Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3)

Zita grimaced at the bird, still some thirty feet above her head. “That’s news,” she said.

“Hmmm,” said the bird. “I should’ve mentioned that earlier.”

With renewed vigor, Zita scrambled the rest of the distance between her and the nest, weaving her way through the branches. When she arrived at the aerie, her hair was as tangled with cedar tree detritus as the nest itself; she heaved a sigh of relief to see that the juvenile eagle was still alone.

“Hi,” said the eagle. “So what do you really need a feather for? I don’t buy the quill bit.”

“Long story,” said Zita, catching her breath.

“I’m patient.”

“Really? You’re going to make me go into all this?”

“C’mon, I’m bored. All I do is sit up here and wait for my dad to bring me little bits of food. I can’t even really fly that well,” said the eagle.

“Okay,” said Zita. “But I’m warning you, it’s sort of weird.”

“Weird? Curiosity: piqued.”

“It’s part of a charm. From, like, a spirit. The Verdant Empress. I’m supposed to bring her three things. She’s commanded me.”

The eagle looked at her, his head cocked sideways. “And then what happens?”

“I honestly don’t know,” said Zita.

The eagle paused, considering what the girl had said. “That doesn’t seem very smart,” he said finally. “I mean, what’s she going to do with these three things? What’s so important that she needs you to do all this?”

Zita stared at the eagle, perplexed. In all honesty, she hadn’t really considered all the implications that thoroughly. She’d been lost in a haze, following the instructions that had miraculously appeared on her bedroom mirror. “I guess I don’t know,” said Zita.

“Well, it smells funny to me,” said the eagle. “But whatever. You do your thing.”

“Can I have that feather now?” asked Zita.

“Oh, yeah,” said the bird. “What color?”

“What?” Zita thought she felt the air near her disrupted; she heard a loud cawing in the distance.

“What color, like, the plumage?” asked the bird. “And quick: My dad’s coming back right now. He’ll probably pick you up and drop you from the air.”

“I don’t know,” said Zita, petrified. “Silver?”

The eagle rolled his eyes. “We do

n’t have silver feathers. What do you think I am, a griffin or something?”

“Whatever color you’ve got, I really don’t care,” said the girl, hastily, as the eagle’s father approached. The massive bird had made a great arc in the air and was beginning a winding descent toward the nest, something large and furry and very dead in its talons.

The juvenile in the nest began rummaging around in the cavity of the aerie. “Dark brown? No, too pedestrian. Something mottled would be nice. Like, a little spackle of white on tan. That’d be very pleasing, I think.”

“Yeah, sure,” said Zita, watching the eagle’s father approach. “That’s fine.” The adult eagle had spotted her, and she saw a look of affronted anger cross his brow. He screeched loudly as he zeroed in on his approach.

“No, maybe you do want plain brown. Sometimes simple really is the best.”

Zita lost her patience. “Whatever! Just please! I just need that feather!”

The father eagle began his furious descent; his talons, having already dropped their furry cargo in preference to this trespassing human, began to extend like sharpened knives. The juvenile tossed Zita a simple brown feather with its beak, and the girl shoved it in her pocket and scurried desperately down the topmost branches of the tree. She’d barely reached the nearest branches below the nest when the eagle made contact with the aerie, and the treetop swayed under his enormous weight. Zita practically threw herself down the first twenty feet of the tree trunk, diving from one bough to the next like a loosed monkey, the eagle’s screaming echoing behind her, and she didn’t stop until she’d reached the ground, eagle feather safely nestled in the pocket of her jacket.

The first item had been won.