Chapter 21: Ghouls & Gourds

Nine in the morning was too early. Bullshit before his first sip of coffee? Erroneous. This was too much for a sober workday. Blinking and listening, Jo ignored the chirping voice in the back of his head. The one telling him to do something outlandish. His magical dark fae biology begged for blood.
Jo slurped and grinned as hot, life-giving bean juice burned his throat.
“Am I a clown to you?” Mr. Voaremont asked. “Did I make a god damn joke?”
Jo dropped the smile and set his mug on the front desk. “No, suh. I had a long night, and the coffee hitting this morning.”
“You’re welcomeeee,” Marci sang from behind, tapping them keys.
Trevor sneered, forcing Jo to speak. “I know you’re upset, but—“
“This isn’t me upset, Sheriff. In fact, I’m fine. If I were upset, that mother fucker wouldn’t be bre—“
“Let’s not be hasty, Mr. Voaremont. You’re talking to a man of the law. Threatening folks ain’t nice, and depending on how deep it is, might land you in some legal trouble. Threatening the Queen’s consort, however, can and will be seen as a declaration of war.”
The angry, ugly white man with skunk breath rubbed his face and pointed at Jo. He didn’t appreciate it, a wing twitched with mounting irritation. Anyone else would’ve bitten his digit clean off.
Jo’s stomach lurched at the thought of that dirty ass finger in his mouth.
“I don’t give a shit who he is. I’m pressing charges.”
“You have every right to do that.”
“But you’re telling me, because of his status, the queen has to clear it first?”
“Yeah.”
“What use are you then?”
“Common folk do exist ‘round here.”
Mr. Voaremont groaned, slammed a fist on the desk, and grumbled. His antics got Powell’s attention. The ninety-year-old werewolf wasn’t about no bull and didn’t take kindly to outsiders, neither. Also, he hated the Voaremont clan for reasons he hadn’t stated.
“We got a problem here, son?” The seasoned deputy approached with a hand on his ancient revolver. “What can I do you for?”
Trevor re-assessed, obviously.
Powell was fully gray with a bad knee, but he was big as hell with arms the size of whiskey barrels and a smoky timbre even grown grizzlies envied. The city boy bowed out like an intelligent bitch and ran fingers through his hair.
“What do I need to sign?”
“Marci,” Jo called, spinning in his steel toes, “Get this man his papers.”
“Way ahead of you, baby.”
“Thank youuuuuu.”
Jo gulped his brew and smiled at Kit’s knitted brow. He scribbled in his notebook and hummed, as if pleased. The demon looked up from an elegant script and squinted. His eyes were unnatural, large, and a dazzling shade of lavender.
“So, one must file a report after a crime?”
“Mhm, yeah.”
“Becasuuuuuse you have to investigate the matter?”
“You got it.”
“So there are no mind scribes to sort through their memories? How tiresome.”
Jo canted his head and dropped into his squeaky chair. He didn’t have an office, only a desk. Right next to Renata’s. Their workspace was small but functional. One breakroom, one bathroom, and two jail cells. Not much else. With only four deputies and two dispatchers, they didn’t need a lot.
“I think you on to something,” Joe muttered. “But we ain’t never needed it really. Nothing to investigate.”
“What about the Platter Boys?”
“Yeah, we gon’ see about them in a bit.”
Kit stroked his smooth chin and hummed again. “What about gun crime? Knife crime? Magical crimes? Arson, vandalism, and theivery? You don’t have such problems here?”
Joe laughed and shook his head. “Nahhh. Look, Indigo Plains is a place of peace. Folks don’t come here looking for shady shit. They go to Carver or Misthill for that. Crime be so low here ‘cause this where the Queen lives. Folks know better than to run crazy with her right up the street. My great-grandma don’t take no mess. It makes my job easier.”
“Speak for yourself,” Powell said in passing. “Lazy, good for nothing. Mr. Inkwells dog bit the milkman. Sadie Nile accidentally shot her boy in the ass while hunting. He wants to press charges on his own mama, the bitch. And Pickle got so drunk last week he tipped a god damned bison. You don’t do that! Them is sacred animals. Ogres, think they own the world. I might take him to the high court behind this.”
The old man grumped and sat at his desk. He kicked his feet up and crossed them with a hand on his mouse. He loved digital solitaire most and was probably in the middle of his fifth game. Powell earned the right after serving as Sheriff for thirty-five years.
“That ain’t crime, bruh. That’s town shenanigans.” Jo giggled into his mug while Powell glared. He swigged and said, “Anyway, major crime isn’t a problem, and I don’t go searching for it ‘niether. I keep out of townsfolk business unless called. I don’t wear a pistol and—“
“You need to,” Powell piped.
“Play your little game and stay out of my mouth, damn.”
Kit tapped on his notebook and nodded. “I understand, completely. And you know what? I find this all quite fascinating. Even in the most affluent Undervell neighborhood, someone is bound to get stabbed or disemboweled.”
“Demons. Y’all too sensitive.”
“I know you ain’t talking,” Marci said, on her way to the restroom. “Crybaby ass.”
“I pay you!” She slammed the door, and Jo cussed. “Folks don’t respect me around here.”
“Insubordination, check.” Kit cocked a manicured brow and sniffed. “You should take a toe for their back talk.”
Jo lost his coffee and howled in laughter. He redecorated his desk with heavy cream, dark roast, marshmallow creamer, five cubes of sugar, and whipped cream.
“Excuse me?!” Powell barked.
Kit shrugged. “Where I come from, there are consequences for such treachery.”
“Treacheryyyy? Whoa, bruh. Calm down. You gotta relax.” Jo accepted the napkin Marci offered and wiped his goatee. “You a mess, you know that? Can’t slip around you, Kit.”
The demon straightened and gave an affirmative nod. “I don’t tolerate disrespect in my ranks.”
Jo’s brows hit the ceiling. “Ranks? What ranks?”
“My militia. Battalion. I see over five and have won my fair share of battles. Not without incident, mind you. I have tried my damndest to not—“
“Wait waiiiiiiit.” Waving his hands, Jo laughed. “You? A commander or head honcho of the military?”
“General. The one and only general of King Spires army.”
It was unimaginable. This here man is some cutthroat vet. It was wrong judging folks by their cover, Jo’s mama taught him better, and with GG Nieema’s past, he knew better, but daammmmnnnn.
Kit was shorter than Jo. Five-nine and cute as a button. Fat cheeks, dimples, and a soft, round frame, he looked like a fucking demonic doll. Kit was scared of the woods and flinched at any old sound.
He’d told Jo about the tiny stuffed Feldspar pooch—whatever that was—he carried in his bag. It made him feel safe. That same man was a general… of an army.
To think Kit a ruthless killer was absurd.
Jo glanced at Powell, who scoffed. “I call bullshit.”
“Good sir! Are you calling me a liar? Because there is nothing to gain in me doing so. I don’t even like—“ Kit clamped his mouth shut and slapped his notebook closed. “When are we leaving? I want to settle this buffoonery with the Platter Boys post haste.”
“Post haste? Bufoooonery?” Marci giggled, “What year do you think it is, Sherlock?”
“What?”
Marci cackled and tapped Jo’s shoulder. Her peridot eyes twinkled as she rocked in her chair. The sensual tree nymph was gorgeous and top-heavy.
“Uhhmm, Buck did call earlier. Said he wanted to talk to you about some weird cult shit.”
“Huh?” Jo winced and shook his head. “Cult shit? I don’t—what?”
Marci popped a shoulder and went back to her business of writing. She was fifty years old and tech-savvy. Jo didn’t know a damn thing about computers; that’s why he never owned one. The woman wrote action and suspense novels in her downtime, or so she told him.
Marci was talk of the town with her pistachio complexion, wide hips, and autumn red afro. Everyone wanted a piece, except Jo. They’d been friends since birth, and he never once tried it.
Not that she wasn’t attractive and built like a goddess, but he never thought of her as an option. Marci was his sister, best friend, and bodyguard. Folks tended to think Nymphs were gentle and peaceful creatures. They were, until you stepped on over to their bad side.
“Damn,” Jo cursed. “This is the most action I’ve ever seen. We should go. Let’s roll fren!”
“Finally!” Kit shot to his hooves and slung that purse over his shoulder. “Off to clean the streets! Swift, with a heavy hand. It’s time to impart law and order! Yes, let us roll.”
Jo and Marci deadpanned each other until they erupted in a cackling fit. This man, demon, funny as hell newcomer would soon find himself bored with Indigo Streets. There wasn’t shit to tidy up, save for a few leaves wilting in the gutters.

“Go for their dammed innards!” Kit yelled, panting and winded beyond the usual. “Undergods taint! There’s more of them!” Indigo Plains was a beautiful, scenic wonder Kit had come to love in a matter of hours. He figured it quiet and quaint, even after the giant spider debacle. Perhaps he’d misjudged Indigo Plains because this was far from quiet.
Jo flew overhead, swinging a lasso. “Jesus Christ! Powell bite their stems off!”
The massive werewolf bounded after the monstrous gourd while the others corralled the smaller possessed pumpkins. Kit struck another with his axe and roared in victory. He swung and severed their stems. The strange, sentient devils squealed, scratched, and whipped his arms with their barbed, curled vines.
“Vile beasts!” Kit ducked, rolled, and parried with swift, demonic precision. He missed the howling behemoth’s hoof by a hair. “They’re growing!”
Jo was certain that when they arrived at the Platter ranch, their objective would be simple. Retrieve stolen goods, give a final warning, and relay Mr. Carol’s message. Kit assumed it’d be a breeze, given how adamant Jo had been.
He reassured Kit on the way. This mission wouldn’t end in bloodshed. Kit had been hoping for a squabble and was saddened to learn, ‘Indigo just ain’t the place for that kinda thing.’
“I will flay you alive!” Kit shouted, slicing through a line of growling pumpkins. He squashed the tinier sort with his own hoof and batted away vines with bloody claws.
Steaming gourd viscera pelted his face as their platoon handled the carnivorous savages. The troop was small but capable, each possessing their own skill set.
With chaos erupting on the Platter Ranch, Kit called forth the heat wallowing in his roiling belly and expelled his fury. He sprayed a group of bloodthirsty abominations with his purple flame.
The bulbous creatures exploded.
Their entrails painted the day in gorgeous hues of death. One by one, they popped and melted.
Their crew worked tirelessly and well. Kit was impressed with Jo’s deputies. He respected Powell’s brute strength and Renata’s drive to kill. And Jo, he was no fighter, but the young man had heart and ingenuity. He’d become their eyes in the sky and an important asset as he worked from above. His support was much appreciated and essential, as the gourds were unable to simply look up. Jo used the art of surprise to murder, and Kit loved that.
Spewing fire, Kit galloped through the mass, flinging his axe. With the smaller pumpkins dead and dismembered with their scalps scattered about, they attacked the alpha. A tottering beast of ten feet and half the size of a cricket field.
With Powell and Renata scaling the monstrous gourd, Kit aimed low.
He chopped their squat, stalk legs. They flailed as Kit put his all into felling this beast. As he sliced into their limb, chunks of chitterlings rained upon him.
Kit inhaled hot pumpkin stink and roared. He vowed never to eat pumpkin pie ever again.
“Down with you!” Kit howled with a final swing of his axe. The wobbling giant squealed and screeched. “Jo! Take them down!”
Jo was quick with his lasso. He snagged hold of its thick stem and pulled with every ounce of his might. The fairy was stronger than he appeared.
His strength and ability were impressive. He managed to throw the monster off balance and yank it to the ground.
Kit moved in and released a stream of fire, focusing on the stem. From outside and within, their group attacked.
Renata crawled into the pumpkin’s wide, fang-filled maw and Powell heaved, pulling on the weakening stem. Kit was beaten, bloody, and exhausted, but he was elated to be of service.
The cursed creature wailed its final breath as the stem snapped and separated from its dome. Not a beat later, the beast erupted. The blast plucked Kit off his hooves and sent him spiraling.
Colors whirled as his lungs sputtered and heart skipped. He tumbled and twirled until crashing through solid wood.
Mammal stink and hay.
He dropped and bounced on impact. He had never been so thankful for animal shit in his life.
Rolling onto his back, Kit groaned as a horse nipped at his horns. “Get—madam or sir, please! Do fuck off!”
“Kit?! Kit!”
He bolted upright and greeted Jo with a smile. “What a thrilling experience.”
Jo laughed, climbed onto the heap of dried grass and excrement. He extended a hand Kit didn’t need but accepted nonetheless.
“Thrilling, huh?”
“Indeed.” Once steady and standing, Kit dusted himself off. It did absolutely fuck all, but it was something to do. “It’s been at least a year since I’ve had a good fight. This was just what I needed. I am refreshed!”
“Bruh, refreshed is a strong word for somebody covered in horse shit.”
Because the moment called for it and Jo had given Kit no other choice, he released a squeal of laughter. The snorting variant. The show of joy Kit reserved for kin. It was a dad joke, and Kit needed a decent chuckle after dueling with mutant pumpkins.
Jo clapped Kit on the shoulder and sighed. “Let’s see what them boys got to say for themselves.”
“Throw them in the pit!”
“You know? We don’t got one of those, but I’ll keep it in mind.”
“The pit has many uses, and to be frank, when you add flesh eaters, most tend to rethink their wasted life of crime.”
Jo giggled as they marched toward the Platters’ home. “I bet.”
Kit growled as the boys slouched and snivelled on the steps. They were scared, pathetic, and worried. Good, they should be. It was due time they served time for this foolery.
Powell stomped outside, wearing the clothes he’d arrived in. “You boys got some talkin’ to do.”
“I—we—we didn’t mean to—“
“Stealing?!” Renata shouted. “You didn’t mean to steal? Because that’s something you boys planned to do and have been doing for months. So tell us, what didn’t you mean? Speak up, Jed!”
The woman troll person was large in stature. Much like a warrior demon from Undervell. Broad with hard planes and toned curves. The sun kissed her pink eyes just so. Its effect may have distracted Kit for a moment.
“We only wanted to experiment,” Jed confessed.
“Yeah.” The smaller of the three nodded and crossed his arms. He wiped tears and looked to his elder. “We only wanted to do some magic. That’s all. Mama said we had enough pumpkins and wann’t buyin’ nomore.”
“So you decided to steal them? From Mr. Carol, of all people.
Jed’s head hung low as he apologized. The middle brother, Sam, didn’t have much to say. He had reiterated what the others expressed and left it at that.
“You gonna tell Mama?” Jed asked.
Jo lifted his chin with a wing twitch. He studied the horizon and shook his head. Kit stepped in to set this right. These boys needed structure, and the fear of the Undergods struck into them.
Consequences must be faced.
Jo lifted a hand, and Kit quieted. This was not his army or his job at the moment. He had no authority here and understood.
“I won’t tell Leah, under one condition.”
“Name it,” Jed said.
“You three will put in work. On the Cresstooth farm for six weeks. Three hours after school, Monday through Friday. I’mma give y’all slips Mr. Cressthooth will sign after each working day. You will earn ten dollars every hour. After them six weeks is up, you can have every dime earned.”
“What magic were you boys foolin’ with anyway?” Renata asked.
And it was a good inquiry considering they’d created monsters found only in the smoldering depths of Undervell.
He shrugged, eyes pinned to the ground. “We want—we wanted to make our own haunted curiosities show for Hollwscream week. We already got some stuff cooked up, but Sam said we needed an attraction.”
“Suhun’ to woo the audience,” Sam said.
Kit scoffed at their waste of an entrepreneurial spirit.
“Why didn’t y’all just ask somebody in town who knows magic?”
The littlest brother huffed and kicked rocks. “Mama said we can’t be asking magic folk for stuff if we ain’t gon’ pay.”
“Your mother seems wise,” Kit said. “You ought to listen to her.”
“We did,” Jed interjected. “We got it our way.”
Powell growled, making the Platter Boys shrink. “And you made a right fool of yourself. People could’ve died! If Jo hadn’t shown up there ain’t no telling what woulda happened.”
“We’re sorry, Mr. Powell. We didn’t mean for none of this. Honest.”
Jo nodded. “We hear you boys, but you’re still gonna handle your business at the goat farm. You understand? Jed, Samuel, Randy? You got me?”
Jed lifted his watery stare and sniffled. “Yes, sir.”
Kit wasn’t sure about human growth rates. But Jed looked to be fourteen, perhaps fifteen cycles. He’d remember this moment for the rest of his life, and good for him. It was a journey taken the hard way around, as Carriont would say. Thinking of his father, Kit grimaced.
“A’ight, y’all.” Jo wrinkled his nose and spat a pumpkin seed. Kit shuddered at the sight and sound. “Go’on and wash up. We’ll call sanitation. This’ll be gone by the time your mama gets home.”
The Platter Boys scrambled and ran inside, the odd door covering clapped shut behind them.
“You went too light on them,” Renata said.
“Back in my day,” Powell rumbled, “I would have been picking switches from that there peach tree.”
“My father would have made me carry a pack loaded with severed heads and walk a hundred miles across the Shovah Badlands.” Kit examined his filthy, pumpkin-mucked claws. “It taught me discipline and character.”
“And trauma,” Jo announced, smiling. “Abuse is not cute, and I feel sorry for y’all. Anyway! Come on, let’s help sanitation and get the hell outta here. I need a shower and a pan of Grandma’s scones.”
“Maggie baked?” Kit asked, perking with the news. “She’s prepared more vestiges?”
“Just for me!” Jo barked. “Get your own god damn scones, Kit.”
“How rude. I am a guest, and as such I should get the first serving.”
“Shiiiiiid.”
Powell sniffed and glanced at Kit. “He’s possessive of his food and will bite you over Maggie’s.”
Kit squared his sopping wet, poop-crusted shoulders. “Good thing I can take a bite or two.”

When I initially started this series, I knew I wanted a large cast. A cast of potential couples and family dynamics and shenanigans. I want Indigo Plains to be its own character and for y’all to live there and meet the community. I don’t want this world to feel stuffy or confined because there is so much I see for this place. There’s a lot of world-building going on for this world, for Ravensguard and territories beyond it.
Everything else I write is so dark and serious. World-ending high-stakes type shit. I never wanted that for PWPF, and I still don’t. Y’all will get more chapters with more characters down the line.
This season is focusing on Jasper, but I wanted to give these two some page time. For obvious reasons, Kit’s pov is important. I’m not apologizing for Jo’s arrival. I love him and Kit together. I’m still uncertain about where they are headed or if they’ll go anywhere. They’re cute together, but that doesn’t mean they have an HEA.
I am a shameless panster who gives the characters free will. In truth, I have no clue what I’m doing or where a book is going until I start typing.
That said, I have plans for Kit. Just don’t know if they’ll include Jo. I guess we all have to keep reading to find out. And yeah, that includes me.
As always, thank you so much and have a lovely week, y’all. Hydrate, rest, and STOP DOOM SCROLLING.