Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Aila drifted. Broken.
For the rest of the week, her phone stayed glued to her hand, doomscrolling through every article about the Great Jewelport Phoenix Nabbing , the Chick Conservation Caper , the Firebird Tragedy . Tacky titles, but Aila devoured every word, searching for meaning amid chaos. She found none. Article after article appeared with sensational headlines but scant details, the South Coast Police Department scrambling to catch up with perpetrators long gone.
One significant detail slipped out of the zoo’s security footage, and it was the one that twisted Aila’s heart the most: the female phoenix had immolated, had hatched her chicks in the way no artificial incubator could replicate. The thieves swooped in the same night.
“Ailes,” Tanya chided. “How are more news articles going to help?”
She loomed over Aila like a concerned dragon mother—part sympathy, part “I will drag you up by the claws if it’s for your own good.” Above them, summer sunlight glared through the glass of a smaller aviary. Dust and sagebrush itched Aila’s nose as she sat on the ground, back slumped against the gnarled trunk of a juniper tree, terrain typical of the rocky plateaus dotting the interior desert of Movas.
A six-foot-tall thunderhawk perched beside her, talons at eye level.
His plumage varied from stormy gray to electric blue, shifting with iridescence. Ozone drenched the air. Sparks danced within his crest, head cocked, aqua eyes looking down on Aila as if he might swallow her in a single gulp.
Looks could be deceiving. Cumulus wielded a hooked beak capable of slicing deer hide like cotton candy, could generate lethal electricity for subduing prey, but the aging bird’s temper couldn’t be gentler. At Tanya’s prompting, he lifted one massive foot off the rock, placid as she gave the talons their monthly inspection (protected by rubber gloves on both hands, of course). Zoo safety protocol required a partner accompany her while doing so. Just in case.
“Clippers, please?” Tanya asked.
Aila hefted the shears out of their equipment box. While Tanya trimmed the thunderhawk’s talons, Aila slouched and scrolled through her phone. Another news article popped up, bereft of new details. Only speculation about the phoenix poachers. Who would do such a thing? the useless final paragraph read.
Aila knew who was to blame. The same people who’d hunted Silimalo phoenixes to the brink of extinction, until the last wild birds had to be captured and brought to safety within the world’s zoos. The same people who’d pushed prices on phoenix feathers higher and higher as the supply turned scarcer. A routine of phoenix feather supplements could extend a human life up to two decades, the effects more potent the younger the bird.
And most potent of all: a female who’d freshly immolated. Her fire hatched her eggs, and she emerged from the ashes as a chick herself. Male feathers weren’t as valuable, or the thieves would have absconded with him as well. They still might have, if a Jewelport security guard hadn’t noticed something amiss and come to investigate.
“Dremel?” Tanya held out a hand.
Aila plopped the battery-powered tool into her palm. Its drone filled the aviary as Tanya filed the thunderhawk’s talons to an even point.
Poachers. Black marketeers. Selfish, greedy people.
No one would ever see those phoenixes again. They’d be smuggled out of Movas by now, distributed to wealthy buyers across both continents by the end of the month. That was, if the thieves didn’t pluck their plumes on the spot and dump the leftovers in the San Tamculo Harbor. Live phoenixes weren’t worth anything more than their feathers, and few facilities had the proper conditions to care for them long term.
“There’s a good bird,” Tanya cooed. “Almost finished.” She popped open a tin of waxy balm and massaged it into dry patches on the thunderhawk’s feet.
On her phone, Aila scrolled past another article, an interview with one of Jewelport’s phoenix keepers. Those ones she couldn’t bear to read. She clicked off the screen and rested her head against the juniper trunk.
Tanya stepped into her line of sight, hands on hips. “What’s all this moping for, Ailes? You love visiting Cumulus.”
“Cumulus is great.” Aila pouted. “The rest of the world is terrible.”
Beside her, the thunderhawk chirped. At least someone understood.
Tanya heaved a long sigh. “Let’s clean up. Then lunch? Looks like you need it.”
Aila did.
They left Cumulus a deer leg for his troubles, batted dust and sagebrush from their clothes, clicked their radios back on. Proximity to thunderhawk static made for ear-splitting interference (IMWS conducted annual surveys of wild thunderhawk nests, ensuring no conflicts with crucial radio towers, but cell reception in the Movasi interior was always hit or miss).
Few occasions made braving packed zoo food courts worthwhile, employee lunch discounts chief among them. Today’s special: noodles at the Royal Ramen Rendezvous.
Aila and Tanya found a table shaded by a Fenese pergola, red beams dripping purple wisteria, overlooking a pond stocked with gilded swans and multicolored eel koi. Along the shore, patrons cranked vending machines to dispense food pellets. Feral pigeons prowled for stray mouthfuls.
Hunched over her food, Aila tried to tune out the din of vacationing families and boisterous tour groups. Noodles and savory pork should have been enough to hold her attention. Today, she idled her chopsticks through the mild broth. Spiteful genetics precluded her from enjoying anything spicier. Across the table, Tanya drenched her ramen in chili oil.
“What does this mean?” Aila’s dreams of breeding phoenixes at San Tamculo seemed to plummet away, wrenched loose like a broken gate in the night. “For the Jewelport breeding program? For our breeding program?”
“I don’t know, Aila.” Tanya plucked a mushroom from her ramen. “We’ve just got to wait. See how things play out down there.”
Aila didn’t mesh well with waiting. Or patience. Or uncertainty in most capacities.
“We’re already in a precarious position! San Tamculo’s been out of the phoenix game for a whole decade. Everything in the public exhibit might be updated, but the breeding facilities are going to keep withering away if we don’t use them.”
Tanya’s lips puckered. “Refrigerator in the kitchen has been making upsetting noises.”
“It’s more than the noisy refrigerator, Tanya.”
“Smell, too. You think a purserat died back there or something? People say those things aren’t magical, but how else do they manage to burrow into impossible places?”
“It’s more than the refrigerator ! The patio door that doesn’t fit right. That crack in the linoleum that always catches our boots. I haven’t seen our incubator boxes in over a year, and who remembers the last time we refreshed the fire-retardant interior paint?”
“Well…” Tanya stirred her noodles. “All that’s obnoxious, sure. But we hardly use that building for more than the kitchen. And stashing our backpacks on the desks.”
“That’s my point , Tanya!” Aila gripped her chopsticks like a judge’s gavel. “It’s hard enough justifying a whole breeding building for one phoenix. It’s hard enough rehashing the same stupid argument every single year .”
Tanya’s brow lifted. “Wait a minute. Are we… talking about Luciana?”
“ Of course we’re talking about Luciana! ”
Aila’s teeth clenched on the witch’s name. Luciana, glittering star of their college class. Leader of the zoo’s cash-cow griffin show. Employee of the month eight times in three years, and Aila had to suffer seeing that smug face on a plaque in the coordinator’s office. Every time IMWS declined Aila’s request for a second phoenix, she had to drag herself to the zoo director’s office and argue against Luciana’s absurd proposal to transfer Rubra to the griffin show.
Aila’s tone took on a flippant impersonation, her hand batting imaginary hair cascading over her shoulder. “ What good is Rubra doing behind glass, Aila? Let her perform! ” Aila waggled her fingers in spite. “As if a phoenix is only valuable dressed up in ribbons and glitter.”
“Aila—” Tanya tried to cut in.
“Luciana thinks she knows best about everything. Just because she has the perfect hair. And the perfect face. And the public speaking voice of an angel.”
“Aila, this is a tangent.”
“This is not a tangent!” Everything snowballed in Aila’s brain. “We’re barely holding on to one phoenix, one derelict building, Luciana breathing down our necks. What if Jewelport was the last straw for Movas? What if…?” Aila’s voice caught. She turned small, hunching over the table. “What if I missed my chance? What if I’m not good enough to breed phoenixes? If Jewelport couldn’t manage with their facilities and experience…”
Tanya reached for Aila’s hand. The anchor didn’t take the anxiety away, but it helped Aila catch her breath.
“You know that’s nonsense,” Tanya said. “This news hit you hard. You’re allowed that, Ailes. But don’t let some mishap all the way in Jewelport get you doubting yourself.”
Aila’s thoughts were angry wasps, but she didn’t know how to wrangle them, didn’t want to speak any more worries into existence for fear of them taking over her.
Tanya leaned in with a knowing look. “Finish your lunch, Aila. A tragedy, letting good noodles go to waste. Yeah?”
She clacked her chopsticks against Aila’s, playful. The sounds of the plaza drifted back, shouting children and honking swans combating the noise in Aila’s head. She mustered a smile.
“An unforgivable tragedy. I could never look you in the eyes again.”
Aila dug into her soup, lukewarm now. She hoped Tanya was right.
With lunch devoured, they hiked back to the aviaries. The path split near the kelpie exhibit, one side leading up to the phoenix complex, the other toward the zoo entrance. Tanya gripped Aila’s shoulders and looked her hard in the eye, no room for escape.
“Now, Ailes. I need to pop over to the admin building and check on my proposal for the volunteer program.”
Something tiny and tight squeezed in Aila’s chest. “Yeah. I know.”
“Which means I’m gonna need you to hold yourself together on your own for a bit. OK?”
No. It wasn’t OK. Aila’s world was shattering and she needed Tanya and—
“Sure. I can manage that.”
Tanya squeezed her shoulder before parting ways. Alone, Aila hiked up the hill, beneath the metal phoenix sculpture and arbors shaded with grape vines, into the phoenix complex.
Her best therapy now would be losing herself in chores.
Hard to focus on that, even, when her boots chafed against yellowed linoleum, crackling where the adhesive had dried out. The public exhibit stayed immaculate for zoo visitors. But behind the scenes? She cataloged every patch of faded paint and countertop stain. Beside the observation window, two desks were crammed into a corner. Above Tanya’s, the wall was decorated with cheesy movie posters, several new additions since their college dorm.
Above Aila’s desk hung the phoenix poster she’d kept for twenty years. A distant dream.
She marched out the back door, onto a patio overlooking the phoenix exhibit. In the heyday of the breeding program, keepers would have sat out here for lunch, feeding hatchling phoenixes bundled in heated blankets. Now, all that remained was faded terracotta tile, a splintered picnic table, drifts of olive leaves clumped against the building’s stucco. Aila carried out a bin of feeding bowls. The hose unraveled like a knotted snake (the on-call keeper who came in on Aila’s days off always wound it up wrong, no matter how many times they’d argued). One by one, she sprayed down her dishes, then propped them against the railing to dry. Above her, a cloudless sky. Typical for Movas: scorching summers, not a drop of rain until winter.
The urge hit to pull her laptop out, that comforting routine of checking the Jewelport phoenix cam for updates. A comfort no longer.
This pang in her heart was unbearable, worse even than soggy socks from an errant hose maneuver. She wriggled damp toes and planned her afternoon. Finish meal prep. Fix that loose perch in Rubra’s aviary. Then on to the closing routine, moving animals into their back exhibits, locking everything up for the night. Aila forced herself to keep moving, the sweet oblivion of manual labor promising to ease her nerves.
Before she could enact her plans, the radio at her belt clicked on.
A call came through loud and clear. Words to stiffen her in horror. The most harrowing summons imaginable, any plans for a mindless afternoon shattered like glass tossed to concrete.
“Griffin show, calling aviaries.”
For a long moment, Aila stood still, as if lack of movement could shield her from the unpalatable words. The radio crackled, the message repeated with a hint of irritation.
“Griffin show, calling aviaries .”
The words sent Aila rigid. She’d recognize that dulcet accent anywhere, the caramel tone with savage curls and painted nails lurking underneath.
Luciana .
The radio hung in Aila’s hand, unanswered. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d let Tanya deal with whatever that griffin show witch wanted.
Seconds dragged by. Why hadn’t Tanya answered? Aila grimaced, realizing Tanya was in the admin building. If she’d turned down her radio to avoid interruption—
The radio clicked again. “I know you’re there, dork. Answer me.”
Aila puckered her lips. Well, she definitely wasn’t answering now. She dredged her memory for zoo policy on radio communications, whether or not she could get written up for forgetting her radio in the other room and missing a call from another department.
Another click. “I can see you . Loser.”
Aila jerked in alarm. She spun a circle on the patio, searching the trees between the aviary domes as if expecting to square off with a sniper barrel. Most of the view behind the phoenix complex was foliage, but sure enough, through a gap in the boughs she spotted a smudge of teak wood. The distant wall of the griffin show amphitheater curved through vegetation like a ship’s hull parting waves.
Atop the stadium lookout stood a silhouette, black hair curling in the breeze like a movie villain, radio propped by her ear and fingers strumming the rail in impatience. Even at too far a distance to make out Luciana’s face, Aila shrank beneath an imagined scowl.
She clutched her radio and put on her most condescending customer service voice.
Click. “Hello, this is aviaries. How may I help you today?”
A pause hung on the line like curdling cheese.
“Do you have any bird arthritis ointment?” Luciana radioed back. “The topical kind?”
“Doesn’t griffin show have their own stock?”
“We’re out. You’re the only other bird-centered department.”
“Just order some more.”
“It’s for Nimit.”
Aila bit back her next complaint. Luciana’s ageing peacock griffin, Nimit, hadn’t been faring well. She could hate the woman’s guts until her deathbed, but if an animal needed help…
“Sure,” Aila conceded. “We’ve got extra. You can come pick it up.”
“Bring it here.”
Aila did a double take at her radio. “Why can’t you come here?”
“Afternoon show’s about to start. We’ve got to get ready. Bring the medicine before showtime. Thanks.”
The radio clicked off. Luciana’s silhouette disappeared from the amphitheater railing. Aila stared back, mouth agape.
That self-absorbed bitch.
As if Aila should expect anything else from the zoo’s premier performer. The prodigy of the griffin show. Why don’t you two collaborate? Aila’s performance reviews always went. The Silimalo phoenix would be an outstanding addition to the show! Aila would sooner hurl herself into the cold Middle Sea than throw her lot in with that shallow excuse for a department. The mission of the San Tamculo Zoo was to save endangered wildlife, not pimp them out for tourists.
Only the thought of a poor, ailing peacock griffin spurred Aila to clip her radio to her belt and duck inside the keeper building. Armed with angry mutters, she dug into the cabinet of medical supplies in the kitchen. She and Tanya used their stock so rarely, she had no trouble finding an unopened box of the bird-friendly arthritis ointment. Unexpired, even.
Now, to deliver it to Luciana on a gilded platter. Won’t she love that?
Aila slunk out of the keeper building, head bowed beneath an onslaught of patron voices and scorching sun. She’d put on no sunscreen since morning. If she kept getting dragged outside, her pale skin would fry.
She’d blame Luciana for that, too.
Sure, go ahead and assume no one else in the zoo is busy. Just because Aila’s schedule wasn’t crammed with three public shows a day didn’t make her routine less hectic. Or less important. She got plenty of visitors to her exhibits. Not the same crowds that packed the griffin show amphitheater, but there was something to be said for quality education over cheap thrills—
A shriek sounded from the World of Birds aviary.
Aila jerked to a halt. The screaming mynas should be dozing in the afternoon, roosting high in the cecropia leaves, biding their time to screech at visitors at closing time. Then came another call, a frantic hooting.
Archie .
Aila stuffed the tube of ointment into her pocket and diverted to the aviary.
The antechamber doors squealed as she pushed her way inside (mental note to grease that later). A wall of humidity hit her, sweltering despite fans blowing in the ceiling, air dense with wet leaves and decomposing soil. The railed pathway wound through forest foliage, slanting past the pond and alongside the waterfall.
Ahead, a crowd gathered. Never a good sign. There’d been a weird trend in teenage visitors recently, some fad of taking videos with the screaming mynas to post on Griffingram (their calls were perfect mimics of human shrieks, but the exact voice sounded different to every listener, even in recordings). Aila pushed her way through the onlookers, no apologies for jabbed elbows or crushed toes. When she reached the front, her mouth fell open.
“Hurry up! Get a good photo!”
On the path stood two college-aged men in board shorts and flip flops, hair gelled to douchey coifs. One held up his phone, giggling as he lined up a photo. The other man had corralled a periwinkle prairie goose.
The pair of purple geese were one of the odder aviary residents, not native to any near-tropical forest, but rather the flat tundra of Niplik that made up a large swath of the south continent. In other exhibits, the meek-mannered geese tended to get picked on. So they enjoyed a balmy vacation in World of Birds. Oil on their feathers produced a lavender scent, well known for its aura of drowsiness. A couple of birthdays ago, Aila’s parents—always worried she was working too hard—gifted her a pillow stuffed with periwinkle prairie goose down (sustainably harvested, of course). She’d never slept so well.
No tranquil aroma filled the aviary now. The goose honked in terror as the patron scooped it up and held it to his chest, wings pinned, fighting webbed feet and thrashing neck as he leaned into a pose for the photographer. For three full seconds, Aila froze, too affronted to process the atrocity. Then, she transformed into a raging mother manticore.
“Turn this way!” the photographer said. “I can’t see your face.”
“I’m trying! This stupid thing—won’t—hold still.”
“What in all the skies and seas are you doing?” Aila shouted.
Their attention snapped to her, annoyed.
“Hey,” the photographer complained. “What are you shouting for?”
“Put that goose down!”
The patron did so—though Aila didn’t flatter herself into thinking she’d persuaded him. Holding the goose too close, he breathed deep of the lavender feathers. His eyes drooped. More than aromatherapy, the sleep-inducing aura was a predator deterrent, wild geese nesting in dense colonies that scientists could only study while using specialized breathing equipment.
The goose wriggled out of his weakened grasp, whopping a wing into his face. He yelped, blinking back to wakefulness.
“Dumb bird! What was that for?”
He moved to kick the goose. Aila snatched his arm, letting the goose escape with startled honks.
“ What are you doing? ” the patron demanded.
“Touching zoo animals is expressly prohibited!”
“Says who?”
Aila released him, too smoldering to stand still. She pointed at her uniform polo. Next, a placard beside the path with DO NOT TOUCH OR FEED THE ANIMALS in bold red letters. The man rolled his eyes. His photographer friend giggled.
At least, until the second goose arrived. With its harassers distracted, it waddled up to nip the man’s ankle.
“ Horns and fangs! ” He jumped. The phone lurched from his hand and shattered against the path, shiny innards spilled across concrete.
Serves him right.
“Dumb bird bit me!” He knelt to salvage the pieces. “The zoo better pay for repairs!”
“Are you out of your mind?” Aila said. “Get out of here before I call security!”
“This is destruction of personal property!”
His next mistake was looking away from the phone. A split-second opening.
Archie swooped from the canopy like a gray spirit of vengeance. Silent. Focused. Before the man had time to react, Archie snatched a piece of shiny phone case and flew off, hooting like a Movasi outlaw with a posse on his heels.
“My phone!” the man shouted.
Aila had felt more sympathy for aviary slugs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll remember this the next time you think of harassing innocent birds?”
“Innocent? One bit me, and another stole my phone!”
By now, the other goose napper had recovered. He scowled down at Aila, entitlement drenching his face like sweat. “What’s your name?”
Aila’s mouth clamped shut.
“Forget it,” he said. “You’re in charge of the aviary? We’ll be sure to tell HR all about how you assaulted us and refused to help with stolen property.”
The pair skulked off, snickering as if they’d won.
Aila wrapped her arms over her chest, fighting the slimy feeling left on her skin. Fine. Let them tell on her. She’d been written up plenty of times. She’d get a reprimand, maybe a mandatory workshop on proper patron relations. No one hurt her animals.
As the onlookers thinned, Aila ducked under the railing and off the path. She waded through the damp foliage, careful not to slip on slick rocks around the pond. When she reached the shore, she found her two periwinkle prairie geese hunkered beneath a bush.
“Oh, babies,” Aila cooed. “It’s OK. They’re gone.”
The geese shrank away from her, shaking in fear.
“Sweet birds.” Aila’s voice came soft. “It’s OK. Just me.”
Aila trembled like her geese. Careless people were the reason these animals were here. The diamondback dragon and her lame wing, injured by poachers. Rubra alone in her aviary. Vanishing ducks harvested for weight-loss oil. Thunderhawks killed for threatening livestock. Archibirds and screaming mynas trapped as pests. Periwinkle prairie geese weren’t the most endangered species in the zoo, but even they’d been overhunted before captive breeders developed more sustainable ways to harvest the therapeutic feathers.
The zoo, of all places, should be safe. Her aviary should be safe.
Not as safe as she’d thought. The theft at Jewelport proved that.
Aila moved slowly, extending a hand to appear unthreatening. At the stroke of one finger against soft purple feathers, the goose relaxed. Lavender laced the air, accompanied by a drowsy aura that tugged Aila’s eyelids, but she was careful not to press the oil glands directly.
Kneeling beneath the leaves, legs folded in damp dirt, she sat with her geese for as long as it took to stop them trembling.