Page 2 of The Guarded Monster’s Truth

Across the lot, in the shadow of the building on the opposite side of the street, someone stands with his arms folded against his chest.

Not someone. A minotaur.

Six-ten, maybe more. Broad through the shoulders and chest in a way that makes the doorframe behind him look like it belongs in a dollhouse. Long dark hair, tied back. And his horns. Thick at the base, curving up and back, carved with symbols I can't read from fifty feet away. Raised marks that throw tiny shadows across the bone.

He watches me. Not the idle glance and slide of passing attention you give a stranger on the street. His gaze locks on me, fixed and unblinking, taking it all in and giving nothing back.

And the itch of recognition lands. October. The festival. The same shape at the end of the parking lot, arms folded exactly like this. I wrote him off as event security and forgot to forget him.

I raise my hand.

He doesn't wave back. Doesn't nod, doesn't shift his weight. He stands there like he's been standing there for hours.

I hold the wave until it gets embarrassing, then drop it. He stays where he stands.

The Rusty Anchor hunches on the waterfront between a bait shop and a gift store selling driftwood art. Neon beer signs glow in the front window despite the daylight. The door sticks, and the gargoyle on the other side catches it with one hand before it swings into me.

The bouncer. Stone skin, grey-brown, cracked along the forearms the way old wood splits with age. He holds the door open and steps aside.

"Thanks."

He nods once.

The bar smells like salt and old pine and the ghost of a thousand spilled beers ground into hardwood. I find a stool and order a ginger ale because it's one in the afternoon and I have two more interviews today.

A large female troll comes out from the back. Grey-green skin, silver-shot hair catching the red neon from the Scales & Ales sign. She pours my ginger ale, sets it down, and studies me with eyes that hold more years than the building we're sitting in.

"Ava White, Pacific Northwest Monthly." I slide a card across the bar top. "I'm doing a piece on Nightfall Cove's integration model. I'd love ten minutes."

"Fine, I'm Sal, by the way. You've got ten minutes." She picks up the card and reads it front and back, then sets it beside the register.

I press record. "How long have you been in Nightfall Cove?"

"Longer than the name."

"The town's name?"

"The country's."

My research mentioned trolls could live centuries, but the number hits harder when you're sitting across from a woman who predates the Oregon Territory.

"So you've seen integration before. Other places, other times."

"I've seen people figure out how to live next to people they're afraid of." She wipes the bar in a slow arc. "Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Here, it works because the ones who stayed gave a damn. Still do."

"That sounds like work, not harmony."

"Harmony's for church choirs." She finishes the arc and folds the cloth. "This is a town. Towns run on decisions."

I flip my notebook open. My ginger ale sweats a ring onto the wood.

"You've got two minutes left," she says.

I use them. Sal answers my last questions and I don't push for more when the ten minutes end. Some sources you press. Some you earn.

The bouncer opens the door for me on the way out. I thank him again. He nods again.

The harbor air hits me outside as I stand on the sidewalk writing. My hand moves fast, catching everything before it cools: The Anchor isn't a bar. It's an embassy. Sal runs it like one. The integration in this town isn't soft—it's built. Reinforced. Load-bearing walls and people who know which ones hold the weight.