Free Songs_of_the_Satyrs by Aaron J. French

jiggling gently from hoof to hoof and making a staccato tapping on the sidewalk. As he turned away to run back to the grotto, a hand touched his shoulder. He flinched and turned to see a human standing uncomfortably close, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture.
    “Don’t give up now, man. You’ve made it this far.”
    Marco cocked his head slightly to one side. “How would you know why I’m here?”
    The human offered a wry smile. “You have the look.” He nodded, then walked toward the glass doors, which hissed aside and allowed him through.
    Marco stepped away in surprise, but not far enough to put him back in the river of humans on the sidewalk. Doors that slid sideways were a novelty to him. He almost turned away, but the human had a point: he had come this far.
    Was there any harm in finding out what this Tom person had to say?
    He walked hesitantly forward, flinching again when the doors slid apart before him, and on into the lobby.
    It took him a few minutes to find the stairs, and he tried not to clatter too much as he trotted up them. Glamour or no, his hooves were still there and still made a sharp racket on the hard tiles.
    Once he reached the second floor, finding the door with 208 on it was relatively simple, and he paused outside for only a moment before pushing it open and walking in. As he passed the threshold, a tingle of fear ran up his spine.
    The room was ten paces along each side. Flat walls battered the sound of people talking from side to side. Four windows were shuttered against the night by some slatted material. Most of the furniture was pushed out to the sides, apart from a circle of twenty chairs.
    A group of people huddled outside the circle, and Marco saw a face he recognized—the human who had spoken to him outside. Marco started to panic as the man walked over, smiling broadly.
    “Glad you made it. I’m Tom. That was your first step, and almost the hardest. We have another new recruit today. I’ve already spoken to her, so we’ll let her start. You just wait till I call on you, then you say the same as she says, okay?”
    Marco nodded and made no protest when Tom pushed him gently toward one of the chairs. The rest of the group took that as a cue and soon all were seated. Marco looked around at them. Each pair of eyes offered him a level of acknowledgement; sometimes an encouraging smile, sometimes a sharp nod and a haunted stare.
    Tom sat next to him and, next to Tom, an overweight woman who looked as though she had been weeping. Tom raised a hand and silence slowly fell, replaced by an expectant hush and rapt attention aimed toward their side of the circle. The woman stood, spoke, and Marco’s throat dried up. Was he expected to do this?
    There was ecstatic applause and catcalls as the woman sat down. She looked flushed, but happy. Marco realized Tom was looking expectantly at him. He swallowed hard. Tom nodded an encouragement and Marco made it to his feet. He looked around the circle of faces, all waiting on him, anticipation in every one. He drew a deep breath.
    “My name is Marco, and I am an alcoholic.”
    Nobody moved. He had said the same as the woman, he was sure. Had he done something wrong? Then he realized that nobody had blinked since he had spoken, and his stomach began to churn.
    Tom stood up and walked to the middle of the circle. He was chuckling, then he coughed and harrumphed and pulled himself together as he put his fingers between his lips and made a piercing whistle. He started to laugh again, his form slowly rippling like heat haze on a summer road, shrinking and solidifying into something very different, and Marco heard a noise from the corridor.
    Alphrein started laughing again. “Don’t look so surprised, Marco,” he said.
    “But . . . ?”
    “But what?”
    There was another sound, like distant thunder, coming from the corridor. Marco almost recognized it—enough to shift from upset stomach to bowels of water.
    “You said these people would