The phoenix keeper, p.6
The Phoenix Keeper, page 6
“Aila—” Tanya tried to cut in.
“Luciana thinks she knows best about everything. Just because she has the perfect hair. And the perfect face. And the public speaking voice of an angel.”
“Aila, this is a tangent.”
“This is not a tangent!” Everything snowballed in Aila’s brain. “We’re barely holding on to one phoenix, one derelict building, Luciana breathing down our necks. What if Jewelport was the last straw for Movas? What if…?” Aila’s voice caught. She turned small, hunching over the table. “What if I missed my chance? What if I’m not good enough to breed phoenixes? If Jewelport couldn’t manage with their facilities and experience…”
Tanya reached for Aila’s hand. The anchor didn’t take the anxiety away, but it helped Aila catch her breath.
“You know that’s nonsense,” Tanya said. “This news hit you hard. You’re allowed that, Ailes. But don’t let some mishap all the way in Jewelport get you doubting yourself.”
Aila’s thoughts were angry wasps, but she didn’t know how to wrangle them, didn’t want to speak any more worries into existence for fear of them taking over her.
Tanya leaned in with a knowing look. “Finish your lunch, Aila. A tragedy, letting good noodles go to waste. Yeah?”
She clacked her chopsticks against Aila’s, playful. The sounds of the plaza drifted back, shouting children and honking swans combating the noise in Aila’s head. She mustered a smile.
“An unforgivable tragedy. I could never look you in the eyes again.”
Aila dug into her soup, lukewarm now. She hoped Tanya was right.
With lunch devoured, they hiked back to the aviaries. The path split near the kelpie exhibit, one side leading up to the phoenix complex, the other toward the zoo entrance. Tanya gripped Aila’s shoulders and looked her hard in the eye, no room for escape.
“Now, Ailes. I need to pop over to the admin building and check on my proposal for the volunteer program.”
Something tiny and tight squeezed in Aila’s chest. “Yeah. I know.”
“Which means I’m gonna need you to hold yourself together on your own for a bit. OK?”
No. It wasn’t OK. Aila’s world was shattering and she needed Tanya and—
“Sure. I can manage that.”
Tanya squeezed her shoulder before parting ways. Alone, Aila hiked up the hill, beneath the metal phoenix sculpture and arbors shaded with grape vines, into the phoenix complex.
Her best therapy now would be losing herself in chores.
Hard to focus on that, even, when her boots chafed against yellowed linoleum, crackling where the adhesive had dried out. The public exhibit stayed immaculate for zoo visitors. But behind the scenes? She cataloged every patch of faded paint and countertop stain. Beside the observation window, two desks were crammed into a corner. Above Tanya’s, the wall was decorated with cheesy movie posters, several new additions since their college dorm.
Above Aila’s desk hung the phoenix poster she’d kept for twenty years. A distant dream.
She marched out the back door, onto a patio overlooking the phoenix exhibit. In the heyday of the breeding program, keepers would have sat out here for lunch, feeding hatchling phoenixes bundled in heated blankets. Now, all that remained was faded terracotta tile, a splintered picnic table, drifts of olive leaves clumped against the building’s stucco. Aila carried out a bin of feeding bowls. The hose unraveled like a knotted snake (the on-call keeper who came in on Aila’s days off always wound it up wrong, no matter how many times they’d argued). One by one, she sprayed down her dishes, then propped them against the railing to dry. Above her, a cloudless sky. Typical for Movas: scorching summers, not a drop of rain until winter.
The urge hit to pull her laptop out, that comforting routine of checking the Jewelport phoenix cam for updates. A comfort no longer.
This pang in her heart was unbearable, worse even than soggy socks from an errant hose maneuver. She wriggled damp toes and planned her afternoon. Finish meal prep. Fix that loose perch in Rubra’s aviary. Then on to the closing routine, moving animals into their back exhibits, locking everything up for the night. Aila forced herself to keep moving, the sweet oblivion of manual labor promising to ease her nerves.
Before she could enact her plans, the radio at her belt clicked on.
A call came through loud and clear. Words to stiffen her in horror. The most harrowing summons imaginable, any plans for a mindless afternoon shattered like glass tossed to concrete.
“Griffin show, calling aviaries.”
For a long moment, Aila stood still, as if lack of movement could shield her from the unpalatable words. The radio crackled, the message repeated with a hint of irritation.
“Griffin show, calling aviaries.”
The words sent Aila rigid. She’d recognize that dulcet accent anywhere, the caramel tone with savage curls and painted nails lurking underneath.
Luciana.
The radio hung in Aila’s hand, unanswered. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d let Tanya deal with whatever that griffin show witch wanted.
Seconds dragged by. Why hadn’t Tanya answered? Aila grimaced, realizing Tanya was in the admin building. If she’d turned down her radio to avoid interruption—
The radio clicked again. “I know you’re there, dork. Answer me.”
Aila puckered her lips. Well, she definitely wasn’t answering now. She dredged her memory for zoo policy on radio communications, whether or not she could get written up for forgetting her radio in the other room and missing a call from another department.
Another click. “I can see you. Loser.”
Aila jerked in alarm. She spun a circle on the patio, searching the trees between the aviary domes as if expecting to square off with a sniper barrel. Most of the view behind the phoenix complex was foliage, but sure enough, through a gap in the boughs she spotted a smudge of teak wood. The distant wall of the griffin show amphitheater curved through vegetation like a ship’s hull parting waves.
Atop the stadium lookout stood a silhouette, black hair curling in the breeze like a movie villain, radio propped by her ear and fingers strumming the rail in impatience. Even at too far a distance to make out Luciana’s face, Aila shrank beneath an imagined scowl.
She clutched her radio and put on her most condescending customer service voice.
Click. “Hello, this is aviaries. How may I help you today?”
A pause hung on the line like curdling cheese.
“Do you have any bird arthritis ointment?” Luciana radioed back. “The topical kind?”
“Doesn’t griffin show have their own stock?”
“We’re out. You’re the only other bird-centered department.”
“Just order some more.”
“It’s for Nimit.”
Aila bit back her next complaint. Luciana’s ageing peacock griffin, Nimit, hadn’t been faring well. She could hate the woman’s guts until her deathbed, but if an animal needed help…
“Sure,” Aila conceded. “We’ve got extra. You can come pick it up.”
“Bring it here.”
Aila did a double take at her radio. “Why can’t you come here?”
“Afternoon show’s about to start. We’ve got to get ready. Bring the medicine before showtime. Thanks.”
The radio clicked off. Luciana’s silhouette disappeared from the amphitheater railing. Aila stared back, mouth agape.
That self-absorbed bitch.
As if Aila should expect anything else from the zoo’s premier performer. The prodigy of the griffin show. Why don’t you two collaborate? Aila’s performance reviews always went. The Silimalo phoenix would be an outstanding addition to the show! Aila would sooner hurl herself into the cold Middle Sea than throw her lot in with that shallow excuse for a department. The mission of the San Tamculo Zoo was to save endangered wildlife, not pimp them out for tourists.
Only the thought of a poor, ailing peacock griffin spurred Aila to clip her radio to her belt and duck inside the keeper building. Armed with angry mutters, she dug into the cabinet of medical supplies in the kitchen. She and Tanya used their stock so rarely, she had no trouble finding an unopened box of the bird-friendly arthritis ointment. Unexpired, even.
Now, to deliver it to Luciana on a gilded platter. Won’t she love that?
Aila slunk out of the keeper building, head bowed beneath an onslaught of patron voices and scorching sun. She’d put on no sunscreen since morning. If she kept getting dragged outside, her pale skin would fry.
She’d blame Luciana for that, too.
Sure, go ahead and assume no one else in the zoo is busy. Just because Aila’s schedule wasn’t crammed with three public shows a day didn’t make her routine less hectic. Or less important. She got plenty of visitors to her exhibits. Not the same crowds that packed the griffin show amphitheater, but there was something to be said for quality education over cheap thrills—
A shriek sounded from the World of Birds aviary.
Aila jerked to a halt. The screaming mynas should be dozing in the afternoon, roosting high in the cecropia leaves, biding their time to screech at visitors at closing time. Then came another call, a frantic hooting.
Archie.
Aila stuffed the tube of ointment into her pocket and diverted to the aviary.
The antechamber doors squealed as she pushed her way inside (mental note to grease that later). A wall of humidity hit her, sweltering despite fans blowing in the ceiling, air dense with wet leaves and decomposing soil. The railed pathway wound through forest foliage, slanting past the pond and alongside the waterfall.
Ahead, a crowd gathered. Never a good sign. There’d been a weird trend in teenage visitors recently, some fad of taking videos with the screaming mynas to post on Griffingram (their calls were perfect mimics of human shrieks, but the exact voice sounded different to every listener, even in recordings). Aila pushed her way through the onlookers, no apologies for jabbed elbows or crushed toes. When she reached the front, her mouth fell open.
“Hurry up! Get a good photo!”
On the path stood two college-aged men in board shorts and flip flops, hair gelled to douchey coifs. One held up his phone, giggling as he lined up a photo. The other man had corralled a periwinkle prairie goose.
The pair of purple geese were one of the odder aviary residents, not native to any near-tropical forest, but rather the flat tundra of Niplik that made up a large swath of the south continent. In other exhibits, the meek-mannered geese tended to get picked on. So they enjoyed a balmy vacation in World of Birds. Oil on their feathers produced a lavender scent, well known for its aura of drowsiness. A couple of birthdays ago, Aila’s parents—always worried she was working too hard—gifted her a pillow stuffed with periwinkle prairie goose down (sustainably harvested, of course). She’d never slept so well.
No tranquil aroma filled the aviary now. The goose honked in terror as the patron scooped it up and held it to his chest, wings pinned, fighting webbed feet and thrashing neck as he leaned into a pose for the photographer. For three full seconds, Aila froze, too affronted to process the atrocity. Then, she transformed into a raging mother manticore.
“Turn this way!” the photographer said. “I can’t see your face.”
“I’m trying! This stupid thing—won’t—hold still.”
“What in all the skies and seas are you doing?” Aila shouted.
Their attention snapped to her, annoyed.
“Hey,” the photographer complained. “What are you shouting for?”
“Put that goose down!”
The patron did so—though Aila didn’t flatter herself into thinking she’d persuaded him. Holding the goose too close, he breathed deep of the lavender feathers. His eyes drooped. More than aromatherapy, the sleep-inducing aura was a predator deterrent, wild geese nesting in dense colonies that scientists could only study while using specialized breathing equipment.
The goose wriggled out of his weakened grasp, whopping a wing into his face. He yelped, blinking back to wakefulness.
“Dumb bird! What was that for?”
He moved to kick the goose. Aila snatched his arm, letting the goose escape with startled honks.
“What are you doing?” the patron demanded.
“Touching zoo animals is expressly prohibited!”
“Says who?”
Aila released him, too smoldering to stand still. She pointed at her uniform polo. Next, a placard beside the path with DO NOT TOUCH OR FEED THE ANIMALS in bold red letters. The man rolled his eyes. His photographer friend giggled.
At least, until the second goose arrived. With its harassers distracted, it waddled up to nip the man’s ankle.
“Horns and fangs!” He jumped. The phone lurched from his hand and shattered against the path, shiny innards spilled across concrete.
Serves him right.
“Dumb bird bit me!” He knelt to salvage the pieces. “The zoo better pay for repairs!”
“Are you out of your mind?” Aila said. “Get out of here before I call security!”
“This is destruction of personal property!”
His next mistake was looking away from the phone. A split-second opening.
Archie swooped from the canopy like a gray spirit of vengeance. Silent. Focused. Before the man had time to react, Archie snatched a piece of shiny phone case and flew off, hooting like a Movasi outlaw with a posse on his heels.
“My phone!” the man shouted.
Aila had felt more sympathy for aviary slugs. “Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe you’ll remember this the next time you think of harassing innocent birds?”
“Innocent? One bit me, and another stole my phone!”
By now, the other goose napper had recovered. He scowled down at Aila, entitlement drenching his face like sweat. “What’s your name?”
Aila’s mouth clamped shut.
“Forget it,” he said. “You’re in charge of the aviary? We’ll be sure to tell HR all about how you assaulted us and refused to help with stolen property.”
The pair skulked off, snickering as if they’d won.
Aila wrapped her arms over her chest, fighting the slimy feeling left on her skin. Fine. Let them tell on her. She’d been written up plenty of times. She’d get a reprimand, maybe a mandatory workshop on proper patron relations. No one hurt her animals.
As the onlookers thinned, Aila ducked under the railing and off the path. She waded through the damp foliage, careful not to slip on slick rocks around the pond. When she reached the shore, she found her two periwinkle prairie geese hunkered beneath a bush.
“Oh, babies,” Aila cooed. “It’s OK. They’re gone.”
The geese shrank away from her, shaking in fear.
“Sweet birds.” Aila’s voice came soft. “It’s OK. Just me.”
Aila trembled like her geese. Careless people were the reason these animals were here. The diamondback dragon and her lame wing, injured by poachers. Rubra alone in her aviary. Vanishing ducks harvested for weight-loss oil. Thunderhawks killed for threatening livestock. Archibirds and screaming mynas trapped as pests. Periwinkle prairie geese weren’t the most endangered species in the zoo, but even they’d been overhunted before captive breeders developed more sustainable ways to harvest the therapeutic feathers.
The zoo, of all places, should be safe. Her aviary should be safe.
Not as safe as she’d thought. The theft at Jewelport proved that.
Aila moved slowly, extending a hand to appear unthreatening. At the stroke of one finger against soft purple feathers, the goose relaxed. Lavender laced the air, accompanied by a drowsy aura that tugged Aila’s eyelids, but she was careful not to press the oil glands directly.
Kneeling beneath the leaves, legs folded in damp dirt, she sat with her geese for as long as it took to stop them trembling.
Chapter Five
Did Aila regret kicking those two assholes out of the aviary after harassing her geese?
Never.
Did the detour delay her in reaching the griffin show with the requested ointment?
Sure as rancid dragon spit.
Aila hurried away from the World of Birds aviary, hoping she wasn’t too late. That hope shattered at the blare of an intercom.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!” came the recorded message. “Please find your seats. The world-famous San Tamculo Zoo griffin show is about to begin!”
The paths of the Renkailan section wound beneath massive banyans and lemon-scented curry trees, bordered in fences of red teak latticework. One could get lost in the maze of leaves and concrete, if not for one central marker: the griffin show amphitheater rising like a vine-coated ruin, height rivaling the tallest trees, pale wood spires carved with thousands of miniature creatures and flowers.
Any illusion of antiquity was shattered beneath electric lights along the eaves, the hidden speakers blaring drums and flute music. As the notes soared, a gasp went up from the crowd inside. A flock of mirror flamingos looped overhead, flicking in and out of sight, sun reflecting off silver feathers like shards of polished glass. The squawk of a flightless Vjari auk echoed within the amphitheater. Up next, the dueling trills of a two-headed forest falcon.
Then, the most astonished gasps yet.
A Movas thunderhawk landed atop the highest minaret—Stratus, one of the griffin show’s stars, a couple of decades younger than Tanya’s aging charge at the aviaries. Lightning webbed the bird’s feathers, building to a blinding bolt that pierced the sky and cracked with ozone. Energy surged through a lightning rod, flaring every light in the amphitheater blue.
Aila hissed a curse. The griffin show had begun.
She avoided the main amphitheater entrance, mortified at the thought of appearing in full view of the patron-packed seats. Instead, she circled around to an employee side entrance.
Just pop in. Drop off the ointment. Then leave.
Behind the scenes, the griffin show moved like well-oiled chaos. Aila slunk like a thief into the staging area, the click of the door lost within a swarm of bodies and feathers. She dodged sideways as the massive thunderhawk swooped past her from side stage, landing on a wheeled perch. He snapped up a mouse tossed by a keeper, then thunderhawk and handler disappeared toward the back aviaries. A dozen more birds and other creatures lined the room on perches or in boxes, waiting for their cue. Through another hall, Aila spotted a pair of keepers seated at a dizzying array of switches and screens, headphones over their ears, controlling the lights and music on stage. Busy with their tasks, no one paid Aila any heed.
