Wild ― Piper McLean

―iii. seymour gets chatty

WITH THAT... WARM WELCOME, Chiron invited—or, rather, ordered—Verona and Jason to come inside the house, sending Drew on her way.

The centaur somehow stuffed his entire horse-half into the empty wheelchair on the porch, then said, "Follow me. We have lemonade."

The living room looked like it had been swallowed by a rain forest. Grapevines curved up the walls and across the ceiling, which was more than a little strange. She didn't think plants were supposed to grow like that inside, especially during winter, but these were leafy green and bursting with bunches of red grapes.

Leather couches faced a stone fireplace with a crackling fire. Wedged in one corner, an old school Pac-Man arcade game beeped and blinked. Mounted on the walls was an assortment of masks—smiley/frowny Greek theater types, feathered Mardi Gras masks, Venetian Carnevale masks with big beaklike noses, carved wooden masks from Africa. Grapevines grew through their mouths so they looked like they had leafy tongues. Some had red grapes bulging through their eyeholes.

The weirdest thing, though, was the stuffed leopard's head above the fireplace. Verona's throat felt tight at the sight of such a beautiful creature hung up like some barbaric hunter's trophy. Who could be cruel enough to slay an innocent creature? It wasn't right.

Verona reached up a hand, petting the wildcat's taxidermy head.

What the—oh, wait, that feels nice.

Verona squeaked in surprise, ripping her hand away. The not-actually-dead leopard blinked, looking as startled as her. The head gave an almost comically deep meow.

Jason jumped. "That thing is alive?"

"And it talks?" Verona asked.

"Seymour hasn't been too chatty lately," Chiron said, brow furrowed in confusion. "I'd almost forgotten the sound he makes."

Verona blinked. "Wha—no, not the meow, the—he talked! Just now!"

Chiron raised both eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"

"He—" Verona gestured at the wildcat's head. "I heard him, clear as day."

Normal humans can't understand me, Seymour said. Now that Verona heard it again, she realized it was in her head—not in her ears. But you're not one of my master's kids—are you?

"Master?" She looked at Chiron. "Who's Seymour's—uh, master?"

"I suppose that would be Mr. D," Chiron said. "Dionysus, our old director. He left the décor as a parting gift before he was recalled back to Mount Olympus."

Verona blinked, looking back at Seymour. "Uh... I don't think I'm your master's kid, dude."

Seymour meowed what sounded like an agreement. You don't smell like grapes, so I figured.

Jason looked between Verona and the stuffed head. "Are you... having a conversation with a taxidermy leopard?"

"Apparently," Verona said.

Chiron frowned. "Has your godly parent claimed you, by any chance?"

"Uh, you mean the lightshow over my head?" Verona asked. "No."

"And you don't know who it could be?" Chiron asked.

"I don't even know which parent it could be," Verona muttered. "I don't remember anything about myself."

"Ah." Chiron looked nervous, but he tried for a smile. "Why don't you two take a seat—and some lemonade?"

Verona and Jason took some lemonade and sat down on one of the leather couches. Chiron sat back in his wheelchair and tried for a smile, but Verona could tell it took too much effort to be genuine. The old man's eyes were deep and dark as wells.