Morpheus glances toward the hilltop, where the other five bird creatures are paying the rocks with what appear to be strands of pearls as big as baseballs. His gloved fingers tap his thigh. “Traitorous little crustaceans. Should’ve known they were up to no good.” He turns back to his captors. “So, your boss would like to toss his hat into the ring, aye?”
“You’re the one who insisted on rocking the boat and forming a royal dictatorship. We all know the crown belongs to Manti. He’s been the queen’s knave since before they were even exiled here. Centuries ago. Did you really think you could become king without another candidate stepping up to challenge you?” The osprey kicks Morpheus’s walking cane, causing the feathers to flutter. “Nay. The Queen of Hearts has called for a Hallowed Festival day after next, and there’s to be a caucus race to elect an official king. The one who wins the race will rule by the queen’s side. And those who are defeated will lose their beating hearts.”
“Them’s the rules,” a duckbilled bird scoffs, shaking his parasol in Morpheus’s face. “Made by the queen herself.”
“Them’s the rules?” Morpheus chuckles, deep and soft. “You need to work on your scare tactics, Ducky. Incorrect grammar wielded by a goon bird who carries a frilly sunshade. Doesn’t have quite the effect you’re hoping for.”
The seven birds tackle him, slamming him to the ground.
I struggle against Dad, but he refuses to relent.
“No eating him!” the duckbilled creature shouts. “The boss man said!”
“He’s right,” the osprey growls to his companions. “Manti ordered us to bring him in alive. But he didn’t give specifics. Barely alive work for you gents?”
They all squawk in agreement, attacking Morpheus’s prone form. Some pound him with their parasols; others use their multiple fists.
Unable to break free of Dad, I yell until my throat comes fully awake. Hearing me, the birds look over their winged shoulders. I strip off my simulacrum suit just as Morpheus’s hand shoves out from the distracted pile of feathers. He snaps a gloved finger and thumb, and the wings along his walking stick open.
The cane transforms into a living griffon—the head and wings of an eagle, with the golden-furred body and paws of a large lion. The beast flies toward the huddle with a roar, dive-bombing the birds.
Morpheus rolls out of the chaos and stands. More gaps mar his jacket now, along with a few in his shirt where his smooth chest peeks through. Even his pant legs have some holes, as if the suit was hung in a moth-infested closet. He picks up his hat and brushes it off. His eyes lock on mine. Heat rushes through my cheeks as he wipes his smudged face with a handkerchief.
The seven birds don’t budge under the griffon. Snarling a warning, the mythological creature takes to the sky, chasing the other five birds and the rock lobsters until they disappear over the hill.
As Dad struggles out of his simulacrum suit, Morpheus holds our stare. He tucks away his handkerchief, his expression somewhere between fascination and pride. It’s hard to pinpoint, because the jewels under his eyes are flashing through uncountable emotions.
“My Queen,” he finally speaks, and his usually strong voice holds the slightest tremor.
“My Footman.” I don’t even blink, playing along with his nonchalance. “You don’t seem surprised that I’m here.”
“Oh, I knew you would find your way. It was just a matter of when. You actually made it sooner than I expected.” He gestures around him. “Thus, the deplorable state of my house.”
“Good help is so hard to find,” I tease.
His dark, inky irises sparkle like onyx, and a grin plays at his lips. I can’t fight it another second and smile back. The moment shatters as the seven bird mutants rise behind him.
“Look out!” I shout.
Four attack him. The other three fly toward me and Dad.
“Allie, get down!” Dad opens the duffel bag.
One of the birds swoops at Dad’s head. The other two collide in midair and flop to the ground. Dad parries, an iron dagger in one hand and a chain mace in the other. Shifting his feet gracefully, he swings the iron-studded ball, taking a chunk out of his attacker’s beak.
The two birds on the ground roll into Dad, sending him to his knees. He groans, sprawled next to scattered water bottles and protein packets. Mom’s capture flashes through my thoughts in vivid, techno-colored pain.
The madness beneath the surface of my skin awakens. I concentrate on the miniature geysers closest to us, envisioning them as tongues unfurling from water serpents’ mouths. The cascades grow until they’re big enough to lash in midair and snatch up Dad’s attackers, capturing the bird with the wounded beak on the way back. The liquid tongues jerk the giant birds into the moats to immerse them.
Dad teeters at the water’s edge with dagger ready. Bubbles rise from the depths, becoming fewer and farther between.
“Alyssa,” he prompts.
I don’t acknowledge the fact that he used my full name, or the concern in his voice.