A black mamba might not be noticed at all.
With no other choice, I shifted and settled in to wait.
15
Unlike lycanthropes, when I shifted, I didn’t ruin my clothes. Henry’s shirt tangled in the branches and, despite the abuse, made an ideal place for me to nest. Below, the shreds of Henry’s jeans littered the ground, and the wolf bounded in circles, howled his head off, and rolled in the fallen leaves. I assumed he’d gone mad from the joy of freedom, and if he’d been fed nothing but rabbits for years, he’d be hungry enough to eat anything to cross his path.
One day, I’d need to thank my mother and father for their contribution of genetics. While accidental, they were the reason I wasn’t easy prey for the lycanthrope frolicking below. After years in captivity, I expected he’d start running on instinct, and male lycanthropes had three main objectives: sleeping, eating, and securing a mate.
While lycanthropes interested me, the last thing I needed in my life was trying to be something I wasn’t. Henry needed help I couldn’t provide. Someone far more patient and nurturing than I would have to ease him back into civilization. Once he calmed—if he calmed—I’d find someone to help him.
Henry rolled to his paws, shook out his coat, and howled. Something was different about the sound, and intrigued, I listened.
Understanding hit me moments later when other wolves answered. With his ears pricking forward, the lycanthrope listened before adding his howl to the chorus, and their song filled the forest. Once they quieted, Henry left, his tail bannered high. Every now and then, a wolf’s cry broke the quiet of the forest, and I hoped they guided the lycanthrope somewhere safe beyond his captor’s reach.
Whether he’d found a pack of mundane wolves or lycanthropes, it didn’t matter. Even weakened, normal wolves were no match for a lycanthrope, and lycanthrope wolves belonged in packs.
They’d welcome him, and they’d care for him. I’d also pay good money to watch a pack of lycanthropes tear Henry’s captor to pieces. I’d even deal with the disappointment of a stolen kill for the pleasure of watching.
After I rested, I’d handle the necessities.
I would tell the police of the odd dungeon I’d found underground. I’d warn them of the maze, too, although I had no idea how I’d explain the situation without betraying I’d set a crazed lycanthrope loose in the Black Hills. It occurred to me he was probably a lot saner than I was. I needed to crawl home, hide under my blanket, and reevaluate my choices while trying to make sense of the hot mess my life had become.
Had I been in my right mind, I would’ve focused my attention on the killer of my serial killer. Loose ends could get me killed, and until I found out who had killed him and why, Matthew Henders’s story wasn’t over—and mine could come to an end if the killer had connected me to my would-be victim somehow. It was possible.
To isolate Henders as the serial killer, I’d tested hundreds of samples, inquired with numerous missing persons databases in the northern United States, and even pretended to be a victim’s friend. I was tired of the life I led, and that led to mistakes. I’d flitted from interest to interest, looking for something to make life worth living.
That Justin Brandywine and his bacon topped my list should’ve been warning enough I’d begun self-destructing. Too many changes in my life didn’t help, although when I thought about it, my life was nothing but one change after another.
I didn’t know what it was like to have a house I could call a home like my father did. I didn’t understand what it was like to have my loyalties bound to a kingdom, like my mother did. I had goals, but they shifted from day to day, murder to murder. I’d considered the idea of retiring, but the truth had always prevented me from turning my desire into an obtainable dream.
My story was one of isolation and loneliness, of a solitary predator in search of purpose, wrapping horrific deeds in the thin veneer of justice. In that, I’d done well enough. I’d found justice for many. I’d found peace for many others, and I’d given it to them as a gift, offering the closure the police couldn’t—or wouldn’t. I was never sure which. If I, working alone, could find the truth, why couldn’t the police?
I was determined and dedicated, but I wasn’t special. Anyone could do as I’d done—and I suspected some could do it better. Hell, many could do it better. Most would’ve been satisfied with finding the truth and allowing the legal system to do the rest.
I’d strayed by taking matters into my own hands and spilling more blood. Imprisonment never seemed enough, not for the criminals I hunted. Only death could secure safety for potential victims. I’d told myself that until I believed it.
And I did. People like me couldn’t just step back and reform. We were, to our very cores, killers. I chose to kill those who deserved to be killed. Others chose to become predators for the thrill of the hunt and to satisfy demented desires. No matter how I boiled it down, we were all the same breed of bird. I just dyed my feathers a slightly different color so I could pretend I was better than my brethren.
Everything circled back to the same realization: I was tired.
Before I returned to civilization, I needed to rest and recover from my descent into the hell lurking beneath the Black Hills. While I waited, I’d watch. After sunrise, I’d return to civilization and hope the lone survivor trapped below would hold on long enough to be saved.
A monster prowled through the forest below, and at first glance, I could understand why someone would believe it was a minotaur. It was huge, easily ten to twelve feet tall, had the head of a bull with horns sharpened to lethal tips, and sported massive cloven hooves, which sank into the forest floor. Then, a whisper of wind blew through the forest, and its tracks disappeared, the scattered leaves rustling while the soil reshaped itself to mask the presence of the beast.
Minotaurs weren’t supposed to have feathers, nor were they supposed to have tentacles. The monster beneath me had four tentacles sprouting out of his shoulders, and they swayed in the air, the suction cups gleaming with slimy fluid. The pervasive stench of death clung to it, a match for the horrors of its den.
Maybe it had started its life as a minotaur, but whatever it was, it wasn’t just a minotaur anymore. I kept still and quiet, watching from my hiding place within Henry’s shirt.
The hooked claws on its long-fingered hands would make short work out of me—and my tree—if it discovered my presence. I expected to die, but I didn’t want it to be at the hands or jaws of a monstrosity. Worse, I understood Henry’s reaction to freedom.
I would’ve gone mad from joy if I’d escaped the horror beneath me, too. Had I counted my captivity in years, I doubted I would’ve made it half as far as Henry had before becoming overwhelmed. I’d hope the monster’s magics couldn’t reach Henry beyond his lair. Guilt, apprehension, and self-preservation waged a brief but fierce battle. If I left, I’d save myself from the risk of becoming its prey, too.
If I left, Henry might become a victim again. If I left, I might be able to save the survivor within.
I’d have to hope my venom could down a beast like the one stomping around the trunk of his tree, snorting and huffing, lowering his head to breathe in the mixed scents.
I bet the damned thing smelled me, a female, near his territory, as he snuffled and searched, going down on all fours to nose through the leaves near the opening. Then it found the scraps of Henry’s jeans and bellowed its fury.
If the minowhatsit found Henry’s shirt, he’d find me, so I abandoned my impromptu nest and slithered higher into the tree, wrapping around the trunk and a branch, hoping to blend in with the bark and avoid notice. Being noticed wasn’t a part of any of my plans, and I didn’t want to know how a fight between us would work out.
I expected to join the bones lining the damned thing’s lair, although if things worked well, he’d join me in the grave. Unless I got exceptionally lucky, I wouldn’t emerge unscathed—if I emerged alive at all. Nope, I had zero intentions of fighting a mutant minotaur.
<
br /> Maybe I was crazy, but I wasn’t completely off my rocker yet.
At least I could verify Henry hadn’t been off his rocker, either, although I had no idea how I’d avoided the minotaur’s influence. I’d heard the myths, legends, and rumors about them. My first step into the minotaur’s lair should’ve been my last as a free woman, easy prey for him to capture me at his leisure.
And since I, just like the poor woman I’d killed in its lair, refused to become breeding stock for some damned minotaur, I’d come too close to death for my comfort. Not only had I come close to death and captivity, I wouldn’t have died doing something useful or paying the consequences for my version of vigilante justice.
The minotaur bellowed again, slashing at Henry’s torn jeans, leaving deep grooves in the soil. His magic once again whispered on the wind, undoing the damage he caused. I hated that part of his foul magic almost as much as his ability to create mazes and toy with his victims’ minds. Without evidence a large predator lurked within the forest, I understood how so many had fallen prey to him. Too many relied on trails and other signs to keep safe, especially centaurs and lycanthropes.
Vanilla humans wouldn’t know the difference between a man-eating minotaur and a goat unless slapped in the face with one. Then again, no one expected a minotaur, especially not a mutant one.
The minotaur continued to bellow, pausing only to snort and suck in great breaths. Pawing the ground with a hoof, he lowered his head and charged one of the neighboring trees. His head collided with the trunk, which exploded in a shower of splinters and bark, and the entire thing toppled with a ground-shaking boom.
Yep, if I let that damned thing get a hold of me, I’d be pulverized. All I could do was sit tight, wait, and hope he didn’t take offense to my tree. While the wind blew and the minotaur’s magic whispered in the air, not even it could hide the evidence of his fury, leaving behind the fallen tree as testament to his preternatural strength.
I needed a new life, stat.
The sun rose, but the minotaur remained, stomping around the entrance to his lair, slashing at the remains of Henry’s jeans, and snorting, punctuating his displeasure with the occasional bellow. I wanted to hiss at him for his persistence, but I remained still and silent.
Three trees had fallen prey to his temper, and he was running out of targets before he’d inevitably smash my tree into mulch. I’d become a black mamba pancake.
There were better ways to die, and I spent an unhealthy amount of time considering them in turn. Choking on an ice cream cone topped the list, with tripping over my own feet and falling into traffic, a paper airplane to the eye, and a thousand infected paper cuts making a good showing. I’d rather choke to death on my own spit, too.
Something rustled in the underbrush, and the minotaur whirled around, stomping a hoof, and slashing at the air.
A flash of yellow drew my eye, and a large form, almost a match for the minotaur, burst out from the bushes. Its high-pitched scream startled me into hissing. With one look, I recognized the newcomer. When stuck between a rock, a hard place, a minotaur, and an overgrown yellow mongoose with a death wish, it was time to get the hell out of Dodge and pray to the devil the two combatants didn’t notice me.
I was done with the Black Hills, and I swore I’d never return, not even under threat of death. I could handle waiting for a minotaur to lose interest.
If I stuck around, the mongoose would climb into my tree, scent me out, and eat me. It’d do so head first, and it’d enjoy every last nibble of delicious snake treat. It’d leave a few scales behind when it finished with me as a promise to other black mambas it had no fear of us. It probably thought my venom was tasty.
Uncoiling from the trunk, I made my descent, using bark and branch as launching points to reach the ground. The instant I landed, I darted away, keeping my head low and hightailing it out of the area, obscuring my passage by lurking beneath as many leaves as possible. If either noticed me, I didn’t want to see them catching up; while I could move fast, I couldn’t move monster fast.
I had no hope of winning a race against either a minotaur or a mongoose.
Being eaten alive took top spot on my list of things I never wanted to experience, with someone snatching me by the back of my head and plucking me off the ground as a close second. I hissed, thrashing in the futile effort to free myself. The grip tightened, not hard enough to hurt, but ensuring I couldn’t escape without help.
Why couldn’t mambas be constrictors? A constrictor would’ve viewed my predicament as a challenge to overcome. My captor lifted me up and turned me.
If I never came nose to nose with my father’s black mambas ever again, I’d be happy. They hissed at me, and my father’s scowl promised some form of new hell for me to enjoy in the near future.
I hissed back, lashing my tail. Since being held behind the back of my head wasn’t comfortable, I coiled my body around his arm to alleviate some of the pressure.
“We’re going to have a very long talk about this,” my father promised.
Unable to bite and wary of becoming a living but petrified piece of jewelry for his amusement, I limited my protests to unhappy hisses.
My father sighed before whistling.
Normal people had dogs who heeled on demand. My father had an overgrown yellow mongoose, who bounded over, crouched at my father’s feet, and licked blood off its muzzle. Infuriated my father would dare consort with a natural predator of black mamba kind, I hissed my displeasure.
The minotaur followed, and it’d taken the brunt of the fight, lacerations covering its head and muzzle, with no evidence it’d gotten a hold of the mongoose. It lumbered forward.
My father straightened and every last one of his serpents reared back. Then he hissed.
The minotaur opened its mouth, took a single step forward, and a gray film rippled over its fur, accompanied by the crackle of fragmenting stone. Seconds stretched into minutes, and while the initial paralysis had been almost instantaneous, the minotaur labored to breathe while its body stiffed, darkened to gray, and petrified into stone.
Kneeling, my father held out his hand, his grip firm on the back of my neck. “Hold her,” he ordered.
The yellow mongoose made a soft, purring sound before capturing hold of me with a paw, gripping me as my father had. I hissed over the rival predator’s enjoyment of my captivity.
I hadn’t even known mongoose could purr.
When I saw a mongoose, I left the area before it noticed I was around. It probably enjoyed gloating over having played part of my capture after having beaten the snot out of a mutant minotaur. In its shoes, I would’ve been feeling quite pleased with myself, so I couldn’t really blame it.
My father circled the minotaur his serpents hissing at the impotent statue. “What is this thing?”
I flicked my tongue to taste the air and got a mouthful of death, decay, blood, and fury, none of which appealed when I was within a single snap of a mongoose’s jaws of becoming a memory. While I doubted my father would deliberately let his pet mongoose eat me, I wasn’t going to bet on it.
I was a bad enough daughter that threats of breeding a replacement made a great deal of sense to me.
“I think it started life as a minotaur,” the mongoose growled.
Great. My living nightmare could talk, which put it—no, him—in the shapeshifter or lycanthrope category. He talked, he purred, and he had enough strength to pop my head right off if he wanted, assuming he didn’t decide to enjoy me as a morning snack.
“And he smelled my daughter in the area,” my father hissed.
Balling his hand into a fist, my father took two steps towards the petrified minotaur, jumped, and lashed out. While my father’s hand looked like flesh, he treated the minotaur’s head like the minotaur had treated the trees, resulting in a powdered mess of stone.
My mongoose captor chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “Lesson learned.”
My father shook out his fist, strolled to us, and reclaimed me f
rom the mongoose, and the pair worked together to wrap every last inch of my fourteen feet around his forearm. “Thank you, Justin.”
Of course. I shouldn’t have been surprised. What other type of species would be capable of working with a black mamba gorgon with any hope of surviving a bite? My luck was truly the worst. If I wanted Justin and his bacon for life, I’d have to sleep with the enemy, who could eat me the instant I stepped out of line.
I was truly my mother’s daughter.
16
Pride demanded I escape—or at least struggle. My time spent up a tree hadn’t done me any good, and neither had becoming a piece of living jewelry for my father’s amusement. I ached, and even when my father tested his luck and released his hold on the back of my head, I was too tired to bite him.
Even my fangs hurt, something I’d never experienced before.
Leaving the beheaded mutant minotaur, my father marched through the forest with Justin bouncing alongside him. I wondered how many times I could bite the lycanthrope before my venom would do anything other than annoy him.
Thinking about him made it easier to ignore the bumps, bruises, and broken bones. I’d never considered a mongoose as a partner before.
They could eat black mambas, which went at the top of the con list. However, they could eat black mambas other than me, which went at the top of the pro list. If I bit him, he wouldn’t fall over dead, which gave him an advantage over other potential lovers. Not killing my partner took spot two on the pro list, although losing my most potent self-defense weapon took spot two on the con list.
The only option was to make Justin Brandywine suffer for a lifetime for daring to be a mongoose. Every morning, I’d begin with making him make me bacon. Some goals in life I couldn’t sacrifice, and good bacon was one of them.
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