Page 35 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
And the sheer amount of them…
I’ve met many monsters in my life, but never so many in one place.
A hulking, moss-covered figure, clearly a swamp monster, is engaged in a surprisingly animated conversation with a petite human woman near the counter. His skin is green, his eyes glow faintly, and what looks like a small lily pad rests on his shoulder. He gestures with a gnarled hand, and the human woman laughs, completely at ease.
Near the back, a small dragon perches on a plush chair, delicately sipping hot chocolate from an oversized mug. She’s no bigger than a large dog but unmistakably draconic with jewel-bright scales and intelligent amber eyes. She catches my gaze and offers a dignified nod, which I return with equal gravity.
A creature with multiple eyes, each blinking independently, sips a latte, its long, slender fingers delicately holding the cup. A cryptid with a strange, almost ethereal luminescence hovers near the window, observing the scene with silent curiosity. The sheervarietyis astounding. It’s proof of Sunnybrook’s unique tolerance, a safe harbor for those who might be ostracized elsewhere.
Frankie guides me through the crowd, her hand still in mine. People turn, their conversations shifting, then resuming with renewed energy. Some offer tentative smiles, others a nod of recognition. A few, particularly the older human women, lean forward in their seats, brows furrowed with worry as they study Frankie’s face for signs of distress, their eyes narrow with the unmistakable hunger of those seeking gossip about her association with me. But even then, it’s not the overwhelming hostility I’d prepared myself for.
“See?” Frankie murmurs, though I notice she stays close to my side, not quite as effortlessly social as I’ve seen her at the farmers market. This environment is new for her too. “It’s not so bad.”
“Not yet,” I murmur, my gaze sweeping the room. My instincts, honed in boardrooms and back alleys, are on high alert, trying to categorize, to understand the shifting dynamics of this strange new world. But so far I see no need to be concerned, and a thought, tentative and fragile, starts to form that perhaps thiscouldbe different.
Then, I see him.
Lysander Silvermoon.
I recognize him from the brief, formal meeting we’d had at the county planning office when I first began purchasing properties. He’d been polite but distant then, clearly curious about the wealthy minotaur moving into his territory but maintaining professional courtesy. The fae’s family has been long-established here, so at the time I had chosen to not take it too personally that he was cautious of an outsider like me.
Tonight, he’s holding court near a large potted fern, a small, exclusive circle of “human-adjacent” monsters clustered around him. A sleek, urbane vampire, all sharp angles and expensive silk, laughs at something Lysander says. Beside him, a woman with a chillingly beautiful face and eyes like polished stone nods in agreement, her gaze lingering on Lysander with obvious admiration.
Lysander himself is a vision of tailored perfection. His platinum blonde hair gleams under the soft lights, his aristocratic features sharp and impossibly beautiful. He moves with an inhuman grace, his subtle pointed ears barely visible beneath his styled hair.
He is everything I am not. Effortlessly charming, seemingly at ease in any social situation, a master of social dynamics, and a monster who naturally blends in among humans.
Our eyes meet across the room. A slow, knowing smile spreads across his face, and he begins to move toward us, his small entourage trailing behind him like satellites.
“Raphael!” Lysander’s voice carries easily over the din, cultured and warm. He extends a hand, his grip surprisingly firm when I take it. “How wonderful to see you again. And this must be Miss Baker. Your reputation precedes you—the finest honey in three counties, and now quite the champion of transparency.”
His silver eyes sparkle as Frankie shakes his hand. Frankie seems to know of him, of course; the Silvermoons have been influential in local politics for decades, though it seems she’s never met him personally.
“Mr. Silvermoon,” she says, offering a polite smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about your family’s work in the community.”
“Please, call me Lysander. And yes, my family has been fortunate to call Sunnybrook home for many generations. We’ve always believed in fostering harmony between all residents.” He turns to me. “And Raphael, that piece in the Gazette. Quite something. Such courage to share your story so openly.”
His praise seems genuine, but there’s something in his tone that makes my fur prickle slightly. Before I can analyze it further, Sage appears at Frankie’s elbow.
“Frankie! There you are. I need to steal you for just a moment. Mrs. Jacque brought some photos of her garden and wants your opinion on where to plant the wildflowers you recommended.” Sage glances apologetically at me and Lysander. “Just for a minute?”
Frankie squeezes my hand. “I’ll be right back,” she says, allowing Sage to guide her toward a cluster of older women near the counter.
The moment she’s out of earshot, Lysander’s demeanor shifts subtly. The warmth remains, but there’s a new undercurrent to his words.
“Your story only serves to highlight how lucky I am,” he says, his voice still pleasant but carrying a weight it didn’t have before. “The Great Unveiling was challenging for all of us, sure, but those of us fortunate enough to be human-passing had a much easier transition into society.”
He pauses, his silver eyes studying my face. “Creatures like yourself, who were more… dramatically revealed when the veils failed, faced a much harsher introduction to public life. I can only imagine how difficult that must have been.”
There’s pity in his voice now, carefully modulated sympathy that somehow feels more condescending than outright hostility would. I merely nod, unsure what he’s trying to get at.
“The timing of your interview was quite bold,” he continues. “Though I do wonder if a more… measured approach might have served the community better. Sometimes the full truth, delivered all at once, can be overwhelming for humansensibilities. My family has always found that discretion and gradual revelation tend to yield better long-term results.”
I feel my jaw clench slightly. He’s not openly criticizing me, but the implication is clear: I’ve been reckless, crude in my approach. That his way—the careful, controlled way—is superior.
“I believe in honesty,” I say simply, keeping my voice level.
“Of course, of course,” Lysander agrees quickly. “And it’s admirable, truly. I simply…” He pauses, as if trying to find a nice way to put it. “I simply hope that your directness doesn’t inadvertently make things more difficult for those of us who prefer a subtler touch. We’re all in this together, after all.”
