Time's Convert
Phoebe took the cat’s decision to expose her soft underbelly as the long-awaited sign of permission. Moving quickly, before she lost her nerve, Phoebe bent over the cat and bit decisively into her neck. Phoebe’s mouth filled with the coppery tang of blood. It was not as satisfying as Miriam’s, but it was fuel and would keep her from going mad.
After three swallows the cat began to stir. Phoebe withdrew reluctantly from the animal, her fingers pressing into the spot in its neck where she had taken its blood, and waited for the cat to die.
But the cat was a survivor. She studied Phoebe with glazed eyes. Deliberately, Phoebe brought her thumb to her teeth. She bit down. Hard.
The cat lapped the blood with the same curiosity as before, and returned to dozing.
Phoebe drank six more swallows of blood before the cat stirred again. The warm drink had taken the edge off her hunger, though Phoebe was far from satiated. She used a bit more of her blood to help the wound on the cat’s neck scab over so that a second set of sheets was not ruined. Phoebe could not afford to further annoy Françoise, bringer of Pellegrino and Hello! magazines.
The cat woke from her induced slumber when the clocks in the house sounded the half hour. Phoebe removed the tasseled rope that tied back one of the curtains, and she and the cat played with it until the clocks struck the hour.
It was then that Phoebe knew that she and the cat would not be parted. Not by death. Not by another vampire. They belonged together.
“What should I call you?” Phoebe wondered aloud.
* * *
—
IT HAD BEEN TWENTY-FOUR HOURS since Phoebe had fed from Miriam.
A gentle knock on the door announced the arrival of her visitors. Phoebe had heard them coming up the stairs like a herd of elephants, waking the cat.
“Come in,” Phoebe called, her body curved protectively around the purring bundle. She pulled on the cat’s tail and scratched the bridge of her nose, much to the animal’s delight.
“You’ve done remarkably well, Phoebe,” Freyja said, her eyes taking a quick inventory of the room. There was not a speck of blood anywhere. “Where’s the body?”
“There isn’t a body.” Phoebe “There’s a cat. And she’s right here.”
“She’s not dead,” Miriam said, sounding slightly impressed.
“She is called Persephone,” Phoebe replied.
11
Liberty and Restraint
18 MAY
“There’s a griffin on the second-floor landing.” Sarah entered the library in a cloud of bergamot and lavender. Agatha had been in the fragrant stillroom next to the kitchen, experimenting with essential oils. Inspired by their recent trip to Provence, Agatha was considering launching a line of signature scents.
I looked up from my desk, where I was trying to put what Marcus had told us last night into some kind of context. What was available online was little help. Most accounts of the early years of the American Revolution focused on battle strategies or the occupation of Boston. Few focused on western Massachusetts, the socioeconomic effects of the French and Indian Wars, or generational conflicts between fathers and sons. I would need access to a proper research library to learn more.
“It’s quite good, isn’t it?” I said absently, returning my attention to my notes.
The tapestry that hung on the wall had a rich red background, and the profuse flowers that surrounded the woven griffin brightened up what would otherwise have been a dark space.
“Ysabeau bought it in the fifteenth century. Phoebe thinks it came from the same workshop that produced the unicorn tapestries at the Musée de Cluny in Paris,” I continued. “What was the first name of that gunsmith Marcus mentioned? Saul? Stephen? I want to look him up in this encyclopedia of Massachusetts soldiers and sailors I found online.”
“Seth. And I am not talking about Ysabeau’s old carpet.” Sarah held out a bleeding index finger. “I mean a live griffin. It’s small, but its beak works.”
I scrambled to my feet and dashed toward the stairs.
The griffin who had taken a bite out of Sarah was sitting before the tapestry, cooing and chattering to its much larger woven sister. From beak to tip of the tail, it was about two feet long, with front legs, head, and neck that resembled those of an eagle, and the hindquarters and tail of a lion. Its beak and talons were formidable looking, in spite of its relatively small size.
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.”