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.
Agatha dangled another piece of duck in front of the griffin, who snatched it away and swallowed with gusto.
“You’re doing great, Agatha.” Sarah was giving Agatha as much encouragement as Agatha was giving the griffin. “It’s mesmerized.”
“Such a beautiful baby. I love that shade of brown in your tail. Maybe next autumn’s clothing line will be griffin themed,” Agatha crooned, placing the pieces of duck in a row that led straight to the door of the cat carrier. “What do you think of that idea, my little lovely?”
“It,” the griffin said happily, pecking at the duck.
The scent of food woke Tabitha from her nap. The cat shot across the landing, bristling with indignation over the fact that she had not been invited to Agatha’s feast. She stopped abruptly, eyes fixed on the griffin.
“Do eagles eat cats?” I whispered.
“They better not!” Sarah said, alarmed.
Tabitha was no ordinary cat, however, but a superior feline who was more than a match for our new arrival. She stalked past the griffin without a backward glance, rubbed herself against Agatha to indicate prior ownership, picked up a piece of duck meat in her sharp teeth, and sailed into the carrier with her tail straight up in the air like a flag. Tabitha circled on the fleecy cushion, twisting herself into a small knot of gray fur before letting out a mighty sigh of contentment.
The griffin ambled in after Tabitha, its front legs hopping like a bird and back legs striding like a lion. Once it had crammed itself in, the griffin lay down, its tail circling Tabitha protectively, and closed its eyes.
Sarah slammed the door shut.
One of the griffin’s eyes popped open. It extended its talons through the metal grid in a luxurious feline stretch and settled in for a nap.
“Is it—purring?” Agatha asked, cocking her head to listen.
“That must be Tabitha,” I replied. “Surely griffins don’t purr. Not with an eagle’s neck. Different voice box.”
A guttural snoring issued from the depths of the carrier.
“Nope. That’s Tabitha,” Sarah said with a touch of pride.
* * *
—
ONCE AGAIN, Matthew discovered me in the library. This time I was going through the mythology books in search of information on the care and feeding of griffins. Our ghostly librarians, still determined to help, kept handing me the same book over and over.
“Thank you—again—but all Pliny says is that the griffin is imaginary,” I told one nebulous form before returning the book to the shelf. “Since there’s one downstairs, I’m not paying much attention to him. Isidore of Seville is far more useful. You would be far more useful, too, if only you would go and arrange the dictionaries.”
“I understand there’s been some excitement.” Matthew was on the floor below, his hand resting on the railing that protected the way to the upper shelves.
“Oh, good,” I said, opening the next volume on the shelf. It was ancient. “Another copy of the Physiologus, this one from the tenth century, to go with the six other copies I’ve found. How many of these did Philippe need?”
“Authors can’t resist owning multiple copies of their books, or so I’ve been told,” Matthew said, swinging himself up and over the railing to land, catlike, on the stairs. “I can’t say for sure, since I’ve never published one. But you have at least two copies of yours, as I recall.”
“Are you suggesting your father was the author of the most influential bestiary in the Western tradition?” I stood, dumbfounded, with the (seventh and counting) copy in my hands.
“You would know better than I about its importance. Philippe was certainly proud of it. He bought every copy he came across. I think he was largely responsible for its success, to be honest.” Matthew took the book from me. “Do you want to tell me why there’s a griffin in the pantry?”
“Because we can’t put it in the barn. Griffins don’t get along with horses.” I took another book from the shelf and leafed through the pages. “Lambert of Saint-Omer. Who is that?”
“A Benedictine cleric. Friend of Gerbert’s, I think. Lived up north.” Matthew took that book away from me, too.
“Did everybody write an animal encyclopedia in the Middle Ages? And why does no one cover the important topics, like how large griffins are likely to become, or how to keep them fed and amused?” I continued to scour the shelves, convinced—as I always had been—that the answers to my questions could be found in books.
“Probably because few had ever seen one up close, and those that had were not disposed to think of them as pets.” The dark vein in Matthew’s forehead pulsed slightly in irritation. “What on earth possessed you to conjure up a griffin, Diana? And why can’t you get rid of it?”
“It’s not my griffin.” I would have kept going, separating out the bestiaries from the books about fabled lands, the books on ancient gods and goddesses, and the accounts of the lives of Christian saints, but Matthew put himself between me and the shelves with the attitude of someone determined to thwart progress.
“So the griffin is Philip’s familiar,” Matthew said. “I didn’t believe Sarah when she told me.”
“He might be.” Familiars appeared when a weaver wove their first spell. They were a set of magical training wheels that helped to guide a weaver’s unpredictable talents as they developed. “Except our children are Bright Born, not weavers.”
“And how much do we really know about Bright Borns and their abilities?” Matthew asked, one brow raised in query.
“Not much,” I admitted. Weavers were witches with daemon blood in their veins. Bright Borns were creatures born to a weaver mother and a vampire father afflicted with blood rage, a genetic condition that could also be traced back to daemon blood. They were as rare as unicorns.
“Isn’t it possible that Philip could be both a Bright Born and a weaver, or that Bright Borns have familiars, too?”
There was only one way to find out.
* * *
—
“MOVE SLOWLY,” Matthew told Philip. “Keep your hand flat, like you do with Balthasar.”
That Matthew let Philip anywhere near his enormous, fickle stallion had always been cause for concern, but I had reason to be grateful for it today.
Our son toddled toward the griffin and me, the fingers of one hand grasping Matthew and the palm of the other bearing a Cheerio. Becca sat between Sarah and Agatha, watching the proceedings with interest.
The griffin chortled and cooed, lending Philip its encouragement—or possibly just begging for the Cheerio.
Philippe’s mythology books had been no help at all when it came to the care and feeding of griffins. We had to figure out what the creature liked through a process of trial and error. Thus far the griffin had been satisfied with more duck, generous helpings of cereal, and sporadic visits from Tabitha, who brought it a vole when it was beginning to get peckish.
“Good Lord, it’s huge.” Marcus studied the griffin’s back paws. “And it’s only going to get bigger if the size of its feet are anything to go by.”
As Philip got closer to the griffin, the griffin began to hop up and down with excitement, clacking its beak and swishing its tail.
“Sit. Stay. Down. G’boy.” Philip, who was used to living with dogs and therefore familiar with all the nonsense adults said to them in an effort to curb their behavior, spouted out the commands as he continued to advance.