His father had warned that parenthood was a bumpy road. That was about as close as the old man had come to apologising for his own methods, though Ernest doubted he had imagined this fractured a road.

He stood in the dark house, one maimed hand rubbing his short bristly hair as he looked over the photos. Fatherhood had been so daunting, and the weeks after his daughter's birth so exhausting. And yet soon followed by years where he had missed her inability to walk. From eleven months onwards she had been active, wanting to be flipped and thrown, trying to run and jump, heedless of danger and stubborn as her Grandpa.

How old had she been when she’d suggested running off to be a circus acrobat? Eight? Then suggestions of soccer, or an astronaut, or a pilot, or a gymnast, or an acrobat. When she vanished in the night, he’d phoned several circuses, terrified that she’d pursued such ambitions.

A low growl made him flinch, instincts mistaking it for some heavy machine or large animal. Not inaccurately. Ernest swallowed and set down a photo frame, unable to resist checking on her. Again.

Pathetic.

He paused at the garage door, inhaled, smoothed his shirt. He had to seem strong. Even so, he winced at the squeak of the door, and tensed at the heavy animal scent, ready for flashing claws or tearful screams. None came. His eyes squinted through the darkness, making out the massive slumbering mound in the corner, pinions folded over her like a tent. What little exposed was predatory- a sharp beak through which those thrumming growls emerged, a couple of talons long as knifes, already ripping through the blankets of her nest.

She wasn't even full grown. He tore his eyes away, winced as the door squeaked behind him and shuddered with each step back into the lounge. How did you even rear a griffin? Griffon? Gryphon?! Noone could reach a damn consensus on spelling, let alone care! What if she had allergies? What if she hurt herself? What if she was bullied?

Then the bullies would suffer, he gave a bitter chuckle. Karen had never quite learned to back down, and he discarded that concern, pacing back into the lounge. There was no point going back to bed with Sylvia- his wife had miraculously managed to find sleep despite the evening’s revelation, and his pathetic restless worrying would only disturb her.

Instead he sat on the couch, dared to light a lamp and pulled out that “Office of Anomalous Research” folder, where someone had stuck “Registration” over the last word. It did not fill him with hope. Sure, the important stuff was there- ID cards, Registration forms, notes of the incident, legal notice- but a full two thirds of it was irrelevant leaflets and pamphlets from some damn bureaucrat pretending to be busy. “What is a Mystic”, “Is Magic Real”, and such drivel.

Doctor Morris’ calling card was at the back. He’d left it there when he almost phoned earlier, when his unfamiliar daughter had sprouted a tail. It was probably worth phoning to report that she was safe home, and he lifted the card only to squint at hand writing across it.

Veil, Diana Kingsley, 208 201 2695

Gryphon, Nathan Patel, 303 241 5849

Pathetic, how had he missed this!? He hadn’t thought to turn over the card! Ernest scowled, he couldn’t afford this kind of mistake, he couldn’t let his daughter down. It was unacceptable.

He needed information, so he lifted the phone and retreated into the kitchen to punch in the numbers. He wasn’t sure why, it was four in the morning, there was no way he’d ans-

“’Ello?” A deep young voice answered, “Uh, hello?”

Ernest blinked. What were the odds? “Mornin’, this Nathan Patel?”

“Uh, depends who’s asking? I’m not buying anything.” The voice cautioned, a rumbling machinery in the background.

“Name’s Ernest Thomson.” No point beating around the bush, “I’m lookin’ for information ‘bout gryphons, apparently you can help?”

“Probably, I am one after all. You a journalist?”

“Nah. I’ve… got to take care of a gryphon.”

He gasped, “You’re an assassin?”

“Wha- no! Take care like feed an’ rear an’ help.” Ernest rubbed his brow, “This is gonna sound nuts, but my daughter turned into a gryphon.”

“Oh. Right, well, don’t panic. Just wait it out. Shapeshifting magic only lasts three or four hours tops.”

“It’s been over three days. OAR, the Office guys, looked her over, it’s not veil, don’t know how it happened.” He sighed, “Looks like it’s permanent. An’ me and mine, we’re human, dunno how to take care of her, any advice you have’d be ‘ppreciated.”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Huh. Fate’s funny.” Nathan sounded amused, “As luck’d have it, I’m stuck on a train with nothing to do. And, I mean, good thing this didn’t happen when you lot didn’t know about magic, huh?”

“That’s a way to look at it.” Ernest conceded, pulling over a pen and notepad, “So you got time. Hmm, basics then- what food’s safe? Anything poisonous to gryphons?”

“Try and keep her off of chocolate, milk doesn’t normally go down well, no onions or garlic or cabbage. Not lethal, but awful for the insides.” Nathan considered, “We’re mainly carnivorous, so you’re going to have to get a lot of meat- raw or cooked is fine, and varieties good. Fish, fowl, mince, cat or dog food, she’ll probably have preferences. But we can handle some grain, nuts, fruit, even eggs and stuff, but only as sides. How old is she?”

“Right, she was very keen on meat earlier, demolished a ton of steak. Uh, sixteen? She’s bigger than me already.”

“Got another couple of years of growth, can probably put away double or triple what you can on a day- the largest females can get nearly the size of horses, but something like a donkey’s more common.”

“Right, her room was too small so thinking of moving her into the garage, she’s there tonight. Is sleeping inside alright?”

“Oh, yeah, we tend to be pretty claustrophobic, but if she was born human, probably fine on that count?”

“’Fraid it’s the opposite. She’s got all griffin instincts, no experience controllin’ them. Even veilled, she was not happy in the car.”

“Well, keep her off the train, it is the worst!” Nathan said cheerfully, “In that case, with instincts, she’s probably gonna see the world in terms of nice spaces she can spread her wings, and horrible places she can’t. Make sure the garage is spacious, let her build a den however she wants, but don’t put stuff on her. Waking up covered by something will set off some major alarm bells. Oh, and leave her den alone, we tend to stick precious stuff in where we sleep and we can be a bit territorial.”

“Right. We’re in Idaho, might get a bit cold… but can always find a spare heater and she seems to have a lot of fluff.” Ernest considered, “Speakin' of instincts… are all griffins predators?”

“Are all humans hunters?” Nathan scoffed, “We’re a spectrum. If you wanna see where she falls on it… uh, grab a live mouse from a pet store or something, leave it in the house, see what she does with it. Might ignore it, might eat it.”

Ernest nodded, that was a feasible test. “How important is flyin’?”

“Oooooh, dude, I have flown more in the past few months than I did in the first twenty years of my life! It is fantastic, I cannot recommend enough. Probably take a few tries, but get her to a field and she’ll probably be able to figure it out after a few days.”

“Took her maybe ten minutes.” He was surprised at the note of pride in his voice, “Instincts, apparently. She’s keen to try more.”

“No doubt. Congrats. Anywhere she could hunt, if she tends towards that?”

“Yeah, we’re near mountains but… just worried she might go for livestock.” He resisted saying ‘again’.

“Teach her not to, we’re not beasts, she can learn.” Nathan got quiet, his voice more serious, “That bother you?”

“Just gettin' to terms with the idea of her rippin' an elk to pieces. Any other advice?”

“Hmm. What colour is she? Oh, right, you won’t know.” Nathan chuckled, “Don’t use human shampoo or stuff for washing, either cat or baby shampoo is better, and try and get her to wash once a week or more. Some of us aren’t fans of water. Oh, and get her a good scratching post or she’ll probably destroy your furniture! Gotta stay sharp!”

“Do you? Was thinkin' of tryin' to blunt the talons, they’re pretty nasty.” Ernest frowned. Especially to random teenagers, apparently. It was a miracle she hadn’t killed the boy.

“You can try, but her instincts might have her sharpening them pretty quick. We’re all individuals though. Also a stretchy watch is good, do you know about Veil?”

“Think I’ve got the basics. Tastes awful, feels awful, meant to last an hour or two.”

“Sounds about right. Let her take her pace, if she’s a griffin indoors, she’s probably just going to nap or eat, we only really get excitable outdoors.”

“Yeah- she keeps headbuttin' me too? Is that common?”

“Oh. Uh, scent marking basically. She’s probably going to do that a lot to whatever she considers her territory.” Nathan muttered, then added, “But that’s a good sign! Sounds like you’ve got a good relationship, still close!”

“Yeah. Glad she thinks I'm her property, classic teenager.” He felt a pit in his stomach, secret gnawing away, “Thanks. Nathan. I… this feels a lot more manageable now.”

“Thanks for the entertainment, I’d love to hear how it turns out. But do us a favour, yeah?”

“What?”

“Go get some sleep dude, I know your time zone and you sound ready to collapse.” He ordered loudly, “You’ll manage, griffins are awesome. Trust me, I’m a completely impartial expert!”

“Very we-” The phone hung up, “-ll.”

And that was that. It was a good deal of information, he flicked through the pad, nodding. It was nothing eldritch, magical or mysterious, but practical matters- food, shelter, sleep and health. Yes, he could work with this, one step at a time.

He rose and paced through to the hall, giving the garage door a long look. She wasn’t growling anymore. Was she there? Had she fled? His hand twitched, and he balled it into a fist. No. She’d still be there in the morning. And if she wasn’t… well, Morris had a tracker embedded in her thigh.

He should’ve told her. Pathetic old man.

But then she’d probably tear her leg open if she ever tried to run away. And he couldn’t lose her. Not again. No, best keep it secret, and work on the assumption it wouldn’t come up. Just deal with the present.

One step at a time.

At the top, Ernest stumbled as he ran out of stairs.