Page 13 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

The Friend

A fter what felt like a deal with the devil, the next night is surprisingly drama-free.

What I learn is that most of the creatures in the menagerie don’t interact with us unless they absolutely have to, my social wolf and Fionn the chatty kelpie notwithstanding.

John takes me through the “mountain” region of the warehouse.

It doesn’t involve climbing an honest-to-God mountain, but it is comprised of some small inclines with an abundance of rugged granite rock.

To my shock and delight, there is a paired sasquatch/yeti exhibit.

In a rare moment of joviality, John informs me that the exhibits have been combined to allow comparison between the two similar but geographically distinct species.

That being said, we don’t see either creature as we place fruit (fresh this time) into the sasquatch’s enclosure and release fish in a half-frozen pond for the yeti.

For the wendigo, though, we run a live hog into the enclosure through a chute.

“We don’t mess with the wendigo,” John tells me gruffly as the boar grunts and squeals its way into a snowy enclosure that’s tight with evergreen trees and craggy boulders.

“We never go into the enclosure. Honestly, there isn’t enough money in the world for me to go in there, and that’s saying something. ”

When I get home that morning and sit down to a breakfast of frozen waffles, I pull out my antique laptop and wait about a decade for it to pull up results for ‘wendigo.’ By the time the words ‘cannibal,’ ‘gluttony,’ and ‘human flesh’ have assaulted my retinas, my Eggos and sickly sweet pancake syrup threaten to make a reappearance.

It takes us bypassing the vampire enclosure for a second night in a row for me to realize that we haven’t been feeding her. As much as I’m relieved not to have to go near the feral woman again, I can’t help but worry that she’ll go hungry. After all, she is a living—err, undead?—thing.

When I ask John about it, he gives me an odd expression that I can’t decipher. “She only gets fed every few weeks,” he replies, and despite my ongoing research, I don’t know enough about vampire physiology to question him.

At the end of the third night, John makes a comment about spending his days off at the track betting on the ponies, and I realize that the following night I’ll be on my own for the first time.

Even though John hasn’t proven to be a very good resource or even pleasant company, I still spend the whole day fretting about the idea of being alone.

By the time I’m driving in for my shift, my eyes are dry and gritty from lack of sleep, and my nerves are completely shot.

Maybe that’s why, instead of following the systematic order that John has used the past two nights, I head straight for the wolf’s enclosure once I arrive.

He didn’t come again last night when John and I let ourselves in to feed him, and I missed him more than I would have thought I should.

My hope is that, with John’s black cloud of gloom missing, maybe he’ll come out again.

I hit the switch to slide the divider closed before taking my time selecting the choicest cuts of meat from the freezer.

I even add an extra rack of ribs, which satisfies something petty in me that knows John wouldn’t approve.

It takes me two trips to carry everything to the concrete slab, and I keep my eyes glued to the forest beyond the divider for any sign of the wolf.

After I put down my second load of steak, I hover, holding my breath in anticipation.

When he still doesn’t appear, I gently call out, “Wolf?”

What, do I think he’s going to come when I call like a trained hound? Annoyed with myself, I turn to leave, but a low ruff makes me spin back with a gasp. There, sitting a few yards away on the other side of the chain link, is the dire wolf .

“Hi!” I blurt, too excited to play it cool.

Besides, do I really think he’s going to judge me?

“You came!” His tail wags once, but he otherwise doesn’t react.

“It’s just me today,” I tell him, raising my arms to gesture to the lack of John nearby.

“It’s my first night doing everything alone. I’m a little nervous.”

He tilts his head and chuffs, and I decide to take that as him offering his support. “Thanks. And anyway, seeing you again has already made it a good night.”

His tail gives another brief wag, and my eyes widen. Did he just… respond to me? As quickly as I think it, I dismiss the idea. He must just be reacting to my happy tone.

“Can I… come closer?” I ask him carefully.

When he doesn’t react at all, I slowly edge my way forward, one cautious step at a time.

His luminous eyes remain fixed on me, but he doesn’t warn me off as I approach.

Before long, I’m only about ten feet away from him.

This close, I’m awed again by just how striking he is, from his glistening black fur and proud bearing to his amber eyes and powerful paws tipped in black claws.

With him sitting down, he still towers over me standing by several inches.

“I’m no artist,” I tell him dryly, “but if I could manage more than a stick figure, I’d be tempted to paint you. ”

The human part of me looking for connection imagines that one side of his mouth tips up, and I mirror the illusory smile. “Can I sit?” I ask abruptly. “It seems so formal, standing.”

Not waiting for a reply, I gracelessly lower myself to the ground, my seat cushioned by dry leaves.

Now that I’m on the ground, I realize how imposing it is to look up…

and up… and up at him. I move to stand back up, cheeks heating, but he makes a grumbling sound that stops me.

I glance up just in time to see his front paws slide forward until he’s lying down, his eyes now close to level with mine.

“Oh,” I say, my heart throbbing at such a gentle, kind gesture coming from such a dangerous predator. “Thank you.”

For a moment, we simply exist together, the false breeze playing in his glossy fur and tugging short strands of honey-colored hair loose from my ponytail and into my eyes.

“It’s so surreal,” I blurt, never having met a silence I didn’t feel the need to fill.

When he tilts his head as if in question, I add, “Being here. With you. And with…” I motion to the menagerie as a whole. “All of them.”

He stiffens, his attention rapt on me, and another frisson of knowing passes through me.

How much, I can’t say for sure, but this wolf…

he understands what I’m saying. Some of it, at least. “Have you met any of the other… residents here?” I ask curiously, searching for a word that isn’t ‘creatures’ or ‘beasts’ when neither of those fits every being here.

When the wolf simply continues to stare, I say, “It’s incredible.

There are others here I couldn’t even conjure up in a fever dream.

There’s a centaur—who’s very grumpy, but understandably so—and a massive sea serpent, and an albino kraken, and a wendigo—which I had to Google once I got home and, let me tell you, I wish I didn’t—and a mermaid.

A mermaid! I was too far away to really see her, but the colors…

she is so beautiful. And the jackalopes, gosh, they’re so cute, and surprisingly stately with their antlers. ”

I’m babbling, I know, but that NDA has been like a noose around my neck. It’s just such a relief to finally be able to tell someone about all this. Never mind that that someone is an animal, he also happens to be a surprisingly good listener.

Emboldened by his continued attention, I add, “And the kelpies… Do you know what they are? They’re water horses, but they can shift to look like humans. Isn’t that amazing?”

Now, he does react, gifting me his easy-going grin complete with dangling tongue. “Right?” I agree, assuming he must be as impressed as I was. “Amazing.”

As I think about Fionn and Ciara, though, I can’t help but imagine them tucked in that little corner of their enclosure while we brought them fish.

And the centaur, too, so angry with me just for being here.

Then the Thunderbird being subjected to the ill temper of a petty little weasel like John.

This place may be dressed up as a whimsical Garden of Eden, but it’s still just a pretty prison—a gilded cage.

“I…” I hesitate to voice any of these thoughts, but I can’t say them to anyone else.

Even John, who might be the only person who could ever really un derstand my complicated feelings about this place, has the emotional intelligence of a potato.

Less, maybe. “I feel guilty,” I admit at last, finally letting out the thoughts that have been circling my mind like sharks around a wounded swimmer.

“These people—the centaurs, and the kelpies, and you, too—none of you should be here. You didn’t ask for this.

And I’m just… allowing it. Facilitating it.

And I feel so horrible. But I can’t quit—trust me, I tried.

But then you would all still be here, and where would that leave Nan?

” I interpret another head tilt as curiosity, because I clarify, “My grandmother. She’s been sick for a long time, and she needs to live in a care facility.

Without this job, I can barely afford to take care of her.

“But in the meantime, I feel like I’m being torn in so many different directions.

I have a responsibility to Nan, and to this job, but to all of you, too.

And I don’t know what to do.” My voice breaks on the last word, and I clear my throat, my face flushing with embarrassment despite my audience.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to lay all of this on you. It’s just… I don’t have anyone else.”

For a long, awkward moment, the wolf is still. I stare resolutely at a hole in the toe of my boot so I don’t have to see his expression. Somehow, complete incomprehension, pity, or condemnation would all be equally painful to witness.

Finally, a scuffing sound draws my attention.

I glance up to see that the wolf has pulled himself closer to the chain link and to me.

As I watch, he lowers his head, stretching out his neck until his dark muzzle nearly touches the metal wire.

Puzzled, I watch him silently for a moment.

When he doesn’t move, I dare to scoot a little closer, and then a little closer still when his tail gives a minute wag.

When I’m only a couple of feet away, I hesitate before reaching out slowly, so slowly, giving him plenty of time to tell me that I am stepping over a boundary.

When he only remains in that same position, earnest topaz eyes fixed on mine, I draw in a steadying breath before slipping two fingers through one of the wire diamonds to stroke the top of his muzzle.

“Soft,” I blurt, somehow surprised even though I shouldn’t be by the velvety texture of the fur above his nose.

Because of the narrow openings in the divider, I can’t reach far, so I trail my fingertips up along the broad bridge of his snout to the slope of his forehead, keeping my touch as light as a sigh.

My heart thumps painfully in my chest, partly out of fear that I’m about to lose some digits, but mostly out of a profound sense of gratitude.

He’s… trying to comfort me. Right? He must be.

“Thank you,” I murmur, tracing my fingers once more down his muzzle before pulling away.

He huffs and swishes his tail one last time before he pushes himself back up to stand. This time, I can’t deny it—this wolf is grinning at me.