Page 33 of The Crow Games

Two bullets left.

Nola charged out from behind me and flung the growing storm. It landed with a powerful burst of red mist and a boom of thunder that shook the earth and sent the vultures running for cover. Bursts of lightning shot from the cloud, scorching the sand and striking against the walls of the maze.

“That’ll make them think twice,” Nola said, winded.

“You’re too spent,” I said. “I’ll get Ruchel.”

She didn’t have the breath to argue with me. Nola struggled with our bags, chest heaving, and I fumbled Ruchel up to her feet as best I could. I pulled her up onto my back, using her arms like straps. The rush of my racing heart helped, the panic fueling me and making me stronger. I wore her like a knapsack and carried her out of the building.

“You idiots should just leave me,” she groaned into my neck.

“If a giant shows up,” Nola said, jogging up beside me, “we’ll leave you in the street as bait while we make our escape.”

“Do you mean it?” Ruchel asked hopefully.

Nola snorted.

“Go back to sleep,” I told her. “You’re stuck with us.”

She mumbled something incoherent and was snoring against my neck moments later.

I was not as muscled as Nola. When I tired, we found another building, not far from the eastern well Blue had directed us to. Both Ruchel and Nola needed a rest. Nola ate the food from her knapsack. I gave her mine as well, fueling her back up as best we could.

I emptied my satchel of everything but water containers and went after the nearest well, revolver at hand in case I ran into trouble along the way. I was foiled by a dead end in the maze and had to backtrack, cutting through a building that looked like it had survived a terrible storm, windows gone, shattered glass everywhere. I climbed dilapidated stairs to the second story and spotted the well in the distance through a gaping hole where the brick had caved in.

The well was busy. A coven dressed in matching black uniforms I hadn’t seen on the train before took turns drawing out a bucket and rehydrating. The group was made of a strange pairing of magical beings. Witches with their scarves and amulets worked alongside warlocks wearing bone relics pinned to their collars.

A water devil sprang from the depths of the well. I saw a flash of blue scales, webbed claws, and flailing finned feet. The creature bit the face off the nearest warlock. A spray of blood wet the sand. The warlock fell dead. Gunshots rang out, and a burst of flame brought the devil down.

The coven cleared the pockets of the fallen and marched off, taking his firearm and leaving his body behind.

If there was another devil in that well, I didn’t stand a chance. Not weakened and alone. But then I recalled the way Nola always aimed her energy into her hands with her breath to make it more malleable. I opened the cylinder on the revolver. With the little magic I had left, I blew it onto the bullets, coating them in gray. Perhaps this way I could aid the bullet into causing some proper harm even against garm while still concealing my abilities.

I raced to the well. A close-up of the dead man turned my stomach. I had to roll him onto his side so I couldn’t see the damage done by devil teeth.

I drew out the bucket in an anxious frenzy. Shooting glances over my shoulder, I refilled our water supplies. I wet my face and neck to cool myself and double-checked that there was nothing useful in the pockets of the dead warlock. All I found was lint. I took his boots and stockings for trade, the discomfort I felt over raiding the dead already lessening in my heart. I ran back inside the building for cover, grateful no garm presented themselves.

I couldn’t leave Nola and Ruchel for long. There was no way we would make Blue’s timeline at the market, but the train was still well within our reach. We had water now. We could survive this. Things were looking up. I slowed inside the building, lulled into an easier pace by the cooler air in the shade.

And then I smelled him: leather, cedar oil, and magic.

The god spy was watching me again.

I aimed my revolver at the shadows where they grew darkest and fired a gray bullet at the crow.

Chapter 8

“The White One, the god of frost and snow, lost a battle of wills against Fria, the goddess of magic. She turned him to stone inside his mountain fortress, damning the North to an eternal cold.”– Esther Weil, Renowned Folklorist

Asher materialized with a grunt of pain. His pale face contorted under his midnight hood.

“That. Hurt,” he growled. A singed hole marred the leather of his waistcoat, right where his heart should be, if reapers even had such a thing. Angry black smoke billowed out of the tear.

Apparently, a crow could not be killed with a bullet. Even a magical one. If I survived this conflict, I’d tell Ruchel later to cross that off the list.

Just to be sure, I aimed my last shot at his face and cocked my revolver.

His shadows grabbed me from behind. A tendril of night wrapped my waist and both arms and pinned me against the brick wall hard enough to knock the air from my lungs. The darkness disarmed me. It swallowed up my revolver and the dagger at my hip. Asher crossed to me, steps brisk against the wooden floors, black eyes glowering, and he jerked the strap off my shoulder. His shadows opened wide like the yawning jaws of a great beast. He fed my satchel to his darkness, and it ate it all up.

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