Page 31 of A Malicious Menagerie
With that, I motion for the group to follow me, and I pick my way carefully down the brick path toward the aquarium’s boardwalk.
16
The Tour
What I quickly realize once we reach the mermaid exhibit is that John has been busy behind the scenes making sure the guests have a good show.
There’s a white mesh net stretching the length of the mermaids’ exhibit, portioning off a very small sliver at the front of the glass enclosure. With nowhere else to go, the two mermaids are beached, their tails dangling in the water but their torsos exposed to the air.
I’ve never seen the mermaids up close before. The best look I ever got was that first day, when I saw one of them perching on the top of the island with her glittering tail dangling toward the surf. Since then, I’ve gotten barely a peek—just an iridescent ripple under the water here and there. John and I mostly just release fish into the water in their enclosure and leave them be.
Now, up close, I can see they’re both female. I recognize one as the mermaid I saw my first night here, her tail the same mix of teal and purple scales that catch the light like precious gemstones. Her silver-blue hair is drying around her elfin face in loose, beachy waves that most women need expensive products to achieve. The long locks tumble over her shoulders and around pert breasts tipped with pale lavender nipples. From between the pale blue strands peek pointed ears, just a touch longer than a human’s. Every inch of her pale skin shimmers as if crushed diamonds have been embedded into her very pores. Her facial features are so symmetrical and perfect thatI’d think they belonged to an angel if I didn’t see a tail rather than wings. She stares defiantly at our group with turquoise eyes as they gape back at her, and she has her shoulders thrown back and her chin tipped up in a haughty expression.
Her companion is less bold. She looks younger, her face rounder, cherubic rather than angelic. Her hair is a dusky pink that matches her scales except where there are silver ones scattered like stars. If she were human, I’d say she looks like she’s sixteen, not a child but not quite an adult. Her shoulders are hunched, her body turned away from us, the bare, pale expanse of her glimmering back facing our way.
The men openly ogle the mermaids, one commenting on not being able to find tits that perfect on a human woman, another wondering if they have pussies or if the most he could hope for is a blow job. I doubt the mermaids can hear them with several yards and a glass wall between us, and I don’t know that they’d understand English even if they could. Regardless, the blue-haired one bares her teeth, revealing pointed fangs like a barracuda’s, and makes a motion as if she’s hissing. That shuts up any talk about dicks in mouths. I fight a flush as I use the lull in their conversation to forge ahead, dredging up what little John taught me and everything the library had to offer.
“Mermaid sightings have been reported independently around the world since the first mentions of sirens by the ancient Greeks. Originally, sirens were reported to be half woman, half bird, but by the time Chaucer was writing in Medieval England, mermaids were beginning to be recognized by their fish-like tails. Perhaps the most notable mention of mermaids in myth and literature is Hans Christian Andersen’s tale ‘The Little Mermaid.’ Far from the sweet Disney version most of us know, the original story featured a mermaid who longed for an immortal soul, which she could only obtain by falling in love with a human man. When her attempts to woo a husband and gain a soul failed, she dissolved into sea foam.” Grimacing at the poor mermaid’s plight, I continue, “Our mermaids here in the menagerie spend their time swimming in water we keep perfectly matched to the salinity of the Atlantic Ocean and catching the halibut and flounder we release for them.” Ialmost ask if anyone has any questions, but I realize I’m likely to only get ones I don’t want to answer. I swallow back the words. “Moving on.”
The men keep giving the mermaids backward glances, but I finally convince them to leave the pair in peace. The kraken must have just recently been fed because he’s still near the surface, his massive white tentacles occasionally breaking the water’s surface. The sea serpent, too, is still at the glass at the front of his tank cleaning up scraps of meat that float in the water. I hate to give credit to John, but he’s certainly working hard to give these guys a show.
The men are significantly less impressed by the jackalopes than I was when I first saw them. Maybe I should have started there? But they are suitably disturbed by the Mongolian death worms and awed by the Thunderbird, who advances on them with the same predatory intent and thunderous call that he used on me. Though I still find him intimidating, it’s hard to be as scared of him when I know that he’ll only eat his prey if you remove the liver, like a finicky toddler picking the green bits out of his dinner.
I hustle through the mountain section. I want to stop and marvel at the smaller brown sasquatch and towering white yeti set up side by side for comparison, but in my thin silk dress, I’m too cold to last long. Even more than the goosebumps and discomfort, I’m very concerned that the thin silk won’t be able to stand up to the jut of my hard nipples. At least three of the men offer me their tuxedo jackets, eagerly stripping them off and trying to slide them over my shoulders. I politely refuse, crossing my arms over my chest instead. The last thing I need to do is encourage any of these rich peacocks by wearing their clothes.
It’s interesting to note that no efforts were made to make the wendigo visible. Even for the entertainment of his most esteemed guests, Mathis apparently wouldn’t mess with a vicious cannibal spirit.
It’s a relief to emerge in the jungle section where the air is hot and heavy, though after being in such cold air moments before, the humidity condenses on my skin in a thin, sticky film. Grimacing, I show the group the chupacabra, which looks like a mix between a gray pit bull and a bat with cracked, pocked skin and a ridge of sharp quills from its neck down between its shoulders. It’smunching viciously on the remains of a goat, and the sound of cracking bones and the tearing of bloody flesh sends the men scurrying onward quickly. The capelobo, which is best compared to a massive humanoid anteater, has his customary bowl of blood and ants held close to his face where he licks it up with quick movements of his long, slim tongue. The men similarly aren’t eager to stick around long for that particular display.
They are, however, impressed by the alicanto, which has been trapped at the front of the enclosure by a chain-link divider like the ones we use to feed the residents in several of the exhibits. With nowhere to go, she clings to the divider and occasionally ruffles her luminescent silver wings. This is the most I’ve ever seen of her, and despite feeling sympathetic to her plight, I can’t help but admire her long, curling tail feathers and wings that pulsate with light in enigmatic patterns that look almost like runes.
I wait nearby in the dark while the guests admire her, my heart breaking for the painfully shy creature. Distracted, I don’t notice a shadow sidling up beside me until I feel an unexpected touch low on my back, causing me to startle. Before I can process what’s happening, the hand slips down my back to cup my ass in a grip firm enough to bruise.
Letting out an indignant squeak, I instinctively slap the hand away before scurrying sideways, a low, oily chuckle following me.
“Mathis does have good taste,” a familiar voice notes, and I recognize Chad Smarman’s mocking tone. “Always surrounds himself with beautiful things.”
Under different circumstances, I might be flattered and pleased to be called beautiful. I’ve never considered myself to be particularly striking, but if this handsome and powerful (if unpleasant) man thinks so, maybe I could let myself believe it, at least a little bit. But instead, all I feel is dirty.
“Please don’t touch me,” I order, projecting far more strength than I feel. “I’m not one of the exhibits.”
He hums, a low, knowing sound. “Aren’t you?”
I hear him move away in the dark, leaving me behind in the shadows reeling. Is he right? Am I just another exhibit? Another person Mathis thinks he owns and can show off? I’d thought it disconcerting that thegroup he put together was all men, but maybe that was the point. Send a young girl, dress her up in a silk sheath dress that would, with minor adjustments, qualify as a negligee, and give your older, rich male guests something to look at next to their cryptid curiosities.
Feeling tainted, exposed, and perilously close to tears, I’m relieved to leave the cave behind and lead the men toward the woods with my back to them so they can’t see how shiny my eyes have gotten. Granted, that does mean they have an unimpeded view of my naked back and silk-clad ass, but it’s not like they haven’t had a chance to ogle that for the past forty-five minutes.
Entering the woods gives me at least a little relief, and breathing in the familiar scent helps my tears abate. Even under these circumstances, I get a little thrill at the promise of seeing my wolf.
But to get to the wolf from this side, we have to pass the vampire first.
Since she only gets fed every few weeks, I haven’t had to walk this way and see her again. As a matter of fact, I’ve purposefully avoided it at all costs. Now, though, there’s little choice, and I take a deep breath as we approach her domain.
After building it up in my head, it’s jarring to find the front of the enclosure empty. No snarling woman with crimson eyes and a dirty dress. Just… trees.
When the men look askance, I can only shrug. “I don’t know where she is. Maybe we can ask Mr. Mathis when we see him next.”
My wolf, though, is front and center. He’s trapped similarly to the mermaids and alicanto by a divider that leaves him stuck at the front of his cage. He’s agitated, pacing back and forth, his long legs eating up the ground and sharp claws digging deep punctures into the loam. Still, he must hear the group because he abruptly stops pacing and spins to face us, his yellow gaze falling unerringly on me.
