Burden’s Moon (The New Protectorate: Holiday)

Ruffled Feathers Cafe

It was the same every year, but somehow Cassandra seemed to selectively forget all the negative aspects of it immediately after the fact. She imagined it was a bit like childbirth that way, though she’d never done that, so she couldn’t say for certain.

Either way, she cursed her flock to Grim’s riverbank and back when they began screaming at the unholy hour of four-thirty. It was December first, and that meant no one was safe at any time.

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she rolled out of her nest. She free-fell toward the floor for a moment before instinct caught her.

Her wings spread, catching the warm updraft, and softened her landing.

Taloned feet hit the floor with a thud just as her sisters began dropping from their own nests around her.

The sound of ruffling feathers, scritching talons, and drowsy yawns were a chorus around her as she blearily sought out her dresser.

“I don’t get why we do this every year. This isn’t even our holiday,” Lucy grumbled as she passed behind Cassandra.

“Are you really whining already?” Eugenia called out, sickeningly chipper for the hour. “That’s got to be a record.”

“Shut up,” Lucy squawked. “Not all of us wanna be a kiss-ass before sunrise.”

Eugenia waited for their sister to begin to lower herself onto her vanity’s stool before she kicked out with one taloned foot, knocking it out from under her. Lucy fell onto her backside with a screech, wings ruffling to a comical degree, as Eugenia threw her head back and laughed.

“Want me to kiss your ass to make it better?” she teased, hopping out of the way of Lucy’s furious swipe.

Cassandra blinked hard, too tired to fall on either end of the spectrum of grumpiness just yet. Her brain didn’t work properly until at least two cups of espresso were ingested.

As her sisters squawked and screeched, she donned a slim pair of black pants and a long-sleeved shirt.

Her hair, bone-white with a smattering of chocolate brown spots and streaks, went up into a haphazard bun.

Normally she put a little more sparkle into her outfit, but it was far, far too early for more effort.

While her sisters descended into a feather-pulling match, Cassandra shuffled out into the hall.

The flock lived in what was once a large warehouse.

It’d been converted to an aviary after the war because no one loved rafters like a flock of harpies.

It took some creative engineering to separate rooms, but they’d managed to fit three families into the warehouse and still give everyone some semblance of privacy.

Well, as long as you weren’t the three Colomen sisters. They’d shared a room since they were born. They’d luckily had their own nests since puberty, when Lucy and Eugenia started pushing each other out whenever they argued, but that was as far as their independence went.

Until now. Or soon, anyway.

After a quick trip to the bathroom, Cassandra meandered into the communal kitchen, where her parents and several members of the other two families — all Colomens to some degree — who made up their flock were already gathered around a box of day-old pastries.

Plastic bins of holiday decorations were neatly lined up next to the door, ready to be hauled out to the cafe. Wondering what job she’d get stuck with this year, she hurried over to the table to snag one of the good pastries before her sisters got there.

One had to be quick with food in a flock. There was no mercy amongst harpies when it came to the best bits — bloody or sugary.

Shoving half a chocolate chip muffin into her mouth, she halfheartedly greeted her aunts, uncles, and cousins as she made her way over to her mother, the ringmaster of the affair.

Standing at a towering six feet tall, with iridescent steel-gray hair and wings, Melissa Colomen was an intimidating sight even in her crescent moon-covered holiday sweater and matching barrettes.

Her luminous gold eyes were fixed on the tablet in her hand, but that didn’t stop her from immediately recognizing when one of her chicks was near.

Before Cassandra could so much as mutter a chocolate muffin-y hello, she was yanked into her mother’s side and covered with one gray wing. “Good morning, chickadee,” Melissa trilled, one hand already smoothing down the feathers of Cassandra’s wings.

“Morning, Mama,” she replied.

From somewhere outside the kitchen, her sisters began to shriek at one another, probably over one of them being locked out of the bathroom. Or maybe over a stolen belt. Or even just a funny look. It never took much to get them going.

“They’re off to an early start,” her father muttered as he walked into the room. As usual, his dark hair was meticulously combed and every shiny feather laid down with care.

Like all male harpies, he went to great lengths to impress his mate even after several decades together. It didn’t matter that her mother looked at him like he hung the moon whether his feathers were groomed or not. Showing off for one’s mate was simply the done thing.

Her father’s wings lifted in a familiar preening stance as he neared his mate. Her mother, who looked up the moment he entered the room, met him with a whistling note.

“Good morning, my love,” he said, pressing a kiss to her lips. “And good morning to my middlest chick. Are you prepared for the battle to come?”

Cassandra wrinkled her nose. “I’m not detangling the twinkle lights this year. I’m not. Three years in a row is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got Lucy on lights this year,” her mother assured her. “You’re on icicle duty.”

Her father took a look at Cassandra’s messy bun, sighed, and reached for her. “Turn,” he instructed, clicking disapprovingly.

Stuffing the last of her muffin in her mouth, she did as she was told. While her father tugged the elastic band out of her hair and began setting her to rights, her mother called out marching orders to the assembled harpies.

Eventually her sisters made it into the kitchen, mostly unscathed, only for them to immediately start clawing at each other over the last croissant. It took two cousins, their mother, and an uncle to separate them — and split the croissant — before they finally made it out of the aviary.

“You know,” her father huffed, sending clouds of condensation into the crisp pre-dawn air, “you could stand to fight with your sisters more.”

Cassandra hunched her wings over her shoulders. The box of decorations was heavy in her hands but she still managed to quicken her pace a bit, hoping to outrun the conversation she’d been having with her parents since she was a child.

“I don’t like fighting,” she mumbled.

Her father matched her pace easily. The rest of the flock streamed ahead of them, their trilling calls and loud conversation no doubt an annoyance to anyone still trying to sleep.

Their wings gleamed in a variety of colors beneath the golden glow of the street lights, but no one had Cassandra’s piebald pattern of soft white and chocolate brown.

Allegedly, she took after her great-grandmother, but no one could produce a photo, so she remained unconvinced she hadn’t been mixed up with the twins in the hospital and declared a triplet out of convenience.

After all, what were the odds that two of the three girls would have their mother’s coloring but she’d get something completely different?

It didn’t matter how many times fellow harpies admired her feathers, telling her they were a good omen or that they were particularly eye-catching — the highest form of compliment for an appearance-obsessed people. Cassandra never felt like she was completely in step with her family.

It didn’t help that she appeared to have been born without the desire to fight. To most harpies, her aversion to conflict was downright unnatural.

“Maybe if you just tried a little harder,” her father cajoled, his face barely visible behind the stack of bins he carried. “It’s good for you, chickadee. Fighting with your flock helps prepare you for the world.”

“I’m plenty prepared. I’ve got a degree and everything.” They hadn’t been the most supportive of that endeavor, either, but it still meant something to her.

“But you barely leave the nest,” he continued. “Your mother and I are worried that—”

“Dad, I’m doing fine. Not every harpy needs to—”

“You won’t find a mate this way. How will they know you’re interested if you don’t fight them? And then what?”

“Not every mate needs to be bloodied to know they’re being flirted with,” she insisted.

No matter how many times they’d had the conversation, it never got any better. A spiky cord of anxiety wrapped around her chest and squeezed with every word out of her father’s mouth.

The sight of Ruffled Feathers, their flock’s communally owned cafe, up ahead was a sweet relief. Someone had already gotten inside and started turning lights on. If she hurried up, she could make it inside before her father said something inadvertently hurtful.

Well, more hurtful.

She quickened her steps, but it was no use.

Her father, with all the love and good intentions in his heart, relentlessly continued, “No harpy worth their salt will take a mate who doesn’t put up some fight.

And if you can’t find a mate, you won’t have a nest of your own.

You need a mate to look after you. What’ll happen when your mother and I die, chickadee? ”

“I’m moving out,” she blurted, just inside the doorway of the cafe.

Everyone and everything stopped.

The blood drained from her cold cheeks as the flock turned to look at her with wide eyes, stunned to silence by her admission.

Her mother, who was already behind the counter preparing coffee for everyone, stared at her like she’d lost her mind. Placing her clawed hands on the glass counter, she exclaimed, “I’m sorry, what was that, Cass?”

Fuck.

Cassandra looked around in a panic. She hadn’t intended on telling them so soon. A part of her, the cowardly part that her father couldn’t resist picking at, had even considered just packing up one day and moving out while everyone was gone. They couldn’t be mad if it was already done.

But that plan was obviously scrapped.

Giving her sisters a please help me look, she croaked, “Um, so, yeah… I found a place I can afford on my own. It’s not far from here. I thought it’d be good to, you know, um, be more independent. Since you and Dad are always telling me that I’m too shy?”

Her sisters, for all their many annoyances, jumped to her defense as soon as her rambling petered off.

Lucy set her bin down on a table with a loud thwump. “I saw it! It’s a great studio with a balcony and everything. Mama, you’ll love it.”

Eugenia, mirroring her twin, nodded enthusiastically. “And it’s so close! Just ten minutes from here. She wouldn’t even have to fly to get to work on time.”

“But she could,” Lucy interjected with a swift elbow to her sister’s ribs. “You know, because of the balcony.”

There was a taut moment of silence as everyone waited for her mother’s response.

Cassandra swallowed hard, not daring to look at either of her parents.

Her fingers grew sweaty from their tight grip on the edges of the plastic bin, but she worried that moving even an inch to set it down would break the fragile tension in the air.

At last, when it felt like her head was going to explode from lack of oxygen, her mother clapped her hands together and cried, “Ah, my chick is growing up!”

Taking their cue from her joyful exclamation, the rest of the flock exploded into well wishes and questions.

Hands rained down on her back and playfully plucked at her feathers as she was pulled into the cafe.

Someone took her bin, and within moments her father had swooped down on her to press kisses to her cheeks.

“Why didn’t you say something, chickadee?” he demanded, flapping his great dark wings in proud sweeping movements.

“Um…” She ducked her head, unsure how to tell them that she had no idea if they’d approve or not.

The flock had always loved her, but they’d also looked at her like an oddball unfit for the dangers of the world. Without their aggression, she was never seen as completely grown despite the fact that she was nearing fifty years old.

“My chick gets the first latte!” her mother crowed. Swinging a clawed finger in the direction of Lucy and Eugenia, she ordered, “You two, start detangling those lights!”

Her sisters squawked with outrage before they set about their task without further argument.

The cafe became a hive of warmth and activity around Cassandra as her flock filled the display cases with seasonal treats, her mother pulled perfect espresso, and her father cracked open bins full of sparkling treasures.

“Here,” her mother said, placing a warm, fragrant latte in her hand. A cinnamon heart floated on the foam. Dropping a kiss onto the crown of Cassandra’s head, she murmured, “I hope you know we’re going to be over all the time. There’s no escaping the flock, chickadee.”

Clutching the cup to her chest, Cassandra let out a relieved breath. “Promise?”

“Promise.” Her mother’s wing swept behind her back, urging Cassandra toward her father. “Now get decorating! We open in an hour!”