Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (4 page)

Barring Gunther’s flesh, that is.

But again, that didn’t bear thinking about.

Now before them sat a glass of goblin cider. If he drank it no other cider would be enough ever again. Disappointment would be frequent and yet the temptation of goblin fruits pulled at him. The desire to have the best in the world, even just one time, was one of the very personality traits that had attracted Keith to cooking in the first place.

And somehow, even though his suspicion about food had grown to what could rightfully be called paranoia since he’d joined NIAD, alcohol remained the chink in his armor—especially when he’d just had other alcohol.    

Temptation won.

Keith asked, “Mind if I try your cider?”

“Not at all. It’s really good, but I’m not much of a hard cider man.” Gunther slid the pint over. Keith wondered if the taste of goblin fruits actually affected goblins.

As he suspected, the cider was amazing. Better than amazing. A feeling very much like orgasm zinged over his tongue, electrifying every taste bud with tangy, juicy sweetness. He laughed for no reason. Tears had filled his eyes. He closed his eyes and gave an involuntary groan of pleasure.

“If I’d known you were going to like it that much I’d have brought one with me to the hotel,” Gunther remarked.

Keith opened his eyes to find Gunther gazing at him with the sort of openly homosexual public appreciation that Keith found nerve-wracking, even though he’d been out since he was twenty. Reluctantly, almost involuntarily, Keith found himself returning Gunther’s smile.

Chapter Three

The Portland Saturday Market was part beer garden and part DIY art fair. Rows of white, eight-by-eight tent canopies inhabited Ankeny Plaza—a brick-paved space in Waterfront Park on the bank of the Willamette River.

Gunther walked with a spring in his step. His black trench coat was draped across one arm in the fine, sunny morning.

Since Keith and Gunther had parted the previous evening, conflicting thoughts and feelings had been twisting through Keith’s brain like a dough hook working relentlessly at a fifty-pound batch.

On the one hand, he wanted Gunther. That had never changed. On the other hand, Gunther no longer wanted him. That had also not changed. And yet, the intractability of the situation did nothing to dissuade either of them from smiling at each other when they had met in the elevator that morning. Or from flirting mildly with each other in the car on the way over. Keith found himself admiring Gunther openly as he peered ahead at the market like a child approaching an amusement park.

“My parents used to bring me to this market every weekend,” Gunther said.

“You grew up in Portland?”

“No, Oakland. My parents still work as translators for the San Francisco field office, but there’s a portal at Fisherman’s Wharf. There were always a lot of other trans-goblin kids to play with here and my parents could visit with their fellow dissident diaspora. Usually people brought sandwiches. Sometimes potato salad. And every now and then one of the men would surreptitiously share his flask of naphtha.”

“Replace the naphtha with vodka and it would be exactly like going to a picnic at my grandma’s church,” Keith said, smiling.

“I’ve never been to a church picnic, but there was a feeling of community here that we didn’t always have in Oakland. Coming to the earthly realm was quite the sacrifice for my parents.”

Keith glanced at Gunther sideways. “How do you mean?”

“Well, to make a decision to leave behind the shape of a Luminous One and condemn their only child to wearing the flesh of a homely little human, of course. I retain some goblin characteristics, but there’s really no chance of me finding a nice goblin boy to settle down with while I’ve got this meaty body.” Gunther shook his head. “Just too unappealing.”

“So that’s what you’re looking for? A nice trans-goblin boy?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Keith regretted them. Why was he showing all his cards and behaving like he had no game whatsoever?

Gunther stopped, standing as if affixed to the green grass by tent pegs, regarding Keith with a slight, sardonic smile.

“I thought you said you wanted to keep it professional between us,” he said.

“You’re right. That was cheap of me,” Keith conceded. “Let’s just get to work.”

Like many places used for congregation by the extra-human American community, the goblin markets were linked through a series of portals. One could walk into a portal in Portland, step through a door, and emerge in Brooklyn or London or Mexico City. In Keith’s experience, in markets that were open to the human public, like this one, the portals were generally disguised as out-of-order toilet stalls. Any human brave enough to open the stall door would be treated to an illusion so unappealing as to dissuade casual entry.

Keith knew some Irregular agents who were so comfortable with magic that they used goblin market portals to avoid airline security lines when traveling between the coasts. But being neither a magician nor a mythical creature, Keith had never felt too secure with that sort of travel.

As they walked across the damp grass toward the rows of small, white pavilions, they passed a line of blue portable toilet stalls. Two displayed signs expressing that they were out of order.

Keith put on his glasses and noted, with interest, that Gunther did as well. Immediately hidden text all around him was revealed. One port-o-let was marked Fisherman’s Wharf while another read Grand Goblin
.

Hidden signage on stalls sprang into view as well. One table, selling handcrafted glass, advertised that their product was fair trade—made by elves who received a decent living wage.

“What do elves consider a living wage?” Keith whispered to Gunther.

Gunther just shrugged. “Their own pair of pants?”

They moved through the rows of canopies. Keith followed Gunther’s lead, stopping when he stopped, simply listening as his fellow agent softly inquired about the weather and other knuckle-poppingly irrelevant subjects.

Gunther bought a basket of Rainier cherries from a girl named Agnes, then stood there, munching them in front of her, chatting about rain and the phases of the moon and gardening. Just when Keith thought that Gunther had given up investigating altogether he noticed Agnes’s bike—or more specifically, the Carnivore Circus sticker adhered to it. Even without the glasses he’d have been able to see it.

Agnes seemed to know and have an opinion about everyone in the city.

“If you need some help with your garden, I can put you in touch with some gnomes,” she told Gunther. “They’re really great guys and work for peanuts.”

Keith’s patience thinned.

“Look, we aren’t here looking for discount day labor. We need to know where to find meat.” Keith flipped out his wallet, flashing his badge. “You know what I’m talking about.”

Agnes’s lip curled. Her silver septum piercing glinted. “I know what you mean, and I think it’s disgusting. You agents are all the same. You think we goblins all just waiting around to become cannibals.”

“Hey now, that’s not true—” Gunther began.

“You’re worst of all—standing there with juice from my produce on your lips while taking
the man’s
coin to continue the unfair profiling of your own people.”

Vendors in the booths around them started to take notice. The lanky man selling recycled sweaters in the stall next door drifted over. Keith suppressed the urge to reach for his mage pistol. It would only escalate the situation. Besides, Gunther didn’t seem ruffled. He munched cherry after cherry, an affable smile on his face. Keith guessed that he was accustomed to dealing with this sort of aggressive reaction.

“We’re not here to bother you, miss. I’m sure nobody here has anything to do with the murders that have taken place in the last year,” Gunther said. “But we have to check up on every possible lead, you see? We need to speak with everyone who might have heard something about these crimes. Sometimes people aren’t even aware that they know important information.”

“But why come here first? Why not ask the bloodsuckers? They eat people all the time,” Agnes said.

“We will be following multiple lines of inquiry,” Keith said. Then following Gunther’s lead, even though it went against his personal grain, he said, “I apologize for being abrupt earlier, miss. But three people are dead. Butchered right down to their bones. Imagine what that must be like for their families to see when they come to claim the bodies.”

“But it’s not goblins,” she insisted.

“How do you know for sure?” Gunther cocked his head slightly. “Have you heard anything about the murders? Anything at all, gossip or speculation? People talking in bars?”

“Have you ever seen this before?” Keith pulled the Theater of Blood Carnivore Circus flyer out of his pocket, unfolded it, and showed it to her.

“Never,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Gunther asked.

Agnes clamped her mouth shut and shook her head. She covered her face with her hands and said again, “It’s not goblins. It can’t be goblins.”

“You have a Carnivore Circus bumper sticker on your bike, miss. Now I’m going to ask you again: what do you know about this flyer?” Keith persisted.

“Nothing,” she said, from behind her hands.

Guilty
, Keith thought.
Or at least not entirely innocent
. She knew something. Keith wondered how hard it would be to drag her to the Irregulars field office.

“The Carnivore Circus isn’t involved,” the lanky man suddenly said. “We’re just a band, that’s all.”

Keith’s attention snapped immediately to the lanky man. “I take it that you’re in this band?”

“Yeah, I play bass.”

“And your name is?” Gunther flipped out his notebook.

“Lancelot Paddington, but my band name is The Lancer.”

Agnes laid a hand on his arm. “You shouldn’t talk to them without a lawyer.”

Lancelot shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

“So tell us about your band,” Gunther said.

“We’re a three-piece metal band. All goblin. Our influences include The Stooges and Three Inches of Blood. We’ve got an EP out right now. Last week we made a date to talk with a local label—”

Keith cut him off, “Tell us about why someone would think your band has to do with these murders.”

“This flyer,” Lancelot pointed at the grimy paper, “it’s for two different acts. The first one was Theater of Blood. They sucked.”

“Sucked blood?” Gunther prompted.

“No,” Lancelot said. “They drank it out of these cheap plastic goblets that looked like they came from the dollar store. They had no style, couldn’t wear makeup, and didn’t know how to play.”

“Do you know what kind of blood it was?” Gunther glanced up from his notes.

“They said it was human.”

“Why didn’t you report this to our agency?” Keith asked.

“They were humans. All of them,” Lancelot said. “And they were such poseurs I figured that they had to be lying about the blood. I thought they were trying to impress us because we eat raw meat in our act. A lot of guys get intimidated by that. They think they have to be more macho than us.”

Gunther’s eyebrows shot up. “You eat live meat on stage?”

“No, nothing like that.” Lancelot backpedaled. “We just get really hungry when we’re shredding and sometimes snack.”

“So you eat raw but not live meat?” Keith clarified.

“Right. Beef mostly. Sometimes, if it’s a really big venue, we eat goat because the bones look more, like, human.”

“Don’t tell them that,” Agnes said.

“No, it’s okay, Aggie. The first time we did it—ate raw meat, I mean—it was just what we brought for lunch. We were in the green room at a club snacking on frozen hamburger patties and chewing butts between sets and the bartender came back and caught us. We claimed to be from Ethiopia.”

Keith wondered how that had gone over. Lancelot was white as vanilla ice milk.

“Ethiopia…Nice one,” Gunther murmured, a hint of a smile curving his lips.

“Yeah, the bartender—his name is Jordan—Jordan said that he liked our sound but our stage show was boring. It was his idea to incorporate eating raw meat into the act because it would seem hardcore. He came up with the new name too. He’s a good guy. He works at Lulu’s Flapjack Shack. See Spartacus over there? The guy with the cider? Jordan is his first cousin.”

“Yes, we’ve met Mr. Greenbacks,” Keith said sourly. “So he came up with your new name?”

“Carnivore Circus. Before that we were called Grand Coulee Mayhem Tennis Project,” Lancelot said sheepishly. “I guess I was drunk when I came up with that.”

“So did Jordan set up the gig with Theater of Blood?” Keith asked.

“No, that was our manager, Milton. I can give you his phone number only…” Lancelot shot a sideways glance at Agnes. She was on the phone with someone. Perhaps Jordan, but most likely a lawyer.

“Only…” Gunther prompted.

“Milton doesn’t know we’re trans-goblins and I’m worried that if he found out your guys would put some forgetting mojo on him and then he’d forget he’s supposed to be getting us a record deal.”