Page 8 of Magic Forsaken
“What is it, Hugh?” She didn’t even turn around, so I wasn’t sure how she knew who it was. Did dryads have telepathy? Seemed like something I should know.
“I believe you have acquired an assistant,” Hugh answered, in a voice of distaste that suggested he would rather acquire a nasty head cold.
The dryad still didn’t turn around. “Nachos for bar eight, hummus platter for table seventeen.”
I gaped at her back for a moment. “I’m sorry?”
“I’ll have the cheese tray for twenty-three in half a minute. The salmon dip for thirty-seven will be late, but that’s because I tripped over that infernal creature and dropped the first batch.”
Here she finally shot a look over her shoulder at Hugh, who drew himself up and glared in evident offense.
“Chicken is not acreature,” he spat. “He is a highly intelligent representative of his species who happens to enjoy the taste and smell of fish. He cannot be blamed for responding to such stimuli when he is hungry.”
“Then I’ll blameyoufor letting him anywhere near the kitchen in the first place,” Irene bit out, her large, dark eyesnarrowing in dislike. “Now both of you get out, and take these plates with you!”
With that, she shoved an enormous plate full of chips topped with cheese, beef, jalapeños, tomatoes, sour cream, and guacamole into my hands, followed by a platter of cut veggies and crackers with a bowl of creamy hummus in the middle.
The smell almost made me stop to wipe the drool off my face—I hadn’t eaten anything but pre-packaged food in weeks—and that wasn’t even my biggest problem.
I was still wearing my hat and my flannel shirt and I had zero idea where I was expected to go.
But I also wasn’t about to fail on my first day. Maybe this was a test to see how I responded under pressure. Maybe Faris was watching to see whether I planned to stab anyone.
For the record, the gargoyle was currently the leading candidate.
But thankfully, I had plenty of experience making things up as I went.
Setting the plates down on the stainless steel table that dominated the center of the kitchen space, I whipped off my hat and flannel shirt and hung them on a hook beside the door. At the nearest sink, I washed my hands quickly but thoroughly, then I picked up the plates again and moved resolutely towards the other door. Not the one I’d come in through, but the one that probably led out into the main area of the nightclub.
My hands, of course, were full, so I pushed through it with my hip and stopped dead as I took it all in.
There was the bar to my right. The stage further down the room. The tables and booths just as I remembered them.
But instead of a quiet space defined by polished wood and brass, the smell of spirits, and the spill of daylight through the top of the front windows, it was now a seething ocean of noise and chaos.
Idrians of every size and shape filled the room, some of them shoulder to shoulder at the bar, others twisting and bouncing on the dance floor in time with the pulsing rhythm of a pixie band. Lights flashed in odd patterns, laughter rose and fell, and after I sucked in a single breath, every muscle in my body froze in alarm.
Oh crap. Not now. But it was too late for regrets. The sound seemed to take the form of a giant hand that squeezed my chest until my breath came in short gulps. My hands trembled. The plates wobbled…
“Whoa there. Are you okay?” The shaggy-haired shapeshifter behind the bar paused in his mixing to look at me with evident concern.
“I’m fine,” I gritted out, shooting him a fake smile as I fought for control. I was not going to let this win. Not today. “Just tell me what Irene meant by bar eight and table seventeen.”
Seamus’ right eyebrow shot up. “She just shoved you out here and told you to wait tables?”
“That seems to be accurate, yes.” I grimaced. “To be fair, she never turned around, so I’m not even sure she knew who she was barking orders at.”
The bartender began muttering what I was fairly certain were curses under his breath. “Tables are numbered starting at the kitchen door, bar seats the same way. Booths are tens, tables are twenties. The high tops at the front are thirties, left to right. Most of what we serve are appetizers for the table, so we’ll worry about seat numbers later.”
I could remember that. “Thanks, Seamus.” I managed to relax enough muscles to offer him a friendly, confident smile, though the confidence part was ninety percent bluffing.
He looked a little startled—probably because I’d remembered his name—but shot me an approving nod. “Don’t worry if you make a mistake. Most folks are pretty easygoing.”
And truthfully, they were, for the most part. I delivered both food and drinks, rubbed shoulders with shapeshifters, pixies, goblins, a naiad, and a few that I was pretty sure were elementals. And generally, they ignored me. I was glared at a few times for mixing up orders, nearly had my head taken off by a troll dancing a little too enthusiastically, but I managed. I was even pleasantly surprised when several of them handed me generous tips.
All told, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when Irene shoved a giant platter of sandwiches into my hands. “This one’s for the card room,” she said, with a significant glance that seemed to convey some sort of need for caution. “Get drink orders while you’re in there.”
Taking orders was something I hadn’t tried yet, but why the heck not? I’d faked my way through so far, so I pretended to be completely unintimidated by the request. “Sure thing. Uh… which one is the card room?”