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Think, you clever bitch. What else do you know about a griffin? They’re elusive creatures. They mate for life. Most die within a year in captivity. And they’re quite terrifying in person.
For some reason, I revisit Chatty-Cat. What does he hate more than anything? Belly rubs, me, and . . . the baths Jane tries to give him.
By the way he howls and fights, you would think she was trying to drown the poor bastard—
That’s it!
A gut-curdling cry shivers across the lake as the griffin makes its move.
Roaring my own war cry, I make mine. The lake water hits my body like ice. I gasp, pushing past the needles of cold, forcing myself deeper into the emerald green depths.
When the water laps at my neck, I tilt my face to the sky and wait.
“Here, kitty kitty,” I croon, praying the griffin is in touch with its feline side and not the eagle one. Crap. Eagle’s hunt in water.
Why am I only now making that connection?
The griffin’s shadow skips across the lake’s rippled surface, tinged coral-pink by the rising sun, toward me. Craning my neck, I watch its white underbelly grow larger. Larger. It’s front talons stretch wide, ready to claim their mortal prize.
Perhaps this was a bad idea.
Instinctively, I shut my eyes and prepare to dive. But the sound of wings flapping stops me. I snap my eyes open to see the creature veering away from the water—and me. Sand sprays in all directions as it lands hard on the shore.
It shakes out its massive wings, cocks its avian head in my direction, and belts out a plaintive shriek of displeasure.
Yes! I grin idiotically at the beast, my triumph at outsmarting it overriding my nerves. “You don’t like water, do you, buddy?”
At my voice, the griffin tilts its head even more, the way a dog does.
“It’s really nice.” I splash water toward the shore, sending the griffin hopping back as it squawks. “Sure you don’t want to join me?”
Its deep golden eyes peer at me with a surprising intelligence.
As if it understands my words . . .
I remember how animals around the farmhouse sometimes did the same. Responding in uncanny ways to my words. I chalked it up to an overactive imagination.
But now—well, it couldn’t hurt. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Truly. I know how frustrating it is to think you’re about to eat the best cheeseburger of your life and then, bam, nothing. But you can’t eat me because I’m actually really nice.”
The griffin makes a low cooing sound and hops closer, just short of the waterline. It eyes the foamy waves lapping at its curved toes, the black talons sunk halfway into the sand, then flicks its cunning gaze to me. The breeze ruffles the feathers that lift on either side of its white head to give him the appearance of pointed ears.
“God you’re beautiful.” I talk slowly, calmly, trying to will the predator away with my voice, my mind. “You don’t deserve to waste away in a cage . . . but you can’t hurt anyone else, so you have to go back.”
I hate sending this majestic creature to live in a tiny enclosure. It feels wrong deep in my gut, a travesty just as unjust as when the Fae abuse and hurt us.
Low cooing noises rumble from the creature’s deep chest. I find myself moving closer to it. Slowly. Hand held out.
The water is thigh-deep. Only seven feet stand between the savage, beautiful animal and me. Something forms between us, a bond so real I can almost touch it in the air. A torrent of emotions floods through me, nearly doubling me over.
The griffin’s agony is overwhelming. I see bars. I see a muddy floor and dirty water bowl. I see it throwing itself against its cage over and over as it tries to reach its mate, still somewhere in the wild. I feel its spirit shriveling smaller and smaller every day it lives in captivity.
The few hours I spent locked in a cage come flooding back. The terror. The panic.
I’m sorry, I think, willing him to hear me. I’m sorry they put you in a cage, and I’m sorry they took you from your mate. It isn’t right. Nothing should be forced to live that way.
Pulling its ivory wings tightly to its feline body, the griffin drops its head, bends down, and . . . bows.
I’m so focused on what the griffin’s doing that I barely register the churning water near my legs. Another swish drags my attention to the lake just as something moves beneath the emerald surface.
