Page 34 of Heron's Flame

Until now, I felt a slight disconnect. Something had clicked while I was in the air, and whatever hindered a complete bond with the crows, my club brothers, and my ability to shift into the crow’s form disappeared.

“You feel it,” Hawk observed.

“I do.”

Talon nodded. “About damn time. You’re one of us now.”

“He always was,” Hawk pointed out, thumping my shoulder. “Just had to get his head outta his ass.”

I smirked. “Funny.”

“Crow will be happy. He’s been anxious about it.”

“I know. I guess it couldn’t be rushed.”

That was the truth. As soon as I stopped trying to make it happen, it occurred naturally. The bond with the crow strengthened further. I felt the murder circling our location, but the single bird that always dropped to greet me had revealed himself to be mine. His mind and my thoughts were linked. What he felt, I felt, and vice versa. Unlike the collective consciousness of the murder, he stood apart. Our link became unbreakable.

This knowledge settled something restless inside me. I didn’t have all the answers. The questions about my birth parents and lineage would linger until I found the truth about them. But I didn’t feel like I floundered, hopelessly trying to find my way in a sea of confusion. I felt grounded, no longer in turmoil, and the weight I had carried slipped away.

I wanted to share this revelation with Rebel.

Fuck. I needed to return to her and make this right. I was an asshole for pushing her before she was ready. Hell, I knew how that didn’t work. I experienced it. Why the fuck did I always have to be so damn stubborn?

“I need to talk to Rebel,” I announced, rushing away from Hawk and Talon. They snickered as I ran, dodging between people as I left the alley and rejoined the crowd.

The rally was busier now with the approaching night. The heat drove thirsty patrons to long lines at the beer stands and food stalls. I groaned in frustration when I got stuck behind a group with cuts I didn’t recognize.

The symbol caught my attention: a tombstone, shovel, and skull—the Grave Robbers MC.

Well, shit. This was the club that planned a meet with Crow. I pulled out my cell and checked the time. Shit! How the hell had I been gone for nearly two hours? How long did I fly with the crows?

Oh, no. Rebel! I left her alone for far too long. She was probably pissed.

I finally managed to squeeze through the crowd and rushed inside our tent. No Rebel. Only tables and chairs greeted me. The empty space felt cold. She hadn’t been here since I left. A feeling of dread spread into my stomach.

“Rebel,” I whispered. “Where are you?”

I snatched my phone from my pocket, swiped across the screen, and dialed her number. It rang five times, then clicked. That was weird. Did she see it was me and end the call?

She couldn’t ignore me forever. I dialed again. Her number went straight to voice mail.

Fuck.

I would try to text her then, hoping she’d read it and reply.

Rebel, I’m sorry. Please answer my call. I’m worried.

I waited five minutes. No reply.

Don’t shut me out. I just want to talk. You don’t have to do anything but listen.

After another five minutes, I decided to call her again. Maybe she teetered on the edge of forgiveness. That could happen. Right?

Nope. The call didn’t ring—instant voice mail.

Fuck!

Please, Spark. Let me make this right.

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