Demon's Quest (High Demon Series #4)

by Connie Suttle

  Clothing was also a necessity—fall was approaching quickly and Targis was cold from the beginning of the ninth month, running through the end of the year and into the fourth month of the next. I used up even more of my credit chip for that, and all this before I even interviewed for the position. It didn't matter, I could support myself for a short while if necessary off my hoarded credit chips. It would mean I could hunt Ra'Ak scum indiscriminately.

  * * *

  "Yes, we're still interviewing." I spoke via comp-vid with the restaurant manager. It surprised me that it was called Dee's—that's what Teeg had called his assistant. It didn't matter—Teeg and his assistant were on Campiaa, if they weren't hunting the Strands. I'd done some research when I reached Targis—the Strands were still on the loose. "I have time this afternoon if you'd like to come in," the voice continued.

  "I'll be there," I agreed. I'd never gone through a formal interview before—people had tasted my cooking and that was that.

  * * *

  "It won't bother you to be an Eight-Day cook?" The man identified himself as Wroth, the business manager for the restaurant. Owned by a corporation, he'd said. I didn't ask him to explain.

  "No, that leaves me time to pursue other interests," I said. "My last job was nearly round the clock, the demand was so great. This will allow me to do other things. Hobbies and such. I'll do research. Perhaps write a little." I didn't say it would be information on my investigation; he didn't need to know that.

  "Will you cook something now? I was too busy to have lunch earlier." Wroth wanted evidence of my skills, since most of the experience I'd listed was on non-Alliance worlds.

  "Do you have yaris fish?" I asked. I was hungry, too, and hadn't seen yaris fish in months. Wroth smiled.

  "You're hired," Wroth mumbled around his second bite. I was using one of my simpler aliases from my ASD tenure. Reah Silver was the name and ID I'd given. I was hoping that Lendill didn't have tendrils out, searching for hits on any of the false IDs he'd given me through the years.

  "Good. Do you have a preset menu or will it be left to me?" I asked.

  "Both—some items will be served every time, but you can offer up to three specials every Eight-Day. Send the information to me via comp-vid if you can't come in—I'll let you know if we can't get the meats or vegetables ahead of time. We have a very good buyer. Feel free to go out with her anytime, if you have something specific you want."

  "What's her name?"

  "Teira. Here's her code." Wroth handed a card with a number over.

  "All right. I'll contact her—I'm particular about the fish and beef," I said.

  "You'll be paid every second Eight-Day, and records and receipts are due at the same time. Silmor, the head cook, has a list of duties," Wroth handed over a comp-vid. "This is yours to keep your records on—make sure you communicate with Silmor on any issues that crop up or if repairs need to be made. He'll let you know if there are any problems with your work or your crew. You'll have two assistant cooks and six helpers, in addition to the waitstaff."

  "All right," I nodded, accepting the comp-vid. I'd not heard Silmor's name before and wondered where he was from.

  "Will you make yaris fish as a special on your first day? I'll come for that," Wroth smiled.

  "If you want. I'll ask Teira to buy it. Are oxberries available?" I asked.

  "I'll see." That question piqued Wroth's interest, I could tell. Eight-Day was two days away. I had plenty of prep work to do if I were to do my best for my new employer.

  * * *

  "We're worried that this will filter into the Alliance," Norian stood before the huge screen in the meeting room. Sixteen agents sat at tables, scanning the information gleaned from spotty records concerning the Bardelus child disappearances.

  "These monsters eat humanoids," Norian went on. "We currently have reports of child disappearances on sixteen Alliance worlds since these creatures disappeared from Bardelus. And we have it on good authority that these may be allied with Lersen Strand and his cousins, in addition to other criminals. What we need is intelligence gathered. Do not approach any of these yourselves; they will kill you easily. We have no weapons against them; we can only pass the information we receive on to others, who may be able to combat this threat. Now, let me repeat this—if you want to die, go ahead and attack them. Your death will be most swift, I assure you. While they appear to prefer the tender flesh of children, they are not above the occasional adult humanoid, tough skin and all."

  "What do they look like?" An agent raised her hand. Lok, sitting at a table in front of her, turned to see who'd asked. She didn't interest him—she was of medium height with light-brown hair. He preferred women from Falchan—warriors who could spar with him. Tall, black-haired and tattooed was his ideal. He turned around in his seat and stared at the image of a monster on the vid-screen.

  "They don't always look like this," Lendill Schaff stood and spoke, now. "They are shape-shifters of sorts, and can appear just as humanoid as anyone here. Some with sensitive noses can scent them, but we do not have that luxury among us. Search for evidence of missing children. We especially want information from witnesses who report seeing an extra child with those reported missing."

  "What? Are you suggesting that one of those things poses as a child to lure others away?"

  "It's possible," Norian said. "We must consider every possibility at this point, including one that they may be using a kidnapped child to do the same thing—as a lead-away."

  "That's sick," the female agent muttered. Lok felt the same, only he didn't voice his opinion aloud.

  "We expect all information to be funneled to us as quickly as possible," Lendill went on. "We will coordinate all of it here and send pertinent data back to you. We will be searching for similarities and differences in all cases. Meanwhile, if you discover that the perpetrators are local and humanoid, apprehend them and hand them over to local authorities. Make sure your ID chips are up to date, just in case."

  "Remember to keep yourself hidden from these creatures, they are capable of mindspeech with one another," Norian said as the agents rose from their seats. "What one knows, they all will know, including your names and your images. Safe journey."

  Lok lifted his leather jacket from the back of his chair—he'd been assigned to Tulgalan. Settling his comp-vid inside an inner pocket, he walked out behind the others.

  * * *

  Lendill told him it would be cold already, and destined to get colder when fall turned into winter in Targis. Lok pulled the collar of his jacket up—this one wasn't lined with his favorite sheepskin. He'd switch jackets as soon as he arrived at his apartment.

  "Your key chip." The clerk handed the chip over after verifying Lok's rental. Lok barely nodded to the man and went for the stairs instead of the elevator.

  In the four months since he'd worked for the ASD, he'd not found a single person to spar with. His training had been done on Toris, where most ASD agents received their basic instruction. ASD agents moved to Le-Ath Veronis after that, but Lok had come directly from basic training to an assignment. Lendill told him that he'd be moved to the vampire planet when this assignment was over. Lok huffed at the idea. Vampires. They actually existed.

  The furnished apartment was more cluttered than Lok liked. Too much of the frivolous, he decided, taking in the four-room residence. He had a kitchen, a sitting room, a bedroom and a bath, all paid for by the ASD. Tossing both bags onto the bed, he stared out the bedroom window at the city of Targis.

  * * *

  "Master Cook Silmor? This is Reah, the Eight-Day cook," I identified myself through my comp-vid. I could see his image, just as he could see mine.

  "What is it, Reah?" He sounded tired.

  "Is it possible to ask one of your helpers to put six scoops of rice to soak before they leave tonight? I want to make a rice noodle soup," I said. "If not, I can come down and do it before you close for the evening."

  "I'll get someone to do it for you," Silmor said. "Al
lee!" He shouted a name over his shoulder. I heard a faint reply. "Put six scoops of rice to soak," Silmor shouted again. Another faint reply. "It's done," he smiled slightly. "Anything else?"

  "No. Thank you, Master Cook Silmor," I said. He terminated the call from his end. He was older—more than a hundred, but had no gray in his reddish hair. He had a thin face and didn't appear to be overweight—from what I could see, anyway. He'd smiled—always a good sign. Perhaps we would get along, he and I.

  * * *

  We ran out of yaris fish before the dinner rush was over. Dee's was quickly gaining a reputation, even against Desh's and the Star Gazer. I would have to tell Teira to get more fish next time. The lamb dish was almost as popular, served in an herbed citrus sauce. And the rice noodle soup? Anyone who tasted it was telling everyone else at the table how good it was.

  My two assistant cooks were cousins—Oris and Danis. Both men, they looked to be related, with blond, dandelion fluff for hair, cut short, of course. Blue eyes and full lips that smiled—a lot—rounded out their features. Three helpers were female; three were male.

  "Cook Reah, there's a man out there, asking to speak with the cook!" One of the waitstaff—a young woman—rushed into the kitchen, her face glowing pink.

  "Does he have a complaint?" I asked, pulling off my apron. I wasn't dressed well enough, really, to go out in the dining area, but a customer was asking. I had to go. "Show me," I said, motioning for the girl to lead me to the proper table. I almost stopped dead, my breath catching in my throat, when I saw the man in question.

  Falchani. No doubt about it, with the inscrutable scowl that many of them wore. I had no idea if he wanted to complain or ask how a dish was prepared. His face might be quite handsome, if the scowl were removed. Thick, black hair hung down his back in the traditional braid, his black eyes staring as we approached. I thought to smooth my tunic and didn't—he was watching.

  "Sir, is there a problem?" I asked.

  "You prepared these noodles?"

  "Yes."

  "They're good. Who taught you how to make them?"

  "Someone named Flyer. On Falchan." I didn't want to lie to the man.

  "You learned from Flyer." His words were a statement, not a question.

  "You know him?" I asked.

  "I ate there more often than not," the man replied.

  "I'm glad you enjoyed the food," I nodded respectfully to him.

  "You could carry rice wine."

  "Sir, I'll ask if it might be available." The more I stared at him, the more I wanted to know him better. That was a first for me. Before, men always approached me. I didn't go to them. Ever. He had the blackest eyes, and I imagined if he ever smiled, it would be like the sun breaking through a cloud. I found myself wishing to see that. "Call ahead, next time, and I'll let you know if we were successful in obtaining rice wine."

  "Do you serve these noodles every day?"

  "No, I'm only the Eight-Day cook—I don't believe the regular staff knows how to prepare rice noodles."

  "Will you serve it next Eight-Day?"

  "This was a special, and those are expected to rotate," I said. "But if you call the day before, I can arrange to make the noodles for you."

  "Make the noodles. I'll come." I watched his face—he wasn't giving even a hint of emotion.

  I did something then that I'd never done before. Or will ever do again. "Perhaps—perhaps you'd like to have dinner with me sometime?" I was shocked by my forwardness.

  His eyes widened the barest fraction. "I prefer my women taller, with dark hair." My face burned immediately. Now I knew how young men felt, asking someone out for a first date.

  "Of course you do," I muttered. "Enjoy your meal." I turned and walked away with as much dignity as I could muster.

  Chapter 5

  I was never so glad to wipe off the last counter and get the last dish put away as I was that night. The waitress who'd taken me to the Falchani's table shot sympathetic glances in my direction now and then. I was glad when she turned in her count for the evening and left with the other waitstaff. Silmor had left a message for me, asking for a marinade to be put together for the steaks stored in one of the meat keepers. I put the marinade together and set the meat soaking in it, going over and over my embarrassment. Did I say I liked Falchani? Right then, I didn't.

  "Riding the bus?" Oris grinned.

  "No. I'll walk," I said. And I would. Right to the nearest dark and secluded spot. I'd skip to my cube from there. My temporary home was across town, in the lower middle-class portion of Targis. It was the best I could afford.

  "Be careful, then. We heard there are girls coming up missing. Three, just last week," Danis said. "And with you so, well, not tall," he wasn't sure if he were insulting me or not.

  "Don't worry. I should be fine," I reassured him. Three girls were missing? When had that happened? Of course, I'd been buried in meal planning and such, but that was no excuse. I'd have to be better than this.

  We set the alarm and locked up the restaurant, my assistants going one way while I went the other. I skipped as quickly as I could.

  Later, I sat with a cup of tea at my elbow while I read through the ASD records of the three missing girls. These girls hadn't been taken together—that was the only thing different. They'd disappeared on three consecutive days, too. Were the Ra'Ak attempting to steer us away from their trail by changing tactics? Hunching my shoulders and then relaxing them, I worked to get the kinks out. They ached. Not just from the work but from tension and embarrassment. My face went warm every time I thought about my invitation to the Falchani customer. I'd never do that again. Never. Ever.

  My eyes were almost closed when I pulled up information on fifteen other worlds, all having to do with child disappearances. All recent. "Fuck," I mumbled. I was too tired to keep looking. I had to sleep.

  * * *

  "Tell me why." Gavril sounded hurt. He had photographs in front of him, taken by Dee's restaurant buyer, Teira. All the photographs Dee handed to Gavril were of Reah. Dee owned all sorts of businesses, restaurants being one branch of them. Kifirin had come to him with this project, just as he'd come to him fifty years before, bringing Gavril to him to raise and teach.

  "Kifirin," Dee stated flatly. "So I built this. For her. He says not to go rushing in. She needs to settle and get comfortable. Make friends. I hired the best I could—ones who will treat her carefully. You'll get regular updates. Share these images with the others, with the same warning. Step back for now. We'll woo her. Slowly. Build her trust, if we can."

  "And did Kifirin say why we shouldn't go rushing in?"

  "He says that makes her run. So don't. Make offers, instead. Tell her that you'll be waiting, if she needs or wants anything. Or just to talk. She's renting one of those minuscule cubes on the eastern edge of Targis. You own a luxury apartment building on the west side, not far from the restaurant."

  "I do?"

  "You do, now. You can offer one of those apartments as a place to live. Rent free."

  "Of course rent free," Gavril growled. Dee recognized that growl. His Teeg was frustrated.

  "It's either this or go looking for her again," Dee said.

  * * *

  A thick, cream-colored envelope waited on my tiny kitchen table when I got back from doing my grocery shopping on First-Day. Worried, I opened it while placing perishables into the keeper.

  Dearest Reah, we know where you are. The first line of the letter made me draw a shaky breath. We will not push or demand—we realize now that this would be a mistake. There is no need to run; we will not approach you unless you wish it. All of us will be available if you need or want anything, including sitting down to talk. Wylend wants you to know that Garek worries that you misinterpreted his words—he only meant that you would be less of a target if someone wished to get to Wylend by harming you. He would never use you as a shield—he wishes to protect you instead. Lendill worries that you will not tell him if you need supplies or information such as he ca
n give. Torevik sends his love and his sincerest apologies. Aurelius sends his love, as do I. I also wish you to consider this—I own the Crown Apartments on the west side of Targis. It would please all of us if you'd consider moving into one of them—we would worry less if you would do so. Unit # 927 is available; all you have to do is ask the concierge for the keys. Your clothing and any other belongings we could gather are already there. We make no demands, Reah. The choices are yours to make.

  My love forever—Chash.

  I was weeping helplessly at the end. And later, when my face didn't look such a mess, I skipped to the west side of Targis, searching for the Crown Apartments.

  * * *

  "Your keys, lady." I thought the man was going to bow or something when he handed them over. He led me to the lift and rode up with me. Luxury? I'd be wallowing in it. Real estate was at a premium on Targis' west side. Addah lived in this part of town, now—I'd checked. The apartment had expensive tiles laid, with rich, handmade rugs, beautiful artwork, a sumptuous master suite with a huge bed, two more bedrooms and the kitchen of my dreams. The cabinets were already stocked with dishes, pots and pans. Exactly what I would buy for myself, if I could afford it. I wanted to weep again. I may have brushed away a tear or two while the concierge showed me through the place.

  "Will you be moving in right away?" he asked. I could only nod.

  * * *

  "You won't get the rent back," the clerk said when I turned in the keys to my cube later. It had taken two trips to get everything out of it.

  "I know." I walked away from him and my tiny cube with no regrets.

  My next surprise came when I went to put my clothing away in the new apartment—another envelope waited in a lingerie drawer.

  Reah, use this. It will be funded by all of us. Love, Chash. It was a credit chip, strung on a chain. And then, when I walked into the huge closet—it was as big as my cube, perhaps larger, even—there were notes attached to some of the clothing.