“Drake, right?” Cole said, extending a hand. Drake met Cole’s hand, and the two men shook. “Well I’ll get out of your hair. Some of the merlot tonight?” he asked Ree.
“Not tonight. Diet cola all the way.” Ree turned to Drake. “Crack fries and a deep-dish?” The adventurer nodded.
“Your taste has not led me astray . . . save for that one unfortunate occurrence with the Taqueria.”
Ree whispered, “That was not my fault. How was I supposed to know that the ground beef was still haunted after we banished the ghost?”
Drake matched her smile, mixed with a grimace of remembrance.
“Hot tea?”
Drake nodded, the grimace fading.
Cole slid by the pair of them and left them alone in the office.
Cole’s office was narrow, and only barely deeper than it was wide, with haphazardly filed paperwork threatening to cause an avalanche of papercuts at any moment. Ree shimmied deeper into the room and pulled a second folding chair out from a closet, leaving the first one for Drake.
“So now we can talk shop and not freak the diners.”
Drake pulled off his duster and hung it from a hook on the inside of the office door.
“Very well, then. What sort of shopping must needs done for our task to be complete?”
Ree shook her head, leaning back in the chair, watching to not go so far she hit her head on the other side of the office. “Not till I’ve appeased the fiend.”
Drake looked around. “Fiend?”
Ree pointed at herself. “I need some caffeine before I fall over.”
Drake chuffed in amusement. “Very well. Shall I regale you with adventures from the farthest reaches of Faerie, speak of my latest invention, or leave you to meditate upon the consequences of chemical addiction?”
Ree put a finger to her mouth. “Shh. Adrenaline has faded, and there’s nothing to replace it. I need zen time until the go-juice arrives.”
And so, they waited, Drake with his hands folded in his lap, Ree with her head back and eyes closed.
Chapter Eighteen
Deep-Dish Plotting
The titular Grognard of Grognard’s Games and Grog is notoriously gruff, reputed to still be carrying grudges from before Chainmail was a gleam in Gygax’s eye. If you ever find yourself on his bad side, your best options are appeasement and abjection. If you can distract him with something rare and shiny, you might get away with your head.
Some visitors claim to have heard strange voices at closing time, but this writer cannot confirm or deny the accusation that they belong to patrons who have crossed Grognard.
—Not For Mundanes: Pearson, 2012
The soda brought Ree her second wind (or third, or fourth, whichever it was), and the crack fries followed shortly after. Cole wouldn’t share exactly what went into the marvels, but it included red pepper flakes, parsley, Parmesan cheese, and garlic, with an aioli dipping sauce to mute the spiciness, which would still build from fry to fry until Ree had to take a break and just drink soda for a few minutes while Drake continued to munch down in an familiarly-male fashion.
“I must find a way to properly thank the proprietor for this culinary marvel. Do you think he would care to have his ovens upgraded?” Drake asked as he sipped on his tea. Avalon may not have been Britain, but to see Drake drink tea, it might as well be.
“I don’t think the health inspectors would like it, even if Cole would think it was awesome. Even with the Doubt, the inspectors are likely get twitchy about a souped-up oven powered by magic steam power.”
“It is only fit to call my work magic because the physics of this world are . . . limited. I cannot be blamed for your plane’s shortcomings, can I?”
Ree saluted Drake with her glass. “Not at all.” Ree reached down her shirt and pulled out the notepaper. She set it down on the table between them, next to the fries.
She took a pair of fries, dipped them in the aioli, then started munching as she scanned the paper. “First, we need to get signed head shots of these stars, all the women who have held the mantle of America’s Sweetheart back through the early days of cinema. But that’s just the base, like the stock of the spell. The real firepower comes from the mirror, which is going to be harder to find. MacKenzie gave very specific requirements.” She licked her fingers, then counted out the details of the spell. “I need to check in with Yancy and Jane, they might be able to rustle up the head shots and point us at the mirror.” Ree stopped. “This is assuming that you want to keep on with this. I know you have other stuff you could be doing, other people . . .” she said, trailing off as her stomach twisted.
Drake blushed a bit, but sat straight. “I am certain Ms. Tharakan will understand. You are, after all, her friend. Even if you have chosen to keep the details of your new calling from her.”
“That’s a whole different conversation,” Ree said, waving the thought away. “But I’m happier with the backup. Either before or right after checking in with Team Show Biz, I need to face the music at Grognard’s, and I’d love to have you backing me up.”
Drake nodded, munching on some fries. He finished swallowing and took a sip of tea before responding, ever the gentleman even with food-slicked fingers. “But of course.”
There was a knock at the door, and Cole ducked his head in with a deep-dish pizza and several plates.
“Here you go,” he said, moving the fries to set the pie down between the pair. “Ree, there should be clean silverware in a bin . . .”
Ree reached to her left and pulled out two rolled napkins with flatware. “Got it.”
Cole nodded and said, “Got to get back to the crowd. Bon appétit.”
Ree cut the pie with the knife from her flatware, sawing through the deep-dish crust. She folded the melting strings of cheese back onto the slice as she served it to Drake, who waited with the reverence of a devout man receiving communion. Then she cut herself a slice and only barely let the plate hit the desk before she carved off the tip and took a bite.
The crust was the perfect combination of fluffy and crunchy. This pie had sausage patties, feta cheese, and slices of Roma tomatoes, along with Cole’s traditional blend of cheeses and Parmesean-topped sauce.
The two of them spent a few minutes communing with the pizza gods, all conversation forgotten. But Ree continued to think as she ate, wracking her memory to see if Eastwood might have any of the bits they needed, whether she wanted to deal with his random moods to get it, and exactly how deep of shit she was in with Jane, Drake, and Priya. Even if the thing with Jane was just lightning in a bottle, every extra step Drake took with Priya made it more likely she’d have to tell her friend that 1) she knew Drake and that 2) they’d come about this close to . . . something. Probably. Maybe . . . if she was reading Drake right, which she was only half-confident about in the first place.
Romance confusing. Pizza tasty, Ree decided in her Buffy “Beer Bad” voice, and took another bite.
“How are things with Priya?” Ree asked before she knew what she was doing.
Drake coughed on a bite of pizza, though she doubted it was the food that had caught him by surprise.
“Never mind, it’s none of my business,” Ree said, letting Drake off of the hook.
Drake’s voice was hurried. “She is your friend, as am I. You were only being polite.”
“Which is pretty damned out of character for me,” Ree admitted.
Her partner in crime grinned. “Let the record state that it was not I who said such a thing.”
Ree carved out another piece of pizza. “So noted. While I’m at it . . .” Ree offered Drake a slice, which he accepted, meeting offered food with his plate. Ree cut herself another slice and started carving it up, noting that Drake had opted not to actually answer her inquiry. Thank the gods.
“I can call the folks on the set now, and then we can start pounding t
he pavement. Sound good?”
Drake considered with bobs of his head, then affected an additionally concerned voice. “But it is only in our best interests to be properly fueled for this endeavor. For preparation’s sake, I suggest we be sure to fill our stomachs and souls.”
“Just don’t fill it too much. A third slice of Cole’s deep-dish is almost always a bad idea, unless we need to serve as our own ballast for your shiny FAA violation.”
“Which acronym is that again?” Drake asked as he carved his pizza with short, efficient movements.
“Federal Aviation Administration. The people who would slap you with a bajillion dollars in fines if they knew you were zooming around the town with an unlicensed helicopter.”
Drake smiled. “Ah, them. I have every confidence that they will continue to know as little about me and my device as ever, as long as I am tidy about putting the saucer out on the full moon.”
Ree toasted Drake’s presumptive Faerie helpers and then set about finishing her dinner. Ree boxed up leftovers and counted out some bills, her food budget much less taxed thanks to craft services and Jane’s sugar-mama-ing.
• • •
The cell signal in the alley behind Turbo’s was pretty anemic, but she didn’t want to press her luck with the Doubt by talking out on the street. Drake stood a courteous ten steps away, seeing to his weapons and gadgets, with the carryout box at his feet by the collapsed aerothopter.
She tried Jane first. No reason in having to ask Yancy about her.
The star picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello, darling.”
“Hey. This is a business call, sad to say. I have the ritual for the countercurse, but the shopping list is pretty specialized. Think you and Yancy could pull some strings?”
Jane’s voice raised a register and a dozen decibels. “Fantastic! Thank you, thank you, Ree! Finally, finally this will all be over.” Ree heard the creaking thud, which she took to be someone jumping up and down in a trailer. A second later, Jane spoke again, her voice calmed. “I’m sure we can put everything together. I still have a few markers to call in. Well, two. But Yancy’s credit line runs deep, even after taking care of my . . . rough spots.”
“Awesome. Got a pen?”
Jane laughed. “I memorize soliloquies for breakfast, hon. Lay it on me.”
Ree rattled off the list and related the details of the ritual. Jane hmmed and uh-huhed through the list, then inhaled slowly when Ree mentioned the mirror.
“That one is going to be a bit harder. Those are in high demand, especially with people trying to replicate the success of The Artist.” Jane pronounced the capitals, which Ree logged as specifying the film rather than the generic term.
“Any leads? I’m already racking up a nice rap sheet, might as well add to it.”
Jane cut in as soon as Ree finished the line. “What did you do this time?”
“Impersonating a chef, impersonating a high-class hooker, getting your dress messy, four charges of assault, intimidation, resisting arrest, and jumping out of a ten-story building. The last one isn’t a crime, but it was about as stupid.”
Jane sighed in what Ree took as amusement. “I love how you classify mussing my dress as being worth mentioning in that list. I told you to take it.”
“Still. The dress was the bomb. Even looked good on my stick figure.”
“Hardly. I prefer to think of it as a runner’s physique.”
Ree shook out her legs. “Tell that to my calves. I had to climb up two stories in a vent. I think there’s more lactic acid in my veins than blood.”
Ree looked to Drake, who stood at the ready, fiddling with a gauge on one of his still-unexplained gadgets. “So, yeah, any hints on the mirror?”
“Nothing yet, but I’ll check with Yancy. When we find something, we can get it overnighted.”
“Or we could skip town to avoid the crazy smoke assassin and do everything from L.A.?” Ree said, totally not just looking for an all-expenses-paid trip to SoCal. Not at all. Nor was she certain that running would actually do anything to deter the smoke-monster, since it seemed part and parcel of the curse.
“Nice try. You’ll need Yancy and me for the ritual, and we can’t leave the production without word getting out.”
Ree smiled into the phone. “Even with your incredible mojo?”
“I thought you wanted me not to use my magic until the curse was lifted?” Jane said with a tone of gotcha.
Drake continued to fidget as Ree talked. “Touché. I’m going to hit up one of my suppliers. Drop me a line when you know more about the shopping list?”
“Of course. Will you be out tonight?” Jane said, the follow-up question implied.
“Almost certainly. But I’ll be in touch soon. We’ll put this to bed soon.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Jane said with a hint of wicked in her voice.
“Good night, everybody!” Ree said at an inside-voice-shout, then hung up.
Ree slipped her phone back into her jacket, then looked to Drake.
“One more ball in the air. Now it’s time to face the Female-Fronted Metal.” Which was all Grognard would listen to: Nightwish, Within Temptation, Lacuna Coil, etc. That and the Canonical Soundtracks of Geekdom™.
Drake nodded, adjusting the strap on his rifle. “It is only right that we take responsibility, as I wager that those light-fearing beasts are unlikely to carry insurance or appear in a court of law.”
Ree laughed, clapping Drake on the shoulder as she led the way to the street.
• • •
Grognard’s was moderately busy, with a noisy six-person game of Vampire: The Eternal Struggle (half of the players using Jyhad cards) running in the bar and a four-thousand-point Warhammer 40K tournament that, judging by the accumulation of empty bottles of Mountain Dew and discarded bags of chips, had been raging since sometime last night.
Ree slinked in as best she could, but no one entered Grognard’s without him knowing it. Ree didn’t know if it was actual magic or if the man just knew the shop like it was part of his own body.
Either way, as soon as the door closed, she saw Grognard lock her in his gaze, then nod back into the office.
There was no mistaking the gesture.
Ree turned to Drake and said, “I hope you’ve put your affairs in order. I’m sure Priya will say something nice at our funeral. Something with imagery,” she added, happy to steal a line from Firefly whenever possible.
The odd couple walked past Grognard into the office. The owner nodded to someone in the bar, then closed the door.
Then, because sometimes Grognard was a cruel bastard, he waited. He stood inside the door, arms crossed, beer-stained black sleeveless shirt showing oft-sunburned shoulders with faded tattoos.
And then, he waited some more. Ree fidgeted in the chair, her mind running through possible rhetorical frameworks of out-chewing that Grognard might use:
There was the I’m very dissapointed style that her dad broke out when she’d been an idiot, or maybe he’d stick to a simple You’re fired. He might even go for a more The Office–style extensive litany of her failures, or maybe a mobster-esque speech about how he treated her like family. And somewhere in there, she had to try to ask for help getting materials for the ritual. Good luck with that, she thought.
Grognard put Ree out of her misery. “So. You’re not dead, which is good. But my cart is ruined, along with a keg’s worth of brew. That is bad. So why don’t you run the story by me again to make sure I wasn’t misreading your note.” He spoke in a tone that made it very clear he knew he wasn’t misreading.
Ree started with Drake and her leaving the Market, then talked through the entire run-and-gun encounter, with Drake piping in to add his side of the story.
When the story was over, Drake added, “I may not be able to pay for the damages immediately
, but you have my word I will do everything within my power to settle this debt.”
Grognard pulled a bottle of Bärenjäger out from behind a shelf that she had thought was just full of paperwork, then took a long drag.
“Well, that little escapade cost me several thousand dollars and six months’ worth of ritual time.” Grognard paused for a second. “But you’re both alive, which is the important part.”
Tension drained from Ree’s shoulders and back like someone had let out the air. She exhaled and relaxed.
“Because if you were dead, you couldn’t work off the losses. Three thousand each, by my estimation.” Feeling like an anime heroine, Ree face-faulted.
Grognard chuckled. “You’ve got that big-time screenwriter money now, right? So you can afford to work off your debt for me for the rest of the year.”
Drake cut in. “I would be happy to compensate you with goods or services.”
The big man then turned to Drake. “I’ll take both. There are always too many dishes on weekend nights and during tournaments. And when your hands dry out from looking like a California Raisins reunion cruise, you can help me design the new cart. I’ve got some ideas that will make sure dumb shit like this never happens again.”
Grognard stopped and looked at each of them in turn. “Get it?”
Drake nodded, and Ree said, “Got it.”
“Good.” Grognard opened the door back to the bar. “You can start now.”
Drake took off his coat and rolled up his sleeves, looking back at the mountain of dishes and glasses cresting out of the sink like the Great Pacific Garbage Patch.
Ree waved to Drake and grabbed the serving apron from the locker that Grognard had allotted her, leaving her jacket behind. She had a million and one better things to do, but if she didn’t at least make an effort to mollify Grognard, she could kiss her flexible-hours-with-a-clued-in-boss job goodbye, and that sweet screenwriter money was a one-hit wonder unless the show got picked up to series.
So she put on her stolid server face and made the rounds, taking arcane cocktail orders from the V:TES players and delivering pitchers of beer and fresh pint glasses to he 40K-ers, watching as Greg swooped down from the high ground with a fleet of Ork Bikes to cut a swath through the advancing Tyranid horde.
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