Page 2 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

The Contract

T wo days later, I find myself standing outside of a red-brick office building in the fancy downtown area I never come to because I can’t afford anything here.

Not even a coffee. The sign beside the door bears a simple logo, just two interlocking M’s, and an address that matches the one Rebecca texted to me.

I hover on the sidewalk for several minutes, building up my courage, before forcing myself to venture inside.

The interior is eerily silent save for the rhythmic clacking of a keyboard.

At the back of the lobby, an immaculately dressed receptionist sits at an ornate desk.

It’s the only furniture in the room save for tasteful oil paintings of fantastical landscapes and impossible beasts.

When I approach the desk, the woman’s eyes trail from her industrious typing up to meet my eyes.

One perfectly groomed golden eyebrow raises curiously.

“Yes? Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m Anna Carmichael?” Somehow, it comes out like a question. “I’m here to see…” I glance down at the text on my phone. “Nathan Oliver?”

Her other eyebrow joins the first. “Of course. Just a moment.” She rises gracefully from her chair and disappears through the door with a quiet snick of the latch.

Alone with my thoughts, I start to wonder what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

This place absolutely screams ‘sophisticated’ and ‘expensive.’ After talking to Rebecca, I’d convinced myself that I was willing to go cage diving with sharks if it meant escaping endless nights waiting tables and mopping floors for peanuts.

But this place… I don’t belong here, and I have the nagging feeling that this job might chew me up and spit me out.

I’m contemplating calling the whole thing off and sneaking out when the door opens again, and the receptionist returns with a man in a gray suit.

He’s strikingly handsome, with carefully styled dark hair, tanned skin, and startling aquamarine eyes.

His features would be at home on a movie star, and his suit is perfectly tailored to his broad shoulders and slim waist.

Damn. Not only am I underdressed, but I’m not attractive enough by half to work here if this is what they’re looking for. More evidence that I don’t belong here.

“Anna Carmichael, yes?” the man asks smoothly, holding out one broad hand and revealing an expensive gold watch winking from under his sleeve. “I’m Nathan Oliver.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, taking his hand. “I like your name,” I offer, nerves getting the better of me and making me babble. “I’ve always thought having two first names was cool. I’m nearly there, right, Anna Carmichael? But not quite.”

Nathan squints at me before turning to look askance at the receptionist. Her slender shoulders go up in a shrug that matches her lofted eyebrows, and internally, I’m fighting a blush with everything in me. Hush, Anna!

“Follow me, Ms. Carmichael,” he says at last, apparently electing to ignore my weird comment. Chastened, I follow Nathan through the door and into a hallway.

Dark hardwood stretches the length of the hallway, and the white walls are adorned with more fanciful artwork. As we pass a painting of a unicorn, I find myself wondering what the preoccupation is with mythological creatures. Is it a metaphor?

Nathan leads me into a spacious office dominated by a mahogany desk and packed floor-to-ceiling bookshelves.

As he motions for me to take a seat by the desk, I skim some of the titles.

War and Peace. 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.

Sherlock Holmes. Either the man has a taste for the classics, or he wants people to think he does .

I carefully perch on the edge of the chair before promptly slipping on the slick leather.

I just manage to save myself before my ass hits the floor, and I throw my weight back so abruptly that the sturdy chair scrapes backward an inch.

I fling a panicked look at Nathan, my cheeks flaming. Did he see all that?

Unperturbed, Nathan settles into his chair with only a quick glance in my direction before he reaches down to pull open one of his desk drawers. Is the man a robot? He’s just so… reserved, and he gives nothing away. Was he custom-built to match the decor?

Oblivious to my thoughts, or just indifferent to them, Nathan retrieves a neat stack of papers. “I understand you’re here about the caretaker position.”

I swallow hard. “Yes.”

He looks away from whatever he’s reading and meets my eye. “Do you know anything about what the job entails?”

I nod then shake my head in quick succession and probably just manage to look like a bobblehead. “Yes, well, no. All Rebecca told me was that it involves taking care of animals.”

He nods. “Yes. Rare animals. Exotic animals. Expensive animals.” He spears me with a look. “Are you qualified to take care of such animals?”

Probably not. “Well,” I hedge, “I was pre-vet in college before I had to leave to take care of my ailing grandmother. I did some shadowing in vet clinics and things. And in high school, I volunteered at the zoo. And I’ve been walking dogs for the past three years.”

He raises a dark brow. “That’s it?”

Desperately scrounging for any skills I can claim, I blurt, “I can bottle-feed kittens. Clicker-train dogs. Suture wounds.” Well, I’ve technically only watched a couple of vets close wounds in dogs, but close enough. It didn’t look that hard. “And I wrap a mean purrito.”

Nathan stares at me blankly before asking, “A purrito?”

“You know, when you restrain a cat by wrapping them in a towel. A cat burrito. A purrito?” My voice trails off the longer he stares, and a blush steals across my face. “Like, the towel is the tortilla and the cat is the—”

“Yes, I understand the concept,” Nathan interrupts, and I purse my lips to hold back more nervous babbling. “Those are certainly some… skills.”

“And I’m highly motivated,” I blurt lamely, borrowing Rebecca’s term.

He scrutinizes me for a minute while I try not to squirm. Finally, he comes to a decision and nods. “I’m inclined to give you a chance, Ms. Carmichael.”

I don’t know whether to feel relieved or dismayed. “Thank you, Mr. Oliver.”

“Don’t thank me quite yet. There is one significant matter to address.

” I watch curiously as he puts the papers he was holding down on the desk—my resume and something else that I can’t quite make out but looks like some kind of report—and pulls another stack of papers from his drawer.

“In addition to the contract, you will have to sign a non-disclosure agreement.”

Now it’s time for my eyebrows to fly up. “An NDA? Why?”

“As I mentioned, the collection involves several rare and exotic animals,” he explains as he opens a long box and produces a fancy golden pen. “Such unusual species are at constant threat from theft.”

Or, and hear me out, the animals are already stolen, or maybe purchased on the black market , I think wryly. Oh, well. Makes no difference to me as long as I can afford the balance on Nan’s bills this month.

Nathan continues, “You are not to take pictures of the animals—as a matter of fact, a guard will take your phone when you enter the premises and return it as you leave. You are not to mention the animals to friends, family, strangers, anyone. You are not to mention the animals on social media. You are not to mention the nature of your duties. You are not to mention the name of your employer. The extent of what you may reveal to others is that you are ‘pet sitting’ for an individual. Any details you choose to fabricate are entirely at your discretion.”

My jaw drops. “You want me to make up a story about what I’m doing?”

“That is at your discretion,” he repeats, opening the pen and turning the contract toward me.

“And the money?” I ask. I know it’s in poor taste to talk so directly about wages, but I need to know if what Rebecca told me is true.

“Page three,” he says, and I flip through the contract until I find the section on compensation .

Sure enough, the salary is what I expected, though… “It says part of my paycheck will go directly to paying for my grandmother’s nursing home bills instead of coming to me first,” I point out warily.

He nods. “That is for your benefit. That money will not be subject to tax.”

“Really?” I ask, shocked. To not have to pay taxes on that chunk of money… But how…

“My employer—and soon to be yours, should you take this job—needs someone to care for his collection, but he has a big heart. He cares deeply for people, and if he can help you and your grandmother, he is happy to do so.”

It seems too good to be true, but then, that NDA… that tells me that it very well might be. “Can I read through all this and think about it?”

Nathan nods formally. “I’ll get us both some coffees. When I return, I can answer any questions you may have, and hopefully, you will be ready to sign.” He offers a small, distant smile before standing and crossing the office to the exit.

Once he’s gone, I flip through the extensive contract, my eyes swimming with all the legalese.

Before I get too overwhelmed, I search for a few sections I might understand.

I have to give two weeks’ notice should I choose to leave, though my employer is under no obligation to offer me the same and can terminate the position at any time.

I don’t love that, but it’s not a deal breaker.

It’s a night shift position, with expected hours nine to five but overnight, five days a week.

I’m used to that, so also not a deal breaker.

The NDA is a little more concerning. It looks like any mention of the job outside of an abstract confirmation that I have one would be an infringement. And any such infringement would result in immediate termination as well as a civil trial that would likely end in my complete financial ruin.

Then again, who do I really have to talk to about this job anyway?

My high school friends all moved on to different colleges and lost touch.

I work alone walking dogs and cleaning the hospital, and all the women who waited tables with me at Chucky’s Diner were nice but older.

I wouldn’t exactly call us close friends.

The only person I might be inclined to mention any of this to is Nan, but she doesn’t know I’ve been working three jobs as it is.

Would signing this thing really affect my life at all?

While all these thoughts are swirling around in my brain, Nathan returns with two white paper cups in hand.

The one he sets in front of me has a fancy tulip poured into a layer of soft foam.

I don’t know that I’ve ever drunk a latte before in my life, let alone one that can double as a work of art.

I gingerly lift the cup and take a small sip, trying to preserve the carefully crafted flower for as long as possible. Damn, it’s delicious. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Nathan sets his own cup down and retakes his seat. “Now, have you run across any questions I can answer?”

“The contract says this job is five days a week,” I note. “I’m assuming there must be at least one other caretaker who covers the other two days?”

“That’s correct, there is another caretaker named John. You’ll overlap three days, but you’ll be alone two nights per week.”

“How long has he been working for you?” I inquire, curious to see if he’s been there longer than Rebecca indicated.

He hums thoughtfully. “About a year, I believe.”

Well, that’s not a long time, but it’s better than six months.

Thinking of some potentially illegal animals—creatures like lions and tigers and bears, oh my!—I ask, “Are the animals dangerous?”

He hesitates, which tells me everything I need to know even before he says, “Some, yes. Of course, we take every precaution, but I won’t tell you that every animal is innocuous.”

I know I should be worried about that, but inside, I feel a little shiver of anticipation.

Back when I thought I was going to be a veterinarian, I never planned to work on dogs and cats and bunny rabbits.

No, I gravitated more toward zoo medicine or hoofstock—big, beefy cattle or beasts with horns and teeth.

That dream might have met a premature end, but this job could get me close to what I always imagined.

And if I still have misgivings… well, I can always quit.

“When would I start?” I ask, already reaching for his pen.

He offers another subdued smile. “Would tomorrow night be too soon?”

“Not at all,” I reply, and I sign the contract, followed by the NDA, with a flourish.