Page 44 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

The End and the Beginning

Delia

T here’s someone in my cage.

At first, I think it must be Anna, though I just saw her being herded away by security guards. I’m terrified to think that they discovered her escape plot. What will Mathis do to her after everything he’s proven capable of?

However, the footsteps are too heavy to belong to Anna’s slight frame, and the scent of cologne—something herbal and masculine—wends its way through the trees to my sensitive nose.

Underneath that, as always, is the coppery scent of the blood in his veins.

My stomach grumbles even though Anna brought me two pints only yesterday.

Despite the draw of his blood and the musical, beguiling badum badum badum of his strong heart, I keep myself tucked away and out of sight in the shadows. Somewhere in the menagerie, chaos reigns. I can hear men shouting and scurrying about like chickens startled by a fox prowling into the coop.

But judging by the echoing roar that trails off into a malignant chuckle, something more dangerous than a fox is stalking through the menagerie .

My intruder’s jogging footsteps draw closer, the dry leaves crunching underfoot giving away his position.

A moment later, he rounds a tree and comes into my line of sight.

With a start, I realize that I recognize him—it’s Mathis’s assistant, the one who walks through the menagerie on occasion and attends every gala. The one Anna promised is on our side.

I’ve always thought he was so handsome that he seemed almost unreal, like one of the shirtless men painted on the bodice rippers my momma liked to pick up from the grocery store.

Still, it’s hard to unlearn all the distrust I have for this man.

It always seemed to me that his pretty packaging might hide a rotten core.

Now, the man is looking around frantically, his eyes squinting through the gloom. Of course, I’m only assuming that there’s gloom, since I’ve been able to see perfectly in the dark ever since I became a vampire.

“Delia,” he calls in a low voice, and I realize with dawning horror that he’s looking for me.

His eyes almost pass over me, but something must give me away—a flash of my crimson eyes, maybe—because his wide aquamarine gaze snaps back to me.

For a moment, we both regard each other warily, neither keen to make the first move. Finally, the man—Nathan, Anna called him—raises a hand and gives a tentative wave. “Hello.”

His voice is deep, stern, and reminiscent of an actor in a superhero movie. “Hello,” I murmur back, more out of knee-jerk politeness than anything else.

“I’m sorry for intruding,” he continues, as if he merely stopped by for an unplanned visit. Then, he surprises me by carefully lowering himself onto the ground a few feet away so we’re at eye level.

“That’s okay,” I manage to reply at last. There’s a long, tense moment of silence before I force myself to ask, “Is Anna alright?”

“She’s fine,” Nathan is quick to assure me, and the knot of anxiety I’ve been carrying in my chest since I saw her being led away untangles itself.

There’s another scream not too far away, and I tense. “What’s out there?”

“The wendigo,” Nathan replies darkly .

“I don’t know what that is,” I admit, feeling foolish.

“I wish I didn’t either,” he says. Then, he does something even more unexpected.

He smiles at me, and suddenly, he’s so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at him.

I avert my eyes, uncomfortable with this fragile camaraderie.

After twenty of his heartbeats—I count each one without being consciously aware of it—he leans forward on his knees to offer his hand. “I’m Nathan.”

It takes me several long moments to decide whether to shake his hand. In the end, it’s his patience and the complete lack of judgment on his face that convinces me to rock forward and slip my hand into his. “I know. Anna told me about you. I’m Delia.”

His hand completely envelops mine, making me feel dainty by comparison even though I could lift him over my head with my preternatural strength.

Trust me, I tested myself in those early days.

His skin is smooth and blisteringly hot, his knuckles squared off, and his fingers long and graceful.

If I still had the ability, I’m sure I would be blushing.

After all, it’s been years since I’ve touched anyone outside of forced violence, and I didn’t make a habit of touching men even before I was captured.

The Virgin Vampire. That could absolutely be the title of one of Momma’s dime-store romance novels.

But despite having a title and a leading man, I can’t quite write myself into the scene.

Anna would be better suited to a romance, with her halo of dark gold hair and willowy ballerina frame and, y’know, her beating heart, but I’ve heard her speak fondly of her wolf enough times that I know she’s already the heroine of her own book.

As Nathan and I draw away from one another, I tilt my head to listen.

The sounds of fighting have faded, and I wonder if the wendigo has given up or been captured by Mathis’s security.

Having never seen a wendigo, not even as an illustration, I imagine something like the depictions of chupacabras I’ve seen in TV shows and on the covers of tabloids in the supermarket checkout aisle.

Weekly World News: Hillary Clinton’s Chupacabra Baby!

Lost in my thoughts, it takes me a couple of minutes to realize that Nathan is scrutinizing me. “What?” I ask defensively, tucking my knees more tightly to my chest as if I can protect myself from his gawking .

“Nothing, just…” He shakes his head. “How long have you been here?”

I raise my eyebrows. “You’re Mathis’s right-hand man. Or at least you were pretending to be. You don’t already know?”

He winces. “I’ve only been working for him for two years. You’ve been here longer than that.”

My jaw drops. “Two years ?”

He’s staring again. “How long did you think it had been?”

The honest answer is that I don’t know. With only brief periods of lucidity between… feedings, it could have been one hundred years or a handful of weeks. It felt like forever and the blink of an eye all at once. I hesitate, really not wanting to ask. “What’s the date?”

When he tells me, I burst into tears. I can’t help it. As far as I can tell, I’m immortal now, but the thought of spending eight of my thirty-six years trapped in a cage and being used as an unwilling assassin nearly breaks me.

Through my misery, I can hear Nathan’s indrawn breath.

I know I must be quite a sight—a sad imitation of a girl in a stained dress crying thick tears of blood.

I’d be embarrassed about this handsome man seeing me this way if I weren’t too consumed with the fact that nearly a quarter of my life—or existence, at least—has belonged to someone else.

Suddenly, I’m aware of a tentative hand on my right shoulder.

I reel back with a gasp, looking up at Nathan where he’s come to kneel beside me.

I quickly brush at my cheeks, knowing it’s no use—the blood will just smear and look worse.

But instead of recoiling, he only reaches up to the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and offers me his orange pocket square. “Here.”

I reach out with trembling fingers to accept the offering, biting back a gasp when my fingers brush his.

I’m struck again by how warm he is, and I have to fight the urge to drop the handkerchief and thread my fingers through his instead.

“Thank you,” I murmur, but I freeze with the fabric raised halfway to my face.

“I’ll ruin it,” I warn him, trying to hand it back.

He raises a hand, palm out, and shakes his head. “I don’t care about the handkerchief, Delia.”

I shiver at both his use of my name—it’s different hearing a rich, masculine voice saying it instead of Anna’s sweet, gentle lilt—and the intimation that he might not care about the pocket square, but he does care about my sadness.

“Thank you,” I repeat, finally allowing myself to dab the grotesque tears from my cheeks.

Nathan is silent again, but I can feel his thoughtful gaze on me as I hide behind his gift. Once again, if my cheeks could heat, they would, this time from embarrassment. “I’m sorry for crying,” I mumble.

I can feel Nathan shaking his head beside me. “If I were in your shoes…” He glances down at my bare feet, my favorite ankle boots long since lost. “Well, if I were in your position, I would cry, too.”

“I doubt it,” I reply, my warbling voice approaching something close to teasing. I can’t see this stoic, controlled man crying.

After a long, pregnant pause, Nathan huffs a sigh. “Will you let me take you out of here, Delia?”

I finally lower my fabric shield to blink at him owlishly. “What do you mean?”

“Anna sent me to get you out of here,” Nathan murmurs. “Tonight. Right now.”

“Anna promised she would come to get me,” I note, wariness warring with intense longing.

“It’s been an interesting night,” Nathan hedges. “I wasn’t supposed to be involved in this part at all. I was supposed to keep my cover as Mathis’s assistant.” Nathan huffs a sigh. “But then the wendigo had to go and undo two years of hard work in two minutes.”

My mind is whirling. “Anna mentioned you work for an organization called FABLE. What is your goal?”

“To protect cryptids and mythological creatures.” His eyes soften a bit. “Mythological creatures like you.”

“I’m just a girl,” I reply bitterly, “who ran into some bad luck. There’s nothing mythological about me. My favorite movies are the original Star Wars trilogy. My favorite food is— was —macaroni and cheese. I was studying to be a nurse. Very boring, until the untimely demise and fangs.”

“ A New Hope, The Empire Strikes Back, or Return of the Jedi ?” Nathan asks at once .

I blink at him, my brain struggling to catch up with the abrupt change in tone. “If I’m forced to choose, A New Hope. It launched a multi-generational phenomenon.”

“I’ll always choose The Empire Strikes Back ,” Nathan muses. “I’m a big Yoda fan.”

I can’t help an amused snort that would also embarrass me if I weren’t too far into humiliation to crawl my way back out of it. “Of course you would identify with Yoda.”

He grins, and the expression catches me off guard. “Are you calling me short, wrinkly, green, or some combination of the three?”

“I’m saying you have a certain assuredness to you that you soften with dry humor.”

Nathan looks taken aback by my assessment, and I wonder if I said too much. “That’s awfully astute of you for our first real meeting.”

“Astute or presumptuous?” I ask self-deprecatingly, trying to wave away the awkwardness.

“Definitely the former.” Suddenly, he leans forward, invading my space, and I fight the urge to lean away.

This close, the scent of his cologne is stronger—thyme, tarragon, and basil, all my favorites to cook with before cooking became superfluous—and so is the scent of his blood.

My eyes can’t help but lock on his jugular where it pulses in time with his steady heartbeat, and I swallow back a sudden flood of saliva in my mouth.

What would it be like to bite this man? To sink my fangs through his smooth skin, his slight stubble rough under my lips, and let his hot, savory blood slide over my tongue?

To straddle his lap and crush my breasts against his firm chest as I hold him by his broad shoulders and feel all that masculine strength beneath me?

“You never answered my question,” Nathan says, startling me from my fantasies.

And, God, what is wrong with me? I’ve never equated drinking blood to desire, not even once.

Hunting for a donor and feeding has been an unpleasant chore to get out of the way since I was bitten, enjoyable only in that it filled my belly and let me move on with my un-life for two to three days before I had to repeat the process over again .

But this close to Nathan, with his heat and his mouthwatering scent and the vitality flowing through his veins, I think that biting him would satisfy more than my stomach.

“Sorry, what question?” I ask at last, dragging my attention back to the conversation at hand.

“Can I take you out of here?” Nathan repeats, a small smile tugging at one corner of his sculpted lips.

Does he know where my thoughts just went? Keeping my face carefully expressionless, I consider his question. But, after all, there’s no answer other than, “Yes.”