Dammit, Summer! Control your inner thirsty-ass self.

I push into a hard sprint, punishing my flesh for being so weak. The silver glimmer of the lake streaks by to my left. Colorful wooden rowboats dot the shore, turned upside down, the weathered paint flaking from their hulls.

Maybe Mack is right. I need to somehow get that boy out of my system without doing the deed, if that’s even possible.

Is it? Oh, boy . . . I can think of several ways . . . several creative, wonderful ways . . .

Groaning, I drag myself from my lurid fantasy and focus on the burn in my lungs, my thighs as I push harder than ever before.

Zen. Find your zen.

It’s here. Somewhere.

I drag my focus to the imposing forest beyond. The giant, gnarled trees stretch to the horizon, their branches weighted down with hand-sized reddish-violet and pewter leaves that appear nearly gold in the breaking dawn.

Dawn. The Fae won’t drag their lazy butts from bed for another six hours, but shadows will be up soon. Deciding to trade the beauty of the lake for the solitude of the trees, I break for the forest. The soft thud of thick grass beneath my shoes becomes the dull swish of rotting leaves.

If there’s zen anywhere to be found, surely it’s inside an ancient, magical Fae forest?

I’m nearly five songs deep into the woods when I spy the glint of iron through the trees. A gamey scent rides along the breeze, mingling with the dank smells of moldy undergrowth, rich soil, and mushrooms.

That smell—

It takes my mind a second to identify what the scent is, but my body reacts instinctively. My loose muscles tighten painfully, cramps threatening in my calves, and sweat slicks my palms.

Any scrap of zen I might have found is ripped cruelly away.

Professor Balefire’s menagerie. I’d nearly forgotten the outdoor cages from the enormous housing facility the school uses in the warmer seasons stretches into the woods. In the Mythological Creatures class yesterday, the teacher said the most dangerous of the beasts were housed deep in the forest.

Something about being near the forest calms them. When housed too close to the campus, the mortal scents drive the predatory animals into a frenzy.

Mortal scents. I glance over my very mortal body, dripping with sweat. My gaze falls on the painted red signs that line the path.

Danger. Wild creatures. Do not enter. Turn back.

I hit pause on The Wailing Shadows and frown. When did those get there?

A screech erupts from the other side of the cage.

My throat spasms shut.

I stumble back, nearly tripping on a tree root the size of my arm. Another beastly snarl rumbles so loudly that the iron cage trembles, followed by the unmistakable sound of sniffing. Something hard and sharp swipes across the enclosure, like talons scraping over metal.

Calm down. It can’t reach you.

There are fences. Lovely iron fences imbued with spells to keep them in and me safe. Smoothing my damp palms down the side of my shirt, I pivot and break into a soft, controlled jog.

Predators are attracted to running things, right? I should probably walk.

I think of Chatty-Cat, who surprise-assassinates my ankles every morning when I’m half asleep, his inner psychopath awakened by my jerky movement as I half hop half stumble to the toilet. But when his adorable murder mittens bat my feet, the worst that happens is I trip, loose a barrage of curse words, and owe penance to the swear jar.

Whatever lurks behind that fence promises a much bloodier end.

Walk. You should definitely walk. But fear overrides my good sense, and I find myself slamming through branches as I hurtle down the path. Mud and leaves fly in my wake. I’m mid-leaping over a moss-covered log when I hear what sounds like the squeaking of a metal gate.

My heart punches into my throat. Screw my life. My brain tries to rationalize what I heard. There are gates that open to the forest, but they’re to let the nice, cute, less murderous creatures roam.

The fluffy ones, Summer. Fluffy.

But the piercing cry that splits the morning air isn’t fluffy, nor is it behind the cage.

Blind panic sears my vision. My arms pump the air. I’m running so fast my feet hardly touch the ground.

Light trickles from up ahead. The lake shimmers in the distance, students dotting the campus behind it. A quick check behind me reveals nothing but trees.

I slow a little, feeling beyond foolish. Nothing is chasing me. I overreacted.

I’m ten feet from the tree line when something darts across the path, causing me to freeze. Frick! Hands on my knees, I peer through sweat-burning eyes at the black shape slithering across the forest floor.

Shadow. It’s a shadow—a really freaking big shadow. Which means—

I whip my gaze up to see something that at first glance, doesn’t make sense. The spread of ginormous white wings flares from what looks like the muscled body of a lion. Taloned claws similar to a bird of prey cut through the treetops, raining the forest floor with branches.

Another predatory shriek bursts from its golden beak, and then I watch in complete shock as the beast turns its eagle-like head to look down.

Shrewd golden eyes hone in on me.

Griffin. I barely have time to congratulate myself on recognizing the creature before my legs propel me down the path.

Above, the crack of entire tree trunks being snapped in half shakes the forest as the griffin shoots straight for me.

9

My first thought as I burst from the woods is that I’m going to die a very public death. The shoreline around the lake mills with students who had the same bright idea I did about extra training. They’re just far enough away that I won’t put them in danger, at least.

I fling a look over my shoulder, and my stomach hollows out. The griffin smashes through trees like they’re made from dust, the sword-length talons protruding from its paws shredding everything in its path.

The closest tree groans as it plunges forward. Cursing, I leap out of the way a split second before it would have flattened me.

Weapon! I spin around, scouring the grass for anything—

A broken branch rests near my feet. Plucking the crooked limb from the ground, I sprint toward the lake. Dizziness sends me careening sideways, and I gulp the air like its ice-cold Mountain Dew in a heat wave.

I hardly make it five feet before a whoosh of air slams into me, blowing my pale hair around my face. Brandishing the limb high above my head, I whip to face the beast.

Ebony claws swipe from the air—

I duck, swinging the branch like a baseball bat. My arms nearly pull from their sockets as the griffin jerks the weapon from my hands and snaps it like a twig.

Well, that went well.

He circles away, his high-pitched cries growing softer. I dart across the ankle-high grass to the lake’s shoreline, my shoes sinking into the ivory sand, and glance up. The smell of lake water fills my nose as I shield my eyes from the morning sun.

There. The griffin soars a hundred feet or so above me, riding the air like waves. If not for the situation, I would find the sight indescribably beautiful.

Focus, Summer. Focus!

I glance across the lake to the other side where onlookers have already gathered to watch.

If I run like hell, I can make it. Safety in numbers and all that.

My body tenses, prepared to flee. But, no. My shoulders sag. I can’t save myself by sacrificing others, even if most of them are already probably gunning to get me kicked out.

Besides, I’ve watched enough hawks to know he’ll strike like lightning before I reach the other side. His speed from such a height will knock me into a stupor.

Incapacitated, I won’t even struggle as he lifts me hundreds of feet into the air. Then, if the textbooks are true, when he’s high enough to ensure the fall will crack me open like a piñata, he’ll loosen his hold and drop me to my death.

Afterward, he’ll take me to his mate for first dibs.

Smart and a gentleman. Is it weird to be a fangirl of the thing that’s about to kill you?

Think, you clever bitch. What else do you know about a griffin? They’re elusive creatures. They mate for life. Most die within a year in captivity. And they’re quite terrifying in person.

For some reason, I revisit Chatty-Cat. What does he hate more than anything? Belly rubs, me, and . . . the baths Jane tries to give him.

By the way he howls and fights, you would think she was trying to drown the poor bastard—

That’s it!

A gut-curdling cry shivers across the lake as the griffin makes its move.

Roaring my own war cry, I make mine. The lake water hits my body like ice. I gasp, pushing past the needles of cold, forcing myself deeper into the emerald green depths.

When the water laps at my neck, I tilt my face to the sky and wait.

“Here, kitty kitty,” I croon, praying the griffin is in touch with its feline side and not the eagle one. Crap. Eagle’s hunt in water.

Why am I only now making that connection?

The griffin’s shadow skips across the lake’s rippled surface, tinged coral-pink by the rising sun, toward me. Craning my neck, I watch its white underbelly grow larger. Larger. It’s front talons stretch wide, ready to claim their mortal prize.

Perhaps this was a bad idea.

Instinctively, I shut my eyes and prepare to dive. But the sound of wings flapping stops me. I snap my eyes open to see the creature veering away from the water—and me. Sand sprays in all directions as it lands hard on the shore.

It shakes out its massive wings, cocks its avian head in my direction, and belts out a plaintive shriek of displeasure.

Yes! I grin idiotically at the beast, my triumph at outsmarting it overriding my nerves. “You don’t like water, do you, buddy?”

At my voice, the griffin tilts its head even more, the way a dog does.

“It’s really nice.” I splash water toward the shore, sending the griffin hopping back as it squawks. “Sure you don’t want to join me?”

Its deep golden eyes peer at me with a surprising intelligence.

As if it understands my words . . .

I remember how animals around the farmhouse sometimes did the same. Responding in uncanny ways to my words. I chalked it up to an overactive imagination.

But now—well, it couldn’t hurt.