Chapter 12: Hatching Day
“No, no! The adventure first,” said the Gryphon in an impatient tone: “explanations take such a dreadful time.”
--Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Schrodinger finally retrieved his gold scroll at night, while the corvids slept. In response, Chiaroscuro began zealously guarding Bennu’s egg, expecting the cat to try eating it at any time. As he would not move from the hearth, the Murder had to bring food down to him. Schrodinger, for his part, spent all his time outdoors, stressing over his translation.
One afternoon, having finished a lunch of almost-cooked salmon, Grace caught the cat hissing and clawing the ground. “What’s wrong?” she asked.
“It’s pointless, Grace Grey,” Schrodinger mumbled. “Whoever inscribed this message was as annoyingly playful as they were well-learned. There are multiple languages: Greek, Chinese, Arabic, even hieroglyphs. Individually, I know the words. What makes it impossible is the arbitrary way they’re mixed together!”
“Okay, give an example.” Grace tried to smile. “I only read English, but if we put our heads together…maybe it will help.”
“Very well. You see this picture of a tadpole?” Schrodinger pointed a protracted claw at an image. “It’s the Egyptian word ‘hfn’.” He made a sound like coughing up two hairballs. “It translates ‘a hundred thousand.’ But right after, we have this symbol.” He gestured to what looked like a sideways eight. “Which represents eternity.”
“So a hundred thousand, plus forever.” considered Grace. “Wow, just that first one already seems like forever to me! But what if the tadpole picture really does mean a baby frog? A tadpole that never grows legs or comes out of the water. And if we find that, maybe we’ll have an ingredient to the cure for those spores!”
“Okay. The last item in this grouping,” Schrodinger pointed to two sets of crossed lines, “is a Chinese word for ‘lament.’”
“‘Lament.’” Diana pulled her mixed-matched feet from the river and dried them on the grass Schrodinger had clawed up. “A song of mourning.”
“A squonk’s like a frog.” Fox also approached. “Diana’s young, that’s the tadpole bit. And she certainly laments a lot.”
“Furthermore,” added Diana, “the ‘eternity’ bit refers to how the verses I compose shall live on long after my early, tragic demise…if I ever find paper to write them down on.”
Fox cracked her knuckles. “So, we bottle her tears, and this whole serum or whatever’s finished!”
“I can’t fathom how the prankster-scholar who inscribed these symbols centuries ago could have predicted Diana Hemlock’s birth.” Schrodinger sighed. “Plus, there’re other ingredients to this ostensive Radixomniummalorum bokor remedy. Here’s what I’ve translated so far.” He screwed his eyes shut before reciting:
“Delight can be found in the smiles of spiders (40 gills for base)
Peace from the rheum of Death’s brother (Beyond 32 grains, Life’s 3rd becomes all)
Sorrow in lament of ever-young frog (16 scruples, mix, strain. Keep in 2 separate pans)
Freedom wanders with a dog whose home is unsolid (4 locks. Add to base with 2nd pan)
Want flows through flesh-hungry branches, bearing no fruit (72 drams. Avoid being seized)
Balance achieved by a philosopher’s sword (stir in a widdershins direction)
Strength held in the cradle of Land-and-Sky’s ruler (carefully pour in concoction)
Enlightenment kindled by a sunbird’s plucked quill (cook 4 minutes till boiled. Try not to burn)
These 8 parts you’ll need to undo Evil’s Roots, which decays mind and destroys will.
(Cool to room temperature and serve. Proportions: 24 drops for every 56 pounds.)”
The girls agreed very little in the scroll’s listings made much sense. Grace, however, figured the last ingredient must mean a phoenix feather.
***
As no moon shined in Vinland—or any stars, for that matter—the only source of light during nocturnal hours came from the hearth. The quartz mirrors were useless without sunlight.
The corvids crowded where Bennu’s egg was kept.
“Who invited a cat on this quest, anyway?” Chiaroscuro asked. “This adventure’s for the birds. It ought to be by birds.”
“Grace, too, if she wants,” added Offal, which gained a round of approval.
“You’ve no reason to fear me. I never eat crow.” In a far corner of the room, Schrodinger pulled a fish bone from his teeth. “Naturally, it’s impossible to humble a cat.”
“I don’t think our species should matter.” Grace put herself between the parties. “Now we’re all here, we should work together.”
“Oh Gracie.” Jackanapes shook his head. “We can fly. A cat’ll just lag behind us.”
“When nobody’s watching,” Schrodinger answered coolly, “I can be anywhere. I transported myself into a guarded, monitored asylum, and helped these girls find egress. By contrast, no amount of brute wing-flapping would have brought us to Vinland. So, unless you’ve mastered shadowboxing when I wasn’t watching, let’s not accuse each other of slowness.”
“Quit arguing!” Grace clapped a hand to her forehead, as both her mother and Fox often did. “We’re cooped up here while heads explode and demons are roaming free. I know if Bennu were here, he’d know what to do. He’s wise and nice, even if his nicknames are weird. He wouldn’t want everyone acting like jerks!”
“Is she including us in this?” Diana asked Fox with a hand cupped over one side of her mouth. Fox’s mouth was too full of grapes to answer.
Grace hunched to inspect the egg, praying for any crack or seam to appear to signify her work making the pyre had not been for nothing. Absentmindedly, she started humming, which became singing. The tune of the original phoenix-song she heard, but as the lyrics could only be known between waking and sleeping, she substituted lyrics from her Grandmam’s favorite Christmas song: “The Wexford Carol.”
As she got to the verse about three wise men, a whiff of sweet, yet bitter incense wafted into her nostrils, transporting her back to her last December at home.
She thought she was just imagining the mix of cinnamon and myrrh when Fox called out “What’s with this funk?” Other scents were coming off the egg, too. A thunderstorm’s ozone. Soil before and after (but not during) warm rain.
“It’s hatching day!” declared Albumen.
His younger siblings shouted “Uncle’s returning!”
A boring formed on one end of the red oval. Steam poured out like from the spout of a teapot. This tiny hole gradually widened. Steam and scents were suddenly joined by an accompaniment to Grace’s song.
It continued on its own when she stopped singing.
A pulse in her pocket distracted her. She always kept the agate on her person. While bathing, she left Dr. Bezoar’s gift on the nearby bank. Even when sleeping, she wrapped it up in her wool blanket. Ever hoping it might finally become the charm that helped her fly. Previously, it never did anything expect give warmth. Now, it vibrated at a pace more furious than the phoenix egg currently rolling about in the embers.
So furious, in fact, that it fell out of her pocket. On impact with the floor, the red-brown gem developed a fault in the side it landed on. Knocks followed, coming from inside the stone. By splinters, the jewel was slowly chipped apart. Grace’s surprise became shock!
“What’d you do with that fancy gift of yours?” Half of Fox’s mouth scowled, but the other side twitched upwards.
“Why must everything fall apart?” Diana asked without expecting any answer. Her body slumped.
Chiaroscuro and the Murder, though, were ecstatic. Completely engrossed by Bennu hatching (or re-hatching).
“The agate’s alive.” Grace was not sure if that was a question, but if Schrodinger had an explanation, it was temporarily drowned out by a shower of sparks in the hearth.
Offal tried putting them out by fanning his wings, which of course only spread the fire.
A mass stomping of feet kept things contained until the creature in the hearth leached them away. In looked nothing like an adult phoenix. What wiggled about was an unimpressive worm. Its pale pinkness gradually turned red. But that was it. Still, near everyone was distracted, so Grace and Schrodinger alone witnessed the agate shatter to reveal…something significantly more impressive than a worm.
It was a bird. At least from the front. A beaked mouth, naked scaly feet, and two untested wings. But there was also an extra set of back legs, resembled a cat’s more than anything else, and a stubby feline tail. From its fuzzy, yellow-gray bird head, two pointy ears poked out. Its color was mostly metallic gold, but the hindquarters also had dark brown spots.
“A griffin!” Schrodinger’s green eyes always glowed, but now they strobed.
“What’s that?” In the books she read so far, Grace had never heard that word. All she knew was a gift from a collection of stones was now alive, and at the same time her old friend returned. (Albeit as a worm.) It was a lot to take at once. So, she collapsed onto the floor.
“Think of it this way,” explained Schrodinger, “the lion’s king of the beasts, just like the eagle’s king of the birds. Griffins combine them, and hence are destined to control both. Only thing outside their jurisdiction is the sea. Sorry if I’m a bit giddy, but I’ve never seen a live one. They’ve been hunted near to extinction.”
“That’s terrible.” Grace delicately picked up the hybrid newborn. “Why would anyone do something like that?”
“People don’t need a reason to despoil nature.” Schrodinger’s ears swiveled back, which is how cat’s bodies show anger. “But griffins must seem a particular prize. Their nests are lined with gold and jewels that they scratch out of mountains. Their love of shiny things evolved to camouflage their eggs, which blend in perfectly—admittedly, Bezoar Wilhelmina von Gruff’s former agate being one such egg has blindsided me—I’ll have to schedule time to ponder over where or from whom she got it from. Regardless, every part of a griffin’s anatomy has magic seeped into it. Feathers cure blindness. Their talons change colors in the presence of even the most miniscule amount of poison.”
“Like Dr. Bezoar’s toadstone,” reminded Grace.
“Fortunately for those griffins being hunted, they have ways of defending themselves. They are fast, second only to phoenixes. And strong as either twenty lions or a hundred eagles, depending on how you measure.”
“How could anyone measure that?” Fox had broken from the hearth crowd.
“Hmm. You know, I never thought of that.” With Grace’s permission, Schrodinger inspected the griffin. The chick’s eyes were shut tight. A spotted back paw batted at the grimalkin. In turn, Schrodinger gently nudged it with his forehead, as cats do to show affection.
“But he’s still a bird?” asked Grace. “Even if half of him is lion?”
“If its head’s a bird, you should have no trouble communicating.” Albumen came to look over Grace’s shoulder.
“Him, not ‘it,’” Grace responded. “Hello there…um, chick.” Until Director Ambrosius compelled her to do experiments, she had no notion speaking to birds was something she could turn “on.” Any more than Fox could consciously turn “off” her stones. Grace nevertheless tried reaching out on a mental level.
The only response from the griffin was some gurgling.
“I suppose he’s too young to talk proper-like,” said Jackanapes. The full Murder turned from the fireplace.
“How old were we when we started talking?” asked Ragamuffin. (or “Rags” as she now insisted on being called.)
“Varies,” said Dusky. “But if you’re going to keep him, Gracie, you ought to think up a name.”
“Keep him?” Grace had not even thought of that yet. How did you take care of a griffin? It seemed past the point of returning the gift to Dr. Bezoar.
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“It’s a solemn responsibility.” Schrodinger started serious, but a nose-tickling from the griffin’s tail set him giggling. “Okay—if our common enemy Aitvaras wanted a phoenix for its rarity, consider what he’d go through for a breed that’s nearly extinct. This creature needs protection until he’s strong enough to defend himself…but something to call him wouldn’t hurt.”
“Okay well, he’s gold…”
Grace recalled the way crows named their young. Always to the point and usually descriptive. For example, a chick’s brown-black feathers looked tattered, so she was named “Tatterdemalion.” (Later shortened to “Mrs. Tatters.”) The Murder siblings were all named for their accurate features at the time. Waif was a tiny hatchling, but grew to be the largest. Grace wanted a name that could hold up.
“…And, ow!” she was cut short. While obviously meaning no harm, the baby’s blind squirming sunk a claw into her arm. While it caused a great deal of pain, the cut failed to draw blood. It might leave a scar, though. “That talon!”
“Goldtalon!” Jackanapes flapped his wings excitedly. “That name sounds perfect!”
“A fine name,” said Albumen.
“Very strong,” agreed Dusky.
“Unlike ‘Ragamuffin,’” muttered Rags.
“Shiny, too,” chipped in Offal.
“Are you hurt, Grace?” asked Diana. “Should we find some bandages?”
Grace waved the squonk away with her other hand. “All right, I suppose I’ll call this griffin Goldtalon.”
“Goldtalon.” Fox drew out the three syllables to something like eight. “I like it. Direct, like Fort Stone.”
“But Fox,” reminded Diana, “you hated the name Fort Stone.”
“So, he’s going to be your pet?” Chiaroscuro edged close to Grace. His black-and-white feathers were now a monochrome ash.
“A friend,” Grace decided. “I think we can always use more of those.”
***
At their wit’s ends not knowing how to restore the dull worm into their phoenix friend, the corvids eventually came begging for Schrodinger’s advice. The grimalkin, for his part, was not petty nor stingy about sharing pertinent information with the formerly foul birds. For this, even Chiaroscuro came to respect him.
They learned to keep the pitiful worm in direct sunlight, and to sing to it regularly. Quality counted, and as corvids are notoriously off-key, it wound up being Diana who provided the crawling thing with lullabies. She insisted, however, that everyone else be far enough away not to hear her original lyrics, in case they provoked laughter instead of awe.
Incrementally, limbs budded. A head developed. Grace felt relieved to see two wings, entirely whole and unbroken. The new Bennu lit up—literally and figuratively—when playing in the hearth-fire that became his nest.
The griffin named Goldtalon eventually opened his eyes. Great orange things with emerald flecks and intelligence. His first word sounded like “Hjckrrh!” From then on, that abrasive hiccup returned whenever he got excited, as prior to a meal. His other language skills developed at an accelerated rate, even before the red worm gained a mouth. What is more, Goldtalon spoke English.
Schrodinger explained this was an effect of “imprinting.” How it worked was the chick possessed a magic link with Grace since she was the one who hatched him. (Even though she did that unintentionally.) What she had experienced, he could share. Goldtalon was limited to the words she herself knew. Given the seven-year-old had a love of reading bred into her early, this was less a limit than it could have been. He parroted her words incessantly.
To Grace’s embarrassment, he always called her “Mommy” while following her around. The girl decided she was too young for that. After all, she had not even made it to First Grade.
Grace thought about her own mother. Her father, too. Director Ambrosius had stolen her right to see them. At least they would never have to interact with her emotionless cloud clone, if the duplicate had not already turned back into mist.
She felt relieved about not needing to regurgitate meals for Goldtalon, like how adult birds usually fed their young. The hybrid eagle-lion possessed the hunger of two growing creatures, and eagerly tore into the abundant salmon and grapes of Vinland.
Like his former incarnation, Bennu had a more specialized diet, but one his companions managed to satisfy. Among dozens of bags left by the Runestand’s former inhabitants, one contained cinnamon. Not even half full, it could still be rationed to keep the maturing phoenix from hunger.
When Diana asked where the cinnamon came from, Schrodinger went into lecture mode.
“Vikings traded with Arab explorers, who smoothly brought it from China along the Silk Road. This was also the way grimalkins were invited from our native Egypt into Europe by the goddess Freya, may she burn in peace.”
“Capital, capital.” Bennu pulled his long legs from the river, where he played and frolicked with Diana and Fox. (Actually, he did all the frolicking.) “Heliopolis was the capital of somewhere. I think. You know, most flames can be put out by water. Unless you happen to live in Greece.”
Well past his slimy stage at this point, his purple plumage had regrown, but in a lighter shade. Grace and the corvids knew him to be a bit scatterbrained, but this new Bennu often blurted random things during conversation. Chiaroscuro darkly speculated he was a completely different bird from the one they originally befriended.
Schrodinger countered it was likely the phoenix had to recover memories built over thousands of years. They were bound to come out jumbled, with relevant topics haphazardly mixed with trivialities. But Schrodinger had not known Bennu before his premature resurrection.
“Phoenixes are powerful elemental beings.” Bennu stared directly at the sun. “They travel as fast as light because that’s what they’re made of. Fast as light, but also fragile. That’s what I know about phoenixes so far. But apparently, I myself am a phoenix, so I really ought to find out more.”
Grace believed his old personality remained intact. Even in his madder moments, the phoenix was still kind and accepting. For example, he called Goldtalon his “Hatchmate,” apparently like being siblings.
“Though we shared not the same cloaca…or taxonomy for that matter, he and I are of the same order. When I triumphantly return to my home at Nephelokokkygia, I’d feel honored to bring him along.”
“Hjckrrh! Can mommy come, too? And are there good thing to eat in Nephel-alow-cock-ee-geea?”
The answer to both of Goldtalon’s questions was “Yes, but later.” A quest needed finishing—however it turned out.
“Tell me more about this William Henry.” Bennu made himself comfortable on the side of Fort Stone, scratching the back of his plumed head on a sparkling bit of quartz. “Why was—or am—I looking for him? Is it a scavenger hunt? An intense game of hide-and-seek?”
“A plague of exploding heads isn’t exactly the proper time for games,” responded Schrodinger.
Bennu wept. “Losing your head’s such a sad thing to happen to anyone! I wish to help. Are there lots of people named William?”
“There’s William Shakespeare,” Diana took over. “But he’s dead now. An earache, I think. William Tell…but no, he had an apple-picking accident. William of Ockham might still be around—haven’t checked—but the most likely scenario is he also died, since he lived hundreds of years ago.”
“That’s not even including the people who just go by ‘Will’,” added Grace.
“Any other Wills or Williams you can think of?” Fox asked sarcastically. “Maybe ones still living.”
“Hmm.” Bennu went back to rubbing against the stone. “Sounds like there are many Williams. The likely odds we will find him just by asking around seem slightly out of our favor. What does he look like, Schrodinger? You acted as his muse, surely you remember.”
“I don’t know.” Schrodinger started ferociously licking his tummy, like he hated the taste of those words. “Cats tend to just think of humans as ‘those giants.’ Henry—we also called him ‘Iron Will’—was tall, though. Even by giant standards. He had no tail…walked on two legs… lacked fur, but had hair on top of his head, and some on his chest.”
“That describes my dad, too,” observed Grace. “Lots of men, actually.”
Schrodinger curled into a ball. “For all I know, my old clockmaking friend is dead.”
***
Given that eagles finish maturing years before lions, Goldtalon’s front half should have grown faster than his back. In actuality, his whole body grew at the same rate—which was very fast. When he was Labrador-sized, Schrodinger informed everyone that griffins are supposed to keep growing all their lives. He never specified how long that was, should they manage to avoid poachers. Not that counting mattered much when they had no clocks or calendars.
The memory of Vinland preserved by the Astral seemed an idyllic one. It took effort to remember that outside this pocket of history, the world at large experienced winter. By night there was no moon or stars, but by day the sun reliably shone. It never rained.
Grace found she could walk from one end of the meadow to the other, and (somehow) wind up exactly where she set out from. She lay out in the river, trying to see where the current might take her. The girl never went far. In fact, she just floated limply in the same spot, even as water trickled by. She tried swimming upstream instead, at least enough to see where the river flowed from. The current turned violent, and she was rebuffed.
If the river came from nowhere, and went nowhere, how was there always salmon in it?
Fox’s rocks also seemed to come from nowhere, but nobody tried to eat them. The frequency of stone rains went down, likely because she had fewer reasons to feel upset.
Vinland might sustain the group for a lifetime, if that word meant anything here. To all appearances, Fort Stone was a place safe from monsters and the government. But it was not a home. That much Grace felt certain of. To merit that particular title, her family needed to be with her. She discovered she would gladly tolerate city crowds, traffic, and pollution for them.
For already being inside a dream, Grace could fall sleep. She was lying comfortably in Fort Stone’s shade when a wave of drowsy swept over. Then, she was back in Director Ambrosius’s deceptively cozy office. She wanted to groan, thinking she would have to suffer the worst period of her life all over again!
But the room was not exactly as it looked her first day at the Institute. Files on the desk, for example, were no longer stacked neatly. Instead, they were a dog-eared, out-of-order mess. Loose paperclips stuck out like pins in a cushion. With that bit of evidence, she decided—whatever this experience might be—it was no memory.
“I don’t know what went wrong, Miss Grey.” As before, Director Ambrosius sat at his desk. But it looked like he had not combed his long, white beard in days. “You were going to be my…the Institute’s success story. I never would have allowed Mal to expose you girls to spores, though I wouldn’t stop her from using the threat as motivation. Miss Levinson wasn’t panning out as an assassin, and the other one…” He waved dismissively.
“Now you aren’t even open to making the most casual bird chatter!” He sighed. “I suppose we were slightly remiss in cancelling Friday visits with your guardians. Mal insisted you be punished when she caught you out-of-bounds. Personally, I think Mal’s jealous. For years, she was the only changeling at the Institute! The first real triumph to my theories. But presently, you’re holding this whole project hostage.” He paused. Waiting for some response.
Even if Grace wanted to, she could not. Her thoughts were fuzzy at first, but she eventually figured this was what her cloud clone was experiencing back in what she still thought of as “the real world.” Schrodinger said that could happen, but usually by concentrating hard.
The Director stroked his messy beard. Failing to tease out some curl. “Okay, Miss Grey, you win. Your parents can come back on Fridays—if they still wish to. Now, no more stubbornness! Let’s pick up where we left off, before our Operation’s superiors come for inspection. Our project’s resources are already divided hunting Mr. Aitvaras…”
Grace blinked her eyes open. Goldtalon was nudging her. Instead of the asylum’s draft, she felt the reliable warmth of Vinland. The encounter was real enough, though. Not a memory or dream. The Director’s final words prompted the realization: she had no idea how far from her family she had strayed by coming here.
“C’mon, mommy, don’t cry,” pleaded Goldtalon. “Schrodinger says he’s got big announcement!”
“I’ve finished translating the scroll,” Schrodinger said when all the companions had gathered. “And the gist of the information you need, Bennu.” The phoenix could not thank him before the cat started gagging till it seemed he might cough up a hairball. “There’s no reason for your journey not to continue…except. Look, I’ve turned over every possibility of who might have hired the Aniwye, from the red-handed to the red herrings. Only one would have such persistent egg-snatchers. Promise you won’t laugh when I say her name.”
No one responded.
“Her name’s Ostara. She’s a goddess. One of the few remaining. A thousand years ago, the gods fought a war called Ragnarök. Almost all died, making room for new religions. Ostara, though, survived, in the most cowardly way possible. She didn’t fight at all, but hid inside a moon crater. It is known that there, she discovered spores of Radixomniummalorum bokor, which turns victims into zombies. I think it’s no coincidence the same fungus now rages through Nephelokokkygia, that Aitvaras—another notorious egg snatcher—possessed some, which he apparently sold to the U.S. government.”
“I remember hearing of Ostara.” Bennu could not stay silent for long, especially now Schrodinger seemed to have frozen in place. “Least, I remember that I remembered hearing about her. Some details our fine feline friend left out: she’s the goddess of spring, with dominion over all green and growing things, her power waxes and wanes in-sync with phases of the moon, being strongest when it’s full, weakest when it’s new, and so on. She turns enemies into plant mulch.” He scratched his head. “Ooh, almost forgot, her preferred form is a cute rabbit, and her name’s where we get ‘Easter’ from.”
“Wait.” Grace had heard plenty of bizarre things, but this particular revelation proved too much. “You’re saying the one after you is the Easter Bunny. And she’s evil?”
“Holidays aren’t usually made up on the spot,” Bennu elaborated. “If certain rituals seem out-of-place, they’re probably leftovers. Traditions that people liked so much before converting to a new religion, they didn’t want to entirely give them up. So, they find new meanings to justify the rituals. Problem is, when Christians adapted elements from a Norse spring festival,
the original goddess Easter’s based around was very much alive.”
Fox held her sides in an attempt to keep from cackling. The effort failed. The pebbles falling around her jiggled their way to the ground. “I don’t believe in the Easter Bunny! When I was with my fam…some people I may or may not have been related to, I heard kids talk about it. I always though it made no sense. Why would a rabbit keep eggs in a first place, or give them away?”
“The real Ostara most certainly does not give away eggs.” Bennu rarely sounded angry. It came off a bit amateurish now. “Only takes.”
“Don’t rabbits eat plants?” asked Diana.
“She doesn’t eat them,” clarified Bennu. “But she’s supposed to shatters some for use in her magic spells. Others she hoards away as trophies or decorations. Away from their loving parents!”
“Regardless,” Schrodinger found his voice again, “the Easter Bunny, as you might call her, believes in us. Or at least believes we’re standing between her and those powers imbued in a phoenix.”
“What if she found out about Goldtalon? He’s magic, too.” Grace clamped hands over her mouth. She noticed the griffin fidgeting, but from boredom, not fear. He had lived a safe life, never having to face monsters, so this must have made little sense to him.
Fox was still cackling when the griffin darted around the hill. Grace followed, seeing him bear down on something in the grass. Blades were just tall enough she could not discern the figure. It moved fast, though.
Goldtalon’s cat ears twisted to the back. He drooled the way he did before seizing salmon out of the river. Something leapt out at him!
Grace was used to thinking of rabbits as cute. Even harmless. But this particular bunny had antlers, with multiple sharp prongs, aimed at her griffin’s throat!
A member of the Murder noticed, so in a moment all of them did. Chiaroscuro shot down, seemingly to help—except he made a sharp left turn at a second figure hiding in the grass.
Bennu, Fox, and Diana circled the Runestand, and froze. The only other one not staring in the direction of Goldtalon and the horned rabbit was Schrodinger.
If he had already fledged, the griffin would have simply flown away. As is, he was stuck on four heavy feet while impotently flapping his wings. Maybe it would not have made much difference. The antlered rabbit could jump high.
Before it hit Goldtalon, Schrodinger appeared in a plot of shaded grass. The spry tabby’s normally smooth fur had gone rigid. His mouth opened wide enough to show his back fangs. Then, blood and drool mussed the entire lower half of his once-groomed face.
The horned rabbit’s throat had been ripped out!
Grace’s knees knocked. Diana cried. Fox blanched. Bennu’s plumage went from dark violet to lilac. The Murder scattered and reformed. Goldtalon, however, was unharmed.
The sound of another struggle gratefully distracted them. Chiaroscuro grappled with a second horned rabbit. This one appeared much less aggressive, using its antlers to dig a burrow.
“Noyoudon’t,” were the last word heard from the raven as he followed it underground.
Albumen went to see if he could help while Dusky pushed back their younger siblings. The white crow immediately popped back up. “Weird. There’s no hole.”
“What do you mean?” Jackanapes broke past Dusky. “There has to be a hole. Otherwise, where’d the dirty bird chase that horny bunny?”
“I saw them digging, too,” said Offal.
“Agh, you’re probably just searching the wrong spot,” said Rags.
The Murder failed to locate their raven friend anywhere. He was not hiding in Fort Stone. Neither could any hide or hair of the second horned rabbit be found.
“This is what I feared!” Schrodinger panted heavily. A manic gleam dwelled in his glowing eyes that was never present before. “By saying her name openly, I’ve called down Os…the Easter Bunny’s attention. She lives very far away, but knows now where to send her earthly minions. Fort Stone’s no longer safe.”