Shadow Spell (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy 2)

“I think you won’t see more than a shower this morning. If there’s an earthquake or volcanic eruption, be sure you get Thor back home again.” Connor gave Brian a slap on the shoulder. “There’s your clients now, at the gate. Go on, let them in, give them the show around. I’ll take Roibeard and William for the ten,” he told Kyra when Brian hurried to answer the gate. “That leaves Moose for Pauline’s.”

“I’ll set it up.”

“We’ll have Rex for Sean. He respects Sean, and doesn’t yet have the same respect for Brian. Best not send him out with Bri yet, on their own. I’ll take Merlin for the two, as he hasn’t been on a walk in a few days.”

“Fin’s hawk isn’t here.”

“He’s around,” Connor said simply. “And Pauline can take Thor out again this afternoon. Brian or Sean, whoever you have for the last so far, can take Rex.”

“What of Nester?”

“He’s not feeling it today. He’s got the day off.”

She only lifted her beringed eyebrow at Connor’s assessment of the hawk. “If you say.”

“And I do.”

Her round face lost its smirk in concern. “Does he need to be looked at?”

“No, he’s not sick, just out of sorts. I’ll take him out later, let him fly off the mood.”

He was right about the shower, but it came and went as they often did. A short patter of rain, a thin beam of sun through a pocket of clouds.

By the time his double arrived, the shower had moved on, leaving the air damp and just misty enough. Truth be told, he thought as he took the father and son around, it added to the atmosphere for the Yanks.

“How do you know which one is which?” The boy—name of Taylor—gangling with big ears and knobby knuckles, put on an air of mild boredom.

“They look alike, the Harris’s hawk, but they each have their own personality, their own way. You see, there’s Moose, he’s a big one, so he has the name. And Rex, beside him? Has a kind of regal air.”

“Why don’t they just fly away when you take them out?”

“Why would they be doing that? They’ve a good life here, a posh life come to that. And good, respectable work as well. Some were born here, and this is home for them.”

“You train them here?” the father asked.

“We do, yes, from the time they’re hatchlings. They’re born to fly and hunt, aren’t they? With proper training—reward, kindness, affection, they can be trained to do what they’re born to do and return to the glove.”

“Why the Harris’s hawk for the walks?”

“They’re social, they are. And more, their maneuverability makes them a fine choice for a walk in these parts. The Peregrines—you see here?” He walked them over to a large gray bird with black and yellow markings. “They’re magnificent to be sure, and there’s no faster animal on the planet when they’re in the stoop. That would be flying up to a great height, then diving for its prey.”

“I thought a cheetah was the fastest,” Taylor said.

“Apollo here?” At the name, at Connor’s subtle link, the falcon spread its great wings—had the boy impressed enough to gasp a little before he shrugged. “He can beat the cat, reaching speeds to three hundred twenty kilometers an hour. That’s two hundred miles an hour in American,” Connor added with a grin.

“But for all its speed and beauty, the Peregrine needs open space, and the Harris’s can dance through the trees. You see these here?”

He walked them along. “I watched these hatch myself only last spring, and we’ve trained them here at the school until they were ready for free flights. One of their brothers is William, and he’ll be with you today, Mr. Leary.”

“So young? That’s what, only five or six months old.”

“Born to fly,” Connor repeated. He sensed he’d lose the boy unless he moved things along. “If you’ll come inside now, we’ve your hawks waiting.”

“It’s an experience, Taylor.” The father, an easy six-four, laid a hand on his son’s shoulder.

“Whatever. It’ll probably rain again.”