Page 9 of Veil of Death and Shadow

I spun around, my arms shielding my head, and ran down the path, not looking back until I reached the staircase that led up to the street.

I took the uneven stairs two at a time, tripping a few times. I didn’t slow down though, ignoring my pounding headache and the stitch in my side, squinting against the sun as the park opened into the familiar neighborhood.

There was a strange stillness; not a person or car in sight, despite this usually being a heavily trafficked area during the day.

A quick glance behind me proved to be crow free, so I relaxed a little.

Wincing slightly, I peeled off my jacket. Every inch of my body pulsed and ached, like I’d been hit by a truck. I was also in serious need of a glass of water. My mouth felt like it was lined with sandpaper.

Something bounced off my head before dropping to the cement at my feet with a soft, metallic clang.

A ring.

I picked it up, the pad of my finger rolling over the familiar, spinning beads.

Myring.

I slid it on and stood up, before my brain had the wherewithal to process where it had come from.

When I glanced back, I found the satanic crow. It was a few inches away from my feet, standing inconspicuously on the sidewalk as if it hadn’t just tried to kill me, its head cocked to the side so one of its eyes could more directly lock on mine.

My thumb slid over the ring, and my memories started to stitch themselves back together.

Anniversary Extraordinaire.

Almost roadkill.

Mysterious man with the pretty hand.

Dead crow?—

Taking a deep breath, I glanced down at my feathered friend.

Not so dead.

Was it the crow’s friend? Or its mate? Do crows have mates? Or just murders?

Seattle was filled with crows, but as I mentally sorted through everything I knew about the species, it turned out the answer was, embarrassingly, very little.

I ran back down the stairs, back through the forest, until I found the spot of disheveled dirt and foliage where I’d watched the crow take its last breath.

Intuitively, I knew what I’d find but, logically, I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.

The patch of dirt was, well, just that—dirt. No dead crow in sight.

I turned around at the sound of soft rustling, to find the stalker crow hopping around awkwardly behind me, keeping more distance than he had before, as if he could sense my impending breakdown.

He was also very much alive.

Maybe he’d taken his friend somewhere?

Or, well, this was a forest. Home to all sorts of critters. Maybe some hungry crow-predator came and grabbed the corpse for a free, low-effort snack.

I shivered, sending a mental thanks that no coyotes had decided to pick at my flesh while I was passed out.

The crow ruffled its feathers, and I noticed that several of them stood out awkwardly on its right wing—like the wing was injured, maybe even broken.

My stomach lurched as I stared at him.

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