“I guess I always figured that you’d live with me. If you ever did come back east,” Keith said.
“Yeah?” Gunther finally lifted his face so that Keith could see the blue of his eyes.
“I mean, I thought I’d have more time to plan than this, but—”
“It’s not till after New Year’s,” Gunther put in.
“Then I guess I better start looking for a bigger place.”
“There’s a two-bedroom condo for sale in Dupont Circle that has a beautiful kitchen with an induction range.” Gunther fished his phone out of his pocket and started swiping through screens of DC-area realty ads. “Hardwood floors too.”
“Why would we need two bedrooms?” He didn’t immediately address the rest of what was wrong with Gunther’s plans, including actually buying a pricey condo.
“For when Mom and Dad come to visit.” Gunther glanced over shyly.
Keith felt objection after objection rising up within him, then realized that none of those issues needed to be addressed right this second. He took the broom and dustpan out of Gunther’s hands, leaned in and pressed his mouth to Gunther’s. He tasted like caramelized sugar and butane—like the top of a crème brûlée.
“Baby, I know it’s your first place away from Mom and Dad and you’re excited. But you’ve never even paid an electrical bill.”
Gunther smiled, leaned in close and whispered, “Maybe I’ve been living with my parents for thirty-seven years, but that just means I’ve got a million bucks in the bank and nobody to spend it on but you.”
“Well then.” Keith slid his hand down Gunther’s back. “I got a hotel with room service. Why don’t I give a brief overview of my long-standing grudge against the Potomac Electric Power Company over breakfast in bed?”
“Then can we look for a place?”
“As long as the Pepco bill is in your name,” Keith said, “we can live anywhere you want.”
The Little Golden Book of Goblin Stories
A coda from the world of NIAD
Special Agent Keith Curry did not excel at shopping. Unless it was for kitchen equipment. Or rare punk rock on colored vinyl.
But books? No, he’d never been too much of a reader—not even as a young child. His boyfriend, Gunther, however, had established a bibliophile identity before he had adult teeth and vigorously maintained a well-used library account ever since.
He even had a special book from his childhood that he loved, a Little Golden Book edition of The Hidden Goblin.
“That story could have been written about me,” Gunther had said the previous night. “It was about a goblin boy who has been transmogrified to be like a human. He lives with his mother and father, who are goblins living in the human realm.”
“Was he sizzling hot like you?” Keith asked absently. He was making himself a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner. Gunther had picked up a bucket of fried chicken for himself, which he was steadily working his way through.
Gunther rolled his eyes, poured himself a shot of kerosene and took a sip. “He was just a little boy. But he did have dark hair and blue eyes like mine.”
Keith nodded. He was constantly amazed at Gunther’s ability to remember the tiniest details of his childhood and also at the ingenuity of the trans-goblin community. Most had emigrated to the human realm as refugees from tyrannical rule by the sidhe. They’d gone from life as mercenaries living on snowy mountaintops to working as bank tellers or recycled-sweater salesmen. Yet, like other émigrés, they held fast to their goblin traditions.
Or to most of them. Eating humans had necessarily been crossed off the list of traditional goblin solstice activities. But Gunther’s mother insisted she’d never liked hunting and eating humans, so it was no great loss.
“Anyway,” Gunther said, “this boy gets rejected by the other goblins because he looks different. He has fingernails instead of talons and his eyes are blue instead of red. And his teeth are tiny and square and all on the inside of his mouth.”
Gunther paused to eat a chicken leg, bone and all, then continued, “Then a faerie comes with a magical mirror and sees that the boy is sad. She shows him that he’s still a goblin inside, even if he looks different on the outside.” Gunther sighed then. “I loved that book so much! It’s why I want to give it to Audrey for her baby shower on Sunday. It’s not easy to understand being one thing on the inside and another on the outside when you’re a little kid.”
“Why don’t you buy a copy then?”
“I’ve tried! I can’t find it anywhere online. And no bookstores in DC have even heard of it,” Gunther said, exasperated. “I think it might be out of print.”
“It could be that you have to visit the Grand Goblin Bazaar to find a copy,” Keith remarked.
“I don’t have time! I have to be out on maneuvers all Saturday with the rest of the strike force.”
Now Keith understood where all this nostalgia had been headed. “I’m off Saturday. Do you want me to pick a copy up for you?”
“Could you?” Gunther asked.
Which was why it pained Keith to be standing in his living room late Saturday night having visited all seven layers of the Grand Goblin Bazaar’s book market and still come home empty-handed. Even the famous vampire booksellers, whose stores of texts were so vast that they extended miles into the realm of darkness, shook their heads at him.
The one goblin bookseller he’d found had simply said, “We don’t have any golden books. Just ones made of paper.”
Gunther came home freshly showered, as he always did after maneuvers. He dropped his gym bag on the sofa and pulled his best men’s-magazine-cologne-ad smile.
“Did you find it?” he asked. Keith shook his head no. Gunther frowned and tapped a cigarette out of his packet. He chewed the end despondently.
“Are you sure you have the right title?” Keith asked.
“I think so,” Gunther replied. “But I can always check.”
He stood and went to the bedroom closet. From the top shelf he removed an old cardboard box. Inside, beneath a couple of stuffed toys and an undersize baseball mitt, lay a book.
What became immediately obvious about this book, to Keith, was that it was absolutely not a real Little Golden Book. A new cover had been pasted on top of the previous one and the pages had been replaced as well with well-drawn but obviously handwritten text. Gunther examined the book curiously, as though he’d never noticed these details about the slim volume before.
“Well, that explains why you can’t find another copy,” Keith ventured into the silence.
“I think my mom must have made this,” Gunther said. “It’s her handwriting.”
“That’s a fair bet.”
“How did I never notice this before?” Gunther wondered aloud. “I mean, the character’s name is even Gunther.”
“You were a little kid,” Keith said with a shrug. “My question is: Why take apart a Little Golden Book? Seems like it would have been easier to buy a blank one and write in it.”
“All goblins love gold,” Gunther replied.
“You never wear gold.”
“I have that tie tack and cuff links. It’s a small hoard, but it’s mine. And it’s not like I’m a dragon or anything.” Gunther dismissed Keith’s contrary observation with an impatient wave. “Anyway, all the other human kids had Golden Books. I remember specifically asking her for a Golden Book, like everybody else had.”
Gazing down at the homemade book in Gunther’s hands, Keith found himself getting unexpectedly choked up at the thought of Gunther’s human-hunting mother meticulously studying dozens of children’s books, then replicating the details to make a special story to help her son feel better—a story just for little goblins like him.
Once all danger of sounding teary had passed Keith said, “I guess we’d better get to work.”
Gunther glanced up, eyes a bit shiny as he, too, fought to retain his manly composure.
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Finding an all-
night copy store and a Little Golden Book,” Keith said, grabbing his coat and hat. “We’ve got an arts and crafts project to do.”
Magically Delicious
Special Agent Keith Curry didn’t like going nowhere. But where else could a guy go on a stationary bike? Not that he didn’t like to work out. He liked free weights just fine. Cardio day? He wished he could pass on it. But even when he was in top shape, being 100 percent human in NIAD, NATO’s Irregular Affairs Division, had some disadvantages. When arresting an extra-human suspect, he could not turn invisible, shoot geysers of flame or fly. The only magic he had access to resided in his shoulder holster in the form of his mage pistol.
And besides, he had to try and compete with Gunther. Well, he couldn’t compete with his boyfriend, but he could try not to look too bad by comparison.
Tall, dark, handsome and naturally fit, Gunther did not need to tag along with Keith to the company gym. His perfect physique had been bestowed on him by the mages who had transmogrified his goblin body in utero so that he could look consistent with the human world. But most mornings he came along to the gym anyway. Insofar as Keith knew, Gunther only ever worked out to be social.
Whereas Keith could have epitomized the word “average.” Not good-looking or bad looking. Brown hair and eyes. Nothing beyond that to report. He was the kind of man nobody noticed for very long. And that worked out well for him when he was on an investigation, but was a constant source of mild unease for him the rest of the time.
Gunther was hot enough to get any so-inclined man and maybe a few who were just curious. His blue eyes twinkled like chips of lapis lazuli as he sat his duffel bag down on the gray carpet and started scrolling through the messages on his phone.
“Looks like strike force is on call for the Saint Patrick’s Day parade again,” Gunther commented.
“Damn leprechauns,” Keith muttered.
“Their labor dispute sounds like it’s getting intense.” Gunther held up his phone to display for Keith a photo of six nasty-looking specimens forming a three-layer pyramid that stood about hip high to a normal man. The one on top held a sign reading “Pixies Go Home”; another held a card that said “NIAD Busts Unions!”
“I do not envy you. They look like ball biters,” Keith observed. “What’s their beef, anyway?”
“They worked for one of the NIAD contractors, who replaced them with pixies because they came cheaper.”
“So, angry ball biters.” Keith let out a low whistle. “Be careful.”
“I’m always careful. And I’m a good planner. I brought you some breakfast.” He reached into his gym bag and pulled out a can of Primal Thunder Power Shake and waggled it at him.
“That’s not breakfast. It’s a meal-replacement product.” Keith pushed the pedals harder as his velocity-free vehicle simulated a steep incline. Sweat prickled beneath his Slayer T-shirt and trickled down his stomach. “It tastes like baby aspirin sprinkled on sawdust.”
“But it has twenty grams of protein and its new, improved flavor makes it taste like a ray of Creamsicle-flavored sunshine.” Gunther sat on the bike next to Keith’s and idly pushed one of the pedals around.
“I’ve got my own breakfast.”
“I hope you don’t mean that baggie with a tofu dog in it I saw you put in your pocket this morning.” Disapproval darkened Gunther’s expression.
“No, that’s my lunch.” Keith kept a straight face, unable to stop himself from winding Gunther up. They’d been living together for a year now and although many of their domestic conflicts had been smoothed out, Gunther still found Keith’s eating habits appalling. Which Keith thought was pretty rich coming from a guy whose goblin origins allowed him to eat cigarettes and swig lighter fluid.
“Are you sure you used to be a chef?” Gunther asked.
“Either that or I just loved wearing checkered pants and a ridiculous hat.” Keith grinned up at his boyfriend. “Seriously though, I’ve got a hard-boiled egg as well. And a couple of Dijon mustard packets I swiped from the fancy grocery store. I’m fine.”
Keith reached a plateau in his imaginary bike ride and took the opportunity to get his wind back. He glanced out the fifth-story window. If he looked between two buildings he could just see the Washington Monument poking up at the midpoint of the National Mall. Beyond that lay the Lincoln Memorial, where, in the vaulted basement beneath, NIAD mages worked strange spells that controlled the flow of magic in this, the earthly realm.
But if Keith and the other agents did their jobs right, neither the chilly tourists nor the tired commuters filing into office buildings all around would ever know about the mages, the leprechaun labor dispute or any other magic.
To them it was business as usual in the nation’s capital. Dismal winter fog still clung to the tops of the buildings. Dirty slush coated the sidewalk below.
As a native Californian, Gunther had been game about his first East Coast winter, getting very excited about owning his first pair of snow boots. But then, Gunther’s outgoing nature and high spirits were hard to deflate by any means—the exact opposite of Keith’s own inborn pessimism and suspicion.
“Is there any more news on the security breeches?” Keith asked.
Gunther returned his attention to his phone. “No one has claimed responsibility and the spells leave no residue to analyze. Pixie-pure magic. That’s what they say.”
Keith rolled his shoulders to try and remove the tension building there. For the past three weeks, seven NIAD agents had been attacked by a bizarre and completely incapacitating spell that caused severe hallucinations that lasted from hours to several days. During that time, the agents became convinced that they’d been abducted, recognized no one around them and often had to be physically restrained. Afterward, the agents remembered little about the experience, but seemed mostly to be unharmed.
While it was true that many extra-humans, especially in the fae community, might regard this sort of attack as more of a prank than a terrorist assault, NIAD took a dim view of any kind of breech of security.
“I suppose they haven’t bothered to interview the local pixies yet, then,” Keith asked.
“Anybody with a handful of jelly beans can score a thimbleful of pixie dust these days,” Gunther replied, giving a shrug. “It’s half of what the leprechauns are so pissed about. Apart from being made redundant at work, all that magic dust flying around is completely ruining the market for three wishes, or so they say.”
“I would say the three wishes racket also suffers from some credibility issues that are unrelated to pixies.” Keith didn’t like to think of himself as prejudiced, but the antics of leprechauns often rubbed him the wrong way.
“Such as?” Gunther glanced up from his phone.
“Oh, like a bald guy wishes for hair and ends up getting a rabbit. You know, a hare? Douchebag leprechaun humor.”
“Yeah, that’s probably true. Still, if the pixies don’t get on the self-regulation ball, our brass is going to step in and do it for them. Then nobody will be happy. Especially not that sugar junkie Buttercup,” Gunther said absently, his eyes still glued to the small screen.
Doubtless he was scanning some social media feed for news of his huge West Coast family. Gunther had more cousins than anyone Keith had ever met, as well as apparently endless interest in looking at photos of their babies, pets and favorite outfits. Suddenly his expression brightened and Gunther glanced up at him.
Keith steeled himself against the shock of whatever photograph he was about to be shown.
Snow goblins—that is, goblins who had not undergone transmogrification—looked like creatures of nightmare. They seemed to be made entirely of spiky, white bone. Blood-red pits smoldered where their eyes should have been and they had more teeth than a barracuda, even when just born. Keith had now gazed upon many small, toothy creatures being held by proud parents or grandparents.
He mentally crossed his fingers, hoping for a pink or blue hat that would help him figure out the gender, at least. Instea
d Gunther turned the phone around to reveal a photograph of Keith’s old restaurant.
“It’s a five-star review!” Gunther offered his phone for Keith’s perusal.
Keith broke into a smile. Before coming to NIAD, he’d owned his own place, called KC’s. When he’d decided to use his knowledge of food to help NIAD root out extra-planar contraband, he’d sold the tiny diner to his sous chef, Candy. At first she’d kept the place going strong using his menu and recipe book. But lately, she’d been switching it up—making the joint hers, which made Keith proud. He’d picked a winner when he hired her. That was for sure.
Though as the reviewer glowingly described the cozy surroundings and carefully crafted plates, it still gratified him to see that one of the five standout dishes mentioned was his own.
“This is great. We should definitely go see her next time we’re in Providence,” Keith said.
“Maybe we can make a weekend out of it in June. I hear their pride parade is the only nighttime parade in New England.”
“That is correct,” Keith said.
“And KC’s is right on the parade route.”
“Have you had this plan for a long time or did you come up with it now?” Keith felt he should ask.
“Just now.” Gunther took his phone back, pocketed it and picked up the Primal Thunder again. “If you’re not going to drink this I will.”
“Knock yourself out.” Keith bore down on the pedals again, pushing against the last incline in the computerized interval training. Sweat slicked his palms. Beside him Gunther cracked the top of the can and chugged the entire twelve ounces. Even then he looked good, like a guy in a commercial. He finished, crumpled the can in his hand and gazed out the window.
“I’m also really looking forward to seeing the cherry blossoms this spring,” he said. “I just missed them last year.”
“They’re pretty good . . . if you like pink trees.” Keith dismounted from the bike and scrubbed his face with a dry towel. When he glanced back up he found Gunther’s expression had filled with sadness.
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