Chapter Three: Hunting Without a License

Partway through the morning on the day after hearing the human cry, Greg's insatiable hunger reared its head once more, forcing a halt long enough to find something more substantial than rabbits or squirrels. Parker chafed at the delay – why was he so hungry all of a sudden? He didn't remember getting this hungry the first time he'd been trapped in his Animagus form. Why did it feel like he was starving when he knew he'd gorged himself on those fish several kilometers and most of a day back. Was it the collar? Trying to make him so hungry, so often, that he forgot about being human?

Well, it wasn't going to work; Greg was determined to power through and keep moving. Unfortunately, he couldn't seem to convince his stomach; it rumbled and grumbled, loudly demanding food, immediately. Huffing in frustration, Greg went hunting for a handy stream, hoping to find more jumping fish. Partway there, he stumbled onto a herd of elk. The herd spotted him at roughly the same moment he saw them. Most of the animals fled, while the remainder advanced, grunting, bellowing, and kicking at him. Wings tucked close, the gryphon hunching in on himself as he let out a conciliatory whine and backed away.

To the Sergeant's alarm, the elk continued to advance, as though they took his presence personally. The gryphon yowled, hiss-snarling in an attempt to remind the prey animals that he was still a dangerous predator. Not a single one of his opponents fled; the lead elk grunted, the sound almost angry. As if it wanted revenge for some imagined slight or wrong, as crazy as that idea was; these were animals, not humans.

Running would be good. Trouble was, though Greg had gotten used to walking through the mountainous terrain around him, he wasn't confident enough to run. Not yet. Which really left him with just one option. Greg crouched even further, then sprang upwards, wings flaring wide before slamming downwards, hauling the gryphon up into a handy tree. Greg latched onto a thick branch, clinging with all his might as adrenaline and panic pulsed. Beneath him, the elk scattered, suddenly not nearly so sure of antagonizing the big predator. The lone exception was the leader; furious, outraged grunts rose and Parker heard her paw the ground.

Creak.

Greg froze, clinging even tighter to the branch. The wood bent, creaking louder. His mind screamed at him to move, but he couldn't make his talons uncurl. The branch swayed lower, another creak escaping the straining limb, then gave with a thunderous crack. A gryphon shriek rang out as the branch fell, plummeting down onto the stubborn elk. The Animagus found himself a safe distance away, wings still half-spread from his panicked leap backwards off the doomed branch.

Panting, he regarded the dead elk, wincing when his stomach growled insistently. Well…it certainly hadn't been the best way to hunt, but at least he had a meal now… With an internal sigh, the gryphon advanced, hefted the branch off the elk, and dug in. He soon discovered that elk were not only larger than deer, but their meat was even tastier than fish and far more filling.

Although his gryphon side seemed convinced that a nap was just the thing after a meal, Greg fought through the urge and moved out as soon as he'd eaten every last bit of meat – and most of the bones (1). Not long after he'd started eating, a bear had attempted to intrude and steal his meal; a roar-screech of displeasure, coupled with tenting (2) his wings, convinced the would-be thief to seek its next meal elsewhere. Parker pushed aside the faint smugness radiating from his wild side – the gryphon was pleased to have preserved the, ah, distinctions of rank in the food chain, so to speak.

Instead the officer focused on the task before him. Namely, finding the unknown, possibly endangered human. Although he hadn't heard the human cry in several hours, the Sergeant maintained his hope that he could help the possible victim, rather than stumble on another murder scene. Accordingly, he forged his way through the forest until, partway through the afternoon, the gryphon stumbled on a road. It was a dirt road, but well-maintained; the surface was packed down hard, enough to support a variety of traffic, and curved, so that water would run off the road and into gravel ditches on either side. Studying the design, Greg acknowledged the genius of it; so long as water did not stand on the road, it was less likely to create soft spots, potholes, and generally wreck havoc on the dirt road's usability.

Not far from the stand of trees where he'd emerged, Parker spied a battered old pickup truck. Beneath its coat of road dust, the red vehicle looked sturdy and well-maintained. Curiosity and a niggle of instinct drew Greg towards the truck, though he cast a wary look about for observers before leaving the tree cover. Rearing up next to the truck bed, he braced his foretalons on the metal and peered inside. Muscles stiffened and his tail lashed in agitation. Quivers, packed full of arrows, as well as what looked like bow carry cases. There was other hunting equipment, but the archery… A low hiss-growl escaped; the fletching on the arrows looked very much like the arrows he'd found buried in the murder victim.

Before the Sergeant could investigate further, he heard a voice cry out; his head snapped around. It was the same human cry he'd been tracking for the past day and a half. Talons tightened, wings surged, and the gryphon launched upwards, disappearing into the trees in less than a second. Once back in the trees, Greg let his human side ease back, trusting in the gryphon's instincts to leap from branch to branch, remaining concealed even as he made his way towards the nearby human.

Despite being more of an aerial hunter, the gryphon was no stranger to using its lion half to best advantage, effortlessly working its way towards the source of the cry. Another sound drew him to a halt, peering downwards; Parker's spirits lifted when he finally caught sight of his quarry. A young woman, late twenties or early thirties, with dark blonde hair. She appeared to be in decent shape and at least vaguely familiar with how to move in a woodlands setting, though her fear and panic was overriding some of that good sense. Definitely not fear of him…she didn't even know he existed. Her clothing, a green polo and jeans, looked somewhat grubby, just as the murder victim's had. She'd been running for awhile. But who was she running from?

Greg kept pace, the trees around them thick and sturdy enough to allow the gryphon to leap between branches without fear of breaking them. Frustration licked at him; if he'd been able to communicate, he would've had no qualms about dropping down and whisking the girl away to a safe location before asking her what the heck was going on. Unfortunately, that would require the collar to be gone, because he couldn't speak in his gryphon form.

Busy fuming, he almost missed the gap in the trees and was forced to skid to a halt, a tiny squawk of alarm escaping as he aborted a leap at the last second and clung to his current branch, talons digging in. Below him, he saw a campsite with four humans and felt his blood run cold. 'His' human stumbled through, crying out in relief; no doubt, she thought her ordeal was over, but Greg's cop instincts were screaming.

"Please," the woman cried, "Help me!"

The campsite's occupants closed around her, their concern and willingness to help radiating. Two men, two women. All four sported wedding rings and they looked to be about the same age as 'his' human. Greg stole a moment to study the campsite, unsurprised to see two tents. Two couples, out in the mountains for their vacation and not bothering a soul. Dread rose; the vacation was about to go horribly wrong.

Even as he thought it, an arrow flew out of the woods, impacting one of the women; a second arrow hit the man next to her as the first screams rang out. The victims collapsed, already dead, and the survivors fled, screaming as they raced into the woods. Above, in the trees, the gryphon held his position, fury a comfortable burn under his fur. Hazel seemed to narrow as he crouched, waiting and listening to the forest around him. The arrows had come from behind 'his' human, therefore, to go after the three survivors, the killer would have to pass through his general position. If they detoured through the forest, he'd hear them, but if they came to the campsite, he would see them.

Footsteps. Walking, not running; no panic, not from this person. Only…it sounded like more than one person. A low rumble rattled Greg's chest and he turned his head towards the sound, furry, feathery eats flicking forward to listen. When two men arrived in the clearing, the gryphon jerked in surprise. They both looked…so young. Far too young to be accomplished killers. But they carried bows and Greg could see their quivers, just over their shoulders, packed full of arrows. More, they weren't at all surprised by the two dead victims in the campsite – the emotion on their faces was glee.

Neither one looked up, so the Sergeant was free to watch as they went about their business. Outrage stirred as they ripped their arrows out of the bodies, more concerned about damage to the arrowheads than the killing. He ducked down, pressing himself against his sheltering branches when one of the men climbed up a tree right by one of the tents. But the brunet never glanced in his direction. Instead he strung a rope around a sturdy branch, lowering it to his brother; the other brunet tied the female victim's ankles together, then attached the rope, allowing the tree-bound brother to hoist the body into the air. Greg kept himself absolutely still as the body was hefted up until it dangled a good two meters or more above the ground. Not so much as a feather twitched while the killers did the same to the other body, then he watched the men move to the edge of the camp, smirking to each other as they regarded the survivors' tracks.

How dare they? How dare they treat fellow humans like prey, hunting them for no more than sport? In that moment, Greg knew what he'd stumbled on. A serial killer duo's hunting ground. Much like the serial killer who'd stalked Toronto's streets, treating the homeless like his own personal entertainment, so these two lived out their live-action hunting fantasy, with real victims as their targets. And just like Toronto's serial killer, they wouldn't stop until they were caught. There was, Parker realized, no way to know how many they'd already murdered, but he vowed the campsite couple would be their last. No more, not on his watch. However…

If he attacked them now, they might wriggle out of trouble once local law enforcement came calling. They'd removed their arrows, so it was conceivable that they could spin a tale of coming across a violent predator who'd taken to hunting humans, surviving by the skin of their teeth when said predator turned on them. No, he had to wait, had to follow them. They were already going after the three survivors; if he waited until they caught up, then he could catch them in the act. Strike before they could kill their next victim. A risk, particularly if he was a hair too slow, but unfortunately it was his best option.

Trembling with gryphon rage, Greg felt his chest rumble, a subvocal growl escaping. He wanted to strike now, before anyone else was endangered, but he had to do this right. He had to do this like a cop, not a gryphon or an Italian mob boss. He'd killed like a predator once and the shame would linger for the rest of his life. Not again, never again. Determination steadied his limbs, lent new grace to his first bound after the killers. Time to show these headhunters what a real hunt looked like.

In truth, the trees of North America were ill-suited to being used as a jungle gym by a large, heavy cat-bird. Nevertheless, as the gryphon bounded between branches, doing his best to imitate a squirrel, the trees bravely held their ground, their branches only swaying a bit under the weight that leapt between them.

Below, the two headhunting brothers were far too focused on their hunt to notice the swaying and creaking of the branches above – or that there wasn't nearly enough wind to make the trees bounce so violently, one branch at a time. So it was that the three traveled for quite some time, the brothers oblivious to the chafing fury of their mythical observer.

They were catching up. Despite being several meters above his quarry, Greg was still an experienced negotiator, profiler, and possessed of a gryphon's keen sense of vision; he could read their behavior without even a pause in his leaps. Thankfully, neither of the two 'hunters' possessed even the faintest gleam of magic. Contending with magic-users, even of the Squib-born variety, while stuck in his gryphon form did not appeal. Regretfully, that meant he would be flagrantly breaking the Statute of Secrecy once he made his move, but saving lives was more important.

One thing he'd taken with him on his trip into undercover exile was the diary Commander Locksley had given him on the day he'd almost been suspended. Over the days and weeks that followed, he read the ancient book from cover to cover, lingering not, as some might have expected, on the tale of his forebearers, but on Godric Gryffindor's many regrets regarding the loss of his friendship with Salazar Slytherin.

Secrets, kept on both sides, had been their downfall. Secrets kept between them and secrets kept between the other two Hogwarts' founders. In the end, those secrets had destroyed them, all of them, by making trust impossible. Disagreements that could have, should have, been worked through became insurmountable barriers between the friends. Worse, the feuds had ensured that the unity Hogwarts sought to foster was poisoned at its core, dooming British magical society to always see their classmates as either with their house or against their house.

The story had been a sobering one, forcing him to realize that secrets, no matter how well intentioned, always came out at the worst possible times unless they were faced, confronted, and dealt with in a reasonable amount of time. It wasn't quite so black and white as that; Greg could readily acknowledge that there were secrets that had to remain so for one excellent reason or another, but…

He'd had no right to keep the secret of what the links were doing to his friends. Shameful as it was, it wasn't his secret to keep, not when it so directly affected those he cared about. They should know what kind of situation they were in, the situation that a thousand decisions had created. But he couldn't tell them, not until his undercover assignment was over. Because, much as he dreaded it, they also had the right to scream at him for what his magic had done to them. For what he had done to them. To tell them while he was stuck undercover meant denying them that right.

Greg shook the memory away, focusing once more on his prey. They were slowing, yet the eagerness was written all over their faces. The hunt, it seemed, was drawing to its climax, though the Sergeant meant to change the course of the tale. Add an appropriate twist.

The gryphon looked up; for the first time, he scanned through the trees ahead for the three humans who'd run from the campsite. Sadly, they, too, had no magic, but they couldn't hide from a gryphon's eyesight. Not for long. There. Parker shifted, realization sparking. The field ahead. Once the 'hunters' reached it, they would have clear lines of sight to their victims. One or more of the 'prey' would not leave the field alive…unless he intervened.

Seconds later, the killers arrived at the edge of the large clearing and one of them lifted his bow, reaching behind to pull an arrow from his quiver. A quick bound put Greg right above the young man and he spared one moment to brace himself for combat.

The brunet notched the arrow, sighting down the razor head.

Parker yowled and dropped.

Wings flared outwards a breath before he struck, lessening the weight that fell on the serial killer. Lion paws slammed the man's back, talons closing around the bow with a gryphon's might. Then Greg was down; he whirled with a snarl towards the second killer. The man fumbled for an arrow, scrambling backwards, to no avail. The gryphon pushed off, leaping across the distance to ram his shoulder into the taller brother's chest. The impact sent him hurtling into a handy tree, a dull thud announcing the actual strike. Soundlessly, the man collapsed to the ground, bow falling out of his hands. Parker wasted no time smashing it to pieces, then turned towards his first target. Tense muscles relaxed; both men were unconscious, their weapons destroyed.

Situation contained. Satisfaction flowed, only to freeze as a fresh realization dawned. He had no handcuffs or flex cuffs. And even if he did, he was lacking another necessary requirement to arrest the serial killers.

Hands.

Author note: In a follow up to the footnote on tenting, I admit that I've only seen it used on one site and further attempts to find more info didn't net me much. However, here's what I've managed to piece together.

When an eagle (or any bird of prey) acts to protect their catch, they usually use a technique called 'mantling'. They will completely spread their wings and hunch over their meal to hide it from the competition. Tenting, by contrast, consists of a partial spread of the wings. I'm not sure, but it may be more of a dominance defense (kinda like 'my Dad is bigger than your Dad'). It might also be for meals that are too big to hide; while eagles will hunt, they've very pragmatic and won't hesitate to take advantage of someone else's catch (such as a seal or a deer).

Also, this is the first time that I learned that Hollywood has totally gipped bald eagles! The classic eagle screech? It's a red-tailed hawk! Seriously, talk about false advertising…

[1] Yes, surprising as it may be, an eagle can and will eat the bones of its prey; the bones provide essential nutrients in an eagle's diet.

[2] Tenting is when a bird partially opens its wings. Eagles use this to protect their food.