Enemy Chef

By Cassandra Hamm

“We walked into a war zone for a leaf?” Axel crossed his arms.

Remy scanned the trees for folha, one of the many ingredients they’d left camp to find. The bark was sadly free of green vines.

Her stomach growled. Though the emerald canopy hid the sun overhead, Remy guessed it was around midafternoon, hours since they departed. “Not just leaves. Delcios too.”

The other ingredients sat in Axel’s pack. She knew he wanted to get back to the base, but the rebels could manage without their leader for a few more minutes.

“I don’t want to eat a leaf,” Axel said.

Remy’s boots crunched inedible underbrush as she strode through the forest. No vines in sight. “You won’t taste it.”

“I thought we were making a pastry.” Axel planted himself in front of her. The gun at his side would be intimidating to someone else, perhaps, but not a hardened chef like her.

“The leaves give the dough a certain… puff.”

“Oh, that explains everything.”

“You need good food to fight Lord Filch.” Remy jabbed a finger into his chest.

He arched an eyebrow.

She pulled back, cheeks hot. “I mean all you warrior types, not you specifically.” She focused on a dark spot marring a nearby tree. Could it be?

She ran toward the spot, ignoring Axel’s startled shout. A folha vine wound around the tree, deep green against gold. “We just found our last ingredient.”

Axel joined her with a few quick strides. “When I asked you to teach me how to cook, I thought we’d start with something simple.”

“Pastries are simple.” She started plucking leaves.

“You are the most frustrating woman I’ve ever met.”

“Thank you. Now open the bag.”

Grumbling, he pulled the faded pack from his shoulders. She set the leaves next to the other ingredients––ripe delcios, some wrinkled nozpeca, a pure braid of acucar. One set of buco pastries coming right—

A gun muzzle pressed against her temple.

“You’re bakers, you say?” A middle-aged woman peered down at Remy and Axel, who were sitting against the wall of a commandeered bedroom.

Remy adjusted her position, the bonds tight against her wrists. The Faithful couldn’t have at least let them sit on the bed? “Yes. All the good ingredients are in Arvore Forest, you know.”

“Really?” The Faithful arched a thin eyebrow. “Scar-Face over there is a baker?”

Axel cleared his throat. “Yes. Absolutely. I love to cook.”

The other Faithful, who bore an impressive mustache, brandished Axel’s gun. He looked out of place in the civilian home they’d used for a makeshift prison. “Then what’s this, a spatula?”

“It’s dangerous in Arvore. Lots of young chaps like you spraying bullets at everyone.” Remy ignored Axel’s glare.

“Don’t lie to me, girl.” The woman knelt so her pale eyes seared into Remy’s. “You’re terrorists trying to overthrow our beloved leader.”

It took everything in Remy not to snort. “Lord Filth, beloved?”

Flames sparked in Boss Lady’s eyes. For once, Remy wished she’d kept her mouth shut.

Boss Lady stood. “Sounds like our terrorists have a date with the interrogation chambers.”

Interrogation? As in, torture?

“Don’t hurt her!” Axel’s voice was strangled. “She’s of no use to you. Just take me!”

This was all her fault. All because of her pastry craving… and her desire to impress Axel.

What if I can fix this with food?

“Wait! I can prove it.” Remy’s voice wobbled. “Look inside the pack. With those ingredients, I can whip up a buco pastry that is to die for.”

Mustache Man folded his arms over his chest.

“Not like that. I wouldn’t ruin a masterpiece with something as barbaric as poison. Not that I have any poison—”

Axel coughed.

“Just look in the satchel,” she said before the Faithful’s glares could worsen.

Boss Lady palmed a delcio, while Mustache Man sniffed a leaf. “These are your special ingredients?” Mustache Man said.

Remy sat up. “Is that a deal?”

“Deal. But any funny moves and this one dies.” Boss Lady gestured to Axel.

Remy ignored the tightening in her chest and held out her hands, rubbed raw from the rope. “Now, about my bonds.”

“Why are they green?” Mustache Man gaped.

Remy breathed in the aroma of sugary dough, fresh out of the oven. “Leaves, remember?”

Boss Lady set the tray on the bed—a fire hazard, probably. Remy swiped one.

“Smells great, Rem.” Axel sat up and away from the wall. Despite serving a despot, the Faithful sadly weren’t stupid enough to cut his bonds. “Even if they look like vegetables.”

Remy took a bite, serenaded by the delcio’s tang, the nozpeca’s nutty crunch, the acucar’s sweetness. She licked her lips. “Do you evil henchmen want some?”

Mustache Man growled. “Give it to your boyfriend first.”

Heat filled Remy’s cheeks as she crouched next to Axel, trying not to wonder what he thought about the “boyfriend” comment.

“I guess I’ll eat leaves.” He bit into the dough, lips brushing her fingers.

“So?” She cleared her throat. “What’s the verdict?”

His smile made her as warm as a fresh-cooked buco.

In moments, the Faithful were polishing off their own pastries. “No worries about poison, huh?” Remy said.

“You’re a baker, all right.” Boss Lady brushed crumbs from her tunic. “But that doesn’t mean Scar-Face is.”

Remy blanched. Still, Axel’s cooking might just kill the Faithful—problem solved. “We can find more ingredients—”

“Save it,” Mustache Man barked. “He’s off to the interrogation chambers.”

“But not you.” Boss Lady bared green-stained teeth. “You’re our chef now.”

Remy sagged against Axel. Blood roared in her ears, drowning out Axel’s protestations.

The pastries were supposed to save them. Not condemn her to serving the enemy and Axel to…

I refuse to let him die! Her pastries had saved her from a bullet and given her a safe position on the inside. Maybe she could coordinate his freedom.

It was time for the Faithful to get their just desserts.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Cassandra Hamm is a psychology nerd, jigsaw puzzler, and hopeless romantic who spends most of her time lost in another world. She hosts Instagram writing prompt contests every other month. Her work appears in various anthologies, including Stories that Sing and Bingeworthy from Havok Publishing, Warriors Against the Storm, and Faces to the Sun. She suspects she may one day end up as a cat lady (or the owner of a Warrior Clan).

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