The Foreshadowing-Laden
Beginning
Tate
"Idon’t want to hearfrom any of you. At all, foranyreason. Do you understand? If everything in the freezers goes, figure out a new menu. Don’t call me. If the glassware comes together and conspires with it itself to simultaneously shatter, you all know where the brooms are. Start sweeping. Don’t call me. If the bleedin’ building catches on fire, call the fucking fire brigade and let me fend for myself. Donotcall me."
Cymbeline nodded with wide eyes, sitting up straight at attention, her hands clasped tightly in her lap with small fangs worrying her lower lip.At least someone was listening, he thought.It was unsurprising, for the mothwoman was always the first and quickest to take direction, always eager to please, to prove her worth. Seated directly behind was her diametric opposite. Elshona rolled her eyes dramatically at his words, and Tate felt the muscle behind his own eye jump; a tic that had gradually worsened over the last several weeks that he was certain made him look positively homicidal, which was truthful, in any case. The orc met his glower defiantly, pursing her lips, and his teeth slipped several centimeters in response.
The dining room beyond the service hallway hummed with voices despite the lateness of the season, and he could easily envision the hulking bodies within, testing the weight of his chairs, their giggling guests leaning over the tabletops to show off their best, barely covered assets. The resort’s bonfire party was planned for the following night, one that would spill over to parties within the commune in an orgiastic bacchanal — excellent news for his brunch business as the bleary-eyed tourists awoke beside suddenly sheepish orcs, all eager to display a measure of civility they’d forgotten the night before. It was the last resort event before the cold winds of late autumn blew in the year's first snowflakes, sending the tourists scuttling along with the last leaves clinging to the trees.
He ought to be there that weekend, ought to be present to oversee the last burst of business, to keep things humming smoothly at the bistro and prevent any unwary tourists from being overserved at the bar. Ought to be . . . but if he had to be on his feet for one more day, if he had to hear Cym’s non-stop chatter or ‘Shona’s sullen barbs, if he had to drag himself up the Pixie’s back staircase at the end of the night stinking of stout and sweat and orcone morebleedin’ night, he’d likely burn down the entire town, regardless of the weekend’s profitability.Burn it down and spit in the ashes.The time of year was contributing to his mood, a fact he knew all too well, to the thrumming in his veins and the hint of fiddles and drums that teased at his ear; an irritability that itched beneath his skin and the desire to hit something or someone until they were nothing but messy pulp beneath his fist . . . but he hadn’t had a proper day off in nearly two months, a fact his back reminded him of with every step. The only thing he wanted to do that weekend was crawl directly into his bed and perhaps die.
"I don’t want to hear your chirping wee voices or see your precious fucking faces. Do you understand? If I have to see any of your faces atanypoint in the next seventy-two hours, I’m cutting them off."
Thessa grinned at his completely sincere words, and Elshona’s head dropped back, throwing her hands in the air. "Will you just hurry up and go then? No one told you to be here every fucking moment of the day, Tate. You chose that all on your own."
He watched Cymbeline open her mouth, raising a long, velvety finger in protest — clearly wanting to remind Elshona of the server who’d abruptly quit mid-shift the previous month and the part-time hostess who’d hidden her pregnancy so effectively that she’d gone into labor in the small employee break room only two weeks after the server had quit, splashing the tiles in a gush of liquid he’d been unfortunate enough to witness as he paced in the next shift change, bile rising in his throat as he left the girl with her shrieking coworker, locking himself into his office to stare in dismay at his no longer relevant schedule — but Cym’s words never drew breath, her eyes darting between the air beside her head and Tate, wanting to speak, but not wanting to talk out of turn.
"Let’s see if you can manage to actually stay away for more than twenty-four fecking hours," Elshona plowed on, undeterred. "My money’s on ‘no.’ You’ll be back by tomorrow night to rewrite a schedule that doesn’t need to be meddled with or to clean the bar, or whatever other shite excuse you’ll come up with. Gohome, Tate. Better still, why don’t you go straight to the hospital and have them put you in traction, because I’m not sure how you’re even bloody standing at this point. When they tell you your back is broken, I’ll visit with some bleedin’ ‘I told you so’ flowers. Or just fuck off home. Take a whole heap of drugs all weekend and pretend you’re fine. Butleaveis the fucking point. We’re as tired of hearing you as you are of us."
His eye jumped, muscles spasming just beneath the skin, and his fingers twitched, desperately wanting to fasten around the orc’s neck and squeeze for all he was worth, but settled on clenching into fists. "D’you remember that one time, ‘Shona — and I know it can be hard because we’ve shared so many memories together over the years — but do you remember that one time when we were together, it happened about three and half minutes ago, when I said I didn’t want to hear your fucking voice?"
Somewhere on the dining room floor, the crash of broken glass shattered through the voices of patrons, and his eye fluttered again, threatening to bulge from its socket.
"It’s fine, I’ve got it," Cym leapt to her feet, wings folding gracefully at her back, pausing in her exit to wrap his wrist in a velutinous grip. "Pleasego home and get some rest. It’ll be fine, and we’ll see you next week!" The mothwoman straightened her skirt, forced her painted lips into a bright smile, and pushed out the door in a flutter of pink and green and the sweet smell of lilacs, leaving Thessa still sitting before him, Elshona having made good her escape the moment his attention was pulled by the crash.
"You know it pains me to the core to agree with Elshona about literally anything," the tiefling began, pushing to her feet and retying the black apron which swung slack around her neck, "but maybe she’s right. You probablydoneed to see a doctor. But seriously, go home. Now. Who cares if we’re short-handed? Big fucking deal, it’s the last weekend of the season." She shrugged, her numerous piercings catching the overhead light, gesturing to the dining room floor beyond the hallway. "What are they gonna do if ticket times are slow, not come back next week when the resort shuts down and they don’t have any other options? It’s not like any of them know how to fend for themselves. Go. Cym and I have everything under control. I’m closing up tonight, she’s on tomorrow. Everything will be spick and span when you come back on Monday, and you should come in late anyway. We’re just going to be inventorying, I can do that in my sleep."
It was a busy night, the last busy Friday of the season, and he’d absolutely be leaving them short-handed . . . but the lure of his bed was too great. "Fine then, I’m cracking off . . . push that veal, I don’t know why she ordered so much. Veal and the swordfish, and guilt them into bottles. There’s a lot of that—"
"Tate. I know.Go."
His back protested the step he took out the back door, feeling the tiefling’s eyes following as she leaned on the jamb, making sure he actually left. The prospect of climbing the steps to his apartment was agonizing to contemplate, but his bed was calling and he’d gladly spill the blood of anyone who kept him from its confines that weekend.Spill it. Drink it. Bathe in it. All of the above.Pipes had joined the sound of the faraway flute, the tempo upbeat and merry and familiar, but his back hissed at his toes to ignore the sound and keep moving, and he continued to stagger through the dimly-lit alley.
"Go home, turn your phone off," Thessa called out, her voice bouncing between the buildings to his retreating form, the prospect of absolute silence for the next three days making him hasten his step as much as he was able. "It’s the last weekend, what could possibly happen? Everything will be fine!"
