The Taste of Home

Chapter 35

As spring scorched into summer, the new employees grew from amateurs who barely remembered to wash their hands into valued members of The Crimson Goat's staff. Not experts perhaps, but skilled enough not to require constant supervision.

Luis mingled with the customers with such ease that it was a wonder he had yet to integrate himself into a pack. The many years José had spent caring for his younger siblings gave him all the multitasking skills he needed to handle the appetizer station. Even Rosa and Yolanda got along well enough to challenge each other to wing eating contests every time they went to The Iron Cactus after work.

With his venom glands still too weak for him to handle much solid food, Miguel had to content himself with a bowl of salsa. That was far from difficult, especially with Alejandro beside him, but it felt strange not to join in and to need Alejandro's help to dismount the barstool without sending a stab of pain through his leg.

That was far from the worst change they all had to deal with.

Discontent hung in the air as thickly as the humidity. With summer came tourists, and, while they were a blessing to most of San Antonio, they brought a perpetual sense of unease to the chupacabras. Texans had enough problems tolerating their scaly brethren. Many people from other states had never seen a chupacabra before, to say nothing of those that came from abroad, clogging the sidewalks with the reek of cheap margaritas and sweat as they gawked at the reptiles.

Not for the first time, Miguel was grateful for Alejandro's car. While he could have done without the frigid air conditioning blasting them the whole way to work, it beat dealing with the stares that followed him whenever he showed so much as a scale in public.

Upon stepping out of the car, he soon discovered the stares weren't the only thing it had been protecting him from.

The stench slammed into Miguel like Martha's claws had dug into his leg. Bile rose in his throat as the rancid odor clogged his nostrils.

Even with his much weaker nose, Alejandro gagged. "Something must have died around here."

Whatever it was couldn't have caused what they saw as they approached the restaurant.

Foam spilled out of the patio's pillows like innards, and the sun glared through gashes in the umbrellas. Dark red smears wound all the way to the front door, ending at a series of crimson handprints around the words "Get lost, goatsuckers."

The source of the stench lay across the entryway.

Flies buzzed around the bloated goat in a thick cloud. Left out in the heat for stars knew how long, the carcass had cloaked itself in such a sickly sweet stink that not a single rodent had come to gnaw upon it. Were it not for the two puncture wounds in its neck, Miguel would have thought the creature had succumbed to an illness or heatstroke.

But those wounds were not the work of a chupacabra. No, they were too sloppy for that, crusted with blood that a real chupacabra would have licked away.

Only a human would have done such a thing.

They found the rest of the staff gathered outside the restaurant's back door. Alejandro pulled Miguel close to his side, his grip on his hand tightening as the human waitstaff parted to let them reach the other chefs at the front of the group. It was impossible to miss the arms that jerked away from the merest brush of scales on skin or the eyes casting furtive glances for the clearest exit route.

Mr. Kaminski did a quick headcount, his lips set into a thin line. "Everyone's here. Show of hands, did any of you touch that goat?"

Rosa's spines stood on end. "Are you accusing us of—?"

"No, I trust all of you." Mr. Kaminski forced his lips into a tired smile. "I just need to make sure none of you will need medical attention. That goat's definitely rancid, and I wouldn't put it past whoever did this to poison it to boot. So, did any of you come into contact with that thing?"

Nobody raised their hand.

"Good. Now, we can't open today. I need to call some folks to dispose of that goat, and it's going to take a while to get everything else cleaned up." Mr. Kaminski's shoulders slumped as he let out a long sigh. "What I want you all to do is to think about whether you want to keep working here. I can't promise that whoever did this won't come back or that they won't try to hurt someone next time. What I can promise is if you choose to quit, I'll pay you a month's salary. I love this place, but I can't ask you to risk your safety over a little cash."

Muttering broke out among the staff. To Miguel's horror, more than a few people debated taking the offer in hushed tones.

"He's going to replace us with more of them sooner or later anyway."

"Bet we could get more tips somewhere else."

"How long before one of them decides they're sick of livestock?"

"I can't believe you all!" Everyone fell silent as Alejandro raised his voice. His grip on Miguel's hand tightened as they faced the crowd. "You all knew coming in how hard things are for chupacabras. Most places, they're lucky to even get to sit inside, let alone enjoy a good meal. You knew people wouldn't react well to us letting them eat here, but now you're backing out just because of some dead goat?"

"You want us to risk our safety just because you have the hots for one of them?" Other staff muttered their agreement, although less quietly this time. Less willing to look anyone in the eye.

"We want you to do it because it's the right thing to do." Ralph's tiger tattoo twitched with agitation. "Nothing will get better if we don't try to do something about it."

"Say what you will about chupacabras, but they don't deserve to be treated like this," Yolanda said. "Miguel left his family so he could have a chance at making a better future for people like him. Are you really going to let that sacrifice be for nothing?"

Miguel's throat tightened as his eyes filled with tears. They all cared about him so much. He'd do anything to share that feeling with other chupacabras, to give them a taste of how it felt to be loved no matter what pack they were from or how sharp their claws were. "You're like packmates to me," he said. "I won't hold it against you if you decide to leave, but there is so much more we can do together."

The other chefs took the chupacabras' hands. Fingers encircled claws with a gentle firmness that was as comforting as Miguel's apron hugging his scales.

Some of the waitstaff moved to join them, unwilling to touch the chupacabras but chastened enough to mumble apologies. Others were not persuaded. Whether they took the time to thank Mr. Kaminski for his generous offer or simply retreated to their cars without saying another word, their message was clear.

Whatever the future held for The Crimson Goat, they would not be part of it.