Evermore Academy (Evermore Academy #3) - Audrey Grey Page 0,57

been able to fix everything. Scraped knees. Wounded egos. Broken hearts.

The voicemail at the farmhouse picks up. Zinnia’s voice floods my ear, that warm syrupy twang like medicine to my injured soul.

You’ve reached the Happy Farm, home to two menopausal women, one angry cat, and five beautiful but incorrigible heathens. If this message is for my sister Violet, don’t bother. She’s a bitter spinster who will only—

Zi! You little bit—

The recording cuts off with a beep.

For a moment, I don’t say anything, afraid once I start talking my emotions will burst the dam I’ve erected. Finally, I compose myself and say, “Hey, guys. Just wanted to chat about my first week. It’s been good, yeah, just . . . wanted to hear a friendly voice. I miss you, yes, even you, Jane. Call me when you can.”

My heart feels heavier than before I called. After my family learned I was Fae, Zinnia promised me nothing had changed. That she still loved me just as much as before.

Was I selfish to think she could still care for me when the Fae are directly responsible for destroying her family?

I can’t even think about that right now.

Turning on my cell flashlight, I swing the phone around, prepared to head back. A glint of metal catches my eye. I push the vegetation away to reveal an iron chain-link fence.

The menagerie. Through the rhythmic thumping of my heart comes soft animal noises. Grunts. Muffled shrieks. Snorting. The scent of wet hay and manure cling to the air.

A shrill cry draws me closer. Slipping under a loose flap of chain-link fence, I find myself pushing deep into the very off limits menagerie.

This seems smart, Summer. Especially after such a royal screw up.

Yet, I’m drawn deeper, pulled by the same inexplicable need I’ve always felt to be near animals. Their presence comforts in a way I’ve never felt with humans. Animals don’t trick you to advance their own needs. What you see with them is what you get.

Pens appear on either side. Most of the animals are hiding, using the natural vegetation as shelter. The pens are sectioned off by species, with labels above each gate.

The same sharp cry that drew me here splits the night. I follow it to a large enclosure sectioned off from the rest. The chain-link cage must be three stories high. Trees partially obscure the inside, the branches reaching all the way to the chain-link ceiling. Floodlights hang in the trees, illuminating the enclosure.

Pressing against the fence, I curl my fingers over the wire and peer inside. The sound of rustling leaves comes from the left, followed by a burst of air.

My eyes adjust on a horse-sized bird with wings longer than Aunt Vi’s truck. No, not a bird—a griffon. He flaps his great white wings a few times, sending debris flying into my face.

As I study the majestic creature, I realize it’s the same one from the lake last year.

Except this pitiful thing can hardly be the glorious creature that saved my life. He’s hunched over, his wingtips dragging over the dirt. Some of its sleek feathers have fallen out, its silky fur mangy and dull.

The creature’s feline head turns my way, and my chest aches. Those once bright, intelligent eyes are faded and dim, and there’s a sadness inside them that I’ve never seen in an animal before.

What happened to you? A large padlock secures the door, but a little magic could probably take care of that.

The griffon watches me with a disinterest that comes from years of captivity.

I’m here to help, I press. What can I do?

The soft tug of a connection between us barely forms before anguish fills me. A deep, hopeless pain that feels oddly familiar.

The griffon is grieving.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I spin around and come face to face with Basil. The faun lugs a red bucket that, by the stench, holds fish. He opens a chute on the gate and dumps the fish into a black feeding bowl. As I take in the fish, I see why they smell so foul.

Half of them are rotting. The other half are slimy, their scales dull, like they’ve been left in the sun for hours.

The griffon cocks its head at his meal before looking away.

I don’t need to read its mind to feel its disgust.

I look away before my anger makes me do something stupid. “Can’t you find fresh fish?”

“This is the best we can do,” Basil says, his tone going from friendly to defensive.