Strictly speaking, the Horde did not devour. By ancient custom, each Otrokar who joined the Horde was entitled to a homestead. The homestead, in Otrokar terms, meant a parcel of land about fifteen acres, large enough to grow some food and pasture their mounts. The higher your rank, the bigger the homestead. Despite the modern convenience of cities, almost all Horde veterans claimed the homestead at the end of their service. They had to expand.

“To become worthy of the office,” the Medamoth continued, “one must complete a pilgrimage with the purpose of learning a valuable understanding.”

“An interesting custom. I can think of several Earth politicians in need of such a pilgrimage.”

“It does change your perspective.”

“What understanding do you seek?”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “I’m visiting the sites of great last stands, where a small group of defenders fought against overwhelming odds.”

“Are you learning how to die well, general?”

He made a low coughing noise, the Medamoth version of a laugh. “I’m learning what went wrong. What led to that last desperate defense? Why didn’t they surrender? Why didn’t the larger force employ diplomacy to prevent the slaughter? I have visited Nexus, Urdukor, Daesyn, and now I come to Earth. It’s the final leg of my pilgrimage.”

Urdukor belonged to the Hope-Crushing Horde, Daesyn was the planet of House Krahr, and the Nexus was the battleground where the Otrokar and the vampires of the Holy Anocracy butchered each other for decades until they reached a peace treaty in Gertrude Hunt. He wasn’t on a pilgrimage of last stands. He was trying to figure out how to not die in one.

Coming to this inn was no coincidence. He wanted to know the secret to making peace with the Horde.

“I know that my kind isn’t always welcome at the inns of Earth.”

It was my turn to show teeth. “Your species tries to eat the other guests.”

The general looked abashed. “My pilgrimage is vital. I give you my word of honor that I will restrain my hunting impulses. I wish to request a room at your inn. I understand that Treaty Stay requires you to accept my presence, but I don’t wish to impose against your will. I will require some assistance in viewing my chosen last stand, so I humbly ask for your acceptance.”

“Which site are you here to view?”

“The Alamo.”

Of all the last stands on Earth, he picked the Alamo. It couldn’t be Masada, Stalingrad, Thermopylae, or Shiroyama. It had to be the Alamo. Technically we were the closest inn, but he could have gone to Casa Feliz as well. He was here because we had done the impossible and he wanted to know how we had done it.

“Gertrude Hunt is honored to welcome you as a guest. I have to warn you, we are expecting a Drífan.”

His ears flicked up. “I do not anticipate a conflict,” he said carefully.

“Then let me show you to your rooms. One last thing, your disguise needs a little work.”

“The humanizer? I thought I had done rather well calibrating it. I chose attractive male features, the popular hair color, and the jewel eyes the experts say humans prize.”

He thought he’d made himself pretty.

“Was I not successful?”

“Not entirely.”

“Was I too frightening?”

“More like disconcerting.”

The Medamoth coughed again. I twisted the hallway, turning it into a staircase, and opened an oversized door at its end. A round chamber of pale stone lay ahead, with curved couches supporting plush blue cushions along the walls. Weapons decorated the room, displayed on the walls between the jewel-colored replicas of Medamoth tapestries. A large screen offered a plethora of Earth channels, playing a preview of a National Geographic special on Alaska. A dipping pool waited to one side, sunken into the floor next to the balcony, which offered a view of the orchard and the evening sky above. It was almost dinner time.

“Have you eaten?”

“I have. I will spend the evening adjusting to the time change and resting in contemplation. Please call me Qoros. It’s the name I have chosen for this journey.”

“Please call me Dina. If you need anything, simply ask the inn or call me by name.”

I left and shut the door behind me. We had until midnight. In every known account of the Drífen visiting, they always arrived just a couple of minutes before the clock struck twelve. That left Orro with roughly seven hours to come up with the Grand Burger, and I hadn’t heard him yell “fire!” since the tea with Caldenia.

I had a feeling that something had gone terribly wrong.

5

I sat at the kitchen table, facing Caldenia. Two glasses of water and two plates waited between us. The first plate contained a freshly purchased Grand Burger. The second held its exact replica. It looked like the real thing—plump sesame-seed bun, thin patty, a stack of lettuce, pickles, and tomato, and melted yellow cheese. It smelled like the real thing.

We had now bought thirty Grand Burgers, which had caused no end of fun making by the Favor delivery driver. Red Deer wasn’t that large, so we had gotten the same delivery driver three times in a row for an identical order of ten burgers each. When she made the final delivery, she asked if the Hamburgler was renting a room or if we were just making a documentary about fast food.

To the right, Orro stood completely still in the kitchen, like a monument to culinary failure.

Caldenia and I regarded each other like two duelists. Both burgers had been cut in half with surgical precision.

“Shall we?” Caldenia inquired.

I picked up my half of the Grand Burger and took a bite. It tasted just like the other four Grand Burgers I had tasted in the last four hours. I swallowed, drank some water, and picked up Orro’s burger. The first burger he presented to us several hours earlier tasted like heaven. The second was too chewy, the third was too mushy, the fourth was too salty. Taking another bite was kind of scary.

I inhaled and bit into the burger.

Cardboard. Soaked in meat juice.

Caldenia picked up a napkin and delicately spat into it. “You know I live for your cooking, dear, but this wasn’t one of your better efforts.”

Orro moved. Claws fanned my face and the two plates vanished, their contents hurled into the garbage. Orro leaned against the island, his back to the countertop, his face raised to the heavens, his arms hanging limp by his sides.

“I cannot do it.”

The defeat in his voice was so absolute, I wanted to hug him.

“Of course you can’t,” Caldenia said. “You simply cannot make bad food.”

“I should be able to replicate it. It’s a simple dish. I have all the ingredients.” He sounded so hollow.

“This hamburger is not natural,” I told him. “Most dishes evolve naturally. Stews have meat and root vegetables because livestock is slaughtered in early winter and root vegetables keep well in the cellar through the cold months. Spring salad is called that because it’s made with the leafy greens and grasses available in early spring. The hamburger is an artificial construct. Cows are slaughtered in winter, tomatoes are best in late summer, lettuce is in season in spring, and that’s not counting the extra cow required to produce the milk used to make cheese for the patty and butter for the bun.”

Orro stared at me.

“It’s mass-produced, inexpensive, and meant to be quick and convenient, but still pack enough calories to be filling.” I couldn’t tell if I was making any headway. “They use a particular cut of meat for it, likely the cheapest possible, and they add things to it, which accounts for the texture and moisture of the patty. No matter what I do to ground beef, it doesn’t have that texture.”

“But you don’t have my training and experience. I have tried everything,” Orro said, his voice still flat. “I added fat, I added stock, I emulsified the meat. I have tried corn starch, oils, and spices. For the sake of this hamburger, I have committed the sin of adding MSG and silicone dioxide. It’s all for naught. I’m a failure.”

He spun around and marched out of the kitchen.

I took a deep breath and slowly blew the air out.

“We have to let him stew in his despair,” Caldenia said. “Otherwise, we may never again be served a decent meal.”

“That’s a bit harsh, your Grace.”

“Coddling never leads to improvement.”

The inn’s magic brushed against me, as if someone had tossed a rock into a placid pond and the waves from it splashed against me. Someone had crossed the inn’s boundary.

It was past nine, and Sean was still out.

I called up a screen from the northeast side of the property. Four people in dark clothes crept through the brush. They wore black balaclavas that hid their heads and faces except for a narrow strip around the eyes and carried submachine guns.

I pivoted the screen to Caldenia with a flick of my fingers. “Rudolph Peterson’s ninjas.”

Caldenia rubbed her hands together. “Would it be too presumptuous to ask for one? I’ve been eating these dreadful hamburgers.”

“You know our policy. Gertrude Hunt doesn’t serve sentient beings as food.”

Caldenia rolled her eyes.

The four “commandos” snuck through the bushes, painstakingly careful where they put their feet. The original plan was to pretend to be just a normal establishment, but guns upped the stakes.