Page 19 of Double Mager

“High end is right,” I said. “I’ve never even heard of some of these dishes.”

“Order as much as you like, Scrimshaw,” Morrow said. “As long as you give us everything we need.”

Scrimshaw held perfectly still, his hands rubbing together covetously, like the fiddling of a fly. “Everything?”

Big mistake. Huge.

Between Scrimshaw’s very noisy and demonstrative enjoyment of his food and the constant stream of dishes being delivered by an increasingly panicked waiter, it was tough getting much info out of the imp at all. Every server’s intrusion meant he had to hide under a napkin, and every new item from the menu meant another round of erotic moaning as Scrimshaw molested his meal.

Which weirdly didn’t put me off my own food. Scrimshaw’s enjoyment somehow heightened mine. Maybe he was a demon from the prime hell of Gluttony. Something about his presence made everything more delicious, or maybe the Heavenly Concubine really was as amazing as all their reviews said.

Nearly an hour later, settling down from our bacchanal, I leaned into my chair and patted my belly. Scrimshaw, meanwhile, was using half a pork bun as a stool, picking at it with his grubby little paws even as he lazily kicked his legs. Where was he putting away all of this food? Fascinating.

“If you’re quite ready to share,” Morrow said, clearly addressing Scrimshaw except for the very pointed way he cocked one eyebrow at me.

What? Like this was my fault? I defiantly chewed on another dumpling, adding it to the monstrous pile of food already sitting in my belly.

“Oh, yes, absolutely,” Scrimshaw said.

He clicked his fingers, conjuring a tiny spiral notepad, then flipped through the pages. With a start, I realized that a tiny pencil had materialized behind his ear, too. Neat.

“Let’s see. Happy, Inc. Aha. There it is. I was doing all this research, see? Looking to do a big exposé on the corpo. The story of a lifetime! Until my editor killed the story. Between you and me, I bet it was the Thorpes who paid it off. Suddenly we’re running all these ads for Happy Cow and Happy Boba, and now, Happy Links.”

I pointed at his tiny notepad. “Maybe you can explain that part to us, actually. Why such a scattershot approach to business? Burgers, milk tea, ramen, then suddenly charm bracelets? And Morrow mentioned a defunct stationery brand, too. What gives?”

Scrimshaw flipped through the pages, eyes glinting with excitement.

“See, that’s the thing. The product diversification doesn’t end there. They were working on virtual assistants at one point, too. You know, the ones that look like speakers, then you give them commands and hope they’re not actually spying on you? ‘Hey, Drusilla, buy me a thirty-pack of toilet paper.’ That kind of thing.”

“And what happened to that?” Morrow asked.

“I heard there was a warehouse fire. Something like that. They keep things pretty tight-lipped over at Happy. And like I said, they have the power to kill stories just like that. Whatever happened to journalistic integrity, I ask you? I used to like our editor before I noticed all the corruption. But who knows? Maybe he’ll kick the bucket and someone better takes over. Maybe a young priest and an old priest will walk into his office with some holy water and a prayer.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“But enough talk about exorcism. Happy, Inc. has a junk-food division too. Snacky Yum-Yums, ever heard of them? Those addictive cheesy puffs? Can’t get enough of ’em. And dog food, don’t forget the dog food. Puppy Yum Biscuits. All made in the same facility, or so I heard.”

My eyes went as big as the porcelain plates on our table. “Excuse me?”

“But never mind that. You know what I think? It’s all this family drama in the corpo. It’s how it works with these dynasties, I guess. Used to be that Happy, Inc. only changed hands once a generation, but it’s been happening a lot more these days. Maybe the younger Thorpes aren’t as competent as their ancestors, or maybe they’re butting heads or clawing at each other to get to the top of the clan’s corporate ladder. Too many cooks, you see? That’s why all the splintered businesses. The broth isn’t spoiled. It’s spilled all over the damn place.”

Scrimshaw trotted over to a sweet egg-yolk bun, poking it with one steel-sharp claw until the runny custard oozed out.

“Right now, for instance. The guy before the current CEO? Same name as you, actually, Agent Morrow. Funny coincidence. Forced retirement is what my research tells me. Theodore Thorpe is out of the public eye, and now we have Alexandra Thorpe, large and in charge. Literally. Here, let me send you some pictures. What’s your email address?”

Morrow slid Scrimshaw his fancy embossed ivory Occultech business card. The imp looked it over, then dismissed both the card and his notepad in a puff of smoke, replacing them with a tiny laptop. I didn’t even know they made them that small. Magical, maybe?

“We’ve met her, actually,” Morrow said, “so I definitely believe you on the large part. I mean — um, she certainly has massive, uh, presence.”

“Absolute unit of a lady,” Scrimshaw said, shutting his laptop before he dismissed it. “Ever met a valkyrie? Totally reminds me of one. She’d be a menace on the basketball court. Anyway, I sent you everything I have on the corpo. Look it over later if you like.”

A bluish glow pulsed from the center of Morrow’s palm, an email notification. “Much obliged,” he said, clenching his fist so he wouldn’t be tempted to start reading at the table, which I knew was a Herculean effort for a huge nerd like him.

“So you’ve seen her in person, huh? Did you notice anything — interesting about her?”

“You mean apart from the fact that she could snap me like a twig?” I said. “Well, Morrow and I suspect she’s magical, at least in some capacity. All the Thorpes are, probably. The charms are obviously enchanted in some way. We’re having a devil of a time trying to figure them out, though. Um, no offense.”

“None taken.”