Nif sighed and dropped her head onto her desk knocking bundles of unread manuscripts off to the side. The pages remained together thanks to thick rubber bands. She’d learnt that lesson during the first week on the job.
“Get out of here! He did not!” Clare rarely ever spoke over a whisper (not that that prevented her from being heard when she wanted to be), and yet her hissing made Nif check they were still alone in the office. She didn’t need everyone hearing about her failed date.
Clare and Nif were always the first into the office. Nif mostly so she could get a head start on the hundreds of unsolicited manuscripts that ended up on her desk. Clare, however, seemed to live at the office. Always first in and last out. She was one of the founding staff members of Hopscotch Publishing, though no one really knew exactly what her job title was. But even the bosses acknowledged she was invaluable and during that two week sick leave she took back in 2016, the company had almost ground to a halt.
On the wall, the clock ticked over to nine. They had another half hour before the rest of the team filtered into the Never Archives office to start another week, the dozen-strong staffed science fiction, fantasy and horror division of Hopscotch Publishing. Nif would have to head off on the coffee run soon if she wanted to have the drinks ready by the time everyone else arrived.
“And that wasn’t even the worst part,” Nif mumbled into the desk. “I would’ve been okay if the night ended there with front row seats to a lovers’ bloody showdown, but of course he had to ask what my shift form is.”
“Ooh,” Clare hummed sympathetically. She rested a light hand on Nif’s shoulder and patted twice. “Well look on the bright side! You don’t even like hiking and a guy like that would be constantly dragging you out into the wilderness.”
“You don’t know. I could like it,” Nif said, lifting her head briefly to glare at her mentor. Nif still wasn’t sure why Clare had taken her under her wing. It wasn’t even like Nif was the youngest on the team. That honour belonged to the intern Jemima, who was twenty-two, fresh out of uni and covered in tattoos.
“You’re allergic to pretty much everything.” Clare canted her hip and began counting on one stunningly manicured hand: a halloween motif of jack-o-lanterns and black cats to celebrate the festive occasion. “Dirt. Plants. Insects. Fur. Honestly, you barely cope with a walk through the park.”
“There’s drugs for all that, you know. How else do you think I cope when literally everyone around me can shift into something I’m allergic to?” Nif’s head thumped back to the desk, harder than she intended. “Anyway, I’m not sure if I have the energy to scroll through all those Tender profiles again. Most have pics of their shift form looking all manly, and the ones who don’t are doing stupid things in an attempt to look manly. How hard is it to find a nice guy who couldn’t give a fig what my shift-self is, or lack thereof?”
“I could always introduce you to some of the guys at my D&D group. They’re sweet,” Clare offered, but from the corner of Nif’s eye she could see Clare wrinkle her nose at the thought. Those guys were like her brothers, and they treated Clare like a little sister even though she was in her early forties and had a brown belt in Brazilian jiu jitsu. Nif had met them once at a birthday dinner. Big, hulking guys with far too much facial hair, they’d taken a perverse joy in quoting obscure films.
“Thanks, but after Sapha set me up with her old uni buddy who thought personal hygiene was an optional extra, I’ve sworn off dating friends of friends.”
“Why Sapha was even friends with him in the first place is beyond me,” Clare commented, clucking her tongue. Clare and Sapha had never met, but they might as well have from how often Nif spoke to them about each other. “Of all people, surely she has standards. Doesn’t she shower three times a day?”
“Yeah, and why she’d feel the need to do so is beyond me when she sleeps sixteen out of twenty-four hours. Well, she dropped the ball with that recommendation at any rate.”
“Sixteen? How does she get anything done?”
“Those eight hours are incredibly productive. Actually, come to think of it, she may have set me up on that date during her sleeping phase when she went six months being conscious for only two hours a day. She was a bit strange for a while.” Nif leaned upright and stretched, already keen for home time. “What I would do to sleep for weeks on end.”
“Not getting enough sleep, are you?” Leon asked, sweeping into the room with a force that rocked Nif back in her chair. Leon Knight was Nif’s supervisor, but he was far more than that. He was perfection and Nif’s first ever celebrity crush. Thirty-four years old, he’d turned his back on his family fortune and instead worked his way up from a mere intern to chief-editor for Never Archives in less than three years. The What’s Hot publishing magazine did a double page spread on him when he was first promoted, which Nif still had blu-tacked to her bedroom wall.
He’d been holding that post close on four years by the time Nif managed to find herself a junior editing position at the Archives. Under his guidance, the tiny fantasy branch of Hopscotch Publishing had quadrupled in staff size, expanded to include Horror and Science Fiction, and continued to be highly profitable despite the rumours that speculative fiction was a dying genre.
“What?” Nif responded, all the blood from her brain rushing to her cheeks. “Oh. No, I slept well. Super well. Just great…” she caught Clare’s tiny wave, the older woman gesturing towards Nif’s head. Glancing down at the reflective phone screen on her desk, she realised she had a large red spot between her eyes from when she smacked it against her desk. Just more proof she couldn’t shift because the mortification she felt now was surely strong enough to trigger one. She tried to brush her fringe over the red mark as she straightened up her desk, restacking the to-be read pile in order of date received.
“I’m glad to hear that. We can’t have you overworked,” Leon said. “Now, you must be wondering why I’m here so early.”
Nif hadn’t been. Most higher thought functions flew out the window when he was around. Leon had actually been on her interview panel and she honestly couldn’t remember a word she said, but somehow she’d managed to impress them despite the disadvantage of being a non-shifter.
Leon swivelled on the heel of his fancy leather shoes -- Nif knew nothing about brands, but it had to be expensive from the kind of glossy shine it had -- and offered Clare a pale green patisserie box, the font french and curly across the top and sides. “A treat for my saviour.”
Clare rolled her eyes, but took the box, flipping open the lid to reveal four perfectly shaped macarons. Nif’s mouth watered embarrassingly quickly.
“You’re too kind,” she said dryly and dropped them carelessly onto Nif’s desk. “I don’t eat sugar,” she said, which was a blatant lie. “But Nif loves them.”
Leon’s smile was sweeter than the macaroons. It curled crookedly and revealed a dimple in his right cheek. Nif’s only saving grace was that it wasn’t directed at her, but even then, the second-hand glow was like witnessing the sun come out from behind dark clouds. That was until he shifted his gaze on her.
“I’ll have to remember that,” Leon said, and Nif suddenly envisioned Leon sitting across from her at the restaurant table the night before, instead of Trevor. Leon who would’ve held her hand as they hid under the table. No, wait. Leon would’ve been stepping up, protectively, to de-escalate the situation without even shifting. She couldn’t imagine anything not going to plan with Leon, and he already knew her shiftless-status. That hurdle had well and truly been leapt, and it never seemed to bother him.
“It’s not my birthday, so what do you want?” Clare asked, crossing her arms and looking fondly annoyed. Leon stepped closer, mostly to hear Clare better, but he inadvertently moved next to Nif and she could smell his aftershave. Cinnamon and vanilla and gingerbread. Like baking. Warm and homey and Nif had the sudden urge to curl up next to him. God, she really did need to either get laid or go out on a date that didn’t end in disaster.
“I’ve a new author I’ve got my eye on,” Leon said, and Nif’s aftershave-induced daze was overridden by the sudden excitement of the hunt. A new author? Had she read any of their work? Could it have been one of the potentials she’d passed his way? “He’s agreed to have coffee with me at 2pm…”
“And you want me to represent the Archives at the Hopscotch manager meeting in your stead. You owe me more than sweets for this,” Clare grumbled, but it wasn’t a no and Leon gave Nif a gleeful, conspiratorial wink.
“Excellent. You’re a star, Clare.” Leon’s eyes drifted to the unsolicited manuscripts fortifying Nif’s desk and he gave one a tentative flick. He shuddered when he noticed the font was in comic sans. “Found any more gems?” he asked.
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“Maybe,” Nif said, hesitantly. “Actually, I’m hoping to present her at the next acquisitions meeting. If that’s alright?” She chewed furiously on the inside of her cheek as Leon studied her closely. What did he see when he looked at her? The business attire she couldn’t quite manage to pull off? The dark, straight hair and fringe she’d worn in the same style since primary school? The scuffed leather shoes bought for comfort and not fashion since she couldn’t just fly with shifted wings or run on four legs?
He nodded. Whatever he saw, he must’ve found something he liked, and warmth settled in her chest.
“Okay. This will be your first, so make sure you put together a project plan, marketing brief and budget. Ask Clare if you need the current figures or stats.” Leon straightened his tie and tossed her a salute. “Don’t let me down, alright?” And he swept from the office just as forcefully as he’d arrived.
“He said yes! Oh my goodness, Clare. I’ll actually get to pitch my author this Friday!”
“You should’ve been promoted by now,” Clare huffed, snagging a strawberry macaron from the box on Nif’s desk and sinking into her chair. Clare could have her pick of workspaces by seniority alone, but instead her desk butted up against Nif’s whose desk was in the middle of everything.
Nif opened her top drawer and gently stroked the first page of A Lonely Star, an unsolicited manuscript she’d received a fortnight ago and had stayed up all night reading. This was the kind of manuscript she’d dreamt of when she became an editor.
She had spent two years on the bottom rung in a publishing house, which meant she’d been juggling the slush pile, keeping her colleagues caffeinated, and preparing documents, which she’d get no recognition for. There were never enough hours in a day, and Nif was wondering if her love for books and reading would be able to handle the awful, the bad, and the just plain lazy writing she was forced to read for hours everyday.
But then she received Sarah Thompson’s email, her query quietly hopeful and wonderfully professional. Attached were the first three chapters of her amazing, heartbreaking story of friendship and adventure, set in an un-shifting world where instead people travelled out into space to find their other half, born on a different planet. That afternoon, after she’d read the three chapters, Nif had requested the full manuscript and early that morning she’d read the last line and cried.
She knew the Never Archives team would take one look at the manuscript and see how much potential it had, but Nif was determined to keep Sarah for herself. If Nif played her cards right, Sarah would be the first author on Nif’s very own list.
A loud tap-tap rattled the window and Nif slammed the desk drawer shut, startled.
“That will be Mr Williams again,” Clare said from her chair, resting her head back, eyes shut. “Let him in, will you? And tell him he’s on the wrong floor. Again. That’s the second time today!”
Nif hurried over to the massive window, fiddling with the lock until she finally managed to shove it open. They were on the fourth floor, but for some that wasn’t an issue.
A massive barn owl flapped his wings as he hopped inside and a second later he was a short, plump man, snowy white hair fluffed up like goose down and freckles sweeping across his curved shoulders and chunky thighs.
“Good morning, Mr Williams,” Nif said, keeping her eyes averted as she chose a dark brown cloak from a collection hanging on hooks beside the window. “You’re on the Never Archives floor. You want the level above.” She swept the fabric around his body and finally felt like she could hold a proper conversation with him.
“Oh. Hello Jennifer. Ms Clare,” Mr Williams nodded to them each while glancing around in mild surprise. “I do believe you’re right. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”
“Maybe you should just take the elevator?” Nif suggested. Mr Williams’ bare feet flexed in the carpet, his toenails like talons.
“Yes, yes. Good idea. I’ll see you both at the staff Winter Solstice party, yes?” And he toddled off towards the romance department.
“We’ll be seeing him far sooner than that,” Clare said, sighing deeply. “Wednesday by the latest. I’m half tempted to nail that window shut!”
“Didn’t the higher ups just upgrade the shifting rooms? Provided showers and lockers and everything.” Nif had snuck inside to have a sneak peek when it first opened and she was envious of those shower heads. It was like standing beneath a waterfall. She was tempted to use them herself, except there were no privacy screens.
“Yes, but the flyers prefer the higher access.”
Nif’s phone buzzed an alarm.
“I better go get the coffees sorted,” Nif grumbled, stuffing a lavender macaron in her mouth and grabbing her bag. By the door was a wicker basket stacked with a dozen brightly coloured keep cups. Nif used to keep post-it notes of the owner’s order stuck to each one, but having done the coffee run since she first started, she could recall each order in her sleep. Before she headed out, she checked the envelope inside the basket had the right amount of cash. She’d been burnt before.
“They don’t deserve you,” Clare murmured, absently dusting the pink crumbs from her chest.
“I know,” Nif agreed. “I’ll be back soon. Want anything?”
Clare picked up the macaron box and tucked it into the box wedged under Nif’s arm.
“Those beasts will sniff them out as soon as they arrive so make sure you eat them.”
“Thanks, Clare.” Nif took the stairs and almost collided with Stan from the advertising department as she burst from the stairwell and into the lobby. The palomino was chatting with another horse-shifter, the two taking up most of the front foyer in their equine forms.
“Excuse me,” Nif said, edging around them. Stan said something to her even though he knew she couldn’t understand, not being a horse, but she waved anyway and slipped out into the street.
Outside, the morning rush was in full swing. Double decker, open-roofed buses groaned to a halt to unload hundreds of city workers, the skies above were thick with bird shifters and the extra wide sidewalk was bustling, mostly with people glaring down at their phones, but a few were in their shifted form. Nif kept an eye out to avoid stepping on any paws or tails or being stepped on herself.
To Bean or Not to Bean was two blocks over, wedged between the blood donation centre and a sandwich shop. It was one of a dozen cafes on the street alone, but Nif liked the owners, a friendly couple and their son who knew the names of all their customers. They were always happy to have a chat. It was the one reason why Nif didn’t complain more about the menial job. That and they always gave her a free drink since her usual order was so big.
“Morning Yong-shen,” Nif called over the counter. She always managed to time her visit during a lull in business, and could deposit her basket directly onto the counter.
“Nif! Look at you. You’re like the sun. You warm me,” the older woman admired, already reaching for the keep cups. “Joe! Our favourite customer is here!”
Joe was her son, a slender youth who offered a distracted smile, his attention already on filling out the orders, waiting only for Nif to list off the first three before getting started. Nif wouldn’t be surprised if he knew them all off by heart as well.
“Your date go well?” Yong-shen asked, leaning on the counter, arms folded, her ears threatening to slide up the side of her head in her efforts to hear better over the street noise.
“How did you know I’d been on a date?”
“I can tell. It’s my magic power.”
“Can you magically give me the ability to not suck?” Nif gave a hopeless shrug and pulled out the patisserie box, opening it to reveal the last two treats. “Would you like one? My boss gave them to me. Well, to my friend, but she gave them to me, so I don’t feel right if I eat them all.”
“Won’t say no!” Yong-shen gleefully chose the pale green pistachio one, leaving Nif the chocolate. The woman took a bite and groaned deeply.
“Yong-shen, you bat! You’re making weird noises again!” Huan, her husband, came through from the backroom, his arms filled with clean coffee cups. Yong-shen stuffed the rest of the macaroon into her mouth, just as he spotted her. “Oi! No fair! Nif, where’s mine?”
“Next time, I promise,” Nif laughed, having already devoured her own, and the last of her disappointment from her date drifted away.
As she paid and carefully collected her coffee basket, her on-the-house chai latte in her free hand, Yong-shen reached out and patted her arm.
“You’ll meet the right kind of guy soon. Trust me.”
“I hope so. I’ll be thirty soon.”
“Don’t be old fashioned,” Huan said. “Old maids are a thing of the past. You can be older than the moon and single, and you won’t be any less worthy.”
“You’re sweet,” Nif said, checking her shoe laces were tied to hide her blush. “I just hope I don’t have to wait that long. I want what you guys have.”
“Bah, she drives me batty!” Huan teased, flicking his wife in the ear.
“And you’re a dog, but for some reason I still find myself fond of you.”
“You’re embarrassing, the both of you,” Joe said, his attention on his phone now that the coffee order was complete, but Nif spotted the smile hidden in the turn of his mouth.
Nif basked in Yong-shen and Huan’s love secondhand for two long breaths before she shook herself and resettled the coffee basket on her hip.
“Well, you two love birds, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Don’t forget what I said, Nif!” Yong-shen shouted over the counter. “You won’t have to wait much longer. A bear will end up in your path and you’ll learn the true frustrations of love.”
“You frustrate me, love,” Huan grumbled. “Now leave the poor girl alone. She has work, and you’re scaring off our customers!”
Yong-shen’s words bounced about in Nif’s mind all the way back to the office. A bear? She’d met quite a few bears in her lifetime. Her mother, for one, and then there was the elderly bear couple the other night. Was that a sign? Nif wasn’t superstitious, but she was becoming desperate enough that she wouldn’t say no to divine or magical intervention.
Stan was still in the building foyer, taking up most of the space, and she wondered how anyone in this company got any work done when all they seemed to do was chat. When he backed into her suddenly as she was trying to ease past to the stairwell, her chai latte went flying though she managed to save the rest of the coffees. The keep cup her mother had bought for her birthday ended up crushed under Stan’s rear hoof. All thoughts of a bear man in her future flew out of her head and instead she steeled herself for what she knew would be a very long day.