Page 2 of Collected By the Crow

“You’re awfully plucky, huh? Leave it shut this time, little trickster.”

She gave it a wink and got to work. As she set up her workstation, the little red letter peeked from under a stack of papers. She opened it, read the words again, and pursed her lips. On the off chance . . .

She shook away the ridiculous thought and discarded the envelope into her desk drawer. No. There was no mysterious benefactor coming to swoop in and save the day. There was just her.

She only hoped she was enough.

Chapter Two

Qadaire

“It’s your move, my friend.”

Qadaire’s opponent twitched his head once to the left, once to the right.

“You pass? Again? You’ll have to make a move eventually. Perhaps there’s something to this game that you understand and I don’t.”

“Craww.” I forfeit.

“Ah, yes. There’s always that.” Qadaire rose from the rectangular mahogany table with a sigh. He ruffled his feathers, stretching his wings outward. With his lower set of hands, he stacked the chips neatly. He pressed his upper palms together and bowed humbly. “I accept your forfeit. I’m sure you’ll best me next time.”

The crow bristled, then kicked his legs out and hopped to the back of the elaborate red dining chair. Everything in this damned mansion was red. Blood red, extra bloody red, crusty brownish dried blood, all with accents of black, like the blood of the vampires who’d once been occupants. Qadaire had never gotten around to remodeling after killing the tyrant. It wasn’t like he would entertain company ever again. Vampiric society had probably forgotten his existence by now or assumed he’d died in the act of killing Dracula VI.

Qadaire was alive and well, and deformed. Not fully crow and not fully vampire. Certainly not human, not even passably. He had one too many pairs of arms, skin the color of ash, and layers upon layers of obsidian black feathers that covered most of his body. His wings matched those of his opponent’s, along with all the other crows roosting until spring.

“Let’s check on our little project, hmm?”

At least the curse had completed enough to let him converse with the crows. With around two dozen calls, some were translatable and some were not, but he inherently understood them all, even their wordless thoughts. He caught glimpses into their minds. He could also connect to their senses, including their vision, and send small amounts of magic through their connection. This made hunting easy. He didn’t prey on humans anymore. He foraged and fed his friends, and in turn, they lent him their sight to locate deer, coyotes, and bears. Without them, he’d likely never have had the rare delicacy of bull moose.

While he’d never bothered to refurnish his home—or cage, he wasn’t sure which term was more accurate—he’d been collecting tools and contraptions for the last few centuries. Had it been two or three centuries? Perhaps it was closer to four or five. He’d managed to forget the passing of time by throwing himself into the addictive throes of knowledge. Knowledge was the only thing that lasted. With lifespans of barely over a decade, his crow companions came and went in the blink of an eye. Knowledge never left. It could be compounded, multiplied. Shared. Gifted.

“Has she considered my offer?” Qadaire muttered, more to himself than the crow on his shoulder or those in the high rafters of his largest lab.

No, master.

“Still in her drawer? Curious.”

By curious he meant implausible. No one had ever denied his offer. He’d been the benefactor to hundreds of human inventors, biologists, astronomers, archaeologists. Every single one had greedily accepted his terms. He’d singlehandedly stopped multiple pandemics, eradicated polio, and pioneered some of the most acclaimed studies in fields from electrical to environmental. He’d discovered the structure of the DNA strand in this very lab. Some of those sciences were in his past, however, as his glamor skills had waned from lack of use and were now too weak to charm more than one or two humans at a time. Thus, there were certain practices he couldn’t participate in anymore, which annoyed him to no end.

Through the view of a crow casually observing the woman in her laboratory, Qadaire watched the gifted pathologist, as he’d been doing for weeks now. She was an intriguing specimen. Aside from her convincing credentials, she was nothing like she appeared on paper. Any passionate intellectual could reach the top of their field, but she was more . . . tangible. Her odd characteristics had lit a spark within him. The furrow in her brow as she glared through the microscope. The sideways purse of her lips when she got stuck. The way she patted her thighs—those full, jiggly thighs—when she was stuck longer than she liked. Her painted skin and luscious curves fanned that spark, crackling through him.

Every morning, she breathlessly rushed into her lab as though she’d sprinted all the way there. Sometimes there was a pink twinge to her cheeks and dark puffiness under her eyes, which made their chocolate daylily color more vibrant. Those days, she pursed her lips and swatted her thighs and made little huffy noises more often. Qadaire hypothesized that she had personal reasons for her scholarly rigor. She was too close to the case. Another reason why he was certain she would accept his offer.

He watched the woman—Dr. Cassandra Billing DVM—set up her station. She had that rushed quality this morning.

“Have we scouted her place of residence?”

While he wouldn’t disrespect her privacy by leering himself, he did require a modicum of personal knowledge about anyone he collaborated with. The crows confirmed they had, and indeed, she had a sick pup. Qadaire’s chest clenched even as a sly grin tugged his lips.

“You’ll see.” Qadaire released the string tying his sight to the crow’s and clasped his lower pair of hands behind his back. He gestured out of the room with a smile. “Let’s have a rematch. She’ll be penning a response before we declare the winner.”

The game lasted no more than one round before the crow got bored. Qadaire smiled sourly at his opponent, petting the adolescent bird while hastily gathering and boxing the game pieces.

“No hard feelings. I’m overdue a visit to the greenhouse.”

The flourishing greenhouse on the edge of his property was a haven in the void. He’d accomplished plenty in his lifetime, but nothing as intimate as his garden. Similar to how the mansion was camouflaged by his magic, as was the greenhouse, where all plants prospered all year long. The rows and rows of plants, from helpful to deadly to unnecessary but beautiful, still evoked a cluster of contrasting emotions. He was able to visit the gardens during both night and day only because of the curse.

The first time the sun’s life-giving rays kissed his skin . . . that was the only time he’d been grateful for his deformity.

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