crime, and punishment. Seconds passed. “Yes.”

“What about my mother?”

“No.”

“Hmmph. We can disagree about that one.” I searched again but found an odd emptiness where my mind said his mother should
be. Hooch’s eyes wandered the throne room, calm, calculating, and for the first time, I saw a flash of unsettling intelligence. “Is
Benji Barron here? No, forget I asked. I’ll find him on my own… I know he’s here. I have so many questions.” Since there was
nothing to respond to, I waited. “What can I do with this ring?”

“The landscape of Hell is yours to manipulate through that ring.”

“I haven’t been dead long, I don’t think, but it’s hard to gauge, ya know? Time works differently here. I’ve been around. I’ve
seen you change Hell. I mean, fuck, let’s not forget you have giant ram horns. Are you more powerful than me?”

“I would never rise against the throne of Hell.”

“Are you more powerful than other demons?”

Was I? Hēla reached for me like a rejected lover, and I pushed her familiar embrace of power away.

“Yes,” I admitted.

Hooch waited for me to say more, but he leaned forward when I didn’t launch into a monologue. “What can you do?”

It felt like a trap. “I have some realm magic,” I hedged. “Hēla responds to my call, but not as she will respond to you with the
ring.”

“Who can kill me?” He asked, rotating the ring on his finger.

“You are already dead. So long as you wear that ring, no residents of Hell can banish you to Nothing.”

The cool calculation returned to his eyes. “No residents of Hell; but others could, is that right? Explain.”

“If you and the ring are separated, anything could banish you to Nothing. With the ring, you are protected from inhabitants of
Hell while you are in Hell. We don’t know everything about the ring, it was crafted by angels to control this realm. Every
realm has its own laws.”

“That’s cool. I get it. Don’t leave Hell, don’t piss off angels.” Hooch paused again, looking down at his dirty, torn t-shirt
stained with blood. “What if I have unfinished business, you know, above?”

“Neither the dead nor Lucifer, the High King, could leave this realm. You may try, but there may be consequences. Earthside, as
the middle sister, is the great power equalizer. If the laws are broken, I am told there are worse things than angels.”

Hell absorbed the smoky residue at my feet, soaking the last of Lucifer up like overdue payment. Hēla whispered to me that this
was just, this was fair, but also worrisome—something was wrong.

“No, no, I’m cool. This is fine. This is better than fine. I totally thought I was going to burn in Hell for an eternity anyway. At
least I get the kingpin suite.” Hooch stood, reaching up to his neck to pull a silver chain from underneath his shirt. “So, the King
of Hell can’t directly influence the living, but can indirectly? I can tell you what to do?”

The silver chain slithered between his fingers as he ripped it free from his neck and held it out to me. Was it a cross or a small
dagger? Reluctantly, I extended my hand and allowed the chain to drop, coiled into my palm before a thick, large cross with the
bottom point carved into a stake hit my skin.

A powerful memory punched through me. My stomach muscles contracted, and my vision went dark with sight.

I was in a dimly lit room. The light from a cracked door making the shadows long. Blinking hurt, and my eyelids were
swollen. I could only see a thin sliver of the space. A fist curled softly, pink fingernails catching the light from the other
room. A broadly muscled male in a white shirt splattered with blood—moving, moving, the giant silver necklace swinging.

I blinked, and my vision cleared.

Hooch scrutinized my face, then my hand. “Don’t break it. It’s a trophy, and it’s not for you.”

I unclenched the fist I hadn’t realized I’d made. “My King, what is this?”

“Nah, no king. Call me Boss, pretty boy. I’m the bigger-bad than Jack, now, aren’t I? I can’t wait for that sorry fucker to beg at
my feet. We’ll be waiting for him.“ He smirked, and I could tell by the way he pumped his fists that a revenge fantasy was
unfolding in his mind.

We’ll be waiting?

A flash of pink nail polish echoed in my mind. I flinched, unaccustomed to unbidden memories—remnants, I called them. My
sight was my second strongest gift and fully within my control while in Hell. Inexplicably, I wanted to destroy the necklace. I
wanted to strangle the King—no, Boss.

Hooch startled, noticing me again. “Mood rings for eyes, huh? That’s inconvenient for you.”

I tried to breathe and let go of the anger that I knew changed my eyes to swirling pools of inky blackness.

Hooch ran a hand through his hair, observing demons gathering at the base of his dais. “I should have told her. Fuck Benji,
we’d have torn apart the whole Barron pack together. Just her and me, like it’s always been. I need her.” His fingers caught on
crusted clumps, and he dropped his arm to his side. His eyes snapped to mine and I felt the realm ripple, responding to him.
“She’s not going to like you.”

I couldn’t follow his jumps. “Who isn’t?”

“You are going topside.”

“Earthside.”

“Whatever. Earth. If you can change Hell, can you hide your horns? Can you be—I don’t know—less pretty? And maybe more
clothed?“ Hooch’s stare dropped to my groin, and he raised an eyebrow. “Could you be a little more realistic?”
I folded my hands behind my back, baring myself to him. “Send someone else. If I am gone, there will be no one capable of
managing the dead in the Catacombs.”

If I am gone there will be no one to protect the realm from you.

“Don’t worry about it. I think I’m going to surprise you. I’ll sub for you or find a temp.”

“Temp?”

The Boss of Hell grinned. “I said don’t worry about it, Pretty Boy. I’m the boss now and what I say goes. Whoever says no?
Well, their corpses can pollute the ozone like the last king’s did. Just find my sister. Find her and bring her to me.”
 2

JO

“J o,himyouonhave to go. I need you to go before Becca gets up.” Chris shifted in the creaking chair, folding his hands in front of
the table between us. Becca’s bedroom door was closed, the only bedroom in the apartment.

I shook my head, needing him to slow down, winding my hands in the hem of my oversized black t-shirt. I knew I couldn’t stay,
but I hadn’t figured out where to go next. I only had one other person left.

“Jo, I know this shit’s not your fault…” Chris’s tan knuckles were sticky with blood, a fresh bruise curbing down his right
temple and cheekbone. Bruises dappled both forearms. “But, fuck, you are a shit-magnet.”

That stung. I was a shit magnet. Not knowing what else to do, I nodded and cast my gaze around the dingy kitchen. Guilt and
anger warred, an emotional spiral looming before me. I had nowhere else to go.

What the fuck was wrong with me? Why was I here to begin with? I loved Becca and didn’t want to put her in danger. Becca
had been a surprise, a delightful and wickedly smart nine-year-old, introduced to her dad when she’d been dumped at his door.

“Come on, Jo. Don’t be mad.”

I wasn’t mad. I just needed a minute. Or a week. I needed sleep.

Chris let out a childish whine. “You know it has to be this way. I can’t keep having Jack’s hacks sniffing around looking for
you. I can’t keep hiding you, my slumlord—he’ll raise my rent again, and I’m still trying to come up with last month’s rent. I’m
trying to be a good dad for fucking once in my life. Your mom was shit; I know you wished she’d put you guys first.”

Sick desperation won, digging the words out of my mouth before I could stuff them back down. “If you could just stay clean…”
I hated myself as soon as I said it.

Chris’s eyebrows lifted, mouth ajar. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

As if his sobriety had anything to do with me endangering him and his daughter. The two people those words were meant for
weren’t even alive to hear them.

Chris looked down at his crusted knuckles, then laid his hands flat on the table, glaring at me. “I am fucking sober. I slipped up
last month, but I’m trying. Drugs aren’t more important than my kid, okay? You aren’t more important than my kid.”

Ouch. Bile churned up in my throat. Of course, he was right. What was wrong with me? Chris had been the closest thing I had
to a friend in years.
When your past was a laundry list of shit that made for good trash reality shows, it was hard to make friends you couldn’t
trauma bond with. Mutual interests? Sure, I could talk about my love for singing to inanimate objects that couldn’t criticize my
alto. There were probably plenty of women that could relate to my obsession with buying planners I probably wouldn’t use—
but might this time. Still, it wasn’t the same as bonding over pain, hunger, or debating whether or not dry, seasoned, packaged
ramen was both a full dinner and a decent crunchy movie snack. If I couldn’t meet my basic needs, how would I find time to
bond over planners or music?

Chris understood. Chris existed in that weird space of intimacy when you’ve known someone so long and been through so much
that even if you stopped being friends, you were still family. I was so out of line. I was practically responsible for every bad
thing that happened to Chris since he met me. I introduced him to my brother, Hooch.

“I’m sorry. That was shitty. I’m totally out of line,” I whispered.

“Yeah, yeah, you are.” Chris glanced towards the dark hallway leading to the front door. “I get it, though, you know? I heard
Benji was shredded. Jack has no proof that it was Hooch, but since when do the Barrons need proof? So, I get it; you’re
scared.” The circles under his eyes were bags of dusky purple, his unwashed hair curling around his ears. “I would be too. I
mean, I am scared, and they let me walk away with just a few bruises.“ I was pretty sure it was more than a few bruises from
the way he held his ribs. “I don’t think Jack’ll let you walk away. I don’t know if the Barrons think you have a golden pussy or
what they want with you.”

I grimaced. “If you want to level up as a dad, don’t use words like that around Becca.” It was still hard to think of Chris as a
dad.

When Chris and I entered high school, Jack was a senior. Jack Barron, the oldest of many sons, graduated into his family’s
business as the next successor. A smooth-talking football player, built for the sport, he’d been the prom king his senior year.
He’d been inseparable from his charming twin brother, Benjamin. Everyone loved the Barron brothers. They scouted talent for
their family, above and below the table. Everyone loved the Barron brothers until they couldn’t walk away from the family—
like Hooch, who took it too far, too fast, and didn’t realize it was a trap.

‘What wouldn’t Hooch do for a buck’ became one of the Barron brothers’ favorite games. Where Hooch went, Chris followed
with a look in his eyes that was hard to mistake for anything but utter devotion. Chris loved Hooch. Everyone could see it but
Hooch. It didn’t take long before Hooch and Chris’ petty misdemeanors turned into crimes that would only make it to court if
the Barron family didn’t reach them first. Hooch took big risks and incurred considerable debts. And even though Hooch
sheltered me from the jobs he did, I was always privy to the cost.

Still, Jack and Hooch knew each other for a very long time. More importantly, they knew each other’s weaknesses. And I think,
in the end, Hooch was ruthless enough to hit Jack where it hurt the most.

Chris scrubbed a hand across his face, flinching when he touched something tender. “Yeah, yeah. No drugs. No pussies. No
more Jack.”

No more Hooch… but I couldn’t say it. Love, hate, grief. I acutely felt them all.

Chris had just begun to put weight on, his body filling out, and his ribs no longer visible. He would never be bulky, but he
carried the makings of a handsome, lean man with slight features, if he kept eating and taking care of himself. We locked stares,
and I began to nod, feeling the goodbye in the air.

Chris sighed, “I love you, Jo. Let me give you some advice, okay?”

“I’ll go,” I said, pushing away from the table. I didn’t want his advice.
“Yes, you will. First, let me say this. I’m not trying to hurt you, okay?” I nodded, not wanting to hear what he would say next.
All of this was hurting me, and I hated it.

“Jo, you’re loyal. God, I love that about you. Stop being loyal to the people who hurt you. Stop being loyal to the people who
throw you away to save themselves. We aren’t worth it.” His voice was thick, like he was moments from crying. He turned his
head, coughed, and then turned a spirited glare at me. “Have you even called Henrietta since you got here?”

A mashup of guilt and fear sprang up at his words, and I glanced down toward the hallway to the exit. I hadn’t seen my cell
phone in months and couldn’t afford a new one—which was a lame ass excuse.

“No? Call Henrietta. You have to get out of here before Jack finds you. And I mean out of the city. If anyone has the money to
get you out of here, she does. She’s practically your mom, and not all of us are lucky enough to get a second mom.”
 3

JUDGE

T herealm’s
search for the new King’s sister and his veiled threats had been an unwelcome distraction from my sire’s ashes and a
disdain.

There was precious little to go on. Hooch did not know how long he’d been dead, and the information he provided yielded
little at first. Old apartments had new occupants, and friends were now distant acquaintances. Billie-Jo had disappeared.

I thought I felt something call my sight when I stopped by a small coffee shop owned by an old family friend. I scrabbled to
grasp hold of a remnant that was there, but it eluded me—teased me. Earthside offered me no assistance and let me flounder
like a fool under the icy gaze of the shop owner. She sneered at me as though she was responsible for blocking my powers. I
left, flustered and angry.

Over the following day and night, I reached out to something within Earthside. Earthside, like Hell, had no living avatar I could
beseech. So, I called out directly to that sentient power, and she responded with a chilly contempt. Earthside was Hēla’s cold,
unresponsive sister.

Earthside suppressed demonic and angelic magic—we were unwelcome interlopers from other realms. My magic as a
realmweaver? Ignored. My ability to shift? Dampened. My sight? Difficult to control and sometimes non-existent. Earthside
was closefisted, whereas Hēla was generous with her power. Hēla lifted those powerful enough to touch her. Earthside was the
great equalizer and had no known intermediaries—no avatars or realmweavers—until now. Until Hooch.

Wards so ancient, they predated angels and reduced most to the preternatural abilities of creatures inherent here. Here, I could
be no faster or stronger than the quickest or strongest of Earthside’s magical native inhabitants.

Before I left Hell, I’d glamoured my horns away and humanized the colors of my skin, eyes, and hair. I left the majority of my
body unchanged in shape. Why exert the energy when I would be trapped in that form until I returned? Be less pretty, he’d said.
It was not difficult to be uglier than angels.

I stretched my neck and rotated my shoulders in the clothes of the common folk. My skin felt too tight—these pants were too
tight.

Power writhed inside, looking for a way out, a way to connect, wanting to unfurl like the parts of me long cut away. It was like
this every time I went Earthside.

Sending me Earthside had been one of my sire’s rare, pettier pastimes. A way to punish me, test my loyalty, and test the
restraint of Michāel. I’d roam Earthside, learning, touching, and taunting… but it had only been in Hell that Michāel ever struck
like the snake he was. In Hell, he had been protected by Lucifer’s laws and the suppression of my power. Michāel would never
strike Earthside where we would be equals, though I baited him for the chance to do unto him as he had done unto me.
Was the hunt for Hooch’s younger sister a test? All of life had been a test where failure meant punishment, death, or further
degradation of my body or home. Now life was changing, and I didn’t yet understand the rules. What would Hooch’s rules for
Hell be? How would he use the power of Hēla? It wasn’t possible for me to speculate how a dead human on a power-trip with
a history of being a petty thief may try to refabricate the kingdom of Hēla or the realm of Hell.

Hooch died with almost empty pockets and no knowledge of the politics of realms. As though he’d never needed to memorize
information, he could not provide basic details about the city he lived in. Finally, Hooch gave me his hand with a warning not
to pry with my sight—the Boss of Hell was above my judgment now. With surprisingly sharp control, he sent me flashes of
information to begin my search on foot. Images, brief tastes of memories. Billie-Josephine. Billie-Jo. Jo. Where Hooch was
wiry and dark blonde, Jo was curvy and fair with silver long hair.

Collect his human sister? Would I bring a living human to Hēla and offer her up like a gift to the Boss of Hell? I had done
worse to dead humans, caused worse to my own kind, and fantasized about inflicting worse on angels.

When the dead first arrived in Hēla, shuffling through the Ebon Gate, their energy remodeled and almost destroyed the realm
because of the naïve love and devotion the Moirahēla had for her mate and angelic consort. The chaos of the dead necessitated
the creation of the Catacombs, an extension of the Ebon Gates, as a conduit for the influx of power and to protect the realm.
With the influx of the stolen dead came the threat of war across Hell, followed by the tense accord between angels and demons
that governed the use and misuse of this newly harnessed energy, all while the realms held their breath to see if Earthside
would retaliate.

We still waited.

Apprehension eddied inside me. I stepped into a damp alley alongside two tightly squeezed brick buildings; rivulets of last
night’s rains still found their way between uneven pavement and down sewer drains. I walked the path of Hooch’s remnant
memories until I found the old, unlocked building. Faint beneath the smell of chlorine was drying paint and mildew.

I took the open stairs until I exited onto the third floor, following the route in Hooch’s memory, and stopped at a dented door. A
crisp folded sheet of paper was stuck below the broken peephole.

I scanned the page and flipped it over, looking for something significant, but I could only make out three useless words in the
squat, ugly writing. Of all the languages Earthside, this was my least favorite written—it was crude compared to the elegance
of Hēlan. As a realmweaver, I was privy to all of the spoken languages in the realm I traveled. Reading and writing were not
included for reasons I could not understand. I folded the paper again and slipped it into the back pocket of my slacks. The door
pushed in with a weak creak, the bolt slipping off a broken strike plate. Inside, the room was silent—empty. Dark.

The apartment was sparsely decorated and yet still cluttered. I walked through the small sitting room, letting my boots crunch
stiff carpet fibers while I took time to memorize details.

An unsettling anticipation tingled my senses. A second door stood ajar in the back. I nudged the base with my boot; it creaked
open until it caught on something.

In the decades I had been coming Earthside, I made my fair share of foolish and regrettable choices, not understanding how
basic functions across realms could be so different. Everything Earthside was unnecessarily complicated. In Hell, if I needed
to see, there was light. I groped clumsily for a light switch and activated the pallid overhead light.

Someone had violently ransacked Jo’s small bedroom, breaking the bedframe, overturning her mattress, and toppling the
narrow dresser into a wall. Yanked from their hooks, garments lay heaped at the bottom of a cramped closet and scattered
about the room. Books were torn down their spines, leaving bright paper strips scattered amongst colorful writing utensils. I
crouched in the debris, shifting items about with my finger, unearthing a black scrap of fabric I plucked up to examine.

An electrical current zinged up my arm, raising fine hairs and driving flashes of darkness, images, and sensations through my
mind and body. Round, soft, fleshy hips. A tickle of hair and the heady aroma of lust. A throaty feminine laugh dropped me from
my crouch to my knees. Everywhere the electrical current traveled, it left a burning need in its wake.

Pain and the smell of blood, my blood, cut the current, and she vanished. Gone. I uncurled my fist and inhaled deeply. I had
punctured my palms with my fingernails. The distant scent of her lingered in the air. She had been there, so close. Now gone. I
didn’t want her gone. I needed her. I pulled a faded green garment from underneath a broken lamp, smashing the fabric against
my face to inhale.

Power I hadn’t been able to reach yet opened within me and blackened my vision with sight—beautiful, erratic remnants
flashed. Silvery blonde hair, brushed until it shone, woven into a long plait. I squeezed the green garment until I felt her again,
using it like a compass to follow her ghost from item to item.

An old piece of her brushed against me, tenacity drenched in fear and anger. Her fear pierced me. I frantically pulled on the
threads of the memory until something materialized in the darkness. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t change a remnant of a
memory—I needed to find her. Sparks of foreign emotions sharpened the deluge of power, then began to recede. Her fear made
me want to unravel and remake the world for her. Distantly, I thought I might know a taste of what drove my mother to doom us
all.

Then she was there, a girl on the cusp of womanhood—still a child, trying to drag a boy by his forearms. Her muscles strained,
and she release a silent scream in frustration, blood dripping down her chin onto her shirt. Blood was in her hair, which had
unraveled over her shoulder and tangled.

Both were badly beaten.

The older boy was unconscious, a dead weight that she could not move. Tears squeezed out of her eyes as she shouted words
that did not reach my ears. Her head snapped up. Did she see me? She looked at me, and her eyes widened—endless dark blue
eyes, too old to be in the face of a human child. She stood before the boy with her arms open, blocking him with her body.

Her lips moved.

She glanced over her shoulder; the boy was stirring. The girl dropped her arms, the pain in her face relaxing until her
expression was empty. I recognized the letting go of hope, and the acceptance of punishment. She squeezed her eyes closed,
turning her face to the side and shuddering. Invisible hands yanked her forward roughly, held up by the bloody shirt gripped in
a fist until the shirt tore. I pushed against the remnant to lunge for her, to catch her, and the vision broke, leaving me in an empty
and shattered room.

I hurried to uncover the items that remembered her—too few in the wreckage. Jo’s mouth savored chocolate-covered cherries,
licking flecks of the treat from her lips. She’d collected pastel-colored jewelry and shoes, then hid them behind black
oversized shirts in the back of her wardrobe. She loved dark coffee, soft pinks, to wear her socks inside out, and was trying to
learn to read music.

How was this magnificent creature not treasured and sheltered? When the power drained away, I stared at the last object in my
hand. A small, stained photograph—Hooch in a crisp white button-up shirt and Jo in a sleeveless pink gown—looking more
like the adults they would become.

I knew now that she preferred to be called Jo over her given name. Like me, Jo loved, despised, and desperately missed her
mother. What happened to her mother? She was nowhere in the remnants. Hooch asked if his mother was in Hell. If she looked
like Jo, I’d have seen her.

Jo didn’t speak to anyone but Hooch when she was small. Her silence hid secrets, and while no remnants unveiled them, I saw
them written in her eyes and in bursts of impulsivity. She loved Earthside creatures, except for small red beetles with black
spots and humans. Humans had harmed her, and any part of me that regretted the suffering I inflicted on the dead died in her
name.

The photo had once been torn in half and repaired by a transparent, shiny ribbon encompassing the middle front and back of the
photograph. More writing covered the back, turning it into a letter I could not read.

Who took that photo and then tore it? Why rip it and then repair it? The tear down the center looked deliberate, tearing the
siblings apart. Hooch stood behind Jo, who stared at him in the reflection of an extensive vanity mirror. Jo was mid-movement,
raising something to parted lips. One of Hooch’s hands rested firmly on her bare shoulder while the other easily balanced the
long neck of a guitar at his side. I wasn’t sure what the dark shine in her eyes meant. I was sure that they didn’t know they were
being watched. Intensity and possessiveness radiated from him. She was stunning, flushed, and… excited? Angry?

I folded the photo carefully along the tear line and slipped it into a pocket. Whether it was treasure or trash to her, I would keep
this solid picture of her until I had another to replace it. Contemplating the siblings, I let my fingers graze over objects with
hungry hope until I was out of the building.
 4

JO

D awn was beginning to break up the dark fall sky when the lights of Spiteful Sips flicked on with a zing that I could feel in
my teeth. Affectionately called Spite for short by loyal customers. The white curtains lifted, and a moment later, a woman
stood precariously on one leg to unlock the door bolt, paused to peer out into the street, then disappeared deeper into the shop.
She moved with a slight sway that made her walk like a signature.

Once an old diner, the small two-story brick building was dominated by the decor of a yellow, white, and black coffee house. I
liked the bold colors, checkered floor, and comfortable swiveling chairs—the coffee was like battery acid, but what doesn’t
kill us makes us stronger. This was a home away from home. It was a dangerous luxury to let myself back inside, but it had
been three months, and I had nowhere else to go. Nowhere left to go and still a lot to lose.

I took a few deep breaths. Just one step; one step, and I’d have the momentum I needed to carry me through the door. I pushed
off the ball of my foot, jogged across the street, and pushed through the doorway. It jingled, and Henrietta Josephine looked up
from the counter, thick, bright blue cat-eyed glasses slipping down her nose. “Jo?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper.

Henrietta rushed around the counter, weaving deftly around tables and pushing the door closed behind me. I stood dumbly,
frozen, unsure of what to do next. She was a flurry around me in a 1950s-esque black dress and a left below-the-knee
prosthetic animal print cover.

With efficient movements, she reached up and pushed the door lock in place, yanked down the blinds, spun me into her arms,
and squeezed me. She suffocated me with her hair, boobs, and the smell of hairspray and fresh perfume.

“Jo, baby,” she cried quietly. It was a sweetness I was unaccustomed to hearing, even from her. I rested my head against her
shoulder and relaxed into her hug.

Were we the same height? When did Henrietta get so short? She was larger than life, and it was hard to reconcile her
personality with her stature.

Henrietta cleared her throat, pushing me back, and straightening our postures. “Enough.” She dashed a tear from one cheek.
“Stop it. It’s too early for crying, and today is going to be a busy fucking day.”

Ah, that was better. It was like coming home and being told there was housework to be done. Henrietta had always been a get-
knocked-down-and-come-up-swinging, do-whatever-was-needed, and I’ll-figure-it-out-as-I-go kind of woman. This was not
the first time I wished I could be more like Henrietta.
 5

JUDGE

D awn was threatening the horizon. I knocked. Then knocked again when I heard rustling, a peephole cover being moved,
frantic whispering, and someone pressing against the door. I knocked louder. The door cracked open; a tan, lean face
leered underneath a taut security chain. “Whatchya want?” He asked in a stiff, forced, deep voice.

Bravado and anxiety. He smelled like fear. Interesting. Bruising seeped down the side of the man’s face in shades of purple,
blue, and green. Someone got to him before me.

“Chris?” He gave a short, reluctant nod, brown frizzy curls sticking out into the hallway. “I’m looking for Billie-Jo Monroe.”

“I dumped that whore,” He snapped, beginning to close the door. Air wafted towards me that tasted strongly of her. “Get outta
here,” He mumbled.

I thrust my hand in through the crack, gripping the edge and shoving it inward, breaking the door chain. The doorframe
splintered.

“Get the fuck out!” Chris scuttled back against a wall, tripping to his feet and running down a hallway into the dark. Finally, I
was close—she had just been here. Was this one of the humans that hurt her?

I didn’t let him get far. Grabbing a fistful of damp gray tank top, I yanked him back to me. He yelled, swinging his fists wildly.

“Stop,” I growled into his ear, wrapping my arm around his neck and dropping him down to the stained carpet. Even with my
power dampened, I struggled to ease the force around the human’s throat where my bare arm touched his neck. I worked to let
him live. Images flashed through my mind. Hooch, guns, blood, drugs, Hooch, little girls. I sneered. I would send this man to
Hell; he could wait for me there.

Distinct metal clicks of a semi-automatic handgun being racked broke through the human’s yelling. “Let him go!” A high young
voice cried from ahead.

Chris relaxed in my grip. “Becca,” he rasped, “Go back to your room.”

Long-limbed and long faced, a thin girl with dark brown hair held a gun trained on my head. It was the little girl from the
remnants. Big blue eyes, trembling small hands. “Let him go!”

“Becca, baby,” Chris begged, “Please, man, don’t do this in front of her. She’s just a kid. Don’t make her watch. Tell Jack I’ll
give his shit back—I stole it. Tell him I’m fucking sorry. I need to pay rent.” I tightened my grip around his neck, reducing the
air and making him quiet to a whistle that escaped his lips.
I possibly misunderstood the remnants. Always a risk.

The little girl, Becca, was maybe ten. Humans were so difficult to accurately gauge age. “Becca, do you know where Jo is?”

She nodded, tears beginning to run down her red cheeks. “You’re hurting him!” The barrel swayed, then course corrected. Even
a creature like me could be put down with enough bullets Earthside.

I shook my head, allowing my voice to drop to soothing notes. “He’s going to be fine.” Saliva trickled onto my arm from
Chris’s lulling head. “As soon as you tell me, I’m going to leave. Is this your sire?” She stared at me, eyes wide. “Your father?
Is this your father?” Her head bobbed, and she sucked in wet snot. “Okay, your father is going to be fine. Now, tell me where
Jo is?”

“Chris said she couldn’t stay here no more! She… She went to Spite!”

Spiteful Sips? Had the evasive proprietress hidden Jo? Hadn’t there been a second story?

I dropped Chris, his body hitting the ground in front of me. He coughed and moaned, “Spite…. She went to Spite. Just leave,
leave me and my kid alone.” Becca dropped the gun and threw herself down along Chris; it clanked but did not fire.

Chris pulled Becca into his arms, shielding her face from me. He struggled to inhale deeply and coughed again. “What are you
going to do to her? Jo?” He clawed for the gun, dragging it to him and popping the magazine. It was empty.

I rose to my feet. “I’m not here to hurt her. Her brother sent me.”

Chris scoffed, pushing his daughter back, a grieving, angry sound erupting from his throat. “Hooch is fucking dead. Why can’t
he stay that way? Why can’t he leave us alone?” He wheezed. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Hooch sent you?” Becca whispered, sucking in more snot, and huddling against Chris—stuck to his side. She was braver than
he would ever be.

“Yes.” I pointed a finger at Chris, a gesture that reminded me of my own sire so profoundly, it sent a shiver of ice down my
spine. Did I resemble him? Had he not made the same gesture at me not long ago? Chris pushed the girl behind his body, the
empty gun gripped tight. Yes, I think I did resemble him in that moment. “Do better by your daughter. Do you understand me,
human?” Chris nodded stiffly, his eyes wide. I didn’t know what he saw, but I willed Earthside to let him see it all. “Or I will
be there when you take your last breath, and I will remember you. You do not want me to remember you.”

“What-Who the fuck are you?”

Who was I? My name was foreign to my tongue. I had one. I had a name. There was a name that my mother gave me when I was
young—a title born to me. I had a name before she broke the laws of realms for love. Before Lucifer carved her horns from her
head. Before Michāel dropped me to my knees in her blood.

The functions I served rolled through my mind, pushing the memories back. The Catacombs. My duty was my title. My title
became the only name that mattered.

“Judge.”
 6

JO

H enrietta Josephine primed the espresso machine, her black hair pulled up high and tight into an updo. She patted the side of
the machine and hummed in disapproval. “Billie-Jo, I’m telling you this as your godmomma and as a woman who has
decades of experience on you—”

“You’re only 17 years older than me,” I snapped, feeling adviced-out from the last thirty minutes.

Henrietta’s immaculately styled eyebrows rose above bright blue cat-eyed glasses. My mom and Henrietta, best friends, were
17 when I was born. And the older I got, the shorter our age gap seemed.

“In bitch-years, that’s 119 years. Which is to say, I know things that you don’t,” Henrietta bit out, brown eyes twinkling at me.
As a morning person, the proprietress woke up feisty and ready to banter, a gross contrast to me, whose brain was sludge until
five cups of coffee and the clock struck noon. “Quad-shot? Black? Hot?”

I nodded, my night’s second, or maybe third, wind slowly dying. While I knew Henrietta vibed with the identity of ‘bitch’, I
wasn’t going to confirm I thought she could be one. There were some things I didn’t need to tell my godmother; one, that she
could be a bitch, and the other was how I drank my Americano. “Please.”

“You need a shower unless you’ve dyed your hair in dishwater,” she added, giving my greasy braid a cursory glance. “As I
was saying, you seem to think you can stay up for days. You can’t. You’ll get sick. It’s easy right now at 23, but that shit will
catch up with you. Everything you do in life, your body keeps a ledger, and very soon it will ask you to start paying up.” She
paused her rant to tilt her head at the machine, made an adjustment, then pulled my shots and added hot water. “You need to
sleep,” she said at the same time she pushed a glass mug my way. As family, I didn’t get one of the cute little saucers she
served to customers. “You need to sleep.”

What could I say to that? Nothing. She didn’t understand. I didn’t need a shower. I needed to run. I lifted the mug to my lips and
tentatively sipped the hot liquid, burning my tongue. A nap didn’t sound so bad, but I probably couldn’t sleep if I tried.

Henrietta disappeared into the back kitchen, rarely used for anything but storage or warming up food. It was tidy and empty
except for the gigantic refrigerator, freezer, and walk-in pantry, along with a pristine silver gas oven, stoves, and counter space
in case she ever wanted to cook additional fare to sell.

She set out a blueberry scone covered in clear cling wrap and pushed it towards me. “Eat.” Cold and crumbly, maybe a day
old, and absolutely delicious.

“Jo.” Henrietta reached for me, cupping a warm hand over my own when I’d finished. “Why don’t you go upstairs and nap on
the sofa? I’ll guard the door, it’s okay.”
I needed to return to my own apartment; I hadn’t been there in weeks. Better yet, I needed to leave town. Just being near
Henrietta was putting her and everything she’d worked so hard for in danger.

“What are you thinking?”

I hung my head, a tear dreadfully close to breaking free and running down my cheek. “I don’t know what to do. I-I don’t know
where to go.” I wanted to tell her how scared I was but couldn’t get the words out. I couldn’t say it aloud, or I would not be
able to keep going.

“I need to know what’s going on. I’m not trying to scare you, but yesterday, a man came in and asked for you. Black hair?” She
watched my face. “Dark brown eyes? Tall? Like, gorgeous goth-mortician-meets-military-chic? Button up? Looked like big
trouble, so exactly your type? No? Oh well, that’s for the best. He got super weird. I told him to fuck off and not come back.
Pretty, but pretty fucking weird too. And few days ago, a couple of thick-necked goons came by—Don’t worry! Stop! Sit the
fuck back down. I told them you hadn’t been by in months, and they left. No one has been back since. They were weird too, just
differently. They said they were friends of Henry’s.” We shared a look. No one called Hooch that. “And I’m pretty sure that
twit didn’t have friends, just a long list of baby mamas and debt collectors.”

The only time my brother and I used our full first names was when legally mandatory or when we were angry at each other. We
had weaponized those names, the names our mother gave us, as a secret way to say fuck you and fuck you too. When we were
doing well, it was just Jo and Hooch.

At my brother’s name, an angry tear cut loose, and I stamped it away with my warm palm. I hated him. “And me.”

“And you.” Henrietta sighed, leaning on the counter across from me and looking out the big windows of Spite. She’d written
Hooch off years ago when one of his brilliant schemes almost got all three of us killed. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s
going on? Or do you want me to make it up and pretend this is worse than I can imagine because Hooch is posthumously
involved?”

“I can’t go back to my apartment. And I can’t stay with Chris anymore.”

“So that’s where you’ve been?”

I bobbed my head. I’d been there and anywhere I could hide—month-to-month apartments or hotels until I ran out of money,
public libraries, bus stops, and then Chris’s.

“Hooch’s boss… He’s looking for me.” The likelihood that Hooch sold me or used me for leverage was high, but there was no
way I’d tell my godmother that. “Before he died,” I cleared the hoarseness from my throat, “he was working on something
big… he was getting us out.”

“What is this ‘us’ shit? You haven’t done anything but keep a low profile and sing your music. What aren’t you telling me?”

What was I telling her? As little as possible.

“What were you involved in?” She asked, her voice accusatory. “What did Hooch do? Were you helping him?” Her questions
were like blows, making my brain freeze up.

“No, no!” I protested, maybe a little too much. “Hooch just said it was big. He said, ‘I’ve finally figured it out, and it’s big.’ I
don’t know what it was. He stopped by to give me something right before he died.”

Henrietta pressed her lips together, closing her eyes, and breathing in through her nose. “Billie-Jo, was it drugs?” She let the
breath out. “Are you using drugs?”

“No! God no, not drugs. A necklace.”

“For what?” I couldn’t tell her; she didn’t need to know. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” I flinched. “Billie-Jo, Hooch is dead. You
can’t save him anymore. But even dead, he can sure keep hurting you. I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Do you remember a few years ago when I got hurt? Hooch ended up in the hospital.”

“You mean when you were tortured, Hooch was almost beaten to death, and then to drive the point home, someone tried to burn
this building down?”

I nodded, remembering the broad swatch of blackened wall and melted table. I glanced to the front of Spite, where all signs of
arson had been repaired, then back at the counter. “The last time I saw Hooch, he gave me a necklace. He told me the necklace
was an apology for that—that time—” I choked, almost gagged on the words “—all the times.”

Henrietta’s eyebrows raised above the blue frames of her glasses.

“He was high,” I explained. Hooch had been wired, covered in blood, and nearly incoherent as his shaking hands reached
around my neck to clasp the chain. “I let him get cleaned up in my bathroom and sleep some of it off on my couch, and when he
woke up, he told me there was one more thing he needed to do, and then he’d be done.” Actually, he had said, “We’ll” be done.
We’ll. We will. “He wouldn’t even let me feed him. Hooch just kept saying he’d figured it out, no more debts, that no one could
fuck with us now, and that we wouldn’t have to work or worry anymore.”

Hooch was always making promises.

“Where’s the necklace?”

“Gone. I think he took it with him.” I shrugged, taking a deeper sip of the Americano. Perfectly hot.

As soon as Hooch passed out, I’d taken off the heavy silver chain and thick, cross-shaped stake crusted in blood. One of a
matching set. In my hands, it was bigger than it had seemed around the Barron brothers’ necks. When it came to fight, flight,
freeze… it was a toss-up between freeze and freak-the-fuck-out for me.

I’d thrown the necklace into the bathroom sink, hands shaking, wiping at my neck where the metal had touched me. Hooch had
never been a murderer, at least, not until that night. When the cops released my brother’s meager possessions, the necklace
hadn’t been in the brown paper bag. I was relieved. Maybe it washed down the drain or got taken for evidence. That was
stupid. The giant hunk of trauma-metal would never fit down a drain.

Henrietta put her glasses down on the counter, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. “Okay, Jo, you need to listen to
me.” She settled her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose, glancing up at the window again. “Go get some sleep. You can’t
think clearly without sleep.” She extricated the coffee mug from my hands, ignoring my protesting noises, and replaced it with a
glass of water. “Big fish won’t have time to chase you for long; they’ve got bigger and eviler things to worry about than the
little sister of Mr. Hooch Monroe. And don’t discount me. I haven’t always been the quirky mocha mistress. I’ve got friends,
they’ve helped us before, and I think they could help us now. I’ll go see them tomorrow. Now get your ass upstairs and go to
sleep.”

I wanted to believe her.

I slipped off the stool and walked away, my sneakers squeaking against a clean floor. A little sleep wouldn’t kill me, but Jack’s
men might if I couldn’t think straight. In the back of Spiteful Sips, along a yellow wall, was an entry to the stairwell that led up
to the attic apartment Henrietta lived in since she bought the building five years ago. It was the only entrance and exit to the
second story, besides the fire escape.

“And take a shower! You’ll feel better!”

I stopped midway up the stairwell. Anger and tears welling, burning my raw eyes. Nasty words swelled in my mind. My mouth
opened to shout something back, then snapped closed. I had to stop lashing out. Chris didn’t deserve it, and neither did
Henrietta.

Henrietta had always been good to me, a mother when I needed one. I breathed through my nose, making a face like I imagined
looked much like Henrietta’s, with lips clamped. I was so tired of running, tired of being told what to do. Shaking my head, I
went upstairs to lie down and wrestle with a mind that just wouldn’t quit.
 7

JO

I nlandscape
the way of dreams, I knew I wasn’t in my body. Molten black stone reshaped into a glossy throne. A dark, luscious
reached for me—wanted me, welcomed me.

This wasn’t my home; I could hear my home calling for me, offering music and secrets. Warning me to run. Why run? War was
coming to us all, and there was nowhere I could hide. My old home had never been safe; now there was something new
creeping in with deep, invasive roots.

If I stayed in this dark terrain, maybe I could hide from those powerful invasive roots and what they meant for the future. I
would create vibrant colors, art, passion, and belonging. She would teach me about this part of myself that could create
beautiful and horrible things. Together, we would create and destroy. Together, we could fend off the new invaders sneaking
into my home through a back door no one knew was opening.

Rock liquefied, twisted up, and offered me a piece from its core. Like a love token, a big, black-jeweled ring. The ring slid
over my fourth finger, warm and a perfect fit, like a part of me that had been missing.

“Doppio!”

Doppio?

“Doppio!”

I rolled off the couch, disoriented and heart pounding. My muscles tense and ready to propel myself out of the bunched sheets
and towards the door. I froze, finding Henrietta staring at me. Arched eyebrows pushed up wrinkles I couldn’t remember being
etched in her face.

“Whoa, whoa,” Henrietta whispered, using a gentle technique for calming frightened animals or angry customers. “Jo, it’s okay.
It’s just me. I’ve got food, two shots of espresso.” She set a plate of lasagna and a small white ceramic demitasse cup on the
high counter that separated the kitchen from the living space.

My fingers, toes, and lips tingled, and I took a deep breath to clear my head. “Yeah, yeah. I’m okay. It’s okay.” Except for a
moment, I thought I was about to die.

“You need to get showered. Clear your head. Eat first, shower next.” As a busy woman, working ten-plus hours a day, she
rarely ate in her apartment. If she ate in her apartment, she ate on the couch or standing in the kitchen.

Henrietta waved her hand at me, beckoning me to the kitchen counter. “Eat,” she commanded. “Your clothes are in the dryer.
Get cleaned up, then get your ass downstairs to help close up. Just a few more customers, and we’re done for the night!” I made
a face at her mothering. “And for the love of god, brush your hair.” Apparently, my sleeping through the busy day met her sleep
requirements, and I was now allowed to rise, be caffeinated, and get to work.

Henrietta left me to the tangy red sauce and warm, cheesy noodles, cooling around the edges. I washed it down with the bitter
black espresso, slightly burnt, but I would not be telling her that.

My eyes no longer felt like sand had been rubbed into them, but I did not feel better. Sleep wouldn’t make people stop hunting
me. What had Hooch done? I didn’t even know. A deeper exhaustion settled into my bones as I realized how fucked I was.
Maybe Jack just wanted to talk? What if I just went to him and asked what the fuck he wanted?

The apartment door stood between me, the stairwell, and the distant noise of customers. Henrietta was down there, with her
small crew and loyal customers—Spite was her home. And gang members had been to Spite and spoken to my godmother.
While they may have left last time, I wasn’t sure what would happen next time.

I couldn’t stay. Chris was right. I couldn’t stay in the city. I couldn’t hide in the apartment of the woman who had been a parent
when my mother chose drugs over us. I had no one left to run to. I would need to leave everything I knew and worked so hard
to hang on to.

Slowly, I drug myself towards the bathroom and got into the small standing shower. The bathroom had no fan, so I cracked the
window and left the door ajar to ventilate the space.

Water cascaded over my body, painful at first, then soothing as it rinsed away grease and stress. All the denial and anger that
had been swirling in me drained away until I was able to sing a wordless song.

There were no more friends, with their lives and children, that I could endanger. Even Hooch’s old friends, if they were still
alive, had started to try to get their lives together or left the city.

I had never had a family that could help themselves, let alone help me. I was almost alone in the world. Henrietta was it. And
this would be the last gift I’d let her give me—then I needed to help myself.

I let my hair fall over my face in sheets. I would let the sound of the shower quiet my thoughts, and the acoustics of the shower
keep my voice. When I was done, I would go downstairs, wipe down the counters, kiss my godmother goodbye, and leave.

Shutting off the shower, I dried myself, wiped the mirror off, and wrapped the towel around my body. The tangles in my wavy
hair eased with conditioner, though it still took several comb-throughs before the comb’s teeth didn’t snag on knots. How did it
get this bad? I needed to change my appearance. Maybe I should dye my hair like dishwater.

I had an idea.

Rifling through drawers, I found a pair of scissors and began cutting an uneven line through my hair at my shoulders. No more
braids. I could dye it later. My hair had been cut only once, by Henrietta on the night she took us home. We hadn’t been bathed
regularly, and my hair was too knotted for her to fuss with; she’d cut it to my ears without hesitation. I had always been told my
hair was the prettiest thing about me, and I grew it long with pride.

The gnawing sounds of the dull scissors made me clench my teeth. Hooch loved my hair, much lighter and brighter than his.
Mine was a silvery blonde, more silver than blonde, that reminded me of tarnished metal when wet. I eyed the thick, dark, wet
locks around my feet, then returned my gaze to the mirror where I could see my hair beginning to loosely coil, freed from the
old weight. Tarnished was right.
 8

JUDGE

I found my way back to the two-story coffee shop in the dim evening light. Black, white, and yellow, it stuck out in the well-
worn neighborhood like a sunflower springing from a dirt patch. Mismatched buildings lined the street in various stages of
remodeling. They showed signs that this area was struggling to be made anew.

If there were more humans with realm magic, like Hooch, then it would mean Earthside must suppress realm magic of a certain
caliber. Thus, Earthside had no powerful realmweavers to protect or remake the landscape. No one who could call power to
recreate realms—more minor powers of making, yes, but none that could lift dreams from minds, raise a kingdom from the
ground, then sweep it away like cards. Creation and destruction. My mother had been such a power.

If I had been a cruel mirror of my father’s form, I was also a weak imitation of my mother’s power. Without her guiding hand,
our realm had been left in ruins and to the whims of angels.

Rather than lie in ruins, humans with no magic created structures from disparate pieces, from someone else’s imagination.
Feats of tremendous and sometimes foolish engineering with no input from the realm it was made from. They forced creations
to cling to life long after their time for death and rebirth—an almost tragic tendency shared by angels and humans. In that way, I
pitied the realm more than the humans who toiled there.

I walked the perimeter, evaluating entrances and exits. The front boasted extensive windows and a single door with top and
bottom glass panes frosted with opaque white paint. Customers moved within, a short line to the counter, and several sat
around small tables conversing.

I could enter through the front, choose a human, and mirror their behavior; I didn’t think I could make it past the dark-haired
woman if she was in there, without causing a scene.

A cool breeze shifted, carrying a faint, intoxicating scent from the alley and I followed. The street was mostly empty, and those
who walked past kept their faces pointed at their hands or looked away to avoid eye contact. Why hadn’t her scent attracted
every hungry predator on this side of the city? Her delicious fragrance wrapped around me, triggering a primal need to
eliminate potential threats—but there were none that I could sense.

I halted as I caught her scent again, blending with hints of mint and lavender. I resented the odors trying to mask her from me. A
metal door lacking an exterior handle stood in the alley as a flat rectangular slab recessed into the building. Was she behind
that door? I could peel it away.

No.

I needed to find my control. I had to remind myself of my purpose. Neglecting my responsibilities would burden the realm with
the dead, and I had an order.
I wasn’t here to find a mate. Desiring a mate was poison. I hadn’t even seen her in her present form, and already, I wanted to
tear apart the world to reach her. That was dangerous. I owed Hell better than what my predecessors had wrought on our
realm. I was sent to collect the new King of Hell’s sister. After handing her over, I would resume the oversight and judgment of
the Catacombs.

One level above the recessed door, a metal fire escape gleamed beneath a cracked window. She was up there. Stepping back
several paces, I leaped onto the black lid of a bulky, green dumpster, squatted, and pushed off the lid to grasp the cold metal
rungs. With a seamless motion, I pulled myself up the guardrails, swinging onto the platform.

My stealth could not silence the protest of rusted metal under my weight’s momentum. I let the fire escape settle before turning
towards the window, inhaling. She was in there—the real, living her—not a mere memory or a torn picture. Distantly, I could
hear the sounds of the shop below. Closer, a shower ran, accompanied by a soft melody, a siren’s song muffled by the water.

None of the remnants incorporated her voice. Tantalizing flashes of memories painted a picture that was both beautiful and
horrifically silent. Her voice had a depth and richness beyond my imagination. It wasn’t just the voice of a songstress, but that
of someone endowed with the gift of song—an Earthside Gift.

What would I say to her? The shower shut off, and a cupboard door opened and closed. What would she say to me? Would I
take her if she refused to come willingly?

I easily lifted the window. Below the window, there was nothing but old wooden floorboards and a metal grate. With a twist, I
lowered myself through to sit on my heels. If she said no, I could probably abscond with her the same way I had come. Even if
the day was dwindling and an Ebon Gate was near, abducting a screaming woman would cause chaos. If I used preternatural
abilities in front of humans and was caught, I ran the risk of an encounter with the Conclave.

I crept to the couch, running my fingers through tangled bedding that was still warm from her body. Who was she hiding from
here? I hunted with my sight and tried to force remnants from the bedding. I moved a pillow and lifted a cushion. No. Nothing. I
could not force my sight. Nothing remained for me but her scent and the reassuring warmth that she was real.

Something wasn’t right.

I forced myself to let go of the blanket, focusing on the dim hallway opposite the sofa. Uncharacteristic silence shrouded the
apartment. Straining, my ears failed to catch any hint of movement. This level was devoid of the usual noise of daily human
life, and my hearing wasn’t keen enough to detect breathing at this distance. I held my breath, waiting for her to reveal herself.
Yet, as the stillness persisted, realization struck. In my distraction, I had somehow given myself away.
 9

JO

I heard or maybe felt something—the rolling of the old window vibrating in the wall it shared with the bathroom. The skin on
my neck prickled, and a pulse of dizziness had me clutching the countertop. An intense wave of belonging gripped me, like an
aftershock of my dream. I shook my head hard; maybe I’d let myself get too hot in the shower.

Had I heard something? I thought it had been outside, but the sound of the heavy window raising was unmistakable. The
bathroom window was small enough to ventilate the space, but not big enough to see anything but the brick of the opposite
building. I hadn’t heard anyone release or climb the fire escape stairs, but someone had come through the window.

Henrietta said my clothes were in the dryer. Could I make it to the dryer, dress, and get out before they found me? I would make
it farther in clothes, even farther if I could snatch my sneakers. I couldn’t risk it. I’d never get the closet and dryer doors open
without giving away my one advantage—no one could know I was back here.

Praying it stayed put, I pulled the towel around me, tucking in the edges under my arms. I looked up at the ceiling. Were
guardian angels real? I was alive, wasn’t I? If you could call what I’d been doing living.

I had been low so many times in my life and just kept living, but at one time, so had Hooch. His luck finally ran out. Was mine
about to run out too? I would die before I’d go to Jack. Was I going to hide in the bathroom? Freeze? Please, don’t let me
freeze. No, if I was going to die, I wanted to take as many of Barron’s men with me as I could. I would go down kicking,
clawing, and screaming. If they wanted to take me, they would have to beat me unconscious.

Without a doubt, someone downstairs would hear, but how long would it take someone to respond? What if I died? And what if
I still got Henrietta killed?

Swallowing, I reached up and turned off the light. The apartment was not new; it was an old, refurbished building that creaked
the way a well-lived building did. I held my breath, straining to hear. Nothing. Maybe I hadn’t heard anything? Perhaps it was
something downstairs? Or in the building across the alley?

Creeeeak.

My heart sped up, skipping in my chest. The creak was coming from the hallway, blocking my exit to the only full-sized
window and door in the apartment. Seconds. They would find me in seconds. If I was going to get out, I would need to go
through them.
 10

JUDGE

S taying low to the ground, I prowled down the hall. I could feel the moisture in the air from the shower, the scent of mint and
lavender, and her presence underneath it all, growing stronger. My skin tingled. If she would not come out, I would go to
her.

A wild human blindly burst into the hall, a fist against her chest. At first, I thought her fist was closed around a dagger, and I
loosened my arms at my sides, prepared to disarm her.

A moment before she charged into me, I saw she gripped a small towel wrapped around her naked, damp body. I was
awestruck by her. Jo did not waste the opportunity and she rammed her knee into my thigh, narrowly missing my groin.

I wrapped myself around her while she fought to get past me, grunting and growling as she swung her free arm to strike my
chest and neck. I drowned in the pleasure of her body against mine. Nails raked down my cheek. I hissed, grabbing her violent
free hand and pushing her against the wall.

The sibilant sound stunned her. She craned her head back to stare into my face. Short, loosely coiling hair fell away from her
beautiful face. Wide, dark blue eyes frantically hunted for something she recognized. “Stop,” I growled.

“Who the fuck are you?” Jo demanded, taking a shaking breath before she tried to twist out of my grip again. I lifted her arm,
dragging her to the tips of her toes.

“Stop, I don’t want to hurt you.”

Jo jolted in my grip like ice water had been dumped down her spine. She leaned back into the wall, stretching herself long and
flat and as far from me as she could, while ensnared by her wrist. In a white-knuckled grip, she held the short towel in place; it
rode up her legs, exposing her thigh to the curve of her groin. Control. I needed to find my control. A fine tremor went through
me.

“Who the fuck sent you?”

 11

JO

I fisted the rough towel and pulled it closer to my chest. Heat spread through me when our bodies made first contact. He’d
caught me and rolled me into the wall, turning my fight into our dance. For a moment, everything was lost in the sensation
where our bodies met before I remembered I was fighting for my life. Then he hissed and it was not a sound I’d ever heard
come from a human mouth.

I was practically naked, but couldn’t get myself to drop the towel even though it didn’t cover much. Dropping the towel would
mean I was going to do whatever he asked me to. What was more important to cover up? My boobs or my dignity? “I said…
Who the fuck are you?”

If I could stop looking at his full sensual lips, I could take a guess. What had Henrietta said? Goth-mortician-meets-military?

Medium-length, fine black hair created a perfectly disheveled frame around large, dark brown eyes. Oh, she’d said gorgeous
too. Dark eyelashes that looked like they’d been given the guyliner treatment at a distance, but having been up close, I could see
they were just enviably thick and long. A crisp white button-down shirt with sleeves neatly rolled back to the elbow, fitted
black slacks, and polished boots. She’d forgotten to mention his posture was more like a dancer or a prince than a sergeant.

“Actually, you said, who sent you.“ His voice was lightly accented, husky, and rough as though he hadn’t spoken in a long time.
Again, his gaze ran the length of my body, before returning to my face.

“Get out!”

“You’ll have to make up your mind. Do you want me to answer your questions, or do you want me to leave?” He drew closer,
pressing his face along my shoulder and inhaling as he swept his face up my neck to my ear. He lingered there, face in my hair,
his breath sending chills through me. My knees began to weaken, and I moaned.

If he’d let go of my wrist, I would have fallen like a rag doll into his arms. He inhaled again, his lips brushing my ear as his
free hand moved up the outside of my thigh to my waist. Desire, something I had not felt in a long time, burned inside me.

That was it.

I pressed into his hand, turning my face toward where he nestled into my neck. My lips brushed his cheek. I wanted his mouth
on mine. I let go of the towel, letting it slip away. With my newly freed hand, I grabbed his shirt and pulled him against me.
This was the man Henrietta had described. She had also been right about one other thing—goth-mortician-meets…? Trouble?
My type? I couldn’t remember.

He didn’t release my arm but lowered me so I could plant my feet and push my hips into him. I could feel his hard cock
straining against his slacks. He was as ready for me as I felt for him. He groaned, lifting his face to the ceiling, then back down
to me, breathing heavily.

I needed him to do something and couldn’t wait for him to figure it out. I leaned up, my shoulder straining in his grip, and
pressed my lips to his. Our kiss was soft and tentative at first, then firm and hungry. I bit his lip and tasted blood as his tongue
dove back into my mouth. He released my arm, pulling me into his body where I belonged.

His fingers, long and strong, reached between us and found what I had so desperately tried to cover. Between our kisses, he
explored my wetness with those fingers, swallowing my noises of pleasure into his mouth. One warm finger slipped inside me,
testing me, and I let out a cry into his mouth. My toes curled, desire and urgency building in my core.

A crash downstairs, followed by a few laughs from boisterous customers, brought me back to my senses. What was I doing? I
was fucking insane! I pushed away from him, grasping for the towel, which felt even less adequate than before. Pleasure and
need turned to a restless, cold emptiness inside, and I shoved him away. What was wrong with me? Who the fuck was this guy?

Loss in his eyes made my heart squeeze, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure I could breathe. I wanted to go to him, erase the
reason for the look on his face. What the fuck was happening? Had I been drugged? “Get away from me,” I managed to say in a
sharp voice. “Who are you?”

“My name…” He paused, looking around before assessing the growing distance between us. “I am called Judge.”

As if. Who named their kid Judge?

“Ok. Ok. Judge. What are you doing here?”

“Your brother sent me.”

My cheeks burned. Judge’s words felt like a slap across my face.

“That’s fucking sick,” I hissed, sounding not unlike he had. Cold crept through me. Anger. Whatever possessed me before was
gone, and now I wanted to gouge his eyeballs out. He didn’t respond. Dark eyes flicked down my body and back up to my face.
“My brother’s dead, so whatever he owed you has nothing to do with me. I will not be fucking you to pay off his debts.”

“I will protect you from his debts, Jo.”

Soul-aching pain tore at me. Protect me? I was so tired of running, but no one could protect me. “Leave.”

I wasn’t going to give myself to this man. I wasn’t going to pay for my dead brother’s crimes with my body. I wouldn’t pay for
his mistakes anymore. And no one could protect me, least of all this stranger.

“Get out,” I repeated weakly, fervently trying to bury the urge to run back into his arms. No one could save me, but it didn’t
mean I didn’t wish he could.

Judge’s eyes were dark. Something like amusement curved the corners of his lips upward then faded into a neutral mask. It may
have looked like humor, but there was something disturbingly cold about it—like he was angry and trying to hide it.

“Quit staring at me. Fucking say something.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. You seem to think you know much about why I’m here and why I want you.”
I held my breath like I could pause everything. Why he wanted me? Did I want him to want me? Warmth swirled deep inside
me, at odds with the cool air breezing around my legs from the open window. I could almost feel his strong, warm hand slip
between the ends of my bath towel, his warm palm brushing against my hip, snaking around my waist, and pulling me back in.

“Why don’t you tell me then?” I snapped. Judge took a small step forward, and I stumbled back, not trusting him or myself.
Apparently, I needed to convince my body that we weren’t fucking or running.

Judge lifted a chain from around his neck, dangling a necklace. “Your brother sent me to bring you to him.” He offered the item
to me with an extended hand, not stepping any closer. He had black fingernails. To see anything but the chain and his manicure,
I would need to move closer to him.

Reluctantly, I stepped in to snatch the heavy necklace and hopped back several feet, putting more distance between us. “What
is…” My voice died in my throat as I dropped the silver chain and cross to the floor, as if it had burned me.

I was going to be sick. I looked up to Judge, feeling betrayed. Judge reached his hand toward me, eyebrows drawn down and
mouth open. Instead, I turned, clutching the towel, and ran to the bathroom.

When I was done, I wiped my mouth and then sat back on my heels, staring at the toilet. I’d emptied the contents of my stomach.
Even with empty hands, I couldn’t stop feeling the phantom cross in my hands. I’d prayed that the necklace sunk to the sewers
but knew Hooch had taken the damn thing the night he was murdered.

If Hooch had it on him when he died, how did this man get it? I’d thought maybe the police were in the Barron family’s pocket,
that they’d recognized the family necklace and given it back. Perhaps Jack had given the necklace to him to lure me out?

I scoffed at the idea. Lure. As if I would be lured or wooed, any Barron was a club-them-over-the-head-and-keep-them-
chained-in-a-basement sort of red flag. So, if Judge hadn’t been given the necklace by Jack, how did he get it?

What was I supposed to do about the weird man in my godmother’s apartment? Shove him and the necklace back out the
window? March him downstairs and call the cops? Exactly how would that conversation go? I’m sorry, officer, I was just
about to have wild sex with this man until he told me my dead brother sent him. No, I don’t think you have to worry about
Hooch, but this hottie is certifiable. And, by the way, I think that he might have killed my brother.
 12

JUDGE

A cross-realm conspiracy or a cross-realm coincidence? Never had my loyalty been so tested. I had thrown my orders out the
window and let her walk away. We had been so close to joining, so close to me foreswearing every oath about mating I
had ever made. I had felt her wet and ready on my fingers, and my instincts shut down my brain. There was no flood of
memories when I first touched her; I could read nothing from her that she did not expose. All I had understood was our want
and need—want for this feeling I had never known and need to give her everything.

Instead, I almost ruined us with my recklessness. Where was my restraint? She wretched, heaved in a breath, and got sick until
she coughed. I gazed at the necklace. Maybe it wasn’t just a trinket? Could a cursed object have been smuggled through an
Ebon Gate without Hēla knowing?

I tried to remember when the necklace had been given to me. Had I felt anything but the shock of seeing Lucifer slain, followed
by the most unlikely regime change? There had been the powerful remnant when I first touched it, had it the same effect on her?
No, the effect the necklace had on Jo was like a fast-acting poison. And I gave it to her.

My lip twitched, a snarl simmering. Stooping to pick up the necklace, I examined it more closely. The cross appeared thick,
sharp, and dangerous. Was it also toxic to humans? Or was it just toxic to her? Could the King have given it to me, knowing
what it would do to her? Was I not to collect her but to kill her?

The toilet flushed, and I went to the bathroom doorway. She was kneeling on the floor, brushing her discarded hair into her
hands to brush into the trash. “I think you should leave,” she said quietly without looking up or trying to cover her exposed
body.

“I have orders,” I responded, sounding cold. She dropped the last chunks of damp hair into a small garbage can. Why had she
cut it? Hair clung to her fingers, and she wiped them against a brown towel. What else could I say?

Jo heaved a sigh. “I don’t know what that was.” She waved a flustered hand towards the hallway. “I-I can’t. That won’t happen
again.”

“It should have never happened to begin with. I apologize; I did not intend to... touch you like that.”

Jo went to her feet and stopped before me, staring through my chest. Silvery hair curtained the sides of her face, the curl more
pronounced as it dried. She bit her swollen bottom lip and shook her head.

I stepped aside, and she walked deeper into the hallway until she opened a closet door obscuring her body from view. A door
clicked open and slammed shut. Flashes of pale flesh peeked through the narrow space between the door and the wall. When
she closed the door, she wore jeans and an oversized black t-shirt that swallowed her upper body.
“Then what exactly is your intent?” she asked, stopping in front of me again until I turned sideways to let her pass. She
squeezed by me, carefully sucking in her stomach to avoid grazing me, and sat on the sofa. She pulled out dusty black sneakers,
stuffed her feet in, and laced them.

“I have orders from your brother to bring you to him in Hell.”

The statement hung between us until she stood from the sofa to face me. She searched my face for a long moment before she
spoke again, her voice lower pitched. “Did you kill my brother?”

“No.”

Again, her eyes roved across my face, scrutinizing my features for lies.

“How do you know he’s in Hell?” she asked, her voice raising almost playfully. “He didn’t believe in God.”

“Hell has nothing to do with God. God is the avatar of Heaven,” I corrected patiently, “in Hell, we had the Moirahēla, then
Lucifer, and now your brother.” Each iteration weaker than the last.

Jo barked out a mirthless laugh. “You’re joking. My brother, Hooch Monroe, is the God of Hell?”

“I am loyal to Hell. Lucifer has been slain, and your brother wears the Ebon Horn Ring. Hooch Monroe is not a god. He is the
new King and Master of Hell. He asked me to bring you to him.”

“Mister, I think you need help. You can start by helping yourself out of here, going right back the way you came. If Jack sent
you, tell him I said hi or, better yet, that you never saw me.”

“I don’t know a Jack.” I dangled the necklace up with two fingers, high enough for her to see and back far enough that it was
not an offer. Jo froze, watching the necklace’s slight sway as though in a terrible trance. “I do know Hooch, and I am to show
you this as proof that he sent me. I don’t know what magic this holds for you, but I will not make you touch it again. I will
protect you.”

My words broke her spell. Jo scoffed, tearing the necklace from my hand, holding it like a dagger, and turning for the door.
“This necklace means absolutely nothing to me.”

“Jo, stop.” I was so used to being obeyed that she had reached the door before I moved to block her exit. “You do not need to
believe me, but you do need to come with me.”

Defiance flickered in her eyes, a flash of the wildness I’d seen when she’d charged me in the hallway. “Or you’ll do what?”

I wanted to do so many things.

I pressed my palm against the door, holding it closed. “Come with me.”

Jo shook her head no, reaching a hand up to grip my wrist—it was a parody of how I had pinned her beneath me. She pointed
the small pike of the necklace at me. Good, it wasn’t dangerous to her.

“Let me give you a piece of advice that was just given to me, Judge. I think it was something I really needed to hear, and by the
sounds of it, so do you. Stop being loyal to the people who hurt you. Stop being loyal to the people who throw you away to
save themselves. They aren’t worth it.” Jo pulled my hand, and I let her, dropping my arm to my side. “If you’re not going to
leave, then I will. Get out before I call the cops.”
Jo slipped from the apartment and closed the door. By the resolve in her face, I knew she would not return here. That was fine.
I had given her choices; now, she had left me with only one. I would allow her time to say goodbye to the proprietress. With the
taste of her on my tongue, her scent burned into my mind, she would not disappear again. I turned back towards the fire escape,
her words wreaking havoc in my mind. What could a human know of loyalty?
 13

JO

T hat man looked at me like he needed me to breathe. Like he had just discovered his reason to live. I had never been looked
at like that before. I won’t say I hated it. It was physically difficult to make myself walk away, but right now? The last thing
I needed right now was a man. In fact, I decidedly needed less men in my life.

Now that the shock had worn off, I gripped the cross angrily. I squeezed the behemoth accessory like I would stab someone
with it. I wished I’d thrown it out the window, but the need to prove that Benji Barron held no power over me won. Instead of
thinking about the gaudy chunk of pointy metal, I’d linger on that kiss. No matter how long I lived, there would never be another
kiss like that. In the same way I knew that was a once-in-a-lifetime, sweep-you-off-your-feet kiss, I knew in my gut that he did
not kill Hooch. I couldn’t explain it, even if the denial came from someone gorgeous and profoundly delusional.

Hooch being King in Hell and the damn necklace took it too far. Trouble, Henrietta had called him. If Trouble could find me in
her home, then there were worse things coming than a pretty man who thought he was collecting me for my brother and taking
me to the King of Hell. That was just a little bit too serial killer to be a serious relationship. And I hated the unsettling feeling
that he was telling me an impossible truth.

I waited for Henrietta to say goodbye to her last customer—a silver-haired fox who’d been coming to see her every week since
she first opened Spite. He drank her lousy coffee with a grin, brought her flowers on the anniversary of her opening, and even
volunteered to help clean up after the arson attempt.

“You cut your hair,” Henrietta exclaimed with flushed cheeks, when she saw me round the corner. She tossed a wet rag, and I
caught it before it slapped me in the face. The rough rag smelled strongly of bleach. “It looks good! I haven’t seen it that short
since you were a little girl.”

I smiled, plastering my love for that woman where she could see and remember it. “I needed something different.”

“How about working for me? Would that be different enough for you? Get those tables in back, and when we’re done, we can
talk about wages. You can work here, stay with me, and we will set you up in a new apartment across town soon.”

I let Henrietta talk and dream about this future where my brother’s ghost wasn’t driving me into the ground. She wiped her hair
back from her face, grinned tiredly, and began to clean and break down the espresso bar. I tried to pretend like I hadn’t just
been trying to ride a stranger’s hand in her hallway upstairs. I wish I could forget that fucking kiss.

“I’m thinking about opening up a second location,” she told me, her eyes wandering in the space above my head like she could
see it there. “Spite Two, we can call it, twice as good and twice as hateful. I’d need to get it approved with the bank, but I can
pull a few strings. We can do it in black, white, and pastel pink. Nothing says spiteful or petty like pastel pink. And since I
can’t be in two places simultaneously, who better to run it than you? I practically raised you to be a second me.”
I wished. I wanted to think that I was more like my namesake than I was like my own mother.

“You did raise me,” I assured her, letting her weave the fantasy around us. Could I run a coffee shop? I hadn’t been able to run
my own life or my brother’s. How was I supposed to run something as big as a business? “I’d want a little stage for live music
in the corner, and you’d better pay me store manager kind of money, or this coffee-nepo baby is not doing it,” I bluffed.

It took about an hour to clean and close Spite and for Henrietta to finish laying out her vision. She had been eyeing a corner
space in a busy area downtown. There weren’t many cafes or restaurants there yet. The nearest coffee shop was the
Mustachioed Menace and it served hipsters in a neighboring college district—a totally different clientele.

I spent extra time buffing surfaces until they sparkled before I tied off the last trash bag. Making an excuse to step away, I
darted upstairs to make sure the gorgeous man was gone. I sighed heavily, hating that I wished he was still there and relieved
he was gone. Judge had even closed the window behind him. What an awful name… Even for someone who looked like an
idol.

When I got back down to Spite, I told Henrietta to go upstairs to get ready for bed. It felt good to try to take care of her for a
change. That man, Judge, let me leave and was probably miles away by now.

I wouldn’t be mentioning Judge, the goddamned cross, or anything else to Henrietta. There was enough for her to stress about,
and I was pretty sure I would be tossing that godforsaken piece of jewelry in with the trash.

I shooed her. “Go. It’s your turn to go take a shower. I’m just going to take this trash out. I’ll be right upstairs.” Like a version
of myself I’d never met, I sounded sweet and confident. Henrietta gave me a long side-eye. “I’ve got this. I’ll be right up.”

Henrietta nodded reluctantly and moved towards the door in the back. “Don’t forget to pull the blinds and lock up. Tomorrow
is going to be another early, busy day. You know, with the holidays coming, everybody wants their pumpkin meets candy cane
bullshit.”

“You love that bullshit,” I muttered, pushing the heavy service door open into the cold alley and moving several trash bags
outside. I hefted the black bags into the green industrial trash bin. There was something about touching giant garbage bins that
made my skin crawl, and that sounded like the perfect place for the fucking necklace. Piled under heaps of my godmother’s
success. And I was still standing, wasn’t I? So maybe it was a little of my success too. I slipped the cross out from the
waistband of my pants.

If I let Hooch and the Barron brothers go, what kind of life could I have?

A thick hand yanked back my hair, and I yelped, colliding with a hard body that reeked of leather and smoke. “Found you,
Billie-Josephine. We need to talk,” a gravelly voice spat into my ear. I twisted in his hand and was hurled back into the coffee
shop. Someone laughed when I hit the ground.

Over my shoulder, I glared through my hair at Jack. He was still tall, broad-faced, with slicked-back hair to his neck. I couldn’t
see the good-ol’ boy from high school in those features. Hate and anguish carved his face, raw emotions that sent fear skittering
up my spine.

I needed to get up.

Before I could regain my footing, Henrietta tore past me, bellowing, a chair raised in both arms like a weapon. A younger man,
thicker necked, with a crewcut, a dark leather jacket, and worn-out work boots, pushed through the door, shoving the chair
away from Jack and seized Henrietta. He slammed her against a counter. The impact rang out, her head colliding with the
counter before she vanished from sight.
A scream clawed out of me, then died at the end of a long black barrel. Crewcut pulled Henrietta up by her hair. Henrietta
cursed, still conscious. Glasses missing, face red but not bleeding. She yelled, turning to swing at the man who grabbed her.
Crewcut laughed while deftly blocking her and using her weight to slam her back into rows of neatly stacked glass mugs that
cascaded to the floor.

Jack smirked, tilting his broad face to leer at me around the gun.

“Leave her alone, Jack! She hasn’t—“ The gun cracked across my face, a brutal punctuation to my plea that sent me sprawling
back to the unforgiving floor. I clutched my head, rolling into a ball of pain, while chaos erupted behind the counter. Henrietta
howled. Glass broke, metal crashed, and the sounds of bodies hitting surfaces filled Spite.

Crewcut yelped, “The bitch bit me!”

“Bite her back,” Jack said halfheartedly above me.

Each time I tried to lift myself, I fell. Another crash and Henrietta groaned, then went quiet. I got to my hands and knees, head
hanging between my shoulders. Saliva dripped off my lip.

Get up, Jo!

“Get up, Jo,” Jack crooned, jerking me by the arm and driving me back to sit in a chair. “I’ve got questions for you.” He tucked
the gun into the back of his pants as if to say, See? I can play nice if you will. “If you’re a good girl, I just might stop hitting
you. And if you’re not? Well, I’ve got no problems hitting girls that deserve it.”

“Boss,” Crewcut wheezed.

“Hold it,” Jack snapped, brushing my hair from my face.

I wanted to pull away, but my body wasn’t responding. My ears were still ringing. My short hair was sticking to my wet cheek.
My mouth tasted like pennies.

“Jack, man, you’ll want to see this.”

Surprise lifted Jack’s eyebrows, and he swiveled to look at Crewcut. “What?”

“She dropped this in the alley,” Crewcut declared, holding one hand over his bleeding neck, and lifting the cross in the other. A
sudden knot twisted in my stomach.

Jack glanced at me, then accepted the necklace. With careful fingers, he turned it over in his hands as if handling something
fragile that could shatter at any moment. Unzipping his own jacket, he revealed the necklace’s twin. The crosses met in his
hands, and for a fleeting moment, Jack’s expression softened. “Oh, Benji…”

Fury contorted his face as he focused his attention back at me.

“Tell me,” Jack gritted. “I knew it had been Hooch who’d murdered my baby brother, but I’d have never suspected you, Billie-
Jo. Not you. We had other business tonight, you and I, but I think this is more pressing. Were you trying to get rid of this so I
would never find it? The last piece of evidence? The last piece of Benji? Hooch is dead and there’d be no one left who knew.”

My protest stumbled out, spineless against the weight of Jack’s accusation. “I-I didn’t do anything.”
A bitter laugh escaped Jack’s lips; a painful sound that made Crewcut shift uncomfortably. “Did you lure Benji to be butchered
by that sick, unpredictable fuck? They’re both dead, and you’re what’s left, Billie-Jo. Were you fucking them both?”

“No!”

“You know what I think? I think you’re the real brains behind your deadbeat brother and finally realized you couldn’t fuck your
way out of the half-mil you owed. Did you kill your own brother too?”

The accusation sent my mind reeling. “What?” I choked out.

Jack clenched his fist around the necklace, “Benji loved you,” he said with calm resolution. “He’d loved you for years, and
you used him.”

“That wasn’t love! Your brother was a fucking stalker,” I cried, the grip of doom starting to unravel me. Hooch used Benji’s
obsession for me to clear debt when violence was on the line, and I hadn’t said no until Benji was out of control.

“What would trash like you know about true love? Huh?” Jack shouted, backhanding me. My mouth snapped closed, my teeth
knocking together so hard I felt the blow radiate up into my temple.

Pain swallowed me, the ringing in my ears muffling Jack’s words. What did I know about love? The dark-haired, beautiful man
I’d kissed sparked such deep longing in me—I needed him now.

Jack’s voice broke through the haze, louder than before. “You’re a whore. Oh, don’t like that? What else do you call a bitch that
pays their bills with their cunt? Well, you can’t pay a blood debt with just your body, Jo. That just isn’t fair, now, is it?”

Crewcut shook his head, his face a disturbing mix of fervor and delight. He hauled an unconscious Henrietta to her feet, holding
her effortlessly.

Licking the corner of his lip, Jack smirked. “You see, we’re almost family friends. Our folks knew each other. And my ol’ man
wants to meet you after hearing so many interesting things about you, Jo. It’s too bad we haven’t had a chance to get to know
each other properly.”

Jack shook the necklace at me like a frightening promise. “Hey, it’s not too late, hmm? Honor Benji’s memory.”

As Jack closed in on me, I ripped free from the chair, a surge of fear propelling me toward the man who held Henrietta captive.
If I could just buy time to think… In an instant, Jack’s fingers closed around the back of my oversized shirt, yanking me back as
if he held the leash of a disobedient dog.

“Don’t touch me!” I yelped, jaw aching.

“Hold this bitch still,” Jack ordered. Crewcut tossed Henrietta aside and she vanished from my sight again.

I swung, and Crewcut redirected my momentum to position himself at my back, restraining me with rough efficiency. The cold
press of his palms digging into my arms unleashed a swell of panic that threatened to drown me.

Jack smiled and tenderly brushed my hair behind my ear. “Bring her to the kitchen, Smithy.”

I was going to die.

Refusing to help, I let my legs go limp as they dragged me into the kitchen. I made them trip over my feet—If I was going to die,
I’d make them work for it. Making them clumsy, pissing them off, helped quench the panic. Maybe they’d forget about Henrietta
behind the counter.

Harsh fluorescent bulbs flickered to life, incongruent with the rest of the shop, buzzing above us. I flinched.

If I had to pick between evils, I knew which one I wanted. Judge!

Click, click, click.

Crewcut grabbed my chin with sweaty fingers and cranked my head to the side. Fire sprung up in a circle around the front
element. Jack wrapped his hand inside his coat sleeve and lowered the metal cross into the flames. For a moment, I could not
make sense of what I was seeing. What if he ruined Henrietta’s stove? Was he trying to melt it? What if he burned down Spite?
Police would need our dental records to identify us.

When Jack turned, the hot, blackened metal swung towards me. I surged back, almost succeeding at knocking Crewcut
backward. Jack yanked my shirt over my face, and Crewcut cinched the slack tight like a harness. I whimpered, feeling the
suffocating fabric in my mouth.

A deliberate touch trailed from my collarbone to the trim of my bra and stopped near my heart. I froze, fear squeezing bile into
my throat.

“Ah, you think I’m going to let you die. Oh no, my family has been waiting for you for a long, long time. We thought Hooch was
the one, but that fucker was crazy and now he’s dead. And we’re thinking, like brother, like sister, right? You’re going to be an
ace up our sleeve. You’re going to live and I’m going to make sure that you will wish you could die,“ Jack whispered wetly.

Searing metal touched my bare skin, and I screamed.

 14

JUDGE

S creaming broke through to me. A voice. Her voice. The sound harpooned through my chest and propelled me back towards
the coffee shop.

Seven empty blocks sped by. Jo screamed my name. Fear. Anger. Pain. My legs pumped faster, the structures of the city
blurring past me. I leaped through one of the front-facing windows, the yellow awning flashing above me, and landed on
crunching glass.

Tables were pushed askew. Shattered wood, where orderly table aisles had been before. Where was she?

“What the fuck?” A male’s voice shouted.

From the back of the shop, darkly dressed males shuffled through a door, around the counter, and into the dining area. Jo
scrambled at the side of a tall man, her shirt flipped over her face, revealing her bare stomach. He used that shirt like a halter
to move an animal, holding her too low to stand but too high to crawl or kneel. The cross dangled from the same fist.

“I’m Jack Barron. And this is family business.” Jack spoke like these words mattered. He bared his teeth in a snarl.

I inhaled the stench of burned flesh and blood. Jo whimpered. I released a growl in response to her pain that was so low and
loud that it vibrated the glass at my feet.

Jack sneered. “Is this what you want?” He lifted Jo. Jo tried to balance on one knee, turning an ear to listen. Around the stench
of burned flesh was anger. He shook Jo, taunting me. “Answer me. Did you come for her?”

I had. Except now I also wanted revenge.

“Jack, his eyes! What the fuck is he on?” The other man exclaimed, unholstering a gun from his belt.

“Who cares?” Jack replied, pulling his gun with his free hand from his pants and training it on me. His minion did the same.
“All things bleed.”

Jo took a telling breath, then lunged upwards, knocking Jack sideways into the other male. He lost his grip on her, and she
threw herself to the side, slipping underneath a table. She pulled her shirt down, and all I could see were the bruises
blossoming along both sides of her face.

A murderous rage burned in me. I would kill him.

Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
faltan allegados que, aunque en segunda fila, toman parte, siquiera
con la atención, en los debates de la primera. Habrá seguramente
entre los allegados un señor muy fino y muy risueño, con bastón y
gafas. No se moverá de la silla, no pedirá un fósforo, no hará una
pregunta, sin despepitarse en excusas y cumplidos. «Usted
dispense», «¿me hace usted el obsequio?» «con permiso de
usted», etc., etc... y no habrá dicho en todo el año cosa más
substanciosa. Pero, en una ocasión, trajo usted á la porfía (y note
que no digo conversación), un apellido que hasta entonces no había
sonado allí. Óyelo el de las gafas, y, clavándolas en usted, le
pregunta, con una voz muy dulce y una cara muy risueña:
—¿Verduguillos ha dicho usted, caballero?
—Verduguillos, sí señor,—responde usted parándose en firme.
—¿Sabe usted—insiste el otro,—(y usted perdone si le interrumpo
un momento), si ese señor de Verduguillos tiene parientes en
Cuzcurrita de Río Tirón?
—¿Por qué he de saber yo eso, si jamás allá estuve, ni conozco á
ese señor más que de vista?—replica usted con el sosiego y la
amabilidad que eran de esperarse.
—Perdone usted, caballero—dice el intruso hecho unas mieles,—y
verá por qué me he tomado la libertad de interrumpirle.
Y en esto, deja la silla, sale al centro, encárase con el grupo
principal, afirma las gafas en el entrecejo, carraspea, sonríese y
dice:
—Pues, señor, verán ustedes por qué me ha interesado tanto el oir
á este caballero nombrar á ese señor de Verduguillos. Por el mes de
septiembre del año treinta y ocho, salí yo de Zamora (donde nací y
me crié y radican los pocos ó muchos bienes que heredé á la
muerte de mis padres, y los que he podido adquirir después acá con
el fruto de mis especulaciones modestas), con el propósito de hacer
un largo viaje, por exigirlo así los asuntos de la familia, y también, si
he de ser franco, el estado de mi salud...
Así comienza este señor la relación de un viaje por media España,
con largas detenciones en todos los puertos y plazas del tránsito, y
minuciosas observaciones estadísticas y climatéricas, sin pizca de
interés, ni método, ni estilo, ni substancia, hasta venir á parar, al
cabo de tres mortales cuartos de hora, á Logroño, en la cual ciudad
conocía al comerciante don Fulano de Tal; y decirnos que, yendo á
visitarle á su escritorio, hallóse allí con un caballero, muy amigo
también del don Fulano, el cual don Fulano le dijo á él al despedirse
el otro:
—Este señor que acaba de salir, es don Pacomio Verduguillos,
natural y vecino de Cuzcurrita de Río Tirón.
Al llegar aquí con el cuento el de las gafas, espera usted el toque de
efecto, el desenlace sorprendente, la gracia del suceso; porque es
de saberse que el narrador se ha quedado en silencio y mirando de
hito en hito á los resignados oyentes. Pero el silencio sigue y la
sorpresa no asoma. Alguien se aventura, y pregunta al del bastón:
—Pero ¿por qué le chocó á usted tanto el oir nombrar á este
Verduguillos?
—Hombre—responde el interpelado, con candidez angelical,—
porque podía muy bien ser pariente del otro Verduguillos que yo
conocí en Logroño.
¡Y para eso interrumpió un animado y sabrosísimo debate; y estuvo,
durante cerca de una hora, ensartando insulsez tras de insulsez,
simpleza tras de simpleza, adormeciendo á unos, quemando la
sangre á otros y aburriéndolos á todos! Y usted llevó la cruz con
paciencia, y yo también; y lo mismo al día siguiente, porque el
bueno del zamorano, desde que pierde la cortedad con el primer
relato, ya no cierra boca en la tertulia, y siempre tan ameno,
divertido y oportuno. Pero nos permitimos los dos un desahoguillo
en un aparte.
—Amigo—dije, ó me dijo usted,—¡este hombre es insufrible:
estando él no se puede venir aquí! Y se oyó el rumor del desahogo,
y ¡qué caras nos pusieron los señores tolerantes, que estaban tan
aburridos como nosotros!
Al día siguiente asoma usted la cabeza á la puerta, ve al de las
gafas en el uso de la palabra, retrocede y no vuelve; ni yo tampoco.
Y porque no volvemos, y además decimos lo que mejor nos parece
del motivo, ¡qué ponernos de intolerantes y hasta de inciviles!...
¡Caramba, protesto contra la enormidad de esta injusticia! En este
caso no hay más intolerantes que el señor de Zamora, que
interrumpe toda conversación racional y obliga á hombres de buen
sentido á que oigan las interminables boberías que él enjareta sin
punto de reposo, y los forzados tolerantes que le escuchan con
paciencia, y no la tienen para oir que otros carecen de ella.
Trátase ahora de un embustero, que un día y otro día le abruma á
usted con narraciones autobiográficas, sin principio ni fin, como la
eternidad de Dios; pero muy punteadas, muy comeadas y con más
espacios que un libro de malos versos. Oye usted una historia, y
dos, y tres, ya con mala cara; pero, al fin, se acaba la paciencia, y
un día interrumpe usted al sujeto de los á propósitos, y le dice:
—Mire usted, hombre: en primer lugar, la mayor parte de lo que
usted me cuenta se lo he contado yo á usted en cuatro palabras; en
segundo lugar, le sucedió á un condiscípulo mío en Oviedo, y no á
un amigo de usted en Zaragoza; en tercer lugar, no pasó como
usted lo refiere, sino del modo contrario: mi condiscípulo no adquirió
una capa aquella noche, sino que perdió la que llevaba, y, además,
el juicio, con costas, á los pocos días...
—Pues lo mismo da...
—Justo: media vuelta á la derecha es lo mismo que media vuelta á
la izquierda, sólo que es todo lo contrario.
—¡Caramba, es usted lo más intolerante!... No se puede hablar con
usted...
¡Todavía le parece poco, al ángel de Dios, la tolerancia que se ha
tenido con él!
Media docena de mujeres, ó menos, si á usted le parecen muchas
seis, se pasan una tarde entera desollando con la lengua al lucero
del alba. ¡Eso sí, con las mejores formas y la intención más santa!
De una dirán que es un dolor que, siendo tan bonita, sea tan charra
en el vestir, tan tosca en el hablar, tan inconsecuente en sus
amistades, tan desleal en sus amores; de otra, que es mordaz y
maldiciente, en lo cual se perjudica mucho, porque teniendo esta
falta, y la otra, y la de más allá, da pie para que cualquiera que se
estime en tan poco como ella, se las saque á relucir; de otra, que es
una desgraciada, porque el marido la ha puesto á ración, así en el
vestir como en el bailar, á causa de que fué algo despilfarrada
siempre en estos dos ramos de buena sociedad; de otra, que ya no
halla modista que la haga un traje si no paga adelantadas las
hechuras, y que no le venden nada en las tiendas, sino con el dinero
en la mano, etc., etc., etc... En esto, entra usted (es un suponer) y,
continuando el desuello, llegan á preguntarle si conoce á cierta
señora de éstas ó las otras señas; y como la tal es mujer de historia,
y usted la sabe de corrido, repítela allí con comentarios, creyendo
hacer á su auditorio un señalado servicio. Yo creo también que
usted se le hace, pues no fué á humo de pajas la preguntita; pero es
lo cierto que todas aquellas señoras, después de oirle á usted,
exclaman, con el más sincero de los asombros:
—¡Jesús!... Con razón dicen que es usted temible.
—¡Yo temible, señoras mías?—responde usted.—¿Y por qué?
—¡Porque es usted lo más intolerante y lo más!...
¡Vaya usted á convencer á aquellas damas de que viven
constantemente encenagadas en el pecado que á usted le cuelgan!
No hay inconveniente en que, abandonando estos tiquis-miquis que
ocurren en el ordinario trato social, dirijamos el anteojo unos grados
más arriba.
Todos los días halla usted en periódicos, en folletos y en libros,
sátiras, burlas y disertaciones en serio contra ideas, sentimientos y
hasta personas muy de la devoción de usted. Ocúrresele mirar al
campo de donde parten tantos proyectiles, y le ve usted sembrado
de ridiculeces, farsas y toda clase de miserias; saca usted al palo
media docena de ellas, por vía de muestra, en un papel, en un
folleto ó en un libro; y ¡Virgen María, cómo le ponen á usted de
intolerante y de mordaz, los mismos que tienen la mordacidad y la
intolerancia por oficio!
Así andan, amigo, las cosas de justicia en el ordinario comercio de
las gentes; así se ataja al más inofensivo en el trayecto social en
que pasea su nombre, y así se pretende conducirle al extremo á que
no llegan en el mundo más que las bestias... y los que tienen la
manía de la tolerancia (siendo lógicos en ella): á ver, oir y callar... es
decir, á matar la sed con petróleo, allí donde haya un extravagante
que tal haga delante de usted.
Usted es hombre de sencillas y ordenadas costumbres (es también
un suponer): ni el mundo le tira, ni sus pompas y algaradas le
seducen. Éstos son gustos lícitos y racionales. Ajustándose á ellos,
en paz y en gracia de Dios, se da usted con un baile en los ojos:
tuerce usted el camino; tropieza usted más allá con una mascarada
de calaveras del gran mundo: echa usted por otro lado; allí topa
usted con la misma gente haciendo cuadros plásticos y animados
acertijos: cambia usted de rumbo; aquí asaltos, en el otro lado
conciertos... pues á la otra acera. Ni usted apedrea á los que bailan,
ni apostrofa á los que jiran, ni se ríe de los que se descoyuntan para
remedar á Cristo en la agonía, ni silba á los que reciben una
sorpresa, anunciada quince días antes, ni influye con el Gobernador
para que meta en la cárcel á toda esa gente: limítase á huir de lo
que le aburre, y á hacer lo que más le divierte ó menos le incomoda.
No haría otra cosa un santo.
Pero es el caso que los señores tolerantes no se conforman con
esto, y quieren que les diga usted por qué no concurre á los bailes, y
á las jiras, y á los cuadros vivos, y á los asaltos... y aquí está el
intríngulis precisamente; y si estos rasguños que trazo no fueran,
como he dicho, un inocente desahogo entre nosotros dos, y en
reserva, me atrevería á llamar la atención del lector hacia el
aparente fenómeno, cuya explicación es sencillísima, por lo cual, no
es fenómeno, aunque por tal le toman algunos.
Cuando á usted se le pregunta por qué no piensa como su vecino
sobre determinados puntos de transcendencia, á buen seguro que
se le ocurra á nadie que oiga la respuesta, agarrarse á ella para
llamarle á usted intolerante; pero que se le pregunte por qué no
baila, por qué no jira, etc., etc... y no bien ha contestado usted, ya
tiene encima el Inri de la intolerancia. Y ¿por qué en este caso y en
el otro no? Porque no está el intríngulis en la persona, ni en sus
razones, ni en el modo de exponerlas, sino en la cosa de que se
trata, que, muy á menudo, es, de por sí, ridícula, ó impertinente, ó
pueril cuando menos, y no resiste, sin deshacerse entre las manos,
el análisis de un hombre de seso; al cual hombre, no pudiendo
replicársele en buena justicia, en venganza se le pone un mote.
Por eso llevan el de intolerantes tantos caracteres dóciles, y creen
poner una pica en Flandes, y hasta se llaman guapos chicos y
excelentes sujetos en la sociedad, los que en ella entran con todas,
como la romana del diablo, menos con el sentido común. Quod erat
demonstrandum.
Á pesar de ello, y aun de la mucha saliva, que al propio asunto
hemos consagrado en nuestras conversaciones verbales, júzgole
apenas desflorado. ¡Cuánto me queda todavía que oir de los
inofensivos labios de usted!
Entre tanto, y dicho lo dicho, despidámonos por hoy, con la íntima
satisfacción, bien añeja en nosotros, de haber pasado juntos, en
espíritu, un agradable rato, sin murmurar de nadie ni ofender al
prójimo con hechos, con dichos ni con deseos.

1880.
 EL CERVANTISMO

El Diccionario de la Academia no contiene este vocablo; pero es uno

de los propuestos por el último de los individuos del insigne cuerpo
literario para la edición que está imprimiéndose. Por si la Academia
no le acepta, conste que entiendo yo por
Cervantismo: La manía de los cervantistas; y por
Cervantista: El admirador de Cervantes, y el que se dedica á
ilustrar y comentar sus obras.
En rigor, pues, estos párrafos debieran haberse incluido entre los
que, bajo el rótulo de Manías, quedan algunas páginas atrás; pero
son tantos, y de tal índole la enfermedad á que se refieren, que bien
merecen vivir de cuenta propia y establecerse capítulo aparte.
Dice Chateaubriand, hablando de los españoles como soldados, que
nuestro empuje en el campo de batalla es irresistible; pero que nos
conformamos con arrojar al enemigo de sus posiciones, en las
cuales nos tendemos, con el cigarrillo en la boca y la guitarra en las
manos, á celebrar la victoria.
Si despojamos á esta pintura del colorido francés que la califica, nos
queda en ella un exactísimo retrato del carácter español, no sólo en
la guerra, sino en todas las imaginables situaciones de la vida.
Ya que no la guitarra, la pereza nacional nos absorbe los cinco
sentidos, y sólo cuando el hambre aprieta, ó la bambolla empuja, ó
la curiosidad nos mueve, sacudimos la modorra. Entonces
embestimos con el lucero del alba para estar donde él estuvo,
medrar de lo que medró y hacer todo cuanto él hizo. Pero de allí no
pasamos. Nuestra política, nuestra industria y nuestra literatura
contemporáneas lo declaran bien alto. Todo el mundo nos lleva la
delantera, y siempre estamos imitando á todo el mundo, menos en
andar solos y por delante; vivimos de sus desechos, y cada trapo
que le cogemos nos vuelve locos de entusiasmo, como si se hubiera
cortado para nosotros. Así estamos llenos de conquistas y de
«títulos á la admiración de las naciones extranjeras»; todos somos
ilustres estadistas, invictos guerreros, sabios hacendistas, insignes
literatos, laboriosos industriales y honrados obreros; hemos tenido
códigos á la francesa, códigos á la inglesa, códigos á la americana;
revoluciones de todos los matices, reacciones de todas castas,
triunfos de todos calibres, progresos de todos tamaños; y á la
presente fecha, el ciudadano que tiene camisa propia se cree muy
rico; la escasa industria desaparece antes que la Hacienda la
devore; los bufos imperan en el teatro; el hijo de Paul de Kock en la
novela; los Panchampla en desfiladeros y caminos reales, y la
navaja del honrado menestral desbandulla en las plazas públicas, á
la luz del mediodía, las víctimas á pares. De manera que quien nos
comprara por lo que decimos y nos vendiera por lo que hacemos,
buen pelo iba á echar con el negocio. Á hacer cosas nuevas y útiles
nos ganará cualquiera; pero á ponderar lo que hacemos no hay
quien nos eche la pata, ni á hacerlo mal y fuera de sazón, tampoco.
—Pero ¿qué tiene que ver todo esto con el cervantismo?—
preguntará el lector, oliéndole lo dicho á artículo de oposición más
que á otra cosa.
—No sé—respondo—por cuál de los lados encajará mejor en el
asunto prometido; pero lo cierto es que á las mientes se me ha
venido con él y como eslabón de la misma cadena de ideas. Acaso
en el cervantismo vea yo algo de la intemperancia, que, entre
nosotros, lleva en todo lo demás hasta el ridículo las cosas más
serias y respetables; quizá esa manía me ha hecho recordar la
tendencia española á perder en escarbar el huerto del vecino, el
tiempo que necesitamos para cultivar el propio; quizá me asaltó las
mientes el dicho de Chateaubriand pensando en los valientes que
conquistan el Quijote, y no pasan de allí, y allí se quedan,
rebuscando hasta las polillas, como si ya no hubiera otra cosa que
leer ni que estudiar en el mundo; acaso coinciden los dos asuntos
por el lado de la facilidad con que pasamos de la apatía al asombro,
de la indiferencia al entusiasmo, de la fiebre al delirio... ¡Quién
sabe? Pero el hecho existe, y ya no borro lo escrito, aunque el lector
me diga que soy uno de tantos como en España malgastan sin fruto
la hacienda, echando siempre los garbanzos fuera de la olla... Y
vamos al caso.
Y el caso es que ya estaba el mundo cansado de admirar á
Cervantes y de reproducir las ediciones del Quijote en todas las
lenguas que se hablan sobre la haz de la tierra, y aún eran muy
contadas en España las librerías en que se vendiera la obra inmortal
del ilustre soldado, que vivió de las limosnas de los próceres y fué
enterrado de caridad. Conocíanla los literatos, poseíanla los menos
de ellos, y veíase de vez en cuando en los mezquinos estantes de
algún particular, al lado de Bertoldo cuyos chistes saboreaba con
preferencia la patriarcal familia. Los nombres de don Quijote y
Sancho Panza eran populares; pero contadísimas las personas que
conocían á estos personajes más que de oídas: teníanlos unas por
históricos, las menos por novelescos; pero ni unas ni otras habían
oído jamás el nombre del padre que los engendró en su fantasía.
De pronto, ayer, como quien dice, alguien, y no español ciertamente,
nos aguija y nos apunta el Quijote con el dedo; sacudimos la
tradicional modorra, y allá vamos en tropel, y caemos como espeso
granizo sobre la obra señalada; las prensas gimen vomitando
ediciones populares del libro insigne, entre los cuadernos de Jaime
el Barbudo y Las cavernas del crimen, y aunque las masas de levita
siguen prefiriendo estas creaciones para solaz del espíritu, el
nombre de Cervantes suena en todas partes y á todas horas, y las
plumas y las lenguas ya no saben decir sino «el Cautivo de Argel» y
«el Manco de Lepanto».
¡Qué baraúnda! ¡Qué vocerío! Hay hombre, ya con canas, que
acaba de leer á saltos el Quijote, y se escandaliza de buena fe al
saber que un mozo imberbe no le conoce todavía; otro no le ha visto
ni por el forro, y mira con lástima á quien declara noblemente que no
ha podido adquirir un ejemplar para leerle... ¡Y cómo abunda esta
clase de admiradores!
—«Pero ¡qué hombre!... Pero ¡qué libro!... Pero ¡qué tiempos
aquéllos en que se morían de hambre tan preclaros ingenios! Como
esa obra no hay otra... El mundo la admira, y España no necesita
más que ella para su gloria... ¡Ah, Cervantes! ¡Ah, el Manco de
Lepanto!... ¡Ah, el Cautivo de Argel!».
Verdades como puños, enhorabuena; pero que tienen suma gracia
dichas por una generación, ya vieja, que no ha reparado en ellas
hasta que se las han metido por los ojos; y aun así no las ha visto
bien.
Y sigue el estrépito, y llena los ámbitos de la patria, y se conmueven
los poetas de circunstancias y los periodistas de afición y hasta los
filántropos de la usura; y allá van odas Al Manco de Lepanto, y
sonetos Al Cautivo de Argel, y llega á verse el nombre de Cervantes
en la popa de un falucho carbonero, y en el registro de una mina de
turba, y en los membretes de una sociedad anónima, y hasta en la
muestra de una zapatería; y hoy se celebra el aniversario de su
muerte, y mañana el de su nacimiento, y al otro día el de su
redención por los frailes trinitarios, y al otro, el de su casamiento; y
aquí brota una Academia cervantina, y allí un Semanario cervantino
y un Averiguador cervantesco; y en los unos y en los otros, y acá y
allá, no se trata sino de Cervantes y sus obras; y Cervantes aparece
en discursos, en gacetillas, en charadas, en rompe-cabezas y en
acertijos.
Lo que era de temer, sucede al cabo: la fiebre se propaga, hácese
peste asoladora, y no se libran de ella ni los que tienen el juicio más
aplomado; caen hasta los cervantistas de buena casta, y caen sobre
el Quijote y sobre la memoria de su autor, como antes cayera el
servum pecus, y allí se están cual si hubieran jurado, en el
paroxismo de su manía, gastar en la empresa hasta el último soplo
de la vida; porque cada cual cree encontrar en aquellas páginas
inmortales lo que más se acomoda á sus deseos y aficiones.
Imagínomelos yo como aquellos sabios resucitados de que nos
habla Balmes, husmeando el amplísimo establecimiento, y tráenme
á la memoria el caso de Mabillon despistojándose sobre un viejo
pergamino para descubrir algún renglón medio borrado, cuando
llega un naturalista y tira hacia sí del pergamino, para ver si halla en
él huevos de polilla.
Merced á estas faenas sobrehumanas, sabemos hoy, por otros
tantos señores cervantistas, cuyas plumas lo han afirmado en
sendos escritos, á cual más serio y pespunteado, que de las obras
de Cervantes resulta que fué éste sobresaliente
Teólogo,
Jurisperito,
Cocinero,
Marino,
Geógrafo,
Economista,
Médico,
Liberal (¡patriotero!)
Administrador militar (!!!!),
Protestante (¡¡¡!!!),
Viajero, etc., etc., etc.
Es decir, Cervantes omniscio, y sus obras la suma de los humanos
conocimientos.
Pero ni con todo esto, ni con más de otro tanto por el estilo, que no
hay para qué mentar, ni con el pintoresco catálogo de los
cervantómanos que han contado las veces que dice sí don Quijote,
ó Sancho vuesa merced, y otros admiradores de parecida ralea,
hemos llegado al delirium tremens de la enfermedad; puesto que
hay un español que ha dicho, y dice sin tregua ni descanso, porque
sospecho yo que por eso y para eso alienta y ha nacido:
—Caballeros, nada de lo que el mundo ha leído en el Quijote es la
obra de Cervantes.
Asombró el aserto, y preguntósele:
—Pues ¿qué otra cosa puede ser?
—Quiero decir—repuso el crítico,—que hasta ahora nadie ha sabido
leer el Quijote. No hay tal Dulcinea, ni tal Sancho Panza, ni tales
molinos, ni tales yangüeses, ni tal Ínsula Barataria, ni nada de lo que
allí aparece tal como suena. El Quijote, en suma, es una alegoría.
—¡Canastos! Y ¿quién se lo ha dicho á usted?
—Me lo han dicho treinta años de estudio incesante de esa obra
maravillosa, y lo demuestro en catorce volúmenes de comentarios,
que he escrito y tengo en casa esperando un editor que se atreva
con ellos.
—¡Tendrán que leer! Y diga usted, señor sabio, ¿qué especie de
alegoría es ésa que usted ha visto en el famoso libro?
—Es, como si dijéramos, el siglo xix hablando en profecía en el siglo
xvii; la luz de nuestras libertades columbrada por un ojo sutil, á tan
larga distancia; la protesta de un alma generosa contra la cadena de
la tiranía y las mazmorras de la Inquisición.
—¡Cáspita! Luego Cervantes...
—Cervantes fué un libre-pensador; un demócrata que nos precedió
cosa de tres siglos.
—Pero, hombre, aquellas declaraciones terminantes de neto y
fervoroso católico, que á cada instante hace; aquél su único
propósito, que jamás oculta, de escribir el Quijote para matar los
libros de caballerías...
—No hagan ustedes caso de ello. También dice (no lo niega al
menos) que lo de cabalgar Sancho en el Rucio después de
habérsele robado Ginés de Pasamonte, fué un lapsus de su
memoria, si no descuido del impresor, y, sin embargo, se le ha
demostrado todo lo contrario... Á Cervantes hay que saber leerle,
desengáñense ustedes.
—Corriente; pero ¿cómo teniendo ese hombre tanto talento no logró
hacerse entender de sus lectores?
—Porque temía á la Inquisición y al tirano.
—Callárase entonces, y ahorrárase el riesgo y la fatiga.
—No debía callar, porque había nacido para escribir.
—Pero no alegorías; pues, por las trazas, no le daba el naipe para
ellas.
—¡Cómo que no?
—Hombre, me parece á mí que una alegoría que no halla en cerca
de tres siglos más que un sabio que la desentrañe, no es cosa
mayor que digamos.
—¿Y qué son tres siglos en la vida de la humanidad?
—Trescientos años nada más; y aunque á usted le parezcan pocos,
pienso yo que, para desentrañar un libro, sobran de ellos casi todos,
aunque el libro esté en vascuence, cuanto más en neto castellano...
No se eche á broma el precedente diálogo, porque es la quinta
esencia de las polémicas sostenidas en la prensa, todos los días,
por el desenredador único de la supuesta maraña del Quijote, contra
los defensores del servum pecus, que no ha visto ni verá jamás en
las páginas del áureo libro otra cosa ¡y no es poco, en gracia de
Dios! que lo que en ellas se dice y se enseña.
¡Ah! y si al pasar esto—porque ha de pasar como pasan las
epidemias y las tempestades—nos viéramos libres de las
extravagancias del cervantismo, pudiéramos darnos con un canto en
los pechos; pero, no obstante lo impresionables que somos y lo
propensos, por ende, á olvidar mañana lo que hoy nos alborota,
como el mal deja semillas, éstas germinarán andando los años, y,
cuando menos menos, ha de nacer de ellas una raza que,
empezando por ver zurcidos en el Quijote, acabe por negar la
existencia de su autor.
Todos los grandes hombres van teniendo, en la posteridad, su fama
roída por este género de gusanos. Yo no sé qué demonios anda por
la mollera de ciertos sabios cuando examinan las obras que admira
el mundo, que, no bien las contemplan, cuando ya exclaman: «esto
nació ello solo». ¡Como si no fueran más maravillosas estas
producciones espontáneas que la existencia de un padre que las
engendrara! Á Homero le niega ya el último zarramplín de la crítica,
y hay una Escuela antihomérica, á la cual se van arrimando todos
los catasalsas del helenismo; se está negando también á Hesiodo, y
hasta á Gutenberg y á Dante, y luego se negará la luz del mediodía.
Y ¿por qué no? ¿No hay historiador que niega toda autoridad á los
cinco siglos de Roma? Y la maña es vieja: cien años hace aseguró
el P. Harduino, y hasta intentó probarlo, que todos los libros griegos
y latinos, excepción hecha de unos pocos de Cicerón, Plinio,
Horacio y Virgilio, habían sido forjados en el siglo xii por una
comunidad de frailes.
¡Y qué luz derraman estos sabios negativos en las obscuridades con
que van topando en sus investigaciones! ¡Con qué primor
reconstruyen lo que derriban de un voleo! Paréceles mucha obra la
Ilíada para un hombre solo, de tan remotos siglos; niegan la
existencia de Homero fundándose en aquella potísima razón:
pregúntaseles entonces cómo se formó ese admirable poema, y
responde uno de ellos, Dissen, por ejemplo:
—De la manera más fácil: se reunió una especie de academia de
cantores que se propusieron hacer una epopeya; encargóse cada
cual de un canto, y el resultado de esta asociación fué la Ilíada.
De modo que nos salen, por esta cuenta, veintiséis Homeros, por lo
menos. ¡Y al sabio que los presenta le asombraba, por su grandeza,
un Homero solo!
Dos cuartos de lo mismo ocurre con los sabios de otra catadura,
cuando nos hablan del Universo. Le niegan un Autor, porque no les
cabe en la cabeza la idea de tanto poder, y se le adjudican al átomo,
y sudan y se retuercen entre los laberintos de una tecnología
convencional y de unos procedimientos fantasmagóricos, para venir
á demostrar... que no saben lo que traen entre manos, y que, á
pesar de sus humos de gigantes, no pasan de gusanillos de la tierra,
como el más indocto de los que en ella moramos.
Por eso creo yo que á los sabios de la crítica les pasa algo grave en
la mollera, cada vez que se las han con otras de gran calibre. No
diré que este algo, y aun algos, sean tufillos de la envidia; pero
tampoco aseguro que lo sean de la caridad.
Volviendo al asunto, digo que nacerá quien niegue la existencia de
Cervantes, apoyando el aserto en la autoridad, por supuesto, de otro
sabio, necesariamente francés. Este tal habrá descubierto que en el
siglo xvii no sabían leer ni escribir en España sino los frailes, á los
cuales se debió la traducción, del francés al castellano, de aquel
teatro admirable que ha estado pasando tantísimos años por
español de pura raza; que los nombres de Lope, Moreto, Tirso,
Calderón, etc., etc., no son otra cosa que seudónimos con que se
disfrazaban los traductores temiendo á la Inquisición, que prohibía el
culto de las bellas letras á la gente de cogulla.—En cuanto al Quijote
(seguirá diciendo el sabio de mañana), basta examinarle una vez
para convencerse de que no pudo ser la obra de un hombre solo. La
novela de Crisóstomo, la de Dorotea y Luscinda, la del Curioso
impertinente, la del Cautivo, la del Mozo de mulas, etc., intercaladas
violentamente en la primera parte, y desenlazadas, con otros varios
sucesos, en la Venta de Juan Palomeque el Zurdo, en una sola
noche, lo prueban hasta la evidencia. Esas historias las narrarían los
ciegos por las calles al ronco son de la guitarra, ó las recitarían los
inquisidores en las tertulias de los señores de horca y cuchillo,
mientras las segnoritas y las monjas bailaban el zapateado y el
Jaleo de Jerez. Algún fraile ingenioso las recogió, engarzólas en las
populares aventuras de un loco legendario, llamado, según doctas
pesquisiciones de un bibliómano cochinchino, don Fidalgo de la
Manga, y lo publicó todo bajo el rótulo con que se conoce la obra del
supuesto Cervantes. Por lo que toca á la segunda parte de la
misma, ¿quién ignora que se debe á los frailes Agustinos, que la
escribieron en odio al autor de otro Quijote falsificado, al P.
Abellaneda, Prior de los Jerónimos del Escorial?
Cosa parecida se dirá de las Novelas ejemplares, del Persiles y la
Galatea: tradiciones popularísimas en España, aunque de
procedencia francesa, recogidas y dadas á luz por frailes codiciosos
que explotaban el prestigio del imaginario Cervantes, hecho célebre
desde la aparición de la primera parte del Quijote.
—Pero—seguirá diciendo el futuro bibliófilo francés—¿qué mayor
prueba de la no existencia de Cervantes que la que nos dan los
cervantistas españoles del siglo xix, en el que ya comenzaba á leer
y escribir la clase media, porque se había secularizado la
enseñanza? En el último tercio de aquel siglo no trataron los
escritores de España más que de Cervantes, y, sin embargo, no
pudieron hallar un solo rastro de su persona. Quién le supuso
soldado en Lepanto; quién cautivo en Argel; quién teólogo; quién
marino; quién abogado; quién cocinero; quién médico; quién
ardiente propagandista de la Reforma; quién afirmó que había
nacido en Madrid; quién que en Alcalá; quién que estuvo preso en
Argamasilla; quién que en Valladolid; y nada se prueba en limpio, ni
nadie supo jamás en qué punto de la tierra descansan sus cenizas.
La misma confusión de pareceres se observa en lo relativo al texto
primitivo y á la intención generadora de la novela. Cada edición de
ella en aquel siglo salía ilustrada por un nuevo comentarista, que
quitaba y añadía, á su antojo, frases y períodos, so pretexto de
enmendar así los errores tipográficos del impresor Juan de la
Cuesta. Esto nos hace creer que el Quijote que salió del siglo xix no
se parece en nada al que, por primera vez, publicaron los frailes del
xvii, de cuyas ediciones no ha llegado un solo ejemplar á nuestros
días. Afortunadamente, se conservan catorce volúmenes de un
literato andaluz de aquella centuria, en cuya obra se pone de
manifiesto la verdadera importancia del libro del supuesto
Cervantes. El tal libro es una ingeniosísima alegoría, según afirma el
intérprete feliz de los catorce volúmenes; y á su parecer nos
adherimos, no sin declarar que si el perspicuo andaluz sudó tinta
para dar con la clave del enigma, nosotros hemos sudado pez para
acomodar nuestro criterio á las angosturas, nebulosidades y
retortijones de sus ingeniosos razonamientos. Pero á gimnasias más
abstrusas y complicadas nos tiene avezados el intelecto la filosofía
alemana; y al influjo de esa ciencia, madre de la actual sabiduría,
debemos este descubrimiento portentoso. De modo que bien
podemos decir, con otro ingeniosísimo comentarista,
contemporáneo del de los catorce volúmenes (el cual comentarista
se jactaba de poseer el autógrafo del famoso libro): «Ni Cervantes
es Cervantes, ni el Quijote es el Quijote».
Éstos y otros tales dichos del sabio francés de los futuros siglos,
llegarán á formar escuela; y esta escuela se acreditará en España; y
habrá españoles que se pasarán la vida cotejando el fárrago
cervantista del siglo xix con los asertos de la escuela; y al fin
perderán el juicio, y quizás den origen á una nueva orden de
cervantistas andantes, que saldrán por el mundo á buscar las
aventuras, deshaciendo escolios y enderezando notas al Quijote y á
la dudosa vida de su autor, que es cuanto queda ya que ver.
Entre tanto, cosa es que abruma el espíritu la contemplación del
cervantismo de nuestros días, malgastando lo mejor de la vida en
resobar, sin pizca de respeto, al más ilustre de los nombres y á la
más hermosa de las creaciones del humano ingenio; apesta y
empalaga ese fervor monomaníaco con que todo el mundo se da
hoy á buscar misterios en el fondo del libro, y habilidades en el
autor. Debémosle admiración, y es justo que se la tributemos; pero
no con cascabeles ni vestidos de payasos. Popularícese el Quijote,
y, si es necesario, declárese de texto en las escuelas; pero no el que
nos ofrezca, arreglado á su caletre, el cervantismo al uso.
Si las investigaciones hechas por doctos y respetables literatos,
desde Navarrete hasta Hartzenbusch, no bastan á poner en claro
cuáles son, en las primeras ediciones de Juan de la Cuesta, errores
del impresor, y cuáles descuidos de Cervantes, inténtese esa
empresa; pero una sola vez y por gentes erigidas en autoridad
literaria; y lo que resulte del expurgo, sin más notas que las precisas
para aclarar la significación de palabras poco conocidas hoy del
vulgo, ó para mostrar los pasajes en que Cervantes parodia escenas
y trozos de los libros de caballerías, algo, en suma, de lo que hizo
Clemencín (y no digo todo, porque este comentarista cayó también
en la impertinente tentación de meterse en pespuntes y reparos
gramaticales, como si quisiera enmendar la plana á Cervantes),
guárdese como oro en paño y sea el modelo á que se ajusten
cuantas ediciones del Quijote se hagan en lo sucesivo; pues el mal
no está en que un literato de autoridad y de juicio meta su escalpelo
en las páginas del áureo libro, sino el precedente que de ese modo
se sienta para que todos nos demos á expurgadores de faltas y á
zurcidores de conceptos. Y aun sin este riesgo, ¿qué se saca en
limpio de las enmiendas de los doctos, si cada uno de estos señores
está tan discorde con las de los demás, como lo están todos ellos
con el asendereado Juan de la Cuesta? Y si ya entran por miles las
confesadas alteraciones hechas en el texto de las primeras
ediciones por esos respetables literatos, ¿qué lector, al poner el
dedo sobre una palabra del Quijote, se atreve hoy á asegurar que
esta palabra sea de Cervantes y no de alguno de sus correctores? Y
¿quién se atreverá mañana si á la afición reinante no se le ponen
trabas?
Volviendo al cervantismo inconsciente é intemperante, digo que no
mezcle berzas con capachos, ni confunda tan lastimosamente lo
serio con lo bufo. Elévese una estatua en cada plaza pública
española al príncipe de nuestros novelistas, y sea cada edición de
sus obras un monumento tipográfico; pero, por el amor de Dios, no
pidamos fiestas nacionales para cada uno de sus aniversarios, ni
nos demos todos á académicos cervantinos, ni estampemos el
egregio nombre en desvencijadas diligencias, ni en sociedades de
bailes públicos, ni salgamos á la calle con cara de parientes del
ilustre difunto, ni asociemos su memoria á todas nuestras
debilidades y sandeces. Léase y estúdiese la inmortal obra, que
deleite y enseñanzas contiene para doctos é indoctos en todas las
edades de la vida; pero no pretenda cada lector imponerse á los
demás con el fruto de la tarea; pues cada hombre es un carácter, y,
como dijo un insigne escritor, disputando sobre reparos hechos, y no
del todo mal, á unas enmiendas suyas al Quijote,

«Cada uno tiene, don Zacarías,

Sus aprensiones y sus manías».

¡Y adónde iríamos á parar si se diera, como se va dando, en la

gracia de remendar é interpretar el libro, al tenor de esa suma de
aprensiones, y conforme al parecer de cada aprensivo?
Dudo mucho que el Gobierno de la nación permitiera á los
aficionados á la arquitectura poner sus manos en determinados
detalles artísticos de un monumento público, so pretexto de que así
lo quiso el arquitecto, á quien no deben achacarse los errores de los
canteros. ¿Ha habido pincel que se atreva á borrar el tercer brazo
con que aparece en el Museo uno de los mejores caballos de
Velázquez? Antes al contrario, ¿no se lleva el respeto al gran pintor
al extremo de hacerse las copias de tal cuadro hasta con ese
glorioso arrepentimiento?
¿Por qué no ha de merecernos iguales deferencias y
consideraciones el blasón de nuestra nobleza literaria?
Por lo que á mí toca, desde luego aseguro que, si tuviera poder para
ello, declaraba el Quijote monumento nacional, y no consentiría,
bajo las penas más severas, que se alterara en una sola tilde el
texto de la edición que, por los medios indicados, ó por otros
análogos que se juzgasen mejores, se hubiera declarado oficial, con
todas las solemnidades y garantías apetecibles.
¿Que tiene erratas?... Que las tenga. ¿Que lo del Rucio?... Mejor
que mejor. ¿Habrá trastrueque de párrafos, ni razonamientos que
valgan lo que dice del caso el mismo Cervantes en la segunda parte
de la novela? ¿No son estos descuidos y aquellos arrepentimientos
y los otros deslices gramaticales, el mejor testimonio de la frescura y
espontaneidad de la obra? ¿O creen los químicos del cervantismo
que un libro como el Quijote puede hacerse con regla, compás y
tiralíneas?
Si Cervantes hubiera tenido que estar atento á cuantos tiquis-miquis
le quieren sujetar sus admiradores; si lo que dijo de herir de soslayo
los rayos del sol á su personaje al lanzarse al mundo de las
aventuras, lo dijo para que la posteridad no dudara que salía de
Argamasilla de Alba y no de otro lugar manchego; si no fueron
donaires de su pluma y primores de lengua otros mil pasajes de su
libro, sino estudiados disfraces de otros tantos propósitos
transcendentales; si cada frase es un jeroglífico y cada nombre un
anagrama; si, amén de esto y mucho más, necesitó trabajar con el
calendario á la vista, y encarrilar á su caballero por cualquiera de los
itinerarios que le han trazado sus comentaristas de hogaño, y
conocer á palmos los senderos para no dar con una aventura en
martes, cuando, por el cómputo del mapa y del almanaque, podía
demostrársele que la fazaña debió tener lugar en miércoles, día de
vigilia además, con otros muy curiosos pormenores que el lector
habrá visto, tan bien como yo, en escolios, notas y folletos; si á todo
esto, y á lo de la cocina, la teología, la jurisprudencia, el
protestantismo (!!!), la economía política, etc., etc., etc... y otro tanto
más, tuvo que estar atento, repito, el glorioso novelista, más le
valiera no haber salido nunca del cautiverio de Argel; que entre
escribir un libro con tales trabas, ó arrastrar las de hierro bajo la
penca de un moro argelino, aun con el ingenio de Cervantes optara
yo por el cautiverio, y saldría mejorado en tercio y quinto.
¡Dichoso día aquél en que el cervantismo pase y vuelva á reinar el
Quijote en la patria literatura sin enmiendas, reparos ni aditamentos,
y su autor perínclito sin habilidades ni misterios! Venga, pues, la
inmortal obra sin teologías, náutica ni jurisprudencia, y, sobre todo,
sin claves ni itinerarios ni almanaques; venga, en fin, como la hemos
conocido los que peinamos ya canas, cuando en ella aprendimos á
leer, á pensar y á sentir; que así, al pie de la letra y hasta con las
erratas y garrafales descuidos de los primeros impresores, ha sido
admirada de todos los hombres y traducida á todas las lenguas, y
servido de pedestal á la fama de Cervantes, que ya no cabe en el
mundo.
1880.