4
Fletcher woke. He heard a soft thud and rocked to the side. Another followed, and he rolled against Lysander’s belly.
‘Wuh—’ he managed, cracking open his eyes.
There were trees around him. Real trees, with dangling branches like willows, shading him from the pale skies. Cress’s face swam into view, a bright grin plastered across it.
‘Sheldon’s walking,’ she said, tugging at his jacket. ‘We’re heading out of the swamps.’
Fletcher sat up, wincing as his back twinged with pain. It had not been a comfortable sleep, and far less than he would have liked.
His first thought was of Alice. She was awake and chewing on a petal, sitting near the Zaratan’s tail and staring vacantly at the trees above.
There was a flake of yellow resting on her upper lip. Fletcher wiped it away gently and tugged the jacket close about her shoulders, taking care not to disturb the still sleeping Ignatius. Athena was alert, but had not moved from Alice’s lap. He could sense a great melancholy from the Gryphowl and knew that she loved Alice as much as his father had. He rubbed her head and left the two together.
‘Sheldon?’ he asked, Cress’s words catching up with him.
‘Our Zaratan – we decided to name him,’ Sylva said, holding out a petal for Fletcher to eat. ‘Eat up – it’s been five hours, or at least that’s what Cress’s pocket watch says.’
As he munched on the tart garnish, he saw Sylva was busy counting the petals in the sack, stacking them carefully between her thighs.
‘How do you know it’s a him?’ Othello said, still sprawled across the front half of the shell, his eyes closed.
‘I checked,’ Cress said, her cheeks flushing red.
Fletcher chuckled and crawled to the front of the Zaratan. Sheldon turned to look back at him, blinking his golden eyes ponderously. He was a handsome creature, with a smooth yellow beak and a long, agile neck. His pace, though deliberate, was faster than it seemed, the long strides eating up the ground beneath his splayed, claw-tipped feet.
For a moment Fletcher considered whether the demon might be worth harnessing. But a Zaratan was a level-fifteen demon – far too high for Sylva.
‘Ninety petals,’ Sylva announced, interrupting his thoughts. ‘Just as I thought. Ninety hours left.’
Fletcher’s eyes flicked to the ground around them, searching for even a hint of yellow. Yet it was all a mess of greens and browns, with nary a demon or blossom in sight.
‘We should stay with Sheldon,’ Fletcher suggested, looking ahead where the ground was still swampy but already beginning to dry out, with even the occasional patch of coarse grass making an appearance. Beyond, the trees became taller, though the area was obscured by the deepening shadow of the canopy.
‘I agree; he’s faster than we would be on foot,’ Sylva said. ‘Plus he’s not completely defenceless – his claws and beak look sharp enough.’
‘We can stay on the move while we’re sleeping too, if one of us keeps watch,’ Cress agreed, scrambling over to join Fletcher.
She reached out to pet Sheldon, and Fletcher grinned when the Zaratan rumbled with pleasure as she scratched the root of his neck. The gentle giant would be a formidable ally in the coming days.
A squawk cut through the air, followed by a cry from Sylva. Fletcher turned to see Lysander had finally recovered – but he was advancing on Tosk with his hackles raised, stalking him like a lion would a gazelle. His eyes were different somehow, the pupils dilated and empty of the intelligence that had shone there before.
‘Lysander, what are you doing?’ Fletcher shouted. He knew Lysander hadn’t eaten since being paralysed but this was more than hunger.
‘His bond with Lovett was broken when the portal closed,’ Sylva said, horrified. ‘He’s becoming wild again.’
Lysander took another step closer to the terrified Raiju, whose blue fur was standing on end. Tosk’s squirrel-like tail arched, crackling with lightning. In response, the Griffin opened his beak wide and unleashed a roar, the timbre rising until it ended in a screech.
‘We need to do something,’ Othello shouted, half obscured by the prowling Griffin. ‘He’s going to kill him!’
Fletcher’s mind raced. Lysander’s summoning scroll was stuffed down the side of his pack. The only problem was, the pack was underneath the Griffin’s belly.
‘I’m not letting him hurt Tosk,’ Cress said, and suddenly her crossbow was armed, the tip centred on Lysander’s head.
‘Fletcher, any ideas?’ Sylva yelled.
Sylva. Without Sariel, she might be capable of harnessing a level-ten demon like Lysander. Two years ago, she had a summoning level of seven.
‘Get ready,’ he said, lowering himself into a crouch.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Sylva hissed. But there was no time to explain.
‘Athena, now!’ Fletcher shouted, sprinting up the incline of the Zaratan’s shell. He skidded beneath Lysander’s belly and thrust his hand into the side pocket of his satchel. The world above brightened as Lysander leaped for Tosk, only to find his prey snatched away by the swooping Gryphowl.
‘Read it!’ Fletcher bellowed, hurling the scroll into Sylva’s bewildered hands.
‘What … ?’ Sylva began, but then, ‘Lo ro di mai si lo.’
Lysander screeched and spun, his talons scraping on the surface of the shell. His eyes bore into Fletcher’s with a deep, animal hunger. It was all Fletcher could do not to scramble away.
Ignatius was circling the pair, woken from Alice’s neck by Sylva’s scream. He waited for an opportunity to strike, but Fletcher ordered him to hold off. They needed time; an attack from Ignatius would just force a confrontation too soon.
As if Sheldon could sense the commotion, the shell shuddered beneath them. The tremors gave the Griffin pause, and he widened his stance, spreading himself like a bear crossing a frozen lake. Already white threads were beginning to appear between him and Sylva, twisting together to form a cord of glowing light.
‘Hurry up …’ Fletcher whispered under his breath, willing Sylva’s chanting on as it swirled around them.
Lysander took a faltering step, his fierce beak hanging open to reveal a pink maw within. He was struggling, his bond with Sylva growing with every word that she spoke. Fletcher remained still, knowing that any sudden movement might set the Griffin off.
Another step, and now Fletcher could feel the panting Griffin’s hot breaths, moist from the demon’s gullet. He closed his eyes.
The cold, hard beak grazed his cheek, and then he felt the soft ruffle of feathers as the demon nuzzled him, burying his great head against Fletcher’s chest. Sylva’s chanting had stopped … Lysander was back.
Fletcher wrapped his arms around the Griffin’s neck, but seconds later they were empty. He opened his eyes and saw the Griffin dissolving in a haze of white light, with Sylva holding a summoning leather beneath him.
As the last of the luminescence flowed into her, she sat back with her fists clenched, shuddering with the euphoria of infusing a new demon for the first time. Finally she lay down, a gentle smile playing across her lips.
Fletcher collapsed on to the shell beside her, and then Ignatius knocked him on to his back, chirping with relief. It was strange, but the demon seemed heavier somehow. He gave Fletcher a remonstrative nip on the ear for scaring him and promptly enveloped Fletcher’s neck.
‘Right, someone has to tell me what the hell just happened,’ Cress growled.
Fletcher turned to see her stomping across the shell towards them, Tosk’s round, black eyes peering out from where he had hidden within her jacket.
‘It happens when demons lose their masters,’ Othello explained, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘I should have remembered, we learned about it in second year. Demons only become truly sentient when they are captured and harnessed by a summoner – before that they’re no more intelligent than any other animal. Without the bond, they return to that state until they bond with a new master and remember who they are. We’re lucky that Lysander was paralysed for so long – it usually happens very quickly.’
‘It’s true,’ Fletcher said, his mind flashing back to Athena’s memory of the night he was left outside Pelt’s gates. How she had felt the wild call of the ether, tugging at her very essence.
‘Well, you could have bloody warned us,’ Cress grumbled.
Fletcher stood and tried to extricate himself from Ignatius’s embrace, but the demon refused to budge. He sighed and scooted down the shell’s incline to Alice, who was sitting cross-legged, staring vacantly ahead. She had not moved, not even when Lysander had roared. It was only the occasional stroke of her hand across Athena’s back that gave him any hope that she might one day recover.
Fletcher had lost his birth father, Edmund. But he would not lose his mother again. Not now, when they had spent so little time together. There had to be a way.
He gazed out at the wasteland, searching for some semblance of hope. But there was no food, no flowers, just mud and drab plants.
‘Don’t worry, Ali— Mum,’ Fletcher murmured, the word sitting strangely in his mouth. ‘We’ll get you home. I promise.’