Page 12 of The Crow Games

“Perhaps he’s a prisoner like us?” Ruchel whispered hopefully, then she shivered. “I can’t sense whether he means us harm. I can’t read him at all. He’s too . . . not human.”

Nola shook her head. “In the months I’ve been stuck down here, I’ve never seen a crow anywhere but on the train. If he’s not a prisoner, it’s more likely he’s a—”

“Spy,” I hissed through gritted teeth. “Death’s spy.”

Was he here for me? Did his vengeful maker want to know how I was faring with my punishment? I gripped my new dagger so tightly that the metal fixtures in the hilt bit into my palm. If this crow had come for me, I’d show him and his god exactly how I was faring. Gray magic stirred in my chest, my spirit readying itself.

A shadowy hood hid most of his hair, but a few strands of bone-white fell across his brow. There was no wind, but full of Death’s gifted magic, his cloak billowed and rippled like angry waves caught in a maelstrom.

We waited for him to act, but the reaper didn’t flinch. He perched like the crow he was named for, sharp chin cocked to the side.

The glow of the unusual sky brought out the blush undertones in his fair skin. A leather waistcoat, double-breasted from a fashion era long past, covered his chest. Bottomless black eyes stared straight through the web of branches to pin me in place. In an instant, I felt picked apart and seen through. My skin pebbled. I wanted to disappear into the sandy dirt under my feet.

I tried to be as formidable as he under the press of his scowl, but my bravado was forced. It was sheer spite that kept me from withering.

I glared back.

A trail of sweat dripped down my neck, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. I grew tired of this standoff. Nola had pointed her middle fingers at me earlier, but there was a more ancient way to show disdain that seemed appropriate for an ageless being like him.

I crossed the middle and forefinger of my left hand and waved them at him, a gesture wishing bad luck and treachery upon its target.

“Have you lost your mind?” Ruchel caught hold of my sleeve and jerked my hand down. “Don’t antagonize the crow.”

Nola chuckled. “Stop making me like you, ducky. The odds of you surviving your first trial are not in your favor. I prefer to like you less.”

The crow’s back pulled up straight. For a split second his cloak stopped rippling. It reminded me of the way a feral dog’s tail went still when the animal became agitated. The shadows returned, billowing up from the bottom of his cloak to cover him fully. Then his darkness melted into the gables like mist evaporating under the burn of the sun.

In a blink, he was gone.

We didn’t move for several long seconds. It was Nola who stood first, parting from the tree to better search the area for danger. She beckoned for us to follow. We took the path where the skirmish had broken out between the warlocks and witches. Out of respect for the dead, Ruchel did not touch the fallen.

Nola and I had significantly less respect.

Nola found a better set of boots. She kicked her worn pair off and gifted them to Ruchel, whose mismatched set wouldn’t do much longer. I found a half-empty canteen and a revolver in the coat pocket of one of the warlocks.

“That’s a great find,” Nola said, a hint of envy in her tone.

“Did you want it?” I offered, eager to create more goodwill between us. If they had allies, I wanted to be amongst them fully.

“I don’t need one,” Nola said, her smile smug. “I’m my own firearm . . . Does it have any rounds?”

Aiming the short barrel safely at the ground, I slid back the latch and swiveled the cylinder free from its frame. “Four cartridges,” I told her before locking the cylinder back into place with an audible click.

“Use thoseverysparingly,” she cautioned.

I moved the pocket pistol my sister had given me back into my boot where it belonged.

“That’s a pretty thing,” Nola said, eyeing my boot longingly.

“No ammunition, though,” I told her. “It’s hard to find specialty rounds small enough even in the Upper Realm. I bet I’ll have a Hel of a time finding more down here.” I tucked the loaded revolver into the front of my waistband, keeping it close at hand.

“It would make a decent tribute if there’s a god at the end of this trial,” Nola said. She removed her woolen coat, then the shirt beneath, stripping down to her camisole before trading for the fresher linen of the fallen warlock at her feet.

I flinched. “It was a gift,” I said softly. My stomach turned at the thought of handing it over to a god to play with like some trinket before tossing it aside, bored. Too many of the gods had the temperament of a child. “My sister gave it to me, and I haven’t much left of her . . .”

The metal amulet hanging from my neck felt suddenly heavy.

“Staying alive beats being sentimental,” Nola said, and though I knew there was wisdom in that, her words cut anyway. “If we need it to get back onto the train, then—”

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