“Wilbur, right?”

He nodded, hand poking sticklike from beneath his used but clean uniform jacket. It was swallowed by a beefy paw and used to maneuver him out of another chef’s determined path.

“Watch your step here. And listen for people using the word ‘behind’ like they’re supposed to, right, Javi?”

Wilbur was certain he’d been deafened by the bellow until the words drifted back. “Heard, Chef!” Granted, there was a ringing tone about the phrase, but that might have been the echo of other chefs around the kitchen.

Chef led him to one of the stainless steel prep tables. “Look, we’re shorthanded. Get through dinner rush and we’ll bring you in early tomorrow for some real one-oh-one, yeah?”

He swallowed hard, certain he was being set up for failure. Might as well put a brave face on it. “I’ll do my best, Chef.”

His voice squeaked despite his best intentions. A slap on his shoulder had him staggering into the cold metal.

“You’ll be fine. See, this is fish en papillote. Vegetables on the bottom. Then fish. Then herb butter. Okay? Then twist it all up. Like so.” Strong fingers made complicated movements look easy.

Wilbur gulped. “Yessir.”

Chef laughed. “Call me over when you have five of them done. Everyone starts with fish duty. No one ever likes it for some reason.”

“I thought I’d be dishwashing,” Wilbur ventured. He only heard that deep guffaw again.

Five minutes later, he was shaking and ready to quit.

“What nonsense is this?” He’d never been this aggressive in his life, especially against someone as large as Chef. Now he was downright belligerent, demanding answers.

“What?”

“The first! Stone walls and – and – reenactors from the Renaissance festival!” He refused to believe anything else. No matter how his nails cut into his palms.

“And then! Spaceships! Then seventies mustaches and Farrah Faucett hair, then pioneer days. And then – then Some guy in armor yelled and charged at me!”

“Do you like it?” Chef gave him wide, hopeful puppy dog eyes, incongruous with the tattoos that blended into his skin and muscles from handing fifty pound slabs of beef.

“Like it?” Wilbur ripped off his apron. “Every fish has another time, another place! What madness is happening?”

“No, no.” Chef shook his head. “Another thyme. Another plaice.”

***

This week’s prompts were exchanged with AC Young at MOTE.

“I never – ever – expected this.” I panted between words, fingers turning white with blood loss as the baby minotaur lunged for his parents. Actual blood loss might happen from the spikes in the thick, stiff leather, but that’s all in a day’s work here.

The assistant got the door shut finally, and at least the little guy couldn’t escape. Again.

That’s when the howls began. I swear to you, my ears blistered. “Look, you’re new. Move!”

I hip-checked the new girl sideways. Off to the side, and now the brat with the dark curling horns could see his mom again, cooing through the narrow glass window in the door. The mom must be older than I thought, though I suppose it could have been the florescent lighting in the lobby. Her own ridges had faded and gleamed the polished yellow of bone. I’d never heard of it happening before age thirty with a minotaur.

Maybe that explained why the son was such a spoiled brat. Only a single kid? Minotaurs were family-oriented, and didn’t like to be alone. I’d have expected her to be swarmed with a herd of five or more by now. We kept the backyard of the practice poop-scooped just for when they came in. Get them out of the way. Maybe get some entertainment if they formed an impromptu soccer team.

I jolted out of my thoughts when the horns made contact with that muscle right above my knee with a painful twang. At least the screaming had stopped. The new girl had distracted him with photos of her cat. Most of the magical creatures community found human-style pets hilarious, and this kid was no exception, snort-laughing his way through some photos.

Until he let out an ooooOOOoooo and the new girl snatched the phone away with a crimson blush.

It was enough time for me to remember her name, anyway. Maybe.

“Jessica, can you hand me that?” I wasn’t dumb enough to name the shining silver instrument, just pointed behind the kid’s back. It wasn’t my first day.

Twenty minutes later, brat was back with Mommy, looking for all the world an angel. I waved goodbye like it wasn’t eight AM and already down three cups of coffee, wondering if I could talk the mother into coming by later to talk about some fertility treatments.

“So what didn’t you expect?”

I shut the door, slumped down on the bench, and let out a yawn so big the tendon in my jaw popped. “Huh?”

“You said you didn’t expect this.” Jessica was wiping down the counter, her face fresh and earnest, frizzled hair escaping a neat bun after the horns had caught and tugged it loose.

I wrinkled the nose at the memory of what we’d been doing at the time. “Oh. Yeah. You open an exotic pets practice, you think you’ll focus on lizards, hedgehogs, maybe the occasional monkey. Maybe work at a zoo for a while, that’d be cool. Then next thing you know, all the stories Grandma told you are real.”

She grinned. “It’s so amazing.”

At least, I think that’s what she said. It was some slang that meant the same thing – assuming I translated properly. The mwah-mwah incomprehensible phrase just made me feel ancient, and I was tired enough after last night’s emergency.

“Yeah, sure, but next thing you know, some centaur’s got a toothache and you’re not a dentist. A gryphon has anxiety and is plucking his own feathers out, and you’re not a psychiatrist. Where else do they go?”

“Seems like you’re a good option,” Jessica said loyally. Aw, the attempt was cute. She’d been here all of five minutes, but the loyal ones either ran screaming the first week or stayed forever. We’d find out in a few days which she really was.

“They don’t teach this stuff in vet school,” I pointed out. “I’m going off folklore and home remedies, writing the textbook that can never be published as I go by trial and error. I’m just trying to keep them from getting killed.”

My lab coat pocket buzzed. Pulling out my phone, I smiled faintly and showed her the photo. “Success story. This is Fritz. Doing fine now after last night’s trauma.”

“Cute horse,” she said, and tossed something in the trash can. The chemical scent of cleanser now filled the small room. It was a definite improvement. “I know you have a reputation, but somebody has to take care of the normal creatures, too, even if they’re exotic to most humans.”

I looked at the dappled grey colt and let out a snort. “I’d agree with you, but if you’re going to work here, you’re going to have to recognize a unicorn that’s lost his horn.”

She snatched the phone. “What?”

“See the divot?” I yawned and wondered if another cup of coffee would start the shakes. “He walked into a wall and got stuck. He’ll lose his magic until it grows back. Poor guy. We tried to avoid that option. His parents are furious, too.”

The door burst open. Lizzie was the best admin ever, but her sweater was ruined with what looked like claw snags, and parts of her long hair were weighted down with something caught in them. Almost as if the tips of her hair had become something else…I frowned.

“Doc, we need you now with the basilisk in room three. Now!” Lizzie fled.

A roar and a thump came through the supposedly soundproofed walls the neighbors had insisted upon after the first week. I yawned again and struggled to my feet.

Jessica looked a peculiar, pale shade of greenish-grey, like a human formed from motionless putty.

“You coming?”

***

This week, AC Young prompted me with “When you opened your exotic pets practice, you didn’t expect to be called out to deal with a mythical creature’s toothache.”

My challenge went to Cedar Sanderson: “3,000 years from now, archaeologists discover the Corn Palace.”