Page 6 of The Minotaur's Valentine

Why is this important?

It’s not, really. But I grew up listening to eighties metal, and it makes me happy. It reminds me of my mom. I don’t dress the part. (I can’t pull off Siouxsie’s hair, not without the aid of a fork in a power outlet, anyway, and white pancake makeup had a tendency to get me sent to the nurse.) So, I’m a discreet metalhead, just like I’m “subtle” in general. When you get picked on enough, you learn to avoid drawing attention to yourself. I have my dozen band t-shirts, my chunky black boots, my tiny vinyl collection, and I’m used to being a night owl.

When the digital clock shaped like a cat flips from 8:59 to 9:00 with a tiny electronic meowing sound, I’m not even a little bit tired. But, I feel instantly guilty.

“Oops! Sorry, Doc,” I apologize to Doc Peterson in absentia. I worry that somehow he’ll know I stayed late and think I did it for the money. Or will he be mad that I didn’t take a dinner break? Will he count the petty cash and know I didn’t use any?

I can’t lose this job. I can’t let Peterson down.

I’m a panicky blur, taking ten bucks from petty cash and leaving the tiny metal keys on Peterson’s desk, blowing kisses to the two sleeping cats and two dogs in the kennel, and then locking up.

As I race from the office, biting my lip to stop from whimpering like a wimp, I notice that Doc isn’t back. I hope he’s okay.

My stomach sends up a distress signal as I hurry across the street, heading toward the middle of town. The Pine Loft isn’t open this late (damn) or I would totally stop there for a bacon and egg bagel and a pint of coffee. The sushi place is probably open, but an icy blast of wind makes me shiver. I forgot to grab the spare coat. Cold fish and avocado don’t sound good right now. I want hot coffee or hot cocoa, and something warm and sweet.

My apartment is several blocks past The Pine Loft, and The Pine Loft AKA Mecca of Coffee is between work and home. It makes it criminally easy to stop and get a morning cup and an evening cup. Even tonight, when I’m hurrying, my eyes darting nervously in case there are creeps on the streets, I can’t help but give the dark shop a longing sniff.

My nose tingles and my stomach informs me that we’re following the tingle to food. Sweet, fudgy smells are behind The Pine Loft, and so are noise and lights.

What the heck is back there, and why have I never noticed it before?

I creep cautiously to the corner and my jaw drops.

I’ve seen the empty lot before. I think they sold Christmas trees here in December.

Well, it isn’t empty anymore. A steady trickle of people pass by me heading towards rows of stalls under strings of lights.

It’s like a fair or a street market.

“What?” I stand in the middle of the entrance, gawping like a fool as people pass me.

“Libby, isn’t it?”

“Oh! Hi.” I recognize Mr. Minegold, a nice senior citizen who’d once brought in a cardinal with a concussion.

“Is it your first time at the Night Market?”

“The Night Market?” I repeat, knowing I sound dazed. “Yes. I didn’t even know... this was here?” There’s a confused question in my voice. The longer I look, the more I notice. This place is like nothing I’ve ever seen before, but I can’t put my finger on why. Some of the stands seem to glow. It must be the fog from everyone’s warm breath under the lights.

But it smells like chocolate and heaven had a baby and I want some. “Is that fudge?” I ask, cutting off Mr. Minegold who is making polite small talk and ushering me out of the path of foot traffic.

“Ahh. The fudge stand is my favorite place. Come, I’ll show you around.”

Chapter Eight: Milo

“Mr. Minegold! I have your—” I stop talking. Normally, I try not to draw attention to myself. Well, no more attention that being almost seven feet tall and half-bull creates, anyway. It can be dangerous to attract attention, even in Pine Ridge. Demons and supernatural beings of all kinds are drawn to Pine Ridge because it’s on three intersecting Ley Lines. It’s a cosmic energy feast, a thinning of the veil between mortal and immortal worlds, and the real estate taxes are exceptional. That means that something evil could be lurking, and I want to suss it out before it notices me. That’s one reason not to call attention to myself.

The other is human, oblivious, and has a weak bladder—the people who seem to live in their own alternate reality and miss every hint of magic going on around them.

When Mr. Minegold hears my voice, he wheels on his heel and points to the empanada stand.

That’s when I see her.

She’s got strawberry-blonde hair that glints in the misty sparkles the lights are throwing as they catch the start of freezing rain.

She’s got on a black hooded sweatshirt that is way too light for winter in the mountains. But it’s a black sweatshirt with the Slayer logo on the back, a red Ratt patch on one arm, and an Ozzy patch on the other.

Minegold looks back over his shoulder and for a second his irises are scarlet. Vampire vision. He blinks and the bloody hue is absent.

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