I wasn’t about to back down in my own shop.
“Look at him,” I said, stepping out from behind the counter. I walked right up to Brok, my determination rising with every word. “He’s not happy. Whatever you’re doing isn’t working. My work makes him happy. Maybe you should add that to your program. Happiness. The occasional moment of pleasure. Radical concepts, I know.”
I had to crane my neck to meet his eyes. The size difference was laughable. I was five-foot-four on a good day, and he had to be at least six-foot-five, maybe taller. But I didn’t care. Neither he nor hisgym philosophy frightened me. I’d faced down Nana Beatrice’s disapproval my entire life. This was nothing.
I reached out and poked him, a single, firm jab to the center of his ridiculously solid chest. My finger made contact with what felt like a brick wall covered in a thin layer of cotton. “Joy. It’s an essential nutrient. Look it up.”
He recoiled as if my finger had been a live wire. His nostrils flared, his eyes widening just a fraction. For a split second, the air between us felt charged, electric, crackling with something I couldn’t quite name. It was like the surprising jolt of heat from a chili-infused truffle, catching you off guard long after the initial sweetness faded.
His dark eyes dropped to my lips, lingered there for a heartbeat, then snapped back to meet my gaze. The raw intensity I’d seen earlier was still there, but now it was mixed with something else. Something confused. Something almost vulnerable.
He took a half-step back, a retreat that somehow looked completely wrong on him. It was like watching a wolf back down from a particularly determined Chihuahua. “We’ll see.”
It wasn’t a threat, though it probably should have been. It was a promise, and the weight of each syllable hit me harder than I wanted to admit. There was something in his voice that suggested this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Fortunately for my rapidly accelerating heart rate, Brok didn’t stick around long enough to notice whatever effect he was having on me. He spun around with military precision. He grabbed Barnaby by the scruff of his sweater vest and all but dragged him out of the shop. The bell jangled frantically in their wake, a sound of protest and alarm.
Through the window, I watched Barnaby’s desperate, apologetic wave as he was hauled down the sidewalk.
I stood there in the sudden quiet, my finger still tingling where I’d touched him. The sensation spread up my arm, warm and strange. I felt off balance, a little woozy, as if I’d been spending too much time in the kitchen without stepping out for fresh air.
This entire incident should have worried me. At the very least, I should have found it strange. Instead, I smiled to myself, my heart already doing something complicated in my chest.
Brok would return. I was absolutely certain of it.
And I couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
3
The Proposition
Brok
The human world was designed for five-foot-nine people who had no muscle density and enjoyed suffering.
At the moment, I was folded into a rented Fiat across the street from The Cocoa Bean, my body contorted in ways that would make a yoga instructor weep. My head was brushing the fuzzy fabric of the roof. The steering wheel pressed against my abdomen, unaware that every breath I took brought it closer to destruction.
I felt like a bear trapped in a lunchbox. A very sad, very uncomfortable lunchbox.
“This is ridiculous.” I shifted my weight, and the car groaned in protest, squeaking in pure mechanical defeat. “Whose idea was this again?”
“Yours, Brok.” Barnaby pulled the beige bucket hat lower over his head. His big, floppy ears pushed it back up, and he went back to nervously chewing on the celery stick I’d forced upon him. His anxious gnawing was driving me slowly insane. “You said your truck was ‘allbulk, no stealth.’ You said we needed something with a ‘leaner profile’ for the mission.”
He was right, which only made it worse. My truck was a lifted Ford that looked like it lived on a diet of pure protein powder and the dreams of smaller vehicles. It attracted attention wherever it went. Normally, that would be a problem, but for some reason, humans didn’t find it odd. It was also the worst possible vehicle for a stakeout.
This coffin with wheels was the price we needed to pay to stay hidden. “We have no choice. Remember, Barnaby. Discipline requires sacrifice.”
“Brok, no…” Barnaby dropped the celery and slumped against the door with a hopeless despair that would’ve put a banshee to shame. “Can we just go? Please? We’ve been here for hours. I have eaten four green sticks of sadness. My glutes are vibrating, Brok. Is that normal?”
“It means they’re working.” I kept my eyes fixed on the pink awning across the street, refusing to be distracted. The cheerful color was an affront to everything I stood for. “And we’re staying. This is important.”
“Everything is important to you,” Barnaby muttered, but he stayed put, which was all I could ask for.
This was a crucial phase of his training, though I couldn’t tell him that directly. The principle was the same one Chieftain Grafka had used to build our toughness back in the Iron Steppe. You had to train the will bymaking the body uncomfortable. You had to expose the weakness until it hardened into strength.
Grafka had done this by throwing us into pits filled with snakes. It was unpleasant at the time, but it had made us immune to naga venom. I had an even tougher job ahead. Barnaby was nowhere near ready for his Easter performance. And he never would be unless I built up his immunity to the poison of Hazel’s tempting truffles.
The shop’s door opened, the little bell above it jingling cheerfully. An elderly human female stepped out, frail, with a posture that screamed ‘future hip replacement.’ She clutched a small white box like it was a lifesaving elixir. Then, she pulled a cookie from inside. As she took a bite, a blissful, vacant smile spread across her face. The poison was fast-acting.
