Page 3 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

The Menagerie

T he next night, a black Cadillac Escalade pulls up outside my townhouse, the dark paint glinting like obsidian under the murky streetlights. How a car can manage to be predatory, I don’t know, but the sight of it shoots a frisson of unease up my spine all the same.

The back door opens to reveal Nathan, his crisp suit and precisely styled hair still immaculate despite the hour.

The flickering street lamp above him paints his sculpted cheekbones in sharp relief and casts his shadow long and foreboding across the sidewalk.

Or maybe that’s the nerves talking. He steps aside to hold the car door open for me and motions to the dim interior.

“Good evening, Ms. Carmichael. Please make yourself comfortable.”

In that moment, I get the strangest feeling of vertigo—almost as if I’m perched somewhere very high with every possibility of tumbling from the precipice. I could step back into safety. I should step back into safety. Instead, I offer Nathan a murmured “thank you” as I slide into the car.

A moment later, Nathan settles into the seat beside me and crosses his ankle over one knee, his black shoes as polished and shiny as the Cadillac. He looks at home in the space, and the faint smile he gives me is the most sincere I’ve seen from him yet. “Ready?”

Am I ready? I guess I have to be. Trying my best to look confident, I give a firm nod. “Ready.”

Nathan is silent as we traverse the streets that lead out of my neighborhood and into the industrial area on the outskirts of the city.

Meanwhile, I sink deeper and deeper into foreboding.

Where could they possibly keep animals out this way?

Are they actually taking me somewhere to kill me?

Or sell me to traffickers? I’ve never thought I was much to look at, but maybe that doesn’t matter so much.

Maybe “desperate and naive” are good enough for slavers.

My mind is so busy spinning that I almost don’t hear Nathan as he calmly states, “We’re here.”

“We’re where?” I ask. I clear my throat when my voice squeaks like a prepubescent boy’s.

He shoots me an inscrutable look. “Here. At your new workplace.”

It’s hard to see out the tinted windows, but I can make out an iron fence stretching away into the dim distance. The car eases forward through an open gate before turning slowly and revealing the front of a boxy warehouse. “Here?” I ask, confusion coloring my tone.

“Mr. Mathis wanted somewhere discreet,” Nathan explains, only half paying attention as his phone dings and draws his eye. “He bought the warehouse from Amazon a few years ago.”

Somehow, I think he means something different than when I bought my favorite cheap denim jacket off Amazon last fall.

The Cadillac pulls to a stop in front of a nondescript door, its only adornment that same small plaque with the intertwined M’s. M for Mathis? There’s a security guard dressed in black posted beside the door, his thick arms crossed menacingly over his chest.

Taking a steadying breath, I carefully edge out of the car until my scuffed boots touch down in the parking lot. The late summer air is balmy, but I rub a chill from my arms anyway while the Cadillac pulls away. It occurs to me that I never saw the driver’s face.

“Your phone, Ms. Carmichael,” Nathan says, and I turn to see he has one hand outstretched.

Remembering what he said about having my phone confiscated at the door, I quickly fumble it from my pocket and press it into his palm.

“Follow me, please,” he directs, and I scurry after him toward that austere front door.

He hands my phone to the security guard before leaning in for a quick, murmured conversation.

The door is matte black and smudged as if the color was spray-painted on by someone who didn’t care much about doing a good job.

Not at all where I expected a rich man to keep his collection of exotic pets.

Then again, I’m not sure what exactly I did expect.

Then, suddenly, everything makes sense when Nathan ushers me through the door.

My favorite book as a child was The Secret Garden .

I made my mother read it to me over and over until the binding fell apart and I had to put it back together with Scotch tape and Lisa Frank stickers.

Then, I made her read it all over again.

It’s still sitting on a shelf in my bedroom, enshrined in dust and memories—too fragile to touch, but too important to throw away.

Stumbling through that ugly black door is how I imagine Mary must have felt stepping into the hidden garden for the first time.

The path under my feet is perfectly laid red brick glittering with gold and bronze flecks under a soft golden light.

When I look up, I see a massive domed ceiling made of frosted glass held up by a scaffold of black iron.

Since I’ve seen the outside of the building and it’s built like a squat, square box, I have to assume the ceiling is false and the windows are lit from behind by artificial light. Still, the effect is breathtaking.

The brick path leads up to a massive carousel adorned in deep reds and burnished gold that reflects the flickering light from a surrounding ring of brass gas lamps.

The carousel roof peaks in a red-and-white striped canopy like a classic circus tent and is lined by silvery mirrors interspersed with elaborate carvings of sea serpents, birds with flames for feathers, and pixies with butterfly wings.

The underside of the roof is lit by a web of sparkling lights arranged in constellations, some of which I know but many more I can’t name.

The platform is built of mahogany wood buffed to a high shine, and it supports at least a dozen mythical mounts affixed to spiraling gilded poles.

My gaze catalogs a radiant white horse with an iridescent horn twisted up into a fine point from between two soulful blue eyes, a large black wolf with topaz eyes and sterling fangs, and a ruby dragon with golden wings arching high overhead.

The brick path forms a circle in its center before branching away like spokes on a wheel with the carousel as its axle.

Where those paths lead is impossible to tell as thick foliage grows up between the spokes in a dazzling display of emerald leaves and vivid flowers.

The whole mess should look wild and overgrown, but as I stare, my eyes begin to pick out patterns of swirls and spirals and fleurs-de-lis.

The overall effect is dizzying and beautiful, and I’m transported to another time and place where horses drew carriages and people could pay a penny to see a real live elephant.

“Why, hello there.”

Startled, I jump a foot in the air before looking around frantically for the source of the voice.

Finally, my eyes pick out a man from among the stampeding herd of legendary beasts frozen forever in a gallop.

He’s older—in his sixties, maybe—but still cuts a fine figure in a fitted black sweater and pressed chinos.

His silver hair is thick and parted tidily to one side, a well-groomed mustache adorns his upper lip, and fine lines radiate from the corners of his eyes.

Those lines would make him seem to laugh often if the rest of his face weren’t uncannily smooth.

It’s almost as if he had the rest of his wrinkles erased but purposefully left the laugh lines to look more approachable and distinguished all at once.

He’s a handsome man whom I might expect to see in a classic black-and-white Hollywood film.

Absently, I wonder if he’s related to Nathan, or if he just surrounds himself with pretty things.

After all, I have no doubt that this is the big boss—Mr. Mathis himself.

It’s evident in the way he carries himself, brimming with the ease and confidence of a man secure in the fact that all he surveys belongs to him.

My assumption is further confirmed when Nathan exclaims, “Mr. Mathis!” and brushes past me to stand at attention in front of the man in question.

“Hello, Nathan,” Mr. Mathis greets him cheerily, his voice smooth and jovial. His manner is pleasant, but when he turns sharp black eyes on me, I feel like a rabbit caught in a snare. “Who do we have here?”

“Ah, yes, this is Ms. Anna Carmichael.” Nathan backtracks to take my elbow and gently but firmly leads me the final few yards to the edge of the carousel. “The new caretaker.”

“A pleasure, Ms. Anna,” Mr. Mathis says, resting one hand on the thick, scaly neck of the red dragon beside him. “It’s good to have you here. ”

“It’s good to be here,” I reply automatically, a knee-jerk politeness. Searching for something more meaningful to say, I add, “What I’ve seen so far is lovely. It takes my breath away.”

Mathis’s eyes glitter with pride. “That is so nice to hear. It may be a pet project of mine, but I spared no expense.” He motions with his hand to the silent carousel. “Tell me, which is your favorite creature?”

Why does this feel like a test? I quickly survey my options.

In addition to the mounts I’ve already spotted, I note a centaur with a gray spotted hide and a masculine beauty even the Renaissance masters would have struggled to envision, a griffon with glittering obsidian talons and intricately carved tawny feathers, a horse the color of sea glass with a curling fish-like tail, and a grotesque creature that looks to be made of many animals stitched together.

Still, my eyes keep gravitating back toward the ebony wolf and his amber eyes, sparkling with so much intelligence that they almost seem human. “The wolf, I think,” I reply at last.

“An excellent choice,” Mr. Mathis replies with a satisfied nod. He pats the neck of the dragon. “Though I’m partial to this fellow myself.”

“He’s beautiful,” I offer, and he is. He brings to mind soaring and freedom and cathedrals made of granite stone and the smell of ozone.

Still, my wolf makes me think of the scent of soft loam and petrichor, the delicate brush of new spring leaves against my cheeks, and looking up at the canopy as jade light dapples my skin.

The earthy, essential feeling of returning to the woods after a long time away.

It’s not glamorous, but it is cozy and invigorating all at once.

“Yes,” Mr. Mathis agrees wistfully, tracing the edge of one leathery wing with a finger. “If only dragons weren’t all extinct. Maybe then I could feel that my collection was finally complete.”

Is he joking or senile? Hoping it’s the former, I manage a chuckle, and he shoots me a knowing look.

“Well, I’ll have to be content with what I’ve managed to acquire…

and what I might realistically acquire in the future.

Oh, but I suspect I’m keeping you from your tour.

” He steps down from the carousel in front of me and places a gentle hand on my shoulder.

His dark eyes are alight with a childlike excitement, and I wonder if I misjudged him a mo ment ago.

He seems more like a kid in a candy shop than a manipulative aristocrat.

“If you ever need anything, Nathan knows how to get hold of me. Otherwise…” Here he spreads his arms wide to encompass the carousel, the paths to parts unknown, and the breadth of this place in general.

“Welcome to Mars Mathis’s Mystical Menagerie! ”

Well, that’s cute if a bit over the top. Before I can puzzle over what makes the menagerie so ‘mystical,’ Nathan motions for me to follow him. “This way, then. I’m glad you were able to meet Mr. Mathis, but it’s getting late. We should find John and see about that tour.”

We take the path directly around the carousel and across from the entrance.

As we go, the path begins to meander, and the garden fades into a desert theme with golden sand, the occasional cow or horse skull, and an assortment of cacti ranging from squat and adorned with bright flowers to tall and austere.

The air even begins to take on a hot, arid quality, suggesting some kind of local climate control.

When we reach a part of the “desert” that is penned in with a clear glass wall that reaches above my head, I slow, curious if this is an exhibit.

It takes a minute for my eyes to pick out movement, and I zero in on a pair of small creatures a few yards away.

At first, I identify them as the kind of rangy brown hares you’d expect to see in the desert, and I’m confused.

Are the rabbits the exhibit? Or part of the decor the same way the animal skulls and spiky desert plants are?

As I consider both options, my eyes travel down their long ears and freeze. Growing proudly from between those ears are branching, bony spikes that can’t be anything other than antlers.

“What… how…” I stutter, trying to explain these creatures as anything other than…

“Jackalopes.” Nathan steps up beside me and peers through the glass. “Cute, aren’t they? Straight from the wilds of Wyoming.”

And, suddenly, I realize: the problem here isn’t that the animals are illegal so much as that they’re mythological.

Welcome to the menagerie, indeed.