by Ivy Asher
Conveniently Convicted
Ivy Asher
Raven Kennedy
Copyright © 2020 Ivy Asher and Raven Kennedy
All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Edited by Polished Perfection
Cover Design by Covers by Christian
For Dom, we love you more than Pop Rocks and tail flicks.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Also by Ivy Asher & Raven Kennedy
Also by Ivy Asher
Also By Raven Kennedy
About the Author
About the Author
1
Bounce.
With my back on the bed and my legs spread-eagled up the wall, I toss the bright yellow stress ball right between my feet. I keep bouncing it back and forth to myself while I lip sync to the nineties music that’s playing out of the headphones attached to the portable CD player resting on my stomach.
I like colors, so the ball and blue CD player are two of my favorite things in here. It helps to make up for the rest of the drab surroundings. My hair does the job too, since it’s a bright ombré with orange at the roots and yellow at the tips.
I’ve tried to bedazzle my jail-issued inmate numbers that are printed over my breast pocket, but the guards didn’t like that too much, and they made me take it off. Such a drag. So I’ve resorted to just coloring it purple instead. Nothing in the rule book against that.
The walls and floor all around me are boring gray concrete, no doubt suffused with some kind of magic—just like the silver cuffs around my wrists. Not that I’d try to break out of here. That would be stupid.
Bounce.
My CD skips, the words to “No Scrubs” by TLC getting all choppy on me. Damn. I’m going to have to bribe another guard for a new CD soon, and sometimes, I get stuck with some questionable ones. I just had to listen to “My Heart Will Go On” by Celine Dion for a week straight before I got this new CD. It was torture.
I hit the forward button until “MMMBop” by Hanson plays, and I smile. Such a classic.
I’m humming happily to the lyrics when I hear footsteps rushing my way. I pull down my headphones, letting them rest against my neck so I can listen. Yep, someone is definitely coming.
I tilt my head backward until it’s hanging off the side of the bed, just as someone reaches my cell. I study him upside down, but even from my vantage point, I can see that the dude is not a guard from this paranormal jail I’m currently residing in. I know all the guards in this place, and he’s not one of them.
I cock my head, looking him up and down. He’s wearing some major stealth clothes, all black, armored, and uber boring. He’s tall and damn scary looking, with a wicked scar down his left cheek.
“Cut yourself shaving?” I ask before digging into my pocket and grabbing a packet of Pop Rocks candy. I dump some onto my tongue, and the grains immediately start popping like there’s miniature gunfire going off in my mouth. It’s like an adrenaline rush and a candy rush all in one.
“Are you Sinclair?” he asks, ignoring my question.
“What?” I call around the insanely loud popping going off in my mouth.
Frustration crosses his face. “I said, are you Sinclair Denali?”
I hold my hand up to my ear. “Can’t hear you!”
A tic in his jaw pulses with irritation, and he leans his face closer to the bars. “Stop eating that shit and tell me your fucking pack name!”
“Geez, no need to yell. I’m sitting right here,” I tell him with exasperation. “And I think the word you’re looking for is lounge, not pack.”
“What?” he snaps, confusion taking over his purpose-filled gaze.
I’ve gotten him so wound up that he’s nearly turning purple, but I just happily crunch the rest of the candy in my mouth and swallow them, enjoying the little pops as they travel down my throat.
“Lounge, Assassins R Us. A group of lizards is called a lounge. Not a pack,” I explain as I lick my lips, searching for any stray sugary morsels.
He lets out a giant huff. “The general term for any group of shifters is pack,” he argues, like I’m some bratty five-year-old that needs to be put in my place. “Are you Sinclair Denali of the Denali pack or not?” he asks again, glaring at me as he hits a hard K on the word.
“Yep, that’s me,” I finally admit, ready to move onto the next phase of this little game we’re playing. I’m very familiar with this game. I’ve been forced to play it quite a few times already.
I stuff the remainder of the candy packet back in my pants pocket. I have to ration these bad boys. I have sentencing later today, and if all goes well, I’ll be headed to Nightmare Penitentiary—the supernatural prison. That place is like the holy grail of prisons for our kind, and the security is top notch, so bozos like this dude won’t be able to pay me a visit. At least I hope not.
“Good. I’m here to break you out,” the Liam Neeson wannabe announces. His chest puffs up with his words, and I can just tell that he wants to put his hands on his hips and let the Superman vibes waft all over me. I bat them away, and it’s my turn to exhale an exasperated huff.
Not again.
I frown and sit up, my poor stress ball falling to the floor from my inattention and my CD player forgotten on the bed. I stand up and walk over to him, and man, he’s even uglier up close. His face looks like he’s in a permanent scowl, his eyebrows are almost grown together, and his fanged teeth are in serious need of orthodontic work. “I’m pretty sure breaking out a prisoner is against supernatural law. Or human law, even. Lots of laws across the board. Super illegal, man.”
“Alpha Bowen hired us to retrieve you.”
As soon as I hear that name, I quickly spin, scoop up my stress ball, and lie back down on my bed, stretched up legs and all. “Like I told the last guy, no thanks,” I say before opening my pop candy again. This calls for some serious sugar. “I’m good.”
I go back to bouncing and sugar popping.
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Pop. Pop. Pop.
The guy gapes at me from the other side of my bars. “What?”
I tilt my head back again, sighing when I have to swallow my candy prematurely. “I said no thanks,” I repeat slowly, rolling my eyes.
You’d think Alpha Bowen and his hard-on for power could hire smarter cronies. I run my gaze over the dim-witted version of Assassin’s Creed...hmm, guess I’m giving him too much credit.
“As much fun as it is to explain this for the fifth time since I got myself locked up, I want to be in here. It’s exactly the stay-cation I’ve been looking for,” I tell him.
I watch his face, waiting for the bewilderment to crawl over his features just like it did with every other Prison-Break-Barbie that came before him...and there it is.
I
wish these dudes would just take a hint already. I’m in here because I want to be. Well not here exactly, I’m waiting to get to Nightmare Penitentiary, but who knew the wheels of justice took so fucking long to turn? I mean, how long does it take to throw the book at someone?
I’m hoping after my sentencing today that I finally get transferred, and then Alpha Bowen and his lounge of over-muscled fuckwits won’t be able to get to me anymore.
I still can’t figure out how Bowen found me in the first place. I was so careful not to leave tracks. The not knowing gives me an itch that skitters just under my skin and makes my tail twitch with irritation. It makes me want to run, but I’m so close. Just a few more hours and I’ll be out of his reach, and out of reach from my own lounge.
There’s a long, awkward pause, like the henchman wasn’t expecting this at all. Don’t they talk to each other? If he’d just chatted with Henchman One through Four, he’d have known all of this already.
“You’re saying...you want to stay in jail?” he inquires, his face scrunching up like the words are sour in his mouth.
“Ding, ding, ding! What do we have for our winner, Bob?” I reply cheerfully.
The cell goes quiet, all except for the steady bouncing of my ball against the wall. I clear my throat. “Um...you should probably go,” I point out. “Don’t want to get caught and end up where I am, right? Well...unless you want to hide out too. But let me just tell you, it takes way longer to get punished than you think it will. I mean, I broke so many laws! What the hell is taking them so long?” I shake my head. “The paranormal judicial system needs some serious work.”
He blinks. I bounce.
During his silent gaping, the prison alarms start going off really loudly and red emergency lights begin to flash. I point at the flashing lights and gesture for him to run along. “See? You better hurry up.”
I pull my borrowed headphones back over my ears and blare some Backstreet Boys to drown out the noise. I sigh and shake my head when the militia reject starts to fiddle with the lock on my cell door instead of making a break for it like I told him to.
Suddenly, there’s an explosion of magic and sulfur, and my door bursts open. Sitting up, I cough and glare, waving my hand in front of my face to try and dispel the black glittering smoke that’s now filling my cell.
Dammit. I was having such a nice day today, too.
Scarface runs up and grabs me, and that’s when I stop being Miss Nice Cockatrice.
One second, he’s hauling me to my feet, and the next, I grab his wrist, spin faster than he can blink, and I pivot. Using my momentum and strength, I lift him clear off the floor and flip him over, sending him crashing onto his back. His head smacks against my metal bed frame with a sickening crack, and just like that, the dude is out cold.
“Maybe next time, you’ll listen to me,” I tut as I dust off my hands and lie back down on my bed.
Getting comfortable again, I grab one of the magazines that I keep stuffed under my thin mattress. Flipping to the article the guard Paul told me about, I’m just getting to the part about how chandeliers are a necessity in creating an awesome she-shed, when two prison guards come running in. They take one look at my open cell door, the magic smoke still polluting the air, the unconscious male on the ground, and turn gaping looks at me.
I give them a bright smile and point down at Scarface. “Hey, Paul. Could you clean that up for me? I think he wet himself.”
Paul lowers his gun and pulls off his SWAT-style helmet. “Another one?” he asks, jerking his chin toward my uninvited cell guest.
I shrug my shoulders and give him an apologetic smile. He shakes his head and nudges the unconscious jail-breaker with his boot. “Damn. We need to up our security. We aren’t used to so many supernaturals trying to break someone out of here,” he says, scratching the back of his neck as he frowns in thought.
“Yeah, it’s very disruptive,” I tell him.
He grunts in agreement. “Good thing your ride is here,” Paul mentions casually as my unwelcome cell guest groans loudly from the floor.
I squeal and start clapping excitedly, which startles both guards. “Yes, finally!” I shoot up from my cot and thrust both arms out, ready for the required shackles whenever a prisoner is being transported.
Paul releases an amused chuckle, and Terrence—the other guard in my cell right now—gives me some judgement-laced side-eye as I giggle and wait like a kid on Christmas morning for the cuffs to click into place.
I’m finally going to be sentenced and booked into Nightmare Penitentiary. I can’t fucking wait.
My knee bounces up and down rapidly. The movement jingles the links connected to my tail chain, my ankle chain, and my wrist chain. I’m two people away from freedom, and it’s so close I can almost taste it.
The armored car ride over here was thankfully uneventful. I was thoroughly searched by a dour female guard once I arrived, and then I was grunted at by the most useless lawyer I could find. After all that excitement, I was led to this side room where all the other prisoners are waiting for their time in front of the judge.
“Judge O’Vine likes it when you look nervous,” a large wolf shifter to my left announces.
I turn to her, ready to announce that it’s not nerves but eager anticipation that has me all bouncy, but she keeps talking.
“He likes the contrite pretty ones, so you should be fine. Mind your manners and don’t let any foul language sneak out. You’ll have probation in no time,” she adds, looking me over like she can read my rap sheet with just a glance.
I offer her a sweet smile and start compiling a list of swear words to use in my head. I should’ve gotten that neck tattoo I was planning on, but there just wasn’t time. Damn my matriarch for fucking with things and throwing me off schedule.
The dirty door in the yellowing tiled room suddenly opens, and I look up. “Case 11764,” a deep voice calls.
I shoot up out of my seat like a rocket. “That’s me!”
The wolf shifter next to me snickers, and I can almost hear the accusation of rookie in it. I ignore the aural jibe and square my shoulders, trying to look as rough and unapologetic as possible.
I’m escorted into a room that looks like it was decorated by a woodchuck. Every inch of it is some different form of lacquered or polished wood, and shiny mahogany benches sit atop a duller floor of the same material. A waist-high partition separates an empty viewing area with two tables, and I breathe a sigh of relief that no one is sitting there waiting to either break me out or speak on my behalf. That would be super inconvenient.
I take a spot behind a table next to my toadstool of a lawyer, which is difficult, because they have my tail chained down to my legs, and it makes sitting awkward. I look down at the yellow, orange, and red feathers that tip my scaled tail and make sure they’re all accounted for. Nothing I hate worse than losing pretty tail feathers. They’re a cockatrice’s pride and joy.
I get myself settled as much as I can and look up to find a—surprise, surprise—mahogany judge’s bench. A massive black-robed figure shuffles papers as I take my place, and I can’t help but stare at Judge O’Vine because the dude is a massive minotaur.
I’ve never seen one in person before. I’m completely taken aback by just how gargantuan he is. I run my surprised green eyes over his furry arms and his serious rack—of horns, that is.
I’m tempted to immediately shift my hair until it’s blood-red, instead of the ombré yellow-orange that I love, but I decide to wait. I’ll keep that as the pièce de résistance in case my sailor mouth and give no fucks attitude doesn’t get the job done.
The prosecutor clears his throat. “Sentencing case 11764: The Supernatural People against Sinclair Denali, a female cockatrice shifter who has been convicted of: Breaking and Entering, Grand Theft Auto, Indecent Exposure, Disturbing the Peace, Public Endangerment, Reckless Driving, Evading Arrest, Assault, Assault with a Deadly Weapon—”
“It was a glitter bomb,” I scoff, rolling my
eyes. “How is a glitter bomb classified as a deadly weapon?” I demand, internally smiling when the judge glares at me and slams his gavel down twice.
“The defendant will remain silent until all charges are read,” he warns and then turns back toward the suited man reading off my offences.
“Damaging Public Property, Defacing a Monument—”
I chuckle at that, and the judge’s horned head snaps back to me, his eyes alight with promises of retribution if I ignore his command to be quiet again.
I got you right where I want you, bull boy, and I haven’t even had to drop any T-bombs yet.
The prosecutor looks back at the file in his hands. “And lastly, Fraud.”
Judge O’Vine gives a terse nod and then looks back to me. He takes me in more thoroughly, and his eyes fill with confused interest. He turns to the prosecutor. “Did the jail get new uniforms?” he asks while studying my bright purple scrub outfit.
Wow, talk about unobservant. I’ve been standing here for almost four minutes and he’s just now noticing my sweet threads?
“Not that I know of,” the prosecutor answers.
The chains clink as I raise my hand and wait to be called on. The judge eyes me for a beat before dropping his chin. I take that as a sign to go ahead and explain. “I’m a cockatrice, right? I’m sure you know how much my species loves color. But check this, it turns out that I have this super awesome ability to change the color of things that have extended contact with my body,” I tell him, running my chained hands down my bright purple uniform.
He just looks at me.
“I can do clothes, shoes, underwear, my hair and my feathers, my nails...pretty much anything if it touches me for long enough. I once made out with a boy in eleventh grade for so long that I turned his skin green, which was awesome because it’s, like, one of my favorite colors.”
