ACCIDENTAL UNICORN, THE

by Cassidy, Dakota

  Coop rolled her tongue along the inside of her cheek and scanned the dark, mostly barren space with critical eyes. Any mention of Eb Falls, and Coop grew instantly sullen. “I miss Stevie Cartwright. She said she’d be my friend. Always-always.”

  My face softened into a smile. I missed Stevie and her ghost compatriot, too. Even though I couldn’t actually hear Winterbottom—or Win, as she’d called him—Coop could, and from what she’d relayed to me, he sounded delightfully British and madly in love with Stevie.

  Certainly an unrequited love, due to their circumstances—him being all the way up there on what they called Plane Limbo (where souls wait to decide if they wish to cross over)—and Stevie here on Earth, but they fit one another like gloves.

  Stevie had been one of the best things to ever happen to me; Coop, too. She’d helped us in more ways than just solving a murder and keeping Coop from going to jail. She’d helped heal our hearts. She’d shown us what it meant to be part of a community. She’d helped us learn to trust not just our instincts, but to let the right people into our lives and openly enjoy their presence.

  “Trixie? Do you think Stevie meant we’d always be friends?”

  I winked at Coop. “She meant what she said, for sure. She always means what she says. If she said she’ll always be your friend, you can count on it. And I miss Stevie, too, Coop. Bet she comes to visit us soon.”

  Coop almost smirked, which was her version of a smile—something we worked on every day. Facial expressions and body language humans most commonly use.

  “Will she eat spaghetti with us?” she asked, referring to the last meal we’d shared with Stevie, when she’d invited her friends over and made us a part of not just her community, but her family.

  “I bet she’ll eat whatever we make. So anyway… We were talking the vibe here? It feels good to you?”

  “Yep. I can tattoo here.”

  “Gosh, I hope so. We need to plant some roots, Coop. We need to begin again Finnegan.”

  We needed to find a sense of purpose after Washington, and this felt right. This suburb of Portland called the Cobbler Cove District felt right.

  Tucking her waist-length hair behind her ear, Coop nodded her agreement with a vague pop of her lips, the wheels in her mind so obviously turning. “So we can grow and be a part of the community. So we can blend.”

  “Yes, blending is important. Now, about threatening Fergus…”

  Her eyes narrowed on Fergus, who’d taken a phone call and busily paced the length of the front of the store. “He was lying, Trixie Lavender. Three grand wasn’t what he said on the phone at all. No, it was not. I know what I heard. You said it’s bad to lie. I was only following the rules, just like you told me I should if I wanted to stay here with you and other humans.”

  Bobbing my head to agree, I pinched her lean cheek with affection and smiled. “That’s exactly what I said, Coop. Exactly. Good on you for finally listening to me after our millionth conversation about manners.”

  “Do I win a prize?”

  I frowned as I leaned against the peeling yellow wall. I never knew where Coop was going in her head sometimes. She took many encounters, words, people, whatever, at face value. Almost the way a small child would—except this sometime-child had an incredible figure and a savage lust for blood if not carefully monitored.

  “A prize, Coop?” I asked curiously, tucking my hands in the pockets of my jeans. “Explain your thinking, please.”

  She gazed at me in all seriousness as she quite visibly concentrated on her words. I watched her sweet, uncluttered mind put her thoughts together.

  “Yep. A prize. I saw it the other day on a sign at the grocery store. The millionth shopper wins free groceries for a year. Do I get something for free after our millionth conversation?”

  Laughter bubbled from my throat. Coop didn’t just bring me endlessly sticky situations, she brought me endless laughter and, yes, even endless joy. She’s simple, and I don’t mean she’s unintelligent.

  I mean, sometimes she’s so black and white, I find it hard to explain to her the many levels and nuances of appropriate reactions or emotions for any given situation, and that can tax me on occasion. But she’s mine, and she’d saved my life, and I wasn’t ever going to forget that.

  And I do mean ever.

  She’d tell you I’d saved hers, but that’s just her innocent take on a situation that had been almost impossible until she’d shown up with her trusty sword.

  I gazed up at the water-stained ceiling and thought about how to explain the complexities of mankind. I decided simple was best.

  “Trixie? Do I get a prize?” she inquired again, her tone more insistent this time.

  “No free groceries. Just my love and eternal gratitude that you restrained yourself and didn’t kill Fergus. He’s not a bad man, Coop. And when I say bad, I mean the kind of bad who kicks puppies and pulls the wings off moths for sport. He’s just trying to make his way in the world and get ahead. Just like everybody else. It might not be nice, but you can’t kill him over it. Them’s the rules, Demon.”

  “But he wasn’t being fair, Sister Trixie Lavender.”

  “Remember what we discussed about my name?”

  Now she frowned, the lines in her perfectly shaped forehead deepening. “Yes. I forgot—again. You’re not a nun anymore and it isn’t necessary to call you by your last name. You’re just plain Trixie.”

  Plain Trixie was an understatement. Compared to Coop, Angelina Jolie was plain. My mousy, stick-straight reddish brown (all right, mostly brown) hair and plump thighs were no match for the sleek Coopster. But you couldn’t be jealous of her for long because she had no idea how stunning she was, and that was because she didn’t care.

  “Right. I’m just Trixie. Just like Fergus isn’t Fergus McDuff. He’s just plain old Fergus, if he allows you to call him by his first name, or Mr. McDuff if he prefers the more formal way to address someone. And I’m not a nun anymore. That’s also absolutely right.”

  My heart shivered with a pang of sadness at that, but I’m finally able to say that out loud now and actually feel comfortable doing so.

  I wasn’t a nun anymore, and I’m truly, deeply at peace with the notion. My faith had become a bone of contention for me long before I’d exited the convent, so it was probably better I’d ended up being kicked out on my ear any ol’ way.

  In fact, I often wonder if it hadn’t always been a bone of contention for the entire fifteen years I’d lived there. I’d always questioned some of the rules.

  I’d never wanted to enter the convent to begin with—my parents put me there when they could no longer handle my teenage substance abuse. They’d left me in the capable, nurturing hands of my mother’s dear friend, Sister Alice Catherine.

  But after I’d kicked my drug habit, and decided to take my vows in gratitude for all the nuns of Saint Aloysius By The Sea had done for me, I came to love the thick stone walls, the soft hum and tinkle of wind chimes, and the structure of timely prayer.

  They’d saved me from my addiction. In their esteemed honor, I wanted to save people, too. What better way to do so than becoming a nun in dedicated service to the man upstairs?

  Though, I can promise you, I didn’t want to leave the convent the way I did. A graceful exit would have been my preferred avenue of departure.

  Instead, I left by way of possession. Yes. I said possession. An ugly, fiery, gaping-black-mouthed, demonic possession. I know that’s a lot of adjectives, but it best describes what wormed its way inside me on that awful, horrible night.

  “Are you sad now, Trixie? Did I make you sad because you aren’t a nun anymore?” Coop asked, very clearly worried she’d displeased me—which did happen from time to time.

  For instance, when she threatened to kill anyone who even looked cross-eyed at me—sometimes if they just breathed the wrong way.

  I had to remind myself often, it was out of the goodness of her heart she’d nearly severed a careless driver’s head when he�
�d encroached on our pedestrian right of way (the pedestrian always has the right of way in Portland, in case you were wondering). Or lopped off a man’s fingers with a nearby butter knife for grazing my backside by accident while we were in a questionable bar.

  Still, even while Coop’s emotions ruled her actions without any tempered, well-thought-out responses, she was a sparkling diamond in the rough, a veritable sponge, waiting to soak up all available knowledge.

  I tugged at a lock of her silky hair, shaking off the memory of that night. “How can I be sad if I have you, Coop DeVille?”

  She grimaced—my feisty, compulsive, loveable demon grimaced—which is her second version of a smile (again, she’s still practicing smiling. There’s not much to smile about in Hell, I suppose) and patted my cheek—just like I’d taught her. “Good.”

  “So, do you think you’re up to the task of some remodeling? This place is kind of a mess.”

  Actually, it was a disaster. Everything was crumbling. From the bathroom that looked as though it hadn’t been cleaned since the last century, to the peeling walls and yellowed linoleum with holes all throughout the store.

  Her expression went thoughtful as she cracked her knuckles. “That means painting and using a hammer, right?”

  I brushed my hands together and adjusted my scarf. “Yep. That’s what that means, Coop.”

  “Then no. I don’t want to do that.”

  I barked a laugh, scaring Fergus, who was busily rifling through his briefcase, looking for the contract I’m now positive changes with the applicant’s gender.

  “Tough petunias. We’re in this together, Demon-San. That means the good, the bad, and the renovation of this place. If you want to start tattooing again, we can’t have customers subjected to this chaos, can we? Who’d feel comfortable getting a tattoo in a mess like this?”

  I pointed to the pile of old pizza boxes and crushed beer cans in the corner where I hoped we’d be able to build a cashier’s counter.

  Coop’s sigh was loud enough to ensure I’d hear it as she let her shoulders slump. “You’re right, Sis…um, Trixie. We have to have a sterile environment to make tattoos. The Oregon laws say so. I read them, you know. On the laptop. I read them all.”

  As I said, Coop’s a veritable sponge, which almost makes up for her lack of emotional control.

  Almost.

  I patted her shoulder as it poked out of her off-the-shoulder T-shirt, the shoulder with a tattoo of an angel in all its magnificently winged glory. A tattoo she’d drawn and inked herself while deep in the bowels of Hell.

  “I’m proud of you. I’m going to need all the help I can get so we can get our license to open ASAP. We need to start making some money, Coop. We don’t have much left of the money Sister Mary Ignatius gave us, and we definitely can’t live on our charm alone.”

  “So I’ve been useful?”

  “You’re more than useful, Coop. You’re my right-hand man. Er, woman.”

  She grinned, and it was when she grinned like this, when her gorgeously crafted face lit up, I grew more certain she understood how dear a friend she was to me. “Good.”

  “Okay, so let’s go sign our lives away—”

  “No!” she whisper-yelled, gripping my wrist with the strength of ten men, her face twisted in fear. “Don’t do that, Trixie Lavender! You know what happens when you do that. Nothing is as it seems when you do that!”

  I forced myself not to wince when I pried her fingers from my wrist. Sometimes, Coop didn’t know her own demonic strength. “Easy, Coop. I need my skin,” I teased.

  In an instant, she dropped her hands to her sides and shoved them into the pockets of her pants, her expression contrite. “My apologies. But you know I have triggers. That’s what you called them, right? When I get upset and anxious, that’s a trigger. Signing your life away is one of them. We have to be careful with our words. You said so yourself.”

  She was right. I’d poorly worded my intent, forgetting her fears about the devil and Hell’s shoddy bargains for your soul.

  As the rain pounded the roof, I measured my words and tried to make light of the situation. “It’s just a saying we use here, Coop. It means we’re giving everything we have to Fergus McDuff on a wing and a prayer at this point. But it doesn’t mean I’m giving up my soul to the devil. I promise. My soul’s staying put.”

  At least I thought it was. I could be wrong after my showdown with an evil spirit, but it felt like it was still there. I still had empathy for others. I still knew right from wrong—even if all those morals went directly out the window when the evil spirit took over.

  Coop inhaled and exhaled before she squared her perfectly proportioned shoulders. “Okay. Then let’s go,” she paused, frowning, “sign our lives away to Fergus McDuff.” Then she smirked, clearly meaning she understood what I’d said.

  Our path to Fergus slowed when Coop paused and put a hand on my arm, setting me behind her. There was a commotion of some kind occurring just outside our door on the sidewalk, between Fergus and another man.

  A dark-haired man with olive skin stretched tightly over his jaw and sleeve tattoos on both arms yelled down at Fergus, who, after Coop, had probably had enough of being under fire for today. But holy crow, this guy was angry.

  He waved those muscular arms—attached to lean hands with long fingers—around in the air as the rain pelted his sleek head. His T-shirt stretched over his muscles as he gestured over his shoulder, and his voice, even muffled, boomed along our tiny street.

  I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it didn’t look like a very friendly exchange—not judging by the man’s face, which, when it wasn’t screwed up in anger, was quite handsome.

  Yet, Fergus, clearly at his breaking point after his encounter with Coop, reared up in the gentleman’s face and yelled right back. But then a taller, leaner, sandy-haired man approached and put a hand on the handsome man’s shoulder, encouraging him to turn around.

  That gave Fergus the opportunity to push his way past the big man and grab the handle of our door, stepping back inside the store with a bluster of huffs and grunts.

  Coop sniffed the air. She can sometimes smell things the rest of us can’t. It’s hard to explain, but as an example, she smelled that our friend Stevie isn’t entirely human. She’s a witch. Or she was. Now, since her accident, she only has some residual powers left.

  But Coop had smelled her paranormal nature somehow—which, by definition, is crazy incredible and something I can’t dwell on for long, for fear I’ll get lost in the madness that demons and Hell and witches and other assorted ghouls are quite real.

  “The man outside is not paranormal. He’s just normal, as is the other man, and Fergus, too. If you were wondering.”

  I popped my lips in Coop’s direction. “Good to know. I mean, what if he was some crazy hybrid of a vampire who can run around in daylight? Then what? We’d have to keep our veins covered or he might suck us dry.”

  Coop gave me her most serious expression and sucked in her cheeks. “I already told you, you don’t ever have to worry anyone will hurt you. I’ll kill them and then they’ll be dead.”

  Ba-dump-bump.

  “And I told you, no killing.” Then I giggled and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, steering her past the debris on the floor and toward a grumpy Fergus, feeling better than I had in weeks. We had a purpose. We had a mission. Above all, we had hope.

  We were going to open Inkerbelle’s Tattoos and Piercings. I’d pierce and design tattoos, and Coop would handle the rest. We’d hopefully hire a staff of more artists as gifted as Coop. If the universe saw fit, that is.

  And then maybe we’d finally have a place to call home. Where I could nest, and Coop could ink to her heart’s desire in her tireless effort to protect every single future client from demonic harm with her special brand of magic ink.

  During her life under Satan’s rule, Coop had tattooed all new entries into Hell. She’d been so good at it, the devil left her in charge
of every incoming sinner. But it was a job she’d despised, and she eventually escaped the night she’d saved me.

  Lastly, I’d also try to come to terms with my new status in this world—my new freedom to openly share my views on how to get through this life with a solid code of ethics. Oh, and by the way, it has more to do with being the best person you can, rather than putting the fear of scripture quotes and fire and brimstone into non-believers.

  I don’t care if you believe. I know that sounds crazy coming from an ex-nun once deeply immersed in a convent and yards and yards of scripture. But I don’t. You don’t have to believe in an unseen entity if you so choose.

  But I do care deeply about the world as a whole, and showing, not telling people you can live your life richly, fully, without ever stepping inside the hallowed halls of a church if you decide that’s what works for you.

  I want anyone who’ll listen to know you can indeed have a life worth living—even as a low-level demon escaped from Hell and an ex-communicated nun who suffers from what Coop and I jokingly call demoni-phrenia.

  Also known as, the occasional possession of an ex-nun cursed by a random evil spirit.

  And I was determined to prove that—not only to myself, but to this spirit who had me in its greasy black clutches.

  Note From Dakota

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  About The Author

  Dakota Cassidy is a USA Today bestselling author with over fifty books. She writes laugh-out-loud cozy mysteries, romantic comedy, grab-some-ice erotic romance, hot and sexy alpha males, paranormal shifters, contemporary kick-ass women, and more.