Page 67 of Office of the Lost

It was a sleazy dive bar—as typical a sight on multiple worlds as the dumpster outside—and probably the place where the two sleepers had stumbled out of, after drinking their fill of watered-down beer.The tables were Odds’s version of some weird blue plasticy stuff Crispin had seen in old Earth diners, but so old that the once smooth and shiny surfaces were now cracked and faded.Pendulum lights in the form of some kind of prickly round sea creature failed to shed enough illumination to reach the floor, which no doubt, from its sticky feel, was better off for not being seen.

The walls were covered with layer upon layer of posters and fliers, with only an occasional glimpse here and there of an ancient wallpaper that once might have matched the tables.A neon sign on one wall flickered a sickly greenHimpel’s Beer—The Best Money Can Buy.Apparently.

The onlyalmostluxe part of the place was along the back wall: a gleaming goldenwood bar with neat shelves of alcohol behind it, as if some enterprising soul had bought the place with dreams of turning it into a new hot spot but had run out of money halfway through the project.

The place was only a quarter full.At this time in the morning, only the most determined drunks were still at it.As one, they turned bleary eyes toward the newcomers.

“Hey lady, this isn’t your kind of place.You’d best move along.”That was from the barkeep, the only other being fully upright in the dark, dingy place.He was well-dressed in a crisp white shirt and purple suspenders, with the strange prickly horn particular to his people.Perhaps the once-optimistic entrepreneur himself.

Cerillia ignored him.“Out.”She pointed at the door, and despite her comedown in the world and her less-commanding appearance, the men and women gathered themselves up and scurried out like so many rats running from a giant cat.

“Hey, those are my paying customers.”The barkeep tried to muster some indignity, which in this place was probably far easier than managing actual dignity.

The Fae Queen strode to the counter and pulled three gold coins from her pocket.“Bring us three”—she glanced at the wall—“Himpel’s, please.I trust that will cover your cost?”

The man’s eyes had gone wide, as if ready to pop out of his skull.He was probably scared silly; the Mother of Fae often had that effect on mere mortals.Crispin had seen it his entire life.“I’m so sorry.Mom can be intimidating.Will that cover the cost?”

The barkeep nodded vigorously.It was probably enough to finish his long-delayed renovation, and then some.“I’ll bring your drinks straight away, ma...um, miss.”He shuddered at the look she gave him and hastily turned away to pull down three glasses from the shelf and draw their beers from the tap.

Minkis chittered.“Hungry.”

Cerillia raised an eyebrow.“It speaks now?”

“Apparently.”Crispin turned back to the barkeep.“And a bowl of nuts?”

The man didn’t turn around, but simply held up a thumb in the universal gesture for “I got it.”

“Please, follow me.”Cerillia led her sons to the far corner of the bar, choosing a table that seemed to be the least dirty and cracked of the lot.She pulled out a chair, stared at it distastefully, and snapped her fingers.It spun merrily around on one leg, awash in sparkling magic, and when it settled down again, it was clean and shone like new.Satisfied, she sank down into it, shrugging off her leather jacket and heaving a contented sigh.She pointedly did nothing about her sons’ chairs or the poor long-suffering table.

With a sigh of his own, Crispin sank down into a grungy chair across from his brother, who eyed him warily.

“Here we are, three Himpel’s and a bowl of nuts.”The barkeep slid them smoothly onto the table.“Is there anything else I can bring you?Some bar pops, perhaps?”

“No thank you….”

“Hubble.At your service, ma’am.”

“No thank you, Hubble.You’ve done quite enough.Now please, give us the room.”She waved him away.

The poor man stood there for a moment, wringing his hands, transfixed by Cerillia’s faded but still potent beauty.Not only did she have that effect on mortal men; it worked on a few of the immortals too.

She snapped her fingers, breaking him out of the spell.“You can go now.”

“Of course, ma’am.”He mopped a sheen of sweat off his brow and, with an apparent effort, turned and retreated through a swinging door at the back of the bar, leaving the three of them alone.

Crispin’s mother lifted one of the heavy glass mugs and took a sip of beer.A deep crease furrowed her forehead.“Quite dreadful.”She snapped her fingers again and the drink transformed into a fluted crystal chalice filled with something frothy and pink.She took a long sip.“Much better.”

Crispin stared at his own mug, waiting for her to transform it as well.When no further magic was forthcoming, he sighed, picked it up, and took a sip.It wasn’t really that bad, and it would certainly have its intended effect if consumed in quantity.

Minkis scampered down his arm to the bowl of nuts, almost knocking the mug out of his hand.

“Hey, careful there.”

“Hungry.”He picked up one of the nuts—round and purple with little yellow points on each end—and began to nibble contentedly.

Crispin set down his mug, having no intention of dulling his wits.“You promised secrets?”He sat back, arms crossed, hoping to hurry this along.He did have a human to save, after all.

“Treat Mum with a little respect, you yellow, lily-livered twerp.”Aspin glared at him as if Crispin were responsible for all the trouble in the family.

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