Page 9 of Flight of the Omega

V

Achange came overCerulean just after the three-week mark. Jack didn’t know what had happened or why the bird had changed, but he welcomed it all the same.

He found out why shortly after the blue beauty had allowed him to not only draw close but bridle him too. Cerulean clucked and chirruped, then extended his left wing. The bird could only hold it out so far; pain stopped him, causing the Alerian to wince and cry out.

“Golly gosh, birdie,” Jack said, running a finger over the swollen, disfigured appendage, checking the long-necked avian’s reaction, “you did a number on that yesterday, smacking that pole. Didn’t ya?”

Cerulean’s answering tweet sounded almost sad. Jack rubbed the wing a little more, lightly, then took his hand away. “Well now, let’s get you all doctored up. Gosh! YouandBlue now. Poor birdies.”

Cerulean followed him quietly, obediently, even though, to the best of Jack’s knowledge, the bird had never been bridled before. That in and of itself was a miracle—but it made Jack worry more. A subdued bird must have been in a lot of pain.

Jack took the blue beauty to the stable beside Blue, which had just been mucked out by Falcon, who gave him a surly look when he closed Cerulean in. He ignored it, then went to call Dr. Vogel.

Blue was good as gold for Amanda; she always was. Cerulean was a terror, clucking and crowing and trying to peck the good doctor’s eyes out. Jack sighed internally; he was expecting miracles if he thought the bird had changed overnight. Little steps, he supposed.

Cerulean was quieter during his checkup if Jack sat with him, stroking his bill or his crown, so Jack stayed with the bird while Amanda got the wing set with a splint. “Not broken,” she said, “but a pretty bad sprain.” Then she paused. “Do you know if he’s a shifter?”

“Don’t think so,” Jack said, because he’d never seen Cerulean shift. Though that might explain how the bird kept wandering off. Still, angelics—more specifically shifters—were few and far between—and for good reason.

Dr. Vogel tut-tutted. “That could complicate things. It’d be better if he stayed shapelocked.”

“I’ve never seen him shift,” Jack said. “So I doubt he can. Ain’t too many angelics in these parts.”

“Well,” Dr. Vogel said, “I just wondered when Burr was so insistent on gender for him. On the off-chance he is one, he should keep shifting to a minimum. See if you can keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t.”

“Okay,” Jack agreed, wondering how he could do that. Short of sleeping in the barn with the animals, he couldn’t keep watch over them every waking minute.

He followed Amanda out of the barn, listening to the instructions for dosing the two injured birds. He was heartbroken that Blue would never race again, but he had hope for her. She had fire in her eyes. She was gonna live a long, wonderful life, he just knew it.

When he’d seen the doctor on her way, he returned to the stables, peering in at the two injured birds. Blue had settled herself on her nest quite nicely and peered up at him with the contentment of those sedated.

Cerulean looked like he was going to start ripping up the place. Jack considered for a moment, then said, “All right, rascal, guess there’s no harm in taking you out for a bit of exercise.”

He took down the bridle. Cerulean squawked and clucked at him, trying to dodge the bridle. The bird knocked his injured wing though, squawking, and then he submitted quietly, letting Jack slip the bridle on. He stood up, then peered down at Jack.

Jack patted the bird and smiled. “We’ll go for a little walk and get you used to this, hm? You can’t be a good race bird without one.”

The bird cawed, which probably meant he didn’t like it. Jack rubbed his flank again. “Blue can’t walk until that leg heals up, but you can. Just gotta be careful—no running and I don’t think you should have anyone on your back for a bit.”

Cerulean eyed him warily but apparently agreed. Jack led him down the dusty path from the stable to the big, rolling pasture, which was now turning gold with the ripening grain of the second harvest of the season. “We should keep you fit if we wanna see you run the Rose Plate,” he said after he’d opened the gate to let them through.

Cerulean gave him the stink-eye, which was enough to tell him he should shut up. He hummed instead as he led the bird around the pasture.

About halfway through their stroll, Cerulean became impatient, cawing and fanning his tail. Jack lifted a brow. “You bored?” he asked.

Cerulean lifted his head, peering around. Then he lowered his tail. He emitted a low, fearful caw, and Jack paused. He turned to the woods. “What is it?” he asked. Visions of the griffin in the pen last night played in his mind. He’d never been so afraid. All those teeth, those long claws … “What do you see?”

Cerulean cawed loudly, then gave a vicious yank on the rope and took off running. Jack toppled over, going ass over tea kettle before sprawling heavily on the ground. He waited for a griffin to go thundering by him—but nothing happened.

Slowly, he sat up and peered around. He realized Cerulean had stopped just a few feet away and was pecking and scratching at the ground happily. Jack stared at the bird; he swore Cerulean smirked back when he caught the bird’s gaze. Jack slammed a fist against the ground, then slowly gathered up his hat and got back to his feet.

That damned bird had done it again.

A week later, Cerulean’s wing was almost healed. Over that time, the bird had taken better to the bridle, so much so that Jack had even saddled him up a couple of times. He tolerated that well, so Jack saddled him up and prepared to take him on a short ride. They started in the pen, then slowly worked their way further afield. Of course, Cerulean didn’t let him get too comfortable or confident; just when Jack thought he might have broken the bird, Cerulean would lift his wings and start running circles, until Jack had no choice but to pitch off him and let him go. Jack knew he was doing it on purpose, because he’d always stop just a few feet away, shake his head, and start scratching at the ground like he hadn’t a care in the world.

One morning, Jack came into the barn after breakfast, prepared to saddle Cerulean up for another day of “lessons.”

What he saw made him drop the gear from his nerveless grasp. The saddle bounced on the barn floor, the blanket sprawled through the hay, and the bit clanked as he darted to the stable door and peered down at the beautiful blue bird.