“Yeah,” Gunther said, smiling. “I do.”
The Most Important Meal of the Day
The morning of the apocalypse had started off so well.
Special Agent Keith Curry of NIAD had risen, showered and gotten as far as peeling his standard-issue hard-boiled egg before the first tremors of the looming cataclysm rocked through the city.
Keith had not always been such an austere breakfaster. Before joining NIAD, he had worked as a chef. Back in those days he’d started every Sunday morning with Hangtown fry and a Bloody Mary. Now he preferred the simplicity of the six-minute egg. For one thing, it fit easily into his pocket, which helped to facilitate caloric intake during frequent unexpected callouts.
Like many of the nonmagical residents of Washington, DC, he’d initially mistaken the shock waves that formed when one of the thin membranes between the human and extra-human realm of existence ruptured for some kind of earthquake or sonic boom. Maybe it had been a bomb or gas line explosion.
But unlike most of the other nonmagical humans in DC, Keith worked for NIAD—Earth’s premier supernatural intelligence and security service. Because of this the tremor gave him pause. Certainly a sulfurous smell permeated in the air, which he’d initially attributed to the indeterminate age of the egg. But now, with the eye-watering potency of the stench, he began to wonder about its origin.
Keith’s ruminations were interrupted by the sight of his live-in lover, confidante and general companion, Gunther, rushing into the kitchen from his shower, soaking wet, naked and talking on his phone.
“Yes, sir. I’ve got it,” Gunther said. “I’ll be ready in five.”
Gunther cut a compelling figure—a fine specimen of humanity, tall, dark-haired and rippling with sinewy muscle. But that was only on the outside. Gunther’s parents had both been goblin refugees working in NIAD’s San Francisco office. And so that their child would fit in better among the humans, Gunther had been transmogrified in utero to outwardly resemble a human.
But the humanity only went skin deep. Gunther not only possessed the great strength of all his fae brethren, he retained certain other goblin tastes as well, such as a palate that included appreciation for the taste of naphtha.
Keith had met Gunther through NIAD when Gunther’s strike team had been called to assist on one of Keith’s cases. Doubtless, Gunther’s team leader, Haakon, was the voice now on other end of the phone giving Gunther the specifics on some supernatural situation that would naturally preclude a good breakfast for either of them.
Normally Keith would have made some pithy comment about the lost breakfast or at least teased Gunther about insisting on showering with a phone. But Gunther’s expression showed no softness or even awareness of Keith’s bathrobe-clad presence. He disconnected, went to the hall closet, pulled out a heavy duffel bag and plunked it down on the kitchen table.
“What’s going on?” Keith asked.
“I’ve been deployed.” Gunther unzipped the bag to reveal several hard cases that Keith knew from previous experience (and snooping) contained Gunther’s weapons. As Keith watched, Gunther uncased his automatic mage rifle, two conventional pistols and a goblin-forged short sword.
It was the sword that worried Keith most.
“Are you leaving the earthly realm?”
“No, I’m going about five blocks away,” Gunther said. His blue eyes flashed up at Keith. “It’s bad. Maybe the end-time.”
“And you’re still naked,” Keith said. “You realize that, right?”
Gunther looked down at himself, said, “Darn it,” and headed for the bedroom.
Alarm zinged through Keith’s guts, but he followed Gunther up the stairs at a leisurely pace, egg in one hand, coffee cup in the other. Gunther was already half dressed by the time Keith entered their bedroom.
He downed the egg in two bites, then went around to his side of the bed and found his NIAD-issue spectacles. These lenses had been designed for humans like him, who needed to be able to see extra-human creatures and events that were invisible to the human population. As soon as he did this, he noticed a strange red light filtering in through the sheer curtain that hung over the north-facing window.
Pulling this aside, he could not help but note that the clear blue sky had been rent down the center, leaving a gaping tear like a massive claw had ripped through a canvas. Beyond this he saw what appeared to be bloody flesh punctuated with dozens of blood-red eyeballs the size of oceangoing freighters. These glared down at the city with the insane twitchiness of a schizophrenic on methamphetamine.
To say he wasn’t scared would be a lie. He was quite scared—so scared it took him a couple of seconds to be able to move. But Keith was not surprised. While he hadn’t expect to see the hideous, Lovecraftian assemblage of flesh and giant eyes, it didn’t fall outside the realm of possibility in his personal reality, which, in a way, was more terrifying—but not necessarily a shock.
When he could move again he took a drink of coffee and said, “Does your deployment have anything to do with the perforation of realities revealing a nightmarish hellscape hanging in the sky?”
“Haakon is sending me to get Jax.” Gunther started strapping on his body armor. “He only lives a few blocks from here.”
“Who in hell is Jax?”
“He’s the most powerful warlock on Earth.” Gunther cinched the buckle of his sword belt. “Or that’s what Haakon says, anyway.”
“And Haakon is sending you alone?” Keith didn’t like Gunther’s commander. The dark-elf alpha-bro of the NIAD DC strike force rubbed him the wrong way—sometimes literally in the form of abrupt, unprovoked noogies.
“Like I said, I’m closest.” Gunther shouldered into his scabbard. Then he turned, kissed Keith hard and said, “You should stay inside. Some creatures have come through the rift.”
Keith drained the last of his coffee. “I’m coming with you. Don’t even fight me on it.”
Gunther seemed like he might do just that, then he broke into a smile. “You better get dressed then.”
Outside, the streets outside were full of screaming. First the terrified shrieks of DC residents being pursued by slavering, sharp-toothed hellhounds, then the wailing of every conceivable siren, and last the desolate howls of a thousand madmen that seemed to be emanating from the rift itself. A choking stink like foul breath poured out as well.
Viewed through the treated lenses of his NIAD-issue spectacles, the DC street came alive with magic. From the tangles of leprechaun graffiti scrawled across the stoops of well-kempt row houses to the squadron of air force witches broomsticking toward the rift, the unseen was revealed to him. One in twenty citizens who rushed down the sidewalk sported a glamour that hid their true forms.
Keith even spotted a unicorn barreling down the center of the street, nostrils flared and eyes rolling in fear of the vile gaze hanging in the sky.
Glancing up, Keith’s heart skipped a beat as he saw massive tendrils of red mist beginning to curl down from the rift like the tentacles of poison anemones. They seemed to be searching the buildings, pushing into the windows.
Further screaming seemed to be the result of this ceaseless probing.
“Do we even know what that thing is?” Keith shouted above the noise. To his left he saw a movement and trained his mage pistol on it, but it turned out to be a regular dog cowering by a set of trash cans. A leash hung slack from the dog’s neck. It still had what looked like the owner’s hand attached to the guiding end, but Keith saw no trace of the rest of the person in sight.
“Haakon said it was a vision made flesh,” Gunther shouted as he dodged a mutilated corpse on the sidewalk. Keith picked his way more gingerly through the blood, noting the guy had two hands, which meant he hadn’t been the owner of the dog.
Not that that mattered. Groceries lay strewn around the man’s body. A dozen eggs lay crushed and oozing yellow yolk into the sanguine rivulets that followed the sidewalk cracks down the curb and into the gutter.
“Whose v
ision is this? Some crazy mage?”
“Nobody knows,” Gunther replied.
“And what’s this Jax supposed to do?”
“Fix it. That’s what NIAD pays him for.” Gunther came up short at the end of a block and motioned Keith to stillness. He gripped his sword in both hands as he carefully peered around the corner.
Instantly a snarling hellhound leaped at him. Gunther kicked the beast in the chest and brought his sword down, slicing the creature in two lengthwise. Blood sprayed up in a fine mist that coated them both in rank-smelling gore. A second beast lunged for Gunther’s leg, but Keith dropped it with his mage pistol. He and Gunther sidled past it as it writhed on the concrete, caged by tendrils of magic.
“Jax’s place is at the end of the block.” Gunther motioned Keith to follow.
The street was deserted but as they approached a row house Keith saw another body on the sidewalk. Oddly, this person—a middle-aged woman—also seemed to have been carrying groceries when mauled. Her eggs had survived, though her head and one hand seemed to have been carried off.
Gunther took the stairs two at a time and, to Keith’s shock, rang the doorbell.
“It’s open,” a voice called from inside.
As Gunther opened the door, the network of silvery spells laced across the open doorway practically blinded him, forcing him to push his NIAD-issue spectacles up to be able to see anything at all.
Keith followed Gunther into the darkened foyer. As he stepped across the threshold, the sonic assault from the sky stopped, as did the vile stench. The smell of stale sneakers replaced the odor of the rift. As his eyes adjusted, Keith could see why. The floor of the foyer was strewn with shoes, jackets and other miscellaneous clothing. Farther down the hall he could see a crumpled pile of what looked like sweatpants.
Again the voice sounded—a male voice. “The kitchen is at the end of that hall. I’ll be in the living room when it’s ready.”
Keith crept down the hallway and peered through the doorway into a darkened, disheveled room containing an armchair, a couch and a massive television set.
The room also contained a man. Handsome as a supermodel, and clad in green boxers and a single sock, Jax sprawled across the armchair as if he were an illustration for ennui. Keith had seen a lot of illusions and disguises of this sort—most magical creatures could make themselves look good. At the risk of blinding himself again, he lowered the specs and snuck a peek through. Jax’s form shimmered with magical writing, but Keith could see that Jax’s true appearance was merely average.
He appeared to be around twenty-five years old and fairly greasy. His expression was torpid as he watched the television, which was tuned to some cartoon Keith didn’t recognize.
“We’ve come from NIAD.” Keith flashed his ID, which Jax didn’t turn to look at. “We need your help. There’s a rupture between the planes—”
“I know, the council of mages already called me. It was right as I was trying to order my groceries,” Jax said. “Actually, I called the store twice, but they never arrived.”
“I think that might be because of the monsters and whatnot.” Keith tried to keep his voice calm.
“Whose fault is that? Not mine. Some undiscovered mage kid gets a Ouija board and opens up a realm of bloodletting and sorrow and suddenly I don’t get breakfast? They told me that not having blintzes is not the end of the world.” Jax gave a snort. “But I say, maybe it is.”
Keith stood, momentarily torn between horror and homicidal rage.
Gunther stepped forward. He’d sheathed his sword and actually bowed as he spoke. “Great Warlock Jax, the creatures coming through the rift are terrorizing the city. We don’t have any time to waste. Lives are being lost every second.”
“Right, I get that.” Jax finally rolled his head around to look at them. “But it’s almost ten a.m. I don’t want to miss out on brunch because of this. I am really, really hungry.”
This time Keith was not torn.
“You fucking spoiled little asshole,” he bellowed, fully invoking the volume capacity he’d acquired during his previous career as a chef. “It’s an apocalypse.”
Jax rolled his eyes. “That’s what you people always say. Then I help you but after that I’m sitting here with an empty stomach while everybody else is drinking mimosas and having a great time.”
Keith strode to the window and pulled the drapes aside.
“Look out there.” As they watched, a misty red tendril drooped down and slid in one of the windows of the house opposite. For a moment the tendril oozed and undulated, then an explosion of blood and body parts shot out, littering the streets with quivering chunks of flesh. “Do you see anybody drinking a mimosa?”
“I bet somebody is,” Jax replied, unperturbed. Then something caught his eye. He leaned forward and pointed to where the middle-aged woman’s body lay. “Hey, those are my groceries. Can you go grab them for me?”
Keith’s middle fingers stiffened, prepared to fully salute Jax, but Gunther stepped in and said, “Of course.”
Before Keith could tell him no, Gunther had started for the door. Keith caught up with him in the hallway.
“Me being here is not a coincidence, is it?” he asked.
Gunther managed a sheepish half smile. “Haakon had orders for you to do the brunch, but I thought if I told you that, you’d get mad and argue and we’d lose time we didn’t have to waste ’cause the sky was full of giant bleeding eyeballs. You’re the real agent they called for. I’m only your bodyguard.”
“You know me so well,” Keith remarked. He didn’t know whether to be annoyed or flattered that he’d been the real agent dispatched to this breakfast crisis.
“I know,” Gunther said, beaming. “Anyway, I’ve got to go get the groceries.”
“You can’t go out there,” Keith said, catching him by the arm. “The mist will kill you.”
“It’s our mission,” Gunther said. “I’ll get the stuff. You go find the kitchen. All we have to do is get this guy fed and everything will be all right again.” He pulled Keith to him and kissed him—this time softly—then said, “I’ll be careful.”
Then Gunther rushed out the door. He leaped down all eight stairs on the stoop and scooped up one bag.
The red mist seemed to notice Gunther then. It shivered, contracted and began to withdraw from the building to drift toward him. Gunther snatched up the second bag and stared up, but the egg carton still sat on the sidewalk.
Keith couldn’t make blintzes without them.
Heart in his throat, Keith pelted down the stairs past Gunther. The misty tendril undulated toward him and he slid beneath it like a baseball player stealing home plate. As it passed by, distorted whispers filled his ears, striking cold terror down to his bones. He had to clench his teeth together to keep from screaming. He grabbed the egg carton and crawled beneath the deadly tendril, then scrambled up the stairs into the safely of Jax’s foyer.
His hands shook as he stood, trying to gasp in a calming breath.
Gunther slammed the door, breathing hard, then started to pull Keith into an embrace.
Keith held up a warning hand. “Don’t crush the eggs. They’re all that stands between us and Armageddon.”
As he heard the sound of Jax laughing at whatever cartoon he was watching, Keith’s resolve solidified. NIAD needed some blintzes made and Keith was the best man for it. He might not be great with a sword, but right now what the agency needed was a whisk and a guy with the expertise to make breakfast for the laziest motherfucker on Earth.
He pushed past Gunther and made it to the cramped, galley-style kitchen. Though it was dark and poorly equipped, Keith found the items he needed—a bowl, a nonstick skillet and a fork that would have to do for a whisk. As Keith cracked the eggs and measured the milk, Gunther stood in the doorway watching uneasily.
Through the small kitchen window, Keith watched a tendril of red mist waving back and forth like the tail of an angry cat. He wondered how long Jax’s magic co
uld hold out before an entire—what had he called it—realm of bloodletting and sorrow—managed to break through the defensive barrier.
Keith set the batter aside, turned on the oven to preheat and went to make the cheese filling. The plastic container of ricotta cheese was smeared with blood and had two puncture marks on one side that looked like they’d been made by fangs.
Normally, Keith would have shied away from serving anything that had clearly been impaled on the canines of a ravening hellhound, but he decided that, on the whole, a little extra-planar dog spit could not possibly hurt the most powerful warlock on Earth.
With the slightly pinkish filling made, Keith stood back, crossed his arms and waited.
“Is something wrong?” Gunther asked from the doorway.
“That’s a loaded question,” Keith replied.
“You stopped cooking.” Gunther’s face crumpled into a confused scowl.
“No I haven’t. The batter just needs to rest for thirty minutes,” Keith said. Through the tiny window outside, Keith watched the building behind them collapse. Though he heard no sound, he felt the ground rumble as the falling structure impacted the ground.
“Can’t you just hurry it up?” Gunther whispered—really more of a hiss.
“The crepes won’t set if I don’t let the batter rest.”
“Are you kidding me?” Gunther cast a wild glance out the window.
“No joke.” Keith was about to explain about how resting the batter helped to develop the gluten in the flour, but Gunther’s phone rang. While Gunther whispered down the phone about mimosas and hellhounds Keith turned his attention back to the window.
Now that the building behind them was gone he could see that most of the city was engulfed in flames, which seemed odd, considering that he could still hear the sound of cartoons floating from the living room. Was Jax watching a recording? If so, why had he kept the commercials?
More than that, the preheating light on the stove was on, which he felt it shouldn’t be, given their circumstances. As Gunther continued his intense conversation, Keith studied the edge of Jax’s property. It seemed he could see a distortion there, like a ripple in an old glass window.
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