Grand Theft Griffin

by Michael Angel

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Given what happened…what he had to do at the aerie? I’d still be in mourning over my offspring as well. Assuming that they’ve all actually returned to the Eternal Sky.”

  “It is a practical certainty. Blackthorn was enmeshed in multiple iron chains as he fell into the sea.”

  “Did anyone find his body?”

  “Belladonna sent out her remaining warriors to search. They found naught but a tangle of chains on the sea floor. But that is no proof of his survival. Predatory fish and a surge tide could easily have pulled him out to sea and dismembered his body.”

  “I suppose…”

  Galen shrugged. “Consider the drake’s size, his wounds, and his state of exhaustion, I’d say it is highly unlikely that he could have torn free of those chains before running out of air.”

  I mulled that one over a little more. What Galen said made sense, but Shaw’s words came to my mind.

  Blackthorn is one of the best warriors, and he can perform feats I never thought possible for any griffin.

  A proud father’s words, perhaps. But Sirrahon had also disappeared. And he was a hell of a lot bigger than Blackthorn.

  I didn’t like that at all.

  Galen interrupted my thoughts as he spoke again. “If I may, I believe that you may be operating under a misapprehension.”

  “Huh? About what?”

  “About Shaw’s mourning. You seem to feel that it is over the fate of his True Born offspring.”

  For some reason, that made my cheeks flush. “What else could it be? He had to…you were there, you saw what he had to do.”

  “True enough. But I would posit that humans and griffins are rather different in the way they approach grief. It has to do with the way griffins process externalities versus internalities.”

  I groaned. “Please, go a little lighter on the language, Galen. You’re going to give me a headache.”

  The centaur considered. “Are you familiar with how the griffins mentally construct their privacy?”

  I nodded. “If, as a species, they believe in something enough for a cultural reason, it simply becomes fact. A half-wall becomes a full one. Roofless houses become roofed dwellings.”

  “Then consider the ritual we saw Shaw performing upon our departure from the aerie.”

  I sucked in a breath as I remembered.

  “An expunging ceremony. To erase the memory of part of his immediate family. That means…his True Born offspring.”

  “To him, it is as if they never existed.” Galen re-crossed his arms. “To act otherwise would jeopardize the reputation of the rest of the family line. The sixteen namesake offspring might find themselves pariahs, even more so than Hollyhock ever did.”

  I found myself trying hard to absorb these alien ideas. It seemed to me another harsh reality of the griffin world: dishonor meant more than banishment, even more than death. It meant complete deletion from society. It meant that all trace of your passing was erased as easily as footprints from the beach at high tide.

  I shivered. “Then if he isn’t mourning them, what is he mourning?”

  The centaur gave me a knowing look. “You spent a good deal of time with the griffins, yet I wonder if you have come to understand them as much as one might hope.” He shrugged and added, “We have some small amount of time before we are called in. Perhaps the best course of action is to simply talk to him.”

  There was nothing I could say to that. I left the room, walked to the next, and rapped on the door.

  No answer. But Galen had said that Shaw was there, so I turned the door handle and pushed my way inside. The lighting in here was dim, as most of the shutters had remained closed, bookcases and furniture left untouched and unused.

  Grimshaw sat hunched in the shadows, facing resolutely away.

  I let the door close. “Shaw, it’s me.”

  A grunt was all I got in response.

  I moved closer. Shaw’s many wounds had been relatively minor. His decision to wear extra armor had saved him a great deal of pain and recovery time, but his forelegs were studded with small, pockmark-shaped scabs. A serious burn over his brow was only starting to scar over.

  “Shaw, your forehead…”

  “I have been burned before,” was his terse reply.

  I stood by his side a little longer. “Will you join us when we go into the throne room? King Fitzwilliam needs to hear all that we have learned.” I cleared my throat as I added, “It doesn’t feel the same without a heroic drake at my side. To have the strongest, most experienced veteran warrior to guard and guide me.”

  “Worry not. I shall be there.”

  A few more moments passed in complete silence. I felt the awkwardness growing, so I turned to leave. I had just reached for the door handle when Shaw spoke once more.

  “Dayna,” he said, sounding like had had to force out each word. “What I did at the end. To that young reeve…I wanted thee to know. That if thou hast cursed me for that, I swear that I shall do my best to bear your hatred.”

  Realization hit me like a ton of bricks dropped by a griffin on my bone head.

  Shaw hadn’t been in mourning for Holly, Ironwood, or Blackthorn.

  He’d been mourning the death of our friendship. The destruction of his connection with the little family that had somehow been forged in the months past. And no matter what Liam or Galen might have told him, it was my voice that counted. To a griffin, I was the High Elder, the heart of the matter.

  I went back to stand next to him. This time, I rested my hand on his warm leonine shoulder.

  “I could never hate you, Shaw,” I said softly.

  Now he turned to look at me, his eyes shining.

  “What happened…it’s taken me some time to work through it. I’ve wanted to tell you some of the things I’ve thought about. Will it hurt you…if I use the reeve’s name?”

  He shook his head.

  “I wish that you didn’t have to kill Holly. But her fate would have been nightmarish without you, and your family’s name would have been left in tatters. You gave her the most honorable way out.

  “I’d have liked to call Holly a friend. But I don’t think she ever would have been one, not really. Because she wasn’t true. Not to her people, not to the Elders, certainly not to me.” I squeezed Shaw’s shoulder gently as I added, “The only griffin who has been steadfast to me is you, Shaw. You’ve been and always will be my friend, the first and best griffin I’ve ever known.”

  Shaw’s eyes brimmed over. He let out a joyful sound, then turned and embraced me, rubbing against me like a gigantic cat, the way I’d seen animal trainers get hugged by their tigers or lions. I hugged him back, and when he finally let me go, I scratched him on the top of his head, just the way he liked it.

  In between the rumbles of his purr, he spoke again. “My thanks to thee. I would be honored if thou wouldst accept me back into Galen and Liam’s company.”

  I beamed at him. “You were never not part of it, you big lunk.”

  He purred anew for a moment, but then shrugged off my hand. I studied him curiously as he gave me a serious look.

  “I must tell thee my mind, now that I know my counsel is accepted again.” I nodded, and he went on. “It is more important than ever that I, Liam, Galen, and thee work together from now on, as much as we can.”

  “I’m not objecting, Shaw. But why the urgency?”

  “I am a plain warrior, you know that. I am no tactician, no strategist like…others were in the Reyka Lances. But canst thou not see what is taking place all around us?”

  I shook my head, not understanding what he was getting at.

  “Good King Benedict’s murder and the rampage of the dragon Sirrahon are the means to something, not the end. In the past half-year, the humans and centaurs were a feather’s breadth from being at each other’s throats. The Protector of the Forest was killed. Because of that, the Fayleene were nearly destroyed, their ancestral home burnt to ash. And now…more than half th
e griffin Elders are dead. Our lances hath been depleted in a fit of madness. One pride destroyed, another in revolt against the aerie, and many of my people’s best warriors lie slain.”

  “Add to that the appearance of the ethereals like the pouquelaye,” I said. “And the apparent disappearance or intentional seclusion of the Parliament’s Albess.”

  Shaw shuddered. “Aye. Even a simple warrior as I now sees the hand of darkness moving the pieces on the board.”

  There was a rap at the door. With a clatter of hooves on the marble floor, Liam and Galen joined us. The centaur wizard looked scholarly and formal in a brand new burgundy jacket, while Liam was resplendent in his green jeweled barding.

  “The royal pages just informed me,” Galen said primly, “That we are expected before King Fitzwilliam and the royal court.”

  Liam canted his head at me and Shaw. “It seems that you have snapped our resident grump out of his seclusion.”

  Shaw let out a snort. “Leave it to thy antlered friends to make light of serious matters beyond the reach of their cervine minds.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said, before the two started at each other again. “Liam, you’re wearing green again!”

  “Why, yes,” Liam said, preening a little. “It is the customary formal attire of the Fayleene when visiting other creatures’ demesnes.”

  “Then what was with that reddish getup you wore at the aerie?”

  “That? Oh, that was a barding I had made for just such a contingency. I was worried about the griffins there acting as uncivilized as Grimshaw. Uncivilized meaning: ‘Oh, look, thou art a delicious stag, let us take a bite of thee’.”

  “My kind cannot help it if we have hungers that match our refined tastes,” Shaw shot back.

  “Which explains the barding,” Liam continued, pointedly ignoring Grimshaw. “Galen did some checking for me regarding griffin culture. According to his research, the red, orange and black patterns are visual code for ‘don’t eat me, I’m poisonous’!”

  For the first time in a long while, Grimshaw’s laughter joined Galen’s and mine. And come to think of it, I did remember seeing griffins backing away in horror from Liam’s arrival.

  “Thy research is sound, wizard,” Shaw said, still chuckling. “‘Tis such an effective ruse, perhaps we should all start wearing red and orange from now on.”

  “That might not be a bad idea,” Liam agreed.

  Shaw was right about many things. Events had begun to follow the outlines of a dark pattern. We would need to be there for each other more than ever from now on.

  “So, gentlemen?” I asked, “Are we prepared to speak our mind with the king and his nobles?”

  Grimshaw nodded, Liam bowed, and Galen replied, “Indubitably.”

  I confidently walked to the throne room with my friends at my side, ready to give King Fitzwilliam our final report.

  The End

  # # #

  Thanks for Reading!

  Hello, and I hope you enjoyed reading Grand Theft Griffin. Coming up with the details of griffin culture – something rarely if ever done for this particular fantasy species within the genre – was exciting, to say the least!

  This has been a ‘crucible’ kind of book, one where the Good Guys prevailed, but (arguably) the Forces of Evil took the round on points. Dayna’s had to make some tough choices involving Hollyhock and Belladonna, and we’ll be seeing the consequences of some of her actions in Book Four, A Perjury of Owls, coming in early-to-mid 2016.

  I enjoy feedback, and you’re the one who keeps me pounding the keys, hooking up words and phrases and clauses.

  So can I ask you a favor once again?

  If you liked this book, I’d truly appreciate a review on Amazon. These days, readers like you have tremendous influence in making (or un-making) a book, even if it’s further along in a series.

  If you wish, you can also drop me a line at michaelangelwriter@gmail.com.

  Finally, if you’d like to know when I have new books out, please consider clicking the link below to join the Michael Angel Quarterly Update. Nobody likes email clutter, so I promise not to send you more than 4 messages per year.

  Click here to sign up for Michael Angel’s Quarterly Update.

  Thank you for reading Grand Theft Griffin and for spending time with me at the Reykajar aerie!

  Michael Angel

  And now, a sneak preview of

  the fourth fantasy novel in the

  ‘Fantasy & Forensics’ series,

  A Perjury of Owls,

  also by Michael Angel.

  C.S. Lewis continues to meet CSI…when Amazon Bestselling author Michael Angel presents the fourth installment in his series, ‘Fantasy & Forensics’.

  Andeluvia is rocked to its core when the owls that write the kingdom’s laws make a startling announcement: Albess Thea, the leader of Parliament and holy figure, has been slain! Dayna’s instincts tell her that someone’s lying through their beak. She doesn’t trust the zealots of the owls’ religious sect – the Order of the Sepulcher, or ‘Noctua’ – one bit. With the quiet support of the king, she launches a secret mission to find the Albess, no matter the cost.

  How can the newly dubbed ‘Dame’ Chrissie prevail when the odds are stacked so high against her? The Andeluvian lords want her toppled from her place at court. The Noctua want her banished from the realm. And just when things couldn’t get any bleaker, one of her closest friends vanishes into thin air!

  Dayna has no choice: She must solve both mysteries as her enemies try their best to destroy her and her friends!

  Chapter One

  I don’t trust joggers. They’re always the first ones to stumble across the dead bodies. And they always seem to have the same alibi: they were just ‘out for a run.’

  That said, I don’t think I’ve ever managed to pin a murder on one.

  Just give it time, I figured. My rotten luck is probably all that’s holding me back.

  I pulled the OME van off onto the dirt by the side of the road, next to a small park. Actually, calling this ratty median of grass and trees a ‘park’ would be like calling a badly pilled wool blanket a cashmere sweater. The Los Angeles city council, ever eager to burnish its environmentally-friendly credentials, had allocated strips of unwanted land next to the uglier freeways for ‘green space’. Said space came with sporadic-at-best gardening services and seventy decibels of sound from the multilane freeway on the other side of the chain-link fence.

  I shut the engine off, got out and went around to throw open the van’s rear doors. The call I’d gotten from the dispatch officer had been clear-cut: the LAPD was looking at a suspected homicide, so I needed to suit up. I pulled a ‘one size fits most’ disposable jumpsuit-style outfit from a storage bin and then sat on the rear bumper to get my gear on.

  Four uniformed officers stood about twenty yards away in the park’s unkempt knee-high grass. To my surprise, they were all staying put beyond the border of yellow crime-scene tape. Off to the right, two more cops were still questioning the jogger who’d stumbled across the corpse. One of the officers raised his hands to his mouth, blew on them, and then rubbed his palms together to keep them warm.

  I zipped up the jacket and bent to slip on my Stompy Gothic Boots of Doom, all the while trying and failing to keep a smirk off my face. Fall would soon turn to winter, and on days like this one, the thermometer could slip below sixty. Around me, the local Angelenos were already putting on windbreakers and complaining about how nippy it was getting.

  But I’d grown up in Illinois and then went to school in Chicago. We didn’t break out the winter coats and the thermal underwear until it dropped below zero. Southern California, for all its positives, could thin the blood and make one soft.

  One quick tuck of the hairnet and one Angels baseball cap later, I hefted my crime scene gear case out of its compartment. My stompy boots let me crunch my way through the desiccated shrubbery without a problem. As I joined the police, I was surprised to find that only tw
o of the four officers were actually in dress uniform.

  The third officer’s face broke into a toothy smile that shone out from a dark smudge of five-o-clock shadow. My on-again, off-again boyfriend, Homicide Detective Alanzo Esteban. At least, that’s the best term I had for him. It sounded ridiculously high-school when I said it in my head, but I was stuck with it until I came up with something else. Or until our relationship got the breathing room it needed to take a turn for the better.

  The final member of the group made me pause for a moment. She had wiry, coffee-colored hair that had been French-braided into submission and tied up in a bun at the back of her head. Her skin tone was two or three shades duskier than Esteban’s, and it complemented a pair of razor-sharp cheekbones. Light glinted from the badge at her belt, and a holstered gun made the side of her jacket bulge. The jacket was made of plain blue denim which looked as no-nonsense as the expression she wore behind a pair of black wire-frame glasses.

  “Okay, the OME’s here,” Esteban announced, looking at the two patrolmen. “We can take it from here. I want a sweep done from the south end, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

  A pair of assents, and the blue-uniformed cops went off to begin their task. I craned my neck to look over the line of yellow tape. To my amazement, it didn’t look as if a herd of elephants had gone tramping through the crime scene.

  “I’m impressed, Detective,” I said honestly. “This looks…just like a crime scene should.”

  He shrugged. “My partner and I were feeling lazy today, so we decided not to move the body. Next time we can drape it over something, give it just the right dramatic touch.”

  I did my best to keep my expression neutral. Partner?

  “I keep forgetting that you two haven’t met,” Esteban realized, with a snap of his fingers. “Dayna, this is my partner, Detective Vega.”