Then they're gone. Red taillights shrinking into the dark.
I throw the van into park and my forehead drops against the steering wheel. My hands are shaking. My whole body is shaking. The sugar bag in the back has burst and the cabin smells like my bakery and burning rubber, which is a combination I never want to experience again.
Behind me, on the road, the griffin screams.
I twist in my seat. Through the empty windshield frame I can see them. Dash has gotten on top now. He's straddling thecreature's back, one knee planted between its shoulder blades, both hands locked around its beak. The griffin thrashes. Its tail, a lion's tail, thick and tufted, whips against his legs. Its talons gouge trenches in the asphalt. Dash holds.
His hands move. Fast. Practiced. He rips the silk necktie from around his throat with one sharp pull and loops it around the griffin's beak in a single fluid motion, yanking it tight, crossing it twice, knotting it with the efficiency of someone who has tied up things far more dangerous than a juvenile griffin.
The beak clamps shut.
The creature goes still.
Not unconscious. Its flanks heave with rapid, panicked breathing. Its golden eyes roll. But without the ability to snap, without its primary weapon, the fight drains from its body like water from a cracked bowl. It slumps against the asphalt. One wing extends awkwardly to the side, trembling.
Dash holds the position for a five-count. Ten. The cut on his forehead has painted a dark line down to his jaw. His tuxedo jacket hangs in ribbons from his shoulders, and one of the enchanted silk panels on his chest has been scraped to a raw sheen that catches light like polished metal.
He stands.
Grabs the griffin by the scruff of its neck and one hind leg.
Lifts it.
The entire creature. Four hundred pounds of mythological predator, hoisted off the ground in a single, dead-weight heave.
Dash's arms cord with effort, every scar on his forearms standing white against the dark green of his skin. He walks it to the roadside ditch in six heavy strides and drops it into the tall grass with a muffled thud.
The griffin chirps. A small, confused sound. Almost sweet.
Dash stands over it, breathing hard, hands on his knees. The necktie holds. He watches the creature for a long moment, thenreaches down and scratches behind its ear. Just once. Brief. The griffin's trembling slows.
He turns back toward the van.
Toward me.
The remains of his tuxedo hang from his frame like battle flags, and there is a single tawny feather caught behind his tusk. He stops at my open windshield and looks at me with those steady gold eyes.
"Your van is toast."
"Yeah, I noticed when the ceiling became a skylight."
He grunts. The sound carries what might be approval or might be indigestion from being body-slammed by a griffin. Hard to tell with Orcs. He rounds the van, steps over the spot where his passenger door used to be, and folds himself back into the seat. The van dips hard to the right. Something underneath the chassis pops with a sound like a knuckle cracking.
Wind pours through the windshield frame. Not a gentle breeze. Full highway wind, cold and sharp and carrying the smell of pine sap and roadkill from whatever's decomposing in the ditch three miles back. My vintage dress, a blue gingham number with little pearl buttons that I'd pressed this morning with actual starch, is now dusted in glass fragments, road grit, and griffin down. There's a feather in my bra. I leave it.
Dash reaches for me.
No warning. No preamble. His hands grasp my left arm and turn it over, fingers pressing along the inside of my wrist, my forearm, my elbow. Checking for breaks. His palms are rough and hot and span my entire forearm from wrist to elbow crease. Each finger applies individual pressure points in a methodical sequence that speaks to field medic training or a lot of experience putting people back together after breaking them apart.
"I'm fine?—"
"Quiet."
His hands move to my other arm. Same sequence. Wrist. Forearm. Elbow. Then up. His fingers curve over my shoulders, thumbs pressing into the muscle along my collarbone, testing for swelling or dislocation with the clinical efficiency of a combat triage checklist. The pads of his thumbs find the hollow above my clavicle and hold there. My pulse hammers against his touch.
"You hit the steering wheel."
"I didn't?—"
