Lustlocked

by Matt Wallace

There’s a long, narrow buffet table set up in the middle of the reception room, draped with a shimmering crimson cloth. Jett excitedly leads the royal family to one end of it, looking more animated and joyful than Lena has yet seen the out-of-place Chanel-clad event planner.

  There are two much younger people accompanying the goblin king and queen.

  The first is obviously their son, the prince, whose eyes are so kind and open they actually stand out against his inhumanly attractive and symmetrical features.

  The other is his bride-to-be, a cordial young woman who is very pretty, possibly even beautiful, but looks, like everyone else in the room, thoroughly ordinary in the presence of these physically extraordinary goblins.

  “All right, Your Majesties,” Jett announces brightly, “this is, of course, the world famous Chef Byron Luck, our fearless leader in the kitchen here at Sin du Jour. And this is Nichole Glowin, his pastry chef.”

  Bronko and Nikki stand on the other side of the table. Arrayed before them is what looks to be a Japanese meal progression of thoroughly Western food. Tiny portions of a dozen different dishes are plated meticulously in a perfectly spaced row, each with a delicate knife and fork or spoon beside it resting atop fine linen napkins.

  “Please, call me Bronko,” the executive chef says in his easy way.

  “Nikki,” she says, raising her hand as if she’s in a classroom, then adding hastily, “Your Majesties.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you both,” the goblin king says. “My luminous wife, the queen, and our son, Marek. This is his betrothed, Bianca.”

  Introductions are made all the way around.

  “What we have for you today,” Bronko begins, clapping his hands together in that way chefs who’ve been on television a lot do, “is a tasting of the dual menu we’ve planned for your wedding. It’s been made clear to us everything must be prepared two ways, yes?”

  “Unavoidably so,” the king remarks, pleasantly enough. “Watching humans attempt to digest goblin fare is a harrowing sight, indeed.”

  The queen laughs, demurely.

  The prince tries to, but manages only a smile.

  Bianca doesn’t make it that far.

  “Right. Well,” Bronko continues, “we’ll have a full precious metals and jewels station for the groom’s relations to snack on. Likewise, our servers will make the rounds with hors d’oeuvres gems and pearls. For the bride’s side of the aisle we’ve prepared cherry pepper bruschetta . . .”

  Bronko takes them through samples of the hors d’oeuvres, appetizers, and four starting dinner courses they’ve planned out. All three members of the royal family eat heartily of the “human” dishes (apparently, Lena observes, they can and do enjoy regular food).

  “Finally,” Bronko trumpets with appropriate grandeur, “we have our main course.”

  A medium-sized whole fish rests on each plate. The heads have been left intact. They’ve all been covered with gold semicircles. It looks as though each entrée is wearing plate armor.

  “You’re obviously familiar with the cultural significance and its importance to our goblin guests.”

  “Absolutely. Of course, we haven’t actually used the ancestor fish for this tasting. We want to keep the actual product fresh for the reception. It’s, as you know, getting rarer and harder to attain with each passing century.”

  “Yes, I know it’s a silly tradition. Goblins descending from that hideous sea-dwelling creature. But we have so few pure goblin traditions left, you see.”

  “Which is why so many of our guests feel put out by a dual menu. Catering to humans, you know.”

  The queen says this casually, her tone implying she feels neither one way nor another about it, but the words have a noticeable affect on Bianca.

  Bronko diplomatically brushes past the comments. “Your entrée is also prepared two ways, first with the traditional goldmail. The second preparation substitutes cucumber glazed with a rich yellow wasabi dressing for your human guests.”

  Against the wall, Darren and Lena exchange mystified looks.

  The wasabi-drenched cucumbers look identical to the genuine gold plating on the opposite fish.

  “Yellow wasabi,” Lena mouths silently.

  Darren shrugs.

  “I don’t know about the gold, but this with the cucumbers is amazing,” Bianca says as she devours several forkfuls of the fish.

  Bronko dips his head briefly. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “This is domestic,” His Majesty observes after a single bite of his gold-plated fish.

  “Domestic, with a hint of a Hishikari I think,” his wife adds.

  “I think you’re right, my love.”

  For the first time during the tasting, Bronko is thrown off his game. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty?”

  “The presentation is quite lovely, as are the flavors, but the dish will of course be Welsh gold when you prepare it for our guests. Money is no object. It’s not only expected, but anticipated for an event such as this.”

  “Oh, certainly,” Bronko assures His Majesty without the slightest hesitation or hint not knowing what the hell he means by “Welsh” gold, or what the difference is.

  The goblin king nods. “Very well. I’d say we approve wholeheartedly of the savory fare, Chef.”

  The queen nods in agreement. “Quite. Kids?”

  Prince Marek and Bianca both nod rapidly, clasping each other’s hand.

  “All right then, folks.” Bronko motions to the end of the table. “This is the fun part. Cake.”

  Nikki waits for them at the end of the table, behind an assortment of plated cake pieces. Each piece has a rich, vibrant red interior surrounded by white frosting that’s as perfectly smooth as fondant, but looks far too rich and soft to be the decorative sheet frosting that usually covers elaborate cakes.

  Each piece is also sparkling brilliantly in the light, as if they’re covered with diamonds.

  “I love your hair,” the goblin queen comments as they join Nikki across her end of the table.

  “Oh, thank you,” Nikki says, involuntarily touching one of the several victory rolls being held with bobby pins. “It’s actually really easy to do.”

  “I was sorry to see it ever go out of fashion.”

  “I . . . yes.” Nikki isn’t sure what else to say, as the implication the woman has been around since her hairstyle was at the height of its popularity in the ’40s hits her.

  “Well then, Nikki,” the king interjects. “Do tell us about cake.”

  “Oh. Of course. First, for the . . . groom’s side of the aisle, what I’ve done is created a ruby jam center. The frosting is silky pearl, both white and black, which we’ve blended. And it’s sprinkled with blue diamond chips.”

  Lena can’t believe the description.

  Ruby jam?

  Frosting made from pearls?

  “How the hell—” she begins, catching herself quickly.

  No one seems to notice.

  Everyone except Bianca takes up a fork. Soon an inhuman crunching of jaws fills the room.

  “That is utterly magnificent,” the king says without hesitation.

  The queen and prince are quick to agree.

  Nikki’s smile spreads with genuine delight.

  “Thank you. And for the bride’s side, we have blood orange cake with a frosting of vanilla bean ganache. The sprinkles are crushed hard candy made from sea salt, taro, and blue agave.”

  “Jesus, they look identical,” Lena can’t help whispering.

  Fortunately only Darren and Dorsky hear her.

  Darren nudges her.

  Dorsky smirks without looking past him at Lena.

  Nikki picks up a fork and offers it to Bianca, who has been standing to one side trying not to look uncomfortable.

  The young woman steps forward, seeming to appreciate the gesture. She takes the fork and bisects a good-sized bite from the blood orange cake, bringing it to her lips and sniffing it demurely.

  “It smells amazing,” she say
s.

  Nikki nods enthusiastically. “I know, right?”

  Bianca takes her first bite of her wedding cake.

  Her first words, to Nikki’s mind, are perfect: “Babe,” she says, forking another bite for the prince, “you’ve got to try this. It’s amazing.”

  “Which of these will be the cake that’s presented to our guests?” His Highness inquires.

  “Oh, we’ll be constructing a beautiful veneer,” Jett chimes in quickly. “Over two stories tall. Identical in every fashion to the outside of the real thing, and absolutely elaborate and stunning, but the center will be hollow.”

  “Giant cakes taste like they came from a supermarket,” Bronko assures the goblin king. “Your guests will be eating much smaller, much higher quality versions.”

  His Highness nods. “You’ve done well, Chef Luck,” he congratulates Bronko with a lupine smile, reaching out and clasping both of the man’s larger, far more battered hands with his own.

  Bronko is surprised by the strength contained in those seemingly delicate, manicured hands, but he doesn’t let it show.

  “Thank you. Your Majesty.”

  “And Nikki, you are truly gifted,” the queen adds. “Both as a pastry chef and a hair stylist.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing, really.”

  The goblin king turns toward the rest of the line.

  “I thank you all!”

  Darren almost giggles with excitement, but manages to hold it in.

  “Your Majesty,” Jett bids them. “If you’ll follow me I’ve prepared a preview of our designs for the space, the lighting, and of course the music . . .”

  Jett is already free-flowing ecstatically with her event ideas as she leads them from the room.

  “What do you think?” Bronko asks Nikki after a safe amount of time.

  “That poor girl,” she says automatically.

  “The food, Nik.”

  “Oh! They liked it.”

  Bronko nods.

  The rest of the line cooks begin filing out of the room while Dorsky approaches the table.

  “Welsh gold?” he asks.

  Bronko shrugs. “How hard can it be?”

  Darren, his eyes glued to the Wikipedia page he’s conjured on his iPhone, answers that very rhetorical question: “It’s the rarest gold in the world, Chef.”

  Dorsky frowns.

  “Well.” Bronko takes a deep breath. “He did say money was no object.”

  With a deep, doubtful grunt, his sous-chef turns and exits the reception room.

  Bronko waits.

  “So, what’s the verdict?” he asks Lena when they’re alone.

  Lena pulls at her chef whites.

  “Can we get these fitted?”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “We’ll try it.”

  “Yeah, we will,” Bronko says heavily. “You’re both on three months’ probation, after which a peer review will determine whether or not your employment contracts fully activate.”

  “Peer meaning who?” Darren asks.

  “The rest of the line.”

  “Dorsky,” Lena states flatly.

  Bronko nods.

  “Great.”

  “Just focus on the next couple of weeks, children,” Bronko advises them. “The first two weeks are the most important. You make it past that, the rest is clerical. Is ‘clerical’ the right word?”

  “You’re our executive chef,” Lena says flatly. “Even if it isn’t the right word it is the right word.”

  Bronko grins. “See that? You’re gonna do just fine. We’ll get you some fitted whites and make sure you sign your contracts before you leave today. All right?”

  “Yes, Chef.”

  Bronko looks to Darren.

  “Yes, Chef,” he says quickly.

  “Good.”

  Bronko turns and exits the room.

  “You look great,” Nikki says to Lena with a smile.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “No, but you will.”

  “How the hell did you make a jam out of rubies?”

  “Is that why you agreed to take the job?” Nikki asks her.

  Lena is hesitant. “Mostly.”

  “The money didn’t hurt?” Nikki asks knowingly.

  “It didn’t hurt, no.”

  GRANDDAD WAS A MEDICINE MAN

  Bronko tasks Jett with giving them a full tour of the facilities. When they first entered Sin du Jour as temps, Darren and Lena were only shown their own workspace. Even after their involvement in the ruse with the angel, Ramiel, whom they did not serve as planned to the Oexial and Vig’nerash demon clans at the banquet to celebrate a treaty between the two.

  “One of you has already learned this the hard way,” Bronko tells them with a hard eye on Darren before relinquishing them to Jett’s care, “but this can be a dangerous place to go a-wandering. Best you start familiarizing yourselves with it now.”

  They soon realize Sin du Jour is more like four separate buildings mashed together around a large courtyard. And the way the complex connects from wing to wing doesn’t meet any standard of architectural common sense.

  “I didn’t realize this place was so big,” Darren marvels.

  “The façade is fairly recent,” Jett explains. “The rest of the brick structures are all prewar.”

  “What were they before Sin du Jour moved in?” Lena asks.

  Jett halts briefly.

  “As far as I know Sin du Jour has always been here,” she muses, more to herself than them. “But I . . . hmmmmmm . . .”

  She banishes whatever thoughts halted her feet with a shrug and leads on.

  “You’ll mostly stick to the main kitchen in the north wing. Sometimes if the event is big enough we’ll overflow into some of the satellite kitchens, but it’s rare.”

  She leads them past a massive vertical steel slab on rails. A thick chain lock tethers one side to the wall.

  Someone has painted across it, sloppily: “Alright Shamblers Let’s Get Shamblin’.”

  “Please forgive and ignore the graffiti,” Jett urges them, obviously annoyed. “The uneven hand would suggest Ryland, but he isn’t given to American pop culture references. My guess would be Moon.”

  She removes the lock with a large key kept on an elegant chain around her neck. Jett clamps two hands on the slab’s handle and, quite impressively for someone under five feet five inches tall and wearing Christian Louboutin heels, yanks what turns out to be a door aside with brute force and a yell.

  “There we go,” she says, smoothing her Chanel suit and smiling at them anew.

  Inside is what looks very much like a children’s playroom.

  A children’s playroom designed for zombies.

  The large space is filled with simple games, large toys, the clinking of heavy chains, and dozens upon dozens of the undead clad in Sin du Jour–logo work coveralls.

  They all appear docile enough from across the threshold. There’s some gentle moaning and groaning, but most of them appear content to kick at or gnaw on large rubber balls and stuffed animals.

  “This is my staff’s employee lounge,” Jett explains brightly. “Never, under any circumstance, open or otherwise tamper with this door. And needless to say, do not enter. Are there any questions?”

  “This is pretty fucked up,” Lena bluntly states.

  The comment doesn’t even faze Jett. “That’s not precisely a question, but in response I’d point out that they all died in unrelated accidents, most of them in Los Angeles. Their families continue to receive what equates to each of their salaries as ‘insurance’ payouts. They possess no self-awareness we’ve been able to measure via technological or mystical means. They’re meat with a trace amount of instinct reverberation, which makes them suited to event planning.”

  Neither Lena nor Darren can muster a retort.

  In fact, Lena’s not sure Darren heard of any of that, as shell-shocked as he appears.

  “Moving on.” Jett slams the door home and relocks it.<
br />
  She leads them onward.

  “Now, in addition to the other chefs, my event planning staff, and the stocking and receiving department, whom you’ve met, we also employ several practitioners of the more metaphysical arts and sciences. You know Boosha, of course.”

  “Yeah,” Lena says. “What is she, exactly?”

  “Eccentric,” Jett answers immediately and without further explanation. “But she’s the most knowledgeable member of the staff when it comes to arcane and otherworldly cuisines. I’ll introduce you to Ryland Phelan, our resident alchemist, at the end of the tour, but for now . . .”

  She leads them to a suite of offices in what Lena thinks is the west wing of the complex, but she’s not even close to certain by this point.

  The offices are clean, well appointed, and decorated largely with Navajo folk art, including several shallow boards filled with raked sand that seem less like decoration and more haphazardly strewn about several points in the suite. Most of it is thematically consistent, with the exception of a dominating Ke$ha poster on the wall above the empty reception desk.

  It’s the second most distracting feature of the suite, with the first being the ancient-looking individual napping on a leather sofa as they enter. He’s got two small buds twisted into each ear, connected to an iPod on his stomach.

  Lena recognizes the old Native American man from the kitchen, immediately after the episode with the creature from the pantry that took Ritter’s arm off. He was chanting around a large spill of flour with designs drawn in it on the floor of the kitchen, beside a much younger woman.

  He looks exactly the way a twenty-three-year-old who has only seen Navajos in movies would expect him to look: faded jeans, scuffed and worn cowboy boots, a jacket made from elk’s hide, and a shocking mane of white hair.

  “Mister White Horse?” Jett ventures softly.

  “No ‘mister,’ little lady,” the old man says without opening his eyes or removing the earbuds. “I’ve told you that before.”

  “Yes, sir. I just wanted to introduce Lena Tarr and Darren Vargas. They’re our new chefs.”

  “Charmed.”

  White Horse rolls over on the sofa, away from them.

  Darren and Lena look at Jett.

  She continues to smile with all the poise in the world.