by K. M. Shea
“You have become a poster child for the MBRC. If you leave, you will take some of their power and prestige with you,” Devin said, pulling a paper out of thin air and laying it out on the table.
It was a promotional flyer for the MBRC, highlighting some of their services and specialties. I was shocked to see a picture of me, standing in front of my first Introduction to the American Education System class, featured on the poster.
“Having one human teacher leave can’t make the MBRC stumble too badly,” I said. “Even if they use me as promo material. They can just as easily brag about Asahi and Kadri—who also teach classes—and the way I mentored them.”
“Yes, but you’re thinking purely from an education standpoint. Remember, the MBRC is also a money maker. If you leave you cannot pretend some of your friends won’t go with you.”
“Okay, Madeline would tag along with me. So what? She’s not even in a coven.”
“Madeline would follow you,” Devin acknowledged. “As would a number of your cyclops friends.”
“…Oh,” I said, seeing it in a new light.
The cyclopes are business savvy beings who probably rehabilitated into human society the best out of all magical races. They are also filthy rich and are well known for donating millions to the MBRC.
“Everyone knows you and Hunter Weller are friends. If you choose to attend a college that is anywhere near a goblin branch office they are going to pay their dues and respects to you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Hunter is the youngest of all his siblings. They won’t…” I trailed off, thinking. During the previous Christmas break, Hunter’s family flew into Chicago. I met all of them, lured to Hunter’s place by the promise of Cinna’s Christmas cookies, and they were all unfailingly nice and pleasant to me—even Hunter’s older siblings. They seemed eager, in fact, to promote my friendship with Hunter.
“Having cyclopes in your pocket and goblins watching your back is more than enough to make the MBRC uneasy at the thought of your exit,” Devin said. “Unfortunately for you, and fortunately for them, you are in a consultant position, which means you don’t have the political clout needed to protect yourself. You were accepted into magical society because of my name, but even if you’re attached to me the MBRC can still trick you into signing a shady contract.”
“You want me to be careful before committing to anything further?”
“Yes. And if the MBRC offers you a new contract or tries to get you to sign anything, have Hunter or Nick—that cyclops friend of yours—read it over first.”
“Not you?” I asked as Devin sipped his pint.
“I would love to read your contracts over, but the MBRC’s reaction will be worse if they know I’m dabbling with your career. I’ve already spoken to Nick and Hunter. You can contact them on your MM and they will answer immediately,” Devin said.
“Okay.”
“I find it odd that they haven’t tried to strong arm you into anything yet. Asahi must be crusading for you behind the scenes,” Devin said.
“Probably,” I said, keeping my face straight. It wasn’t a lie. He probably was fighting for me. But there was that time Aysel…
“I heard you’re taking your advanced placement class on a field trip.”
“Yeah, the Museum of Science and Industry.”
“Haven’t you been to that one before? I thought you would have hit up all the Chicago museums by now.”
“No, I’ve been avoiding it as it has the highest degree of tech out of all the museums in Chicago. I didn’t think my students would get it,” I said. “And we’ve been to lots of places besides museums. We went to a library and a grocery store.”
“And Six Flags, I’ve been told.”
I winced. “Yeah. I was stretching them a little for that one.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t taken them to your high school.”
“I was going to take them to a football game, but after Six Flags I decided it was time to take a break. We still might be able to cram in a baseball or soccer game before I graduate,” I said.
“If you ask the MBRC, the Center may be willing to foot the bill for a professional American football game in the fall,” Devin said.
“Maybe. I’m surprised you know about sports,” I said.
Devin grinned. “Only marginally. I’m a rugby fan.”
“Funny,” I dryly said. “I totally would have pegged you as a swimsuit competition guy.”
“A what?”
“Nothing,” I said, taking a gulp of my bubble tea. “So what’s for dinner?”
“Roasted boar.”
“A what?”
“You said you trusted me.”
“Yeah, that was my mistake.”
“You’ll love it, I promise. Although the sight of it might be a little off putting.”
“Great. I can hardly wait.”
Monday morning I shifted in place and stared at the front of the room with a frown. A new semester started the previous week, and I was still getting used to my new class schedule. “How the heck did you talk me into this class again?” I asked Fran.
“Colleges are looking for well rounded individuals,” Fran said.
“And cooking class will prove that I’m well rounded?” I said.
“It’s called culinary arts, remember?” Fran said.
“How could I forget,” I said, leaning against my work station.
“Good morning, class!” our teacher said as he waltzed into the room. He had a jiggling potbelly and bright orange hair that was crawling to the back of his head. His name was Dave Smith, and I knew him quite well. He was the vampire that clued me into the whole magical beings bit.
“Good morning, Mr. Smith,” my classmates dutifully said.
“Return to your stations, please. Today we’re going to tackle the art of omelets,” Dave said.
Fran set about prepping our workstation before she headed to the front of the classroom to get three recipe papers.
Each workstation had three students. Fran and I were together, and our third classmate was off flirting with girls as he was one of two males in the class. When he returned with a wolfish smile I said, “I hate you.”
My second partner, Frey, gave me a wounded look. “What did I do?”
“You did something weird to Fran to convince her we needed to take a cooking class.”
“It’s culinary arts, and I did no such thing.”
“Then who did?”
Frey hesitated.
“Frey.”
“Hunter may or may not have suggested to Fran that culinary arts would be an enjoyable class,” Frey said.
“He what?” I said.
“Yeah, he said when you find out I should tell you ‘yearbook retaliation.’”
“That little—”
“That little what?” Fran chirped, handing a recipe to Frey and me.
“Nothing. Thanks,” I said, taking the yellow sheet.
“Omelet—or as it was originally spelled, omelette—is a French word that became popular in the middle of the sixteenth century,” Dave-the-chubby-vampire-turned-teacher said. “However, the dish existed before then.”
I shook my head as I watched the rehabilitated vampire discuss the origins of the omelet.
“What?” Frey asked.
“I can’t believe the school approved him as the cooking teacher,” I said.
Frey shrugged. “It took a little bit of footwork from the MBRC, but you have to admit he’s a much better chef than he is a Spanish substitute teacher.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “So why am I here?”
“What! Do you really think I was going to suffer through this alone?”
“…variations of omelet including: the Japanese tamagoyaki, the Italian frittata, the Spanish tortilla de patatas, and the Indian tomato omelet—which is not a true omelet but is still called one,” Dave said, his face scrunching up with the word ‘tomato’.
“No,” I said.
“There you have it,” Frey said.
“You’re coming with on the museum field trip, right?”
“Yeah. I thought I would skip it, but Dave put up a big stink about it with one of his teachers. So we’re coming,” Frey said.
“The most common ingredients used in an omelet are: salt, pepper, mushrooms, cheese, red peppers, green peppers, onions, and tomatoes. I will leave the ingredients up to your individual tastes, but in addition to your eggs you must use at least three of these ingredients,” Dave said, waving a hand over the tubs of food piled on his desk.
“I want everything but onions,” Fran said, turning to face Frey and I.
“You want nice smelling breath for kissing that Ethan of yours?” Frey asked, innocently batting his eyelashes.
Fran’s jaw dropped.
Frey winked before heading for Dave’s desk. “I’ll get everything but the onions, then.”
“I’m sorry I ever thought you should date him,” Fran said.
“Yep. But that reminds me, how did your date go?”
“Okay. We went indoor mini-golfing.”
I cringed. “Ouch.”
“Yeah. When he realized how bad I was he was super apologetic. It was still a lot of fun, though.”
“Why?”
“He wasn’t much better than me. We lost our balls in all sorts of crazy ways. I almost died laughing when Ethan accidentally shot his golf ball in the mouth of a hollow t-rex statue we were supposed to putt under. By the end of our round we were on a first name basis with the employees.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said, smiling at my friend.
“Yep. He’s a nice guy. So did you hang out with Hot Garden Guy after work?”
“A little. We went out to eat. It wasn’t like that!” I said when Fran raised an eyebrow.
“Oh really?”
“Yes, really! We talked about work.”
Fran hummed. “It might be nice to have an older boyfriend—he can afford to buy all sorts of stuff for you.”
“Fran!” I said, shocked.
She shrugged. “I’m just sayin’.”
I glared, but was unwilling to comment as Frey returned with a tray filled with dishes of Fran’s desired ingredients.
“Alright, ladies. Shall we chop?” he asked.
“Let’s,” Fran said, taking the red pepper. “You know, Frey. If you’re not going to date Morgan, Samantha is single.”
Frey, who had just started dicing the green pepper, almost chopped his finger off. “What?”
“It’s a total code violation to have you floating around school, single. Morgan and I have a lot of nice friends we can set you up with.”
Frey sputtered.
I smiled and said with great satisfaction, “I think it’s fitting. After all, weren’t you worried about suffering alone?”
Frey snarled at me as Fran continued on her tirade. “You already know Samantha. She was in second year Spanish with you and Morgan your sophomore year. Do you remember her? Otherwise I can introduce you to Hanna—she’s a sweetheart.”
4
Mucking with Moonspell
It turns out Devin’s warning was very timely. When I strolled into my office on Wednesday afternoon, Baobab had news for me.
“Administrator Moonspell dropped off a new contract for you to sign,” Baobab said.
“The Administrator himself? Not one of his minions?” I asked, freezing mid-motion of taking the contract. I rarely interacted with the Administrator—I had only talked to the elf five or six times. Why on earth would he personally deliver a contract?
“Yes,” Baobab said. She hesitated before she added, “He said it is a revision of your old contract, but he wants it signed and returned immediately.”
I stepped back, peering at the untouched contract as if it were a snake. “Right. I’ll…thanks, Baobab,” I said, stepping further away from her desk as I dug in my pocket. I pulled out what looked like a smart phone, but instead of having a touch/swipe surface, there was a mirror.
“Magic Mirror, on,” I said. The edges of the screen glowed blue as it activated. “Call Nickolas Vontreba.”
The mirror stopped reflecting my image and swirled. It cleared, showing a hazy image of Nick, my long time cyclops friend.
“Morgan, it’s good to see you,” Nick said, peering at me through the mirror surface.
“Hi Nick. Is this a good time?”
“Of course, how can I help you?”
“Administrator Moonspell dropped off a revised contract for me to sign.”
“I’m on my way over,” Nick said, his face disappearing as he stood up, giving me a view of his tie.
“It’s okay. You can take your time, I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” I said.
Nick’s face veered back into view. He had his glamour on, so he had two eyes. “No, Morgan. This is important. I’ll be bringing a friend of mine.”
“Sandy?” I asked hopefully, naming one of Nick’s fellow cyclopes.
“No. A boggart. He’s a lawyer.”
“Oh,” I said.
“We will be at the MBRC in half an hour. Will you be available then?”
“Yeah. I’ve got to drop by a birthday party Dr. Creamintin is throwing. I’ll meet you at my office?”
“Excellent, until then.”
“Okay,” I said. “Magic Mirror, disconnect.” The mirror stopped displaying Nick and my reflection returned. “Magic Mirror, off,” I said before slipping the contraption back in my pocket.
“I’ll be back in a bit, Baobab. I need to wish Aristotle a happy birthday and give him his present,” I said, lifting up a cardboard box that was stuffed with pinecones covered in peanut butter and bird seed. Aristotle was a talking owl, and he had a secret mad passion for generic bird seed.
“Yes, Miss Fae.”
The party was a blast. Aristotle loved his present—although his sour temperament wouldn’t allow himself to acknowledge that—and I got to hang out with an old friend of mine, a bay colored unicorn named Westfall. Westfall was working in a riding therapy barn—and had been there for a year and a half—so I hadn’t seen much of him. Time got away from me as I chatted with the shy unicorn, so I was almost late to the meeting. I slid into my office just as Nick and his boggart friend sat down in chairs in front of my desk.
“Morgan, perfect timing,” Nick said. “Miss Baobab has already given us the contract,” he said as his boggart friend raised a magnifying glass to his face and stared at my contract. “Morgan, this is Ed. Ed, I am delighted to introduce you to Morgan Fae.”
“Huh,” the boggart said, pressing his eye to the magnifying glass.
In fairy tales boggarts are depicted as malevolent house spirits who haunt people, bogs, or marshes. In reality, boggarts are just wild partiers, which got them a bad rep with humans.
Nick’s boggart friend was fairly typical. He was human shaped but short—almost comically so next to Nick, who is roughly the height of NBA basketball players—and really hairy with big eyes.
“Thanks for coming out here on such short notice,” I said. “Krusher, do you want to come in and watch?”
“It’s Harrison, Miss Fae,” Harrison said, ghosting into the office after me. I imagine he was going to memorize every word that was uttered and would report back to Hunter.
No skin off my nose. Neither Devin nor Hunter would be able to accuse me of being disobedient.
“So how is your work with elementals going?” I asked as I plopped down in a chair across from Nick.
“Quite well. I have successfully negotiated a contract with Magefire Cookies for fire salamanders, which grants them a minimum wage. Ed helped me arrange that,” Nick said, smiling.
I once helped the cyclopes bargain with the MBRC to get better eyecare for them. It made me something of a cyclops mascot, and it motivated a few of them—Nick first and foremost—to involve themselves in humanitarian work for other races. Most of them targeted local businesses that were not as kind to their fellow magical beings as they could be, leaving M
BRC negotiations up to me.
“Nice job,” I said. “Is everything going well with your day job?”
Nick winced. “I dropped my glamour in front of my assistant on accident. He had to be hypnotized, but it seems there is no lasting damage to him, or his memories,” Nick said.
“You dropped your disguise? Why?”
“I was in a call with Sandra.”
I gave Nick a Cheshire cat smile. “I see.”
Nick cleared his throat and tugged on his tie before Ed the boggart shouted, “Got it!”
“What have you found?” Nick asked, peering over his short friend’s shoulder.
“It says—and this is assuming you’ve signed the contract—you ‘agree to a non-compete contract, which will ban the signer from signing on with any competitor of the MBRC, for the span of four years,’” Ed said.
“Excellent job, Ed,” Nick said.
“That’s all?”I asked.
“Isn’t that enough to keep you from signing?” Nick asked.
“Yeah, but that’s not so bad. It would be disappointing, but all it means is that I would be banned from working at a rehabilitation center for four years. That’s not terrible. I’m sure I could find another magical place to work,” I said. “The way everyone is acting, I thought Administrator Moonspell might demand my firstborn child or something.”
“But that’s not all,” Ed said.
“There’s more?” Nick eagerly asked.
“Yeah,” Ed said, setting the magnifying glass aside to pick up a highlighter. “He’s extending your contract for two years, and if you quit there’s a hefty breach of contract fee.”
“What?” I said.
“How much?” Nick asked.
“Ten grand.”
“WHAT?!” I said.
Baobab raised her eyebrows and busied herself with work.
Harrison didn’t react. (Mostly because Harrison just doesn’t react.)
The boggart highlighted a line in the contract, marking it vivid pink. “It’s right there. If that’s not a good enough reason to reject this contract, I don’t know what is.”
I snatched up the contract and Ed’s magnifying glass so I could stare at the portion the boggart highlighted. Sure enough, Moonspell’s contract specifically stated that if I left the employment of the MBRC before my two years were over, I would be forced to pay the fine.
