The Beast of Baker Street

Working for a mythological monster was surprisingly similar to working for a toddler, only with more velvet and existential dread.

Three weeks into her employment, Penny had settled into a routine at the Royal Olympus Theater. She arrived at noon. She sorted the fan mail (burning the ones that smelled of witchcraft, filing the ones that were merely lusty). She ensured Julian’s lunch—a salad the size of a hay bale—was fresh.

And, every Tuesday and Thursday, she locked the dressing room door for "grooming."

"Hold still," Penny muttered, wielding a large metal file.

"Ow! You're going too deep!" Julian whined. He was in his natural form, sitting on a reinforced chair specially reinforced with iron bands. His head was lowered so Penny could reach his massive horns.

"I am not. If I don't file these down, you won't be able to wear your top hat," Penny said, blowing bone dust off his snout. "And we can't have you appearing at the Queen’s Masquerade looking like a viking."

Julian snorted, a puff of steam hitting Penny in the face. "The Queen’s Masquerade. A triumph awaiting me, Penny! All of London society! I shall recite a sonnet so moving the punch bowl will weep!"

"You should not go," Penny said, switching to a finer grit file. "It’s dangerous. Too many people. Too many smells. You know you get... agitated in crowds."

"I am a professional!" Julian roared, slamming a furry fist onto the makeup table. A jar of greasepaint jumped. "I have conquered my baser instincts! I haven't gored anyone in centuries!"

"You head-butted the stage manager last week."

"He criticized my projection! It was a reflex!"

Penny sighed, wiping her hands on a rag. "Julian, please listen. There have been... letters."

Julian stiffened. He shifted back into human form, the transition smooth as silk now that he was calm. He checked his reflection, preening. "Love letters? Naturally."

"No. Hate mail." Penny walked to her desk and picked up a stack of red envelopes. "From a Mr. T. Seuss."

Julian paled. He grabbed the letters. "Seuss?"

"He writes reviews for *The Daily Oracle*," Penny explained. "Scathing ones. He called your performance in *Macbeth* 'bull-headed' and 'labyrinthine in its stupidity.' He’s very fond of cow puns."

Julian’s hands shook. "Seuss. Theseus. It’s him."

"The hero?" Penny asked, her eyes widening. "The one who...?"

"The one who killed me!" Julian whispered dramatically, draping himself over his fainting couch. "Or thought he did. I played dead. Very convincing performance, my first real role. I crawled out of the maze while he was busy fleeing with Ariadne. I thought I lost him."

"He’s found you," Penny said grimly. "And he’s leaving these."

She held up a ball of red yarn.

Julian recoiled as if she were holding a viper. He scrambled backward, knocking over a bust of Shakespeare. "The string! The accursed string! Take it away!"

"He knows," Penny said, tossing the yarn into the fire. "He’s baiting you. If you go to the ball, he’ll be there."

"Then I must go," Julian declared, standing up and trying to look heroic, though his lip was trembling. "I am Sir Julian Thorne, the toast of London! I will not be cowed—don't look at me like that—by a washed-up hero in a toga!"

"He’ll be wearing a tuxedo, Julian."

"Whatever! I am going. And you are coming with me."

Penny blinked. "Me? I’m the help."

"You are my manager," Julian corrected. "And my keeper. If I start to... slip... I need you there to distract me with administrative tasks. You have a very calming way of reading itineraries."

He grabbed her hands. His grip was warm, strong, and surprisingly gentle.

"Please, Penny. I cannot face him alone. I am terrified of him."

Penny looked at the man she had worshiped from the alleyway. He was vain, ridiculous, and a monster. But he needed her.

"Fine," she said. "But if you eat the Queen’s curtains, I am quitting."