Page 8 of A Malicious Menagerie (Fangs & Fables #1)

The Reason

B y the time I drive home in my borrowed car (a silver Lexus, of all things) and climb into bed, I’m an absolute wreck.

Every time I close my eyes and try to sleep, I startle awake from nightmares.

First, my brain conjures up the vampire, her fangs dripping blood the same color as her eyes.

Then, I dream I’m on that ship in the sea serpent’s tank as he pulls it down below the waves.

Finally, I see the kraken’s writhing ivory tentacles grabbing hold of the cow carcass we lowered down to it.

Albino, John informed me, as if I have any clue what color a kraken should be.

It’s not even noon when I finally give up on sleep and roll out of bed with a defeated sigh. Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way. Maybe I need to tackle the issue head-on, and like all problems, the solution is going to need some information.

Those thoughts are how I find myself staring up at the stately facade of the public library an hour later.

I don’t know that I’ve been to the library since high school, and I frown down at the library card I dug out of the back of my wallet.

Do library cards expire? I flip the card back and forth, but I can’t find a date. Oh, well. Here we go.

The lobby is cavernous and well-lit by wide skylights, and as I glance at all the hallways branching off the entranceway, I feel more daunted than ever.

Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, I cross to the round information desk.

Standing behind the wooden desk is a beaming brunette woman, and I feel my shoulders relax a notch at her welcoming expression.

“Hi there,” the librarian chirps. “How can I help you?”

“Hi. I was looking for some books on mythological creatures.”

The woman tilts her head curiously. “Any in particular?”

“Well…” I hesitate before blurting, “Vampires? And mermaids? Maybe centaurs?”

The woman hums thoughtfully. “Interesting. Are you writing a book?”

“Sure,” I agree, but it’s the wrong response because she frowns thoughtfully. Anxiety trickles into my chest like ice water. Will Mathis know that I came here and asked these very pointed questions? Just what is his reach? And just how much does that NDA cover?

The librarian smiles cheerfully once again, and I tell myself to calm the hell down. Mathis is a man, not some omniscient deity. How could he possibly know that I’m doing research? And besides, what’s wrong with wanting to do a good job? If anything, he should praise me for taking the initiative.

“One moment,” the librarian says, snapping me out of my paranoid spiral.

She taps away at her computer keyboard for a couple of minutes before a printer beside her churns out a list of titles.

“Here we are,” she says as she collects the page from the machine before handing it to me with a smile.

“This list should give you a good place to start. Can I answer any other questions?”

“No, thank you,” I reply, taking the list before hesitating. “Actually, yes: do library cards expire?”

The short answer is yes , library cards do expire, and mine did almost two years ago.

After renewing the card, I take the librarian’s list and wander through what feels like miles of bookshelves and dusty stacks.

Relearning the Dewey Decimal System feels like stretching mental muscles I never knew I had.

Once my back is stooped under the weight of my research, I drop the books onto an empty table with a sigh and plop myself into the adjoining chair.

Looking at the landslide of books over the desk top, I feel incredibly daunted.

Still, the best way to dive in is to start somewhere , so I grab a random encyclopedia and slide it closer before flipping to the index .

I spend the next couple of hours sorting the books into piles that approximate “helpful” and “useless.” I learn about cryptids that I’ve never heard of before, like Fresno Nightcrawlers, the Flatwoods Monster, and the Pennsylvania Squonk.

I squint at faded descriptions of harpies, mermaids, and centaurs.

Hell, I even read speculation about alligators in sewers, Area 51, and Roswell Greys.

After all, when your entire worldview has been turned on its axis, who knows what’s true?

When my sleepless brain can’t absorb another sentence, I admit defeat and return most of the books, keeping only the ones that might have more to offer.

The same librarian I visited before checks me out with well wishes for my manuscript, and I try not to begrudge her her sunny disposition and enthusiasm.

It’s not her fault I’m mired in quicksand, both physical and emotional.

* * *

With my borrowed books weighing me down and my brain burdened by too many questions, I decide to catch the bus to Sunny Shores Retirement Village. If there’s anything in this world that can quiet the chaos in my mind, it’s Nan.

Despite the name, the nursing home is neither by the seaside nor a charming little town.

Instead, it’s closer to a hotel but without any of the adventure you’d usually associate with one.

The rooms are private but small, with tiny en suite bathrooms, and the common areas are clean but tired.

I would have loved to put Nan somewhere nicer, but even Sunny Shores was stretching the limits of my income.

At least Nan seems happy and comfortable enough, which is all I can really ask for.

“Anna!” Nan exclaims when I find her in the common room in her wheelchair. Her pale blue eyes brighten when she spots me, and she claps her fragile hands with glee. “It is so good to see you, darling!”

Instantly, all of the turmoil churning inside me quiets. I’m going to have to process it all eventually, but for now, there’s just me and Nan—the reason I keep going no matter how bad things get or how bone-deep tired I am.

“Hey, Nan,” I greet her, managing a sincere smile. She’s at one of the round tables eating lunch, and I slide into the chair next to her and reach over to give her hand a fond squeeze.

Still, despite her persistent right-sided deficits from her stroke and her bad hip, Nan is just as sharp as she ever was. She narrows her eyes at me, the left side of her mouth pulling down to match the right. “You look tired, love. Is everything okay?”

“Just working a lot, Nan,” I assure her. “I’m fine.”

She’s not appeased. “You shouldn’t work so hard. You’re barely twenty-two; you should be out getting into trouble and sowing your wild oats. Not spending every night cleaning up after other people.”

That statement makes me choke on my spit, and Nan pats my back as I cough and sputter. Her touch feels like a butterfly landing, and it makes my heart squeeze painfully. “I’m okay with not sowing my wild oats,” I inform her dryly after I manage to catch my breath.

She regards me solemnly for a moment, her mouth pulled down in a lopsided frown. “I know it’s been hard since Lisa died.”

“I’m fine,” I assure her before she can say more. I don’t like talking about Mom’s death. It was hard enough watching cancer eat away at her for two years before she finally succumbed when I was seventeen. I don’t feel a particular need to revisit that time.

Time to change the subject. “Actually,” I say slowly. I desperately want to share with her, but I’m not sure how much I can give away without rubbing up against the NDA. “I’m not working at the hospital so much anymore.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I’m kind of working for a rich guy now. I’m pet-sitting his animals.”

“Hmm,” she murmurs, her expression curious. “What kinds of animals?”

“Rare ones,” I hedge.

“Like a zebra?”

I smile. “Kind of like that, yeah.”

Her expression lights up. “That sounds so fun! You always did love animals, ever since you were a little girl bringing home strays. Do you remember that skunk with the broken leg you found? The house stank for weeks!”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” I grumble, wincing at the memory of that childish lack of wisdom.

“You wanted to be like your father, though your catchphrase as a girl was, ‘People are gross.’” She giggles at the memory. “Still, that didn’t stop you from borrowing his stethoscope any chance you got to listen to us or your stuffed animals. Do you still have that somewhere?”

“Hanging off my bookshelf,” I admit, not that I’ve touched Dad’s old stethoscope since I dropped out of school. After I made the decision to leave college, it hurt too much to look at it.

Sure, Dad was a human doctor while I was more drawn to animals, but pursuing medicine made me feel closer to him.

He died when I was eight, so all I have are fleeting impressions of who he was.

Vague memories of standing on his feet to dance, and play-acting at having British accents in the grocery store, and him trying to convince Mom that every kid should have a puppy.

Unfortunately, he never got a chance to make that particular dream a reality.

He was the one who fostered my love of animals and healing.

When I stumbled across a litter of abandoned kittens, he was the one up with me every two hours feeding them.

When a bird flew into our window, he was the one who helped me splint its broken wing using a popsicle stick and tape.

And when he discovered the injured skunk under my bed, he was the one who drove it to the wildlife sanctuary, never mind that his car upholstery never recovered.

“Well, in any case, this job sounds like a good fit for you,” Nan continues, interrupting my bittersweet reverie. “Has your rich boss been kind to you?”

“Yeah.” My chest squeezes at the admission because, dammit, he has, but I can’t say that he’s been as kind to the people in his menagerie.

I have to assume the mermaid is as intelligent as the centaur, and who knows what other species are languishing in that converted warehouse?

“I’m just…” I pause, trying to choose the right words.

“I’m concerned that some of the animals he keeps aren’t suited to captivity.

Like monkeys, elephants, and orcas, right?

They’re so smart, and they need so much stimulation to ke ep from getting depressed and developing all sorts of unhealthy, self-destructive behaviors or even becoming aggressive.

I don’t know that I agree with keeping them in captivity, but what can I do? Tell my boss to let them go?”

Nan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Orcas?!”

“It’s rhetorical,” I’m quick to assure her, not wanting her to worry. After all, the kinds of creatures I’m actually thinking about are far more deadly.

Nan ponders my dilemma thoughtfully. She’s always been this way, ever since I was a kid and Mom and I moved in with her after Dad died.

She’s thorough, methodical, compassionate, and the smartest damn person I know.

“I don’t see how telling him he shouldn’t keep them would change anything.

Most likely, he’ll just tell you to either deal with it or quit.

Then, the animals will still be in captivity, but without you to look after them.

And if he were to release them, where would they go?

They’re not going to be able to survive in the wild after living all this time in a rich man’s home, and the city is no place for animals like that. ”

“I guess you’re right,” I say slowly, though her logic doesn’t quite sit right with me.

Granted, she’s talking about monkeys, and I’m talking about centaurs.

She’s right that the city is probably not the place for them, but if they could get back home to wherever they came from, they would probably thrive.

But what am I supposed to do? Sneak a fifteen-hundred-pound horse-man out of the warehouse and take him back to Greece or wherever he’s from?

Like John said, it’s not like he’ll fit in the back of the Lexus.

Plus, I can’t imagine what Mr. NDA would do to me if he caught me stealing from him, even if I don’t believe that you can “steal” a person.

“Maybe the best thing you can do for the animals,” Nan continues, unaware of my whirling thoughts, “is to keep taking care of them. You are smart and sweet and so caring. If you’re the one taking care of them, they’re sure to be treated well.

You’ll keep all their needs in mind and aim every day to meet them, just like you’ve always done for me.

” She sighs. “Even though I should be the one taking care of you. ”

“You have,” I assure her quickly, reaching over to twine my fingers through hers. I give her a supportive smile and gently squeeze her hand. “You’ve been taking care of me for years. I’m so privileged to be able to return the favor.”

Nan doesn’t look convinced, but she does squeeze me back with as much strength as her weak right hand can muster. “Give the job a chance,” Nan advises me. “You can always quit later. But maybe, in the meantime, you can do some good.”

She’s right. Of course, she’s right. And my mind is already busy with how I can make life in the menagerie better.