Page 12 of The Minotaur's Valentine

I nod, knowing my cheeks just turned bright pink with excitement. That’s happened to me ever since I was little. Doc’s tone is very familial and my hungry heart wants a bite of that.

“I worry about you being taken unawares. Surprised, you might say.” Peterson leans back and starts to cross his legs, then stops and sits forward again.

My God. He’s so nervous and worried, doing the whole protective fatherly speech thing. Where do you sign up to adopt parents instead of kids? I’m taking this guy as my stand-in dad. “You don’t have to worry about that kind of stuff, okay, Doc? I’m real hard to ‘surprise.’ And as long as Ricky is upfront about what he wants out of our date, I’m fine. I’m a big girl, and I’ll tell him no if I’m not comfortable with it.”

Peterson’s jaw swings open like a rusty kennel gate. “I... I... Libby, are you sure we’re talking about the same things?”

“Being attacked by some sleazy guy in the dark? Yeah, Doc. I grew up in a rough neighborhood. Creeps and muggers on every corner. My mom taught me how to fight off the grabby ones.” I mimic a knee to the groin and two fingers in the eyes.

Peterson deflates, obviously in relief. So why doesn’t he look happy? Or maybe that’s his relieved-but-still-concerned-look. Or maybe my cold is getting worse. I do feel pretty groggy. “Can we talk about this later, Doc? I’m worse than I thought. If you’re sure you don’t mind looking for the kittens tonight, I’ll stay in and sleep.”

“I insist. I’ll have some friends help me round them up and I’ll get the mother as well.”

Wow. Peterson’s voice had a resonant, confident, soothing quality. It was almost hypnotic.

When I’m a fully-fledged vet one day, I bet I’ll sound that confident, too.

Chapter Thirteen: Milo

“Your blades look a little different from your usual style, Milo. There’s some subtle curvature here. How do your great big mitts make such beautiful, deadly treasures?”

“Peterson! Good to see you!” My heart thumps as the old vet comes by my stall in a dark brown trench coat over a hooded cloak. This man knows Libby. The girl I see every night. The one I can hear humming my favorite songs, wearing a sweatshirt that’s a match of mine—but so much tinier. My tail swishes and taps around my hooves as we shake hands.

He removes his hand from mine to fondle one of my most recent creations, one of the few blades I’ve worked on in addition to the special jewelry requests I’ve recently received.

“I love this one. Delicate and almost feminine. Might get it for my assistant, Libby. Have you seen her? She’s the one that keeps coming out and standing in the sleet for hours with a can of tuna.” Peterson picks up a multi-blade pocket knife with a roll of his eyes.

“I’ve seen her.” My voice is a strangled bleat.

“She’s nice enough, don’t worry. I doubt if she’d mace you on the spot. She might try to scratch your head.” He laughs, but there’s a worried tinge to it.

I don’t care. I picture Libby lying next to me in bed, her hand scratching the spot between my horns as I wrap my arms around her. I wonder how she’ll feel sliding around me.

That might not feel good for her at first, actually. I wonder if she’s a virgin, like me. No. Not someone as beautiful as her, not someone normal, like her.

Why the hell am I torturing myself?

Peterson looks up at the sky and whistles, and that train of thought derails.

The overhead lights on their dangling strings go out. The Night Market vendors begin to pack it in and head for home. At least, most of them do. About half a dozen individuals respond to Peterson’s whistle.

“Anyone want to help me catch a mother cat and her litter?” Peterson flips his hood down and starts to pull something from his pocket. A tiny double reed pipe emerges and he blows three little trills on it.

The forest behind us goes still.

Genesis, the old gargoyle, Ardy, the cop who’s some kind of shifter, Mr. Minegold, and his adopted son-nephew Jesse form a circle around Peterson.

Peterson leans on Minegold’s arm as he sniffs the night air and kicks off his thick winter boots.

His hooves are much smaller than mine, but I suppose that’s one of the differences between satyrs and minotaurs.

“I can sense her distress, the mother cat. She’s deep in a den somewhere, and some of the kittens aren’t with her. She rejected one, maybe two. She couldn’t keep them all fed, not in the winter when she can barely hunt.” Another trilling burst on his flute penetrates the woods and me, too.

The animalistic side of me is drawn to that sound. Satyrs were servants of Pan, the god of nature, the protector of animals. Must be why Peterson is such a great vet.

“Jesse! You and I will sniff out the mother.” Minegold puts his arm around the younger vampire.

“I’ll fly over and give the signal if I see any unwelcome visitors in the woods.” Genesis turns and runs toward the nearest pine. He’ll claw his way up, and then jump from the highest point that will bear his weight, gliding.

---