Chapter 20 – Not Just a Game
1715 Words
The courthouse waiting area smells like stress and stale carpet.
We’ve been here an hour already. Long enough for the fluorescent lights to drill a hole behind my eyes and for the cheap chairs to leave permanent imprints on my backside. Rian’s hearing is scheduled for nine. It’s now nine‑thirty.
Delays are a tactic. Keep you tired. Keep you grateful for whatever crumbs they drop when your name is finally called.
Theo bounces his knee beside me, phone face‑down on his thigh. Varro stands by the window, arms folded, watching the parking lot like it might lunge through the glass. Elian flips idly through a file, eyes moving sharper than his relaxed posture suggests.
Corin hasn’t sat once. He paces instead, slow, controlled, the kind of movement that would make humans nervous if they had any idea what they were looking at.
“What if the judge sides with Hart?” Theo asks, not for the first time.
“Then we appeal,” Elian says without looking up.
“And if the appeal judge sides with Hart?”
“We appeal again,” he says. “There are a lot of ladders in this system. They count on you giving up before you reach the top.”
Theo makes a face. “You have a very weird appreciation for bureaucracy.”
“You say ‘weird,’ I say ‘strategic.’”
The door to the inner offices opens. A bailiff steps out, scanning the room. “Locke?” he calls.
We all stand at once. The bailiff’s eyebrows climb a fraction, but he doesn’t comment. “Judge Reynolds will see you now.”
The courtroom is small, more municipal than dramatic. No towering columns, no high vaulted ceiling. Just wood paneling, rows of benches, a raised dais where the judge will sit. The flag in the corner droops, fringes dusty.
Rian sits at a table near the front, hands clenched on the cheap legal pad someone’s given him. He’s in his own clothes again—Varro pushed that through—but he’s thinner around the eyes. Juvie lighting does that to you.
A public defender occupies the chair next to him, flipping through a thin file like it might sprout arguments if he stares hard enough.
Hart is there too, at the opposite table. No Severin. Just the golden boy, flanked by a Department attorney in a navy suit.
We take seats behind Rian. Corin positions himself directly behind the boy’s chair, a looming, unmoving presence. I sit at his right shoulder; Theo at his left. Varro and Elian flank our row.
Pack. Human and wolf.
The side door opens. Judge Reynolds takes the bench: late fifties, dark skin, hair in tight coils streaked with gray. Her gaze sweeps the room, cataloguing everyone in it.
“Case of the City versus Rian Holt,” the clerk intones. “Preliminary hearing on charges of assault, with Department of Supernatural Risk Management petitioning for emergency transfer to Regional Youth Adjustment Facility.”
There’s that word again. Adjustment.
Reynolds looks at Rian first. “Mr. Holt. Do you understand why you’re here today?”
Rian swallows. “Because I shoved a guy through a windshield,” he says, voice steady despite the faint tremor in his hands.
“Honesty is appreciated,” she says dryly. “We’ll get to the details. Counsel for the state?”
The DA recites the bare bones: altercation, property damage, minor human injury. When he finishes, the Department attorney rises, smoothing her jacket.
“Your Honor, in addition to the criminal matter, the Department is petitioning for immediate transfer of Mr. Holt to a specialized assessment facility, in light of his prior flagged incident and the potential risk he poses if allowed to remain in standard community settings.”
Reynolds glances at the petition. “Adjustment Facility,” she reads. “The same one currently under internal review?”
A murmur ripples through the small gallery. Hart’s jaw flexes almost imperceptibly.
“Our internal review is standard procedure,” the attorney says smoothly. “We have every confidence in our staff and protocols. The facility is uniquely equipped to—”
“Re‑evaluate and, if necessary, ‘stabilize’ high‑risk shifter juveniles,” I cut in before I can stop myself.
Theo’s hand bumps my knee: careful.
Reynolds’ gaze snaps to me. “And you are?”
“Sylvi Ashridge, Your Honor. Child advocate. Mr. Holt’s caseworker.” I swallow. “And the person whose signature Director Hart would like on his transfer form.”
Hart’s eyes flicker, just once. Got you.
“Ms. Ashridge,” Reynolds says, “do you object to the Department’s petition?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say. “Strongly.”
“On what grounds?”
I breathe in. Out. Think of every late night at Keane, every kid with wolf‑bright eyes and human fears.
“On the grounds,” I say, “that Mr. Holt has a functioning support system in place. A pack, an alpha, a community program. That the facility in question is not neutral ground but an institution currently facing credible allegations of rights violations. And that removing him there now would not be ‘assessment,’ it would be punishment dressed up as care.”
The Department attorney opens her mouth. Reynolds lifts a hand. “You’ll have your turn.”
Her gaze moves to Corin. “Alpha Locke. You’re here as Mr. Holt’s guardian?”
“Yes, Your Honor.” His voice is calm, carrying. “Rian is under my protection.”
“Do you believe you can ensure he does not pose a danger to others while this case proceeds?” she asks.
“Yes,” he says simply. No flourish. No apology.
“How?”
“By doing my job,” he says. “By keeping him under supervision. Restricting his movements where necessary. Providing training and counsel.” A brief pulse of bitter humor through the bond. “Apparently, I’m quite good at teaching wolves not to break under pressure.”
Reynolds’ mouth tightens like she’s suppressing a smile. “Director Hart,” she says, turning, “why is that insufficient?”
Hart stands, tablet in hand. “Your Honor, with respect, informal promises from an alpha cannot substitute for structured intervention. Mr. Holt has already been involved in two violent incidents in as many weeks—”
“Both times intervening to protect someone else,” Theo murmurs under his breath.
“—and the Department has a duty to protect the public,” Hart continues. “We are not seeking to punish him, merely to assess and, if needed, provide early treatment.”
“Treatment,” I echo. “For being a teenager who doesn’t like seeing women manhandled?”
Reynolds’ attention snaps back to me. “Ms. Ashridge. Commentary is not question time.”
“Apologies, Your Honor.”
But she doesn’t look angry. Just… tired.
She flips through the file again. “I see here,” she says slowly, “that in the previous incident, Mr. Holt was returned to pack custody without transfer, on the Department’s recommendation.”
“Yes,” Hart says tightly.
“And in the time since, there have been no incidents until this one?”
“That is correct.”
“Director, why the change in stance?”
Hart chooses his words with care. “Because, Your Honor, in light of recent events—the fire at Keane House, the increased tension in the city—we believe it is imperative to send a clear message that potentially dangerous behavior will be addressed swiftly and decisively.”
There it is. Example.
“Addressed,” I say, “or removed from sight?”
Reynolds looks between us: wolf, Department, human.
“Theo Marsh,” she says suddenly. “You’re on Mr. Holt’s witness list.”
Theo startles. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“Take the stand,” she says. “Briefly.”
His eyes widen. He hadn’t expected to be called this early. But he moves, straightening his shirt, walks to the witness box with the casual stride of someone who has absolutely lied to authority figures before and lived to tell about it.
He raises his hand. Swears in.
“Mr. Marsh,” Reynolds says, “you were present at the incident?”
“No, ma’am,” he says. “But I’ve been working with Keane House for five years. I know Rian. I know the kids who end up in the Department’s ‘programs.’”
Hart’s jaw ticks.
“And your opinion of this petition?” she asks.
Theo glances at me once. Then at Rian.
“I think,” he says carefully, “that if you send him to that facility, you’re not protecting the city. You’re just moving the problem off‑camera. And making sure the next time he sees a girl being hurt, he’ll think twice about helping. Because helping got him locked up.”
Silence.
In the quiet, I feel Corin’s hand, warm and solid, brush the back of my chair. Just a touch. Enough to steady.
Reynolds taps her pen against the desk, thoughtful.
“I’ll take a brief recess,” she says. “Then I’ll rule on the Department’s petition. Mr. Holt’s criminal charges will proceed regardless, but where he waits for that process… that, I’ll consider.”
Her gaze lands on me, then on Hart.
“And I suggest,” she adds, “that everyone in this room remember we are talking about a sixteen‑year‑old boy. Not a symbol.”
The gavel raps once. She rises. The room buzzes to life around us.
Hart turns, eyes on us, calculation sharp. “This isn’t over,” he says under his breath.
“No,” I answer quietly. “It’s really not.”
As the bailiff calls for order and people start to murmur, the bond between me and Corin thrums—not with panic this time, but with something raw and determined.
This isn’t a game. Not for Rian. Not for any of our kids.
And whatever Reynolds decides when she comes back, I know one thing with terrifying clarity:
We’re done playing by rules written to break us.
- Writer
