Page 21 of The Crow Games

“Is that a . . . ?” Liesel whispered, her voice small and bell-like. “But that’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

Emma pulled off her tall hat and scratched at her copper hair. “Doesn’t that mean a god is blessing the coven when it makes a symbol like that?”

Liesel let out a cheer. “It’s finally happened,” she squeaked. “We’ve been chosen by a god.”

“Not a blessing,” I growled.

It was a taunt. It had to be. The Old One would never choose me for anything after I’d ripped the roof off his home and attacked him.

“It looks like a blessing,” Blue said wistfully. “I suppose we’re the coven of the crow now.”

“Like Hel we are,” I groused. “Nola, what would you say to Elke if she came down here and tried to bless you?”

Nola’s expression darkened, and her hand grabbed for the hilt of the dagger at her belt. “I’d tell her she can take her blessing straight to Hel and stay there until her tits freeze off.”

“My feelings exactly.” I folded my arms over my chest, but the crow mark remained stubbornly on the wall. I glared at the shadows.

“Don’t insult the Lord of Death,” Blue said under her breath, then she added in a hiss, “especially when he’s listening!”

“Our backgrounds are diverse, our elements and specialties blended,” Ruchel said soothingly. “It’s best we don’t name a divine patron.”

“Especially notthatone,” I bit out.

Emma retrieved her sigil. The image of a bear was engraved into a block of pale ash wood. Balanced in her palm, the engraving glittered green.

“Keep it,” I said, gently brushing the offering away.

Emma’s brow furrowed. “Are . . . are you sure?”

“I’m a dunce with elemental sigils.” I had no connection to the earth. Lisbeth and I were able to mix basic potions because the ingredients themselves had the correct link, but our concoctions were poor substitutes for what a true green witch could do.

To make use of it, Emma would need to cast the sigil, and then I’d have to steal the magic from her with my spirit once the sigil was active. They wouldn’t be able to see me casting with gray, not in the way I could—unless they were like me—but Emma would feel it.

If my new coven had any sense at all, the moment they knew I was working spirit in such a way, they’d panic. She could keep the sigil. I didn’t want to get bashed in the head with Blue’s wand or stabbed with one of Nola’s many daggers.

I turned to leave.

“Maven,” Ruchel protested, following me.

“I don’t want an audience. Stay put here and wait for the barrier to open.” I patted the handle of my revolver peeking out of the waistband of my trousers. “I have everything I need right here.”

“Maven . . . live,” she said somberly. “That’s an order from your new high witch.”

“Yes ma’am.” I took her hand in mine and squeezed it with all the thanks and affection I had in my heart, but grief lingered in her eyes. Her lips trembled like she longed to say something else, but she kept them shut. I wanted to offer more words of comfort, but nothing came to mind. Lisbeth had always been better at that sort of thing than I.

I headed back toward the fork in the tunnel. Another roar shook the stones under my feet and blew out one of the torches. My spirit turned to lead in my chest.

“You can do this,” I whispered to myself. “Keep moving. One foot in front of the other. That’s got you through far worse things than this.”

Make the beast shit himself, Lisbeth said, and my magic stirred back to life sluggishly.

The walls were cracked and moist in this part of the tunnel. Down and down I went until the pressure shifted in my sinuses and my ears popped. The image of the broken crow decorated the dripping stones around me. Engravings of feathers fell from Death’s torn wing. The images evolved farther down the hall, the feathers stretching into cloaked shades, the making of the Old One’s reapers. The broken wing that remained was skeletal, and in the next engraving, the bones had been crafted into the train.

“Hold up there, duck,” Nola called.

I jumped. I hadn’t heard her footsteps coming up behind me.

“I really don’t want an audience,” I told her.

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