Chapter Three
As they approached the kitchen, they could hear Cliff’s booming voice vibrating through the thin walls.
Inside, they found their battering-ram of a boss yelling cheerfully into his radio, whilst stress-eating his way through a gargantuan box of pastries.
Cliff was white and in his mid-fifties. French-Canadian with tanned, weather-beaten skin.
He had a bulbous nose, crystal blue eyes that crinkled, and a voice that could shake the rafters.
If Antony was tall, Cliff was taller, and he sang baritone in a West End cover band called Joseph and The Dreamboats.
‘Ah, my Swans!’ Cliff bellowed, eyes brightening as he slammed the radio back into his belt and offered up the pastry box with a smile.
Swans mated for life, and in Cliff’s mind, Frida, Antony and Hamish should just set the date already.
Frida didn’t mind; in fact, she loved their callsign.
Antony and Hamish did not love it, but that was only because they were secretly in love with each other.
It was a whole thing, and it was annoying, because it was the only thing the three of them were Not Allowed To Talk About.
When Antony nabbed the last chocolate croissant, Hamish’s death stare might have turned a pixie to stone.
Antony just gave Hamish a cheerful pastry-dusted middle finger.
Frida tried to hide behind them both, not wanting Cliff to mistake her for a mud golem.
But Cliff was busy booming out a winding tale of how Management had come to do their thousandth check on the new enclosure, Dragon’s Deep, when one of the be-suited, bearded nerds with a clipboard had fallen into the dragon’s new swimming pool.
He’d just got to the punchline when they all heard the unmistakable sound of clipped footsteps from down the hall.
Cliff stopped mid-sentence, apple Danish hovering midair, as Gloria, Head Keeper of Sky, strode into the room.
‘Ah, Clifford, just the person I was looking for,’ Gloria signed dryly, her face entirely deadpan.
She was Deaf. Anyone who worked at the LEZ had to have BSL Level 2.
Frida and Antony were Level 5s, Hamish was fluent (their foster-sister was Deaf).
So, they were all able to follow as Gloria’s hand movements sliced through the air like the deadliest samurai blade.
No one quite knew why Cliff and Gloria hated each other, only that they did, almost as much as a griffin might hate, say, a two-tailed whip-tongued gazulla. Which is to say, a lot.
Cliff carefully put down his pastry, arranging his face into a vacant smile and signing, ‘What a treat to see you too, Gee Gee.’
The Head of Sky’s lips thinned. She had the bearing of a basilisk, and her temper was more dreaded than the dreaded Nuckelavee. Antony, Hamish and Frida found themselves wedged against the microwave, realising too late they were trapped.
‘I just wanted to check in with you, Clifford.’ Gloria used Cliff’s sign name, a gigantic tree, with as much sarcasm as she could muster.
Under the fluorescent lighting, her skin looked ice white.
She tossed her ivory hair, which didn’t move much since it was cropped army short, and her gun-metal grey eyes, a match to her uniform, flashed.
‘We all know it’s a big day for you and Forest and I wanted to wish you well. ’
Frida gazed up at the painting of Sir Joshua in despair. Last month, Gloria had called Cliff every name under the sun, including but not limited to an ‘incompetent oversized emotional buffoon incapable of handling a sick puppy’. Cliff had retaliated, and they’d both received a warning from HR.
Gloria had one perfect eyebrow raised in subtle warfare. ‘I couldn’t help but notice however that you still have rather a lot to do.’
Cliff’s smile didn’t slip, but he picked his apple Danish back up with such force, it crumbled in his fist. ‘We’re perfectly capable, Gloria.’ He’d forgotten to sign, but Gloria was an expert lip-reader.
‘Yes . . . well, I’ve spoken with Management.’ Her elation at this gleamed on her face. ‘And they agreed it would be prudent if I sent over some of my spare keepers. Sky keepers do have more experience of dealing with dragons, as you are aware.’
Cliff’s smile curdled like week-old cream. ‘That really won’t be necessary,’ he ground out between gritted teeth.
She nodded dismissively, tapping her fingers against the counter and eyeing his demolished Danish.
Her body was a mobile epithet of distaste.
‘Well, it’s already been arranged, so I’ll be sending my keepers over.
’ She eyed Frida and the others pointedly, eyebrows lowered.
Frida was so deeply wedged between the coffee machine and the microwave that she might as well have been a kitchen appliance.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ Gloria finished, ever so deliberately. ‘They are extremely well trained.’
Frida suspected Cliff was going to need dental work after this. He just about managed to loosen his teeth and said, in a high-pitched squeak that Frida was sure he regretted, ‘I’m sure they are. And how lovely to involve Management. I do so enjoy it when Sky wishes to collaborate, Gloria.’
Gloria waved a hand and stepped gracefully around Cliff to pull a chipped mug down from the shelf.
It was the one with a picture of a poisonous seven-tongued shrimp on it, wearing sunglasses and saying You’re Shrimply Delicious.
Cliff just stood there, his cheeks turning more lurid as Gloria slowly filled the mug with coffee.
When she was done, she put it down, her grey eyes snake-like with sly amusement, and signed, ‘Consider it a gift.’ Then, she picked up her mug, turned on her steel toe-capped boots and breezed out of the door, leaving an acid chill in her wake.
Cliff stared at the ruined pastry in his hand, then defiantly shoved it in his mouth.
Countdown to aneurism: 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
‘THIS IS PAPA BEAR!’ Cliff roared into his radio, the vein on his forehead virulent as he barrelled for the door. ‘WHERE IS EVERYONE?’
Frida winced in sympathy. ‘Poor Cliff.’
Antony nodded, glancing up at the portrait of Sir Joshua above the coffee machine. ‘Sweet lord, give us strength today.’
Hamish patted Antony on the back, grinning. ‘Oh, fear not, Sir Josh is watching over us.’ Indeed, their gilt-framed-auburn-haired-nineteenth-century HDILF (historical daddy I’d like to fuck, thanks Hamish) did seem to be oozing reassurance from where he sat behind his big oil-painted antique desk.
Frida sighed dreamily. ‘Do you think he knows a dragon’s coming?’
‘Oh, definitely.’ Antony beamed, reaching for the pastry box. ‘I bet he’s doing a celebratory waltz across the yellow brick roads of heaven at this very moment.’
Hamish rolled their eyes.
‘I’d like to waltz with Sir Josh,’ Frida said with a little swoon.
Hamish snorted, batting Antony’s hand away and seizing the croissant he’d dropped with a yelp. ‘Frida darling, you couldn’t handle Sir Josh.’
‘And you could?!’ She was incensed.
‘Well, at least I wouldn’t break his toes. I’ve seen you dance, babe.’
‘Ghosts don’t have toes,’ Antony contributed, scowling as Hamish stuffed the croissant in their mouth.
Hamish gave Antony a sultry wink. ‘How do you know what appendages ghosts–’
‘SWANS!’ Cliff’s voice boomed.