Page 17 of A Malicious Menagerie
“Did you graduate high school?” I huff. “It’s the principle in physics that says matter cannot be created or destroyed. Ergo, a two-hundred-pound man turning into a twelve-hundred-pound horse and back again defies the laws of physics. Which is, almost by definition, magic.”
John scowls at my insult. “Whatever you wanna believe,” he grunts. “Doesn’t change the job.”
For whatever reason, I find myself shooting an irritated look at the wolf, like,can you believe this guy?To my surprise, the wolf is giving me a commiserating sidelong look. But no, I must be anthropomorphizing him again.
“He doesn’t usually come over when I’m feeding him, though,” John comments, rubbing his chin with a mildly curious expression on his otherwise dour face. “Must have wanted to check out the new girl.”
He must have wanted to see me again after our previous encounter. I flush with pleasure and beam at the wolf, who stares impassively back. Still, when John turns away to collect the bones, the big beast cocks his head to one side, gives one emphaticthumpof his tail, and lets his tongue loll out in a toothy canine grin. I stifle a giggle, and John shoots me a bemused look. He glances back only to see that the wolf has resumed his usual stoicism.
Once John and I have collected the bones, we make our way back to the door before locking it behind us and disposing of the heavy ribs and femur in a bin beside the freezer. When I glance up to wave goodbye to the dire wolf, he’s already gone. I droop at not being able to take in his glossy black coat and gemstone eyes one last time.
“Alright,” John says, slapping his palms together in a ‘job well done’ kind of gesture. “Break time.”
Ugh.The last thing I want to do is follow John back to the breakroom so we can glare over the table at each other for half an hour. Still, I trail him to the warren of back hallways, figuring I can always grab my sandwich and find somewhere else to eat.
That plan goes out the window when we walk into the breakroom to find the small table occupied by a mountain of a man. He’s dressed in black from his long-sleeved shirt to his cargo pants, making his fair skin and short red hair stand out in stark relief. He has a book open flat on the tabletop, and his eyes don’t leave the pages as we enter.
“Hi there,” I venture, hovering a few feet from the table. Meanwhile, John ignores the giant and continues his trek to the refrigerator. When the man doesn’t look up at my greeting, I add, “I’m Anna. Are you one of the guards?”
“Don’t waste your breath, princess,” John calls over his shoulder. “Near as I can tell, Colby is mute.”
“Just because I don’t want to talk to you, John, doesn’t mean I can’t talk,” the man in question grumbles. His voice is so deep and low that I swear I feel a tremor run through the linoleum at my feet.
Feeling a certain kinship with this man—after all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?—I approach the table and reach out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Colby.”
The behemoth raises one coppery eyebrow but still reaches out to shake my hand, closing his book as he does. I can’t help but take a curious peek at the cover. What does a beefy security guard read in his spare time? To my surprise, the cover is dominated by a Celtic knot and the titleAn Encyclopaedia of Irish Folklore.Whatever I might have imagined he would be reading, it wasn’t that.
I’m distracted from my snooping when his large, scarred hand engulfs mine. I look away from his book to scrutinize him instead. His features are blunt and dominated by a square jaw dusted with red-gold hair, a broad forehead, and a wide nose that looks like it might have been made that way in a brawl. With his bright blue eyes, the man is an absolute riot of color, though he probably wouldn’t appreciate it if I awkwardly blurted that out the way my brain is demanding.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask curiously.
“I dunno,” he grunts, not looking particularly thrilled that I’m still talking to him. “Nearly a year, I guess.”
“What did you do before?”
“Two tours in Iraq.” His eyes drift back toward his book, but mine widen in surprise.
“Thank you for your service.” He only shrugs. Not willing to accept a lapse in conversation—after all, then we’ll have to sit in awkward silence or, worse yet, I might have to talk to John—I add, “Did you like it? The army?”
He huffs and tosses me a disbelieving look. “It was hot, sand got places that don’t bear mentioning, and it was boring… until it wasn’t, which was even worse.”
“Ahh,” is my intelligent reply.
When the door opens behind me, drawing Colby’s attention, I’m relieved for his distraction from my bumbling lack of social graces. That is, I’m relieved until he scowls, and I spin around to see what has the stolid soldier making that expression. My own expression probably reflects shock and some discomfort when Mars Mathis strolls into our tiny breakroom.
“Hello, there,” our boss greets us jovially. He’s wearing a gray suit with a navy tie, the formal outfit at odds with the dingy walls and cheap furniture. “I just wanted to check in on everyone, especially our newest caretaker.” Mathis smiles brightly at me. “How are you finding everything, Anna?”
“Everything is going well,” I reply slowly, instantly on guard. I used to hate when Chucky would come to ‘check in.’ Those visits usually meant a couple hours of thinly veiled criticisms on our customer service and serving speed. He used to toss around cliché buzzwords like ‘efficiency’ and ‘teamwork’ and ‘initiative.’ Plus, he fired me.
Still, even as annoying and nerve-racking as those visits were, Mathis’s appearance somehow sparks an even greater anxiety. Maybe it’s the way that I canfeelthe tension radiating off of Colby behind me. There’s something worrisome about such a strong reaction from a man who likely saw live combat.
“I’m glad to hear it,” Mathis says breezily, unaware or uncaring of the stir he’s causing in our little group. “And how is your grandmother? Darla, yes? Is she doing well?”
In theory, it makes sense that Mathis would know about Nan. After all, I took this job in large part to pay for her to stay in her nursing home. Still, I don’t like hearing him mention her like this, as if hewantsme to know that she’s on his radar. Shouldn’t such things be below him, more in Nathan’s wheelhouse than his? “She’s fine, thank you,” I finally manage to say with some level of equanimity.
“Excellent. And what does she think of your new job?” His dark gaze is a touch too sharp to be as cavalier as he’s presenting himself, and I feel like a butterfly pinned to a board.
Is this a test? A squirmy, nauseous feeling churns in my belly. “Well, sheknows very little about it because of the NDA. I took Nathan’s advice and made up some details so she wouldn’t worry or be suspicious.”
