by R. L. Naquin
I crossed my arms over my chest, grateful that Maurice had made me wear the baggy grey Mickey Mouse sweatshirt. I stood my ground. “Hi. I’m looking for someone in charge.”
The satyr grinned, showing flat, even teeth. He bowed low, but still kept his eyes on my chest. “Then you’re in luck. I’m the king of the Tamalpais satyrs.” He grabbed my hand from where it was tucked. He sniffed it. I was afraid he was going to lick me or do something even more disgusting, but he planted a kiss and let go. “Mad Dog Armadillo, pretty lady. How can I service you?”
I ignored the odd wording, and refolded my arms. “I believe I have a baby fathered by someone in your troupe. I’m trying to find who it belongs to.”
His face sobered. “You’re not sure if he’s one of ours? Don’t you remember? I assure you, if you’d been with us, you’d remember.”
Maurice tensed beside me. “Zoey’s not the mother, you idiot. We found the baby on our doorstep. We’re trying to figure out who she belongs to.”
“She?” The king relaxed, and he shook his head. “We have no interest in girl babies until they’re grown. Drop her off with the maenads on the other side of the mountain. They keep the girls.”
Behind him, several satyrs battled for my attention. Two tossed a ball back and forth between them, no hands. With each pass, they checked to see if I was watching, grinning at me and waving. One enterprising fellow climbed a tree and did the satyr version of planking. I shuddered. He stretched out straight along a branch, balancing all his weight on his erect member. When he started to do pushups with it, I looked away.
I cleared my throat. “Mr. Armadillo, this is not a maenad baby. She came from a dryad and a satyr.”
King Mad Dog Armadillo paled. “Satyrs don’t mix with dryads. I’m sure you’re mistaken.” He waved at the nearest goat-man, a younger satyr with ruddy skin and a dark gold pelt. “Leatherneck, get our guests some refreshments.”
“That’s not necessary,” I said. “Please. Someone here must know who spent time with a dryad. We only want to be sure this baby isn’t wanted before we find her another home.”
He squinted at me. It was the first time his eyes weren’t zeroed in on my chest. “She isn’t wanted. Is that clear enough?”
Leatherneck appeared, carrying three golden cups filled with what appeared to be a dark red wine. Only two of the cups were in his hands.
I refused to look at how he balanced the third cup in the center.
“It’s clear,” Maurice said. “All the fun. None of the responsibility.” He put a hand on my elbow and tried to guide me away. “I warned you about these guys, Zoey. This is pointless. Let’s go home.”
“Wait,” I said. I concentrated on my emotional barrier and opened a window. Something wasn’t right here. Okay, to be fair, there was a lot here that wasn’t right. But there was more to the situation than King Mad Dog of Clan Raging Hard-On was letting on.
The first thing that hit me, of course, was arousal. The horniness in the clearing was so thick my throat constricted. I cringed and pushed through it, feeling soiled and a little violated at the mental contact. The king’s excitement was superficial. Beneath it was caution tinged with haughty arrogance. And under that, I tasted a lie.
Without thinking my actions through, I shook off Maurice’s hand and moved into the center of the clearing. Satyrs gathered around me, pressing closer. I ignored them.
Their emotions were thick and wet like a humid afternoon in a rainforest. I tuned out the sexual feelings bombarding me from all sides and focused past them. Somewhere in the forest something—someone—different hid among the brambles and leaves. A different kind of need cried out, an agony of heartbreak and desperation. I spun around, trying to locate the source. Dozens of eyes met mine, hungry for my attention. None contained anything but a skeezy cloud of lust. I turned to the king and he waggled his eyebrows again.
“Who else is here?” I asked.
“Who else do you need? There’s more than enough of us to satisfy you, pretty lady.”
He reached for my hand. His fingernails were caked with grime, and his knuckles were covered with coarse, reddish hair.
I backed away and stepped into the waiting arms of another satyr who proudly displayed a wreath of daisies around his erection. His arms circled my waist, and another satyr took the opportunity to reach out and cop a feel.
“Hey, knock it off,” I said. I pushed them both away and shoved through the crowd, attempting to locate the source of the emotional distress call. The herd followed, and hands grabbed at my arms, my shoulders, my ass. I kept moving. A part of me knew I was getting deeper into trouble with each step, but the danger felt detached. Maurice’s voice floated through the crowd, calling me back, warning the satyrs to leave me alone.
Muffled moans came from the bushes on my right. I turned toward the sound. It was entirely possible someone, or several someones, were having sex back there, but that’s not what it felt like. I heard words, disconnected from sentences, words like baby and quiet and no. The brush stirred, as if someone were struggling, then what sounded like a fist connecting with flesh and breath expelled in a forced rush.
I tried to move to the bushes. Someone needed rescuing. But I’d misjudged my own situation. The someone in need of rescue was now me. With my attention elsewhere, the satyrs had closed in on me, pressing tight. Hands yanked at my sweatshirt, and the fabric tore at the neck. Multiple fingers tugged at the waist of my jeans, and I lost my footing. I was going down. And that was a terrible figure of speech, considering all the raging hard-ons now pointing directly at my face. I struggled to regain my feet, but the satyrs grasped and groped and pushed with hands and fingers and lips and tongues.
My own fear rose to cover any other emotions coming from outside of me. I scrabbled in the dirt and grass, breaking contact with one sex-starved beast-man, only to have him replaced by two more. I felt the screams coming from my throat, but my ears didn’t register the sounds. My sweatshirt shredded. My jeans, now unfastened, inched down my hips. I grabbed at them, and someone pulled up my tank top, exposing my belly. I let go of my jeans with one hand and tried to recover the remnants of my shirt before I was left with nothing but a flimsy bra protecting my breasts from tongues and teeth and whatever else they had in mind.
A thunderous growl split the crowd, distracting them from their orgy.
I thought I’d been frightened a minute before, but what stood before me was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen. The satyrs seemed to agree. Several scattered. The rest froze, jaws hanging loose.
Whatever this creature was, it stood at least eight feet tall, with broad shoulders and bulky muscles. It took a step toward me, teeth bared and fists clenched. Wicked-sharp canines dripped with drool. Drops spattered on the ground and the grass smoked and burned where the spit landed.
The thing roared again. Monstrous yellow eyes, rimmed with blood, cast around and glared at the satyrs that were left behind.
I was going to die. There was no question. First I was nearly gang-raped by savage goat-men, now I would be torn apart and eaten by a monster from hell.
I scooted out of reach of the frozen satyrs and pulled my legs in close, trying to make myself small. As big as this thing was, it looked fast. Running away would only draw its attention. I wrapped my arms around my knees and held tight to fight the tremors in my body. A sob caught in my throat and stayed lodged there.
The creature howled and tore after the remaining satyrs. Its hands were like over-sized slabs of grey meat, and they swiped at anything in their path. The satyrs churned the dirt and grass as they fled from the monster’s blows.
King Mad Dog Armadillo stood several feet from me, clutching tattered grey cotton embellished with Mickey’s left ear and part of a nose. The monster turned its attention on him, snarling, and acidic drool whipped across the clearing and sizzled through leaves and twigs.
All color drained from the king’s face, and his cloven hooves stumbled as he back-pedaled.
In two pounding steps, the monster stood before Mad Dog. It lowered its head and brought their faces close. A roar like the grating metal of a derailing train tore from its jaws, and tiny drops of acid rained onto the satyr.
Mad Dog Armadillo, king of the Mount Tamalpais satyrs, turned and ran, still clutching a chunk of my favorite Mickey Mouse sweatshirt.
The monster watched him go, then swung around to view the empty clearing. There was no one else for it to target. Its blood-rimmed eyes met mine.
They teach us about the fight or flight instinct in school. I’m not a runner. Running gets you killed. But I’m not a fighter, either. This thing was so much bigger than me that I had no chance of defending myself, even if I did know how to fight. And I’d left my purse in the car. I couldn’t even whack the monster with my handbag. Maurice had been swallowed up by the crowd of satyrs when I walked off. I didn’t see him anywhere, and I hoped with all my heart he was okay. I had nothing and no one, because I’d waltzed into a crazy situation unprepared, thinking I could handle it. All I could hope for now was to stay beyond notice.
But it was even too late for that.
Tears streamed down my face, and my arms locked harder around my legs to keep my body parts from shaking loose. I’d been frightened by the closet monster when I found him in my kitchen that first morning. I’d been startled by a family of brownies in my linen closet. I’d been terrified when I thought an incubus was going to kill me. All of those scares were minor in the end. I adjusted. I dealt with them. I learned that I could handle anything.
Almost anything.
This beast standing over me was too much. I was going to die. In that moment, I learned that, no matter how cool I might seem in accepting the weird and scary into my life, at my core, I was a coward.
In my defense, who wouldn’t be? Faced with something so big and ferocious and terrifying, who wouldn’t squeeze their eyes shut and wait for the final blow? I lowered my head against my knees and shivered.
No matter how tight I squeezed my eyelids, I couldn’t do the same for my ears. I could hear its ragged breaths, and I heard twigs snap under its feet as it drew near.
Moments ticked by. Its breathing was still clear, though the breaths were softer now, more even. My arms and legs were cramping. If the monster didn’t do something soon, I was going to have to move anyway.
I loosened the stranglehold I had on my legs and wiggled my fingers to get the blood circulating. The monster didn’t immediately pounce on me. That was a hopeful sign. Without looking up, I moved my neck a little, side to side. Still no attack.
Maybe if I lifted my head but didn’t make eye contact, it would be okay. Treat the thing like a silverback gorilla and keep your eyes lowered out of respect. That might keep you safe.
My eyelids cracked open, and I took a minute to adjust to the light. I could do this.
On three. Take it slow. One…
The monster grabbed my shoulder.
I screamed and propelled myself backward, slamming into a tree. Hard. My breath blew out of my chest with an audible chuff.
So much for that flight instinct. It had finally kicked in, and I totally muffed it.
“Zoey, it’s me!”
It took me a few seconds to get my breath back and my racing heart under control. I was nauseated from the buckets of adrenaline still coursing through my system.
The clearing was empty, except for Maurice. The monster was gone.
We were okay. Both of us. Maurice was alive. I was alive.
He helped me to my feet, and I craned my neck around, terrified the monster would return any second.
“We have to get out of here before it comes back,” I said. I tugged at his hand to get him moving.
Maurice didn’t budge. “Zoey.” His face was sober, and his bony shoulders sagged.
“Come on. What’s wrong with you?” I tried to pull my hand loose. He wouldn’t let go. He stood there looking at me, waiting for something. Bushes rustled in the distance and I panicked again, yanking at his arm. “It’s coming, Maurice. We have to hurry.”
Still, he refused to budge.
I looked at his face again. Really looked. Even without my empath skills, his sadness was clear. What was there to be sad about? We were alive. Yay us.
I looked into his eyes. Big and yellow and filled with love and concern.
And still rimmed with blood.
This time, he let go when I tugged my hand away. Too much adrenaline. Too much fear. Too much information about a dear friend I’d invited to live in my house. I bent in half and horked up my breakfast. It wasn’t pretty, but something had to give.
Maurice touched my arm, and I jumped. He pulled his hand back as if I’d burned him.
“I’m so sorry, Zoey.” His voice was soft and unhappy. “I never wanted you to see that.”
I was the worst friend in the world. I could feel his misery pooling at my feet. My own guilt beat against the inside of my chest. I turned away again and dry-heaved.
“I’ll go, Zo.” Over my shoulder I heard his feet scuffling in the leaves.
“Dammit, Maurice, could you just give me a minute to process this?”
He stopped and waited, silent. I took a few deep, cleansing breaths and pulled myself together. I straightened my tank top, buttoned my jeans, and swept my hair back from my face. As best as I could, I closed up the opening in my shields. I needed to be alone with my own feelings for a while.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” I wanted to reassure him that we were all right, but I wasn’t ready to reach out and grab his hand. He was still my Maurice. But the monster I’d seen was lurking and salivating in the back of my mind. I wasn’t ready.
He hesitated. “Are you sure?”
I attempted a smile. It felt small and awkward. “You scared the shit out of me. Folding you up into the back of the Bug will make me feel better. Besides—I have no clue where we are. You have to get us out.”
The smile he gave me was a little stronger than mine. He took the lead through the forest and out to the parked car.
My hands still had a slight tremor, but I got the door unlocked without dropping the keys. Points for me.
I had a lot of questions, but I wasn’t certain I could handle the answers just yet. Still, he was getting into a tiny car with me. I didn’t want to have doubts about Maurice. He was my friend. I had to know.
I swallowed and turned to face him. He stood a few feet away, giving me space. My heart broke at the hang-dog look he wore, as if any moment I would yell at him and chase him away. But there was something I’d missed before. I frowned in suspicion.
“So,” I said, pointing at his un-torn clothes. “Why don’t you look like Bruce Banner after he’s de-Hulked?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t real, Zoey.”
I frowned. “I saw you. You were huge. Your drool burned the ground and the satyrs went flying through the air.”
“No. The ground smoking was fake, and the satyrs ran off on their own. I barely touched them.” He scratched his ear. “Everything was an illusion.”
I stared at him in silent disbelief. Then I punched him in the arm. “You might have warned me. I nearly peed myself.”
He looked down at his feet. I could see his jaw working while he tried to put the right words together. “I’m sorry I scared you, Zoey. I don’t like to transmonstrify, but you were in trouble. It’s the only way I had of defending you.” He refused to meet my eyes, as if he’d done something shameful.
I felt terrible for being angry with him. It was my fault I’d gotten us into a mess bad enough to need a rescue that big. “Get in the car.”
“Really?”
I ran my hand through my hair and sighed. “I’m not going to lie to you, Maurice. I’m kind of freaked out. But even if you really had turned into a big snarling, scary beast, you’re still you. And it’s not the first time you’ve pulled my ass out of a fire, especially when it was my fault my ass was
on fire in the first place. Let’s go home.”
He moved toward the car door and raised his hand on the way past me, as if to touch my arm. I held very still, trying not to flinch.
He dropped his arm and ducked into the car, folding up into an origami version of himself. Neither of us spoke as I got in, then guided the car around to the road.
We would be okay. I needed a little time was all.
The tires crunched on the gravel road, and we pulled out.
Before I’d managed to get up to more than five miles per hour, something big slammed into the back of the car.
I screamed and slammed my foot on the brake pedal.
A face peered at me through the driver’s side window, and I screamed again.
The satyr’s eyes were frantic, and one was bloodshot, the area around it puffy and already beginning to bruise. He slapped at my window and tossed a worried look over his shoulder.
“Please,” he said. “They’re coming back. Let me come with you!”
I looked at Maurice through the rear-view mirror. He shrugged and glanced back at the forest. I didn’t see anything.
I rolled the window down a crack. “Who’s coming?”
“The king. And everybody else.” Voices spilled from the trees, and he jerked his head in their direction. “Ma’am, I know you don’t have a reason to trust me, but you have my baby. I need to see her.”
That did it. Maybe the trip wasn’t such a waste after all. I reached across and unlocked the passenger door. “Hurry.”
He came around and slid in as the horde of satyrs poured onto the road behind us, dicks and arms waving. I didn’t wait for my passenger to buckle up. I’d seen enough. We pulled out and flew down the mountain as if all the minions of hell were on our asses. Because they sort of were.
We drove in silence for a while, each swallowed in our own thoughts. It was the satyr who finally spoke up first.
“I’m Nick,” he said.
My eyebrows rose in surprise. “Nick what? Nick the Blade? One-eyed Nick? Slick Nick Barracuda?”