Grilled Cheese and Goblins

by Nicole Kimberling

  The attendant straightened up and handed Keith what turned out to be a battered old key on a North Dakota State Capitol souvenir key ring.

  “It’s the silver Escort around back,” he said. He rang some numbers into the register, then printed out a thin paper receipt. “No need to fill it up before you bring it back. Just sign here to take it out.”

  Outside, the weather in North Dakota was not as cold as Keith had expected. Crisp, but the air was pleasantly sweet and distinctly free of the smog and sorcerous residue that clogged the air filters of his home base. He found the car and slumped down into the seat, taking time to adjust the mirrors before donning his spectral lenses. Through these he could see two small, hidden readouts. These were located near the speedometer and alerted him to the presence of portals nearby.

  The spectacles also allowed him to see the leprechaun sitting on the seat next to him.

  Carrot Beard stared straight ahead with his arms folded in front of him, though because of his height the only thing to glare at was the bottom of the glove compartment.

  Only NIAD’s extensive agent training kept Keith from jumping. Instead, after a steadying breath, he said, “Trespassing on NIAD property can result in exile from the human realm for no less than one hundred days up to one hundred years.”

  “You think I care, badge? I have to protect myself from your loose lips,” Carrot Beard said. “No jury would convict me.”

  “I think you’ll find that even if you were entitled to a jury, which you are not, that would not the case. Now scram.”

  “Wait now, Agent Curry, let’s not be hasty,” Carrot Beard backpedaled in the way that Keith had come to expect, alternating between bluster and obsequiousness. “You don’t want to go into that beverage facility alone, I guarantee.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I used to work there, you know, before the pixies did me out of my job, curse their—”

  “Watch it now.”

  Carrot Beard scowled. “Bless their little scabby hearts, I meant to say.”

  “So why would I need you with me to do a routine inspection?”

  “Come on now, Agent Curry, you and I know you’re not an inspector. You’re the filth, if you’ll pardon my vernacular.”

  “I don’t think I will.” Keith leaned back. “But okay, go on. What do you think I would be investigating there?”

  “Any of their so-called natural flavorings, for one thing,” Carrot Beard replied.

  “Are you saying that they’re made with contraband food items?”

  “I’m saying that many of them are what you’d call magically delicious.” The leprechaun pulled a smug smile, which almost caused the tip of his chin and nose to touch.

  Keith took a moment to consider Carrot Beard’s offer. He did have a floor plan of the factory—all food producers were required by law to submit one—but his specialty did not lie in factory-scale productions.

  But it would never work. If leprechauns had been employed at Primal Thunder, then Carrot Beard would be spotted immediately.

  Besides, he really wasn’t investigating anything.

  And yet, if Carrot Beard’s accusations were true, there could be unauthorized adulterants in the company’s line of energy drinks. The fact that Gunther liked them so much was reason alone to make sure that the ingredients were authorized.

  As he thought this, Keith felt a wave of intuition sweep over him. Now that he was thinking along these lines, Gunther had been drinking a Primal Thunder beverage seconds before he’d been attacked or possessed or whatever had happened to him. The mages had asked if Gunther had inhaled any secondhand smoke before his attack. What if the magical agent that had allowed interlopers to take control of Gunther’s body had been contained in the drink instead?

  Of course Keith knew his immediate urge to condemn Taranis Inc. was based partially on his dislike of Mage Melchior, but still, once the idea entered his head he couldn’t let it go.

  He could think of one man who might know.

  He got his phone and dialed a number he never thought he’d call on purpose.

  The dark elf used a single word to answer and that single word was his name. “Haakon.”

  “It’s Keith Curry.”

  “Yeah?” Haakon clearly didn’t find Keith hard-core enough to handle entire sentences.

  “When Santiago went down this morning, what was he doing?” Keith asked.

  “Nothing,” Haakon said.

  “Was he drinking a Primal Thunder drink, by any chance?”

  “What?”

  “The protein shake,” Keith said. “Did he drink one before his attack?”

  “Well . . .” Haakon paused and Keith worried that that was the end of the sentence, but Haakon continued, “Now that you mention it, he was drinking one just before he was compromised.”

  “Do you remember what flavor?” He glanced askance at Carrot Beard, who nodded at him in an I-told-you-so fashion.

  Another long silence, then, “Orange. I remember it spilled on the sidewalk.”

  “That’s what I needed to know. Thank you.”

  “What does this have to do with Santiago?” Haakon’s tone grew demanding, but also tinged with worry. He truly did care about his team, Keith supposed.

  “I’m not sure yet. Just don’t let anybody drink any of that shit until I get back.” Keith rang off and turned to Carrot Beard. “How good are you at casting a glamour on yourself? Not turning invisible. A real glamour.”

  “It’s interesting that you should ask, because I do have one fine disguise I use quite often.” Carrot Beard’s chest swelled with pride.

  “Show me.”

  The leprechaun took a deep breath, then pinched his fingers over his nose as though he was about to jump into a dunk tank. Then he made a motion as if to blow out, but instead of opening his mouth, he kept it clamped shut.

  He began to grow. His neck stretched upward and his legs stretched down. Another deep breath brought his head up to the level of Keith’s shoulder and a third lengthened his legs to the floor. Then as Keith watched, the leprechaun’s beard retracted into his face, only to emerge from the top of his head in a shock of bushy red hair.

  Carrot Beard’s face had changed as well, growing younger, his cheeks covered with a smattering of freckles. When he spoke it was with the voice of what he appeared to be—a ten- or eleven-year-old boy. Keith glanced over his spectacles to make sure Carrot Beard appeared the same to the human eye. He did.

  “It’s good, isn’t it?” the boy, whom Keith now mentally referred to as Carrot Top, asked.

  “That’s not going to work,” Keith said.

  “Don’t you worry. All I need is a clipboard and I’ll make a fine assistant. I won’t swear at all. I promise.”

  Keith rubbed his eyes in annoyance and said, “Little kids don’t have jobs as food inspection assistants.”

  “Just tell them it’s Take Your Son to Work Day.” Carrot Top blinked. His green eyes twinkled. The freckles spattered across his milky cheeks seemed even more adorable than before. He leaned close to Keith. “I’d be ever so happy if you’d show me how you make money to buy me toys, Daddy.”

  Keith didn’t know what was worse—the sudden horror and revulsion at some apparent kid calling him Daddy or his guilt at feeling revolted by it. Still, Carrot Top had come up with a pretty workable strategy. It would be foolish not to take advantage of it.

  “Okay, we’ll go with you being my son, but don’t call me Daddy,” Keith said.

  “Whatever you say, Pops.” Carrot Top immediately started playing with the electric window, rolling it up and down. Keith briefly wondered at the location of the child-safety control panel, then decided it didn’t matter. If the leprechaun-now-posing-as-a-child fell out the window, it would be one less thing he had to worry about.

  Chapter Six

  Driving through Bismarck’s wide streets under the big clear sky would normally have been a pleasure. Keith spared only a glance for the historical tow
n center and well-kempt lawns before heading to the outskirts of town.

  There, nestled between two rolling hillocks covered in winter-yellowed buffalo grass, stood the head office of Taranis, and the adjacent Primal Thunder Bottling Company. It looked much the same as any other facility of its kind—a gray and cream corporate facade that somewhat resembled an airline hanger on one side with loading docks along the other. Shining blue trucks backed up to the docks to receive pallet loads of fruity drink.

  No fence encircled the facility, but two security guards flanked the front entrance, which Keith supposed was not that unusual in corporate buildings these days—even in North Dakota. Keith’s spectral lenses revealed that though one was human, the other appeared to have some ogre blood. Again, Keith found nothing suspicious about discovering extra-humans working in a facility with a NIAD contract.

  The entry foyer held a big, round desk staffed by a bland receptionist. When Keith flashed his NIAD badge, the young man directed him to Mr. Taylor’s office on the third floor.

  While Keith negotiated the large, echoing room and oversize elevator buttons, Carrot Top tagged along behind him, staring up at the ceiling and occasionally picking his nose.

  “Stop that,” Keith said.

  “It’s part of my character,” Carrot Top replied. “It’s what boys do.”

  Keith watched Carrot Top twist his hand around to get what appeared to be a deeply satisfying dig on. Then, as if possessed by some innate reflex, he dope-slapped the leprechaun in the back of the head.

  Carrot Top whipped around, furious, but before he could speak, Keith said, “It’s what fathers do.”

  Carrot Top just scowled. The mirrored interior of the elevator reflected back the image of them together, plausibly father and son, he supposed. The sight unsettled him more than he would have thought. Probably because it reminded him so much of his childhood interactions with his own father.

  Gunther had most likely not been the recipient of even well-deserved dope slaps. Gerald and Agnes had probably been the type of parents who used their words and expected Gunther to, as well. The many photographs of Gunther and his assorted family members that hung in the home he shared with Gunther spoke of a close-knit, understanding, non-dope-slapping crew.

  A thought occurred to him that had never before crossed his mind: did Gunther want to be a father? The notion of Keith himself acquiring a taste for parenting seemed ludicrous, but Gunther had a nice family and traditional tastes. Would he truly be telling some kid to get his finger out of his nose someday? Time would tell, he supposed.

  The elevator reached the third floor, happily releasing Keith from any further contemplation of his future as a parent or how apt Carrot Top’s imitation might be of any future progeny.

  The letters stenciled on the door said “Rick Taylor, CEO.” The rest of the office said, “I love hunting.” From the framed page from Bowhunting magazine featuring Taylor in camo gear standing over a fallen moose to the head of what Keith suspected to be the very same moose mounted on the wall, Taylor’s office transmitted a pervasive interest in trophy-centered aggression. Several gold plaques identified Taylor as a winner, just in case Keith had failed to notice. Taylor had trounced the competition at numerous shooting and archery competitions, and had even achieved excellence in bowfishing, which Keith hadn’t even known existed before this moment.

  Taylor stood just slightly taller than Keith—somewhere around five ten, but outweighed him by at least twenty pounds. He had a thick shock of hay-colored hair and a mustache that looked strong enough to jump off his face and go on safari by itself.

  He’d been named CEO of the year by Food and Beverage Weekly for his management of the Primal Thunder Power Shake brand for six consecutive years, if the series of plaques on the wall were to be believed.

  Taylor shook Keith’s hand and smiled at Carrot Top when introduced. Then he turned and gestured to the two chairs. “Please have a seat.”

  Keith did so, noting that Taylor failed to sit himself. Rather, he perched on the corner of his desk in a relaxed, informal, congressman-meets-his-constituents way that Keith, as a resident of Washington, DC, immediately mistrusted. But Taylor wasn’t looking at Keith, instead keeping his eye on Carrot Top.

  Keith glanced back at Carrot Top, whose illusory boy-like form turned out to be the perfect disguise for standing and gawking at the assorted deer and antelope heads keeping the prize moose company.

  “What do you think?” Taylor asked.

  “You must be descended from Herne the Huntsman!” Carrot Top said.

  “No,” Taylor laughed, then continued. “We’re not related, but we do take down an elk together now and again.”

  Keith hoped that this was not literally true, but feared it might be. Taylor winked at him, which didn’t clarify.

  “Now what can I do for you?”

  “I’m just here to finish your inspection.” Keith held up his clipboard as though its presence proved his veracity. “You haven’t had a walk-through in at least three years.”

  “Has it been that long?” Taylor asked, smiling.

  Keith resisted the urge to put a check mark in an imaginary box on the form marked: This asshole is jerking me around. Instead he said, “That’s right. And this year I gather your paperwork hasn’t been submitted either.”

  “That would be because of the flood,” Taylor said. “Five hundred gallons of orange beverage all over the floor. Mage Melchior himself came to help us with the cleanup. He’s on the board of directors, you know.”

  “That’s right, isn’t it?” Keith said. He wondered if he should play it hard and question Taylor’s obtrusive namedrop or just play dumb. Dumb seemed like a better option—easier to sustain. “Will Mage Melchior be joining us for the inspection then?”

  “Oh, no, he’s much too busy to hang around here.” Taylor gave a laugh. “So what can I do for you?”

  “I just need to establish that this floor plan is still accurate. It will only take twenty minutes or so. I’ve even brought my own hardhat.” Keith rapped his knuckle on the thing to emphasize its sturdiness.

  “I brought one too!” Carrot Top chimed in. He plopped the oversize headgear onto his ginger noggin. “Do we get free samples, Daddy?”

  Keith fought not to roll his eyes. “You’ll have to ask Mr. Taylor that.”

  “Can we, mister?” Carrot Top exuded the breathless excitement of a high school thespian chewing the scenery.

  Taylor didn’t seem to notice the overacting. He just said, “Sure, big guy, let’s get started. I just have to make one phone call to let them know we’re coming down. It might seem like fun, but this is a real factory and parts of it are dangerous. Do you promise to behave?”

  Carrot Top nodded solemnly, though from his vantage point, Keith could see that he had his fingers crossed.

  Taylor picked up the phone, dialed and, in a casual and cheerful voice, explained to some unknown person that he would be bringing visitors down to the floor. He didn’t seem to be speaking in code, but then Keith didn’t think he needed to. Any visitors would be suspicious to an organization that had gone to such great lengths to avoid inspection.

  Down in the bottling facility, the equipment seemed fairly standard and in line with the floor plan on file. Along with the wildly popular Primal Thunder brand, the facility manufactured nutritional supplements for extra-humans living in the earthly realm. Most of the production line consisted of vats of colored sugar water into which various additives were inserted via nozzle. Some of the additives Keith recognized as arcane nutrients found only on other planes, as well as the ubiquitous platinum, a nutrient needed by most creatures of fae descent. Gunther himself took it in tablet form. The other supplements appeared to be a murky sludge of whey protein and fiber.

  Keith made sure to glance at Carrot Top every now and then. The leprechaun was doing a good job of using his boyish guise to peer and stare at everything. Halfway through the tour he pointed at a series of copper tubes that ran a
long the ceiling. Each tube ended in a nozzle that hung above a mixing cauldron.

  “What are those?” Carrot Top asked.

  “Those lines contain our secret flavoring agents,” Taylor said. “They’re what makes Primal Thunder taste so good.”

  “And what exactly are they?” Keith asked.

  “The ingredients and exact formula are proprietary, though we did submit a formula to the MED/Food office before production began,” Taylor said.

  “I don’t seem to have that list.” Keith leafed through the papers.

  “If you need a new list I can have one sent to your office,” Taylor said.

  “That would be best, I think.” As Keith spoke he watched a thin, red stream of fluid spray down into a vat. Even with his spectral lenses on, he could see nothing remarkable about the substance. He wished he could get a sample of pure flavoring, but the nozzles were at least twenty feet in the air.

  He continued the inspection, going down the checklist, reviewing the equipment and checking for the appropriate number of handwashing stations and recessed floor drains.

  He was on his knees checking one of these when he spotted something odd slinking along the floor.

  At first he thought it was a trick of the light, then he realized that it was a fluffy orange cat.

  Even regular human food facilities didn’t allow cats.

  This one crouched across the room beneath the noisy bottling line, ears flat, clearly disturbed.

  Just as Keith was about to mention it to Taylor, a worker in a white cleanroom suit swooped down and scooped the creature up.

  He disappeared through a side door.

  Keith checked the floor plan. The side door that the worker had gone through went to an area labeled “employee break room.” Could one of the workers have snuck his or her cat into work for some reason? And the worker had been wearing a cleanroom suit. That in itself was not unusual, but Buttercup had mentioned that the culprits who had kidnapped her fellow pixies had also worn paper outfits and threatened her with an orange feline.

  And although neither the cat nor the cleanroom suit was suspicious on its own, together, and combined with lost paperwork, they aroused Keith’s interest. As he neared the end of the route he diverged to glance through the single, high window in the break room door.