by Matt Wallace
Lena is the first one to emerge, laughing at something that was said a moment before.
Dorsky is behind her.
They both stop short, taking in the sight of Ritter naked, painted from head to toe, and panting heavily.
“Whoa,” is all Lena manages.
Dorsky is slightly more articulate. “Holy shit, man.”
Darren, James, and the other line cooks, along with White Horse and Little Dove, begin filing out behind them.
“Are y’all okay?” Bronko calls to them from across the pavement.
“Yeah, Chef,” Dorsky says. “Everyone’s whole. The medicine man and Dances in Halter Top there magicked them back to normal.”
“Fuck you, Dorsky,” Little Dove says.
Lena backhands him in the chest for good measure.
“Sorry,” he says, but he’s grinning down at Lena.
And she’s grinning back.
Ritter watches them, and the sudden connection between them would be apparent to even the least keen observer of the human condition.
He’s suddenly very aware he’s naked.
“Okay, then,” Bronko says. “Lill, I need you and your grandfather to come with me to my trunk. Jett is still in need of your ministrations.”
“This is all overtime, you know,” White Horse says.
“Pop! Just . . . come on.”
The cooks all step aside so White Horse and Little Dove can pass by.
As they do, Lena walks up to Ritter.
“Um . . . is everything okay out here?”
Ritter rests his hands on his hips and nods casually. “Yeah. We figured you’d handle the situation. This was just . . . you know, a backup plan. Just in case.”
“You look like someone rolled Silly Putty over the Necronomicon,” Dorsky says.
Ritter gives him the finger without looking at him.
His expression remains unchanged.
Lena just nods. “Well. Thanks. Just the same.”
“I guess I still owe you one.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” Lena says. Then, with the briefest of glances downward, “A big one.”
That wipes the grin off of Dorsky’s face.
IT’S ALL ABOUT THE AFTERMATH PARTY
“Dear friends and new kin, I give you Prince Marek and Princess Bianca!” the goblin king announces.
The crowd gathered in the wreckage of the reception area, goblin and human alike, cheers raucously.
On stage, Marek and Bianca wave their battered, chipped, and green-blood-smeared cake toppers like ceremonial halberds.
Nikki can’t believe how the evening is ending.
She was certain they’d be furious, particularly the king and queen. She was certain the goblin attendees would demand answers, would demand all of the Sin du Jour employees’ heads for the near-death-or-at-least-near-reptile-humping experience they were all made to face tonight.
Instead the star of the latest blockbuster superhero movie turns to her, spectacularly drunk and with half his tuxedo stripped away, and joyously yells in her ear, “This is the craziest fuckin’ party I’ve been to since Nicholson spiked everyone’s Cristal with vintage biker acid last year!”
He’s hardly alone.
None of them seem to mind.
If anything, they’re impressed with the heights of mayhem and depravity the wedding attained.
They may be the hierarchy of the goblin world, Nikki realizes, but they’re still mostly Hollywood people.
And Hollywood people are severely fucked up.
She has to laugh.
The humans were another matter when most of them took back possession of their sense. They were all sore, and most of them were appalled and angry. Fortunately Jett showed up, looking like hell but clad in a crisp new Chanel suit and ever the determined professional. She had new party attire for the bride and groom, and a mixture from Boosha that not only salved the sex-worn bits of the offended, but drastically improved their moods.
Most of the ones who were complaining the loudest are now swaying arm in arm with the goblin celebrities as they all capitulate before the royal family.
The goblin king motions deftly and the uniformed cast of the CW’s newest hit show, What’s a Ghoul to Do, wheels out a gleaming antique grand piano.
The king sits gracefully at the ivory and ebony keys, speaking into a microphone attached to the unspeakably gorgeous instrument.
“Bianca, my dear,” he begins in the sage voice generations of artistic music lovers have worshipped. “Tonight you met adversity and threat with absolute poise and steel. Tonight you truly were the goblin princess. You stood beside your prince and fought for your people. And my son, my prince, my heir, tonight you showed, not that you may rule, but that you may lead. You will both one day be a king and queen whom people may not only revere, but in whom they can take pride.”
There isn’t a thinking creature alive that could listen to those words in that voice spoken by that man and disagree.
No one in the library does.
The king moves seamlessly into the opening strains of one of his most iconic love songs.
Nikki actually forgets that she just battled a legion of horny snake monsters from atop a two-story wedding cake.
After the song is over, everyone applauds, standing, and the newly married couple make their way offstage and find her in the crowd.
“I know this sounds strange, considering, but thank you so much for everything,” Marek says to her.
“The queen hugged me,” Bianca whispers in Nikki’s ear. “She actually hugged me and called me her daughter! Can you even? Can you?”
Nikki doesn’t know what to say to any of that, so she just smiles and nods and hugs the princess tightly.
“Congratulations,” she says to them both.
The newlyweds take to the dance floor with the rest of the assemblage.
“Hey, Nik.”
It’s Pacific.
“What’s up?”
“All the new servers quit. I think one of them did some mouth stuff with a snake dude while the others watched and none of them can deal with it now.”
“Wow. Okay. Well, it’s not like that doesn’t happen all the time, Pac. At least none of them died.”
“You’re a bright-side kind of chick, and I dig that about you,” Pacific says amiably.
“Thank you.”
Nikki continues watching Marek and Bianca dance. She takes in the merriment of the drunk goblins and the doped-up humans.
She remembers what she told Lena about working for Sin du Jour.
“Wonders,” Nikki whispers to herself.
The party goes until dawn.
A century later they’ll still be telling the story of Marek and Bianca’s wedding.
It will be considered the epitome of goblin celebration.
EPILOGUE: GENTLE REMINDERS
“Seriously, it’s all good, boss man,” Jett’s voice assures him over Bronko’s phone. “I still can’t believe it myself, but this will probably be the event they put on my tombstone. And not to condemn me, either.”
“That’s something, then. Thanks, Jett. No one soldiers like you soldier, kid.”
Bronko ends the call and slips the phone into his pocket, continuing up the halls of Sin du Jour.
He just wants fifteen minutes and a stiff drink before he returns to helping his crew put the place back together again.
When Bronko opens the door to his office Allensworth is sitting behind Bronko’s desk, spinning in his chair like a little kid attending take-your-child-to-work day.
It’s a far more whimsical sight than Bronko would ever associate with the straight-up-and-down government spook.
He’s not quite sure what to make of it.
Allensworth stops spinning.
He smiles gently up at Bronko.
“Good evening, Byron.”
Allensworth has never once referred to him as “Bronko,” and if he were to start it would probably make the executive chef ha
te his lifelong nickname.
“The chairs in your office don’t spin?” Bronko asks.
Allensworth laughs. “They don’t, in fact. They don’t. Forgive me. I’ve been waiting a goodly while. I became bored.”
Bronko stands across the desk and folds his arms.
“That sounds like the life to me.”
Allensworth nods. “I suppose it does after the events of the day. My, what an absolute classically Mongolian clusterfuck that wedding was.”
“These things happen.”
“They’ve been happening quite a bit lately, haven’t they?”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“Oh, Byron,” Allensworth chastises him, rising from the chair and moving slowly around the desk. “You don’t honestly think we’re unaware of your ruse with the seraphim, do you?”
It’s been a long time since Bronko’s poker face has been tested to this degree.
He’ll never know how well it held up.
Allensworth faces him, only inches away.
His smile is unwavering.
“Your sentimentality is understandable, even admirable, but it was horribly misplaced. Still and all, there was no real harm done. But this latest incident . . . beyond the embarrassment it has caused my department, me personally, and Sin du Jour, it posed a very serious threat to our security. All of our security.”
“We contained it.”
“It was contained. I wouldn’t necessarily say ‘we’ contained it.”
“You locked my people in here and left them to die. I’m of a mind to be awful upset about that. How about we both let things go and move forward?”
Allensworth shakes his head. “I answer to more than myself, Byron. Vastly more. Now, I’m uncertain what if anything has changed around here, or if perhaps you’ve changed—”
“I’m doing the job I was hired to do.”
“And you always do. Excellently. I simply want to ensure that that continues, and that the events of our recent Oexial parlay and royal wedding do not become a trend.”
“Consider yourself assured, then.”
“I appreciate that, Byron. I do. However, I am a staunch believer in motivation. Proper motivation.”
Bronko’s jaw locks immediately and his heart begins racing.
“I think you’d be served by a gentle reminder, Byron. Of your contract. Of your obligations. Of the penalties for failing either.”
Bronko is already shaking his head before Allensworth has finished speaking.
“Look, we don’t need to do this—”
He never sees Allensworth move, nor does Bronko feel the blade until it has pierced the large portal vein in his abdomen. Even then it feels like nothing more than a severe cramp. The pain causes him to double over slightly and look down at Allensworth’s hand wrapped around the nondescript hilt of a dagger, most of which has disappeared inside Bronko’s stomach.
When he looks up the expression on Allensworth’s face hasn’t changed. His smile is easy and friendly, his eyes utterly unperturbed.
It’s as if his face is completely disconnected from the actions of the rest of his body.
Allensworth expertly slips the blade free of Bronko’s body cavity.
The blood flow is torrential.
The strength leaves Bronko’s legs. Everything below his waist feels cold, a cold that quickly spreads throughout the rest of him.
As he slumps to his office floor, Allensworth turns to the desk and takes up a random piece of paper, sandwiching the thin, double-edged blade in his hand between it and wiping it clean.
Allensworth delicately crumples the stained piece of paper and drops it into the nearest wastebasket.
The dagger disappears back under his pressed jogging jacket.
Bronko is lying on his side now. His instinct is to apply pressure to the bleeding with his hands, but both of his arms refuse to obey his commands.
It’s almost impossible for him to keep his eyes open.
He is, however, able to watch Allensworth’s sneaker-clad feet as he quietly exits the office, humming a tune Bronko can’t really hear.
He closes the door behind him.
The world seems to be made of blood now.
It’s everywhere, on Bronko and surrounding him, filling his vision.
He doesn’t know it, but he has fifteen seconds to live.
Fifteen seconds is an eternity to those who trade in magic.
It’s plenty of time for any one of the dozens of loyal employees of Sin du Jour to stumble into Bronko’s office and find him slouching to death’s door.
It’s more than enough time for them to summon the magic to save him, or summon a coworker who can do the same.
Unfortunately none of these things happen.
No one comes.
Fifteen seconds pass in a few ragged, terrified breaths.
Bronko dies.
Bonus Story
Small Wars
This story first appeared on Tor.com in January 2016
Now—Cardiff Airport, Wales
“And what do you do in America?” the customs agent asks Ritter, staring at the nondescript man’s passport.
“I’m a steward. I work for a catering company in New York City.”
“Is that like a host, then?”
“No.”
The customs agent looks up from the official document and stares at him. There’s nothing aggressive or short in Ritter’s tone, but his passivity, something wholly and comfortably removed, is somehow always more disconcerting for people.
“I’m head of stocking and receiving. You could say I keep the cupboards full,” Ritter explains just as passively.
Recognition that’s really little more than a scant point of reference widens the custom agent’s eyes.
“Ah, I see. And are you here on vacation, then?”
“No. Business.”
“Right. Well, if you’re planning on returning with any of our local fruit and veg or the like you know you’ll have to declare it.”
“I’m not here for either. No worries.”
“All right, then.” Ritter’s passport is returned. “Welcome to Wales, Mister Thane.”
“Thank you.”
Ritter stashes his passport and picks up his aging rucksack.
Within two hours of arriving in Wales, Cindy O’Brien is convinced the Welsh language has been conceived solely as a practical joke played on tourists.
“They’re making that shit up as they go along,” she insists. “There’s nothing even vaguely consistent about a single motherfucking word I’ve heard said or written on a sign so far. And that includes every word spoken in English.”
There are five of them in the rented Ford Transit cargo van: Ritter and the three other members of Sin du Jour Catering & Events’ stocking and receiving department, and the freelance alchemist who has joined them for this particular assignment.
Ritter is behind the wheel. Moon, diminutive and poorly groomed and perpetually clad in a dirty T-shirt representing some bit of cultural arcana (today it’s a Turkish soccer team) is riding shotgun. This was agreed upon by the others less because he called it and more to convince him to stop calling it every time they crossed a new time zone.
Cindy sits behind him, earbuds firmly in place as she attempts to finish the audiobook of Toni Morrison reading her essays that she was unable to finish on the plane due to a constant stream of disruptions around her.
Ryland Phelan, the rumpled-from-head-to-toe Irishman seated next to her both on the plane and in the van now, caused most of those disruptions.
Utterly filling the final row of seats behind them is Hara, the mountainous fourth member of Ritter’s team and the eternal stoic.
Ryland drunkenly cranes his neck to focus on Cindy in the loosest possible way. “That presupposes the Welsh are in possession of something recognizable to the civilized world as a sense of humor. I can’t imagine a more dangerous assumption.”
“Don’t even get me start
ed with you again, Jesus of Nazawrecked,” she warns him.
“What?” He seems genuinely confused. “What have I done?”
Cindy yanks her earbuds out. “Are you kidding me? Are you so wasted you don’t remember being drawn down on by a damn air marshal midflight?”
Ryland’s red eyes widen. “Was that who that irate gentleman was? Well, that makes much more sense, then.”
After having his beverage service cut off less than two hours after takeoff, Ryland began requesting cups of water and changing them into white wine.
The only reason they weren’t all detained upon arrival was because, when confronted, the air marshal couldn’t find any hidden supply of alcohol or a corresponding empty vessel.
“Did we have to bring him?” Cindy asks Ritter. “He couldn’t have just given you instructions and some of his funky stones?”
“Growing gold from bare rock is a little advanced for me, Cin,” Ritter informs her.
Ryland is genuinely offended. “I would expect more than a cheap rebuke such as that from a fellow countryman . . . person . . . thing. You know.”
“I am none of that.”
“You may not possess my rustic brogue, but ‘O’Brien’ speaks of Irish ancestry.”
“Black Irish,” Moon adds with his typical lack of taste, sensitivity, or actual knowledge.
Cindy thrusts the flat of her palm into the back of his head hard enough that he has to shake off the blow afterward.
“That’s not even what ‘black Irish’ means, you little shit.”
“She hit me again,” Moon complains to Ritter.
“You deserved it again.”
“Children,” Cindy curses them under her breath, replacing her earbuds. “All of you. Fucking children.”
2011—Las Vegas, Nevada
The ballroom of The Pirate’s Doubloon Hotel and Casino, miles from the Strip.
Home to countless cold-roast-beef-and-string-bean Shriners convention dinners, arts and crafts expos, and wedding receptions bereft of a single tuxedo.
A vinyl banner that was printed at FedEx Kinko’s proclaims the event to be “Hot Zones 3rd Annual International Combat Knife-Fighting Tournament” in a discontinued Windows font. About two hundred people are in attendance for the popular so-called “mercenary” magazine’s keystone yearly event. The walls are lined with merchandising tables crewed by knife dealers, survivalists handing out pamphlets ranging from useful to paranoid to batshit, and several companies hocking paintball warrior weekends and related “experiences.”
