That Time I Got Drunk And Saved A Demon

Book 1: Mead Mishaps

by Kimberly Lemming

Genres: Fantasy Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

All I wanted to do was live my life in peace. Maybe get a cat, expand my spice farm. Really anything that doesn’t involve going on a quest where an orc might rip my face off. But they say the Goddess has favorites. If so, I’m clearly not one of them.

After saving the demon Fallon in a wine-drunk stupor, all he wanted to do was kill an evil witch enslaving his people.

I mean, I get it, don't get me wrong. But he's dragging me along for the ride, and I'm kind of peeved about it. On the bright side, he keeps burning off his shirt.

Release date: May 23, 2023

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter 1

I had only two things on my mind: cheese and how to get home. All around me, people danced and sang to the drunken groove of the village baker laying his soul down on his trusty lute while his wife backed him up with her flute. Drums beat to the rhythm of stomping feet as the village came alive with the Hero’s Call festival.

It had been a long time since the goddess Myva called upon one of us lowly humans to join the never-­ending battle against the monsters trapped behind Volsog gate. As if by some evil clockwork, the gate would weaken every fifteen years. Every manner of myths and monsters would flood through its passage and wreak havoc from our glittering coasts to the deep harsh mountains of the North, where only the maddest of men lived.

None of that, however, was why we were celebrating. No. The reason for our village-­wide riot was the fact that we would finally be rid of the uppity brat that was chosen. Priscilla was a fine girl, if a little full of herself. Until her face appeared in the sacred chalice during the Great Calling. Each time Volsog gate opened, the goddess will shine a light into each of her four temples to call forth her chosen heroes to fight back the demons and close the gate once more. A high honor, to be sure. But everyone loved to conveniently ignore the minor issue of our heroes not always coming back.

It was an honor that I had NO desire to be a part of. I was fine with letting Priscilla and those other fools go off and die. I’ll stick to selling my spices, thank you very much.

My self-­preserving habits made me a bit of an outlier with the other girls in town. “Who wouldn’t want to go off on a grand adventure with a bunch of hot heroes also chosen by the goddess?”

Me bitches. No, thank you.

Biceps were nice, but so was not having my guts eaten by an orc.

Nevertheless, the promise of finding love with a handsome hero from another village was more than enough incentive to get many women praying for the day they’d be chosen as Myva’s “lucky” winner. Maybe we all just grew up reading too many fairy tales.

Priscilla was one of them. Soon after the chipper blond was presented with her new role, no one could hear the end of her bragging until it was time to kick her ass out of the village, sword in hand.

Bye.

The image brought a sting of the memory of my ex leaving town for similar reasons. My lack of desire to be eaten by orcs was a turnoff, and the bastard needed a more adventurous woman. Weeks of crying later, a dear friend came over to slap me out of my sad-girl routine to remind me that “he ain’t shit.”

Who needs him? Or any man! Love is for people with not enough wine in their hands!

With an equilibrium entirely hampered by my love of wine, I stumbled out of the dancing crowd into the food stalls in my daring quest for more cheese. My trusted nose locked on to the smell of aged cheddar and the race was on. With a mighty step over a passed-­out blacksmith, followed by a not so graceful stumble past empty wine bottles, I found myself at the glorious cheese stall owned by my best friend and cheese­maker, Brie. Brilliant name for a cheesemaker, I know. Her mother thought herself wildly clever for that one.

“Brie!” I hollered over the music, slumping my body over the counter. “Brie, my goddess of cheese! Bring me that sweet, sweet Gouda!”

The tarp leading to the back room of the stall opened, revealing my amused friend. Her light pink hair flitted loosely past her shoulders as she stuck her hands on her hips. Her pink locks sent my mind into a stupor until I realized we had agreed to dye our hair pink that morning.

“Cinnamon Hotpepper, you are drunk as a skunk!”

OK, so maybe my mom thought she was terribly clever with names as well.

“Pfft, you look like you dunked your head in a pile of snapdragon,” I laughed, eyeing her hair.

She wiped her hands on her apron and fixed me with a glare. “Says the woman who came up with this brilliant idea. What was it you said, O wise one? ‘Let’s dye our hair pink now that the goddess finally chose her sacrificial lamb.’”

“I may have said something along those lines.” I mean, it was true. Brie grabbed one of my pink braids and flipped it out of my face to emphasize her point. “You can’t say it didn’t work, though. Neither of us was chosen; now we can party!” My friend had always been the logical sort who shared my disinterest in danger and death. We dressed in plain clothing and tried not to stand out in the village to avoid being picked.

It was common knowledge that Myva loved her pretty things. The heroes’ party was always made up of two men and two women. Each one was always some beautiful flamboyant nut, not necessarily the best for the job. Sometimes I wondered if Myva just picked them to be entertained. But hey, I’m no goddess, so what do I know?

“Enough with that sour face. Gimme some cheddar to go with this wine and come drink with me!” Far too impatient to mind manners, I grabbed a slice of cheddar and bit a sizable chunk. Its sharp taste danced across my tongue in time with the baker’s lute as I took a swig from my wine glass to help wash it down.

“Cin, my sweet girl, that was a whole-ass mood and not in a good way.” She shook her head at me disapprovingly and snatched the glass from my hand. “You’re done, hun.”

“Lies! I have not yet begun to drink!”

“From the looks of it, you began to drink about four glasses ago. Go home, Cin. I won’t be done manning the stall for a few more hours anyway. But tomorrow, it’s my brother’s turn. If you manage to survive the blinding hangover you’re going to have in the morning, then I promise we can make a mess of ourselves for the last day of the festival.” My stalwart companion paused her motherly ribbing to package up a few slices of Gouda before handing it to a customer to my side.

“You pr-­promise?” I hiccuped.

“I swear on the temple itself. So go home for tonight and sleep it off.” Her heart-­shaped face turned severe and her coal eyes danced with delight. “For tomorrow, we have two things to celebrate. Freedom from the choosing… and freedom from Priscilla’s constant… Priscillaness.”

A mug slammed on the table, making us both jump. “Hell, I’ll drink to that!” The source of our fright was the blacksmith, John. He was undoubtedly another victim to the princess of self-­importance, as he had been tasked with making a suitable weapon for her journey. “If I ever get another request for a periwinkle sword that ‘can’t be too heavy, but not too frilly’ again, I will retire on the spot!” he hollered.

Maybe John had it a little worse than the rest of us.

I gave the older man a pat on the back. “But what a beautiful blade it was! I’m sure it will get our heroine to Goldcrest City without fail.”

John smiled and nodded his head in pride. “It is a fine blade if I do say so myself. It took me two entire months to make it.” The blacksmith was a gruff fellow but never passed up the chance to talk about his creations.

As much of a pain as our little heroine could be, all of us still wanted her home at the end of her journey. Maybe with a handsome hero in tow. Picturing her getting the fairy-tale ending she always wanted was easier than thinking about her not coming home at all. The chosen heroes had never failed in their quest before. In the end, most of the crazed demons had been killed off or pushed back behind the gate. But I couldn’t help but wonder: if the goddess was powerful enough to banish all demons when she first came to this land, why did she need heroes to repeat the action every fifteen years?

Suddenly, an enormous boom shook the earth, knocking us off our feet. Near my family’s farm, a gigantic dust cloud plumed in the air off toward the East. The crowd fell silent, aside from a few startled screams. “What in the three hell’s was that?” John slurred. I scrambled back on my feet, looking around wildly.

“Is everyone OK?” I yelled.

“I’m g-­good,” Brie stammered.

All around me, villagers looked around worriedly as they dusted themselves off. The baker’s booming laugh cut through the thick silence as he helped his wife back on her feet.

“What’s all this worry?” he began. With a pat on his lute, he began playing once more. “Can’t you lot see? It’s our mighty heroine doing her damned duty already! Kill all those damn demons, I say! By the time that firecracker gets to the castle, there won’t be any left for the other heroes!”

“Yeah, that must be it. Give ’em the wrath of our goddess, Priscilla!” another man roared, eager to push the thought of terror away. Soon the crowd erupted in cheers of affirmation as the dust settled. All sense of danger dissipated as the other musicians resumed their playing.

Brie looked at me with a worried expression. “I sure hope that’s all it was. The smoke cloud looked close to your farm. Is your harvest going to be alright?”

I waved her off with a grin. “Don’t you worry about us. We’ve already brought in most of the fall harvest. If it hit the fields, there’s not much left.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said with a sigh. “Still. I think you should head home. You’re still looking a bit too sloshed for your own good.”

“Yes, mother,” I teased, bidding my companions farewell with one last bite of cheese, and heading out of the festival toward home. I grabbed one of the backup torches at the festival entrance and lit it. It was way too dark to travel home by moonlight.

Thankfully, my family’s farm was close enough to the village that I could stumble my way back with enough booze in my system to kill a moose.

I know; I’ve done it a dozen times or so.

Food stalls and lantern lights gave way to winding trees and glittering night stars. The spirited music died off in the distance. A bit creepy, honestly. All I could hear were my footsteps crunching the leaves beneath my feet and the crackle of fire from the torch. It was so quiet I could hear myself think. Which is not ideal. Thinking leads to worrying and worrying leads to—­

“WHAT THE GINGER WAS THAT SOUND?!”

I whipped around to see a squirrel darting up in a tree. The little critter stopped to eye me for a moment before skittering up into the trees above. “Oh. Of course, it was just a squirrel. What else would it be?” The all-­encompassing crunch of the leaves resumed as I swallowed my paranoia and kept going. My home was only a two-­mile walk. The blast from earlier probably just fried my nerves a bit.

As if on cue, some twat in a black tartan and a matching scarf to cover his face jumped out before me.

Clearly, the gods had favorites, and I wasn’t one of them.

He brandished a relatively small hammer and pointed at my person.

I threw my head back and sighed heavily.

“Give me your valuables, wench, and no one gets hurt,” the bandit said.

“Wench? Shut the hell up. Who are you, my grandpa? No one talks like that.”

The masked man barely stood taller than me, yet still dared to stomp his foot impatiently, and raised his hammer higher. “OK fine, whatever,” he grunted. “Just give me your coins before I get pissed off.”

“What coins? I don’t have coins. I should rob you! I’m a farmer, dickhead. Everyone in this area is a fucking farmer!” Not exactly true; my family made nice money off of our cinnamon harvest. Primarily because we are the only ones who grow it… cause we won’t tell anyone else how to grow it. But hey, ya gotta make your own way in this world.

Not that some fool trying to mug me needed to know that.

“I like your cloak. Cough it up,” he said.

“You have a cloak on you. What do you want mine for anyway? You mean this green one with the yellow sunflower pattern down the rim?” I gave it a twirl to show off the pretty pattern my little cousin Angelica hemmed for me last fall. “You really think you can pull off this look? I don’t know man, seems kind of suss.”

“Just give me the clothes, woman!”

“You freaking bandits just be doing this shit for the giggles! Are you that bored? Go to the festival and get drunk like a normal person!”

“Give me the damn cloak woman!”

“You can’t pull off this look, bro. You can barely pull off that tattered scarf falling off your face.”

The bandit yanked the scarf back up to fully cover his face. But not before I glimpsed red hair peeking past freckled cheeks. Humph. No surprise, it would be one of the Huckabee boys. Mr. Huckabee was a fisherman with five boys and no wife to keep them in line. So it fell to the rest of the village and me to smack them around from time to time. If not, their shenanigans would drive us all mad. “Maybe I’m not going to use it for myself! Have you ever thought of that? I’ll uh… I’ll give it to my girlfriend!”

“Harper,” I began, putting my free hand on my waist. “Look at me. You do not have a girlfriend. I don’t know who you’re trying to fool right now.”

His eyes went wide, and I could just picture his stupid open-­mouthed face as he took in my retort. “I’m not Harper! I’m just a roaming bandit. You’re mean!”

“You’re trying to ROB me!” The metal of the hammer in his hand reflected the moonlight as it caught my eye. “Harper, I swear to the goddess I will shove this torch where the sun doesn’t shine,” I said, grasping the torch with two hands and giving it a test swing in his direction.

Harper lowered the hammer and cocked his head to the side as he took in the situation. Then, slowly, he lifted his hands and backed away slightly. “You know what, I’m feeling generous. Imma let you go this time. We’ll just forget this whole thing.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so, fish-­boy. How about you give me your cloak?” I took a step toward him and raised the torch higher.

“Naw Cin, you don’t need this old thing. Just go on home.”

“Ah-­ha!” My shout could have raised the dead, but I was way too drunk to care. “How do you know my name is Cin if you’re just a roaming bandit?”

“Crap.”

“Yeah, I got you now! Gimme that cloak!”

I darted toward him, but he turned tail and ran off into the woods. Without a second thought, I chased in after him. Why? I wasn’t too sure. I didn’t want his cloak. But I was sick of his shit. It was always one thing or another with those boys. If nothing else, stealing his cloak would let me get back at them for the time they tramped through my chili pepper fields with no regard for how long it took me to grow them. Such audacity had to be corrected.

Harper was always a fast kid, but my drunken need for this vendetta propelled me forward, stumbling over pretty much every rock and branch that got in the way.

His black attire made him hard to see in the darkness, and soon I couldn’t quite tell which way he went. Finally, following my gut, I steered left at a giant oak tree, hoping to catch up to him.

A weak groan cut through the silence of the night, so I veered toward it full force, blood pumping in my ears.

Instead of my wannabe bandit, I came across the aftermath of what appeared to be a rock slide: trees were splintered into nothing, as giant piles of rocks made a scar across the land. I guess that would explain the enormous boom at the festival. Whatever demon that had disturbed Priscilla’s path must have caused this damage. Hopefully, our little heroine was able to leave unscathed.

My thoughts were brought into focus as another weak groan cut through the night air. Panic rose in my chest. If a villager had been caught in the landslide during the battle, they could have been seriously injured.

“Where are you?” I called. “Keep making noise so I can find you.”

I looked around for any sign of Harper. If I took the time to go back to the village for help, whoever was trapped might be crushed before I made it back.

A low cough sounded to my right, and I carefully climbed over the rocks and rubble until I grew closer to the sound.

“I’m here,” a weak voice called. Several branches covered a slumped form, but I could see a pale hand poking out from the mess. Whoever it was could count themselves lucky that it was just branches covering him and not the boulders. I’m no pushover, but I’m no ox either.

“Don’t worry stranger, I got you,” I said, coming to his side. My torch flickered when I placed it between two rocks to free both my hands. Carefully, I removed the branches from the man. Mid­back length black hair hid his face from me, and he seemed much larger than anyone I knew from my village. Must have been some kind of vagabond. No one around ­Boohail had hair that long. We didn’t get too many travelers. Maybe his hometown had been overrun by demons, and he had left to find help.

Tough luck on his end. I only hoped whatever he was running from didn’t make it to Boohail—though demons invading wasn’t something we needed to worry about so close to the village. Myva’s temple held a powerful shield most monsters couldn’t get through. Its reach spanned far enough outside our town that we would live in relative peace, even when Volsog gates opened.

I slowly ran my hands over his. . .