Two dim bulbs inadequately lit a cinder-block room almost as large as the house overhead. The thick blue training mat was scattered with huge feathers the thunderbird had lost on his way down the stairs, and most of our outdated but well-used weight-lifting equipment had been shoved into the far corner near where the old, heavy punching bag hung. The door to the small half bath stood open, and a weak rectangle of light from within slanted over a folding table holding stacks of cassette tapes and an ancient stereo.
The room was damp, grimy, and one of few places in the house that my mother had attempted to neither clean nor decorate. It was strictly utilitarian, and well used.
It was also a prison.
The corner of the basement nearest the foot of the stairs was taken up by a cage formed by two of the room’s cinder-block walls and two walls of steel bars. The cell held only a cot in one corner, with no sheets or pillows. Just outside the bars stood a water dispenser and a single plastic cup, narrow enough to fit through the bars, if held by the top or bottom. A coffee can—serving as a temporary toilet—sat next to the water dispenser.
They were miserable accommodations. And yes, I knew from personal experience. I once spent an entire month in the cage—most of that time in cat form—when I threatened to run away again, after having been hauled back the first time. What can I say? I was intemperate in my youth. And in much of my early adulthood.
And I have to admit that I prefer the view from outside of the bars.
“He’s still out,” Marc said, and I followed his gaze to the half-bird still unconscious on the concrete floor, just as we’d left him. He lay on his back, weird, elongated wing-arms stretched to either side so that the feathers on one brushed the bars. The end of his opposite arm lay hidden from sight—and likely folded—beneath the cot.
Even half-Shifted, the creature’s arm span was at least ten feet.
“Suggestions?” I asked, my fury and fear muted a bit by sheer amazement as I stared at the bird up close, half-repelled by the thick, curved beak where his human mouth and nose should have been.
Marc never took his gaze from the cage. “Get the hose.”
I pulled open the door beneath the staircase and rummaged in the dark for a minute before my hand found the smooth, textured hose coiled around what could only be a broken weight bar. I slid my good arm through the coil and carried it to the utility sink near the weight rack. When I had the hose hooked up to the huge faucet—moderately encumbered by my cast but determined to do it on my own—I uncoiled it loop by loop until it stretched across the room to Marc.
He raised both brows, finger poised over the trigger of the high-pressure nozzle. “This should be interesting.…” Marc squeezed the trigger, and a long, straight, presumably cold stream of water shot between two bars of the cage, blasting the back concrete wall and lightly splattering the unconscious bird. Marc adjusted his aim, and the jet of water hit the bird squarely on his sparsely feathered chest.
The thunderbird sat up with a jolt, gasping in air—and a little water—through his malformed beak. His right wing-arm shot up an instant faster than his left, too quick to be anything other than instinct, protecting his face and torso, though his feathers were instantly drenched.
The bird made a horrible, pain-filled squawking sound and backed against the wall, where he slid to his knees and wrapped his long, feathered arms around his torso.
Marc released the trigger and the water stopped, but the bird remained huddled and dripping on the floor. In the sudden silence, he gasped for breath and I heard his heart racing with shock. But his pulse slowed quickly as he regained control of himself, and when he lowered his wings, the bird glared at us through small eyes as dark as my own fur, his expression as hard as the concrete blocks at his back.“Stand up and Shift so you can speak,” I said, desperately hoping he spoke either English or Spanish. Because he could be from Chile, for all we knew. Or Pluto, for that matter.
For a moment, he only stared at us, hostility gleaming in his shiny eyes. Or maybe that was water from his rude awakening. But when Marc re-aimed the hose, the bird stood slowly and spread his arms. His left one was reluctant, and he flinched as he forced it into place, flexing his wing-claws as if to show them off. Then he cocked his head to one side, like he was thinking, and closed both eyes. A very soft, eerie whispering sound seemed to skitter across my spine, and I watched in fascination as his feathers receded into his skin and his arms began to shorten.
It happened in seconds.
Marc and I stood in silent shock.
The fastest Shift I’d ever accomplished was just under a minute, and I was one of the fastest Shifters I’d ever met. Probably because I’m smaller than most toms—thus have less body to change—and more experienced than most teenagers, who have less to change than even I do.
But this bird—every bird, if the sample we’d seen was any indication—had me beat, paws down. Or talons down, as the case may be. And his Shift was weird. The fur that receded in my own was only an inch long, and not much thicker than human hair, but feathers had long, stiff quills. There was no way feathers twelve to fourteen inches long should have slid so quickly and easily into his skin.
Yet there the thunderbird stood, fully human and unabashedly naked, watching us in obvious, wary hatred. He was short—no more than five foot four—and thin, with a disproportionately powerful upper body and spindly legs. He would pass for human if he were clothed, but he would definitely stand out, though most people would be unable to explain exactly why.
While we stared, he ran his right hand over his thick chest and narrow waist, casually touching the gashes Owen had carved into him. His hand came away bright red. The water had washed away dried and crusted blood and had reopened the wounds. He held his left arm stiffly at his side, and when I looked closer, I could see that it was lumpy. Obviously broken, and certainly very painful. But he made no sound, nor any move to cradle his injury.
“What is this?” The thunderbird’s voice was gravelly and screechy, as if he spoke in two tones at once. It was a strange sound, oddly fitting for his unusual build.
“I’m Marc Ramos. This is Faythe Sanders. We ask the questions.” Marc knelt to set the nozzle at his feet, then stood and met my gaze, gesturing with one hand toward the prisoner. He wanted me to take the lead. Just like my father, he was always training me.
My dad had told us to start without him—he wanted to break the news to Ed Taylor personally—so I stepped forward, careful to stay out of reach of the bars. Waaaay out of reach, because of how long his arms could grow and how fast he Shifted. Even injured. “What’s your name?” I crossed both arms over my chest and met the bird’s dark glare.
He only blinked at me and repeated his own question. And when I didn’t answer, he smiled—an expression utterly absent of joy—and cocked his head to the other side in a jerky, birdlike motion. “This is your nest, right? Your home? That ground-level hovel you cats burrow into, for what? Warmth? Safety? You huddle in dens because you cannot soar. I pity you.”
My eyebrows shot up over the disgust dripping from his every syllable. “Maybe you should pity yourself. You’re still bleeding, and it looks like you’ve broken a wing. You’re in good company.” I held up my own graffitied cast. “But mine’s been fixed. If yours doesn’t get set properly, you can’t fly, can you? Ever.”
His narrowed eyes and bulging jaw said I was right. That I’d found his weak spot.
“Our doctor is just a couple of hours away.” Dr. Carver had already been called in to treat Owen. “But you won’t get so much as a Band-Aid until you tell us what we want to know. Starting with your name.”
The thunderbird cradled his crooked arm, but his gaze did not waver. “Then I will never fly again.” He looked simultaneously distraught and resolute—I’d seldom seen a stronger will.
“Seriously?” I took a single step closer to the bars, judging my safety by distance. “You’re going to cripple yourself for life over your name? What good will you be to your…flock, or whatever, if you’re jacked up for the rest of your life?”
Doubt flickered across his expression, chased away almost instantly by an upsurge of stoicism. “The rest of my life? Meaning, the three seconds between the time I spill my guts and you rip them from my body? I’d say a broken arm is the least of my problems.”
I rolled my eyes. “We’re not going to kill you.”
“Right. You’re going to fix me up and toss me out the window with a Popsicle stick taped to one wing.” He shrugged awkwardly with the shoulder of his good arm, leaning against the cinder-block wall for support. “I’ve seen this episode. This is the one where Sylvester eats Tweety.”
“If memory serves, Sylvester never actually swallowed, and while I love a good poultry dinner, we can’t kill you without proof you’ve killed one of ours. And you don’t match this.” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the fourteen-inch feather I’d found next to Jake’s body. I’d stored it shaft-first, to preserve the pattern of the vane.
The difference was subtle but undeniable. Our prisoner’s feathers were dark brown, with three thick, horizontal black stripes. But the one in my hand had two thick stripes and one thin, in the middle.