Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 146

**KACIA**

Okay, giving the twins sugar MIGHT have been a mistake. Because about three slices of cake later (apparently Oz is a sucker who can’t say no to cuteness) they are hyperactive and bouncing off the walls like pinballs with personal vendettas. The shop tilts into a small storm, bead curtains shiver, the old bell above the door gives a sympathetic clink every time someone runs past, and somewhere a stack of empty tins becomes percussion. SOMEHOW Ace is up on top of one of the shelves even though I can’t see any perceivable way he could have made it up there. Five seconds ago that shelf was tidy merchandise with sensible labels, now there are dusty little goblin footprints across ‘dragon’s tooth- do not lick’ (I do NOT want to know why that warning was necessary) and Ace is perched like a triumphant bird, grinning down at us with chocolate on his chin. Ian has somehow acquired a length of string with brightly coloured feathers on the end and is attempting, very seriously, to tie it to Oz’s tail. Is that a cat toy? Do they even have a cat? Where the hell did it come from? Oz looks just as shellshocked as me, caught between horrified caretaker and besotted babysitter. He’s trying to keep his tail out of Ian’s reach without whipping anything breakable, which is a delicate dance, a gentle flick left, a careful swoop right.

“No, no little raider” Oz says softly, but it only encourages more giggling pursuit. His hands shoot out twice in demon-fast blurs, once to steady a wobbling jar of what looks like crystallised rosemary, and once to snatch a teetering stack of tins before gravity can file a formal complaint. Still, he’s still smiling, helpless and fond, because he likes them like this, even if his survival instincts are screaming, and that smile is doing illegal things to my heart. 

“What the hell, Ulric!” I say, totally baffled, because honestly, how did we go from polite cake to rooftop goblin in two minutes? I know cake isn’t particularly good for you, and I think someone mentioned once that goblins are particularly susceptible to sugar, but it was a few slices of cake! Who knew these boys were capable of such chaos. Ulric is just sitting behind the counter, arms crossed, unimpressed. He shakes his head. 

“I TOLD you not to give them more cake after the first pieces. It’s not my fault you didn’t listen to me. This is YOUR problem.” He announces it like a sentence, then pushes off the stool and turns toward the back room. 

“Wait! Where are you going?” Oz asks, his voice slightly panicky as Ian manages to loop the feather string around the very tip of his tail. Ian squeals with victory, Ace applauds from the top shelf like a tiny, chaotic king.

“Away. This is your fault and you can deal with it. Call me when they pass out and we’ll talk.” He declares. Ulric’s eyes gleam with the faintest, most irritating smugness. Is he enjoying this? (Yes. Yes, he is.) Then, with that, Ulric heads straight into the back room and closes the door. A moment later I hear the lock click. Damn it. Now what?

Ten minutes later, Ace is still gargoyling on the top shelf and Ian is doing laps with the feather-string while chanting. 

“CAKE! CAKE! CAKE FOR DAYS!” He chants in a singsong tone. I sigh and decide to try something, anything! 

“If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands.” I sing, hoping to control the chaos. Ian claps directly onto a jar of preserved something that absolutely should not be clapped. The jar foes flying. Oz snatches it mid-wobble with demon reflexes, fingers splayed, arms locked, then makes a horrified face as slime slurps over his palm. He holds it away from his body like it’s contagious, crouches, and sets it very carefully on the ground. Only then does he give me a tight smile that very clearly means new tactic, please! He decides to take a turn at attempting to manage the twins. His voice warm and authoritative.

“Okay, little raiders. New game. It’s called Stone Freeze. Here are the rules.” He taps the floor between the counter and the middle aisle. 

“This is our arena, between me and this rug. No touching the shiny glass, no climbing, feet stay on the ground. When I say Stone, you freeze like a statue. No wiggling, no blinking, no giggling if you can help it.” Oz demonstrates, chin up, elbows bent, his expression fierce and silly. Even his tail goes still. It’s ridiculous and perfect. The twins gasp and copy him instantly. 

“Good job guys! Now, when I say Melt, statues turn to sand and move. Running, hopping, spinning, but only in the arena. Got it?” He asks. 

“GOT IT!” They chorus.

“First things first. Practice poses!” Oz says, delight tugging at his mouth. 

“Show me… Angry Gargoyle.” He instructs. They hunch, scowl, tremble with suppressed laughter. 

“Hero Pose.” He says next. They put their fists to their hips and puff out their chests. 

“Teapot.” Oz continues. They each put one hand on a hip, one arm out. Ace’s spout is very serious. Oz glances at me, eyes bright, like see? this is fun. Then he straightens. 

“Okay, time to start the game for real. Ready? Stone!” He announces. They lock. Ian’s eyes go wide, Ace’s lip quivers with the effort not to laugh. Oz prowls around them in exaggerated inspection, peering an inch from each nose. 

“Hmm. Very stony. Possibly granite.” He declares. 

“Aaaand melt!” He tells them. Cue the explosion of energy. They sprint tight loops inside the boundary he set, hopping over the rug’s edge, skidding on their socks, squealing.

“Melt! Melt!” They repeat excitedly. Oz shadows them, palms down when they drift too near glass, tail drawing an invisible line to herd them back. He’s getting very into it, calling, ‘Stone!’ at random, praising their poses. 

“Excellent statue. Ten out of ten stone.” He compliments. When Ian wobbles, Oz whispers.

“Think mountain. Mountains don’t fall.” He instructs. Ian steadies, beaming. Has he done it? Has he gotten control of this situation? I’m impressed. 

Two rounds later, discipline… Dissolves.

“Stone!” Oz commands.

“Oh no, we lost.” Ace declares cheerfully, not even slowing. 

“Oh well!” He zooms off. 

“We lost! We win!” Ian echoes and blasts past Oz’s knee like a comet. Oz huffs a laugh, not remotely frustrated, just delighted. He shoots me a look that says Plan B? and then claps once, gentle but decisive.

“Alright, raiders. New game.” He announces, standing like a ringmaster. 

“It’s called… Captain Calls. When Captain Oz or Captain Kaci call a mission, you do it fast, inside the arena, and then freeze at the end till the next mission.” He explains. This, apparently, sounds epic.

“Mission one… Rocket Launches! Three jumps so high you could head-butt the moon. Go!” He announces. They launch. One, two, three, knees to chests, wild grins, breath coming louder. As they finish, he continues.

“Mission two, crab March from the rug to the counter and back, hands and feet on the floor, bellies up. Don’t bonk into each other. Go!” He orders. They scuttle with alarming dedication, giggling when their paths cross. Oz paces them, tail sweeping low like a finish-line ribbon.

“Mission three… Tornado Spin, two spins only, then… Stomp like thunder three times.” He demonstrates a tiny, careful spin and three soft stomps, the twins do bigger spins and louder stomps, but they keep it in the lane. Their cheeks are already red from exertion. 

“Mission four. Sneaky Fox to the red ribbon pile, on tiptoes, then Bear Crawl back to the rug.” I  decide to join in, catching the rhythm. They go, focused and gleeful. Ian bear-crawls with his tongue out in concentration, Ace tiptoes like a ballerina. On and on the game goes. How DO these boys have SO much energy? Can we bottle it? Sell it? We would make a fortune!

“Quicksand walk, slow as possible, knees like jelly, faces like you smell something yucky.” Oz calls next. They ooze across the lane in exaggerated slow motion. 

“Ew!” Ian adds theatrically while Ace does the world’s most offended sniff as he creeps.

“Whisper Roar.” Oz says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial rumble. 

“Loudest quiet roar you can make. Three seconds. Go.” He instructs. They squeeze out whisper-roars so intense their shoulders shake. Then they crack up, the sound breaking on hiccups. I think their sugar fueled energy is finally starting to fade. The manic edges are finally softening. Sprinting becomes zigzags, zigzags become bouncy walks, bouncy walks become sways. Ian’s hair sticks to his forehead. Ace’s superhero stance is drooping at the corners. Oz edges them toward the corner rug with missions that end closer and closer to it. Their chests rise and fall fast now. The feather-string droops in Ian’s fist. Ace’s teapot spout is listing. I tug a rug fully clear of the shelves and pat the middle like it’s a nest. 

“Final mission.” I whisper, crouching to their level. 

“Dragon guarding treasure. Dragons sleep on their hoard to keep it safe. I’ll give you one piece of treasure each. Whoever lies stillest wins. Ready?” I pluck two shiny crystal things from a little dish by the till and press them into sticky palms. They flop down like puppets with their strings cut. Ian curls around his feather-string and crystal. Ace starfishes, fist clenched on his treasure like a vault. Two minutes of determined wiggles. Thirty seconds of stubborn blinks. And then, they’re out. Soft snores, warm sugar-breath, the feather tickling Ian’s cheek.

“NEVER AGAIN.” I breathe, hands on knees, sweat prickling at my hairline.

“Actually, it was kind of fun.” Oz says, still grinning, voice low as he watches their sleeping faces. I give him a look. He lifts both hands, still smiling. 

“I’m not saying I’d want to deal with it all the time. But on special occasions… I mean, look how much fun they had.” He argues. I sigh, then nod once. 

“Okay maybe this would be bearable on special occasions.” I admit. We stand there in the blessed quiet, just the tick of an old clock, already a little run-down ourselves from the missions. Then we set to work, reluctantly, tidying the chaos away as best as we can before was ask Ulric to emerge from his lair to judge us to death.