Page 3 of Minding the Minotaur
“Oh, no!” I pull back and stare at her in horror. “So now everyone knows I’m fired? She must have done it on purpose.”
Clem just hugs me harder.
“What am I going to do?” I wail.
“We’ll think of something. I’m here for you. Pack up your stuff, go home, and I’ll be over as soon as my shift finishes.”
She lets me go, then holds out her arm. “Wanna dry your eyes on my sleeve?”
I smirk through my tears. It’s our little joke. Many a time has Clem’s sleeve been the repository of my tears: when mybank account got hacked, when my car got totaled on Lapis Highway, when I found my lowlife boyfriend (now ex) in bed with another woman.
Needless to say, Clem has never needed to cry into my sleeve. She’s way too cool for that.
I shake my head, swiping at my cheeks with my arm. “I’ll use mine. I won’t need this fucking awful uniform anymore, so I’ll leave it on the floor in a snot-covered heap when I’m done.”
“Go for it. And make sure you stamp on it before you leave.”
I let out a little hiccupping laugh. I’ve always hated this uniform: brown pants and a beige tunic. But… well, it’s been my life these past five years. Every day, driving down beautiful Sapphire Boulevard to the center of Sparkle City, stopping off to get my spiced chai latte, always making sure I’m on the shop floor by 9 am sharp, when the doors open and the public stream in.
Yep, thatwasmy job.
But now it’s gone.
I spin away, madly swallowing down my panic.
Don’t think about the future.
“I have to get back to accounts, they’ll be looking for me,” Clem says, squeezing my arm one more time. “I’ll come over after work with take-out, okay?”
She disappears, and I go to the change room and grab my things from the locker: my water bottle, and my home clothes—threadbare tracksuit pants, a t-shirt with a hole in the left armpit. My sneakers.
I tear off that stupid uniform and drop it on the floor, then put on my casual gear.
Finally, I go over to the mirror, pull my hair out of the tight ponytail I always wear for work and shake it loose. Even in the nasty fluro lights, my hair shines as it tumbles to my waist. I brush it out until it’s an electric storm of gold aroundmy head, then dry my red, swollen eyes, wash my face, and dab on some foundation and mascara.
I’m going to leave this place with my head held high. Even if nobody sees me, at least I’ll know I didn’t crawl out of here in shame.
I stare down at that fucking ugly uniform heaped on the floor, and do exactly as Clem suggested, I stamp on it, just for good measure. Not once, but several times.
Then I drop my ID badge on top of the pile.
Leave my key in the wide-open, empty locker.
And head down to basement parking.
CHAPTER 2
ARLO
The problem with the portal cape is you never know where the fuck you’ll end up.
On my first trip, I was slam-dunked into a dumpster right behind a food outlet, and found myself knee-deep in chicken carcasses and take-out containers.
The second time, I landed in the women’s toilet of a beauty salon. Nearly got busted by a scary-looking human with white stuff all over her face and a towel wrapped around her head. Third time lucky: a pharmacy drug cupboard. Could have gotten me quite a few substances there—except human drugs don’t work on monsters.
That’d be right. We monsters do all the work and get no perks in return. It’s fucking unfair, but you try telling Otis that. All he does is pull his fucking green forelock and follow orders. Whatever the humans tell him to.
Otis reckons we should be grateful that we’re left alone in the Labyrinth.
