Page 6 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

The Morality

B olstered by my interaction with the dire wolf, I muster the courage to continue, moving deeper into the woods.

No creatures come to meet me at the next couple of exhibits.

Instead, I’m left peering into the gloam, somewhere between disappointed and relieved.

And frustrated—I’m sure John could tell me what’s in here, if he would deign to do so.

Though what I see in the next cage almost makes me long for the disappointment.

When I reach the next set of iron bars, I glance up and freeze when I realize that the resident is only scant yards away from me. His back is turned, reaching up for an apple in the boughs above his head, which allows me a few seconds to process what I’m seeing.

He’s a centaur, just like the one immortalized in the carousel.

His hindquarters are those of a massive destrier, his coat white as snow and spotted with large swaths of dappled gray.

Rising from where a horse’s neck would be is a man’s powerful torso, with tanned, broad shoulders narrowing to a sturdy waist. The arm he reaches upward is bound in thick muscle, his bicep reminiscent of a watermelon.

A curtain of dark hair falls down his back, the color the same steel gray as his spots.

I must make some small sound because he pauses mid-reach and twists toward me, one tapered equine ear flickering from between locks of hair.

His face is just as beautiful as that of his carousel effigy, his cheekbones and jawline so sharp they might have been chiseled from marble.

The sight of him is like a punch to the gut, his beauty is so great.

Sadly, that beauty is quickly marred by the force of his rage.

He bares his teeth, revealing incisors that are blunt but framed by two hooked canines like a stallion’s.

He turns toward me, his heavy hooves pounding into the dirt, and begins talking quickly in a language I don’t recognize.

Even trembling with anger, his voice is deep and melodious and threaded with a lilting accent that belongs in a Lord of the Rings movie, not an old Amazon warehouse.

Raising my hands similarly to how I did to the wolf, I slowly back away as he advances toward me. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand you!”

He stops when he reaches the bars, his hands propped on his hips. He snarls again, revealing those terrifyingly alien teeth, before pointing at my chest and growling, “Fuck. Off.”

My jaw drops. “Wow, rude,” I blurt before I can think better of it.

He snorts, the movement strikingly equine, before turning his back to me and clomping toward the trees.

For several minutes, all I can do is stand in place, mouth agape and thoughts whirling. That was a centaur! And he spoke! First in a completely unfamiliar but achingly beautiful language, and then in English. Well, two words, and not nice ones at that, but still.

He… spoke. Like a human would.

For the first time since setting foot in this odd zoological garden, I take a moment to really think about the morality of it.

Normal zoos come with their own controversies about animal welfare, conservation, and dignity, but those animals don’t speak.

This… this man —because that’s what he is, equine haunches be damned—is trapped here, in a zoo. On display.

I read an article once in an outdated nature magazine abandoned on a coffee table in my dentist’s office.

The article outlined the concept of human zoos, or ethnological exhibits—how they started around the 1870s and petered out around the 1930s.

How they degraded, objectified, and sexualized people that Western cultures found ‘exotic.’ And how they exploited people both while they were alive and then after their deaths, when they were dissected and displayed or taxidermied to continue the humiliation.

At the time, I could barely finish the article, only a sense of duty keeping me going until the end.

How is this centaur being here any different? And are there any other species like him here?

I stagger into a tree, catching myself on the rough bark. I force myself to take several deep breaths to settle my sudden nausea and dizziness.

How did I end up in this mess? How can I work here, knowing what I do about the person—maybe the people —imprisoned here?

Desperate for some answers, I backtrack down the path until I reach the carousel.

Looking up at the stately structure, I can’t help but see it in a new light.

The centaur is still there, tall and proud but frozen forever in time, a life-sized toy.

Shuddering, I hurry past and scan the signs before each path in turn until I finally arrive at the last path on the right, this one marked ‘The Aquarium.’

As I follow the path, the garden once again gives way to a new habitat. This time, the brick road becomes a wooden boardwalk dusted with white sand. To my left is a gentle slope decorated with dunegrass, and to my right is a beach that ends in the frothy waves of a fabricated sea.

As I follow the boardwalk along the coast, a glass wall rises on my right, indicating another enclosure. Rather than excitement and curiosity, all I feel is dread as I wonder if I’m about to run into another moral quandary.

The glass box contains part of the sandy beach and then appears to continue out into the water until it meets the wall at the far end.

In the middle of the sea is a large, rocky island topped with palm trees and vibrant tropical blooms. Something shiny catches the light from the top of the island, and I shield my eyes from the overhead light with one hand and peer into the distance.

There’s another shimmer. I follow it to its source… before almost choking on my spit.

It’s too far away to get a good look, but as I squint, the shimmer resolves itself into a fish tail adorned with iridescent lavender and teal scales and silvery fins.

The tail belongs to a woman perched at the top of the island, and though I can’t make out her features from this distance, her skin glows as if dusted with fine silver powder .

Her face turns toward me, and she jolts as she notices me watching her. Before I can wave or call a greeting, she pushes off the edge of the island and twists into an effortless dive before disappearing into the water.

Well. Add mermaids to the list of menagerie residents.

Basically numb to the novelty by now, I continue until I reach a fork in the road separated by a steep cliff face.

The right side of the fork bears a wooden sign in the shape of an arrow, the letters “HC SVNT DRACONES” carved into the wood next to an etching of a serpent wound around a ship.

Even not having a clue what those words mean, I can guess that the sea serpent John went to feed lives down this way.

The gravel path follows the beach down a gradual slope until the wall of the cliff rises high above my head on my left.

I keep close to the cliff so the gentle waves don’t wet my shoes until, suddenly, I reach a large opening in the wall.

Above the entrance to the seaside cave is another carving of a sea serpent, and I blanch, shaking my head in denial.

“No, no, no, absolutely not ,” I mutter to myself.

“There is absolutely no way I am walking into that creepy cave to get eaten by a sea monster.”

In direct contradiction to my words, the sound of a familiar voice cursing echoes from inside the cave.

I sigh in defeat. If I want answers from John, I either need to wait for him to be done or follow him into the black hole.

And if he’s in there and hasn’t been eaten yet, I figure my chances of survival are pretty reasonable.

Taking a deep breath laced with brine, I force myself to shuffle into the dim cave, one hand pressed to the rough, uneven wall to act as a guide.

As the white light from the dome outside fades away, my eyes pick up a more subtle source of light— red light—coming from farther inside the cave.

My footsteps slow as I debate the wisdom of seeking out that unsettling crimson glow.

When I hear John muttering to himself again, I manage to pluck up the courage to keep going.

Before long, the hallway I’ve been following empties out into a wider cavern, the entire back wall composed of a sheet of thick glass.

That red glow emanates from behind the glass in rippling waves, and I realize with a start that the other side of the glass is essentially one big fish tank.

In the dim light, I can just make out the shadows of a dilapidated shipwreck partially obscured by a forest of undulating seaweed.

When there’s no movement from inside the tank, I glance around the cavern, looking for John.

Suddenly, the sound of a muffled splash and a rush of bubbles inside the tank catch my attention.

I glance back to see something falling from the top of the tank slowly down toward the sandy bottom.

It takes me a moment to identify it, but when it cartwheels in the water to turn its flat black eyes on me, I reel away from the great white shark in the water.

When it continues to float innocuously downward, I take a step closer to scrutinize it. After all, Rebecca did joke that I might be looking after a tank full of sharks, and I took the job anyway. I can’t chicken out now.

A dark, swirling cloud trails behind the shark as it sinks, and it takes me a beat to realize that the shark is bleeding. Is it dead? And if so, why?