Satisfaction Guaranteed

by Samantha M. Derr

  Ember. He didn't want to move, everything felt stiff and misused, but he needed to check on her.

  He found only Ash, somewhat more visible in the dawn light where he stood in the straw. Nic wondered if he had dreamt the entire night, faced with the reality of a black horse and nothing more, until he spotted the rest of his blankets, neatly folded and stacked on a shelf outside the stall.

  "I guess she went back in," he commented to Ash, who snorted.

  He sighed and rubbed his cold arms. He should have asked her what he should say and do to keep from arousing suspicion. His only defense against Yrhardt's ire was his resemblance to a young boy, but he wouldn't be surprised if Yrhardt lashed out anyway at the thought of Ember spending the night with a stableboy.

  She wouldn't let on. He bolstered his confidence with the memory of her assured speech and smile. A deadly, world-wise assassin wouldn't just wander about with straw in her little clothes. So I must not either.

  With that firm reminder, he carried on as usual. He drifted into the kitchen for his breakfast with the other inn servants, avoiding the cook's reprimand at his late rising and Abigail's calf eyes, and hurried back to the stable. His plan would work only if he got Bull's saddle on without anyone else around.

  He returned to Bull and greeted her with a purloined apple from the kitchen. Though wrinkled, it distracted her long enough that he could slide in next to her, give her ghostly coat a quick currying, and settle blankets and saddle over her back. When she realized what he was doing and reared back to brain him with a sharp forehoof, he slipped up onto the wall. She snapped at him. He caught her head in her fine, indigo leather bridle, and buckled it while she ducked to get away from him.

  Minutes later, she glared at him over the stall door and chewed gloomily on his offering of hay. He shrugged at her apologetically, rolled his shoulders, and continued on to the next horses.

  Midway through Ash's grooming and equipping, the Amazon paced into the stable, her leonine grace turning the bars of light falling across the dusty floor into spears of Serengeti grass. Nic tensed at the sight of her, knowing that soon he would face Yrhardt and Ember.

  "I require fresh water," she said, her nose lifting as she glared at him over Ash's door.

  "Aye, madam," he said, nodding toward her strange beast. "I already pulled some up for you."

  Her glare lasted a heartbeat longer, then she swivelled and stalked on.

  "Manners aren't really a priority in the plains and jungles, I dare say," Nic muttered to Ash's tilted ears. Ash whickered, a sound suspiciously similar to a human chuckle.

  He was just finishing with Deacon when the sounds of the travelling party filled the courtyard. He schooled his face into an expression of calm, marred only by annoyance as Deacon tried again and again to flatten his toes. When Yrhardt's booming demand for his horse echoed against the stable rafters, Nic had mostly forgotten what he was worried about, so concerned was he by preserving the integrity of his feet.

  He brought Deacon first and passed her rein into the cleric's gnarled hands. The cleric nodded, mumbled something, and flicked a coin at Nic. He moved to catch it, but it disappeared in a puff of smoke that then expelled a pigeon. The bird cooed and flapped away, its wings brushing Nic's head as he ducked.

  "There's a tip," the old cleric chuckled, echoed by Yrhardt's deep laugh.

  Nic pressed his lips together to hold in a string of curses and minced back to the stable.

  The Amazon had already brought out her antelope-like animal, and Ash made his own way to the courtyard, leaving Bull. Nic approached her warily. She turned her head to glare from a white-rimmed eye.

  "It's fate," he whispered, as much to himself as to her. Her ear swivelled. "You and I, White Bull. Weapon and murderer."

  He watched her black pupil, seeking the intelligence within, feeling the tug of the divine on his heart.

  "The gods have made it so." He slowly reached for her, hiding the tremble in his arm and expecting her to snap at him. "You and I," he murmured again.

  Her ears went back. Her lip lifted. With immense concentration, Nic forced himself to put his hand in reach of her huge yellow teeth. Then, when she didn't immediately tear off the limb, he laid his palm on her soft nose.

  Her hot breath rushed in and out through her flared nostrils and her eye rolled. Then she sighed, her head fell, and her ears relaxed. She nudged his palm, encouraging him to stroke up to her cheek.

  He walked her out to the courtyard, where the cleric and Yrhardt fell silent, staring. Nic held her only loosely, and gave her a comforting pat on the neck. "Your horse, sir," he said to Yrhardt, offering the rein.

  "What did you do to her?" Yrhardt demanded, stomping nearer. "She's sick."

  Bull tensed, tossed her head and stamped the stones, and squealed. Nic hurriedly backed away, startled by the transformation. Though not too startled. He would squeal and stamp as well if Yrhardt approached with the intention of mounting him.

  "Ah, that's my girl." Smiling, Yrhardt snatched the reins from Nic's grip and moved to swing into the saddle.

  Nic lunged forward to catch and hold the saddle in place, knowing too well how little strain it could accommodate.

  Yrhardt scowled down at him and kicked at his head. "You think me enfeebled? Get away."

  Again, Nic fought to hold back curses. He backpedalled, rubbing his scalp where Yrhardt's spur had nicked him, and turned his glare elsewhere.

  He found Ember's dark eyes upon him, where she already sat high on Ash's shoulders. Her mouth twisted in sadness or regret, so Nic dropped his hand and shook back his hair, not wanting to worry her. It won't be long now, he wanted to assure her. Seven strands to hold the Champion of Light on his horse. Seven strands until he'll lie beneath Bull's hooves.

  As the party set off into the west, the rising sun shining brilliant off their armour and weapons and giving them a glow of heroism, Nic's focus went from the dark flame of his Ember to Yrhardt's bright plates. He watched hungrily as Yrhardt's saddle swayed slightly more than it should have.

  *~*~*

  Word came three days later, carried by a minstrel who travelled the roads between the capital and the nearest main city, a day's ride on the other side of Nic's inn.

  "The Champion is dead," the minstrel revealed over his supper, or so Abigail told Nic late that night when he snuck into the kitchen for a morsel. The minstrel's face had been grey and drawn, his voice deep with grief. "The Champion is dead, trampled to death by his own horse. Surely, this is the blackest day in our kingdom's history. Who knows how much evil will rise up now that he's gone? Who knows how many enemy lords will creep into our lands?"

  If Nic had been sitting there with him, he would have said that other heroes would stand to take Yrhardt's place. And they would be true heroes, not just an arrogant, barbaric idiot touched by the mischievous gods.

  Soon, he would have assured the minstrel, a new party would travel the lands: Two assassins and a man who smells of horses, with gentle hands and an unflinching spirit.

  On the fourth day, a dark flame appeared in the heart of the setting sun and resolved itself into a woman on a black horse. Nic, watching from his loft, bundled his meagre belongings into a tattered and patched blanket, and scrambled down to meet her.

  FLIP FLOPS & TENNIS SHOES

  Bettina Kaipling

  It wasn't like Annabelle wasn't grateful to have this job. She was. She was thankful that she had any job at all, and this one wasn't even all that bad. It would help her pay for college, which she seriously needed because apparently financial aid thought she had boatloads of money just lying around (she most certainly did not). The hours weren't bad, which was of course a plus because she was an eighteen year old with a social life (Netflix counts, right?), and her supervisors were pretty nice ("I'll let your tardiness go this once, but next time...").

  The problem wasn't the job itself, per se... It was the people.

  Make no mistake, there were probably some really nice people t
hat came to theme parks, people who enjoyed losing themselves in the silly shows and carefree atmosphere. She liked going to theme parks. But maybe none of those people went to this particular park. At the very least, the nice ones seemed to avoid the info booth like the plague and leave her to deal with all of the yelling and the crying and the obstinate stupidity. As if she weren't already exhausted, sweating in her shorts and polo and thankful at least that the cowboy hat that was keeping the sun off her face was a part of the uniform, even if it was hideous... No, people had to yell at her.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, we don't sell front of the lines passes after two o'clock," she was saying, trying to go for regretful and sympathetic when all she wanted was to roll her eyes and have some cold water. The lady standing in front of her either heard the exasperation in her tone, or else she was really just a jerk like Annabelle thought she was, because she wasn't going to let the apology be the end of it.

  "I am not a ma'am," she snapped, tossing dyed brown hair behind her shoulders and standing straighter. She was at least as tall as Annabelle and she looked like she was about Annabelle's mother's age. "And I don't need young girls calling me old like that."

  "I'm sorry, ma—uh, miss," Annabelle corrected herself, wincing internally. Before she could say anything else, though, the woman was continuing on.

  "And I don't understand," she said. "When I was here last week I could buy a front of the line pass at three o'clock. I am a season pass holder, and I have family in from Michigan and I told them I could get them front of the line passes. What am I supposed to tell them now? Huh?"

  Annabelle licked her lips nervously. "I'm sorry, but it's the summer peak this week, so we had to stop selling front of the line passes earlier so that there aren't too many people going to the front."

  "Well, how was I supposed to know that?" the woman demanded, to which Annabelle opened her mouth to respond that there is a sign at the front of the park, but then she noticed him.

  Kind of short, with surfer blonde hair and tan skin, he looked more like he belonged on the beach than in a theme park. Yet she saw him nearly every time she was on shift, which meant that he must come to the park practically every day. They had never actually spoken, though she was sure he had noticed her noticing him, and sometimes Annabelle was totally convinced that he was taunting her.

  Today he was wearing flip-flops. Flip-flops to a theme park. What the hell? It's like he knew that she had to wear black tennis shoes and stand here all day, so he came in wearing flip-flops. He was standing just to the side of the woman who was still yelling at her—she seriously did not get paid enough to be yelled at like this—smirking at her like he knew just what kind of a day she was having.

  "I'm really sorry, there's nothing I can really do for you," she said after the woman had paused her rant long enough for Annabelle to speak.

  "Well, I'm going to need to talk to someone who can," the lady huffed in response, looking as if she were going to demand a ticket refund now. Annabelle very carefully did not roll her eyes.

  "I'll call my supervisor," she said shortly, not telling her that her supervisor was just going to say the same thing.

  She called her supervisor on the walkie-talkie and then stepped back, hoping that would be that. She only had an hour left on her shift and then she could go home and try not to think about all of the scholarship applications she still had to work on.

  After her supervisor had taken care of the guest, Annabelle leaned forward over the counter of the info booth and let out a sigh of relief. A glance at her watch told her that she only had forty-five minutes left until she could go.

  "Forty-five," she muttered to herself. "Just forty-five more minutes... "

  "Talking to yourself?"

  Annabelle jumped in shock and then stood up straighter because the guy was standing in front of her.

  "What? No!" she scoffed. Then she blinked and asked, "How can I help you?"

  He smirked at her like earlier, like he was some bad boy out of a B movie, and leaned up against the booth. Now that he was close she could see that his skin was smooth and a bit darker than she had realized from afar, his eyes a bit bigger. His hair was blonde and dry like he spent a lot of time in a pool, and from his thin build she wouldn't be surprised to find out that he was a swimmer. She licked her lips and patted her pocket in hope for some chap stick, but of course she didn't have any on her.

  "Hmmm... Well, I was wondering if you could tell me about, ah, the shows in the park?" He was leaning his head on his hand and smiling at her. She sighed because he was here every day. He probably knew this park better than she did.

  "Well, what do you want to know?"

  He grinned. "What's a good show around here?" he asked. "What's your favorite?"

  She rolled her eyes, seeing it for the flirtation that it was. And, okay, maybe she was a little flattered because she had noticed him around and, yeah, thought about him a little bit. He was attractive, all right? A little short, now that he was right here, but that didn't really bother her.

  "Well, the saloon show is always fun," Annabelle told him, flicking her eyes down at the show schedule before passing it over. "It's a guest favorite."

  He scanned the schedule briefly, not looking particularly interested in it, and then smiled at her. "But what's your favorite?"

  Annabelle licked her lips again. She really wished she had some chap stick. Oh, and that the sweat wasn't dripping between her shoulder blades or that her feet weren't killing her. Oh god, she just wasn't in the right state of mind for clever responses. She had been on her feet for almost six hours and it was the hottest week of the year so far. She couldn't imagine that she looked at all good today and now she found herself wondering why he had picked today to finally talk to her.

  "Well, the shoot out's always fun," she told him, resting her head in her hand on the info booth counter. She smiled at him tiredly and his responding grin made it a little more worth it, though she was still be dying for her shift to just end already.

  "I'm Lyle," he said then.

  She raised a brow at him. "Annabelle."

  "Can I call you Anna?" he asked. "Or Belle?"

  "If you want to die," she replied before her mind caught up with her. Then she clapped a hand over her mouth, suddenly hyperaware of the fact that she was working and this guy was a stranger who could complain to her supervisor.

  "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she blurted out, feeling even warmer all of a sudden. "Please excuse me, I shouldn't have—"

  "Don't worry about it!" he said, laughing. "Seriously, it's cool. You're great."

  She could feel a blush rising to her cheeks—and how that was possible in hundred-degree weather when she had to already be red as a tomato, she couldn't say—and then looked at her watch.

  "Uh, my shift ends in like ten minutes," she started. He perked up immediately, eyebrows raised in an almost suggestive manner and, oh god, she was going to have to let him down 'cause that was so not a pick up line.

  "And I'm exhausted," she continued. "But look, maybe I'll see you another time?"

  He licked his lips, looked up to the right and squinted before grinning again. "Hey, I have a season pass, I'll be around."

  She smiled back, because yeah, this was actually something to look forward to about going to work.

  "I'll see you around then," she told him, just as she noticed her replacement walking towards her, all fresh faced and not dying from the heat (for now). Lyle stuck his tongue between his teeth as he smiled and waved.

  "See you."

  *~*~*

  "How do you stand wearing tennis shoes on a day like today?"

  Annabelle huffed out an annoyed breath and looked up from where she had been rereading a pamphlet in her boredom to see Lyle standing there. He was dressed in a baggy T-shirt, board shorts and, again, flip-flops. Asshole.

  "How do you stand wearing flip-flops to a theme park?" she retorted, rolling her eyes. "And it's part of the uniform. Some of us aren't here just for
fun."

  He laughed, obviously amused by her utter lack of professional distance, but she figured they were a little beyond that. He had been creeping around the info booth for two weeks at least and now he was finally talking to her, he sort of didn't stop. Not that she really minded, since he was sort of the highlight of every shift now that he spoke to her practically every day she was here. In the last week, he had made a habit of hanging off the small counter of her booth when there was no one else around.

  "Yeah, yeah." He waved a hand in the air dismissively. "Anyway, I don't always wear sandals. Just when it's a hundred degrees out."

  "Hundred and five," she corrected him, flicking a hand up toward the electric tower with the wait times all listed along with the time and the temperature outside. Lyle scrunched up his nose in a way that was both endearing and weirdly attractive.

  "See? If I don't have to be wearing shoes, I won't. Not when it's a hundred and five out." He looked at her for a moment and then continued. "Besides, I know it's your uniform. I'm just sympathetic. That's awful, seriously."

  She rolled her eyes. "You're a swimmer, right?"

  His brow raised and then he ran a hand through his hair as if he had just figured out how she knew.

  "Uh, yeah, actually," he told her, looking strangely sheepish. It was a weird look on him. Sort of cute though. "Mostly just at home though."

  Annabelle bit her lip. She had only known him for a week now, but they had talked a lot—in between other guests' questions and interruptions when her supervisors came by—and she really liked him. She could do this. She was an adult and she could totally ask someone out. Totally. Even if they were a guest at the place she worked and she could get into huge trouble if he had a problem with it...

  "Do you maybe want to go to the beach with me?" Annabelle blurted out before she could psyche herself out too much. Lyle stared at her and she continued. "I'm off on Friday and Saturday this week." When he just stared at her some more she said, "Okay, maybe I've been reading this wrong? I'm sorry, it's cool. Don't worry about it."