Page 8 of The Minotaur's Valentine

I sigh. There’s a big difference between wanting to take care of a puppy and wanting to date a minotaur.

I’m going to forget about her. That’s the smart thing to do.

Chapter Nine: Libby

Iwant to look at every single stall in this place. I feel like... I feel like something magical is just beyond my fingertips. Obviously, I know it’s not actually magic (although there are a whole lot of witchy-looking things at a couple of the stalls, like little bottles with indistinguishable contents, books stamped with symbols I can’t read, charms, and crystals).

No, this is the magic you feel when you’re a kid and there keeps being one more present under the tree at Christmas time, one more house to knock at when you trick-or-treat on Halloween, or one more ride when you’re at Disney World.

It’s not a feeling I’m used to having. Mom could never pile on the presents, not the fun ones. There was always something very expensive and useless from Aunt Karen and lots of necessities from Mom, all wrapped separately. She would only let me go to about ten houses on Halloween. Too many neighbors on drugs and who knows what kind of sickos they’d turn out to be? Don’t even mention Disney World. Ha. If you can never have name-brand cereal or new sneakers, you’re never going to take a big-ticket vacation.

Anyway, the Night Market gives me that “What’s next? There’s more?!” buzz I’ve only dreamed about. Sweet Mr. Minegold isn’t leaving my side, and I start picturing him as my personal tour guide. He keeps a courtly hand at my elbow as if he’s afraid I’ll wander off and get lost like I’m some little kid out alone after dark. First, Doc Peterson was worried about me. Now, Mr. Minegold is acting as my shepherd. I’m beaming. Even without feeling like I could belong here one day, there’s the Market itself. Each stall has something else cool to see or smell. Or taste.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, baby. Ohhh! Oh, my God! What the hell is in this?” I can’t keep the absolutely indecent noises from escaping my throat. I pick up another sliver of fudge from the sample tray, pop it in my mouth, and my tastebuds orgasm. Sweet, velvety fudge instantly melts on contact with my lips. It is just the right amount of sweetness as it wraps around my tongue, caressing it in the way I wish someone’s mouth would wrap around my— “Damn.”

The owner nods knowingly. “That’s the Valentine’s Day Special. It has—”

“Ahem!” Mr. Mineogld coughs violently.

“Uh—Chocolate is a powerful aphrodisiac. You may notice some... herbal notes in there. Please, try the house specialty.” The man at the fudge stall whips open a box next to him and hands me a thick square of light brown fudge.

I don’t have to be told twice. I bite into this one and the chorus starts all over again. I can’t help it. Mr. Minegold and Fudge Dude exchange glances. Fudge Dude puts his hands up in the universal “Don’t look at me” gesture. “What. Is. This?” I demand, not caring that my mouth is full.

“Peanut butter praline milk chocolate fudge. Free sample. On the house. One pound, eleven dollars.”

“Two pounds. I’ll give some to Dr. Peterson,” I say quickly, just so no one thinks I plan to gorge myself.

(I totally plan to gorge myself. Eleven dollars per pound of sex made of sugar? Yes, please.)

My moans attract some attention, but Mr. Minegold doesn’t seem to want to stop and chit-chat. I don’t mind though. I have a new fixation.

Kittens. Feral cats, I’m pretty sure.

“Oh, the cats?” Mr. Minegold follows my gaze to the strip of woods just beyond the back row of stalls.

“I see dozens of tiny yellow eyes! Kittens in the winter. Poor things. They must be freezing.”

Mr. Minegold says nothing at first. When he speaks, his voice is low. “I hope not. It’s a terrible thing to be cold and have nowhere to go.”

His tone is so sad and vacant, like it's a feeling he knows. It makes me wonder if he’s ever been homeless. Mom and I were on the verge of eviction a half-dozen times, at least. Even now, if I hadn’t heard about this cheap but awesome town, where would I be? How long before I would have found it impossible to stay with Aunt Karen?

The feeling of being a “stray” in my own life comes back strong and blots out the momentary pleasure of pretending that I fit in.

I know all seemingly homeless cats are not the same. Truly feral adult cats living in an established colony would be unhappy as house pets, especially in my tiny apartment.

But I can’t help thinking that I need to come back to this Night Market again and at least check on them. What if there’s a scared, lost stray or some little kitten that needs a home? Someone I can live with, who will belong to me, and I’ll belong to them, too?

I know what I want for Valentine’s Day now.

A kitten.

A pound or three of fudge.

Yep. Fudge and feral cats... and a date.

Chapter Ten: Milo

Ican’t forget about her.

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