The sun sinks toward the horizon and sweat drips down Dave’s face as he waits by a deserted road for something—or someone—unknown.
This job interview? Not quite matching his expectations. But then again, in the middle of a war between human and fey, why would it? And with his fridge and bank account both running low, Dave hardly cares about asking questions.
Until he realises what his prospective employers want him to do.
Then he just wants to know how the hell they think he’ll survive.
A classic urban fantasy tale from Aurealis Award-winning author Amy Laurens, don’t miss Recruitment!
Recruitment
The first thing you noticed about Dave was his eyes: bright, piercing blue beneath a shock of light brown hair, capable of drilling right into your soul. They weren’t kind, per se, but you looked into them and knew that you were seen, as you were, the good, the bad—and the secret.
Luckily for Dave, this ability actually worked: not only could he make you feel seen, he did actually see you. Whether you wanted him to or not. Whether you were supposed to be visible or not.
He was recruited early on because of that.
This is why.
A bead of sweat rolled down Dave’s temple as he crouched beneath a black-trunked eucalypt, the shade barely cooler, the dusk barely dimmer. It was half past eight on a Friday evening, and the sun was only just farewelling the day with a blush of hot orange on the hot, summer horizon of bare rolling hills outside the city. The air carried the smells of the city far beyond its borders—hot oil, hot concrete, hot asphalt, hot petrol.
He glanced at his watch and noted absently that his fair skin was already considering burning, despite the late hour of the day.
Eight thirty-one. They were late.
Dave wasn’t sure who, exactly, were late; he’d been handed a blank env-elope by the woman with the serious soul and told that it was a test, that if he could do what they hoped he could, he’d be hired.
That was it. Literally all the information he’d been given.
The envelope contained only a date and a time, and a contract stipulating abject secrecy and an excellent pay rate, even for this test, with the promise of significant on-going employment benefits if he passed.
He had no idea how he was sup-posed to pass, because he had no idea what they expected him to do.
But Dave’s fridge had been empty for going on a week now, and only sporadically full for a month before that. The conflict with the fey was finally sinking its long fingers into the common populace; no longer a novel news item, the fey had been hitting hard at supply lines, trying to disrupt agriculture, industry, transport… and civilians globally were beginning to suffer.
So it had barely been a choice. Un-informative the envelope might have been, but Dave knew a military stance when he saw one, and a military pay cheque was a secure one.
He wiped away the bead of sweat from his temple, inhaled deeply of the city-tainted air that also smelled a little of baked eucalypt and hot dirt—hot everything, everything was hot, his body was soaked in sweat and he could almost bring himself to long for his sporadically air-conditioned bedroom, if not for that tantalising promise of pay—and checked the time again.
Eight thirty-two.
Ahead, up the road toward the horizon, something shimmered. For a moment, he hoped it was simply a trick of the dying light, a mirage in the heat, the orange dirt of the road shining briefly.
But the shimmer persisted—and not only that, it began to creep closer.