“I guess that’s a matter for my husband and me to consider,” I say with a smirk. “When that happens, I will trust you to guard the bedroom door—from the outside, of course—as the ruling of a king over his queen can be quite consuming. We can’t be worried about any sneak attacks while…how shall I say…my future husband plays with his doll.”
“You little?—”
“Oh no, Snapdragon,” I say, depressing the latch on the door to open it. “I’m not little anymore, and I think it best for you to remember that the next time you attempt to blackmail me.”
CHAPTER TWO
FRANKLIN
“Well, I’m not going,” Clarence says for the thousandth time. Nobody asked him to go with the Fae emissary, but you would think we were begging him the way he’s carrying on. I’d love for him to go—not because I think he would help the hucow cause on the other side of the Veil, but because he’s a bully. My life would be much easier if these pastures didn’t have him in them.
“They specified a bull, so that rules out cows like me,” Petunia adds. “Maribelle, Daffodil, none of the hucows can go. I wonder what the Fae want with a hubull anyway. It’s not like hubulls lactate, and the Fae don’t eat hubull meat.”
“It doesn’t say,” Maribelle says to the letter. Maybe if she stares at it long enough, she will be able to read the words written on the parchment. The only literate hucows that I know of are Bessy and Daisy. Bessy ran off with a leprechaun, and Daisy disappeared without a trace. If the Fae emissary lied to us about what the Fae King wrote, we’d never know. “I’m guessing sex slave.”
“Maribelle!” scolds Daffodil. “Hubulls can do more than have sex.”
“Like what?”
Daffodil’s eyes bounce around as if the answer might be written on the walls, painted on the wood beams holding up the ceiling, or spelled out in hay on the floor. It's laughable that she’s the one to assess our worth. Daffodil hasn’t tended the fields since she came of age. She doesn’t bale the hay for drying, mill oats for feed, or stew fruit for jam. If she did, I would know…for I spend my days sweating in the fields, hunched over the presses of the mill, or dodging steam over the jam vats. Keeping the sanctuary afloat is back-breaking work, none of which is done by Daffodil, Maribelle, or Petunia. As much as I wish I could stand up for the hubulls, I can’t.
I can’t speak.
I’m still a hubull, though, not a Minotaur. Sometimes a hucow/hubull cross results in an offspring too feral to be reached, and the herd must isolate the calf to preserve the sanctuary. These Minotaur calves ram their heads into the walls, fences, and other cows, causing injury and destruction wherever they go. They’re mindless beasts that we must keep underground in labyrinths. The herd was worried that I might be a Minotaur, but I’m as intelligent as the rest of them—just silent.
“Maybe the wimpy Fae want a strong hubull to lead their army or domestic projects like construction or farming,” Petunia says to rescue her sister, who’s still trying to come up with a purpose for hubulls.
“The Fae aren’t dumb. They would put one of their own in charge of their projects. The hubull would do the grunt work—all brawn, no brains,” Maribelle replies.
“Then send them a Minotaur,” Petunia says, patting her blond curls. “One less Minotaur is a bonus for us.”
“They specified hubull—not hucow, not Minotaur,” Maribelle repeats for the thousandth time.
I wish they would just vote. The more they talk, the more they repeat themselves. I have fruit reducing in the kitchens, and if this takes much longer, my jam will be sticky taffy. If they want plain oatmeal in their feedbags, that’s fine by me, but I know them. They will complain.
Granted, there are a half dozen herd members who help in the fields, mill, and kitchens, but those herd members are strangely silent. Do they fear being sent to the Fae, so they try to blend in with the walls? Or are they boiling with anxiety over their half-finished chores, too?
“Well, I’m not going,” Clarence repeats, and here we go again. The loudest cows declarenot it, then repeat the same arguments we just heard. For the fourth time today, they discuss flipping coins (we gave all our coins to the emissary to beg for mercy), drawing straws (nobody wants to donate their straw), or having a contest where the winner goes to the Fae. Someone will suggest not sending the winner because it’s motivation not to participate in three…two…one…
“Hey, that’s not fair! If you send the winner, then all the hubulls will try to lose. They will sit on the starting line and wait for someone to have to pee,” Maribelle says, putting her hand on her hip and glaring at all the hubulls. We haven’t thrown the imaginary race, yet she locks eyes with each of us with menace.
I’m so over this.
Silencing everyone in the room, the portal opens to the Fae realm of Magmell. The second emissary to visit us today steps through, followed by four Fae in matching uniforms. All five males have sharp, angular features that make me rub my ugly snout self-consciously. Their long, black hair shines as it swings halfway down their backs. It’s a striking contrast to the golden uniforms, decorated with differing amounts of colored ribbons. The emissary wears the most ribbons as well as silver cuffs onthe points of his ears, like the last emissary did. However, this one doesn’t wear an oily smile.
He means business.
“Who’s coming with us?” He asks with clipped words. His green eyes narrow as he stares down each hubull.
I can’t help but smirk as Clarence hides behind Petunia. Her big, blond curls may hide his face, but his body is twice as wide as hers. He’s ridiculous—and showing everyone his yellow belly.
“We were just voting,” Maribelle answers sweetly. “We had no volunteers. Your reputation paints you as vicious captors.”
“And yours paints you as imbeciles,” he mutters with an eye roll. He points to Gabe and Andre, who lean on the doorframe. “Take one of the bulls by the door.”
“No, you can’t do that!” Gabe and Andre yell in unison, followed by a string of almost unintelligible moos, shouts, and expletives. They gesture wildly at Clarence to inspire him to save them—as if he has any power against Maribelle or the Fae. Maribelle took over the herd when Bessy left, while the Fae rule all of Magmell.
Gabe slides the barn door open a crack and slips through, slamming it behind him. He must be using his weight to hold the door shut with Andre inside. When Andre pulls the door open an inch, it slams back into the frame, so the wider hubull has no hope of exiting. Growls and squeals fill the barn as Andre struggles with the door. No one else moves a muscle to help him. While I feel for the male, I’m across the room. I would have to step across the Fae emissary’s toes to reach him.
