Chapter Three

The mage dove through the empty window frame as if he were plunging into water, barely breaking his stride. They were two floors up, but Gage wasn’t hopeful enough to think the mage would go plummeting to the ground and so put an end to their problems.

He was right. The mage’s cloak floated up behind him, forming two large wings as black as his eyes. The wings beat back and forth, allowing him to hover in mid-air. He whirled around, laughing at Gage left behind in the corridor. “Like I said, it’s as if I was never here,” he sneered.

“You’re an idiot,” Gage replied, climbing into the window frame. “I mean, I knew you were stupid, but you’re an actual idiot. Did you forget where you were? Griffin Guardians HQ. And what do griffins do? That’s right…”

He didn’t bother to complete his sentence but let his jump up into the air and his shift into his griffin form do it for him, showing this moron that griffins flew. The transformation was seamless. His smart gray uniform vanished. It would reappear later when needed, crisp and clean. Gage didn’t understand how—he didn’t think anyone did—but this bonus long-bestowed on the plane’s Griffin Guardians was very useful for a shifter.

A griffin shifter. Gage, the tall, brawny soldier, was now an even more powerful creature, with the muscular tawny body, tail and back legs of a lion and the arrogant beaked head and wide, capable wings of an eagle. He took a second to relish the change to his other form, whipping his tail and flapping his wings the full extent of their span. Hooked eagle’s talons, sharp and gleaming, comprised his animal’s front feet, and Gage flexed them, feeling their strength and purpose.

Gage opened his beak, ululating an ear-splitting shriek. He was going to enjoy this! It had been too long since he’d pursued a quarry in his griffin form, the wind in his feathers and fur, the sky above him and the ground below him. The lion was considered the king of the beasts and the eagle the king of the birds, making a griffin formidable and giving the Griffin Guardians their well-deserved centuries-old reputations.

Modern, onerous directives and procedures, the increased number of links in the chain of command that made considerations and issued or denied permissions—it was all left behind when Gage took to the skies, his talons outstretched to seize his prey.

His shriek had served as a warning that he was hunting, a courtesy to the quarry he had within his sights, but the mage had been too stupid or too overconfident or too unskilled to flee quickly enough. Perhaps he’d been frozen in shock at Gage’s transformation. Whatever the reason, Gage was almost disappointed to pierce through a black cloak-wing within seconds.

The mage screamed as Gage’s claws tore through the wing, rending it in two like the cloth it was. He struggled, making the tear worsen, and pulled away as far as he could…to give himself room to spellcast. Of course. Gage had been expecting it.

Witchfire, flickering orange flames edged in blue, shot from the mage’s fingers. “Ha!” the idiot exulted, shooting the flames at Gage.

The mage’s remaining wing still fluttered, speeding the flames on their way, but even if the fire reached him, Gage doubted it would harm his chest feathers. Griffins grew stronger the longer they lived, and Gage was no spring eaglet, as the saying went. He opened his beak and breathed, snuffing the witchfire to nothing. The terror on the mage’s face had Gage opening his beak wider, to let his laugh caw free.

Scowling, the mage twisted his hands together, almost like an old woman wringing them in distress. His lips worked, telling Gage he was casting, then he whipped his hands apart and pointed his fingers at Gage. Lightning leapt from the tips of the mage’s nails, growing with each inch it traveled through the air, and each bolt aimed like an arrow at Gage.

“Thanks for the workout, idiot.” Gage hoped his prisoner could catch what he was thinking. He whipped his tail from side to side, now curling it over his head, now curving in front of him from the left then the right, using it to knock each bolt out of the sky before it hit him.

It was a move that griffins—probably all tailed shifters—practiced from young gryphlinghood onward, deflecting small stones then bigger rocks. Repelling missiles with the tail like this was also a Guardian training exercise, one Gage had mastered decades back and honed year on year.

His head tilted to one side, he regarded his prisoner, his meaning as clear as if he’d spoken—that all you got? The mage spluttered, his arms flailing, which gave Gage the idea to up the stakes a little. Issuing no warning, he opened his talons and let his prisoner drop a foot. “Oops.”

The mage’s screams of fear blended with the whistle of the wind, and Gage enjoyed the sound for a moment before diving to re-capture a billowing piece of black fabric that was more cape than wing now. He tugged it hard, jerking the prisoner toward him and getting an up-close view of the fright on the mage’s pale face. It made Gage open his beak, as if going to take a bite. He wouldn’t, of course.

“Think you’re so clever?” the mage gasped, recovering a little. “Deal with this, griffin!” This was his throwing a thunderbolt, a lightning strike that was strong enough to fry Gage and accompanied by a crash of thunder loud enough to disorientate him at best and deafen him at worst.

Gage smiled. Dedicated to improving his abilities, to widening his arsenal, he’d been one of the few Guardians to volunteer for assignments in the lava pits of Planzatillo, on the other side of the world, carrying out his duties in the midst of fire fairies and brontos demons. What he’d faced there meant he could ignore the eardrum-rupturing rolls of thunder and use his wings to swat away the lightning. It was almost like being back at the daily training he’d done in the lava realm.

Relishing the mage’s shouts of frustration, he became aware of figures on the ground below, yelling commands or orders, but was too focused to let anything, any emotion, distract him.

When the angry, gibbering mage threw handfuls of ice-cold, stone-hard hail at him, clearly hoping to sting and even blind him, Gage felt a pang of pity for him. The missiles bounced off his feathers and fur. So this is some jumped-up weather-mage, is it? Well, whatever he was, Gage had had enough. Time to bring the prisoner in and make him face what he had coming.

He flicked his front leg up to shake the mage free of his talon as if he were of no more importance than a fly. The mage’s screams in response to this held as much indignation as they did terror, but Gage ignored them. Half-turning in the air, Gage flung out his tail and used it as a rope, coiling it around the mage’s middle, pinning his arms to his body to prevent any further spell casting—if the idiot had any more tricks in his bag—and pulling him closer.

Gage looked down. They hadn’t flown far and were still over the Guardians’ HQ. Over the grounds, in fact, with their pretty ornamental pond. It was more like a small lake, set out as a body of water for Guardians to relax around. As such, it was quite big…and deep enough for what he had in mind.

Gage plunged a little lower and unfurled his tail, letting his prisoner dangle headfirst over the pond, then drop down just a little bit more, making the mage’s head break the surface of the water. Ooh, this was so un-Guardianlike, but so good. It vented a lot of his built-up frustration, both professional and personal.

He kept his captive under only for a few seconds, of course, before hauling him up, the mage spluttering and shaking wildly, spraying drops everywhere…which was when Gage dunked him again, for longer and to the shoulders this time. “That’s for Colm,” he narrowcast, hoping the mage caught it.

“Stop! Help—I can’t swim!” screeched the mage once Gage let him up this time.

Hm. Weather mage maybe, water mage definitely not. Gage nodded to tell his prisoner he’d heard him. He yanked the mage upward like a child’s io-io toy, as if he were flying him away…only to dip him again for a third time. A longer, deeper final time, until the area around the pond was bustling with witnesses.

Gage shrugged. “Sorry. I saved him but can’t quite control my powers. Lots of magecraft in the air,” he narrowcast, to whoever could pick up what he was putting out.

“Confess,” he urged his prisoner. He doubted the mage could ‘hear’ but surely even this idiot must understand what Gage wanted from him.

“All right!” the mage squealed. “I did it. Tried to kill the Guardians who were after me for abusing my powers to steal money and goods! Now let me go?”

You asked for it… Gage jerked his tail free, letting the mage plummet into the pond with an enormous splash. He shifted back, his uniform reappearing and as spotless as ever, and would have helped fish the half-drowned prisoner out, if his name being boomed around the grounds hadn’t stopped him.

“By the Goddess Ahndwa, you’re in for it,” muttered the second lieutenant Gage had booted out of the interrogation room earlier, wading into the water.

Gage thought so too, and knew so a half-hour later when, after keeping him cooling his wings in the anteroom outside, Commander Slate yelled at him to enter his office.

When Gage had first met his commander, he’d wondered if his name came from his hair, which had always been that dull gray from hatchlinghood on, its hues not changing much in all the years Gage had served under him. The color of his commander’s face, on the other hand, varied more. Gage couldn’t remember the color red, but knew faces flushed that color. Judging by the darker tone Slate’s skin had acquired, his rage was rising high.

“Do you have any idea how many regs you ignored, flouted and broke?” the Guardian commander began, not giving Gage time to salute, or bothering with greetings at all.

“Not exactly, Sir,” Gage admitted. Not with all the new directives about, but he started to tally up in his head the ones he was sure about.

“‘Not exactly,’” Slate mimicked. “Well, a fuckload, is the correct answer!” He flicked at a sheaf of parchments on his desk.

“I did what it took to work the assignment. That prisoner should have been neutered, Commander,” Gage replied.

“The neutralization paperwork was being processed!” Slate shouted. “I don’t have a magic wand, to get these things done in a blink of fairy dust! And you do know that you shifted without permission? Oh wait. Of course you damn well do!”

“Sir, I refer you to my previous answer—I was getting the job done.” Gage stood tall.

“And now the mage is claiming he was injured while in custody.” Slate moved on to another piece of paper. “Oh no—attacked. Mauled! Mauled, it says here! Talon-slashed and tail-whipped.”

Gage said nothing, just looked ahead.

Slate sighed. “Captain, I know your record and I admire it. I also know how you feel about the new directives that are—”

“Hamstringing us?” Gage threw in when Slate paused, clearly searching for a diplomatic word. “Or is that expression wrong? Would tying us in knots be better?”

“I can’t say I totally disagree with that view,” Slate admitted. “But with interspecies relationships a powder keg at the moment, you know what this makes us look like. It’s been made clear to me that I have no choice but to stand you down from investigative duty.” He shuffled the papers.

“To suspend me?” Gage couldn’t believe it. “Sir, the corps is my whole life.”

“Which isn’t as good a thing as you seem to think. So maybe you can take time to reflect on that?” Slate stared hard at him.

“Commander, please.” Gage didn’t know what to say or do.

Slate exhaled. “Gage, I don’t want to lose you. So what I can do is reassign you.”

“To…” Gage didn’t like the sound of it.

“Guard duty.” Slate raised a hand to cut off Gage’s protests that he was the best investigative griffin guardian they had, and that guard work was worse than grunt work—it was bullshit. “Shine brightly at this and you’ll be back on regular duties as soon as it’s over,” he promised.

“Where?” Gage asked.

“Where? Let me see…” Slate turned over a page, but Gage had the feeling he knew and was enjoying this. “Where… Ah. At the World Magic Convention.” His mouth twisting into a grin, he waited for Gage’s exclamation to die down. “So if you think that’s bullshit too, get ready to shovel.”

“But it’s in the Pixies Lands,” Gage answered.

“Yeah, you’re not a fan of the lesser beings, I recall.” Slate nodded. “Pixies are tricky, goblins are grasping and all that? Then you’re not gonna like this. In fact, you’re really gonna hate it. Because, see, you’re not just guarding one of the speakers, who I’m guessing is giving some nice hitting-all-the-buttons talk about respect and tolerance for all species, all of which deserve equal representation, blah-di-blah-blah. No, to show our commitment to interspecies equality, you’re doing it with a partner.”

“Sir?” Gage really didn’t trust his commander’s smile. “Colm is—”

“I know. I mean a new partner. A local partner.”

“But the Convention’s being held in the— You mean a pixie?” burst from him.

The look on Commander Slate’s face was a full-blown smirk. “Yeah. I do. Well, you know what they say, Captain, that payback’s a pixie bitch.”