Page 52 of Wrangled By the Minotaur
Every careful plan, every political consideration, every reason for restraint evaporates in an instant.
I move.
The shadow-beast is fast, but I’m faster. My hooves tear chunks from the stone pathway as I launch myself forward, intercepting its charge just as it reaches the dance floor. We collide with a sound like thunder, my shoulder catching it in the ribs and sending both of us tumbling away from the screaming crowd.
It recovers first, spinning to rake claws across my chest. The fabric of my suit tears like paper, revealing deep gouges beneath, but I barely feel the pain. The bull in me has finally been unleashed.
I catch its next swipe with my bare hands, my fingers digging into the matted fur of its forearms as we grapple. It’s strong. Stronger than anything natural. But I’ve spent years learning to channel my supernatural strength with precision.
“Get everyone out of here!” I bellow over my shoulder.
But it’s Frankie’s voice that cuts through the chaos, clear and commanding despite the terror coursing through her.
“Everyone follow me!” she shouts. “Away from the trees, toward the parking area! Move!”
The shadow-beast breaks my grip, its claws raking across my forearms as I block its attempt to get past me. Black ichor drips from its jaws as it snarls, and I realize this thing is more than just an illusion made real. It’s hungry.
I plant my hooves and lower my head, letting the bull take full control. The beast charges, but it doesn’t understand what it’s facing. I’m not just some corporate consultant who happens to have horns; I’m a minotaur, bred from creatures that once hunted gods through labyrinthine darkness.
My horns catch it in the chest, driving it backward into one of the massive oak trees. It howls and rakes its claws down my back, but I don’t let go. Instead, I drive forward, pinning it against the bark while my hands find its throat.
“Raphael!” Frankie’s voice carries across the grove, and I risk a glance to see her standing near the food stalls, a burning torch in her hands. The humans are behind her, most successfully evacuated, but she hasn’t run.
Of course she hasn’t. My brave, impossible woman is preparing to help me fight a nightmare made flesh.
The shadow-beast takes advantage of my distraction, sinking its fangs into my shoulder. Pain shoots through my system, but it only feeds the fury burning in my chest. I draw back my fist and drive it forward with every ounce of strength I possess.
The impact caves in the side of its skull, black ichor spraying across the oak’s bark, but the thing doesn’t die. Instead, it writhes away, wounded but still dangerous, its golden eyes now fixed on the easier target with nothing but a torch for protection.
“Frankie, run!” I roar, but she doesn’t move.
Instead, she hurls the torch directly at the beast’s face, flames catching in its matted fur and sending it stumbling backward with a shriek. The distraction is all I need. I close the distance in two massive strides, my hands finding purchase on its burning head.
This time, I don’t hold back.
The shadow-beast’s neck snaps with a sound like breaking timber, its massive body going limp. For a moment, it hangs suspended between my hands, then begins to dissolve. Not dying so much as unraveling, its corporeal form bleeding away like smoke until nothing remains but the smell of burned fur.
Silence falls over the grove as I stand there in the wreckage, my suit torn to ribbons, breathing hard as the bull slowly recedes. Around me, overturned tables tell the story of panicked flight, but the crowd is safe.
Footsteps approach from behind. Diego walks toward me with his characteristic calm, though his dark eyes hold new sharpness.
“Hell of a thing,” he says. “That shadow wasn’t natural. Tasted like… manufactured fear.”
More footsteps. Moss emerges from behind an oak tree. “Felt it too. Wrong kind of hungry. Like it was made to be hungry.”
The small dragon appears at the clearing’s edge. “Fae magic. Illusion work. I sensed the weaving before it solidified.”
I turn to follow their collective gaze and see Lysander standing near the ruins of the refreshment table, his perfect composure finally, completely shattered. His silver hair is disheveled, and his pale skin lacks its usual luster.
“Only monsters could see it at first,” Diego says slowly. “I watched you all freeze up before the humans even knew something was wrong.”
“Targeted,” Moss agrees grimly. “Meant for our senses only.”
The dragon’s eyes narrow. “It was designed to provoke predator responses. Classic fae manipulation technique.”
More monsters are emerging now: a banshee, a pair of selkies, others whose inhuman features make them impossible to mistake for anything else.
Diego voices what we’re all beginning to understand. “You wanted us to lose control. In front of all these humans. Ruin any good will we’ve built.”
