Demon’s Quest (High Demon #4)(18)
Author: Connie Suttle

"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. "Allee!" 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.