by Matt Wallace
“Okay, cool. Go put your stuff away. I’ll heat you up some of the mafe.”
“Thanks.”
Lena picks up her bag and walks toward the hallway, muttering “shit” over and over again to herself too low for anyone else to hear.
BY THE CREATURES, FOR THE CREATURES
“First off, I want to welcome Tarr back to the line,” Bronko says, addressing the entire kitchen staff in Sin du Jour’s conference room.
He’s standing at the head of the room’s long table with Luciana lingering near the wall far behind him, watching. Lena is seated at the opposite end, once again wearing the cartoon cake company logo on the breast of her smock.
Assembled around both sides of the table in their chef’s whites, the rest of the line mock applauds her. Lena does her best to grin and bear it, but mostly she’s trying to simultaneously avoid looking at Tag Dorsky, Sin du Jour’s sous-chef, and Darren, the best friend and roommate she abandoned.
Dorsky is one of two men she slept with before leaving town without so much as a word. Thus far she’s managed to avoid the other man entirely, and at the very least she’s avoided any one-on-one time with Tag.
For his part, Dorsky is acting as though nothing happened, between them or otherwise. He just sits there with that cocky, perpetual half-smile on his face, surrounded by his three chief kitchen cronies.
Darren, on the other hand, is having much more trouble hiding a variety of emotions inspired by Lena’s renewed presence. But at least James, who is seated next to him, so close the arms of their chairs are touching, pleasantly distracts him.
“It’s election time again, kids,” Bronko announces.
Everyone except Lena and Darren groans.
“Didn’t they just have those, for chrissakes?” Dorsky asks.
“We’ve got one of the frontrunners comin’ to town for a three-week fireside tour.”
“Democrat or Republican?” Lena asks wryly, although she’s already gotten hip to the fact they’re not talking about the American presidential race, or any election in the everyday human world.
“That’s funny, Tarr,” Bronko says. “That’s why we missed you so damn much around here, that earthy sense of humor.”
“So, is someone going to explain to the newbies what these elections you’re talking about are for?” Darren asks.
“Sure, Vargas,” Bronko says. “And I love this new forceful thing you’re doing now that you’ve become a . . . whadda-you-call-’em? A bear.”
“I’m not a bear, Chef.”
“What was that?” Dorsky asks. “All I heard was ‘rrrraaarrr!’”
Seated beside him, Rollo and the rest of the line laugh, even James, who nudges Darren playfully.
“Fuck off, Dorsky,” Darren says.
Sin du Jour’s sous-chef blinks his surprise at Darren while the others “ooh” and “ahh” after the surprising display.
“All right, all right! Enough grab-ass!” Bronko orders. “To answer your question that was phrased like a statement, Vargas, every four years, in line with the elections y’all have grown up watching, the Sceadu also elect a new president.”
“What’s a Sceadu?” Lena asks.
“It’s the shadow government,” Nikki informs her. “If you think of all the nonpeople we cook for like a high school, the Sceadu is the student council.”
“And how does that even work?”
“Everybody is pretty much allowed to tend to their own business,” Bronko explains. “Goblins, half-and-halfs, demons, what-have-you. A lot of ’em have their own . . . whatever . . . realms that aren’t strictly part of our world, and that’s all separate from this. But a lot of ’em live here and they all do business here. Inevitably their business, or whatever, is going to bleed over into each other’s backyards. When that happens, the Sceadu mediates and arbitrates and all that. They also set policy for the folks we cater to about how they all conduct themselves in public, so none of this shit ends up on TMZ.”
“I thought Allensworth and his people did that,” Lena says.
“Mister Allensworth represents the interests of humanity at large among the various supernatural factions,” Luciana says before Bronko can respond to that. “Ours is a diplomatic charter, not a legislative one. We don’t set policy for those factions.”
Lena points at Luciana. “Who is she again, Chef?”
“She works for Allensworth, and she’ll be actin’ as a go-between with us and him.”
“Since when?” Dorsky practically demands. “We’ve never needed that before.”
“And shouldn’t Jett be here for this, Chef?” Nikki asks. “She never misses warrooms.”
“It’s been decided,” Luciana interjects, “you’ll scale back the . . . well, scale of your events. In light of recent incidents it’s better your exposure is limited, for your own safety. Simply provide the main service required of you and that’s all.”
Bronko steps in before any of them can question Luciana further. “Anyway. It’s all as big a mess as regular-ass human politics, I’m sure, but all we have to worry about is the food. We’ve got the very first human candidate to run for the Sceadu presidency comin’ to New York next week—”
“What’s his name?” Nikki asks.
Bronko consults some papers on the table in front of him. “Uh . . . Enzo. Enzo Consoné. I guess he started out as some kind of motivational speaker and confidant to the rich and powerful—demons, CEOs, demon CEOs—and worked his way up—”
“He’s a con man,” Luciana interrupts, her pleasant tone abandoning her for the first time. “A cheap trickster who smiled and screwed his way to where he is. He’ll never win the presidency of the Sceadu.”
Lena raises a brow at the sudden, inexplicable outburst. She glances over at Nikki, who looks back with the same bemusement.
Lena is about to comment when she witnesses something else inexplicable. Around the table, all the men are nodding their heads in agreement with Luciana’s words. It’s not so much that they’re nodding; it’s the way they’re nodding, with their expressions detached from the gesture, almost as if it’s a reflex action.
“Well, the election’ll be what it’ll be,” Bronko says. “The candidate is going to be givin’ two big speeches at two events, a week apart. We’re doing both of ’em, obviously. There’s going to be one for the elementals and one for the bigwigs from the goblin hierarchy and the clued-in humans.”
“Why do they always have to do the elementals here?” Dorsky whines. “You know what a Mongolian clusterfuck those gigs always are.”
“That’s why we get paid the big bucks,” Bronko reminds him. “Besides, most of us have had more experience dealin’ with elemental clientele than we did last go ’round. I’m confident y’all will pull it off smoothly.”
Dorsky coughs into his hand. “Bullshit!”
“You’re extra saucy today, Tag,” Bronko observes. “Are your tender places still hurtin’ over Tarr there being gone for so long?”
No one laughs at that. The rest of the line sitting on either side of Dorsky all drop their gaze or find something very interesting on the walls or ceiling to contemplate.
Dorksy just smiles, breezily, looking totally unperturbed.
“I’m all good, Chef,” he says. “Happy to have her back on the line. We’re going to need all the help we can get.”
“Good. I’ve written out temporary menus here for y’all. We’ll firm ’em up as we talk individual assignments and schedules. Nikki, I’ll get with you on dessert separately. Any more questions for now?”
Lena raises her hand and Bronko gives her the nod.
“Yeah,” she says, dropping her arm. “What the hell is an ‘elemental’?”
EARTH, AIR, WIND & FIRE
“Is good you come back,” Boosha says to Lena, patting her cheek with a withered hand. “You belong here. This I know.”
“Yeah, sure,” Lena says, trying to ignore the cloying, antiseptic smell of the ancient woman’s apothecary.
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She hadn’t realized how much she’d gotten used to it while working at Sin du Jour, but being away for over a month and stepping back into the dangerously cluttered, musty space has definitely reminded her.
“And you,” Boosha addresses Darren, who’s lingering near the door behind Lena, “your spirit . . . is changed. Is louder, bigger. Is good. You were much inside when first I met you. Too much. Is good to see. But you come here more often! I have not seen you since this one leaves.”
“Can you download us on the elementals already please, Boosha?” Darren asks, impatient. “We have a lot of work—”
“Don’t rush!” Boosha snaps at him. “Spirit bigger, is good. But stay nice boy you are. Don’t rush people. Is rude. Don’t be rude.”
Lena drops her head, trying not to grin and failing.
Darren frowns at the back of her head, knowing full well that she did.
Boosha fetches one of her large, dusty, antique tomes and hoists it up onto the lectern that looks like it was carved from a tree in a Tolkien novel. She opens the book and flips through its stiff, nearly petrified pages. She stops when she comes to a faded two-page illustration; it’s a tableau of different creatures all intertwined with each other and performing various tasks.
“Elementals once made this world turn, just for you. They were not born to protect nature, as many of your people think. They were born for you. They protected your people from power of raw elements. Controlled those elements. Guided them. For countless ages. Then your people learn to protect themselves from nature. Then your people learn to control nature. Then you learn to kill nature. Somewhere along way elementals are forgotten. They retreat into the earth, into the sea.”
Boosha points at a section of one of the pages on which what looks like a lizard made of fire is painted. It might’ve once been a vibrant red, but age has turned it a pale pink-orange.
“Salamanders are great creatures of flame. Not very smart. Ruled by instinct and impulse. They are drawn to fire. They take it in themselves. It makes them bigger, stronger. But it burns down too quickly. Mostly now they stay near the warmth of this world’s middle, deep down.”
Her frail fingertip with its long, cracked nail traces down the page to a cluster of tiny figures with bushy beards, encumbered by what look like pieces of armor fashioned from rock.
“Gnomes are little ones. Great craftsmen. Can build most anything. Once they made the mountains and valleys and plains, shifting the ground beneath your feet as was needed. Now they mostly live in deep holes hiding from humans and fighting with other little ones forced to go below.”
The opposing page in the book features a fishlike creature with tiny, withered bipedal arms being encircled by strong gusts of wind. Lena squints as Boosha runs her fingers over the illustration. She realizes the wind has been rendered with subtle faces in it.
“Undines are of the sea. You call them mermaids. But are not like your fairy tales. They have no . . . how to say . . . human parts? All fish. Sylphs are of the air. They have no bodies. Strange creatures. Intelligent, yes, but not in a way we will ever truly understand, I think.”
“That’s all very amazing and weird and . . . whatever,” Lena says, sounding very tired all of a sudden. “But I’m confused about one thing. And the fact it’s only one thing I’m confused about is just . . . wow.”
“What is one thing?” Boosha asks patiently.
“If we don’t need them anymore, why is this guy running for president of the Sceadu giving some kind of rally for the elementals?”
“Is mostly for show. Ceremonial. But is also smart, and necessary. Elementals possess great power, even if they have forgotten. They could cause much chaos for this world if they chose. Is good to appease them. And as some of the oldest of us all they have voice in the choosing of new exaltated.”
“Exalt . . . I thought they were electing a president?” Lena asks.
Boosha shrugs, closing the book with a grunt of effort. “‘President,’” she says, enunciating each syllable carefully, “is what is called now, here. Was different in ages past.”
“How many ages have you lived through, Boosha?” Darren asks.
“Many. Some I remember more fondly than others.”
“So, is this a regular thing you do?” a new voice asks from the apothecary’s doorway.
Luciana is standing there, watching them.
Lena and Darren both turn to look at her, startled, while Boosha attends to her book as if she hasn’t taken notice of the woman.
“Hold these little tutorials, I mean,” Luciana clarifies.
“Ummmm . . . yeah, Boosha’s kinda like Wikipedia for . . . I mean . . . stuff there’s no Wikipedia for,” Darren tells her.
“She obviously knows quite a lot,” Luciana says pleasantly.
“Know what you are,” Boosha hisses under her breath, still not acknowledging the woman.
Lena’s brow furrows as she looks from Sin du Jour’s new executive to its not entirely human elder.
Luciana smiles tightly. “Very quaint. I’ll leave you to your . . . whatever.”
Her gaze lingers for a moment on Boosha hunched over her lectern, then Luciana turns and walks away.
“That was weird,” Darren says, bluntly, after she’s gone.
“Yeah, because that word still means things here.” Lena takes a deep, stabilizing breath. “So, Boosha . . . what do elementals eat, then?”
THE MAD PASTRY CHEF
“Ice!” Nikki calls to Lena over the loud hissing of the machine. “Everything has to be frozen with liquid nitrogen first!”
“For the salamanders?” Lena asks.
Nikki nods animatedly, an excited grin plastered on her face.
She’s wearing insulated gloves that make her hands appear four times larger than they actually are, and safety goggles that make her look like a mad scientist. Nikki is cradling a thick hose with a stainless-steel nozzle at the end. The other end of the hose is connected to a refrigeration unit almost as tall as she is, with two tanks full of liquid nitrogen welded to each side like pontoons.
Lena’s hunched over a freestanding prep island with a wineglass in one hand and a bottle of red in the other, watching her.
“Should I be worried about what’s going to happen here in a second?”
Nikki blinks at her through the goggles.
“Why do you ask?”
Lena glances back at the entrance to Nikki’s small pastry kitchen.
Cindy, Moon, and Hara from Sin du Jour’s intrepid Stocking & Receiving Department have barricaded the small archway by hanging thick welding blankets over it.
Moon is kneeling behind a steel drum he rolled into the kitchen (where Hara had to stand it upright for him). The little man has practically folded himself in half, as if preparing for his plane to go down. His body is curled around a fire extinguisher.
“Are you fucking with me, or is all this really necessary?” Lena asks them.
“Well,” Cindy begins, “the last time Betty Crockerstein there went buck-wild with liquid nitrogen—”
“You weren’t there!” Moon shouts at Lena in abject horror. “You didn’t see it!”
“You’re all totally exaggerating right now!” Nikki insists.
There are dollops of tawny-brown ice cream plated in front of her, the largest portions Lena has ever seen. Each stainless-steel platter must have five gallons of the dessert atop it, sculpted into perfect spheres. Each one has been drizzled with waterfalls of a maroon sauce as thick as preserves.
“Salamanders like meat,” Nikki explains to Lena. “Organs, in particular. But they like them sweetened. So I made a foie gras ice cream with a plum sauce.”
“I thought the whole point was to freeze it into ice cream with the nitrogen?” Lena asks.
“Usually, but salamanders are, like, literally made of fire. They’ll melt or roast food before it ever gets close to them. So I’m freezing everything!”
“Which, in theory, is the opposite of bl
owing stuff up,” Moon observes, and Nikki glares at him for it.
“Here we go!” she announces with glee, cranking back on the nozzle of the hose.
The tanks whir and the hose hisses like a chorus of snakes. White frost sprays forth, consuming the first mountain of ice cream and its steel platter. Nikki cackles madly as she aims and fires the hose at each gargantuan dessert, freezing them solid.
Lena sips her wine. She’s far more amused than afraid. Behind her, Ritter’s team cowers behind their barricades.
“Damn that’s fun!” Nikki proclaims when she’s done, cinching the nozzle closed tightly over the mouth of the hose.
She’s created half a dozen ice fossils the size of engine blocks.
“I’m also making sticky mango rice balls for the salamanders, which you have to try before I blast them!” she tells Lena. “They’re like beach balls!”
“You’re having way too much fun, you know that, right?”
“No such thing,” Nikki insists.
THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
Boosha has spent the majority of her evening angrily puttering around her apothecary needlessly rearranging three curio shops’ worth of items in frustration. She’s been at it pretty much nonstop since her dissertation on the elementals was interrupted.
“Good evening, Boosha.”
She is truly tired of Luciana Monrovio seeming to suddenly coalesce in her doorway.
“What you want?”
Luciana takes a few steps inside the room, one hand delicately swinging her vintage attaché case the color of blood.
“I’m curious . . . how old are you?”
“Old enough to know is rude to ask this question.”
“Of course. Pardon me.”
Boosha steps beside her lectern, one wrinkled hand deftly stroking its hand-carved wooden spine.
“I know why you come here. Why they send you.”
Luciana smiles warmly. “Of course you do. Because, as you said before, you know what I am.”
Boosha nods once, sharply.
