I approached the beast with caution. It let out a warning chortle.
“Go on. Pick it up.” Sarah pushed me toward the griffin.
“You told me never to touch an unfamiliar magical object,” I said, resisting her efforts. “I think a griffin qualifies.”
“Object?” The griffin let out a raspy squawk of indignation.
“Oh no. It talks.” Sarah got behind me.
“It talks.” The griffin’s feathered neck ruffled.
“We should leave it alone,” I said. “Maybe it will go back where it belongs.”
“It,” the griffin parroted back.
“Can you weave a magical leash for it, like the one you made for Philip so that he doesn’t fall down the stairs?” Sarah suggested, peering over my shoulder.
“You weren’t supposed to notice that.” Even when I called my son’s magical restraint by the early modern name “leading strings,” my discomfort with it remained.
“Well, I noticed. So did Philip.” Sarah gave me a push. “Hurry. You don’t want it to escape.”
The tiny griffin spread its wings, which were surprisingly wide and gloriously colored with tawny shades of eagle and lion.
Sarah and I scrambled back into the library, like two prim Victorian ladies who had spotted a mouse.
“I don’t think it likes the idea of being confined,” I said.
“Who does?” Sarah asked.
“Well, we can’t just let it fly around inside the house. Remember how much trouble Corra caused.” I gathered my resources, took a deep breath, and walked calmly toward the creature. Ten feet away from it, I raised a warning finger and addressed the griffin. “Stay.”
The griffin hopped in my direction. Mesmerized by the odd sight, I remained where I was. The griffin was so close now that I could have bent down and picked it up—had that sharp beak not deterred me.
“It. Stay.” The griffin planted one of its heavy front talons on my foot, one of the points barely piercing my sneaker in warning.
“Not me. You stay!” I said, trying without success to free myself from the sharp claw.
Unimpressed by my attempts to bring him to heel, the griffin puffed out his chest and rummaged around in his own wing feathers.
Sarah and I bent down to watch, fascinated by the bird’s grooming ritual.
“Do you think it might have lice?” Sarah whispered.
“I hope not,” I replied. “Why on earth did you summon a griffin, Sarah?”
“There are no spells for summoning mythical beasts in the Bishop grimoire. If you spent more time studying your family’s heritage, and less time sniffing at it, you would know that,” huffed Sarah. “You’re the one with the dragon. You must have called it. You were working magic the other day. Maybe you shook something loose.”
“I animated a flower!” It was hardly a work of earth-shattering power. “And I never summoned Corra—who was a firedrake, by the way. She just showed up when I worked my first spell.”
Sarah blanched. “Uh-oh.”
Our heads turned in the direction of the nursery.
“Shit,” I said, biting my lip. “The griffin must belong to Philip.”
“What are you going to do?” Sarah asked.
“Catch the griffin,” I replied. “After that—I honestly don’t know.”
* * *
—
IT TOOK THE COMBINED EFFORTS of two witches, a daemon, and a vampire to capture the small but remarkably agile creature.
Agatha lured it toward Tabitha’s beat-up plastic pet carrier with bits of duck meat. The griffin’s long pink tongue extended like a whip to snatch the succulent morsels from her fingers.
“Come here, baby.” Agatha was already half in love with the beast. “What a pretty griffin. Such splendid feathers.”
The griffin, feeling properly appreciated, took step after cautious step in the direction of the snacks.
“Is it trapped?” Marthe asked from below. She was both our lookout and our last line of defense in case the griffin made a run for it.
The griffin croaked ominously and lashed its tail. Marthe made the tiny beast anxious. Though the griffin was doubly predatory with its mixed lion and eagle heritage, a vampire represented a higher link on the food chain. Every time Marthe made the slightest movement, the griffin beat its wings and gave a bloodcurdling cry of warning.
“Not yet, Marthe,” I called, standing by the open door to the cage. Sarah stood on the other side of the plastic box, ready to clap the metal grill shut. Years of taking Tabitha to the vet had given her considerable experience in catching skittish animals.