“So,” said Kaye from the middle of the group, “now we work for the elf.”
“Strictly speaking,” corrected Dennis the IT guy, “everyone in the metropolitan area works for the elf, even if they don’t.”
“Do you think he’s Jack Frost?” That was Cheryl with the cheap nose ring.
“Could be,” Amanda struggled with the key and a stiff lock. “The blue and the white fur make you wonder, but he said to call him the elf, or sir.” Finally the door opened.
They all went inside, Tom the cook flicking the light switch. The room was cavernous, clearly built as an industrial space. It was currently divided into part-rooms, most of them looking like bedrooms. Amanda led them towards the centre of the floor explaining, “Our job for the next three days is to clear these sets out so we can refit. Our kit’s coming at noon, so we need space freed up by then. The skips are out the back door,” she looked at her plan and pointed, “over there. Tom, you’ll take charge of the kitchen area.”
“Hey!” Gavin was holding aloft a frankly inappropriate item of either black latex or black leather. “Can we salvage stuff?”
“Not,” Amanda said firmly, “if it could have body fluids on it. This place got shut down for its infections, not illegality.”
Two and a half weeks later the refit was done. It was living, training, office and garage space for twenty. Amanda and her team were administration, maintenance and support, but for whom?
The first door knock came on the eighteenth day. Two men were outside; one very large, blond-haired and young, the other older with black hair and a beard. “I’m Einar Haraldsson, frost giant, and this is Calhoun the killer,” said the blond. “I believe we’re expected.”