Chapter 2
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 declare not 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 on the 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.
And get to him before the guards…
The heels of their tall boots clack like hooves as they traverse the space toward Andre. Cows sitting in their path scramble toward the side walls. Is it me, or is it strange that the top halves of their Fae bodies don’t move as they walk? Maybe they’re trained to march like that.
As long as they walk out of here, I’ll keep my curiosity to myself. I have jam to take off the flame. It’s probably ruined by now…cleaning the black tar off the pan bottoms will take the rest of the day.
Andre fights the soldiers. They dodge his clumsy punches with grace and ease.
Two Fae grab his legs instead of trying to catch his arms and topple him onto his back.
His squeals turn into high-pitched screams. This stops the Fae in their tracks.
Andre’s limbs thump onto the wood floor, scattering bits of hay.
Interesting. The soldiers cover their ears and bend at the waist as if in pain.
“A quieter one!” shouts the emissary. “We must have a quieter one, or the palace will implode into rubble.”
The guards step away from Andre, who yanks the door hard enough to send Gabe to the ground.
Both hubulls lie in a heap on the threshold with their limbs tangled.
Arms and hooves fly as they bolt upright and sprint across the field toward the kitchens.
If I had a way to send them a message, I’d ask them to check on my jam.
Smearing a hand down my face in frustration, I enviously watch their retreat.
How long will this go on? When I look toward the cows in charge, I lock eyes with Clarence.
The corners of his mouth curl into an evil smile that lifts his snout.
I can’t even get satisfaction from the snot crusting his nostrils that I’m sure all the cows have noticed.
Something about his expression balls my guts into a knot.
“Take Franklin,” Clarence suggests. “He can’t make a sound.”
Did he say my name? I must be mistaken, but everyone has turned to look at me.
Clarence points from his position behind Petunia.
What have I ever done to that bastard? Despite my hatred for how he treats other cows, I’ve never had the guts to stand up to him.
We’ve never fought over a cow or chores.
In fact, I can’t remember my last interaction with him, as I’m always at work and he avoids places where work is taking place. It can’t be…but it is.
I jump to my hooves and stumble away from the Fae.
My back hits the wall. There’s nowhere to run or hide, now that I’m in their sights.
I lock eyes with Clarence, and he bares his blunt teeth at me.
He’s counting on either intimidating me into going, my moral code motivating me to save the other hubulls, or my resistance being silent…
because I’m always silent. The one weapon we have against the Fae, and I was born without it.
When a soldier grabs my arm, I easily shake him off.
He lands in a cloud of dust. Watching his descent lowered my horns between me and my opponents.
Shouts surround me as they anticipate my stampede like a Minotaur.
Some stupid soldier grabs the sensitive base of my horn—seriously, who does that?
It’s as intimate and sensitive as grabbing a hubull’s cock.
My fist flies out on reflex and knocks the Fae out cold.
His body twitches next to the other Fae I pushed to his butt.
An elbow to the gut of the third, a headbutt smashing the forehead of the fourth, and I have all four soldiers on the floor.
“Get control of him,” sneers the emissary. I don’t know if he’s talking to his men, my herd, or himself. Unless I risk taking my eyes off the soldiers, I’ll never know.
“Please, Franklin,” Petunia says, advancing toward me.
I can hardly see her through the steam puffing from my nose.
“As much as you sacrifice for the herd, you are a slave already. Don’t think we miss who does most of the chores around here.
You are destined for this—to save the herd—in the ultimate act of loyalty. ”
Does she expect me to believe that bullshit?
Where did he come from? I jump two feet in the air when a hand touches my shoulder.
The emissary is inches from me, holding a large needle.
I attempt to bat it away, but I only succeed in jabbing myself in the wrist. Lava pours through my veins, numbing my hand as it climbs into my system.
My arm dangles lifelessly, unresponsive to my command.
Whatever he injected me with, it darkens my veins to black.
They stick out as if trying to crawl away from the poison seeping through my body.
The inky blackness crosses my chest. My heart pounds with fear when I wish it would stop.
If my heart didn’t race like this, the chemical wouldn’t spread so fast. Soldiers grab my arms, but I can’t fight back.
Fear has rooted me to the spot as I watch the chemicals’ progress.
Squeaks escape my muzzle as the waves of pain from my belly steal the breath from my lungs.
The ripples of my abs are grey with webs of black netting.
I have a second of admiring the girth of my femoral arteries as they darken before my legs give out.
“Now, that’s better,” the emissary says as he enters my field of vision. “I’d tell you to say goodbye to your herd, but maybe not. I suspect if you could speak, you’d say more colorful words than goodbye.”
“This pays our debt,” Maribelle says from afar.
“Until next year,” he sneers. “Someone will portal through before nightfall to enchant your fence, but let’s not allow your herd to fall behind again. Shall we? Next time, King Marigold won’t be as merciful as to take one hubull of your choosing.