Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Did Aila regret kicking those two assholes out of the aviary after harassing her geese?
Never .
Did the detour delay her in reaching the griffin show with the requested ointment?
Sure as rancid dragon spit.
Aila hurried away from the World of Birds aviary, hoping she wasn’t too late. That hope shattered at the blare of an intercom.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!” came the recorded message. “Please find your seats. The world-famous San Tamculo Zoo griffin show is about to begin!”
The paths of the Renkailan section wound beneath massive banyans and lemon-scented curry trees, bordered in fences of red teak latticework. One could get lost in the maze of leaves and concrete, if not for one central marker: the griffin show amphitheater rising like a vine-coated ruin, height rivaling the tallest trees, pale wood spires carved with thousands of miniature creatures and flowers.
Any illusion of antiquity was shattered beneath electric lights along the eaves, the hidden speakers blaring drums and flute music. As the notes soared, a gasp went up from the crowd inside. A flock of mirror flamingos looped overhead, flicking in and out of sight, sun reflecting off silver feathers like shards of polished glass. The squawk of a flightless Vjari auk echoed within the amphitheater. Up next, the dueling trills of a two-headed forest falcon.
Then, the most astonished gasps yet.
A Movas thunderhawk landed atop the highest minaret—Stratus, one of the griffin show’s stars, a couple of decades younger than Tanya’s aging charge at the aviaries. Lightning webbed the bird’s feathers, building to a blinding bolt that pierced the sky and cracked with ozone. Energy surged through a lightning rod, flaring every light in the amphitheater blue.
Aila hissed a curse. The griffin show had begun.
She avoided the main amphitheater entrance, mortified at the thought of appearing in full view of the patron-packed seats. Instead, she circled around to an employee side entrance.
Just pop in. Drop off the ointment. Then leave.
Behind the scenes, the griffin show moved like well-oiled chaos. Aila slunk like a thief into the staging area, the click of the door lost within a swarm of bodies and feathers. She dodged sideways as the massive thunderhawk swooped past her from side stage, landing on a wheeled perch. He snapped up a mouse tossed by a keeper, then thunderhawk and handler disappeared toward the back aviaries. A dozen more birds and other creatures lined the room on perches or in boxes, waiting for their cue. Through another hall, Aila spotted a pair of keepers seated at a dizzying array of switches and screens, headphones over their ears, controlling the lights and music on stage. Busy with their tasks, no one paid Aila any heed.
Except for one person. Of fucking course.
At the center of the storm stood the human version of a lightning rod, a woman of tight curves and perfect stature. Perfect Movasi brown skin. Perfect jade nails. Perfect black curls falling glossy past her shoulders. Dark eyes and heavy lashes surveyed the milieu around her with the intensity of a basilisk.
Luciana scowled at Aila, a delicate twist to her coral lips.
“ Before the show, I said.” She brushed her hair back with a hand flip, then clipped a microphone to the collar of her polo.
“Yeah,” Aila said. “I caught that. But I do sort of have other things to take care of, so—”
“Wait here. Try not to get in the way.”
“But—”
Luciana strode past, through a gap in the wall and onto the stage.
“Welcome, everyone, to the San Tamculo Zoo!” Her voice soared over the speakers, clear and confident. “I’m Luciana, your host for our incredible, our awe-inspiring, our one-of-a-kind griffin show!”
The crowd applauded.
Aila contemplated throwing the arthritis ointment onto a counter, then leaving. Better for her ego, but she couldn’t stop her thoughts devolving into worst-case scenarios of the precious medicine getting lost in the chaos. Of a poor, sick peacock griffin, in pain because of her. Stupid conscience. She scowled and backed herself into a corner to wait. Around her, keepers swarmed like a hive of beryl bees. The show was a choreographed dance, timed to the second.
Impressive. Still tacky.
“Let’s start things off with a pop!” Luciana announced. Aila pictured the honeyed smile. “Give a warm welcome to our troupe of vanishing ducks, the Transparent Quackers!”
Backstage, a keeper slid open a large carrier. Four vanishing ducks waddled out, disappearing through a duck-sized tunnel in the floor. The crowd cheered as the actors appeared on stage, followed by delighted gasps as the ducks disappeared and reappeared along platforms of an obstacle course. Aila had seen them practicing on the lawn some mornings.
Whatever. Her vanishing ducks were just as cool without the cheap stunts.
A Vjari auk waddled onto stage next—dense birds in body and disposition, clubbed near to extinction thanks to poor survival instincts and tasty breast meat that never rotted. A cockatrice followed in a case of one-way glass, a fluffed chicken body with bat wings and lizard tail, turning objects to stone with a glare. The gift shop sold the trinkets as souvenirs.
“Could you step aside, please?” whispered a keeper backstage.
Aila did so, clearing a path for a green-plumed dragon. The dog-sized creature scampered after its keeper on wide-padded gecko feet, wingless, blunt snout packed with tiny teeth. Iridescent green feathers coated its body, accented by a red and yellow neck ruff. At a sign from its keeper, the dragon darted onstage in a blur of color. The crowd cheered louder.
Then, a rumble outside. Aila knew that heavy wingbeat anywhere, that call dipping low before soaring into ear-splitting decibels.
“And now,” Luciana announced. “The star of our show. The mascot of the San Tamculo Zoo. Our peacock griffin!”
This one didn’t fit backstage. A thunder of wings sounded outside, shaking the walls as the griffin took off. Ashamed by her curiosity, Aila edged toward the gap looking onto the stage. There stood Luciana, hands raised to the sky, green and pink spotlights dancing over her glossy hair. A wave of gasps from the crowd tracked the griffin as it circled the amphitheater, landing center stage in a hurricane of color.
The peacock griffin reared on paws of golden fur, sleek as a leopard. In the spotlight, his cobalt head feathers sparkled like sapphires, dark eyes framed by snowy white brows and cheek patches, crowned by a cluster of stiff bristles with pom-pom tufts. His wings spread with warm rufous tips, and at Luciana’s command, his tail fanned with even greater resplendence, an explosion of iridescent green with blue and gold eyelets.
It was a stunning creature—the jewel of the Renkailan savannah, icon of long-gone dynasties, feathers hoarded by celebrity dressmakers now that IMWS regulated the supply. Enraptured, Aila inched closer, trying to get a better look at the gorgeous beast.
That was her mistake.
Beyond Luciana, beyond the stage, a dozen tiers of seating wrapped the amphitheater, filled to near capacity with people . Eyes. No way could they see Aila within the shadows of backstage, yet her knees wobbled. Her throat tightened. Hard to swallow, hard to breathe.
In an instant, she was back in college. Back on the faux stage in their animal outreach course, a Ziclexian sunburst hummingbird perched upon her hand, her classmates staring and snickering as her tongue refused to work. Words vanished. Her fingers shook. Her heart pounded so fast, she worried she’d faint in front of everyone.
“Isn’t he splendid?” Luciana announced in the present. “All the way from the Renkailan plains. Let’s get a closer look at those feathers, shall we?”
She pointed to a platform across the lawn from the stage, closer to the audience. The griffin cocked his head and paced a confused circle around her.
Luciana didn’t miss a beat. “Uh-oh, looks like someone has a little stage fright! I think he could use some encouragement, don’t you?”
The crowd chuckled. Luciana tossed a dead mouse to the platform, reminding the griffin of his cue. He jumped forward, wings and tail spread to the cheering audience.
How did Luciana do it? Stay so calm? So confident?
Aila’s stomach rioted, unable to watch any more. She hurried away from the lights and the crowd, pushing out the door into the side yard where she could gulp salty Movas air until her head stopped spinning. A pair of griffin show keepers waited nearby, eyeing her with concern. Self-conscious, she stared at the packed dirt beneath her boots. Ridiculous. She was ridiculous .
She’d always been ridiculous. Barely a functional human being.
Her parents had worried about her since… probably third grade? Whenever it was they’d realized she wasn’t growing out of her “shyness phase” (still a solid decade before she’d gotten an anxiety diagnosis, thank you health care system). Skies and seas, she loved them both to death. But even little Aila knew she was letting them down, noting their frowns when they asked about her friends at school (or lack thereof). The concerned glances when she sat in a corner for family gatherings, more comfortable reading a book than talking to people.
Her parents had always smiled, though, when she brought home good report cards to hang on the fridge. They’d beamed when she started talking about phoenixes, clueless about zoology, but willing to buy her every book she asked for. They’d cried and hugged her when she got her college acceptance.
Aila couldn’t tame her nerves around people. But grades? Books? Applications? Those were things she could control.
Work had always been something she could control.
If only her heart rate was so easy to master. Aila leaned against the griffin show wall and focused on slow, deep breaths. That was supposed to help, her therapist kept telling her. Pressing her hand against the wall was supposed to help, feeling the smooth teak wood against her skin. The grounding didn’t calm her heart completely, but it helped her think a little clearer.
Heavy wings beat the air. Applause trailed the peacock griffin as he soared out of the amphitheater, circling the crowd one final time. Performance complete, he banked around the building, landing in the side yard with a spray of gravel. His keepers met him with kind words and a dead rabbit (excellent pest control, so much that Renkailan farmers often built nesting platforms to encourage griffins roosting near their fields). He trilled and snapped up the prize, prancing in delight.
Energetic. Young. This must be Ranbir, the least experienced of the show’s peacock griffins. That explained the faux pas on stage. Why fill a prime-time slot with a trainee rather than their star, Nimit?
The aging griffin must be faring worse than usual.
Music swelled in the amphitheater. Luciana’s honeyed voice announced the end of the show, followed by an invitation to hand donations to an adorable mouse griffin who’d stuff bills into a box while patrons posed for photos. Aila hunkered down in the side yard, content to never have to face another human again.
Luciana offered no such peace. She strode out the side door with the self-importance of a queen, surveying her colleagues as they led the peacock griffin away. Then, she appraised the cowering phoenix keeper. Sculpted brows knit in disapproval. Aila plucked her own eyebrows in an attempt to look presentable, but she could never achieve such laser perfection. Even Luciana’s sigh came out elegant.
“Horns and fangs,” the witch said. “After all this time? I thought you’d have some handle on that stage fright. You weren’t even out there .”
Aila wrinkled her nose. Easy for her to say. In college, Aila had to suffer every one of Luciana’s flawless presentations, the delight of her instructors. Why couldn’t Aila be like that?
She didn’t need to be. Luciana could keep her applause, so long as Aila had her phoenix.
“You want this, or not?” Aila brandished the tube of arthritis ointment. Luciana waved a hand, beckoning her across the yard, and of course Aila followed without protest. Not like she had a spine, or anything.
The barns behind the amphitheater matched the Renkailan architecture—teak latticework, red paint trimmed with gilded flowers. Carved griffins reared on the doors. Luciana slid the wood panel open and stepped inside, the room dim and dusty with hay.
Nimit, the zoo’s oldest peacock griffin, lay in a corner, feathered tail curled around him in a swirl of green. Though he didn’t stand for his visitors, his cheeks fluffed as he trilled a greeting. Aila grinned. What a cutie.
Beside her, nails clacked. Luciana gathered the cascading curls she’d worn for the show and tied them into a more zoo-appropriate ponytail. The glossy tips teased her shoulders. Skies and seas, why couldn’t Aila’s hair act that luxurious? She self-consciously stroked her frizzy auburn locks, the errant gray hairs she scowled at in the mirror. Way too young for gray hairs.
Luciana held out a hand. Feeling petty, Aila tossed the ointment, which Luciana caught without fumble. Obnoxiously toned, those arms, the perfect balance of muscle and soft lines (same as Tanya, and many zookeepers who didn’t have noodle arm genetics). She knelt at Nimit’s side and offered a hand for him to sniff. Must be a crazy day, the queen deigning to get her khakis covered in hay dust.
Stop it, Aila. You’re not here for her.
“How’s Nimit doing?” Why did she bother asking? Why not hightail it out of here while the basilisk wasn’t looking? Stupid, mushy heart.
Luciana massaged arthritis cream into Nimit’s front talons. Her reply came quick. Clipped. “He’s doing as well as any thirty-year-old griffin can be.”
Which was to say, not well. Even late twenties would be considered a long, happy life for a peacock griffin. Luciana must take good care of him.
Stop it. Don’t give her that.
Nimit bore the treatment with head lowered and posture tense. When Luciana touched his back leg, he hissed and sidled away, lax wing feathers brushing hay off the floor like the world’s fanciest broom. Though docile around humans, any creature this large required caution. Luciana eased off, speaking in calm tones, but he refused to let her reach for him again.
Just leave just leave just leave.
Aila stepped closer.
“What are you doing?” Luciana demanded.
“Calm your candy-coated ti—” Aila stopped herself, cheeks molten.
Luciana’s glare, equally so.
“ What were you about to say?”
“Nothing! Just let me…”
Aila hid her embarrassment by focusing on the griffin. After sniffing her hand, Nimit let her scratch beneath his chin. She moved lower, into the soft blue underfeathers of his neck. His posture relaxed. He stretched his neck to give her better access, a contented trill in his throat.
Luciana’s mouth fell open. “How do you know his favorite spot?”
“I’ve seen you petting him, when you don’t think anyone’s watching.” Aila dropped to a murmur. “And when you’re not worried about chipping a nail.”
Luciana scoffed, a flick of black curls in her ponytail. “There’s nothing wrong with taking care of my nails. Or do you have a phobia against proper hygiene, too?”
“Will you just put the ointment on?”
Luciana’s sneer was calculated, careful not to leave too many wrinkles on that star-studded face. She returned to work. With the griffin distracted by neck scratches, he allowed her to massage his hind legs. She shifted, leaning past Aila to reach the final limb.
What was that smell? Not the dust of hay or griffin feathers, but something… sweet. Strawberry? Pear? Mango? A whiff of tropical shampoo, mixed with the warmer smell of—
STOP IT. Why are you smelling her?
“Well! If that’s all.” Aila retreated toward the door. “I’ll be going now. Birds to take care of, you know.”
Luciana wiped the remnants of arthritis cream from her fingers. “Thanks. If you ever want to work on that stage fright, let me know. You do work at a public-serving institution.”
Aila huffed. Not everyone was made for the spotlight (as if Luciana would share it). “I’ll stick with my phoenix, thanks.”
“Sure.” Luciana’s voice dropped. “Until Rubra ends up where she belongs.”
Aila’s hand froze on the barn door. Don’t do it. Not worth it.
“Are you still on about that?” She reeled on Luciana. Not to the dramatic effect she’d hoped for. The witch rolled her eyes.
“That Silimalo phoenix would go to much better use as part of the griffin show.”
“So she can do what? Jump through hoops for your audience like a trained carbuncle? No way does she deserve such a demeaning—”
Luciana pushed Aila outside, so as not to disturb the senile griffin. In contrast to the manicured fa?ade she put on for the public, her sneer could make a dragon flinch.
“Get over yourself,” Luciana said. “Rubra is wasted on exhibit, sitting around doing nothing all day. You don’t even have the excuse of the breeding program anymore. But put her in the show? She’d be a star overnight.”
“Rubra’s not wasted on exhibit. The whole point of the zoo is to gain appreciation for endangered animals, not to see them paraded around doing cheap tricks.”
“People come to the zoo for spectacle, Aila.” Luciana’s whisper turned venomous. “You know as well as I do, the griffin show brings in more conservation donations than any exhibit.”
Aila stiffened at the verbal slap. Her exhibits pulled in respectable revenue at their donation boxes, even more from virtual supporters excited to “adopt” an endangered phoenix or a flesh-eating kelpie. Nothing came close to the money brought in by the griffin show.
Luciana leaned in, looming over Aila with several inches of superior height (seriously, though, why was every human in this zoo taller than her?), taunting with her tropical shampoo. “You think Rubra’s better off locked up like a museum specimen? People care about what they can connect with. We’re here to leave impressions. And patrons seeing a live Silimalo phoenix flying over their heads? That’s an impression no one will forget.”
“Rubra deserves better than that.” Aila’s hands curled into weak fists. “After what happened in Jewelport? She’s more important to the breeding program than ever!”
“Last I checked, you need two phoenixes for a breeding program.”
“So we wait for IMWS to transfer another bird to San Tamculo!” One step closer to the dream Aila had clutched since childhood.
“Stop living in your dream world. Why would IMWS transfer birds to a breeding program that hasn’t run in a decade? If anything, they’ll move Rubra to Jewelport.”
If Luciana’s last accusation was a slap, this one pummeled Aila in the gut. Bad enough, she had to worry about losing Rubra to the griffin show. But to see her phoenix stolen away to another zoo? The prospect was too incomprehensible to have crossed her mind.
They wouldn’t. They couldn’t .
“I will never let that happen,” Aila said through clenched teeth.
Luciana looked down on her through smoky eyes, a delicate scoff flaring her nose. Always right. Always in control.
“It isn’t your choice, Aila.”
She left without further argument, the last word hers, Aila’s stomach pitted as deep as an ocean trench.