She lost her smile immediately. “Don’t,” she whispered.
“You feel it too—don’t you?”
Cela looked away, putting a hand to her tattoo again. “Yes. Of course. My griffin is crying out for me to get closer to you.”
“Then—”
“But I can’t.” Her face had shut down, going icy; even her eyes seemed to become paler. “You felt what happened when we touched.”
“Yes. What was that? I’ve never experienced anything like it.”
“It’s part of being an exile, isn’t it?” Cela said bitterly. “Of course they wouldn’t allow us to enjoy the company of our own kind.”
“It’s never happened to me before,” Tyr said, puzzled. “My kids—” He stopped on the verge of telling her that his kids were griffins too. But, he thought, they didn’t have tattoos; they had never been to the island. “Never mind. You’re right, you’re the first griffin with tattoos that I’ve touched since I was marked.”
A sick feeling rose inside him. Maybe it was true—theexile mark meant that not only the place of his birth, but also the company of his own kind, was forever denied to him.
“See?” Cela said. “It all fits, doesn’t it?”
Her voice still held a deep bitterness. Tyr had accepted his own exile without a fight—he couldn’t deny that he had broken the rules, and going back to the island would have meant never seeing his kids again. Cela was clearly a lot angrier about it, even if she was swallowing her anger beneath a veneer of surface calm, at least so far. Tyr had a feeling that there was a volcanic explosion coming when, or if, she ever let go.
“Your kids are too young to have the tattoos,” he said. Even in a clan like Silvershell, they probably didn’t get them until about the same age as the other griffins, no younger than Lissy or a bit older.
“No, they don’t. And also they ...” Her gaze suddenly dropped; her voice was barely audible. “They aren’t griffins.”
“Oh.” He didn’t have to ask more. There was a world of understanding in that syllable, along with a sudden bottomless rage at his people’s arbitrary and cruel customs. No wonder Cela was nursing that inner black hole of rage.
No one but griffins were allowed on Griffin Island; it was one of their oldest laws. Every once in a while, throwback children were born, those who turned into something other than griffins, or couldn’t shift at all. These children were sent away to be raised by families on the mainland.
Tyr had been aware of the custom, but he had never known anyone it had happened to.
“Their father—is he human?” Maybe Cela belonged to another cross-mating, like him and Paula.
“Oh, no.Heis a griffin.” She spat the words. “Of old and fine bloodlines, so of course if anyone’s ancestry is tainted, it must be mine.”
“But there is no taint,” Tyr protested. “Griffins are just shifters, like any other kind of shifter. Usually shifters have children like themselves, but not always.”
Cela didn’t answer. This might be new information for her. Tyr himself hadn’t learned it until going on his walkabout. Back on Griffin Island, he had been told that griffins were unique and special, and their bloodlines must remain pure. This was why most griffins didn’t need mates like other shifters.
Or so he had been told. He was starting to question everything he had learned on Griffin Island.
“Listen, let’s talk about this after we eat,” he said, changing the subject. “Are you ready to try spaghetti? I’ll show you how to eat it.”
This coaxed a tiny glimmer of a smile through her obvious misery. “I’ve had a terrible day, but I do know how to eat.”
“You’ll see what I mean. It’s almost more like a game than a food.”
He dished up both their plates. He was right that she had never seen it before, but she was a quick study, watching him twirl it on his fork and then trying her own. He even got more of those delightful little smiles, turning to dismay when an entire forkful slithered off into her lap.
“Oh no, my dress! I don’t want to give it back to her stained.”
“It’s okay,” Tyr reassured her as he jumped up to dampen a paper towel at the sink. “Paula said you can keep everything in those bags. She was going to donate it anyhow.”
The corners of her mouth turned down, flattening into a grim line at the mention of Paula.
“She’s nice,” Tyr said, crouching beside her. “You’ll like her when you get to know—ow!”
He had begun dabbing at her sauce-spotted skirt, butapparently fabric was an insufficient barrier to the tattoo’s cursed magic. Pain rippled up his arm, and he nearly fell flat on the kitchen floor, recovering only by grabbing the back of a chair.
