Page 12 of Orc'd & Loaded
The fourth pan reads thirty-one. All systems operational.
I dry my hands. Walk back toward the loading dock to supervise the transfer.
The alley is empty.
Not empty of crates. The crates are still there, all six of them, lined up on the concrete platform exactly where the driver left them.
But every single leather strap has been cut.
Not unbuckled.Cut.The ends hang limp over the sides of each crate, the leather edges clean and straight, sliced with something razor-sharp. The buckles are intact. Nobody fumbled these open in a hurry. Someone stood here with a blade and deliberately, methodically severed each binding.
The lids are already shifting.
The first one pops off with a woodyclackand skitters across the concrete. A huge mushroom launches from the crate in a high, perfect arc, its pale golden cap catching the morning sun, and lands on the asphalt six feet away with a rubberyboing.It rebounds immediately, shooting sideways, ricocheting off the brick wall of the building next door.
Then the second crate blows.
Then the third.
Then all of them, all at once, a synchronized eruption of golden-capped chaos. Dozens of jumpers catapulting into the air, bouncing off dumpsters, off drainpipes, off parked cars, off each other. They pinball down the alley in every direction, each impact launching them higher and faster, a cascading chain reaction of enchanted produce fleeing my kitchen at roughly the speed of a thrown baseball.
I stand on the loading dock, thermometer still in my hand, and look at three thousand three hundred and twelve euros' worth of mushrooms bounce wildly down Rue des Martyrs toward the square.
One of them nails a parking meter and explodes in a puff of golden spores.
My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
CHAPTER 4
BORIS
The lunch prep station is a warzone of good intentions.
I have seventeen pounds of brisket dry-rubbed and resting on the back counter, a full cauldron of bone broth threatening to boil over on the hearth, and a cutting board buried under a mountain of rough-chopped onions that Tavvi, my prep cook, abandoned fifteen minutes ago because the fumes made him cry so hard he walked into a doorframe.
"Tavvi. The onions."
"Chef, my eyes. I cannot see my own hands."
"You are an Orc. You have survived cave bears."
"Cave bears do not attack the tear ducts, Chef."
Fair point. I grasp the knife myself, sweep the onions into a massive wooden bowl, and carry them to the hearth. The broth is rolling now, fat golden bubbles cresting and breaking against the rim of the cast iron. I lower the heat by nudging a burning log sideways with the toe of my boot, a move that would horrify every human chef alive but has served me well for thirty-seven years.
The front window catches my eye. Movement. Fast, erratic movement, the kind that usually means a dog got loose orsomeone's enchanted purchase went sideways at the farmers' market again.
I set the bowl down.
Through the glass, a cantaloupe-sized mushroom rockets past, trailing a faint shimmer of gold spores. It hits the mailbox across the street and rebounds at a sharp angle, sailing over a parked minivan and disappearing behind the hardware store.
Then another one.
Then three more, in rapid succession, bouncing off the sidewalk like rubber balls dropped from a rooftop.
Then Solene.
She rounds the corner at a dead sprint, her white chef coat streaked with something golden and powdery, her French twist half-collapsed, loose strands of dark hair whipping across her face. She is carrying a bus tub in both arms and trying to catch the mushrooms mid-bounce like some kind of furious, elegantly dressed outfielder.
