Step, another step. I stepped onto the balcony and knocked. Before I could get the second knock in, the door flew open. A dark shape filled the doorway. I saw two glowing white eyes and a mouth studded with sharp teeth.

The mouth gaped open and a deep voice roared, “Go away!”

The door slammed shut inches from my face.

I blinked. Really, now. I think he actually blew my hair back with that. I knocked again.

The door sprung open, jerked aside by a powerful hand and teeth snapped in my face. “What? What is it? Do I owe you money? Is that it? There is no money! I have nothing!”

“I need a chef.”

There was an outraged pause. “So that’s it. You have come to mock me.” The dark lips that hid the teeth rose, baring fangs the size of my pinkies. “Maybe I shall COOK YOU FOR DINNER!”

Beast’s fur stood straight up. Wicked claws slid from her feet. Her mouth gaped open, unnaturally wide, displaying four rows of razor sharp teeth. She snapped her teeth and let out a piercing howl. “Awwwreeerooo!”

The Quillonian leaned back, shocked, and roared.

Beast snapped her teeth, lightning fast, biting the air, and struggling in my arms. If he slammed the door in our face now, she’d shred it like confetti.

“Stop it, both of you!” I barked.

Beast closed her mouth. The Quillonian sagged against the doorway. “What is it you want?”

“I need a chef.”

“Holy Mother of Vengeance, fine. Come inside. You can bring your small demon as well.”

I followed him through the doorway into a narrow hallway. The wall were filthy with grime, baked into the plaster by time. The hallway opened into an equally grimy living room. The glass in the windows had been shattered long ego, and a single dark shard stuck out from the top of the frame. Dirt lay in the corners, gathered against the wall like dunes in a dessert. A filthy couch sat in the middle of the floor. Soiled high-tech foam stuck out through rips in its upholstery. A pile of wooden slivers filled a singed metal bucket in front of the couch. He must’ve made a fire in the bucket when he got cold.

The draft brought a sour revolting stench. I glanced through the window as I followed him. Below us stood huge concrete vats. One was filled with what had to be lime and the other with some dark substance. The other three vats held red, blue and yellow dyes. Tall bird-like beings waded through the dye vats, stirring something with their feet. It had to be a tannery, which probably meant the substance in the other vat was bird dung. The wind flung another dose of stink at me. I clamped my hand over my mouth and nose and squeezed through the next doorway.

A pristine kitchen lay before me. Its cheap wooden cabinets were so clean, they glowed. The counter top, a single slab of simple stone, was polished to a near mirror shine. A butcher block carved with a knife out of a plain block of wood held three knives in the corner next to an ancient but clean stove. The contrast was so sudden, I stole a glance at the living room to make sure were still in the same place.

The Quillonian turned toward me and I finally saw him in the light. Even slightly stooped, he was seven feet tall. Chocolate-brown short fur covered his muscled body in the front, flowing into a dense forest of foot-long spikes on his back. That’s why the innkeepers called them Quillonians. Their real name was too difficult to pronounce.

His torso was vaguely humanoid, but his thick muscular neck was long and protruded forward. His head was triangular, with predatory canine muzzle terminating in a sensitive black nose. His hands had four fingers and two thumbs, each digit long and elegant. Two-inch long black claws tipped the fingers. Quillonians were a predatory species, my memory reminded me. They didn’t hunt humans, but they wouldn’t mind ripping one apart.

“What do you know?” The Quillonian fixed me with his stare. At the door his eyes appeared completely white but now I saw a pale turquoise iris with a narrow black pupil.

“You were a Red Cleaver, but you were stripped of your certification because you might have poisoned someone.”

“I did not poison anyone.” The Quillonian shook his head, his quills rustling. “I will explain, and then you can leave and slam the door behind you. I worked at the Blue Jewel on Buharpoor. I don’t expect you to know what it is or where it is, so trust me when I say it was a glittering jewel of a restaurant in a hotel of mind-boggling luxury.”

I could believe it. The implant that let him speak English was clearly high quality.

“We were hosting a gala for the neighboring system. Three thousand beings. I was responsible for all of it. It was going splendidly until my sous chef took a bribe and served one of the princes a poisoned soup. The prince collapsed during the dinner and died.”

“So you didn’t actually poison anyone?” Why did they strip him of his rank, then?

“That is not the point!” The Quillonian threw his hands up. “I have two million taste buds. I can taste a drop of syrup in a pool of water the size of this building. I know thousands of poisons by taste. Had I sampled the dish before it left my kitchen, I would’ve detected the poison within it. But I did not taste it. I tasted the ingredients for freshness, I tasted the soup during the preparation, but Soo had worked with me for ten years and we were serving a banquet to three thousand beings, and I let the soup go. In the moment that the poison’s presence was detected, the entire Galaxy knew that I let a dish go out of my kitchen without tasting it.”

He slumped against the wall, defeated, one hand over his eyes.

“So let me get it straight. They took your Cleaver because you did not taste the soup?”

“Yes. I did it. I let it go. I waved it on.” The Quillonian waved his hand. “Now you know my shame. Two decades of training, a decade of apprenticeship, two decades of being a chef. Accolades I received, dishes I created… I was a rising star and I threw it all away. I hope you enjoyed tormenting me. Door is that way.”

Now it made sense. He was punishing himself. He lived in this hovel above tannery, but his kitchen was still spotless, because as much as he wanted to degrade himself, his professional pride wouldn’t let him dishonor the kitchen.

“I still need a chef,” I told him.

He bared his teeth at me. “Did you not hear? There is no chef here.”

“I’m an innkeeper from Earth. I run a very small inn and I’m hosting a peace summit. I’m desperate for a chef.”

The quills on his back stood straight up. “There. Is. No. Chef. Here.”