Re had barely finished his sentence when one of the beasts tried to tear its cage apart.

  The air filled with the sharp stink of scorched metal. The creature slammed itself against the bars, snarling and hissing so violently that something had to be done—fast.

  The scientist moved with unexpected speed. He snatched an ampoule from a table by the entrance, slid it into a device that looked like a pistol, and stepped right up to the cage.

  A chill ran down Harlan's spine as he watched. His mind threw up a clean, ugly picture: the beast ripping the cage open and ripping Re with it, then rushing him—along with the croc—for a serving of fresh Harlan.

  He jerked his head toward the barred door, checking whether the lock was actually closed.

  Nothing as he imagined happened.

  The crazed beast lunged straight at Re, and something invisible slammed into it. With a howl, it flew to the far side of the cage. The impact rocked the heavy metal frame, nearly tipping it backward. A wounded, thin scream cut through the menagerie.

  Re raised the improvised pistol, calm as ice. He thrust his hand through the bars, aiming point-blank, and fired.

  No crack. No bang—at least none Harlan could hear over the low, unhappy whining from neighboring pens. Maybe the weapon made no sound at all.

  Re pulled his hand back at once and stepped away, eyes fixed on the cage.

  Thirty seconds later the shaking stopped. No more screams. The menagerie settled into something that resembled silence.

  “That,” Re said evenly, still not turning around, “is a textbook case of Field influence manifesting as predatory aggression.”

  When he finally looked back, he found a pathetic sight.

  Harlan had wedged himself against the door leading to the greenhouse, fingers clamped around the metal grate like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

  Re blinked.

  “Huh. Hell. Are you a coward too?” He squinted at Harlan. “Spooked by a couple of little ones?”

  Harlan didn’t react. He sat there white as chalk.

  “Fine. To hell with it. That’s enough for today,” Re said, then added to the furrodyle, “Pinky, sit here a while longer. I’ll drag our misunderstanding back to bed. Before he bites you out of fear.”

  Pinky blinked.

  *He understands?* The thought drifted through Harlan’s fog, slow and distant.

  ?

  “Slack off a few more days, and you're signing an addendum,” Re grumbled, practically hauling Harlan through the hallways. “Some assistant.”

  Using his height and solid build, Re dragged him into the room and dropped him onto the bed. Careful enough not to damage anything. Casual enough to make his opinion clear.

  Harlan didn’t even remember how he’d gotten out alive. The important part was: he was alive, intact, and—apparently—not soaked through with fear.

  A small victory.

  He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The greenhouse, the plants, the cages—everything stacked inside one house where a quarrelsome healer-mage did science on the side.

  *It feels like a bright, insane fever dream.*

  And after a while, he actually fell asleep.

  He woke only near evening. The first thing he saw was the same bed and the same ceiling with its two beams.

  “Too much,” Harlan muttered. “Too damn much. I’ll pinch myself and wake up.”

  The pinch left a red mark on his arm. The mirage stayed. Sleep did not come back.

  He slapped his cheeks hard.

  *So what now? Work in this damn zoo?*

  He got up from the cot and sat at the table, where Re had long ago left clean sheets of gray, coarse-fiber paper and a pencil.

  Harlan took the pencil and wrote, in big letters:

  PLAN

  He sat for a minute, scratched his head with the pencil, tapped it on the tabletop, then added a line underneath:

  *Breakfast menu*

  There was something fatalistic about it.

  ?

  The next day Harlan woke early—before dawn.

  He wasn’t the first one up. Somewhere far down the corridor came a low rumble, like a growl or a purr. Crocodile.

  Harlan shrank into himself, slipped into the kitchen, and shut the door behind him. Just in case, he tested the handle. The door didn’t open unless you pressed it.

  He exhaled and looked around.

  The kitchen met him with a terrifying variety of tools: strange devices, forks in three different sizes, and an enormous grinder with an equally enormous crank, clearly meant for serious work.

  *Grinding what?*

  *Bones?* Harlan thought warily.

  He turned a few other odd implements in his hands. But when he spotted a plain, familiar cast-iron skillet, he grabbed it like a lifeline and carried it straight to the stove.

  Inside the large crystal refrigerator he found eggs (suspiciously large, with bluish shells), a slab of meat, and greens that, thankfully, did not try to bite him.

  Soon the smell of frying eggs filled the kitchen, and Re appeared in the doorway. He looked fresh, as if he hadn’t subdued monsters with invisible force the day before.

  “Hm. Smells edible,” he said instead of greeting, sitting at the table. “I hope you did not confuse Cliff Dront eggs with Carrier Owl eggs. The first kind explode when heated.”

  Harlan froze, spatula midair.

  Re snorted. “I’m joking. I’m joking.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Serve it. I’m hungry as a pack of yargs.”

  Harlan set a plate in front of him. Re sniffed it suspiciously, took a bite, chewed, then raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.

  “Not bad. Too much salt. But given that your hands were shaking yesterday like an epileptic’s, it will do.”

  They ate in silence.

  Harlan glanced up at Re, then down again. He pushed at his eggs with the fork, then looked up once more.

  “Re,” he started quietly. “That beast… why did it go mad?”

  “It smelled new food,” Re replied, dead serious.

  “You’re messing with me again?”

  “No. This time I am entirely serious.” Re kept eating. “It’s a predator that has grown more aggressive under the Field’s influence. I’ve had to put it in its place before. Yesterday your scent stirred it up.”

  “I’m not tasty,” Harlan said automatically.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Re laughed out loud.

  “Well. That depends. I suspect you are.” He waved the fork lightly. “But I feed it other monsters. I haven’t shown you the icehouse yet, have I? There’s a larger cold storage with food for our test subjects.”

  “Monsters?” Harlan’s stomach tightened. “Where do you get them?”

  Re scratched his head.

  “No, I definitely have not shown you.” He swallowed. “Then after breakfast, we’ll go.”

  They chewed in silence a little longer, then dumped the dishes into the sink.

  “Come on,” Re said. “You’ll wash later.”

  “No,” Harlan said, firm. “Give me two minutes. I’m not scraping this off in a fight later.”

  Re snorted and stepped into the hall.

  “I’ll be in the main room.”

  Harlan scrubbed the dishes, chest puffed with the pride of a small victory.

  ?

  “Out,” Re said, opening the door.

  Northern cold whistled into the house.

  They crossed into an inner yard enclosed on three sides by the house and greenhouse. The fourth side was a fence with wide gates and a small windowless building.

  “That the icehouse?” Harlan asked, pointing.

  “Yes.”

  They walked along a path buried in snow. Re opened the icehouse door and turned on the light.

  “Here.”

  Harlan’s eyes went wide.

  From the outside it looked like a simple shed. Inside it was a slaughterhouse turned refrigerator. Huge carcasses hung from thick hooks in the ceiling—dozens of them. Large butcher tables stood beneath. Dark stains marked the floor.

  In the corner, several “columns” of wooden crates were stacked high, filled with salted meat and jerky. And farther back lay an unsorted heap of claws, tails, and severed heads.

  Harlan swallowed.

  Re, not even noticing the reaction, explained like he was discussing pantry inventory.

  “Every so often I go fishing. We live off the trophies.”

  “All of that is monsters. And you call it fishing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And today’s meat came from here?”

  “Yes.” Re cut him off. “It’s all local fauna. Game, you might say. Anything fit for humans is either marked with a one, or stored in those crates.” He nodded at the salted meat.

  Only then did Harlan notice the “1” marks on some of the carcasses.

  “But people said monsters are inedible,” Harlan protested.

  “What nonsense. Pure ignorance.” Re sounded genuinely offended. “There are no inedible monsters. Only incompetent cooks.”

  He pointed at the corner with tails.

  “And that is bait for fishing. Sort it into the crates properly. I’ve gotten lazy.”

  “Fishing for what?” Harlan asked, uneasy.

  “Excellent question,” Re said, laughing. “Come on.”

  ?

  They left the icehouse and went out through the gates.

  Just beyond them, on a sled, stood a device Harlan had never seen before.

  It looked like a cart—or more like a wagon—with a massive cage bolted on top. The cage bristled inside and out with sharpened metal rods like spikes. Inside, the wagon’s base resembled the pressure plate of a trap.

  “There,” Re said with sudden enthusiasm. “My beautiful tip-up.”

  Harlan stared at him.

  “You toss it into the brush with bait, about five hundred meters from here.” Re pointed toward the rocks and sparse trees. “Tie a rope to it, put a bell here. When it rings, you set the hook.”

  He patted the metal lovingly.

  “My own invention,” he added with pride. “That’s how you fish. And the spot here…” He whistled softly. “A real fishing hole. Always bites.”

  “Five hundred meters?” Harlan scanned the landscape. “And nothing attacks the house?”

  “It happens,” Re said. “Rarely. Once every couple of years. Easy to drive off.”

  He gestured back toward the house and started down the path. Harlan followed.

  “I will not set it today. We have enough food. Another time. For now, you have plenty to do. Clean the floors. I cannot remember the last time they were washed.”

  ?

  Harlan worked a huge mop with a head nearly a meter and a half wide, muttering a made-up song under his breath.

  Ancient, ancient fossil,

  Sand pours from his cracks,

  Clutters up the hallway,

  Never cleans his tracks…

  Re stepped into the corridor. His eyebrow twitched.

  “Move faster. You still need to plant vegetables.”

  Re’s stick drew a lazy circle and warmed Harlan’s back with a thump.

  “Ow—Gramps, what kind of sadistic habit is that?”

  Re’s eyes flashed. Harlan narrowed his own.

  The stick didn’t hit again.

  Re walked down the corridor and disappeared into the laboratory under the stairs.

  Harlan kept humming and scrubbing. The place needed it. It hadn’t been cleaned in a long time, and the equipment—here and there—showed heavy wear.

  *Survive here alone for eighty years… not easy.* Harlan kept working. *Five people would have plenty to do.*

  He kept singing anyway, tapping his foot to the rhythm as more lines fell into place.

  Sadist-Gramps, that creep,

  What he sows, he’ll reap…

  By midday he finished the floors and made a huge pot of soup on meat broth. He tried not to think about where the meat came from.

  “Enough for three, four days,” he decided, satisfied.

  He didn’t call Re to lunch. He left the pot on the stove and went to the greenhouse to handle the vegetables.

  Weeding here. Building new beds there. Clumsy work, but he managed.

  Now he needed to water the future plantings.

  He went to a switch on the wall, pressed the button—and nothing happened. He pressed again. And again.

  The automatic watering stayed dead.

  Harlan scanned the beds that needed water, then looked at the bucket in the corner.

  *Good thing I read that toilet repair manual…*

  He went for the book and his tools.

  A couple hours later Re found him mid-repair. Re came in quietly. Harlan didn’t notice.

  Re watched for a moment, thoughtful. He said nothing, and left just as quietly.