Page 3 of Flight of the Omega

JPfumed.He was so mad, mad about this whole ridiculous trip, his father’s scheming, the blasphemous foreman Burr, and that insufferable stable hand—Jack.

He huffed with indignation, like the very syllables were objectionable to him. Burr—his father’s most trusted ranch hand, foreman of the stables at Midlothian—had told him that Jack was a regularbird whisperer.

As if!Jackhad lassoed JP,Jackhad dragged JP bodily into the barn and locked him in solitary confinement overnight, without a single thought about JP’s wellbeing. Nobody had welcomed him, nobody had brought him dinner or breakfast, and Burr’s apologies couldn’t make up for the fact the dimwitted Jack had put him in that filthy, lonely stable without even changing the bedding first!

It was a wonder he hadn’t taken ill and died already.

And then to find out Jack was in charge of taking care of all the birds! It was a surprise none of them had flown the coop or knocked Jack to the ground and pecked his eyes out.Bird whisperer, my tail feathers, JP thought.

He wasn’t sure what was worse—the fact he was apparently supposed to submit to carrying that brute around on his back or the fact his father had sent him down here to run the Rose Plate in the first place.

JP sighed and slumped down on the bed in the quarters he’d been given, the primary suite overlooking the yard. There was a balcony, which would make it easy for JP to get down to the barn if he so desired. Despite the fact angelics couldn’t fly—they were land-bound in avian or humanoid form—it was scarcely a big jump for him in his feathers.

He didn’t particularly want to run the Rose Plate or any other race for that matter. True, he was fast—angelics usually were—but he’d thought that his father would leave him alone after he’d proved useless to the old man’s ambitions.

He should have known better. His father would never leave him alone, not unless he was dead. He was nothing more than property to the man, means to an end. Just like his mother had been.

Well. He supposed racing was better than other ends; his father could have said he’d gone lame and had him shot or maybe sent him to the duvet factory. (He’d heard rumors about what they did to the birds when they were deemed to have outlived their usefulness. JP didn’t harbor any illusions that his hybrid lineage would save him from a similar fate. Not on his father’s watch, at least.)

He sashayed onto the balcony when he heard a whoop and a whistle. He peered down at the pen, where the flock began to gather. He barely held back a low, warning caw when he spotted Jack in the midst of the birds, lasso hanging at his hip.

The other birds seemed completely unaware of the brutish nature of the man in their midst. They walked right up to him, no hesitation, no fear for their own feathers. One of them, a bright yellow bird, laid their head on Jack’s shoulder, cooing fondly, fanning their tail feathers and their wings in a show of avian adoration. It made JP sick to his stomach, and he turned away from the scene.

He glanced up at Burr, who was leaned against the open door to his chambers, arms folded, head nodding toward his chest. His Stetson was tipped so low, JP couldn’t see his face.

“What do you want?” JP spat, irritated that Burr had opened the door without even thinking to knock. What if he’d been naked? What if he’d been masturbating or taking a shit?

His stomach gave another lurch as he pondered if maybe Burr would have liked that. After all, his father and the foreman were close. Bird fanciers generally stuck together, and JP knew exactly what his father was.

“You should be down there,” the foreman said, lifting his soulful brown gaze to meet JP’s.

JP huffed and turned his head. “I’ll go when I’m ready,” he muttered.

“The Rose Plate is only a few weeks off,” the man continued in his slow, steady drawl. “Have you ever had a jockey? Been bridled?”

JP bristled. “Of course not,” he spat. “I was never a race bird.” He’d never been destined for the track life. He’d never let any rider mount him nor saddle him or yoke him. He’d never seen a reason to nor had he ever been instructed to. His father had other plans for him, just like he’d had other plans for JP’s mother when he’d imported the Alerian.

He eyed Burr warily and wondered how much he knew.

“You should be down there then,” Burr repeated. “Takes some getting used to, being saddled up and having the bit in.”

“And what would you know about that?” JP snarled back. “Not like you can shift.”

“Mm,” the other hybrid agreed, and his gaze drifted away. He pushed away from the door after a moment or two. He tipped his hat. “Well. I’ll be seeing ya down there.”

With that, the other angelic sauntered off, leaving JP fuming, even more than he had been mere moments before.

Shifting was the most natural thing in the world for JP; he did it regularly, something that had always infuriated his father. He’d do it when they were expecting company or when he wanted to escape from school for the afternoon—there was no trying to teach philosophy to a birdbrain, not in that form.

Oh, JP wasn’tstupid—none of the angelics he knew were, really; it was just that reason didn’t meld well with the avian neural pathways. Other parts of the brain were enhanced—vision, for example; his sense of his own corporeality, his own physicality, was more pronounced. It was a difficult thing to explain to those who couldn’t shift, such as his mother or Burr; there was a difference between “JP the humanoid” and “JP the bird.” His experience, his perception, his frame of reference all changed.

Instinct was front and center for the bird, and instinct told him he didn’tlikeJack. Jack had wrangled him, bound him, put him in a filthy stall and left him hungry and lonely. Jack, in his opinion, wasn’t kind or gentle. If he was, he wouldn’t have left JP there overnight.

Of course, in humanoid form, he understood it to some degree. It didn’t make himhappy, but it was logical: he was a strange bird, and Jack didn’t know anything about him. Where had he come from? Jack, of course, couldn’t risk that this interloper was diseased or aggressive, so putting him in the pen with the rest of the Midlothian flock was out of the question. Of course he’d had to go into solitary confinement.

Didn’t mean JP had liked it, and he figured Jack could have gone about getting him in there other ways—he wasn’t immune to the lure of seeds and suet, a bit of bread or a nice, plump piece of fruit. JP had a price; he could be bought, easily, and he acknowledged that.

Hedidn’tlike Jack much more when he strutted down to the pen in his fine feathers, fanning his tail, lifting his crown, and crowing at the ranch hand. He didn’t like the look Jack gave him, a sort of wary challenge in the depths of his ochre eyes, nor did he like the fact that the veterinarian was standing right there beside Jack.