 
Crows

Grace Harney

First Edition

Copyright 2017 Grace Harney

All Rights Reserved.

www.graceharney.com

First Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
Table of Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

Sneak Peek - Crows II: The Morrígan

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

About the Author
Dedicated to my amazing husband, Ross.

Thank you for giving me my foundation, one that's sturdy and dependable. It gives me comfort to know it will endure for the rest of my life, regardless of what happens. I love you.
Acknowledgments

Thank you, my dear friends, Candy and Walter, for taking time out of your busy schedules to read my manuscript, and for giving me valuable feedback and encouragement.

Thank You God, for everything I know You've done in my life—and everything I don't.

**1**

"Artemis, I gotta talk to you."

My determined voice didn't faze her. She let me stand there at her cafeteria table. I was the clown, and she was the queen basking in the glow of her noblewomen. Finally, she gave me a sidelong look, as if I wasn't worth the trouble it would take to turn her head. "You ruined a fifteen-hundred dollar wool skirt, Annie," she accused, taking a sip of her ice tea. "What do you want?"

"Fifteen-hundred?" I asked, wrinkling my nose. "Really? I'm actually a little proud of myself."

She looked at me head-on now. So did her friends.

"Ooh," I mocked. "Can we skip this crap today? I have to talk to you about something." I turned grim without wanting to. "Something really important."

She drained the last of her tea and stood. The other girls followed, one of them disposing of her empty bottle without even being asked, like a good little pet. I didn't know whether to laugh or to puke. Artemis picked up her bag from the floor, a teal-colored, crocodile-skin tote bag from Dolce and Gabbana. It gleamed in the overhead lights, flashing in my eyes. "Go tell someone who cares."

"Artemis, I'm not kidding," I insisted, my voice tinged with desperation. "Just listen."

"Why can't you just go away?" She asked irritably.

"Because this is important. You're planning something this Friday, aren't you?"

She rolled her eyes. "Everyone knows about the party—even a loser like you."

I leaned in close. "I'm not talking about _that_." I lifted a brow meaningfully. "You know what I'm talking about."

She stared back at me, her baby-doll eyes suddenly wide and unblinking. She relaxed and replied breezily, "No, I don't. You're just crazy. Are you sure you don't belong in special ed? Or maybe a mental institution? My dad's a neurologist, I'm sure he could recommend someone." She turned to her friends with a grin. "Hopefully someone who specializes in electroshock ther—"

I grabbed her arm. I wanted to shake her. "You know exactly what I'm talking about, you haughty bitch." I looked around at the others. "Actually, you all do."

Artemis pulled herself away and smoothed the wrinkles I'd made in her sweater. She glanced at her friends. "Do you guys know what she's talking about?"

They shrugged, shaking their heads. Giggling.

Artemis looked at me, a self-satisfied smile on her face. "Looks like you're just crazy, Annie."

"You're going to be sorry." I turned and started walking away, feeling insulted and humiliated.

"I already am sorry," I heard her say. "Sorry I have to deal with pathetic freaks like you."

***

Okay, so we weren't exactly bosom buddies. Especially not after the whole skirt incident. To be honest, we never talked, even though my brother was dating her. The last time we _did_ exchange a few colorful words, she'd been making fun of Holly Buckley's perpetually greasy hair. Artemis christened her Udder Butter a year ago, in tenth grade. First of all, let's be fair. Holly's hair looked like she'd washed it in a vat of discarded fat from a fryer. Seriously, didn't the girl know about soap? I hate to admit it, but Artemis definitely had a point. But one week before Christmas break, Artemis had outdone herself. Before first period, during homeroom—while I tried to squeeze in a few minutes of naptime using my backpack as a pillow—she gave Holly a pale purple gift basket, wrapped with cellophane. Holly sensed something fishy and meekly declined to take the peace offering. But Artemis had her friends with her and outnumbered Holly three to one. They urged and coaxed her to take it. Finally giving in, if only they'd leave her alone, Holly accepted it.

The girls backed away into their seats, never once taking their eyes off Holly. To me, it was a red flag. I raised my head off my folded arms. Holly delicately unraveled the golden tie around the cellophane, then pulled apart the twisted plastic. When she gave a gasp—not of delight, but horror—my heart sank.

Artemis and the others hid behind their mirrors and hairbrushes or just a row of curled fingers and knuckles, hiding their smiles.

Holly's shoulders trembled. I knew she was struggling not to react. But Holly fought a losing battle because within a couple of minutes, while the teacher was in the middle of roll call, Holly snatched her things and ran out. A strangled sob echoed in the hallway along with Holly's hastily departing footsteps. The teacher peeked into the hallway, confused, but seemed to decide to deal with her later.

Artemis stood up to pick up the 'gift' basket. I reached over and snatched it up by the handle before she could. I looked in and saw a bunch of different bottles. They looked like shampoo at first glance, but there was a picture of a dog on one. And a cat on another. And right in the middle, a yellow jar of Corona Udder Butter. I glared up at her. "Artemis, you cruel fucking cunt."

The teacher's head bolted up when he heard me. A ripple of ooohs spread through the class. "Annie Murphy, I'll not have that kind of language in my class."

"Sorry," I replied, "but I tell it like it is."

More _oooh_ ing.

"Funny," he said dryly. "I've got something funnier for you—go wait outside for me." He nodded irritably at the basket. "What is that?"

Artemis shrugged. "Just some hair products."

Ignoring my teacher, I picked one up, flicked open the lid, and sprayed a stream of yellow goop at her like I was slashing her with a knife. It got her right across the chest and down her white wool skirt. She gasped, frankly too stunned to react. The overly-sweet artificial fragrance filled the room immediately.

The teacher freaked out. "Get out of my class!" He got in my face. "I said, wait outside for me."

"You bitch!" Artemis shrieked at me.

I doused her some more with Happy Paws Shiny Coat for Dogs for good measure. I got her in the hair too. I'd just created a new meaning for the word highlights. Score.

Since the teacher couldn't put his hands on me—school policy—he moved his body between us, arms out in defense of Artemis. "Out!" He barked at me.

I started walking out with the basket when I realized I needed my backpack. There usually wasn't anything useful in there—just a bunch of textbooks, notes, and study guides. But today I couldn't leave it behind. I picked it up and followed Holly to the girl's room.

I knew she'd be in there, shaking like a leaf and crying her eyes out. Something about her made her easy prey for people like Artemis. Holly was like a gerbil trapped inside a house with a starving, feral cat for company. I saw one stall closed and heard wet sniffing.

"Holly?"

No answer.

"Look, you don't want to leave this thing lying around, do you? Everyone will know what Artemis gave you for Christmas."

She opened the door and snatched it from me. She tried to close the door but I blocked it. "You gotta learn how to stay cool. Why do you let her get to you?"

She glumly shook her head and collapsed back down on the closed toilet.

I sighed and put my hand into my bag. "I got this for you."

She frowned dully in question.

I showed it to her. There was a flash of anger in her eyes.

"Don't get upset," I said. "Be cool."

She followed my advice and contained it. "Is this your idea of a joke?" She asked.

I shoved the object into her hand. "No. You just need to wash your damn hair."

"I do wash it," she replied, sounding wounded. "I have a skin condition."

_Oh boy._ "Well, try this. It's citrus. Sixty bucks from Bath and Body Works," I added proudly.

Her bloodshot, swollen eyes widened. "You bought this for me?"

"Nah. I...had it lying around." I smiled. "And if you use it right now, you'll be smelling way better than Artemis for the rest of the day."

She opened it and breathed it in deeply. Then something occurred to her. "Wait a minute, how did you know she was going to give me the...?" She couldn't even say it. She just waved at it.

I shrugged and lied, "Lucky guess."

***

Anyway, it was just bad timing that I assaulted Artemis with pet shampoo one week before her party. I tried every day to get her to cancel the other special event she had planned, but of course, it had to be that particular day because her parents were away. I had to keep trying, even though Artemis was as likely to listen to me as she was to offer a sincere apology to Holly for the evil Christmas present.

So that's why, by Friday morning, I'd decided on my last course of action: Sneak into the party and keep an eye on Artemis myself. Then I could pop out from behind a curtain and go, I told you so. Seriously, if I was a superhero, that would be my catchphrase. Of course, in Artemis' case, it might be too late by then.

Artemis' parents owned a massive two-story chalet at the edge of Mirror Lake, aptly named for the way a clear night sky in the summer seemed to have crashed to the ground like a curtain. Right now, in the middle of winter, a cookie-thin layer of clear ice rested on top. Artemis' chalet glowed with eerie blue and white Christmas lights. A gauzy reflection splayed itself over the frozen lake. The house was just an extension of Artemis herself—beautiful on the outside, chaotic, loose and wicked on the inside.

I felt sick at the thought of going in there. I was about to chicken out when I spotted her at the edge of her driveway. I walked over to her, relieved that maybe I wouldn't have to set foot inside the house. The thought of doing so gave me a falling sensation in the pit of my stomach. Like I was falling forever, along with everyone else in the house, falling without a rope or a lifeline, and not caring one little bit if they stopped against the ground below in one irreparable mess.

Two senior boys from school trailed after her. I wouldn't associate with either of them under ordinary circumstances. But the jackass in the black and white football jacket and tourmaline class ring was my brother, Johnny. When he noticed me, he frowned. "What are _you_ doing here?" He demanded, his voice stuck in that constant, unwavering tone of mortal hatred. It didn't matter if he said something matter-of-fact, like, it's raining. He'd find a way to make it sound like it was my fault. Of course, not much happened that _wasn't_ my fault. Everything that went wrong in his stellar life, every screw-up started with me, the mother of all fuck-ups.

I walked up to Artemis really fast, grabbed her arm and pulled her aside. She stumbled a little bit, obviously drunk. A chocolate diamond necklace around her neck swung back and forth wildly. She hefted a thick, leather-and-fabric-bound book from one arm to the other. It had a quilted black and white crow on the front. One beady black eye gazed out at me.

"Can I talk to you?" I said to her.

"Ew, get away from me." She pulled her arm away, tucked the big volume between her legs, and rubbed her arm like she'd become grimy just from me touching her. Johnny put an arm protectively around his girlfriend's shoulders. He carried a shopping bag. It was from the Raven City Witch Shop, a white bag with purple and black Celtic patterns. He handed it to her.

"You're sure this is all of it?" She asked, taking the bag and looking inside eagerly.

"I'm sure," Johnny replied.

Artemis smiled and dropped the huge book inside.

"Look, this is serious," I said.

Artemis looked at me boredly and said, "Get off my property."

I shook my head and gritted my teeth. "Will you stop behaving like a princess for one minute and just listen?"

"Get off my property before I call the cops."

"I don't care what she says," the other guy began, his eyes crinkling at the corners, a laugh in his voice, "but you, Annie, are my hero," he said to me.

"What?" I asked, confused.

"You're the one that put pet shampoo in Arty's hair, aren't you? I heard all about it." Speaking of hair, his fell in dark brown waves around his head, shiny and voluminous, like he'd used a gallon of conditioner. It moved with the slightest flick of his head, the tiniest breeze. Scott had always been good-looking, but he was a little too much like family, so it made me feel perverted to think it. He'd been best friends with Johnny for years.

"Yeah, Scott," Artemis snapped before I could say anything. "She's the one. She's a bitch and she doesn't belong at my house."

Scott laughed and stepped around my brother. He put his hand way up in the air for a high five. "Nice work," he said to me.

"Scott!" Artemis whined.

I observed Scott's hand with disdain. "I don't think so."

Johnny reached up and pulled Scott's hand down. "Don't."

Scott looked let down and slightly embarrassed.

"Scott, don't you love me anymore?" Artemis asked and wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tilted her head back, as if for a kiss.

Scott shook his head and clicked his tongue. "Can't you ever keep your hands off me?"

"I can't help it. You always were cute."

Johnny pulled Artemis off Scott. "Will you cut it out?" He said irritably. "Your current boyfriend is standing right here."

Artemis giggled. "Whoops."

Johnny turned to me. "Who invited you?"

"No one," I replied.

"What were you going to tell Artemis?" Johnny asked me.

"That's none of your business."

"Well, you better get lost. Or I'll call the police myself to have you escorted off the premises."

"Aw, what's the matter, Johnny?" I taunted him. "You scared of me?"

He released Artemis, stepped over, and gave me a hard push, catching me by surprise. "Get lost!" He barked at me, his voice an octave higher than normal. I could smell alcohol on his breath and he had a slightly wild look in his eyes.

I stumbled and fell back into the snow with a grunt. Artemis stifled a snigger, which escaped as a strange hiccup.

"Hey, what the hell was that?" Scott demanded. He immediately reached a hand down to help me. I refused it with a shake of my head, stood up, and dusted my butt off.

"Get the hell outta here before I make you," Johnny threatened me.

"Artemis, just let me talk to you," I pleaded finally to her.

She looked ready to relent. Maybe the booze had dulled her bitchy edge down. "Why don't you come inside? It _is_ Christmastime."

"No," Johnny snapped. "She always ruins everything." He lowered his voice. "We need to get ready for that thing, don't we? We have to do it tonight, right?"

Artemis conceded with a nod, then looked at me. "Look, just call me later." Then she astonished me with a hug around my shoulders. "I'll be all ears, okay? I promise."

"If I were you, I wouldn't listen to her," Johnny said and tugged Artemis toward her house. "Let's go."

"Yeah, let's go inside," Artemis agreed, shivering. She hugged Johnny for warmth.

Johnny looked menacingly over his shoulder to make sure I was leaving and saw Scott still standing there.

"You okay?" Scott asked me.

"I'm fine."

"Come on!" Johnny called, annoyed. "You'll get away from her if you know what's good for you."

I flipped Johnny the bird and walked away, all the way to my car, out of sight of Artemis' chalet. I sat in my car and warmed up a little bit and thought about simply leaving. I'd done my best to warn Artemis—I couldn't help her if she didn't want to listen right now.

I started the car, ready to pull out when I decided I couldn't just leave. I groaned at my stupidity, thumping my skull against the headrest.

I shut the car off, my mind resolved to tell her about my bad feeling, no matter what, and entered her place. I got some strange looks. Everyone knew what had happened between her and me, how I'd spurted shampoo on her, cursed like a drunken sailor, didn't comply by the teacher's order to wait outside, and been suspended for two days. Maybe I should have worn a disguise. But no amount of make-up and clothes could help me blend in with the entitled debutantes permeating this party. I spotted Artemis and Johnny climbing up the stairs, along with a few other girls. The Witch Shop bag swung back and forth from Artemis' grip, drawing my gaze even though it was fairly innocuous. I moved deeper into the house so Johnny wouldn't see me from his vantage point.

Just being in here was sickening. I could smell skunk, but I couldn't see who was smoking it. The air seemed to be infused with it, like a twisted temple incense. From the darkened archway between the living room and kitchen, I could, however, see who was selling. Scott made his way through the party like a seasoned pro, shaking hands and making sales. He'd be giving someone a rough hug, some loud slaps on the back, while with the other hand he'd slip something into their jacket pocket. He'd shake someone's hand, passing off a little vial or two. He'd pat a girl on the butt, letting his hand linger while his fingers slipped a little item wrapped in red cloth into her jeans. Contrary to what it might look like, Scott wasn't selling drugs. He was selling spells. Everyone knew he was the guy to go to when you wanted something that just didn't seem to be in stars—that awesome pair of jeans, that bedroom makeover, that special guy or girl.

When he spotted me lurking there, he came straight for me. "I thought you left."

"Don't tell Johnny you saw me, all right?"

"Sure, no problem."

I turned away and headed for the kitchen, Scott in tow. I needed something to calm myself down. I needed a beer. Or a shot. Anything. I couldn't help Artemis if I was a nervous wreck. Maybe I was worried and feeling sick about nothing. Maybe it was just in my head. I had, after all, been wrong before. I'd been wrong in the worst way. _This is no time to think about that!,_ I scolded myself.

I reached for some kind of pretentious imported beer sitting on the granite counter. I used a bottle opener lying on the floor. I gulped at the beer. It was horrible.

"You don't look so good," Scott remarked. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I muttered. Force of habit. I checked through the doorway for Artemis. I watched her disappear upstairs.

Scott leaned one elbow on the counter. "Are you a lesbian?" He asked curiously.

I gave him a dirty look.

He picked up a wet shot glass and poured me something. "You know," he began, "I've never seen you with a boyfriend. And you just keep looking at Arty." He extended the shot, flourishing it like a rose.

I shook my head. "I'm just worried about her," I said without thinking.

Scott blinked, perplexed. "You are? Why?" He poked a thumb over his shoulder. "Believe me, Artemis can take care of herself. She is one tough bitch."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

In response, I just simply looked up the stairs again. Of course, I couldn't see anything but vacated stairs.

Scott sighed, took my wrist like he was checking my pulse. "I'm a little concerned about your symptoms. You want me to give you something? A little shamanic sample? The witch doctor's in the house."

I took my hand away, stared at him over the bottle as I drank some more. "Beer will be just fine, thanks."

"Well, if you change your mind, I'm here all night."

"Gee, can I have a business card?"

"Look, I know you have my number. Just ask me out and get it over with."

"Sure. It's on my list. Right after 'hang myself'." My gaze went up the stairs again.

Scott looked ready to leave, but then he said, "Come on. Let's go see what they're up to."

I hesitated and looked down at Scott's calloused hand. "Come on," he said and smiled his best, charming smile. "I don't bite." He paused and bobbed a brow. "Unless you want me to."

"Scott?"

"Yeah, baby."

"Stop hitting on me, okay?"

"What's the matter, you don't like it?"

"No."

Scott laughed and took the shot himself. He cringed slightly. Coughed. "Do you know how I know you're lying?"

"No. How?" I asked sarcastically.

"Because every girl likes it when I hit on her."

"I'm not like other girls."

I expected him to say something stupid, but he nodded sagely. "I always knew that." He gave my hand a squeeze. Then left.

I drank another beer, but even after two, it was becoming unbearable downstairs. My anxiety kept climbing. A sick feeling kept charging up my spine every few moments, settling at the base of my skull, a twinge at first, then a full-on headache. I kept feeling like something was stabbing away at the back of my neck like a psycho with a blade. The feeling wouldn't go away.

I snuck upstairs where it was quieter. The sensation at the back of my neck changed. It began to feel like a rope, a noose pulling me back. Maybe I should just leave. Something else was here, something unnatural, otherworldly. This floor lay in darkness, quiet, except for the bass reverberating from down below. Every step I took became heavier. By the time I reached Artemis' door—I knew which was hers, even though I'd never been to her house before—I gasped for air. The invisible noose around my neck had tightened into a band of metal around my chest, full of nails and broken glass, shoving, prodding, suffocating.

I couldn't go on anymore. I gave up. I turned around—then uttered startled scream.

Scott jumped, equally startled. "Sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." He tilted his head. "What's wrong? You looked really pale."

I was shaking, but I felt braver with Scott beside me. Brave enough to just go those last few steps to warn Artemis. I tried her door. Locked. I jiggled the handle. "Open the door!"

"Get lost!" One of Artemis' friends barked.

"Open the door! Artemis, don't drink it!"

"Go away!" Came the voice from inside.

"Don't drink it!"

To my surprise, the door flew open and a very tall girl blocked most of my view of the bedroom's interior. Her name was Moira. She wore a flowing, white, low-cut dress that showed off her smooth cleavage. A crown of white flowers rested on her head. She would have looked angelic, but her shoulders were a bit too wide, her neck too thick, and her expression meaner than an angry Rottweiler's. She grabbed me by my jacket and yanked me close. "I said, get lost," she literally growled in my face.

Scott reached out and grabbed Moira's butch hands. Moira was roughly his height. She released me, but glared contemptuously at him, and he shrank back. "Just relax. She's had a little too much to drink."

"No I haven't!" I protested. I looked past Moira and saw Artemis—naked as the day she was born and coated with red paint from neck to ankles—swig the last of a drink out of a brass goblet. Artemis' other friends—and a masked guy—all turned to look at us. The guy's mask portrayed a black, feathery monster with a long beak. A crow. A black and white robe lay on the ground, on top of a huge, chalked pentagram. He was naked, too, painted black, neck to ankles. He snatched the robe and covered himself, shoving the mask upward, off his face. Johnny. His skin glowed red from embarrassment and the heat in the room, generated by about fifty candles. "Get the hell outta here, Annie!"

Moira looked ready to push me, but Scott took me around the waist and gently nudged Moira away.

"There better not be any more interruptions," Moira threatened, her green eyes narrowing dangerously as she went to close the door.

"Yes, Ma'am," Scott said, saluting her, and pulled me away.

Moira slammed the door and locked it again.

"Are you crazy?" Scott whispered to me. "Getting into a fight with that bulldog. She'd crush you."

"Artemis shouldn't have taken the drink."

"Why?" He asked. "And more importantly, how do you know?"

Without conviction, I muttered, for the second time that week, "Lucky guess."
2

When I woke up later my mouth smacked open like dried leather. I didn't even know where I was at first. Then I remembered. Artemis' parents' room. The whole night came rushing back like old guilt.

My neck cracked from having slept inside the closet floor. My blouse was undone, and though I couldn't see it, I knew a hickey marked my throat. In a sudden rush of panic, I looked down at my legs. My jeans and belt were still done up. I sighed in relief. No guy was going to do up my belt after doing me.

What the hell was I thinking? And where the hell was Scott?

I jumped to my feet. A head rush made me stagger. I steadied myself and scooped up my phone from the nightstand. I checked the bathroom, peeked into the hallway. Artemis' house was quiet and still, the calm after a killer tornado. From upstairs, looking down at the living room, it certainly looked like a natural disaster had ripped through here. Johnny and Artemis were down there. Johnny was picking up garbage and Artemis was cleaning fruity, sticky alcohol from the TV screen, stereo buttons, and coffee table.

I checked for Scott, but he was nowhere to be found. I couldn't believe it. He'd been so kind to me last night. Sat with me until I forgot about Artemis. Let me enjoy the warmth of his hard body against mine. Enjoy the silky smoothness of his hair running between my fingers. It had all gone south—or _hadn't_ gone south—when I told him I wasn't drunk enough to do _that_.

_That's okay,_ he'd said. _I gotta get going anyway_.

I'd had way too much pride to ask him to stay. He left without saying goodbye. I couldn't tell if I'd hurt his feelings, pissed him off or if he was just sexually frustrated. Scott turned colder than a dead fish on ice. I just couldn't read him after that.

Artemis' room still contained remnants of their ritual from last night. The lush burgundy rug was rolled away, revealing the interlocking wooden floor and a pentagram drawn with black chalk. A couple of the red candles placed at the tips of the pentagram were knocked over, but the rest of the candles were gone. The room smelled of burned cotton wicks and body paints. The book I'd seen Artemis holding sat closed, leaning against the dresser. I hadn't seen the title the night before. It said, _The Badb's Grimoire._ The hooded crow on front stared piercingly out of one black, glass eye. It seemed to follow me around the room, like it knew I'd been ditched last night.

I bent down to pick it up, but felt a forbidding sensation as I came nearer. A darkness seemed to envelop it like a queen's decadent robe. I looked around the room, recalling the stabbing feeling on my neck last night as I came upstairs. Just as I thought of it, my gaze fell on a lustrous dagger sitting in a stand, the rounded point sticking straight up. It was made of some type of blackish, shiny metal, embedded with black obsidian gems of all different sizes. I didn't want to touch that, either.

Something slithered in the edge of my peripheral, near the floor. It then shifted to the wall, looming. When I turned to look, it was gone. It had been in the shape of a cobra, the hood expanded. But there was no way a shadow could be cast on the wall. The lighting was wrong, and cobras didn't exist in this part of the world. It was also the middle of winter and way too cold for a snake to survive. The skin on the back of my neck prickled and my heart began to race. And it wasn't because of my hangover.

A little giggle sounded behind me. "What are _you_ doing here?"

I spun around. Artemis wore a surprisingly chaste set of powder-blue pajamas with small pink tufts in the shape of rabbits. It matched her blanket's design, which was a darker shade of blue with babyish purple polka dots. Her face had a healthy flush. Her hair lay in a tousled mane. Some left-over red paint marked her wrists and neck.

"I—I was looking for..."

But even though I didn't say, she seemed to figure it out. Her eyes observed my unbuttoned blouse, the hickey on my neck. She gave a smirk that made me feel very small. "Scott?" She finished mockingly. "Aww, did he leave you?"

She walked past me without waiting for an answer and pulled the pajama top over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra. She pulled down the bottoms—no underwear either. She tossed the red-stained clothes into her hamper and sauntered into her bathroom. She turned on the shower. "You want some breakfast?" She called from inside.

I did a mental double take. _Breakfast?_ What was wrong with this girl?

"No," I called back and went into the bathroom. Steam filled the room, condensing on the icy, wispy-pink tiles. "Are you feeling okay?" I asked her.

"I feel great," she replied. Through the frosted glass door, I watched the red run off her body like she was cleaning away blood stains. "What was all that about last night?" She asked curiously.

"All what?"

"You barged in, screaming that I shouldn't drink that stuff."

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I just had a bad feeling."

She kept silent for a while, then turned off the shower. She stuck out a dripping hand, waiting for a towel. Ordinarily, I would have told the princess to get her own damn towel, but I still had that bad feeling churning in my gut. I pulled a towel off the rack and handed it to her.

She stepped out, wrapped. She took some tissue and wiped down the mirror of condensation. She pulled a pair of tweezers from a drawer and began to pluck her eyebrows. "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about last night? Your bad feeling?"

When I didn't answer, she gave me a look in the mirror that said, _Well?_

"Yeah, that was it."

She shrugged and started to put on moisturizer. "Johnny told me you're sort of psychic. Do you ever get it wrong?"

"Yeah. Sometimes."

"So you just made an idiot out of yourself last night?"

I looked at her and decided there was no reason for me to worry about her anymore. "Yeah, I guess I did. You're doing just fine, aren't you?"

She put away the tweezers and squeezed my cheek. "Better than ever."

She left the bathroom and got dressed, this time taking the trouble to wear undergarments.

"Don't feel bad about Scott, you know. You're not really his type. He likes his girls real pretty. Like him. He was drunk and he probably didn't know what he was doing when he went with you."

I watched a humiliated blush rise to my face in the mirror. She watched me from the bedroom, through the open door.

"You want some breakfast? You brother eats like a friggin' farm animal. It'll all be gone if you don't go down there, like, right now."

She used her towel to dry her hair.

I looked at the hickey Scott had left on my neck, thought about the way he'd flirted with me last night, almost relentlessly. The way he'd made me feel desired. But her words continued to dig at me. I felt weak and sick and she seemed to be able to sense it.

She returned to the bathroom and started to blow dry her hair in front of the mirror. A wet lock hit me in the face. She laughed at me when I recoiled. I moved back into her bedroom.

There was no point in being here anymore. Unless I wanted to endure more of her patented brand of psychological torture.

I was ready to walk out when I noticed that she'd left jewelry sitting around in the open. Clusters of diamond earrings and heavy gold chains and chunky charm bracelets tossed together like assorted candy in a dish. One interesting necklace, placed in a position of prominence, caught my eye. The one she'd been wearing last night. I glanced at her. She was too busy to notice me. It was often the case with us not-so-pretty girls. Barely noticed. Barely noted. I picked up the necklace and looked at it under the light of the morning sun cutting through the window. A circular chocolate diamond pendant on a white gold chain. One large, chocolate diamond in the middle glinted. I positioned it around my neck and felt its cold touch against my collarbone. It looked rather delectable paired with my pixie-cut, brown hair, with my gray-ringed, haunted, hazel eyes. Though it wasn't mine, it looked like it could belong there. As I walked out of the bedroom, I dropped the necklace in my pocket. "Hey, Artemis."

She turned off the blow dryer so she could hear me. "Yeah?"

"Go fuck yourself. Because no guy is ever going to again."

She laughed hard, turned the blow-dryer back on. "Whatever you say."

After hunting down my jacket in Artemis' parents' room, I went downstairs.

Johnny was too busy stuffing his stupid face in the kitchen to notice me sneaking out. His back was to me as he watched the flat-screen mounted on the wall. Apparently, a huge blizzard was about to hit in a couple of days.

When I stepped outside, I glanced back at her house, vapor billowing out of my mouth like a chimney. I shivered and pulled my jacket closed around me.

I ran to my car, which was parked about a block away, and dove in. The heater couldn't warm up fast enough. Shivering, I wondered why I said that stuff, right at the end. Sometimes I say stuff that isn't true. Sometimes I just don't want it to be.
3

Most houses in Raven City were some variation of large wooded properties with chalets perched on top of posts. They sat at the end of long, winding driveways, giving the impression of those isolated houses people usually saw in slasher films where there's a psychopath outside trying to get in and murder everyone with a serrated hunting knife. So basically, pretty comforting in general. I turned the rear-view mirror to face me and checked my neck. The hickey Scott left was kind of obvious, so I used some foundation from my purse to cover it up and pat it down with some powder.

I walked through the front door and found my father sitting at the kitchen table to the side, clutching the cordless phone, with an array of cell phones on the table in front of him. "Where the hell have you been?" He demanded, rising to his feet.

I stopped in my tracks. Totally forgot to check in with him. "I'm sorry," I blurted immediately.

"Johnny wasn't picking up his phone, you weren't picking up your phone—what am I supposed to think?! I was this close to calling the police, and you _know_ how I feel about them!"

I felt a chill go through my body. "Please, Dad, you don't have to call the police."

"Where's Johnny?"

"He's fine. He's with Artemis."

"What the hell is wrong with your neck?" He asked, annoyed.

My hand went up to hide it. "Nothing."

A knowing look came over my dad's face. His face turned a bit paler, but his expression grew stoic. He asked bracingly, "Did you have sex last night?"

I pulled my head back, disgusted. "How much of a slut do you think I am?"

My dad shook his head. "You said it, not me."

"I didn't have sex with anyone."

My dad relaxed visibly. "Good," he said, although his tone sounded more like, _Thank God._ "Now go get ready. I gotta go to work. We'll have breakfast before I go."

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to put something in your stomach. Smells like you've been drinking."

I wanted to tell him that I wanted to sleep more than anything, but I had the feeling I wouldn't get to spend much time with him if I passed this up. "Okay. Where are we going to eat?"

"Henry's."

I cringed internally, already regretting that I'd agreed to join him for breakfast. If I wasn't mistaken, Scott still worked there.

***

Henry's Diner had been around since the fifties. It still had the cherry-red bar stools and the checkered black-and-white floor. Its yellow light fixtures cast a warm glow that was visible through the windows, offset nicely by the red and chrome accents on the outer walls. It was so authentic that the owner, Scott's uncle, Henry, had been presented with awards from the mayor's office and the state. Henry's Diner had even served as a set for some historical films over the years. Photos of celebrities posing with a proud, grinning Henry were mounted on the wall behind the counter.

As my dad and I stepped out of the car and made our way across the tiny lot, a figure rounded the building and headed for the entrance. Scott. It looked like he'd just finished break, jogging over to politely hold the door open for us. He smiled like nothing had happened and greeted me. My dad he greeted with a respectful _Sir_.

"You want the usual, Sir?" He asked when we sat down and a bony, middle-aged waitress filled two mugs with hot coffee and placed sugar and cream down.

"Yeah, Scott, thanks. How's your uncle?"

"He's doing great. How are you doing?"

"Just fine. A little hungry."

Scott laughed just the right amount, even though nothing my dad had said was funny at all, just annoying.

Scott turned to me. "And how are you doin', young lady?"

I rolled my eyes away from him. "I'll have what my dad's having." I had to limit our interaction as much as possible. I barely even looked at him. He wore a white shirt with a red and white checkered apron around the waist. He'd gelled up his hair in a faux-hawk, almost like he was in costume. What an idiot. Maybe he could fool other people, but he couldn't fool me. It was before ten in the morning, just a few hours after Artemis' party. I could just about feel how hard his head was pounding, and those gray circles under his bloodshot eyes weren't helping matters for him. He made out the kitchen slip. Without looking up, he asked, "Where's your brother?"

"He's with Artemis."

Scott shook his head. "They're joined at the hip, those two. In more ways than one."

"Ugh," I groaned.

Scott realized he'd just made an inappropriate joke in front of an adult. He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry."

My dad seemed eager to forget about it. "It's quite all right."

"Us teenagers and our hormones, am I right?" Scott asked self-deprecatingly.

My dad rolled his eyes. "Tell me about it."

Scott tapped my shoulder with the back of his hand. "Right, Annie?"

"Fuck off, Scott."

My dad frowned at me in disapproval. "There's no need for that."

"Believe me, there is," I muttered almost inaudibly.

"I guess I better do what the lady says," Scott said with a laugh. I knew it made his head pound even harder. But he was enjoying himself, pleased to irritate me.

As he walked away, I stood up before my dad could say anything. My heart pounded like crazy, making my head throb like a vein about to rupture.

I went to the ladies' room to wash my hands and face. My shoulder felt dirty from where Scott had touched it. I rubbed at the spot vigorously, like he'd left a stain I couldn't make go away. What a creep.

"Hey, Annie?" Said a voice behind me.

Speaking of creeps, Scott stood reluctantly just outside the ladies' room, peeking in at me from the shadowy corridor. His stupid façade was gone. Now he wore his tiredness like a mask.

"What are you _do_ ing?" I demanded.

"Just wanted to check on you." I couldn't believe it. He was actually serious.

"Get lost, you pervert!" I cupped some water from the tap and flung it at him.

He leaped back, let the door swing shut. The water splashed across the door, running to the floor.

"No," he said, opening the door again. "It's not like that. I was just worried about you."

"No, you weren't. I saw you, smiling like a moron when you saw how pissed I was at you. Go away."

"I'm not smiling anymore."

"You're lucky I didn't punch you in the nuts. That would have been more hormones than you could handle."

He just stared as I finished rinsing up and drying my hands on a paper towel.

I tried walking out, but he blocked my way. "You'd be surprised what I can handle."

"Oh yeah? Wanna try it? Or are you gonna tuck and run? Like you did last night?"

He took a breath. "I shouldn't have left like that. I'm sorry. Do you want to go out with me? Like, proper?"

I studied his handsome face—pretty, as Artemis had called it. My own looked less than pretty, puffy from lack of proper rest, drinking too much last night. The dry eyes, the lips chapped from the cold. And my hair stuck up in an unattractive cowlick on the left. I ran my fingers through it, but it sprang back up stubbornly. We just didn't look good together. Artemis could be mean, but that didn't make her wrong. Call me crazy, but the hangover actually looked good on him. Scott was just...smoother, easier on the eyes, the sort of person you stared at for an extra couple of seconds because they were so interesting to look at. I looked him straight in the eyes and said, "I'm not interested in Artemis' leftovers."

His eyes flashed angrily at the insult. He looked ready to say something, but then his phone rang, and the anger subsided as hurt pooled there instead. He looked down at his phone. He made sure to hide the screen. But people can't always hide stuff from me.

"Well, speak of the devil," I remarked.

His gaze darted up to me. "You know who it is?" He asked.

I nodded.

With a swipe of his finger, he ignored the call, shoving the phone back into his pocket.

"Don't you think you should answer her?" I asked him.

"I don't want to talk to her right now. I'm talking to you."

"No, you're not. We're done."
4

That Monday, the entire school seemed abuzz with the electricity of fresh gossip.

During first period, I was summoned to the administration office over the PA. There was no reason why. I was just supposed to obey. The teacher continued with the lesson, giving me permission to leave with a simple nod. He gave me a handout for homework. As I left the room, I noticed with a leap of my stomach that Artemis was absent.

I took my time going there.

As old as the school, the admin office still contained most of the original wooden wall panels, coated in so many layers of varnish that in certain spots it looked like someone had slathered honey for a bear that would never appear. The uneven floor creaked under my hollow footsteps as I walked up to the reception counter.

The receptionist glanced up at me, her eyes like shiny black rocks peeking out of a ball of dough. Her lips were gashes of faded neon pink. "School ID?"

I fished it out of my purse and showed her. She glanced at it quickly and nodded at the seating area. "Wait there until you're called."

I turned and stopped abruptly when I saw I wasn't the only student waiting. There were six chairs, five of them filled.

I spotted Moira, and two more of Artemis' friends, Gwen and Amber.

Gwen jiggled her leg, unable to stop even though she tried by locking her legs crossed. Moira ran her hands compulsively through her blond hair every few seconds. Amber avoided eye-contact altogether, staring at her phone through puffy eyes, thumbs shuffling.

Across from the girls sat Scott and Johnny.

All of Scott's friendliness from the diner was gone. He noticed me right away with gray-ringed eyes, peering through his limp hair, then broke his gaze, looking grim. I leaned forward after a moment, remembering how I'd treated him at the diner. It made me uncomfortable now to talk to him. "What the hell's going on? Where's Artemis?"

Scott brushed me off with a shake of his head.

There was one empty seat left, across from Johnny. He didn't look at me. Instead he stared out of the window. I looked out, following his gaze, and saw a white crow, alone on the sidewalk. "What's going on here? Where's Artemis?" I whispered. He ignored me, but twitched involuntarily at the mention of her name.

The phone rang at the reception counter, and the fat receptionist answered right away. She stood up and beckoned with a fat finger. "Johnny."

Johnny glanced at her. As he stood up, he didn't look at anyone. When he walked past, I noticed cuts on his knuckles that I didn't think had been there before. Johnny followed the receptionist like he was marching down death row.

After about twenty minutes, the receptionist returned with Johnny. He looked nervous as hell. He didn't look at any of us as he stormed out. The receptionist called me.

I headed after her.

That's when I saw the foot coming—but I couldn't avoid it in time. Moira tripped me as I walked by. I stumbled, almost falling into Scott's lap. He jerked forward to catch me, but I caught my balance at the last second. The girls snickered, but not the one who'd been crying. "What did you do that for?" Scott demanded Moira.

"Oh, go to hell," Moira snapped.

I'd never seen Scott up close like that, even though I'd known him for years. I never noticed what a pretty chocolate shade his eyes were, matching a spray of boyish freckles across his nose and cheeks. "You all right?" He asked me. I felt bad that I'd been so nasty to him at the diner. He didn't really deserve it.

I straightened up immediately. Fixed my top, which had twisted around my waist. His bare hand brushed the skin along my side, leaving it tingling. Scott nodded at the hallway. "Good luck."

"Thanks," I mumbled.

My heart began to pound, first from almost falling, but now, I was just scared. The receptionist led me down the same hallway she'd taken Johnny.

"What's this about?" I asked her, realizing with a jolt that none of the others had even wondered why we were all there. It had something to do with Artemis, for sure, but what? Where the hell was she, anyway?

"You'll see."

She opened an unmarked door and gestured one fat, manicured hand into the room. This was one of the newer additions to the school. The smooth plaster walls gleamed in a wash of late morning sunlight and the additional brightness of artificial panel lighting. In the middle sat a small, shiny conference table.

Two adults stared up at me, as if they'd been talking and I'd interrupted them. One of them was my dad. He told me he'd be at work all day today. He'd left even before I woke up. He didn't exactly look thrilled to be here.

My eyes flicked nervously from my dad to the other man. His black trench coat and blazer were draped on an empty seat beside him. His dark aviator glasses, shiny and spotless, sat on the lacquered wooden table beside a Raven City PD shield. I noticed the butt of a gun peeking out from a dark leather holster. My breath caught in my throat.

I took a tiny shrinking step back, but the receptionist didn't seem to notice. She pressed her other hand on my back and herded me into the room. "What's going on?" I asked, taking the seat next to my dad. He looked like he hadn't even showered after coming back from work. He worked for a non-profit organization called Second Chance, which helped wrongly accused men and women appeal their cases to get them acquitted or the sentence lessened. Sometimes I felt like he devoted more time to that job than his own kids. He slept at the office some nights, checking in only to let us know he wouldn't be able to come home. Sometimes I didn't even pick up the phone. I let it go to the machine. If Johnny was in the room with me, we'd roll our eyes at each other. Sometimes we pretended we didn't even hear anything. We'd just keep doing whatever it was we were doing—polishing off a pizza, doing homework, texting—and totally ignore it.

But sometimes I wouldn't be able to sleep after doing it. Mainly because it was my fault that dad worked that job, my fault that he was so distant. Sometimes I'd cave and call him back, just to tell him we got his message. I could never tell if he was glad I called. He sounded distracted most times, like he was shuffling through papers or staring at a computer monitor, clicking through files and documents. It was difficult to get his attention.

But he _was_ here today. He had a couple of grease stains on his wrinkled shirt, a faint body odor and days-old stubble. He didn't have a shower at the office. At least his breath didn't stink. I nevertheless inched closer to him for safety. Despite his bloodshot, gray-encircled eyes, his focus on the stranger in front of us was razor-sharp. At least, I thought he was a stranger.

A small smile worked itself into the cop's lips when I entered. He was pale and handsome, his light eyes observant, intense. He rarely blinked, like he thought he might miss something if he did. He extended his hand. "Hello, Annie. I'm Detective Rafe O'Connell."

I shook it as confidently as I could. But my hand was suddenly shaky and sweaty. "Hello." My voice came out in a squeak. I cleared my throat.

"Would you like some water?" The detective asked me, gesturing to the cooler sitting just a few feet away. The man looked strangely familiar. I felt a strong sense of déjà vu at the sound of his voice.

"I'm okay."

He didn't seem to hear me. Detective O'Connell stood up, filled a paper cup as the water cooler burbled, and handed it to me. I accepted it reluctantly and took a sip. It was as cold as the snow outside. The door closed suddenly. The receptionist had left.

Detective O'Connell ran a hand through his hair, which was dusted with gray at the sides. He gave a light cough before he asked me, "Do you know why you're here?"

I studied him. Glanced at my dad. He gave me a nod.

"No."

"Do you know Artemis Garland?"

"Yeah."

"Is it true the two of you had an altercation at school?"

My eyes gave a slight roll. "Yeah."

"Tell me about it."

I looked at my dad. He nodded again.

"It was just shampoo," I said with a shrug.

O'Connell coughed once and cocked his head. "Excuse me?"

"Pet shampoo. Artemis had given it for a present. As a mean joke to a girl in my class."

"What's the girl's name?"

I sighed. "Holly Buckley."

He scribbled quickly on a notepad sitting there. "Okay. Then what?"

"I sensed right away that it was something mean."

"Okay."

"So I grabbed the gift basket, picked out a bottle of shampoo and squirted it all over Artemis a couple of times. That's it."

My dad shifted in his seat, stood and collected some water for himself. He lingered there by the cooler and watched me. The detective glanced at him. Then turned his gaze back to me. "Then what?"

I blinked. "Then nothing. That's it."

"Really?" O'Connell asked, his tone suddenly different. It was unfriendly and challenging.

I didn't respond.

"When was the last time you saw Artemis?"

"After school ended, in the parking lot. I haven't seen her since."

"Are you sure?"

"Dad?" I looked at him for help.

O'Connell coughed a third time and it began to get on my nerves.

My dad drained his cup, stalling for time. He sighed and came nearer. Put a hand on my shoulder. "On the advice of her lawyer, my client refuses to answer all further questions."

The detective looked up at my father. "Excuse me?"

My dad pulled me to my feet. "This interview is over." He slipped a business card out of his pocket. "All further questions may be referred to me."

The detective slid the card toward himself, examined it, and tucked it under the clip on his notepad. He stood up and opened the door, wearing a professional smile which looked a little too cold. "It was good catching up, Murphy. You stay out of trouble now."

My dad nodded at the detective's badge as it gleamed up from the table. "I see you are," he snapped, practically shoving me out of the door in front of him. The detective reached out to shake my dad's hand. He didn't.

I went to shake it, not wanting to leave it hanging, but my dad grabbed my hand and turned me with a quick yank.

"Have a nice day," the detective called.

"Smug fucker," my dad muttered under his breath.

"Dad!"

"Sorry."

I glanced back at the detective. He stood leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest. Watching. He wasn't going to forget about me.

***

When we stepped outside, my dad wiped his hand on his pant leg. I guess my hand was soaked from being so nervous. He didn't even look at me.

"Dad, how do you know him?" I asked as we walked to the car.

My dad gave a shrug and a mutter I didn't catch.

"How?"

"We go way back." He hesitated. "I went to school with him."

"I think you handled him pretty well."

"Oh, you think so?" He asked, his voice suddenly simmering with anger as we climbed into his car. But he didn't start it. Didn't even put the key in the ignition. I started to shiver.

My dad turned to face me. "You're going to tell me _every_ thing."

"There's nothing to tell."

My dad shook his head, impatient and incredulous. "Don't gimme that crap. Start talkin'."

"I want to replace my counsel," I muttered.

"We can sit here all night."

I pulled my jacket closer around my body and tightened my scarf. "What about work?"

"That's second to my kids." Even he knew it was bullshit.

" _Ha!"_ I barked. "That is hi _la_ rious, Dad."

"Do you really think I don't know what you were doing that night? Or that I can't figure it out?"

"You have _no_ idea what happened at the party."

"I thought there was nothing to tell?"

"There's not," I said. "I know I spent the night away from home, but so did Johnny. We were both at Artemis' house and she was fine when I left. I swear, Dad. She was her usual bitchy self. Nothing different at all. I never should have gone there. I was worried about her all week, but I never should have gone."

"Why were you worried?"

"I just had a bad feeling. A really bad feeling."

My dad relaxed, nodding. But it wasn't that he believed me. He was just sort of dismayed, deflating like he always did when I told him about the things I could sometimes See. Like he was talking to a crazy person and didn't have the energy to convince me I wasn't really Seeing anything. It was always just a dream, or my imagination, or something rational like that.

He put the key in the ignition and turned on the heat. "So you were wrong."

I blinked at him. "If I was wrong, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Tell me what _happened_ ," he said sternly. "I don't want to hear any of that other nonsense."

Other nonsense. He couldn't even name it.

"Foresight, Dad."

"Whatever. What actually happened?"

I looked at him. "What happened between you and Detective O'Connell?"

My dad shifted into reverse and let the car creep back out of the parking spot.

"Come on, Dad."

"I guess that's your way of saying you don't remember him."

" _Should_ I remember him?"

Before pulling onto the road, my dad looked at me directly and said, "Just promise me you'll stay away from him, okay?"

"Why?"

"Because he knows you know something about what happened at your little friend's house."

"Weren't you paying attention? Artemis and I are _not_ friends."

"Which is why it's so much more suspicious that you were there." My dad glanced at me. "You follow me, Annie?"

I thought about Artemis brushing her wet hair in front of her mirror. In front of a mirror that would never reflect her face again. A shiver raced through me, one that had nothing to do with the cold. "Yeah, Dad. I follow you."
5

I couldn't honestly say that I think about my mother all the time. It's more like once or twice a day, sometimes not even that. My memories of her and my present self were like old classmates that just drifted apart. No one could be blamed for the separation, although anyone who knew what had happened would probably blame my mother. It would probably be the same people that said she was selfish or took the coward's way out. There were times when even I thought that. Then, to prove me wrong, the white crow would show up.

I saw the crow for the first time right before my mother died. It blended in seamlessly with the snow, but it appeared against the night, as stark as a dove of peace, a light in the starless, moonless sky. I didn't know it then, but it marked the beginning of my life as a Seer. The crow seemed to show up at a time of need, and only then. Only when I had to See something or had to know something. It was a spiritual doorman, pulling back the veil once in a while to show me things only I could See, if I willing.

The second time I saw it was about six months after she was gone.

Funny that I should think about that now, how I ran away, hoping to find her. I guess I was about four when I did. I remembered it better than I probably should have, with a sense of detachment that comes with experiencing something bizarre. Or supernatural. I hadn't gotten far from home, but it had really seemed a long way then. A long haul truck driver found me wandering on the side of the highway, clearly lost. He told me I looked like a little doll, tiny among the weeds and bushes that lined the road. He made me feel safe, chatting gently in a deep, soothing voice. I'd been told by my mom before she died not to get into the car with strangers, but it wasn't a car and it was so cold that I couldn't feel my feet. Also, the mud flaps were marked with white crows. Painted on the side of the oil tanker was a huge white crow in mid-flight.

The driver helped me into the truck's cab, gave me a blanket that smelled like a dog used it—and sure enough, a glossy-eyed black Labrador stared at me from within the cab—and took me to a rest stop. I couldn't help noticing, even at four years old, the gleaming, hand-carved pendant hanging from the man's neck. It was made of bleached bone, carved into the shape of a white crow with a single blue gem for an eye.

At the rest stop, I remembered a breakfast nook with the seats too high for me. So he helped me up onto one after asking my permission, and bought me a hot chocolate to warm me up. He told me to be careful with the chocolate. He got some too, and showed me how to cool it down by blowing on it. Drink it slowly, he told me. It'll warm you up.

I remembered he chatted with me like I was a grownup. He talked about the weather like grownups did when they didn't have anything to say, but had to talk for no reason other than to fill up the silence. It's cold, isn't it? He'd asked me. Yeah, I told him. Then he asked me my mommy's whereabouts, and I told him she was sleeping in a box under the ground. That I wasn't allowed to go wake her up. I could just say hello sometimes when we went to visit her, but I didn't think she could hear me because they put her so deep in the ground. I told him I put my head to the ground to listen if she answered back. But I didn't hear anything.

"Your mommy gives you this," he said suddenly, and pointed out of the sliding glass door. Under the bright lights of the gas station, stood a white crow. I slid off the chair backwards and looked at the bird, which, at the time, appeared massive. "Where is she?" I asked him. But the man was gone. The hot chocolate he'd been drinking had disappeared. His enormous truck, which would be impossible to hide under the bright gas station lights, had somehow vanished without my notice like a David Copperfield illusion. The attendant at the gas station talked nervously with the 911 operator, grasping at the phone's receiver with a sweaty hand. My grandmother came to pick me up after a while. Naturally, my dad couldn't, since he was in jail.

He was in jail because of me—me and a rookie cop with a pale face, dark brown hair, and unblinking eyes.

Would you like some water?

That's when it hit me. The rookie cop and the detective I'd seen today were the same man. My dad was right. I should have remembered the guy. He was the responding officer after my dad called 911 to report that my mother had killed herself with my dad's handgun. The cop had turned his keen attention to me—not Johnny, but me—sensing I had something on my mind. When he'd started asking questions, my dad had jumped to my defense, his arms covered in blood as he spread them to shield me, smears of it on his forehead and cheek from fishing my mom's lifeless body out of the tub after she'd shot herself.

The detective had asked me a simple question. A quick yes-or-no question. But there was nothing simple about the answer. _Did you ever see your mommy and daddy fight?_

I wonder what would have happened if I'd lied. I wondered now what would have happened if I'd said no. The whole trajectory of my family had hinged on one of two monosyllabic words. And I'd said the wrong one.

What mommy and daddy didn't fight? Whether they exchanged words in a bickering argument or threw a couple of fists, what couple didn't fight? I didn't know it then, but he was establishing motive. Even then his mind worked like a detective's, to see what lay beneath the surface of a relationship between a dead woman and her husband who'd been sleeping on the couch. If not for me, if not for him, maybe they never would have heard about the other woman my dad and mom had fought about so much. They never would have heard that my mother had gone to a local woman known as the crow witch for the truth. They never would have arrested my dad in front of his own children while shopping for school uniforms. Tons of parents, tons of kids, all of them watching raptly as the cops literally shoved my resisting dad to the ground and arrested him. He exchanged frantic words with my grandmother, who had been notified of the arrest so she could get me and Johnny.

As I stood there, remembering, a long muscular shadow slithered across the carpet in front of my eyes, snapping me to the present. It stopped right in front of me, blocking my path. It reared up to my height, hood spread out in crowning glory. I could see right through it, like a sheet of black chiffon. The eyes gleamed like specks of gold, darting side to side, observing me with humanlike intelligence. I stood paralyzed by its beauty as much as its menace. It quivered as it gave a deep, growling hiss. It was a more solid form of the cobra I'd seen at Artemis' house. It was more than just a shadow on the wall this time. It was a shadow all by itself, needing nothing to be cast upon. It turned away from me, crawled toward the wall I shared with Johnny and faded away before it slipped through.

I exhaled, the air escaping me past my violently throbbing heart.

I rubbed the goosebumps on my arms and went to open my door when there was a scream next door. Johnny's voice cut through the house like an ax through firewood, freezing the blood in my veins. I flung open my door and barged into his room.

I found Johnny standing on his bed, his face paler than blue ice, an aluminum bat in his hand, poised to strike something he'd seen on the floor.

"Did you see that?" He asked, his voice high, his eyes so wide he looked like a little boy, despite the stubble on his face.

I searched over the floor, the litter of dirty clothes. "I don't see anything," I said.

"There was a snake! It was like twenty feet long! Thick as my arm." He squeezed his bicep to show me.

"Johnny, there's nothing here."

He didn't believe me. He carefully left the bed and checked under it from a good distance away, holding the bat like a fly swatter.

"It's not real, Johnny," I told him impatiently.

"What are you talking about? It was clear as fucking day. It was black with light brown lines and bright gold eyes, like headlights."

I frowned. He'd seen a manifestation more clearly than I did? That never happened. "It was fully formed?" I asked him, startled.

"What are you talking about? There's a real snake here— _in my room!_ "

"Well, it's not real."

"Not real, my ass." He used the end of the bat to lift some pieces of clothing. A pair of crumpled boxers. A muddy sock.

"Johnny, I swear, it wasn't real." And suddenly I found myself telling him the same thing my dad usually told me. "You were probably just dreaming."

He straightened up, exhaling deeply. And that's when I noticed he was fully clothed, on his way out. A small metal vial on a silver chain dangled from his neck. I'd never seen him wearing it before. Suddenly I saw stuff lying around his room that he probably didn't want me to see. I spotted a shovel in the corner of the room, a familiar lush blue blanket with those childish polka dots. But amid the dots were dark, uneven splotches of ugly purple. Blood stains.

Johnny saw me looking and said, "Get out of my room."

"What is that?"

He stepped closer, and I became painfully aware of him clutching the bat. He gave it a slight toss, getting a better grip around the handle. The aluminum gleamed like a twinkling guillotine on its way down toward a soft neck. His scratched-up knuckles caught the moonlight. I wondered for the second time how he'd gotten those marks. But I didn't dare ask. Not now.

"I said get out," he said softly. "It's for your own good, Annie."

"What did you do?" I asked him, stumbling backwards and out into the hallway. "What did you do to Artemis?"

He shook his head and went to close the door. "Nothing she didn't ask for."

I stopped him from closing it all the way. The door slammed a bit on my foot, but I didn't feel it. "Do we need to call the police?"

"Just stay out of it."

"No, Johnny. What the hell happened?"

"Go away."

"Did you do something to her?!" My voice rose higher and louder.

"No!" Johnny wailed and he looked near tears. "I swear to God, I didn't touch her. She was fine when I left. We—we fought about her flirting with Scott."

I looked at his hand. "Did you hit her?"

"God, no! I hit her wall. Then I left. I put a hole in the friggin' plaster."

"So why do you have this blanket?"

He winced. "I made a mistake. I called her a bunch of times, but she wasn't picking up her phone. So I went back to see her." He paused. "I should have just left it there."

"What do you mean? Where was Artemis when you went back?!"

"She wasn't there! She was gone!"

"After bleeding like that? She just got up and walked away?"

Johnny swallowed thickly. "I hope to God she walked away." He looked at the sheet, then at me. We both knew it was highly unlikely she walked anywhere. "We slept together after the party and I was scared that—that they'd find something and try to find a way to show I did _that_ to her." He jabbed a finger at the blanket.

"Johnny, you idiot."

He shook his head. "I know. I have to get rid of it now."

"No! Call the police!"

"No! I didn't do anything!"

"You took something from her house with her blood all over it!"

"I know! How do you think that makes me look?"

"Johnny, I'm going to call the police. We have to. If they find out later that you kept this a secret, it's going to come back and bite us in the—"

He looked horrified at the idea that I wouldn't keep it quiet. "You _have_ to keep it a secret."

"How? How can you ask me to pretend I didn't see this?"

Johnny started to hyperventilate slightly. "I should have figured you'd turn on me."

"I'm not—"

"You turned on Dad, why not me?" He said rapidly, breathlessly.

I felt like I'd been slapped. "That's not fair. I was four years old, you bastard!"

"Yeah. And you're seventeen now. Old habits die hard I guess."

"You're a fucking asshole."

"I'm not the one that wants to rat on her family."

"Don't you think you should help _her_ family? They're probably going insane, not knowing where their kid is. Don't you think it's important to help them?"

"They're better off not knowing."

"Why do you say that?"

Johnny went to the blanket and paused a moment before pulling it free of the garbage bag and showing me how much blood actually stained the fabric. "Do you really think she lived through this?"

Johnny was right. I'd never seen so much blood. A faint stink of vomit and feces floated up from the material. I felt light-headed and so sick my legs buckled. I closed my eyes and clutched at the door. "She was murdered."

"And who do you think they're going to pin it on?"

"If you didn't do anything—"

"I didn't." Johnny turned away and put away the plush blanket. He opened his closet door. "Annie?" He said softly.

I still stared at the blanket, which now was hidden inside a black garbage bag. I looked at him.

"You're not going to tell anyone, right?"

I sighed deeply. "No. I won't tell anyone."

Johnny matched my sigh. He tossed the bat on the bed with a muffled _thunk_ , reached into the closet and pulled out something heavy. My heart jolted. It was Dad's shotgun.

Johnny nodded at his closet. "Get in."

I started to back away, and that's when he aimed the rifle at me. "I'm not going to hurt you. Just please get in."

"Are you crazy? Stop pointing that thing at me!"

"Just get in. And I will."

I couldn't believe this. Johnny looked in quite a state of disbelief himself. As soon as I moved within reach, he grabbed my arm and shoved me inside, slamming the door with a shaky breath.

"Why are you doing this?" I cried. I heard something dragging across the floor—his solid, wooden, full-sized bed. No way I could move it on my own. "Johnny, don't!"

He was panting. "I'm sorry. I just don't believe you yet."

"Let me out!"

"I will when I get back."

"Johnny, let me out!" I hit my fists against the door, sending stabs of pain into my bones.

Johnny didn't say anything. The last thing I heard was the crinkling of the garbage bag with Artemis' bloody blanket. The shovel head clunked once against the floor. As Johnny's footsteps receded, I put my head to the floor and looked through the space under the door. It was totally black. And that's when I saw a solid black shape coiled there, peering at me with a pair of glimmering, golden eyes.
6

Johnny's closet smelled distinctly of sweaty shoes. I kicked away as many pairs as I could into a pile in the back. I found some dried toast and an unopened granola bar packet. The bar inside had been crushed into a powder. The packet itself was sticky with the rotted, dried juices of a green orange shriveled in the corner. My nose curled in disgust.

I stood up and tried the knob. It was locked on the outside, but there was a little hole that I could stick a thin piece of metal through. I rummaged around his closet, lifting up piles of clothes, spreading apart hanging jackets, poking away underwear with a plastic coat hanger. I didn't find anything useful for a few minutes, growing more panicked, angrier and angrier. I suddenly let loose a shriek and pulled everything down to the floor, off the hangers, off the shelves. I cursed, screaming, tossing the shelves, pounding on the door, kicking it like a psycho. I fought with the knob, absolutely certain that I'd be able to break it through the sheer strength of my rage. But no luck.

Not wanting to lose momentum, I saw the shelves resting on notches sticking out of the walls. They weren't nailed down, so I grabbed one that was fairly light, and maneuvered it until it was vertical and bumping into the ceiling. I punched a couple of pyramid-shaped holes, but I didn't give a shit. I bashed the locked door with the shelf. The knob rattled, bending downward slightly. "Fuck yeah," I breathed. "That's what I'm talkin' about."

Giving my lips a lick, tasting sweat, I raised the shelf again, smashing another hole, this one horizontal and raining plaster. I smashed it down, letting gravity help me, and the knob loosened from its setting in the door, dangling like a broken mailbox. Just once more.

I dropped the shelf on the knob again. It clattered free on my side of the door. I heard pieces of metal jingle like coins on the other side, little parts tumbling over the footboard of Johnny's bed and falling into the bed.

I looked out of the hole, about the size of a coffee mug's mouth. Beyond lay Johnny's room. The light was off. A cool touch of air flowed through the hole into the stifling closet. I was sweating like crazy already, my previous frenzy stirring my blood to a boiling point.

I pushed the door with all my weight, but it didn't budge because of the bed in the way. I pushed again, butting my shoulder into it. It barely moved half-an-inch. I had to try a different way. I put the shelf back where it belonged, shoving aside the piles of clothing and a shoe that lay in the way. Dropping down onto the piles of clothes, swiping sweat from my forehead, I braced my hands on the two shelves flanking my head and shoved with the soles of my bare feet, which were moist and warm with perspiration, giving me the perfect grip on the smooth wooden door. I bore down on the door, groaning like a woman in labor.

After it moved another two or three inches, I stopped, panting.

I flapped my oversized T-shirt, stirring up a breeze to cool my perspiring body.

I stuck my head in the gap, tried to force my shoulder through. But the bed pushed up the carpeting, getting stuck in the bumps.

I gave up momentarily. I needed some leverage.

I went to try the shelf again, but I heard a rumbling travel through the floor. I froze, held my breath. The garage. Johnny was back.

I pulled myself into the closet, stepping over clothing, kicking it out of the way. When I put a hand on one of the shelves for balance, I touched a hard, rough object. I picked it up. A folding knife. Sticking my fingernail in the thin groove, I pulled it open. It locked in place with a snap.

I listened to footsteps pounding up the stairs, then halting abruptly. Johnny had just noticed that the closet door was open. "Annie?" He called.

I didn't answer.

He approached the closet slowly, his feet shuffling over the carpet.

Johnny darkened the thin gap with his silhouette. His room was still dark, so he couldn't see inside.

I watched as he turned away, retrieved something from down the hall.

He came back with a long, cylindrical shape in his hand.

I backed against the wall. There was nowhere to hide. Tucking the knife behind my leg, I gripped the handle tighter as my hand continued to sweat.

A bright, garish beam of yellow light burst in my face, making me wince and turn away. "Get that out of my face, you motherfucker," I growled at him.

He lowered it. "Are you going to calm down?" He asked me. The silver vial rested against his chest, gleaming in the light. He sounded more relieved, more in control than I expected. Like he was glad the blanket was buried and would never show up again.

I squinted at him over the glare of the flashlight. I couldn't actually make out his face.

He put the flashlight down, and pushed the bed out of the way, pivoting it on the end where the head would go. Much easier to move that way.

I used the opportunity to try to dart out, but Johnny stomped one leg in the way, blocked my shoulders with his hands. "Stop it, just hear me out."

"No!" I shouted at him. Shoved him with my shoulder.

But he pushed me back inside, harder than he intended. The vial around his neck rocked violently. I tumbled backwards into the pile of clothes. Before I could struggle to my feet, Johnny closed the door and held it there. "Just listen," he pleaded. "I'm not going to hurt you, okay? I just need to know that you're not going to tell anyone anything. But I don't think you're ready to promise me that yet. Are you?"

I had dropped the knife. I felt around for the blade, feeling its cold metal under my hot skin after the moron started talking.

"Are you?"

I picked up the knife. From where I was crouched, I slammed my hand on the door. "Let me out!"

Johnny shifted away from the door.

I pushed it open and stepped out, gulping in the cooler bedroom air.

I glared at him, and he stared back. "I'm sorry," he said. And tackled me around the waist. The vial hit my jaw bone like a BB. We fell into the bed, my face missing a roll of duct tape by inches. Johnny snatched it up. He sat on my back and fumbled with the tape. There was a loud tearing as he freed its end and grabbed my flailing left arm. I screamed. I felt his body stiffen at the piercing noise.

I tightened my fingers around the blade. Twisting my body, I started swinging and stabbing in his direction. He dodged, jumping off me.

I jumped to my feet, shaking uncontrollably.

Johnny had his hands up. He eyed the shotgun still lying on the bed. "Take it easy."

I picked up the duct tape and threw it at him as hard as I could. "Get out!" I shrieked at him.

Johnny looked ready to leave when the phone suddenly began to ring.

We both waited for the caller ID announcement, frozen like snowmen.

"Call from, Second Chance," said the robotic female voice.

Johnny and I lunged for the cordless phone at the same time. He knocked it down to the floor and caught me around the wrists.

"Call from, Second Chance."

I groaned, twisting my wrists away, and holding onto the knife as hard as I could.

One more ring and I heard the answering machine downstairs pick it up. I couldn't make out the words, but the voice was unmistakable—Dad.

I broke one wrist free, twisting it almost to the point of dislocation. I slapped Johnny across the face and bolted for the door. But he caught my shoulder, then the back of my T-shirt.

I swung the knife at him and he bowed backward, dodging at the last second.

I pounded down the stairs. Johnny thundered after me in his wet boots, trying to grab me.

My dad's message was over by the time I reached the kitchen.

I went for the back door, removed the lock and looked into the blizzard. Huge, chunky snowflakes floated down with apparent gravity-defying slowness. It was so thick I couldn't even see our back fence.

Johnny grabbed my arm from behind. "Don't go out there, are you crazy?"

"Let me go!"

"No! You can't go out there. It's too cold!"

"Let go!" I pulled, using all my body weight, but Johnny wouldn't let go. Actually he was winning, pulling me closer, wrapping my arm behind my back and tugging my hand upward painfully. I yelped and Johnny loosened his grip, but didn't let go.

With tears sprouting out of my eyes, I stabbed the knife downward, finally catching him in the leg.

Johnny gave a gasping scream, released me instantly.

When I stepped outside, he grabbed me again, limping on his bleeding leg. "Wait," he strained.

I raised the blade and brought it down on his leg again, almost on exactly the same spot. Johnny shrieked in pain and let me go. He fell to the floor, his hands going to the knife still lodged in his flesh. His face was twisted in a grimace as he watched me leave and disappear over the short backyard fence and into the evergreen woods beyond.

Just as I stepped over the two-foot fence, I spotted, hidden behind a sheet of thick tumbling snow and dark, brittle branches, a white crow.
7

I didn't know how long I'd been running. As my eyes blurred with tears, I began Seeing things. They appeared as flashes in my mind, in quick succession, in the same order, over and over. I'd See it in my mind's eye, then after a few moments, it would be there in real time, right in front of my real eyes. Like that pair of faded periwinkle and mauve sneakers someone slung up into the trees and couldn't get back down, or those three empty cans of Old House beer, frosted with snow between two fat tree roots, forming a triangle. It was like spotting signs along the interstate while traveling somewhere new. Every time I spotted a sign through fresh snow dusting my lashes, I knew I was headed the right way.

The last sign—literally a neon sign—came into view after the cat skeleton and a freshly snowed-upon clearing filled with dangling, dried up posies made of baby's breath, lavender and lilacs wrapped in white sash. Its pale violet color cast a floating, eerie haze. The light reflected off falling snow in a creepy aura.

I felt no pain even though my bare feet were scratched and bleeding, and totally numb. I stumbled frantically through a gauntlet of whipping branches and cutting bushes, smashes of wet ice to my face.

I stopped abruptly just outside the edge of the woods, near a cluster of damp, mottled birch trees, peering out at the violet sign that seemed to be floating in midair. _The Hooded Crow._

A blood-red VACANCY sign glowed from the window, mounted right beside the signs for Heineken and Yuengling. The parking lot was empty except for a couple of vehicles buried in igloo-shaped mounds. Obviously. No person in their right mind would go traveling in this monstrous blizzard. I practically swam through the three feet of snow that hugged the asphalt, and spotted an old woman waiting for me at the entrance steps with a dented metal bucket and a cup of steaming hot tea.

She was a little on the heavy side, with stringy white hair tied in a ponytail and wrinkled skin drooping over high-arched cheeks. Her pale blue eyes were very cold.

She held out the bucket. I didn't know what it was for—not until the horror of the night welled up inside me in the form of puke and I snatched the bucket and retched into it, dropping to my bruised knees onto the lowest step. I dry-heaved for what seemed like several minutes while the woman waited patiently. When I was done, I wiped my mouth with a wet, torn sleeve and looked up at the woman with watering eyes. She leaned down and extended the tea. "Drink," she ordered.

My teeth chattered as I took a sniff. It looked like slightly muddy water, but smelled of strong, spicy ginger. I took a sip with trembling lips. It burned my mouth and throat. I coughed. Then turned to look into the woods, searching for the tall, wide shape of my brother.

I looked back to where the woman had been standing, but she'd gone inside. Her footsteps sounded hollow on the wooden floors. I stood up and climbed the steps, my shoulders quaking. But I stopped at the threshold. A brick wall seemed to rise up in front of my hovering foot. The woman didn't want me here. Something warm trickled down the side of my forehead, but cooled by the time it reached my chin. I touched it. Blood. Before I could stop it, the droplet fell inside the room. "Crap," I muttered shakily under my breath. I dropped into a crouch to wipe away the splashed droplet from the warped wooden floor.

But the floor was completely stripped of varnish, like someone had buffed the life out of it. My blood sank away into the wood before I could do anything about it. When I looked up, the old woman was staring at me, holding a mop. I was perplexed that she'd want me to use a huge mop for a tiny drop of blood.

But she startled me and I bolted to my feet immediately. The cup of tea rolled in the saucer and tipped over, burning my hand. I winced and dropped the cup and saucer. It shattered at my feet. The floor drank the tea meant for me.

The old woman walked over and thrust the dripping mop at me.

I waited outside, just beyond the threshold, even though I was _freezing_. I didn't take the mop.

The old woman looked past me into the snowy grayness. "He doesn't have the nerve to kill you."

I swallowed nervously, my nausea returning like a punch in my stomach. I looked fearfully over my shoulder into the woods. Those tall, slender birch trees creaked and swayed in a slow, ritualistic dance.

"Please, help me."

"Wait here. I'll call the police."

"No!" I couldn't stop it. The word just burst out of me.

She stared at me suspiciously.

I struggled to correct it. I shivered, trying to force my half-frozen lips to speak intelligibly. "They won't get here in time. Please, just hide me."

Her slicing gaze told me she knew I was totally lying to her. That wasn't the reason I didn't want her to call the police. I couldn't be responsible for someone else in my family going to jail. I just couldn't. My dad was enough. And he hadn't even done anything. What if Johnny was innocent, too?

"Please," I begged. "He has a gun."

There was a faint yell from inside the forest.

I whimpered and spun around to peer into the pitch black woods. Every bobbing shadow, every snow-cloaked, quivering bush looked like my brother, like his spiky brown hair, his broad shoulders.

There was another yell, this one definitely called my name.

"It's not safe for you here," she said finally.

"It's not safe for me out there," I replied, pointing.

She looked inside, contemplating something weighty. She pursed her lips and finally said, "Okay. Come on. I'll hide you."
8

The lobby had a narrow desk with a faded brass sign that said, _Registration_. A massive tome that looked like a guest book from the early 1800s lay open to the middle. An antique wooden pen was tied to the guest book with frayed, dirty twine. Six waiting room chairs sat empty and sagging with sorrow.

The old woman took me past the cramped lobby into a tavern. Its atmosphere felt warm, not sleazy like I expected. An old-fashioned candle chandelier hung from the ceiling. Old bronze lamps with faded lace covers graced the round, scuffed tables. It felt more like entering my great-grandmother's parlor than a bar. But the rows of bottles of alcohol, backlit, complete with a bar mirror, didn't quite seal the illusion.

My face looked blue from the cold. That's when it dawned on me how cool the woman had been the entire time. Not exactly a standard response to a crisis.

The old woman led the way to a narrow door, probably a closet. Nearby was a normal-sized door with a scratched brass placard that read, EMPLOYEES ONLY.

I watched her as she unlocked the closet, shivers jolting through my body like seizures. It's a wonder I didn't piss myself. Actually, maybe I already did. I noticed the pungent scent of old urine but couldn't tell where it came from. I looked around the obviously open, but pathetically empty, bar. "Business kinda slow, huh?" I asked sympathetically. I guess I came off sounding like a smartass because she gave me a scathing look.

She pulled open the door and pointed inside. "You're hiding in there."

I balked immediately. "No. Hide me somewhere else."

"Don't tell me you're claustrophobic," she deadpanned.

"Not until recently," I snapped.

"There's no time. In you go." She waited for me to make the decision. I looked at the dark tavern entrance. I looked at the dark, tiny closet. I cursed and went in.

The mini-storeroom was full of sealed bottles of alcohol. Plenty of domestic stuff, but also a lot of foreign and downright exotic drinks, bottles in crazy shapes like a donut, a butterfly, and even a skull. The entire inventory lay covered in filth and abandoned cobwebs. Except the stool in the middle. That was totally clean, like she'd just put it there five minutes ago. I hunkered down on it reluctantly.

The old woman was so short she was basically at eye-level with me. "You won't forget about me, will you?" I asked.

She slammed the door in my face. And locked it with a key from her pocket.

"Hey!" I protested and jiggled the handle. "Let me out!" I went into full panic mode in two seconds flat. "Let me out!" I howled. "You don't know what I've just been through!"

She banged on the door. "Quiet!" She snapped and shuffled away, dragging the mop behind her.

My throat began to close up. I started drawing in ragged, noisy breaths. I coughed and still I couldn't breathe. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about being locked in a tiny room where I couldn't even stand. I'd have more room in a coffin.

When I calmed down, I opened my sticky eyelids slowly. I noticed a cross-hatched netting of strips of wood on the door, like a confessional booth. I peered through it, getting a surprisingly wide view of the tavern—about two-thirds—and any guests who might have been sitting at the bar and nursing a pint of lager.

I'd pulled through the worst of the panic, and the only thing giving me trouble breathing now was the dust. I looked up and saw wooden stairs. They were warped enough that I could see through the cracks between the planks. I heard footsteps outside, plodding through soft snow. My head whipped back to the netting. I listened as someone crossed the doorway into the tavern, and came to a stop right at the edge of my field of vision. Johnny. His shotgun was missing. He was soaked with snow up to his hips, bleeding from his thigh. The entire front of his leg was a dark, deep purple. He panted, lips bloodless, skin pasty white. His sunken eyes made him look about a decade over 18.

"We're closed," the old woman said irritably. She eyed the vial around Johnny's neck. Just for a second. Then she dragged the mop over the floor, even though the floor had already absorbed all the liquid like cracked desert earth.

"I don't want to come in," Johnny assured her impatiently. "I'm looking for someone."

"I'm all alone here." She ambled over to the bar, got behind the counter.

Johnny shook his head, unsettled. "Where did she go?" He muttered under his breath. He'd followed me all the way to the parking lot. He'd seen my footprints in the snow, I was sure of it. He knew this woman was lying to him. For a moment I thought he wouldn't have the balls to call her out on it. But he suddenly leaned over the bar.

The old woman raised her head, wary for the first time.

Johnny placed the shotgun on the bar. He spun the gun so the barrel pointed toward her. "Where the hell is she?" He asked.

My hands went to my mouth.

The old woman glanced at the gun, but wasn't fazed. She gave a wave around the room. "If you can find her, you may have her." She paused. "But you won't."

Johnny leaned away from the bar and started walking around.

The old woman reached quietly under the bar. My stomach clenched for a second. I really thought she was going to pull a gun. I See a lot of things sometimes, but sometimes I don't See shit. The Sight is like being in a room with a light that has faulty wiring. The old woman didn't pull a gun. She just pulled out a rag and began to wipe the counter. I exhaled shakily.

Johnny headed my way, but he couldn't open the closet under the stairs without a key. He approached the door. I pulled back and held my breath. His grim face was pale, sweaty, trying to peer through the netting. He seemed to know I was there, but appeared relieved to pretend he didn't. I almost said something.

A sudden _clomp_ above scared the crap out of me. I choked back a scream and almost fell off the crappy little stool. There was another clomp. A woman's narrow heels. I looked up and dust fell into my eyes as she descended the steps. I grimaced silently and rubbed one eye.

The EMPLOYEES ONLY door opened. "Crow?" Then she said, to my surprise, "Well, hello there, Johnny. What on earth are you doing here?"

She came into view. She was an elegant woman with white hair swept into a croissant and pinned with a gem-studded clip. It matched her emerald dress and shiny gel nails. Even though it was the middle of the night she was perfectly put together, like she stepped out of a glossy fall issue of Vogue.

Johnny stared at her for a moment, then recognition filled his face. "You."

The thin woman laughed, her voice musical and throaty. She bounced one shoulder up in a disturbingly sexy gesture. "What about me?"

My brother shook his head. "You're..." Johnny averted his eyes, a little awkwardly. "That witch."

The woman laughed. "Yeah, that's me." She nodded toward the uglier old woman behind the bar. "Maybe Crow's a witch, too. Let me ask you something: Did I hear you threaten my dear friend earlier?" She frowned, politely puzzled. "That's not very nice, is it?"

Johnny looked at Crow, who stared back stonily.

The thin woman continued. "Sweetie, I pegged you for a dumb jock, but it appears I may have overestimated you."

My brother looked unsurely at the both of them. He didn't even notice he'd been insulted. He stared at Crow, trying to figure out if she really was a witch. Then he snorted bitterly. "I can spot a witch a mile away."

"Is that so?" The thin woman asked. "Then you'd know better than to threaten her."

Johnny set his lips. "So what, it's okay to threaten you?"

Beatrice smiled. "Things are getting a little out of hand, darling. What are you doing here? Will you tell me that, at least, precious?"

Johnny sighed deeply, lowered the gun. "I'm looking for my sister. I just want her back, and then I'll leave."

Beatrice pulled a seat for him. "Come. Come have a drink with a couple of old witches. We're not so bad. Really."

My brother shook his head, disgusted. "I've had just about enough of them, if you want to know the truth."

"Oh, now you've gone and hurt my feelings," the woman said. "Sit down, boy. I'll pour you a drink. You look like you could use one."

She disappeared into the kitchen through a door behind the bar and returned with a thick glass bottle of some kind of liquor. The gold-painted label was old, faded and peeling. As she returned to her seat at the bar, Crow glared at her. "We're closed, Beatrice," she said indignantly, her head angled upward to meet her gaze. "He was just leaving."

"Actually, I think I'll get a room," Johnny said suddenly. "You know, in case she shows up."

Crow gave Beatrice a look that said _, Now look what you've done._

Beatrice smiled at my brother and nodded. "Fine. Let's have a drink anyway. It'll help you sleep." She dragged her belly over the bar—ass as tight as a twenty-year-old's—reached over and picked up two chipped crystal glasses. She slid back, plunked them down on the counter and poured about a shot in each one. "Come on. Have a drink."

"I—I'm not old enough."

I shook my head, infuriated. He had pointed a gun at me, another human being who happens to be his _sister_ , and now all of a sudden he was worried about breaking the rules against underage drinking? Bastard.

Beatrice wrinkled her nose conspiratorially. "We won't tell."

Crow pulled the crystal glasses back and said firmly, "We're _closed_."

"It's okay. I just want a room anyway." My brother turned away to go into the lobby.

Beatrice took the glasses back and replaced them on the bar. Crow gave her a scolding glare and pointedly switched them around. Beatrice put a palm to her lips and gave a sheepish grin. _Oops._

My heart leaped in my chest. Holy crap, what was in that drink?

Beatrice shrugged and sipped her alcohol. "Don't be a pussy, Johnny. It's just a teenie-weenie little drink."

My brother stopped, his head snapped up. He whirled around. "What did you call me?"

"Crow, did I stutter?"

Crow just glared at her, making her disapproval obvious.

Beatrice swiveled in her seat, crossed her smooth legs.

My brother watched as Beatrice sipped her drink and poured more into her glass. "Last chance," she said, giving his glass a tiny nudge.

He limped over, but didn't sit. I wanted to make him stop. What if it killed him? I pressed my face to the wooden-netting. I was sure my forehead looked like a waffle. I raised a hand to bang on the door, but didn't do anything after all. I just sat there, fist hanging midair, and watched as he picked up the glass and swigged the entire shot in one gulp, like he couldn't even taste it.

"Savor it, honey. It's twelve-year-old scotch." She poured him some more, then scooped up her glass, swirling its contents. "Cheers," she said. And clinked glasses with him. My brother just stared. Then, taking her advice, he took a slow sip. "So you haven't seen my sister?"

Beatrice shook her head. "No, sweetie. I'm sorry."

Johnny sighed and put his head in his hands.

"Why, may I ask, are you looking so intently for your sister?"

"I can't say."

Beatrice flicked the silver vial around his neck. "Does it have something to do with this?"

Johnny didn't answer.

"You know, if you told me what you need this protection from, I'd be better able to help you."

"If you want to help me, tell me where my sister is. I was chasing her through the woods and I lost her in there."

"You were chasing after her with a shotgun?" Beatrice lost her friendliness for the first time. An artfully penciled eyebrow shifted upward on her forehead.

I nodded accusingly even though no one could see me. He rested the shotgun on the bar. "That's not for her. I brought that along, you know, for the bears or wolves or whatever's in the woods."

"Oh, you brought it for protection," Beatrice supplied understandingly. But she seemed cooler now.

"Yeah."

"What happened to your leg?"

My brother shrugged. "It got caught on a fallen tree branch. Kinda stabbed me."

"Really?"

"Yeah. What, you don't believe me?"

"Don't be silly. No one could make a story up like that." She reached over the bar again and picked up the phone. "Shall I call the police?"

Johnny paled visibly, if that was even possible. "No. No, I'm sure my sister will come back. It's not safe for her outside. The blizzard..."

"How about an ambulance, then? Your leg looks pretty bad."

"No. No, I'll be fine. It's just a little scratch. It looks worse than..." My brother shook his head suddenly. He closed his eyes, blinked rapidly. He looked at his glass. "This stuff is really strong."

The skinny woman laughed heartily, tried to trade the inside joke with Crow, who was not amused. "Yeah, I'll bet it is. It's strong as hell."

Johnny dropped the glass without meaning to. It just slipped right out from between his thumb and fingers. "Oh."

"Don't worry. I'll get it."

Johnny stumbled backward a couple of steps. Then he dropped to all fours.

"Watch the glass, honey."

"Wha...?" My brother mumbled and let her help him away from the broken glass. He dragged himself up with the help of a bar stool, reached up for the bar and groped for the shotgun. But he couldn't get it and he fell to the floor, knocking over one barstool and making another scrape across the floor.

I started banging on the door. "Let me out! Leave him alone!"

Beatrice plucked the key from Crow's outstretched hand, came over, and opened the door for me.

I leaped out and went to my brother's side, falling down to my knees. I shook him violently back and forth. He didn't stir. "Johnny! Johnny!" I jumped to my feet and glared at the two women. "What did you give him?"

"Something to knock him out," Beatrice said, like it should have been obvious. "Crow, do you want to tell me what all this is about?"

Ignoring her, Crow went for the phone, but I slammed my hand down to cut the call. "No. No police."

"I wasn't going to call the police."

I frowned. "Then who were you going to call?"

She opened her mouth to answer when there was a loud, short caw from above.

All three of us looked up. Peering down from the chandelier was the white crow.

The bird's head jerked for a better look at me. Its blue eye blinked.

Crow replaced the phone without making the call. "Isn't that interesting?" She remarked.

"What's interesting?" I asked.

With a humble, yet advisory tone, she said, "I think you should spend the night. You'll find out why soon enough."
9

Crow remained behind the bar, staring at the moist rag in her hand. Every now and then she'd take a peek at the white crow above us.

"Well, then, that's settled." Beatrice gave my shoulders a squeeze after a few moments. "Are you hungry, dear?" She asked sweetly and headed to the kitchen behind the bar. "Running through the woods will work up an appetite."

I pulled myself onto a bar stool and looked down at my brother, who had now begun snoring where he lay. "No, I'm not hungry."

"Nonsense. I'm making you something." Beatrice popped her beautifully coiffed head out of the swinging door. "I'm rather good at it, you know."

"I said I'm not hungry."

"Are you afraid I'll poison you?"

I took a beat too long to answer and she laughed, disappearing into the kitchen.

"Man, she's one crazy old bitch," I muttered under my breath.

Crow snapped out of her reverie and looked at me with clear, pale blue eyes.

I could hear something sizzling in oil, a spatula scraping in a pan. Beatrice reappeared suddenly. She made no clicking noises with her heels like she had earlier. Like she'd suddenly switched to wearing socks. Or maybe she'd levitated herself from the stove to the swinging door. She smiled at me. I really expected dentures, but saw two, slightly crooked rows of pearly whites. "What was that, sweetie?" She asked me.

"What was what?"

Beatrice continued her insane smiling. She disappeared into the kitchen.

"Go apologize," Crow said, nodding her head toward the swinging door.

I laughed dryly. "Yeah, sure."

Crow grabbed my wrist. Her hand was cool and papery. "You'll treat her with respect, do you hear me?"

"She poisoned my brother! You both did." I snatched my hand away. "I'm not eating anything that psycho bitch puts in front of me."

"Go apologize at once."

"She didn't hear what I said."

"She heard. Go."

I shook my head. "No."

Crow gave up. She started wiping the table down again.

I rolled my eyes. "I think it's clean enough," I said sarcastically. "I should call the cops on _you_ people."

Crow stopped and peered at me to see if I was serious. Then she picked up an old rotary phone and slammed it down in front of me, making me jump. Then she stared with that unnerving gaze of hers.

Damn. She was daring me.

I picked up the receiver. Put it to my head with a warning look as I listened to the dial tone.

Crow rested her palms on the bar and stared expectantly.

"I'll do it," I threatened.

But before I could do anything—and I swear, I was totally going to call the cops—psycho bitch came out of the kitchen with three ornate china plates of food, balanced on her arms like an expert server. Chicken and capers over bow-tie pasta. I'd never seen anyone cook a meal that fast. It took longer to reheat a slice of pizza in the microwave.

"Here you go." She handed me a plate with a smile.

I watched with the receiver still in my hand as Crow accepted a plate for herself.

I hung up the phone. I'd just call the cops in a few minutes. No problem. I wasn't stalling. Really.

It smelled so good, and if it was poisoned I couldn't tell. Not that I'd had much of an appetite anyway. Being locked in my brother's tiny bedroom closet—that had been more of a pressing problem. That, and on the other side of the door, Johnny with a shotgun. And the cobra that wasn't really there.

Beatrice reached under the bar and pulled out three sets of forks and knives wrapped in white linen napkins. She handed it out to both of us and unraveled hers.

I watched as Crow began to eat hers, blowing on it first with her wrinkled lips, then gingerly placing it into her mouth. She arched her eyebrows wordlessly at the plate, urging me to eat.

"I said, I'm not eating anything the psycho bitch puts in front of me."

I reached down to dump the food outside.

I lifted the plate. That was when a centipede fought its way out from under the hot pasta, suffering from the scalding food. The insect was four inches long.

I screamed and dropped the plate, inches from my brother's body. The blue-stained china shattered and the food went flying. The centipede flopped on its back on the warped floor, yellow legs ripping uncontrollably.

I put my hand over my mouth, groaning with disgust, shaking. I moved as far away from the thing as I could, careful not to touch anything that might have another revolting creature crawling on its surface. I watched as the centipede rolled onto its belly, a disgusting contortion act.

The skinny bitch sipped her ice tea, hiding a smile. She glanced at Crow, who observed my reaction with the blank stare of a reptile. Beatrice cleared her throat and said, "They're deadly, sweetie. Be careful."

I spun around. "You—you put that in there!" I stuttered my accusation, stunned.

I shivered and hugged myself, feeling the goose bumps that had sprouted on my arms. I rubbed at them to make them go away.

Crow snapped to the mess, sweeping everything into a dirty old dustpan, outlining my brother with the broom, leaving the centipede alone. "Go wait outside," she said to me. "I'll show you to a room."

I started walking, in a daze. I gave my brother another worried look, but I fretted over nothing. He still snored like a lawnmower.

"Beatrice will be waiting," Crow said, as an afterthought.

I stopped. "For what?" I asked sourly.

Beatrice strode around from behind the bar with her fork and stabbed the centipede. It continued to flail desperately, legs waving crazily. I'd never seen anything so disgusting. Beatrice hurried to the garbage to dispose of the insect.

"For your apology," Crow replied flatly. "I think she's earned it. Don't you?"
10

Crow stepped outside to join me. She had a sturdy bamboo cane, which she used to climb down the two salted steps at the front of the bar.

The white crow sensed the frigid air and flew out, brushing us both with a hard gust of wind. It disappeared behind the building, passing over a large tree stripped of leaves to the right. The tree stood at an odd angle, like the ground had been flat while the tree grew, but had tilted aside recently, like it was on a bad foundation.

I stood outside, chewing my fingernails. Even though I'd thawed a little bit inside, once I was out, I already couldn't feel my fingertips. Falling ice stung my cheeks and eyelids. I switched to another finger. When I tasted blood, I stopped. It could have been mine. Or Johnny's.

Crow led me silently down a picturesque, curved path hidden by a tall mound of snow. Steaming oil lampposts lined the path, buried up to their necks in snow. A faded, old-fashioned sign, the kind they have at warm, inviting B&Bs all over New England, sat posted on the right, almost completely buried under snowdrifts piled up high. It was made of unvarnished, wet wood, covered with chunks of ice.

Crow stopped in the middle of the path and raised her eyes to the charcoal-gray sky. She soon pointed with her finger, just about two feet away from my head. I turned, startled to discover a bird perched on the snow right next to the faded sign. The bird was so white, so pure, so still, that it completely camouflaged itself until I stood just inches away. And even then I saw it only when it tilted its head, getting a better look at me through one beady blue eye. "Oh," I breathed.

"It arrived here about three days ago," she told me. "Never seen her before. And I know every crow in this area."

"You can't know every—"

"Yes I can. She's an old one." Crow looked at me curiously. "Isn't she?"

The bird hung around for a second more, then flew away, disappearing into the night. "What's her name?"

"She's not mine," I blurted.

Crow gave a blasé shrug. "She's here for you."

I couldn't disagree.

I hurried after Crow. Freezing cold water seeped in through the oversized moccasins she lent me. They were smelly and contained a couple of tiny stones, but I could hardly feel them.

I didn't know where Crow was taking me—I couldn't see through the sheets of falling snow. Some snowdrifts stood even taller than me, slightly claustrophobic, even though my lungs and nostrils burned with fresh, icy air every time I inhaled.

We arrived at a small log house. A few cut pieces of firewood rested underneath a plastic tarp. A short picket fence was buried there, only visible because the gate had been swept clean of snow. A very narrow path had been cleared for guests. Or maybe, one guest in particular—me.

Crow unlocked the door with a key, but didn't go in.

I stepped in, pleased with the toasty warmth. A fire burned in the stone fireplace behind a black metal grate. A bowl of fruit, a covered dish, and something to drink had been placed on the coffee table. The glass had sweated profusely, staining the glass and wood coffee table beyond the round coaster it sat on.

A loud pop came from the fireplace and Crow's eyes darted quickly to the flames, then away. She nodded at the table. "Eat. Get some sleep."

I said nothing, suddenly exhausted.

She looked expectantly up into the sky. Sure enough, the same white crow arrived on huge, beating wings and landed on the porch banister. I stepped back, a little nervous. I'd never been this close to the bird. Its feathers glittered with fresh snow.

Crow didn't close the door, but stopped and turned to look at me. "You'll apologize to Beatrice tomorrow."

"Wait, what are you going to do with my brother?"

"Someone is coming to pick him up."

"Who?"

"You'll find out in a couple of hours."

"How do you know that?"

She kept walking.

"Hey! Wait. I'm talking to you."

Crow disappeared around the bend.

"Are you going to call the cops?" My voice echoed.

No answer.

I groaned.

The crow studied me from the banister, pecked a little between its pink feet, then shuffled to the door, asking permission to enter.

I opened the door wider and stepped out of the way. It stepped through the threshold and flew to the end of the leather sofa.

I locked the door and joined the bird on the sofa, where a thick, lumpy afghan and some throw cushions sat in a neat pile. I stuck a couple of pillows where I'd lay my head in a few minutes.

The bird arced to the table and went for the fruits. The poor thing must have been starving in this terrible weather. As it jerked a piece of orange into its beak, I reached a finger slowly to stroke its neck. It froze when it saw my hand coming, but didn't move away. I brushed it a couple of times, picking up cold water droplets. The snow on its body had already melted. It relaxed and continued to eat, ripping shreds from the orange wedge by holding it under its pink talons.

I opened up the plate of food and checked carefully for bugs, holding a fork with just my thumb and index finger, ready to bolt at the sight of any unpleasant exoskeleton, antennae, or waving segmented legs. Only when had I picked through every bit of the food did I begin to eat. This plate might have been left by Crow, but I wasn't taking any chances.
11

Despite my exhaustion, it took me hours to fall asleep. I watched the fire flicker all over the room, a hypnotic dance of fiery orange light and deep burgundy shadows. Every time I was wrenched awake by a crackle in the fireplace, the roof creaking under the snow's weight, the wind howling like a lost wolf, I saw shadows on the walls, figures made of smoke. Once I saw Artemis herself, bleeding from her mouth, her eyes filled with pain and confusion as she sat hunched in the fireplace as if leaning over a toilet bowl. The image snapped me out of my sleep in a second flat. I bolted upright. The crow should have been startled by my sudden movement, but it observed me through one blue eye as coolly as a scientist would a lab specimen.

I was soaked in sweat, despite the fact that the fire had died down, and the room had turned into an icebox. I checked the fireplace again for Artemis's figure, but she was gone.

I looked at the crow.

It stared at the curtained window.

I walked to the door to pick out some of the firewood to use. As I replaced the plastic tarp, ready to go back inside, I heard a truck engine rumble to a stop.

I tripped back inside, closed the door and dropped the firewood, edging over to the window. I couldn't see anything at all. The tall snowdrift blocked my line of sight.

I slipped my feet into the icy moccasins and hurried back outside, limping. The crow followed and flew ahead of me. I approached the parking lot as quietly as I could.

Red tail lights bled over the blanket of snow; the headlights cast Crow in a harsh, unflattering light as she stood near the tavern steps. Someone helped Johnny—groggy, clumsy, and still half-asleep—down the stairs. I couldn't believe my eyes. It was Scott.

"Straight home," Crow ordered as she closed the door.

"Straight home," Scott repeated, letting Johnny drop into the passenger seat. He slammed the door shut and then drove off.

***

I couldn't remember going back to sleep. But I slept great. Later, loud, scraping noises from outside woke me up.

I lay still for a long time, listening. I looked at my feet, swollen and aching, scratched and cut. My big toes had blisters and tiny black and blue dots. Frostbite.

I gingerly kicked off the afghan and stood up, wincing at the pain in my feet. A chill coursed through my body. It was _freezing_ in here. The fire had gone out at some point in the night. I shuddered and snatched the afghan back around my shoulders. I searched for something to cover my feet and keep them warm, but I had nothing but the moccasins. They were still damp from a few hours ago, even though I'd left them near the fire.

The scraping continued slowly, rhythmically. I snuck to the window, face locked in a grimace. I peeked through a crack in the curtains at a guy outside, bundled in thick winter clothes and work gloves. He scooped away fresh snow that had piled up during the night. He had a bag of salt handy, from which he periodically sprinkled granules with the shovel over the cleared areas. But he stopped suddenly, heaved a sigh and blotted a sheen of sweat from his brow. It was Scott.

I let the curtain drop slowly. No sudden movements. Better if he didn't know I was in here.

The shoveling stopped suddenly.

I checked on him again, parting the curtains just an inch. His body twisted around slightly like he heard something. Then I heard it too. A car door slamming. Some footsteps in the snow. I guess the parking lot wasn't very far from this log cabin. Walking through a maze of snowdrifts last night really made it seem further away. And that's when I heard the dreaded sound. A police radio.

I ducked down, like an idiot.

It was too soon. I wasn't ready to tell them anything yet.

I heard someone knock on a door some distance away, maybe the tavern. A voice wafted over, distorted. "Raven City Police." When there was no answer the cop pounded on the door with what sounded like a closed fist. "Raven City Police! Ms. Ó Broin?"

Scott took a deep breath, stuck the shovel in a pile of snow and walked toward the cop. I pressed my ear to the icy glass window and listened, holding my breath. He called out clearly, "Hello, Officer, you need some help?"

"Yeah," the cop replied faintly. "Do you happen to know where Ms. Ó Broin is?"

"She must be upstairs. I can go get her for you."

"That'd be great. Thanks."

"Sure. What's this about, if you don't mind me asking?"

A sigh, like the cop almost couldn't be bothered explaining. "I'm looking for a seventeen-year-old white female. Short brown hair, hazel eyes. Petite build. She ran off last night, in the middle of the snow storm. Did you happen to see anything?"

Scott gave a slight pause. "No. I haven't seen anything."

"About what time did you arrive here?"

"A few hours ago. Maybe like, four-thirty this morning."

"And you haven't seen anybody fitting that description?"

"No."

There was a short silence. "Hey, you look familiar. I know you from somewhere?"

A tired reply, "Probably from Henry's Diner."

"Oh yeah. You work as a waiter over at that diner."

"Yeah, that's my uncle's place."

"What's your name?"

"Scott."

"Well, Scott, I love those homemade donuts. They're to die for. You be sure to tell your uncle."

Scott laughed easily. "Sure thing. You want me to get Cr—Ms. Ó Broin?"

"Yeah, kid."

"Okay. I'll be right back."

"You work here, too?"

Scott chuckled, sounding sheepish. "Yeah."

"You seen any of the guests around here this morning?"

Some hesitation. "I don't even know if the Hooded Crow has any guests with this kind of weather. But Ms. Ó Broin doesn't like me to talk about the guests anyway. Privacy reasons. It makes her liable."

"Okay, that's fine, Scott. Thanks for your help."

"You're welcome, Sir. Give me a second. I'll go get her."

I pulled away from the window and massaged my cold ear.

I sat there, pressed against the wall under the window sill, my heart pounding the entire time. Scott came back and picked up the shovel. But he didn't continue. Like me, he was listening.

Eventually, my heart settled into a nervous equilibrium.

Scott forced himself to get back to work. But he finished it half-assed, dumped salt, and then hurried away. He returned with an armful of firewood and stacked it by the front door on the porch. Then he stopped and stared at my door for several seconds.

Without doing anything else, he turned and stepped away. Then he picked up the shovel, the salt, and left.

I heaved a sigh and sagged against the door all the way to the floor. I winced at my feet and brought one foot closer to inspect it. One of the blisters had burst and leaked a clear, sticky fluid.

Then suddenly footsteps sounded on the porch, hollow and heavy.

I jumped violently and hunkered down some more, flattening myself against the floor like a bear rug.

Something thumped down on the doormat outside. Then something scuffled against the doorjamb, and the footsteps went away, thumping rapidly down the porch steps and crunching on the newly salted path.

I stood up as quietly as I could, tugging the afghan tightly around my shoulders. I looked out in time to see Scott disappear around the corner.

I opened the door and almost screamed when a folded piece of paper fell down from where he had wedged it. A note.

Beside the fallen note, a large rumpled paper bag from Henry's Diner sat on the doormat, the opening curled shut like a bag of fresh bagels from the bakery. I knelt down, looked up to check if anyone was watching. When I saw that I was alone—except for the white crow—I opened it up. A set of dry, clean clothes, socks, boots, and my bag were squeezed inside. He must have picked this stuff up from home, when he'd dropped Johnny off. I shook my head, smiling. He didn't have to go out of his way like that. I kind of wish he didn't. I felt like such an ass for calling him Artemis' leftovers.

As I pulled on the pair of jeans, I opened up Scott's note and read it. My smile faltered. I stopped, partly-dressed with one leg in, one out.

We need to talk.

12

There wasn't much in my bag—some makeup, balled up tissues and receipts—and Artemis' chocolate diamond necklace, which I'd stolen. I wondered if Scott had gone through my things. He'd never seemed like the type to go snooping around. At least, he seemed too decent to do something like that. My phone and cash were the most important things in my bag, though. The phone was just about dead. And the cash was still there. As far as I could tell, Scott hadn't lifted any of it.

I pulled out Artemis' necklace and studied its pristine beauty on my reddish, scratched-up palm. I glanced into the dark fireplace, thinking about how I'd seen Artemis in there, in the fire, sick to her stomach and throwing up.

I went to drop the necklace back into my bag, a well of darkness. I hesitated, not wanting to drop her belonging away and hide it. It just felt wrong. I set it on the arm of the couch, but worried it would slide into the cracks between the cushions, and soon be forgotten. Finally, I put the necklace on myself. It sat, once again, in a place of prominence, just like Artemis always wanted, against my collarbone, cold, but soon it grew warm from my body heat. I grasped the pendant. "Where are you?" I whispered.

I turned on the TV which was hidden behind the polished doors of an entertainment center.

I flipped to the news. Apparently, this storm was the biggest blizzard to hit Pennsylvania since 1958, when the deepest single snowstorm reached a record 60 inches, or five feet, in a place called Gouldsboro, not far from Raven City. They showed some old photos from '58 and compared them to images from Instagram and Flickr today. Cars buried completely; store entrances that couldn't open; residential doors that _could_ open, except onto a wall of bluish snow. They kept urging folks to stay indoors and off the roads, which were only for emergency personnel. Some people had reported a loss of power, frozen pipes, or loss of heat in some cases. Some people had to be taken to the hospital, some homeless people had been found dead, shelters were full up and the governor had declared a state of emergency.

And that wasn't even the bad news. Another band of bad weather was moving in, and would arrive in a couple of days with another anticipated two to three feet of snow, which would presumably be dumped right on top of the five we already had before it even had a chance to melt.

I turned it off after a few minutes. Nothing about me. And nothing about Artemis.

There was a knock on the door.

My shoulders jumped. I stood up and walked gingerly over to the door. By the time I made it the person knocked again, harder, making me wince. It couldn't have been louder if a giant picked up a boulder and chucked it against the door.

I looked out of the peephole and saw wiry white hair. I heaved a sigh and opened the door. "You scared the crap out of me."

Crow stood there. A trolley stood at the bottom of the stairs, topped with plates of food and towels.

I smiled gratefully. "Is that for me?"

She frowned. "You? No. You're going to take this to the next lodge over. Number four. This is for them."

I lost my smile. "Uh, excuse me? I don't work here."

Crow pointed at the lodge. "Are you paying for the night?"

I blinked at her. "No," I said. "I don't have any money."

I swear, her bullshit detector was as fine-tuned as a CIA polygraph machine. Her eyes moved to my bag, sitting wide open on the couch. Then her eyes returned to me. I felt my face turning red, but I wouldn't admit I was lying.

"Shall I call the police and tell them I have a guest who is unwilling to pay?"

My skin started doing all kinds of things, turning hot and cold like a cuttlefish turns colors when it's pissed off. "No! You'll call the police on me after you made me stay here?"

"Yes."

I went in and pulled on the boots Scott had brought me. My blisters burned. But if I was going to leave, I had to do it now. I'd just have to risk having both feet amputated. I could outrun the old hag before she made it to the lobby to call the police back. I pointed to the food trolley. "I'm not taking that to the lodge."

"Yes you are. Because my deal is better than facing the police. Of course, you could do it, if you weren't so scared of getting your brother in trouble."

"I'm not scared. He just didn't do anything."

She nodded, humoring me. She leaned down to one of the trolley shelves and tossed an apron at me. It got me in the face. I snatched it off my head and watched her hobble away. "You better hurry," she called over her shoulder. "Food's getting cold."

My face felt like it could melt away a ton of snow. I threw the apron down and started leaving. After all the hellish crap I'd been through these past couple of days, this is what she hits me with? Man, where was this woman's compassion? I wasn't asking for much. All I wanted was a break. Was that so much to ask?

At least Scott had been nice enough to bring me some clean clothes. I had nothing to wear, aside from the over-sized T-shirt and pajama bottoms I'd been wearing since waking up in the middle of the night. Everything smelled of fear and old sweat. I had just fixed my hood over my ears when I heard a guy scream from a short distance away. His voice was followed quickly by whooping and someone yelling, "You pussy!"

"Ah, it's cold! Fuck me, it's cold!"

I left my bag on the step and walked toward the yelling. I arrived at a bend which opened up around another lodge. This one stood two stories tall, with a large deck and a balcony on the second floor. Two guys had leaped off the balcony into the powdery snowdrifts, destroying the path Scott had cleared earlier for a driveway. They were completely naked except for soaking wet boxers.

A slender girl wearing a white puffer jacket and cashmere hat stood with a camera, filming the idiots who were probably about thirty seconds away from cardiac arrest. Bright red, chopstick-straight hair poured out from under her hat, like blood.

The guys slid down the minor avalanche and quaked in place, unable to get warm. One of them said, "Uh...never doing that again." He was a little pudgy and wore a shaggy beard.

The other one laughed and hugged himself. His entire body had turned splotchy, red and white. His hair was in a mohawk, even though it wasn't summer, dusted with chunks of snow and dripping wet. "Did you get a good shot, Mandy?" As he talked he turned my way and spotted me. He had a handsome, angular face. He smiled and waved.

The others saw him and all turned at once.

_Crap_. I turned quickly and ran away. I didn't know what else to do.

When I came back I spotted the white crow sitting on the trolley handle, pecking at the edge of one of the breakfast plates. It had managed to wedge its beak under one of the stainless steel covers in search of cold scrambled eggs.

I waved my hand at it. "Stupid bird!" I hissed as it flew away. I used a fork to scoop some of the contaminated eggs onto the ground and covered the dish back up.

But it didn't go after the eggs on the ground. The crow circled back and landed on the trolley handle again. I shooed it away with my bag and it landed on the wall of snow. Stared with one blue eye as I picked up my bag. I had to get out of here. _Just start walking,_ I told myself.

"Hey, how's it going?" A voice said behind me.

I stopped and turned around. It was the guy with the mohawk, but he'd wrapped himself in a blanket. "I just want to apologize if we disturbed you. We didn't think there would be any other guests at this time of year."

"I'm not a guest," I blurted.

"Oh." He shivered suddenly and pulled the blanket closer around himself. "So you work here?"

"No. I mean, I'm not a guest anymore. I was leaving."

He frowned at me. "That's weird. I didn't see a car." Okay. He wasn't going to call me a liar—but he _was_ going to imply it.

I turned and began walking away, trying not to look like I wanted to run. "What are you, a detective?" I asked sarcastically, keeping my strides slow, but long.

"Of sorts."

I shook my head. "Whatever that means."

He followed after me and began walking beside me, shaking from the cold, but not turning back. He looked at my face and I pulled back. "Will you leave me alone?"

"Did you know there's a white crow following you?"

Sure enough, the crow came flapping after us every few feet, passed over and waited up ahead. Every time we caught up it would go further.

"How do you know it's not following you?"

He shook his head and laughed, shaky from the cold. "It's not."

I picked up my pace and so did he. Then he did something that stopped me in my tracks. He reached over and pulled my hat right off my head.

"Hey!" I protested.

He held it up, out of reach with one wiry arm and said, "You're really young. How did you get a room?"

I actually jumped for the hat a couple of times, like a moron. Then I shoved him as hard as I could, against the snowdrift. A huge pile collapsed on top of him. He went down and got partially buried. I snatched my hat back from his open hand. "Asshole." I pulled it back down over my head, hardly able to keep calm. I turned to leave, but I reached greedily into the snowdrift with both hands and pulled down another huge hunk of snow down on top of him. He gave a muffled grunt and I felt better immediately. "Now we're even, you jerk!" I shouted so he could hear me.

That was when someone protested behind me, "Hey, what the hell are you doing?"

13

Scott. Again. He held his shovel, balancing a bag of salt over his shoulder. Wearing a hat with flaps and a thick plaid jacket, he looked like an irritated lumberjack.

_Damn_ , I thought miserably. I couldn't catch one break.

Scott came running over and helped the other guy up. He dusted the snow off him and helped him to his feet, only to let him go with a look of mild disgust when he saw that he wasn't wearing any clothes except a pair of boxers. "What the hell's going on around here?" Scott demanded, his angry brown eyes shifting from the mohawk-guy to me.

The mohawk-guy dragged the blanket out of the snow and put it around his shoulders with a wince. He didn't bother answering Scott's question. He staggered off at first, then picked up his pace, running for the warmth of his rented lodge.

"Do you realize you just assaulted a guest?" Scott asked, like some mature adult.

I didn't answer and walked away.

"Hey, he could file charges, you know!" Scott called after me.

I kept going and saw Crow standing on the steps of the tavern. The white crow perched on the awning above her head.

Crow shook her head at me. "All you had to do was take the trolley to them."

"I don't work here!" I snapped at her.

But I immediately regretted saying those words, because that's when a state trooper stepped out of the tavern. He tipped his hat quickly at Crow. "Thanks for the coffee. Appreciate it."

I thought I was going to soil myself. I started backing away into the path Scott had diligently created for hours this morning.

The trooper must have seen me, because he went "Hey," just as Scott caught up to me from behind. "Do you have any idea how long it took me to—"

"Yeah, yeah. Shhh!" I hissed at him ferociously and dragged him back to the pathway. "Be quiet!"

He frowned at me and craned his neck to see. "Oh."

"Ms. Ó Broin, is this the new staff member you told me about?"

"Yes, that's her." Crow struggled down the steps with her bamboo cane and pointed it at me. I pulled my hat further down so the cop wouldn't notice I fit the description of the female he was searching for. "She's being a little uncooperative right now. But I have a feeling that's going to change," she added snidely.

"Listen, young lady, Ms. Ó Broin is a sweetheart. You give her any grief, you'll have to answer to me, you got that?" He said it in a teasing way, but there was an edge to his voice. Maybe I just imagined it. He didn't exactly look soft and fuzzy wearing the dark state trooper uniform with a hulking leather jacket and wool-lined hat. His brass nametag gleamed on his chest.

I nodded and barely choked out, "Yes, sir."

I expected a question about Johnny now. This was it.

But instead he tipped his hat again and I resisted the inane urge to curtsey. I just gave him a tight, polite smile as my heart threatened to batter its way through my chest like an alien hatchling.

The state trooper started walking back to his car, but stopped and turned around.

I groaned under my breath. "Just _go_ , man."

"Ms. Beatrice told me the, uh, recipe was yours. It worked, Ms. Ó Broin."

Crow gave a small, hesitant smile, shedding her unpleasantness for the first time since we'd met. I saw a shadow of the attractive woman she may have once been. "How far along is she?"

The trooper smiled shyly. "Five weeks. And after everything the doctors said, too. They really took all her hope away and you gave it back. Mine too."

"I'm glad."

"Thank you."

Crow waved her hand dismissively. "You take good care of her, Tommy."

"Will do. You have a great day. You need any help with anything, anything at all, you let me know." He winked at me. "Even your staff members."

"Thank you, Tommy."

"No problem."

He finally got into his cruiser and drove off.

I swallowed. "I feel like throwing up."

"She _works_ here now?" Scott demanded. "Do you have any idea what she just did?"

"Seriously?" I retorted. "You're going to _tattle_? What are you, five?"

"You assaulted a guest!"

"He took my hat!"

Scott gave me an incredulous look. "Now who's five?"

"He grabbed it off my head! He touched me first! What was I supposed to do?"

Crow rolled her eyes and interrupted the both of us, "He's not angry."

I looked at her. "Wait, did he call you and complain?"

Crow looked pointedly at me. "No." She turned away and walked into the bar before I could ask some follow-up questions. She reappeared with a tray topped with a thermos, some bowls, spoons, and napkins. "Take this to their lodge. I'm not going to tell you again."

I didn't fight back this time. I went right up to her with excessive eagerness and took the tray. "What is it?"

"Chicken soup. For playing naked in the snow."

14

I delivered the tray of soup for the only actual guests at the Hooded Crow. I expected to get yelled at—mostly by Mandy; she seemed an irritable kind of person—but I didn't. The guy with the mohawk was still wrapped in the blanket when he answered the door. He nodded at something over my shoulder. I looked back and saw the white crow monitoring my service from the middle of the walkway.

He nodded at it. "Is that your supervisor?"

I thought about the crow's behavior. "I think it's my warden."

He reached out from under the blanket and took the tray, handed it off to Mandy with a simple, "Thanks."

He stuck out his right hand. "I'm Mark, by the way."

I smiled and shook his hand. It was like a block of ice. I felt so bad now. "I'm Annie."

"Oh, that's pretty. Sweet and American. Like apple pie."

"Thanks. I've never liked it. Makes me sound like I'm from the fifties."

"The fifties was one of the last best decades in American history." He tucked his arm back under the blanket. He gestured gracefully with his left hand, the blanket draped over it. "That's Mandy. My girlfriend."

I gave her a small wave. "Hi."

She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. Mark must have told her what I did. She was clearly angry.

"I'm sorry about earlier," I said to Mark.

He waved his blanketed hand, the sheet flapping. "Don't worry about it."

"Yeah. If he gets hypothermia, we'll just send you the hospital bill," Mandy said sweetly, but her gaze was frigid.

Mark gave her a look. "Stop it."

Mandy rolled her eyes and began setting the table. On the bed sat several coiled wires and equipment, like a sound box and a camera. Mandy saw me looking, scowled at me, and covered the things with a blanket.

I started backing away from the door. She obviously found me too intrusive. "Well, I'll get out of your way."

Mark nodded. "Thanks for the soup."

"You're welcome. Um...I've been told to let you know that we're expecting between twenty-four and thirty-six inches of snow in two days."

"Again?" Mark said, clearly upset.

Mandy threw her arms in the air. "Great! That's just great! Perfect time for filming, my ass."

"Would you give it a rest?" Mark said, annoyed.

"I _told_ you we should wait until spring, Mark!"

"Yeah, yeah, you were right and I was wrong. Now what are you going to do about it?"

Mandy didn't answer. She licked soup off her thumb after pouring it into the bowls. She nodded at me stiffly. "Soup's good."

Mark turned back to me. "Sorry."

I shrugged. Apology accepted. "I understand your disappointment. We'll accommodate you however we can. Whatever things you need from us, like extra towels, firewood, soap, shampoo, let me know ahead of time, if at all possible, and I'll stock you right up. And whatever you want to get in town, Cr—the manager recommends purchasing them before the snow starts. They're expecting it to start about eleven in the morning and not stop until early the next morning. The manager suggests getting batteries, drinking water, a portable radio in case the power goes out, maybe some canned and preserved foods in the event you're snowed in for a while. If you need anything, just dial zero on the phone and you'll reach the front desk, okay?" I smiled reassuringly.

Mark nodded. "Thanks." He saluted the white crow with two fingers wrapped in the blanket. "She's doing great."

The crow tilted its head skeptically, as if to say, _Are you sure about that?_

"So you do work here after all, huh?" Mark asked, a perceptiveness edging out his warm voice.

I looked at the crow again, which flew up and disappeared against the white sky. "Yeah," I admitted.

"That's funny. I've never heard of anyone getting hired _after_ attacking a guest."

I laughed weakly. "Yeah, my manager's weird like that."

Mark nodded thoughtfully, gave me another smile, then closed the door. When I had made my way down the steps, the door opened again.

"Annie. Wait up."

I stopped and turned as Mark approached me. "Look, I really want to apologize for my girlfriend. She's a bit moody."

I shrugged it off. "It's all right." I nodded at his lodge. "So, you guys are filming something, huh?"

"Well, it's not really anything," Mark began, and ran his hand through his damp hair. "It's part of an end-of-year assignment. We all go to film school, and the final project has to be a film we made. We thought it would be fun to make a film about our last winter break together. But so far"—he gestured around himself—"it's too much winter."

"Oh."

"We might have to switch topics real soon." He gave me a sudden, appraising look. Then said, "So listen, let me just cut to the chase. Do you think your manager would be willing to go on camera?"

"Huh?"

"I hear she's a psychic and a witch. Is that true?"

Before answering, my gaze instinctively dropped down to a spot on the blanket, where Mark's hand would be if he was holding a cup of coffee. He didn't move. Not a fraction of an inch.

Unbelievable. He was recording me.

"I don't think she'd be willing to go on camera." I paused for a moment, then nodded at the camera I knew was hidden under the blanket. "And neither am I."

***

Feeling angry and sort of violated, I headed back to the tavern. The second I walked in, Crow began taking me through the inn's daily grind, and soon I realized she'd pretty much locked me in as an employee. My first job was to clean up the lodge I'd occupied last night—replace towels and blankets, make the bed, even though I'd barely touched any of it. Aside from that, I had to visit every occupied lodge every day for housekeeping, and every vacant lodge, once a week, for maintenance. Laundry had to be taken care of every day, dried and folded, and filed back into the stock room.

The whole time, I couldn't believe Crow acted like nothing was wrong.

Hadn't she noticed that the state trooper hadn't asked any questions about my brother? Hadn't she noticed that zero cops had shown up because of the incident with my brother last night? Had she forgotten that Johnny had brought a shotgun? Had it slipped her mind that she and Beatrice had drugged him right in front of me? If I didn't know better, I would have thought last night had just been a terrible dream. And today was like any other wintery Saturday morning, lazy and difficult to find something to do. But that wasn't true at all. I still had scratches on my body from running through the woods. I still had frostbite on my aching feet and every step I took was agony. Another blister had burst and had soaked into my sock, leaving a burning, icy sensation every time I put weight on my left foot. I needed some bandages and antiseptic, ASAP.

When Crow was done listing my duties—I'd only half-listened—she turned to me and said abruptly, "I know you're a thief."

I realized dully she'd just accused me, someone she barely knew, but it hardly bothered me. Didn't make me angry like it should have. I guess I was too distracted wondering if Johnny was coming back to get me.

Crow continued when I didn't respond. "It doesn't take a genius to figure out that someone who wears Route 66 jeans from Wal-Mart can't afford to shop at Kay's or Jared's." She suddenly flicked the chocolate diamond necklace around my throat. "Or Zales," she said with surety.

"Oh, so you know your designer jewelry, huh?" I asked. It was supposed to be a stinging retort, but it came out in a mumble.

"No," she said with a wry smile.

I should have figured. After all, she had other ways of finding things out. Just like me. A Seer. Finally I said tiredly, "Look, if you're going to turn me in to the cops, just do it already. And I'll tell them I watched the two of you poison my brother. I'll spill my guts."

"I have no reason to turn you in to the cops. You haven't stolen anything from me, have you?"

I shook my head. "No."

She nodded, satisfied. "See that it stays that way. Employee quarters are upstairs through that door. Put your stuff away in one of the unused rooms and get to work."

I walked to the door she pointed to with the end of her bumpy bamboo cane, the one that read EMPLOYEES ONLY, when I realized she hadn't mentioned a word about payment. I turned back to her. "What are you going to pay me?" I asked.

She didn't even look at me. "Room and board." But she stopped. "And one more thing." She pointed to the bar mirror. "You see that sign?" A wooden sign was mounted there. It showed a crystal ball sitting abandoned on a table covered with a red cloth, the words, _Psychic is out_ written across the top.

"What about it?"

"It means no readings are given here."

"Why not?"

She ignored me. "If anyone asks for me, tell them the psychic is retired."

She never answered my question.
15

The next day I was mopping behind the bar for the first time. I'd finally been able to wrap my feet in medicine and bandages for the frostbite. And I could almost walk without limping.

I'd been cleaning for about five minutes when the front door to the tavern squeaked open suddenly. Two people crossed the lobby's wood floor, their footsteps hollow. I cursed under my breath. I'd forgotten to lock the door behind me after coming inside.

I looked up when they entered the room and saw Scott. With him was a man I didn't recognize. Scott's Dad maybe. No. The uncle.

"We're closed," I muttered, continuing to wrestle with the monstrous mop as it snagged on the splintered wood floor for the millionth. "Son of a bitch!" I cursed and yanked at the gray, stringy beast. I tripped back into the row of under-lit bottles of alcohol, making them rattle. I threw the mop down in disgust and went down on my hands and knees. Used the scrubbing brush like Crow had suggested. She was right—I could have saved myself the aggravation. I was beginning to hate her being right all the damn time. I released a strangled cry as my rage drove one mother of a splinter right under my thumbnail. Ah, and there was the pain she'd mentioned.

I winced and tweezed it out with two semi-long fingernails. Blood beaded and leaked.

"Can you cut the crap for a minute?" Scott asked, leaning over the bar. He raised one dark eyebrow. I sensed his bravado was an act, though. His unwashed hair flopped limply when he took off his winter hat. Dark circles ringed his eyes noticeably. "What did you do?" He asked disapprovingly.

I glared up at him and rinsed my hand in the sink at the speed well. My blood ran down the drain with the spurting water and I pressed some bar napkins to my aching thumb. "What do you want?"

The moment the words were out of my lips I Saw something.

The color must have drained out of my face because Scott frowned. "What's wrong?"

I collected myself quickly. "Nothing, this thing really hurts."

The vision came over me in one huge rush. I felt like I'd been tossed up by a crusher of a wave and smashed to the ocean floor at breakneck speed. I caught the edge of the counter dizzily. The napkin slipped from my hand and dropped into the sink. Blood dripped rapidly now, bursting into ragged splotches all over the wet surface. I felt a flash of heat over my face, my body, like I was standing in the blast radius of an explosion. A burst of hot air blew my hair back, leaving a burning smell in my nose. I closed my eyes, and out of the flames emerged a black, scaly pile of flaming coils, eyes peering out at something behind me. I looked over my shoulder in my vision and saw a man clutching his leg. Just a little light shone from the fire, stark and orange against his leg, and under his shorts, wrapped over the muscles on his thigh, was a rattlesnake tattoo. Diamondback, said a voice inside me. The man didn't seem to know he was being hunted by the cobra, and didn't seem to know the thing was biting him, even as clear, green-tinted venom oozed back out from his skin, threaded with scarlet blood. I stepped forward, only thinking of protecting the man, and caught the cobra by its tail, trying to stop it. The cobra turned its attention to me, flicking its body around, rearing up. It wasn't on fire anymore, but it was hot, like heated rock, black like rage. Its golden eyes focused on me, appraising me to see if I was dangerous. I forced myself to open my eyes. I didn't want to look at it anymore.

I swallowed hard. Leaned over the sink and panted. I took a glass with a shaking hand. It almost slipped from my grip. I filled it about a half-an-inch with water and sipped clumsily. Water rolled over the sides of my chin.

Scott came around the bar, ducking under the flip-up bar top. "Annie, are you sure you're okay?" He asked, this time with real concern.

"I'm okay," I whispered.

He shook his head. "Come and sit down."

I pushed his hands away. "No. I'm fine."

"Just let me help you—"

"I don't need your help!" I snapped and pushed him. I put a hand out. "Just stop. I can take care of myself."

Scott finally tossed his hands up the in the air. "Fine."

"I don't need anyone's help. I just need a minute."

"All right!"

My finger continued to bleed. "What you are doing here? You know we're closed."

"This is my Uncle Henry," Scott said, jerking a thumb at him.

_I knew it._ Henry extended a hand and I shook it with my good one, the one that wasn't a bleeding mess. "Hello," he said. "I need to speak to Ms. Ó Broin."

"Oh." I'd been prepped just a day ago, so I said, "She's retired." I gestured to the wooden sign on the bar mirror. "I thought everyone knew that."

"I don't want a reading. I just need to speak with her. It won't take more than a minute."

"About what?"

Henry stared at me. It was easy to see that Scott was related to this man—they both shared the brown eyes, the strong jaw. His niceness cooled a few notches. "Excuse me, but it's none of your business why I need to speak to your boss."

"Well, then I guess you won't be seeing her."

"Listen, honey, I know you're not telling me to beat it. I didn't drive all the way in this shitty weather to get sent away."

"Well, _honey_ , it looks like you did."

Henry exchanged looks with Scott. "Kiddo, I ain't got time to deal with this little cupcake over here. Go get your boss."

" _Cup_ cake?" I repeated, my nostril curling.

But Scott said, "See?" Like I'd just proved his point. He pulled his winter hat back on. "I told you, Ms. Ó Broin doesn't talk to anyone. She's anti-social."

I grabbed more napkins and began wiping down the sink. I started dumping blood-soaked napkins into the trash.

Another vision struck me. Soot-covered, blood-soaked gauze being pulled off a blackened body, tossed into a metal basin. I froze, hands up in the air. I just couldn't stop doing it. I couldn't stop the parallels. Another flash of something, a surgeon holding his gloved, bloody hands, not touching anything, but hiding the burned man's face. My mind's eye kept flashing images to me, the surgeon lowered his hands and I lowered mine. Even though my eyes were open, I could See the man's face, burned beyond recognition. I looked at Scott's uncle and blinked. Every time I blinked his face changed, from healthy to burned, back to healthy.

"Just please go," I whispered.

He's going!

"Just get lost."

We're losing him!

I sagged against the counter.

Scott stood staring at me, deeply unnerved as I started crying. He must have thought I was completely freakin' nuts.

Scott tugged on Henry's arm, looking eager to leave. "Let's go. I told you Ms. Ó Broin's retired. If anyone wants to talk to her, they always want a reading. That's why she never talks to anyone."

Henry shook off Scott's hand. He leaned closer, his face blackened, eyes bleeding, lids burned off. He was beginning to smell like raw ham cooked in a campfire. He didn't seem to notice or care that I was crying. "My nephew can't work for her anymore."

Scott whirled to look at Henry, stunned. "Uncle Henry!"

Henry ignored him. He wasn't changing back. "That's why I need Ms. Ó Broin. To tell her she has to terminate Scott's employment. She's not paying him."

"Uncle Henry, she pays me just _fine_!"

Henry's head snapped to Scott, flakes and chunks of burnt skin falling. "You work like a dog. She doesn't pay you, Scott. You're failing two classes that you need to _graduate_!"

Scott's chest rose and fell rapidly. He shook his head. "I'm not quitting working here. She pays me. She _needs_ me. You think she can shovel this property herself? She's ancient! And besides, I've got my classes under control."

Henry shook his head, a dry crackling sounding from his cooked skin. "This is not open to discussion."

"You just want me to quit because you hate Ms. Ó Broin!"

"That has nothing to do with—"

"Of course it does! You don't want me here, because of what she's done to your business. You don't want me helping her with her business after what she did to yours. You said she's not paying me—how much are _you_ paying me, Uncle Henry? Do you have any idea how much you owe me in back pay?" Scott looked at me. " _Thousands_."

Henry shook his head. "This has nothing to do with that."

"I don't give a shit. You don't run my life. You're not my father."

Henry barked a laugh, his lips gone, nothing left but blackened teeth. "You really want to do this now? In front of her? Did you forget how many times he put you in the hospital?"

Scott jaw rippled with anger. His throat and cheeks flushed red. "You're not taking this job away from me."

Henry jumped up from his seat. "Shut up!" He barked. "Sit your ass down."

Scott didn't sit, and Henry looked ready to smack him.

"Stop," I interrupted. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and pictured Henry, not burned, not dying. When I opened my eyes, Henry and Scott both turned to look at me. They'd forgotten I was even there. And Henry was normal again.

"You need to look out for someone with a snake," I said to Henry.

Henry looked irate. "What?"

"I said, you need to look out for—"

"I heard you the first time. What, _you're_ a psychic now?"

I took a breath, finally able to calm down now that Henry didn't look like a charred mannequin. "I know it sounds crazy."

Henry nodded in agreement, not amused. "A little bit."

"There's a person with a snake."

Henry blinked. "This is ridiculous. Is she here or not?"

"No. Just listen." I stared into space for a minute, trying to visualize it again. "It's on the forehead, like the person's thinking about it. Or identifies with it. Maybe it's a pet. It's a king cobra. The kind that eats other snakes." I didn't even know anything about snakes except they were totally disgusting. I couldn't say how I knew that last little detail. I just did.

Henry looked at Scott, then at me. "Who in their right mind keeps a king cobra for a pet? They're deadly."

"I don't know. That's just what I See."

Scott pulled on Henry's arm. "Let's get out of here. Ms. Ó Broin's not going to talk to you."

"Wait. I'm not finished. There's also another person with a snake. This one is definitely a man. This one's on his leg. But he's not dangerous like the other person."

Henry studied me skeptically. "Are you sure?" He asked with a serious expression. "Are you sure it's just _two_ people with snakes and there isn't a third one with a puff adder crawling up their ass?"

I was stunned. "What?"

Scott started laughing. It was a high-pitched giggling. He rested his forearm on his uncle's shoulder and buried his face, his own shoulders trembling. Henry wore a mocking smile on his face, real proud of his stupid joke. Then he shook his head, pulled out his wallet and tossed a twenty on the counter. "Nice show."

I balled up the twenty and flung it back at him. He flinched, surprised as the crumpled up cash bounced against one closed eye and fell to the floor.

"I'm telling the truth, you asshole!" I snapped at him. "There are two people—only two—with two different snakes. This other person, a man, has it on his right thigh. And it's diamondback rattler."

Henry chuckled, picked up the cash off the floor. "Sure, kiddo."

"I'm telling the truth," I insisted.

Henry stood. "Listen, I came here for Ms. Ó Broin. The real psychic. Not some sideshow. But here." He put the wrinkled twenty back on the bar and tapped it with two fingers. "You earned it."

Henry stepped out and disappeared.

I was disgusted to discover that my eyes were burning with hot tears. I rubbed my eyes and pocketed the twenty grudgingly.

Scott continued to stand there, quietly drumming his fingers on the bar. He leaned in. "Can you not tell Crow my uncle was here?" He asked quietly. "Please?"

I'd completely forgotten the reason they'd even come here. Henry wanted to see Crow about Scott's job. He didn't want a reading at all, and I gave him the mother of all readings. "Scott, maybe your uncle's right," I said softly. "I saw how hard you were working. If she's not paying—"

"She pays me," Scott said firmly.

"Well, if it's not money, what is it?"

"Just don't tell her about Uncle Henry, okay?"

I pursed my lips and caved. "Okay. I won't."

Henry stuck his head back in. "Scott, you better say goodbye to Ms. Ó Broin at some point, because you're not coming back here." He looked at me. "When's a good time to reach her?"

"Uncle Henry, you can't stop me from—"

"Listen here, boy, you'll do what I tell you. Now don't argue with me and get in the truck." Henry passed me a business card after scribbling down another number. "Tell her to call me, got it?"

I nodded.

Scott pounded the bar with the side of his fist. Then he left without another word.

I returned to mopping the floor, unable to get the stark, bloody images out of my head. I noticed my hands were trembling on the mop handle.

"You shouldn't have promised Scott that," a voice said from the kitchen doorway. I started violently, dropping the mop with a sharp _smack_.

My heart pounded violently in my chest. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack, Crow?" I asked.

She pointed to the bar mirror. "Can you read, child?"

I followed her finger. She was pointing to the _Psychic is out_ sign. It was funny that I'd never noticed it before, but above the mirror was a photo frame with an image made of hammered metal. It was a cobra.

"Can you _read_?" She demanded again.

I gave an exasperated sigh. "Yeah." I pointed at the cobra. "Where did you get that?"

She ignored my question. "So why did you give him a reading?"

I wrung my hands. "I don't know. I had to tell him. He's in danger. He's going to die. You think I shouldn't have?"

"Have you noticed that your abilities are stronger than usual? You're seeing more of the real events rather than metaphors and symbols that need interpretation?"

"Actually, yeah. Now that you mention it." I pointed again. "Where did you get it?"

She rolled her eyes. "It was a present."

"From whom?"

"Never mind that."

"Never mind it? Do you realize I've been Seeing that snake for a while now? I just saw it now, in a vision that showed a burning house and a snake crawling out of it."

"From now on, just keep what you See to yourself. Pass me the phone."

"Oh, you mean the first telephone ever made? Where did you get it, a museum yard sale?" I handed it over with a grunt. Damn thing was like an anvil.

"Very funny." She snatched the phone from my hands and banged it down, sending shivers through the bar. She started dialing the rotary. I slammed my fingers down on the receiver's cradle, cutting the call. "What are you doing?"

"I'm calling Scott to tell him he's been fired."

"No!" I told her, dismayed. "He'll think I told you."

"It doesn't matter. I can't have him here if he's failing his classes."

"Look, _please_ don't. He'll get—"

"Get your finger off there."

I pulled away reluctantly and she started dialing again.

"Are you really not paying Scott for his work?"

Crow scoffed. "Oh, I pay him alright. It's just not money."

"Well, what the hell is it, then?"

She glared at me. "Don't you have work to do?"

I picked up the mop and waved it at her. "I _am_ working! See?"

Crow sat there with the receiver to her ear for several seconds. Her eyes went to the cobra art piece while she waited. The call obviously went to voicemail. She sighed and said three words: "Scott, you're fired."
16

The next day I hurried to get everything done so I wouldn't have to work during the blizzard, which was about a day away now. I'd barely slept through the night, worrying about how Scott would handle being fired so abruptly. Boy, I thought, she could have let him down a little easier than that. I was actually more worried about Scott confronting me about the whole thing. After all the things he'd done to help me, lying to the state trooper, getting my stuff from home—was this how I repaid him? I felt like such an asshole for not trying harder to stop Crow from firing him.

Late in the morning, I was rolling a laundry cart to the washroom. It snagged in a crack in the parking lot. I walked around it—my feet wonderfully pain-free, at last—to pull it out when I noticed a familiar blue truck in the parking lot. Scott's truck.

I stood there, clutching the handle, staring into the windshield. His silhouette sat inside, unmoving, obviously staring right back. My skin prickled on the back of my neck, but I shook it off. My stomach turned. Under my coat, I began to sweat.

I'd done nothing wrong. I had nothing to be worried about. But I couldn't shake off the feeling.

I unstuck the cart and rolled to the washroom with forced calm.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the truck door open. I turned and watched as Scott stepped out. He slammed the door shut. "I gotta talk to you," he called, his voice echoing. He started walking over, arms pumping.

I stopped pushing the cart and put my hands up. "Scott, I'm really sorry, but—" His hair was pulled back in a scruffy ponytail. Black soot clung to his sideburns, sat in the grooves in his ears. His eyes were bloodshot and the gray rings around his eyes seemed to have deepened. Something was very wrong. His lips were pinched and colorless. Cuts and scrapes marked both his arms; a thick bandage was wrapped over his right hand. Some burns on his other hand were covered with some type of greasy salve. "—What happened to you?"

Scott suddenly started walking faster than before, and I felt a surge of terror. I made a break for it.

But he grabbed my arms and slammed me against the cart.

"Ow!" I cried out. "Get off me!" I shouted and shoved him, hard. He staggered a bit, but came back forcefully, blocked me on both sides with his hands against the cart. Butterfly bandages littered his skin, along with bruises and dried blood. "What else?" He demanded. "What else do you know?"

I got my right arm free and hit him across the face, catching him with the heel of my hand. It hurt like hell, but it still felt good. "Don't touch me!"

Scott stumbled and his hand went to his cheek. It began glowing red almost immediately. He winced, scrunching his left eye in pain, his hand going to his ear. I sure hoped it was ringing like a fucking bell.

"What else do you know?" He repeated.

"Didn't you hear?" I asked sarcastically. "The psychic's retired."

Scott glared at me, then yelled, "He's dead, you callous bitch! My uncle's dead!"

A heavy silence fell over us both after his voice stopped echoing. The air was muffled, blanketed by the snow that absorbed all sound.

I exhaled, watching his lower lip tremble for a moment, his eyes grow redder.

"I don't know anything else, okay?" I said softly. "I told him everything I saw."

He swallowed. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He sighed shakily. "My uncle really hated Crow, you know? He hated that I worked for her."

"Why?"

"Because she was ruining his business. Another lady who opened a different diner went to Crow for help succeeding. Some people got sick at our diner."

"Oh yeah, it was in the paper."

"Yeah. 'Twelve people sickened by salmonella—linked by Henry's Diner'. Business has been so bad that my uncle stopped paying me. He promised to pay me, but it just kept getting worse. The pipes broke about three weeks ago. Flooded the whole damn basement and eroded the foundation because the sump-pump was busted. The roof started leaking _two_ weeks ago and when he called a guy to fix it, he found black mold in the rafters and in the walls."

"She did all that to your uncle?"

Scott shrugged. "Witchcraft sets things in motion. It can't always be stopped. Or controlled. I don't think Crow meant for it to go that badly, not until my uncle threatened to get the authorities involved if she didn't stop hurting his business."

"And what happened?"

"She didn't stop. He called the labor department. The health department. Everyone he could call. He knew some cops, so he pulled some strings, too. But what he didn't know was that Crow just runs the place. Her best friend, Beatrice O'Connell, who owns the Witch Shop downtown, she's the real owner. She paid a bunch of fines."

"So what happened?"

"It pissed Crow the hell off. I've never seen her that angry."

"When was this?"

"About three weeks ago." He sighed deeply, glanced at the tavern entrance. "Listen, you have to get me my job back. You owe me."

"I _owe_ you?"

"Yeah. I covered for you with the detectives at school. I told them you came to Artemis' house, but left. I told them you didn't even come inside. I took your dumb brother back home that night and I brought you your things. You owe me. Don't you think?"

I would never admit it out loud. But he was right. I did owe him. "I can't. Crow's stubborn. She's won't budge."

"I don't care. You better get it done."

I frowned at him. "Or what?"

His brows knotted together grimly. "Do you think I don't know you stole from Artemis' house? You think I don't know you stole that necklace? Artemis and I used to go out, remember? I know all her things."

My stomach turned again. So he _had_ looked through my bag.

He continued, "Maybe she caught you stealing. And maybe you did something to her. To keep her quiet." He paused and frowned. "Did you?"

I shoved him. "I didn't do anything to her! You know that. I don't know what happened to her."

He gave a little laugh. "Yeah. Yeah right. All of a sudden the psychic doesn't know anything."

"I don't!"

He leaned in again. I shrank back, bowing backwards over the cart. Scott smelled like industrial cleanser and topical medication. He brought his lips to my ear. "Think you'll know something when the cops show up?"

"Are you threatening me?" I demanded, my voice as icy as the shard of fear that slipped into my veins.

"If I were you, I'd feel threatened by cops, yeah."

"Is everything all right here?" Said a voice behind me, to the right.

Scott straightened immediately. I turned to look. Mark walked over slowly. Alertly.

Scott scowled at being interrupted. "Listen, why don't you get lost?"

Mark shook his head and stepped between us, blocking me with his slender body. "Can't do that, buddy."

I peeked out at Scott from behind Mark, who patted my arm reassuringly, reaching around behind him. "Relax."

Scott glanced at me. "This isn't over." He got into his truck and left.

"You're bleeding," Mark said quietly.

I checked my hand. It must have gotten cut on the rusty old cart when Scott pushed me into it. I had grabbed it to catch my balance. "Oh yeah. I guess I am."

***

"I have a first aid kit around here," Mark said as I lingered at the round table in the dining area. He disappeared into the lodge. "I just never thought I'd need it for someone else."

"Why, you get hurt a lot making films?" I searched around the room, trying to find a live camera. There was one hooked up to the TV, playing a clip that I recognized as a building in my high school. Mark quickly shut it off. He eyed me and smiled disarmingly. "Well," he began, "we do stupid stuff sometimes. As you saw earlier. We get hurt."

"What were you doing at my school?" I asked him, nodding at the TV. "I thought you were documenting your winter break."

Mark followed my gaze, considered and said, "I think the first aid kit is upstairs."

I watched as he jogged up the stairs and disappeared. I held my stinging arm, looking around. Books and notes lay all over the room, organized in haphazard stacks. I spotted a pile of photos, newspaper clippings, and articles. Obituaries.

Mark came back with a foot-long plastic case. I looked at him. "You're not on winter break," I stated.

Mark placed the plastic box down on the table, acting like I hadn't said a word. He pulled out some items and offered them to me. "Peroxide, cotton and band-aids."

"Excuse me? Are you deaf?"

Mark put his hands up, still holding the items. "Bear with me. Here."

I reluctantly accepted. "Where's your girlfriend? And Brian?"

"They went into town for breakfast. Doubt they'd find anything open, though. The snow's like five feet high."

"And you? Aren't you hungry?"

"I never eat breakfast." Mark picked up another camera. He seemed to have them lying around everywhere.

"Now hold on a second. You're not going to film me."

"Oh yeah," Mark said with a laugh. "Do you mind?"

"Yes," I said pointedly.

"Oh come on, you're so camera ready. The hair, the skin. I gotta have it."

There was an awkward silence.

"On camera, I mean," he clarified with a grin. He seemed to enjoy making me squirm.

I blushed. Was he flirting with me? "Let's hope that's what you meant," I said dryly.

He chuckled. "Look, I want to apologize. I'm sorry I tried to get you to say something on the record without knowing. I'm sorry about that."

I exhaled, sitting down at the table. "It's fine. I just want to know why. And what you're researching."

"Yeah, of course. I wouldn't have brought you in here if I didn't want to tell you. The truth is, I think you can help me crack this."

"Crack what?"

Mark flashed a grin. "Good. Shall we get started?"

"That wasn't exactly a yes, Mark."

His grin widened. "It wasn't exactly a no, was it?"

He slipped the camera band around his left hand and opened up the first aid kit. "Your sleeve's getting blood all over it."

I looked down and used a piece of gauze wet with hydrogen peroxide to clean up the blood. I looked up and saw that the red light on the camera glowing back at me like an eye. "Come on, you're not filming me like this."

"I'm filming you as we speak."

"Will you please stop that? I'm not kidding."

Mark reached out and pressed my shoulder down gently. "Relax." He reached under my chin and tilted it up slightly. "Just relax."

I started to do as he said, but I shot up to my feet. "I need the bathroom." I picked up the first aid kit and hurried inside. I spun the tap open and dabbed at the hydrogen peroxide runoff with some wadded tissue.

Mark reached inside the bathroom and turned the tap off. "Don't want to ruin the sound."

I gave him a push out the door and closed and locked it.

"I'm still recording audio."

I gave a stifled groan.

"Let's just start with what's going on with that kid, Scott."

I rolled my eyes. _Where do I begin?_ I peeled a medium-sized bandage and stuck it over the cut.

"Why was that guy calling you a psychic, anyway? Are you really a psychic? A Seer like Ms. Ó Broin?"

I opened the door abruptly. The camera was just a few inches from my nose. "Get that thing out of my face."

But Mark didn't move to shut it off. "You have a story to tell about Ms. Ó Broin," he said seriously. "I know you do. I can sense it. Why don't you share it with me?"

I shook my head and started to leave. "I think you're getting desperate, Mark. You're seeing things that aren't there to see."

"Am I?" He asked, arching an eyebrow.

I shrugged. Who the hell was I to accuse someone else of making crazy connections? Besides, he wasn't wrong. I'd seen some troubling things about Crow already. It wouldn't hurt to bounce thoughts off of Mark, especially since I couldn't talk to Scott about it anymore.

He blocked my way to the door. "Okay, let's say I am," he admitted defensively. "We have just seven days left. And I've got nothing but footage of interviews with old women who went to Saint Brigid's back in the day. They're all hiding something, but I have no way to break their silence. These women are scared. Still scared, after _fifty_ years. What could have frightened them all so much?"

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"The Missing Little Sisters of Saint Brigid," he answered. "On the other side of the birch wood forest, there's a high school that used to be an orphanage for young, troubled girls."

"I know. I go there."

He tapped his forehead. "Yeah, of course. I guess you live around here." He gave a little shrug. "In the early fifties, two girls from that school went missing under suspicious circumstances. And no one knows what happened to them."

"Suspicious circumstances?"

"Missing evidence. Frightened witnesses. Dead detective. But you know the thing that interests me most, the stuff that the cops didn't take seriously?" Mark's eyes shone.

I shook my head.

Mark leaned in and said quietly, "These girls were witches."

I looked skeptically at him. "At a Catholic school?"

Mark shrugged. "Those are the rumors. And that's not all of it."

I looked quizzically at him.

"Your boss, Ms. Ó Broin, attended school there—and got kicked out—the same year those girls disappeared."

"She did?"

Mark nodded and went on, "I just need one break. Just one person who can say, okay, this is what happened. Or, this is what you need to look into to find out the truth about those girls."

"Maybe you failed. I mean, if the police couldn't even solve the disappearances, what makes you think you can? Cut your losses and go home."

"I can't do that!" Mark snapped. "Failure's not an option."

"Why not?"

He shook his head. "It's personal. Can we leave it at that?"

I sighed deeply. "As long as you leave my personal stuff alone. Deal?"

He agreed with a nod, looking relieved, but seemed a bit sulky. His frustration was visible as he shut off the camera and tossed it on the bed. He flopped back on the mattress and stared at the ceiling, his fingers locked over his chest.

I didn't feel like leaving now. Not only because I felt a little bad, blocking Mark off from his project, but interested to learn more about Crow. I was surrounded by a whirlwind of these birds in all shapes and forms. I'd seen a hooded crow on the old, leather-bound book in Artemis' room. And the place where I'd come to hide was called the Hooded Crow. We lived in Raven City. Was it just a coincidence? Or was there something more? I took a glance outside and saw the white crow perched on the outside of the window sill. My spiritual doorman waited for permission to part the veil. I took a deep breath and said, "Okay. What can I do to help?"

17

Mark's eyes shone with greediness. He nodded to the armchairs in front of the fireplace.

I shook my head. "Not so fast," I warned. "First, you have to tell me what you know about Ms. Ó Broin. All of it."

He considered for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. That's fair. Basically, what I _know_ isn't that much—she was kicked out of school when she was sixteen."

"Why?"

Mark shook his head. "That's the stuff I don't know for sure," Mark said. He put the camera down and pulled out a ragged spiral notebook after rifling through a stack of papers. I went over to his side and watched as he flipped through some pages of newspaper cutouts, notes, and doodles of crows in all different sizes and angles. "But look," he pointed to a photocopied article dated April 11th, 1958. "There was a massive fire. It destroyed an entire portion of the dormitory. Everyone got out in time. But Ms. Ó Broin somehow slipped through the cracks during the evacuation. She barely survived. She suffered scarring from the fire. They told her she was expelled while she was still in the hospital. They didn't even give her time to recover."

"Why?"

Mark shrugged. Flipped some more pages. "There was talk that there was a coven at the school. Right under the noses of the Catholic nuns that ran the place. Word was, Ms. Ó Broin was head of this coven. And that she was a high priestess of Satan."

"Get outta here."

"I don't know, it seems pretty likely."

"Why?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Have you met Ms. Ó Broin? She isn't exactly Miss Popularity."

"So what?"

"Are you aware that she used to go by the name Crow?"

_Still does,_ I thought. "Why?"

Mark continued. "Ms. Ó Broin went by that name because she would spend most of her time near a tree of crows, right here in Brigid's Forest. I've been looking for that tree, but haven't found it. There were thousands of those things and she would hang out with them, like they were her...army. They followed her around the orphanage, nested at her window, lived in her dorm room, stunk up the place—there was even a story about how there was this one group of girls who picked on a deaf-mute girl at the school."

"What happened to them?"

Mark shrugged. "The crows...picked on _them_."

"Ugh."

Mark nodded in agreement. "One girl lost sight in one eye. And the doctors added up the individual marks on their bodies. And there were a total of—get this—six hundred and sixty-six."

"Get the hell outta here."

Mark put his hand up solemnly. "Really. That's what the article says. Pretty sensational stuff."

"Sounds made-up."

Mark shrugged. "Anyway, no one touched Ms. Ó Broin after that. They all believed she was a witch. Out of that whole orphanage, though, there was one person who wasn't scared of her."

"Who?"

"Another local witch: Beatrice O'Connell."

My eyebrows arched. "No way. She went there, too?"

"Yeah. Same year. You know her?"

"Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do."

Mark nodded. "They became friends. Best friends."

"Did you talk to her?"

"I tried. She wasn't interested. And she seems so cool, too. I mean, pretty hip for a woman that's in her seventies. Total opposite of Ms. Ó Broin."

I flipped the pages in his notebook, studying the articles, the crow drawings.

He fixed a gaze on me. "So, will you help me?"

"Yeah. Yeah, what do you need?"

"Let's start with the most important question. Is Ms. Ó Broin a witch?"

I thought about the past few days, the strange occurrences. I nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

***

As promised, the second blizzard descended on the Hooded Crow—and Raven City—in the late morning hours. Forced to piss away another precious day they could have used for filming their final project, they decided it would be best if they partied at the bar. It was Winter Break; may as well live it up.

The pudgy guy, Brian, dozed on and off at the bar. Last time he was conscious, he'd been showing me an unusual necklace he wore all the time, a genuine Roman coin that his mother had given to him. It had a Caesar on it by the name of Flavius Dalmatius. It was really rare, because Dalmatius had been Caesar for just two years before his own soldiers killed him. The coin sat beside Brian's arm on the bar top.

Meanwhile, Mark had decided to plug in the old, dusty jukebox from the fifties and play some music. When he got it working, Mandy cheered and Mark clapped, releasing clouds of dust from handling the dirty wires. The music wasn't bad, if only for the novel reason that it felt like it took us back in time as Peggy Lee crooned her version of Fever or the Chordettes harmonized Mr. Sandman. For a while, there were no outsiders and we were all old buddies. Mark, to my astonishment, even got Crow to put aside her bamboo cane and dance with him to Elvis' Blue Suede Shoes. He even insisted I dance with him after her. When I collapsed on a bar stool, tired out after Chuck Berry's Johnny B Goode and another Elvis, Hound Dog, he breathlessly said, "I told you so."

I took a long swig of the Coke (and rum) on the bar. "Told me what?"

"The fifties. One of the last best decades." Mark looked at Crow. "Am I right, Ms. Ó Broin?"

Crow nodded.

"Even though those girls went missing, right?" Mark pressed.

Crow gave me a fleeting look and turned the music down all the way. The jukebox controls were on the wall behind the bar. There was total, abrupt silence. "What girls?" She asked.

"The girls you went to school with," Mark said. "They went missing, didn't they?"

Crow settled deeper into her seat behind the bar, folded her shawl inward. "Yes. They did. Two girls."

"You wouldn't know what happened to them, would you?"

"Stop it, what are you doing?" I interrupted Mark.

"I'm asking her a simple question," he said.

"It's all right, Annie," Crow said, shushing me with her hand. "I know what happened to them," she said.

Mark was thrown a little bit. "You do?"

"Yes. They were witches. Got mixed up in something bad. Something evil. These things happen, you know. When you touch evil, evil touches you. When you play with evil, it plays with you. When you grab evil—" she made a snatching motion with her hand—"it grabs you." She paused and said indifferently, "Sometimes it wins."

"And that's what happened to those girls? Evil won?"

Crow spread her hands like the evidence rested in her palms. "Have they been found?"

Mark glanced at me. "No," he admitted to her. "But what _happened_ to them?"

"Probably what happens to witches that are in over their heads. They're dead. I guarantee it."

"So you don't know what _actually_ happened to them."

"I wouldn't fret over the details if I were you. Are you sure you want to go digging around where these girls last were?"

"Yeah, of course."

Crow had her own drink there, a bottle of Heineken. But it was full to the top and I couldn't recall if she'd had a single sip of it. She lifted it in a toast, turning the volume up very high. "It's your funeral, then. Don't say I didn't warn you. It's not safe in those woods."

***

I woke up that night to a stinging on my arm. I swiped at my skin groggily and tried to go back to sleep. But the stinging sharpened unbearably. I leaped out of bed, tore off my T-shirt and found three bedbugs crawling on my body. I brushed them off in a near panic. One was so turgid after drinking my blood, that just a touch burst it to death. It left a streak of fresh blood on my skin. "Ew!" I cried, grabbing for a box of tissues by the side of my bed. I ripped the sheets off, took two long strides and flicked the lights on. The things crawled all over the mattress. A tremor of disgust tumbled through my body. It was a damn family reunion and they'd made a midnight feast out of my blood. This was _crazy_. It hadn't even been like this last night. Not a single one—and now the mattress was infested.

I felt a surge of rage. "Fuck you, Beatrice," I whispered. I wouldn't say a word about this to anyone. I ripped the sheets off the bed and wrapped it into a ball. I got dressed, went down to the kitchen to find a lighter, came back, and started burning the little bastards. This would take all night, and besides, the bed set on fire. That's when I had a really great idea.

Fueled by anger, craving destruction, I dragged the twin mattress to the window and let it tumble outside into a snow bank down below. It gave a muffled thud.

I checked the box spring, and a few crawled around on that too. I didn't know how these things ever got inside my room. There weren't any holes in the wall, no vents that weren't sealed, no cracks in the windows or doors. I knew it was all Beatrice; she had some kind of _command_ over these gross things. She didn't handle these things, never even touched them, even though her spindly fingers looked like five out of eight spider legs. When she'd drummed her fingers on the bar, it looked like an impatient spider with pale papery skin and blue veins.

I checked on Crow on the way out, even though her room was out of my way. She was asleep in her attic, her body a boulder-like mound under a sheaf of blankets. Her hair lay like dirty white yarn across her pillow.

Satisfied that she wouldn't wake up at an inopportune moment, I slipped outside into the frigid air with a can of lighter fluid and set fire to the mattress in a few different spots.

I imagined the little bloodsuckers screaming. But there was no sound except the lapping of the flames, a deep, mesmerizing thrumming.

I stared into the flames, watching the tongues fold and form, lick the icy air. It grew so hot, so quickly that the snow bank turned to water in minutes. The water trickled past at first, then flowed like a creek, my snow-proof boots cutting the water like a pair of shark fins.

That's when I heard footsteps across the parking lot behind me, crunching over some ice.

I jumped and spun around. Maybe Scott had come back to make good on his promise. _This isn't over._

But it was Brian. He wore nothing but pajama bottoms. He must have been freezing. He shivered, his breath clogging the air with big puffs of vapor. He swiped his nose and sniffed.

I breathed a sigh of relief. "You scared the crap out of me," I called across the mostly-cleared lot, my voice echoing.

Brian didn't answer, but lumbered over the lot, his gaze down, pacing back and forth. Didn't even seem to notice the cold. Once in a while, he'd bend down, pick something up, then toss it away.

"Brian?"

He didn't answer. I thought maybe I had his name wrong. But he would have still looked, even if I got it wrong. A mattress fire alone would have gotten his attention. Something was very strange.

I put the can of lighter fluid down on top of a pile of snow and walked to him, slowing down as I came closer. "Brian, are you okay?"

He knelt down and picked up something. A flat stone. He didn't even have a flashlight. His blurry shadow, cast by the flames, danced violently.

"What are you looking for?" I asked.

He walked around a little bit and picked up the same thing again. Threw it away. "Shit," he muttered.

I lowered my head a little bit, checking his face to see if he was sleepwalking. His eyes were open. But they looked hollow, far away. He didn't even seem to notice a mattress fire going on ten feet from him.

He bent down and picked up the same thing again. A round, flat stone. He threw it away. His teeth chattered loudly, but he didn't stop.

I tapped his shoulder with my fingertips. It was like touching an ice sculpture. "Brian, what's wrong with you? How long have you been out here?"

Without answering, he walked toward the woods a little bit, the direction where he'd tossed the stone. He picked it up. Again. Threw it in the direction of the forest.

I walked ahead and picked up the damn thing. "Brian, what's wrong with you?"

He saw me pick it up and seemed to notice me standing there for the first time. "You," he said in a flat voice that shook from the cold. "You took it."

"Of course I took it. You're acting like you're malfunctioning. What the hell's _wrong_ with you?"

"Give me back my coin."

"Your what?" And then I remembered. His Roman coin. It wasn't around his neck. I showed him the rock. "This isn't your coin."

"Give it back."

I gave him the rock back and he studied it carefully, rubbing it free of moisture. But after a couple of seconds, he seemed to notice it was a rock after all. He tossed it away, in the direction of the woods. Then turned to me.

"Give it back," he said again. "I know you took it."

"I didn't take it."

"You're a thief." His voice lost its flatness for a moment and became accusatory.

"What?" I said. I mean, I was, but he had no reason to accuse me.

"Mark told me how that guy said you stole stuff from some girl's house. Mark told me that the guy said you steal."

"I don't steal." _Often_. "I didn't steal from you."

"You took it." He reached for me, but I backed away.

"Get away from me," I told him.

Brian turned to the woods, spotted the rock he'd thrown there. He ran to it and dropped to his knees, picked it up. He studied it closely, inches from his face. Realized it wasn't his coin. "Fuck!" He screamed and threw the rock with all his strength. It went arcing into the woods like a baseball into outfield—then it was lost.

Brian dragged himself to his feet, headed to the woods.

"Hey, wait. You're not supposed to go in there." I managed to grab his icy arm for a second.

He pushed me off, leaving cold spots burning on my skin, and went running into the woods.

I didn't know what to do. "Brian!" I called out to him.

"What?"

"Don't go out of earshot!"

"Okay!"

I waited there for several seconds. The mattress continued to burn, although now it was dying a little bit because of the wetness.

"Brian!"

"Yeah!"

"Did you find it?"

"I don't know! I see faces."

"What faces?"

"They're watching me. From the trees."

What the hell was this guy on?

The seconds turned to minutes. We kept calling back and forth. I figured it was all right to leave him in there as long we could communicate. But after about five minutes of silence from his end, I decided I'd better go in there. Maybe he'd finally gone out of earshot. But I was wrong. Because that's when I heard him scream.

"Brian!" I called back, hesitating right on the edge of the forest.

I heard him scream again, louder.

In another minute, he burst into view, crashed into me, almost knocking me down.

In the waning light of the fire, I saw his hands were stained. Could have been mud. Or blood. I couldn't tell. One hand was balled up tight.

"Brian, what happened?"

He panted anxiously, checking his back. His gaze darted back to the woods. He checked his back again. "S-Something hit me."

I looked at his back. "I don't see anything."

Brian looked past the parking lot, into the path carved out for guests, the dark path leading through the maze of snow drifts.

He was shaking, but I wondered if it was from the cold anymore. He wrapped his arms around himself, the one hand still balled up. His knuckles were white. "You want me to walk back with you?" I asked him gently.

He nodded rapidly, unable to control his fine motor functions anymore. "Yeah. That would be g-good."

***

The next day I went to Mark's lodge bright and early for two reasons. First, I wanted to check on Brian. Second, I hadn't been able to go back to sleep.

But once I got to the door, I hesitated to knock. What if they were all still in bed?

Mark opened the door as soon as I stepped up on the porch. "Good morning, early bird." He nodded to something over my shoulder. "Bird."

I looked behind me and saw the white crow lurking on the cleared cobblestones.

"Good morning. Sorry to bother you."

"Come on in."

"I just wanted to make sure Brian was okay."

Mark frowned. "He's fine."

"He is?"

"Yeah. He went out for breakfast with Mandy."

"Oh, well, alrighty then. Thanks."

"Hey, wait a second. You're not getting off that easy. Why are you worried about Brian?"

"You mean, he didn't tell you?"

Mark beckoned. "Come on, get in here. I gotta hear this."

After a little bit of back and forth about whether he could record this conversation, we finally compromised that he could just record my audio. I looked like crap after a sleepless night anyway, and red bite marks on my cheek looked like a cluster of zits in an otherwise clear face.

When I was done telling him about Brian's bizarre behavior last night, he sat there stunned, expressing his disbelief that Brian hadn't said a word to either him or Mandy.

Positioning the recorder on the table so it would capture his conversation, Mark jumped on the phone in less than ten seconds, calling Mandy with barely-contained agitation. He began pacing frantically when they didn't pick up in the middle of the first ring.

But she answered, and he told Mandy the whole crazy story. "Ask him," he kept insisting. "Ask the bastard why he didn't say any—"

I edged closer to Mark, noticed in the video call that Mandy wasn't at a diner, eating breakfast, nor was she driving. "Where are you?" I asked, interrupting Mark.

Mandy shrugged anxiously and looked over her shoulder. "It's Brian. He's feeling really sick. He wants to go back home."

Mark frowned. "What are you talking about? He can't go home. That's two states away."

"He's been feeling really sick since we ate breakfast."

"Well, maybe he had some bad eggs or something."

"We both had the exact same thing."

Mark made a sound of irritation. "I just saw him forty-five minutes ago. He's fine. Get your asses back here. _Now_."

"He's not fine!" Mandy shot back. " _I_ am, by the way, thanks for asking."

Mark rolled his eyes. "Gimme a break."

"Do we have any Dramamine at the hotel room? If not, I'm going to find a pharmacy that's open."

"Yeah, yeah, we got it."

"Are you sure?"

"Don't you ever take my word for anything?"

Mandy scowled at him. "It better be there."

"It's here."

"Prove it," Mandy demanded firmly.

Mark clenched his teeth. He dug into the first aid kit still sitting wide open and pulled out a thin box of Dramamine tablets. He showed her the box.

"Okay. We'll be there—"

Mark ended the call.

Mark turned, faced me. "You're going to help me keep him here. Got it? Can I count on you?"

***

I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw Brian. I'd already told Mark yes, but now I began having serious second thoughts. His eyes were wide and animalistic. He seemed to have lost thirty pounds overnight, leaving him looking gaunt and pale.

This Brian wasn't the same mild guy I'd seen diving into snowdrifts and getting drunk and sleepy at the bar. No way. He barged into the lodge and attacked Mark. "Did you just hang up on us?!" He screamed at him. He ripped off his coat. Then jerked his buttoned shirt over his head, his mushy belly. "Look! Look at my back!"

Mark's jaw dropped and his eyebrows went up. Mine likewise. Mandy stood by stiffly, her lips pursed. Brian's back was marked by hundreds of scratches, some deep and inches long like they'd been carved with the tip of a knife. Others looked like they were made with a handful of pins, raked across the surface of his skin.

Mark turned around, snatched a different camera and turned it on.

Brian slapped it out of his hand. The thing flew across the room and bounced against the wall. Something crunched.

Mark clutched his hand. It turned red.

Brian forced himself to calm down, but his breathing was ragged. "I'm going home, Mark. And you can't stop me."

Brian went upstairs and I heard noises, things getting thrown around the room.

Mandy, Mark and I exchanged glances.

Mark nodded at me, jerking his head, indicating I was to go upstairs and talk Brian out of leaving. He went to the camera, picked it up and checked it. It still worked, but a piece of plastic has broken off. He surprised me by pressing the device into my hands. "See if you can get a shot of those things on his back."

I shook my head. "No! No way. I can't believe you're being such a..."

"Such a what?"

"Such a _cold bastard."_

Mandy nodded. "Annie's totally right. Brian's in no shape to—"

Mark shook his head. "This is what we've been waiting for! How can you not _see_ that, Amanda?"

Mandy groaned. "Mark! Brian's scared out of his mind! He told me he went looking for his Roman coin last night, all over the property, because he couldn't find it. He couldn't sleep. But he saw something out there. It scared the shit out of him, Mark."

"What was it?"

Mandy shrugged. "I don't know. But he found his coin."

"He did?"

"Yeah. It was in the middle of the woods, inside a dead hawk."

" _What_?"

"He told me he was _compelled_ to search inside it. It was pinned to a fallen log. He somehow knew it would be there."

"How?"

"I don't know. Gut instinct? Brian was seriously freaked. And then something hit him in the back. It was pretty gentle, he told me, like a stick or something falling on him. He panicked and ran. Found his way back." Mandy sighed and sat down at the table. "Let him leave."

"No way."

But Mark couldn't stop Brian as he left the lodge with nothing but his car keys. He left all his clothes and camera equipment behind. The only other thing he took was the Roman coin. The silver chain was still stained with blood.
18

When I left Mark's lodge I walked back to the tavern. I had to talk to Crow. She had something to do with this, I knew it. I watched as Mandy gave Brian a hug and asked him to call when he made it to the airport. Brian nodded, in a big hurry to leave.

I almost reached the tavern when I saw Scott struggling with a large item in his truck bed. I stopped. He was sweating like crazy, even though it must have been about thirty degrees out here. He finally gave up and just rested, leaning against the truck, then hopping backwards and barely reaching the tailgate to sit on it.

I walked toward him. Now that he was exhausted, maybe he'd be cool and not try to pop my head off like a pimple.

Scott had items in the truck bed, partially covered with a thick black tarp. On top sat a duffel bag that wasn't closed all the way. Picture frames stuck out at odd angles. Clothing had been balled up and stuffed into a tote bag with burn holes. Another large canvas bag rested against the duffel with several glass vials and bottles containing liquids or dried leaves or powders. I saw some hardcover books, and another large, prominent book wrapped in a black velvet cloth. Judging by the titles on some of the book covers, _Magic and Me_ , _Modern Witchcraft_ and the like, I realized these were Scott's magic supplies. I was about to look away when a strange plant caught my attention. It grew out of a medium sized clay pot with wet dirt. The leaves were purplish, spiked, and it had spiky red fruits that looked like sea urchins. It was weirdly pretty, like something from an alien garden.

When I looked up, I spotted the white crow staring down at me from its perch beside the Hooded Crow sign. It was turned off. Still early in the day.

I inched closer to Scott, not sure if I read him correctly. I couldn't tell if he was still pissed. I sort of felt bad for him. He still had soot at the roots of his hair, down the middle of his nape. His house must have been too damaged to live there anymore.

I put one hand on the edge of the truck bed, forced a smile and said, "Need a bellhop, Sir?"

He didn't move, except to roll his eyes in my direction, giving me a sidelong look. Then he did a double take. "You have a bug on you."

The smile slipped off my face when I saw one big-ass cockroach work its way over my hands. "Ahh!" I screamed and flapped my hand crazily. The roach went flying over my shoulder. I hugged my arms and shuddered violently. "I didn't know you brought _pets_!"

Scott tried really hard to hide his smile.

A shudder scurried uncontrollably through my body. I suddenly felt itchy all over. I distracted myself by dragging the potted plant closer. It was much heavier than I thought. "Which lodge are you staying in?"

"Number five."

"Okay. What is this thing?"

"It's a candlenut bush. I think I have to replant it somewhere in the woods. It's outgrowing the pot."

"Candlenut?"

"Yeah. The spiky thing, the nut, has oil inside. It burns like a candle." He paused. "But don't go burning it, okay?"

"Well, aren't you just the botanist."

Scott chuckled. "It kind of becomes crucial knowledge when you do this stuff." He gestured with his good hand at the bag of magical supplies.

I hefted the pot into my arms. "You just take it easy. I'll get this stuff inside."

He glanced at the pot. "You sure you got it?"

"Yeah."

"Maybe I should—"

I cut him off. "Scott, it's the least I can do after not being able to get you your job back. It looks like you're having a hard time with that bandage on your hand, anyway."

Scott sighed. "Okay." Scott dug into his pocket. "Here's the key."

I accepted it and started toward lodge five.

Scott dragged the magic supplies closer to his body. It dragged with the dead weight of about fifty little glass jars and bottles, among other things. "Thank you," he said. "Lunch is on me afterwards."

I shook my head and started walking. "You don't owe me anything."

He didn't disagree.

***

I was almost done bringing Scott's things inside his lodge when Crow suddenly barked at me, standing near the building's siding, leaning on the bamboo cane. It bowed almost unnoticeably under her weight. "Annie! Get over here!" Crow stood there rigidly, her skin mottled red with rage. The tilted tree's spidery shadow fell over her, accenting the angry, patchy look of her skin.

I flushed with embarrassment and anger. "Don't talk to me like—"

"Now!" She snapped, cutting me off.

"I'm helping him with the—"

"I don't care! Come here," she said through gritted teeth. Crow turned away with a huff.

Scott nudged my arm. "You better go. She sounds pissed." He turned away, but then stopped and touched my shoulder. "Hey, I have to tell you something when you're done talking to her."

"What is it?"

Scott looked away uneasily. "Uh, I think you should just come and see me."

"Um. Okay."

"Don't you keep me waiting, girl!"

"It's like I can never do anything right," I muttered angrily and followed her. I rounded the building to the side—and spotted the charred mattress lying on the concrete. _Oh yeah_. I'd completely forgotten.

"What is the meaning of this?" She demanded.

"Uh..."

"Do you think I have extra beds lying around?"

"Well...you _are_ the owner of an inn."

"Are you getting smart with me? Don't make me cane you!" She raised her bamboo cane and waved it in my face, the wind whooshing.

"You're crazy."

"We got worse from the nuns!"

I raised my hands. "Look, it's just that—"

She reached forward and grabbed my arm. She looked at my wrist, then pushed up my sleeve. She glared at me, looked at my face. She took my chin and turned my head. "Bed bugs," she said knowingly.

"Yeah," I admitted quietly.

She stood quietly for a few moments. Then shrieked, "That's still no reason to set your _mattress on fire!_ And right next to the building? Do you have any idea how old it is? Have you lost your mind?"

I took a deep breath. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Her face relaxed a little as her eyebrows went up. "Oh, so you _do_ know that word."

"Huh?"

"All you had to do was apologize to Beatrice. None of this would have happened." She wagged her finger in my face.

"Well, it's been too long now."

She started heading back to the tavern. "You think it's over?"

I followed after her. "You mean it isn't?"

"No, of course not!" She snapped irritably.

From inside the tavern, I glanced through the grimy window and saw Scott drag a long, familiar-looking case off the truck bed. He set it on the ground and closed the tailgate, then walked out of sight with the case. My dad had one just like it, where he stored his shotgun.

Crow led me up two flights of steps and into an attic where the ceiling was high enough for her to stand up straight, but not me. It was freezing up here. The room was filled with blankets and pillows. "Why don't you keep a heater up here?"

She shook her head. "Might start a fire."

In the corner was a bookshelf, built with a sloping top so it would fit into an attic with a diagonal roof. Only a few books were stored there, but most of them were children's books. What sort of childless adult had children's books lying around? Or maybe something happened to Crow's kid? A long time ago? Would that explain why she was always a grumpy old hag?

Crow gestured to a short stool with a wooden back and I sat down. I sighed. "So when will the bugs stop?"

"When you apologize."

I made a sound of annoyance. "I'm not scared of a few bugs."

"The longer you wait, the worse it gets. Larger animals will come. Snakes and rodents. Cats and dogs. With the woods so close by, you might see bears or wolves. Things like that. Theoretically, eventually, people will come, attack you. But I've never seen it come to that. Are you sure you want to press your luck?"

"Look, if you're telling me I should be afraid of Beatrice—"

"No. You should give her the respect she deserves. That is all."

"I don't know why she deserves so much respect," I grumbled. "Why? What did she do?"

"She's a dear friend of mine. She's helped me in more ways than I can repay her."

"How?"

She glanced out the window. "Well, for one thing, when she bought this property, she gave me this inn to manage, after restoring it. I was struggling financially—always have—and she helped me. No questions asked."

"Are we talking about the same Beatrice?"

Crow chuckled. "I did well for a while. I gave readings here. But they began to take a terrible toll on me. She suggested I stop the readings. That's when the business started to crumble."

"Do you always do as Beatrice tells you?"

"She does have a say in what goes on here."

"How much of a say?"

"Eighty-percent."

"And she doesn't mind that business is so bad?"

Crow shook her head.

"Do you _want_ to do readings?"

Crow considered for several seconds and said wistfully, "Yes." She chuckled in amazement. "I was _so_ good. I was so good that people would pay for a thirty-minute reading and be leaving in five because I told them more than they wanted to know. I'd tell them details they'd never voiced to another soul, wouldn't even voice to their god, or even themselves. I knew their names as they walked into the reading room. I knew their whole lives as they sat down. I knew their age, their time and location of birth, their parents, everything. I could See _everything_. It consumed me. I became sick." She looked at me and smiled. It was mischievous and a little sinister. "But I was _so_ good." She winked. "The best you ever saw."

"You became sick? How?"

"In the head, mostly. Paranoia. Insomnia. Hallucinations. But also physiological things. I'd be starving and not be able to keep anything down. I'd be dying of thirst and not be able to drink. I'd want to be around people and friends, only to discover I hated their company. I always think I can handle it, the power. But I can't."

When you play with evil, it plays with you.

"It didn't use to be like that, did it? It's not like that with me."

She shook her head. "No. It was a gift. A delicate, precious gift. And with my actions, I ruined it a long time ago. Back when I was young and naïve and uneducated."

_Uneducated_. "Is it true you were kicked out of Saint Brigid's when you were just sixteen?"

She nodded. "It's true."

"Why?"

"Because they thought I was engaged in heathen practices, divination, paganism, and witchcraft. They didn't have any clue which. Just thought they'd cover all of them, I suppose."

So it was true. "Were you the only one at the school doing that stuff?"

"No, of course not. In an environment where everything is managed and controlled, the only way some of us girls could rebel was to create a secret society, a sisterhood—a very different kind of sisterhood from the nunship."

"If you weren't the only one doing that sort of stuff, how come you were the only one that got caught?"

She shrugged in a _c'est la vie_ sort of way and said, without showing off, "I was the most powerful one." She paused. "Now listen, I'm telling you this with your best interest at heart. You have to go home."

"What the hell? Why?"

"You can't stay here. And the danger has already passed."

"Why not? And what danger?"

"Your brother's not home anymore."

" _What_? Where is he? Did he get arrested?"

"Winter Break is almost done with and the school will be expecting you back."

"No. I don't want to go home."

"It's for your own good. Trust me. A young girl like you belongs with her family. You're not old enough to be on your own."

"I think I know myself better than—"

She put up a hand. "Annie. Take it from me. You don't want to be on your own so young. Believe me, I've lived it. Sixteen years old is no time to be alone."

"I'm seventeen."

"Whatever," she said irritably. "As if there's a difference."

"I just don't understand why you're kicking me out all of a sudden."

"Don't you?" She asked. "It's because you're not wanted here." She turned to look at me. "You never were."

She rocked back and forth for momentum a couple of times. Then gave a moan of pain when she made it up. I would have reached out to help her—if she hadn't just said what she'd said. She pulled her cane from the bed and hobbled to her window. She pushed it open. It stuck for a moment, then gave way. The white crow was perched outside.

My heart suddenly began to pound. I glanced at the crow. It cocked its head for a better look through one piercing blue eye. It seemed to be watching, wondering what I would do next. "Then you shouldn't have protected me."

She hesitated. "You needed help." She shook her head. "It was a mistake. A big mistake."

I struggled to understand. "Why are you doing this now? Is it because I set the mattress on fire? Is that why?"

"No," she admitted.

"Why then?"

She took a breath and leveled with me, just a little bit. "It's not safe here for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"A Seer."

"Why not? _You're_ here."

She gave a sad smile. "Yes. Yes, I am. It's because I have no other choice." That's when I noticed she looked a bit frailer than I remembered, a bit weaker, and even paler than usual. Dark gray marked the bags under her eyes, like she hadn't been able to sleep. "What are you talking about?" I asked with a frown. "What's wrong with you?"

Crow pursed her lips. "Sometimes we know when our time's up."

I stared in silence.

"Sometimes things catch up to us." She closed her eyes and said, "In your case, here he comes. He's pulling into the parking lot right now."

"Who?"

I heard a car, but the attic didn't have a window that overlooked the lot.

Within seconds, I knew. My heart sank when I heard his voice. "Annie! Where are you?"

"Y-You called my father?" I stammered.

Crow didn't answer my question. "When you get the chance, apologize to Beatrice. In person. Remember, it will continue to get worse until you do."

"What the hell is this, some sort of curse?"

Crow nodded seriously. "Now you're getting it."

"Is that what you did to Brian?"

Crow reached out slowly and stroked the white crow's crown with her fingernails. Her finger slid down to its neck, finishing on its chest. "I told them those woods aren't safe."

"Yeah, but you did something."

She looked at me. "What did I do?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. You hurt Brian."

"How?" She demanded. "I wasn't in the woods, was I? I was in bed. You saw me, didn't you?"

I hesitated. "Yeah...How do you know that? You were asleep."

"And then you went outside. Maybe _you_ hurt Brian."

"No, I—"

"You let him go walking into the woods even though you heard me say it's not safe."

"ANNIE!" My dad roared from downstairs.

"I'm coming!" I yelled back quickly. "Give me one minute!"

"I'll give you the belt if you're not down here in three fucking seconds!"

"It's not my fault Brian got hurt!"

Crow chuckled. "So it's _my_ fault? I was in bed. You said so yourself."

"You put a spell on him! You didn't have to touch him or be around him!"

"Trust me, it's for their own good."

" _Annie_!"

"Oh yeah? Like those girls? I guess they went missing for their own good, huh? I saw you, all proud and showing off when Mark asked you what happened to them. You did something to them, too, didn't you?"

She raised her index finger. "Be careful. You don't know what you're talking about."

"What, you're going to make me disappear, too?"

She didn't answer.

"I'm not scared of you," I told her.

She nodded. "I know."

"Annie!"

"You can't do anything to me."

She turned back to the white crow. "We'll see."

"Are you threatening me?"

She didn't answer one way or the other.

I huffed impatiently and ran down the stairs as fast as I could. My dad was already on his way up, incensed. I'd never seen him this angry. He snatched my wrist and dragged me along. My feet weren't meeting the stairs as much as my knees, but he didn't care. I winced in pain. "Dad, stop!"

"I told you never to come here! DIDN'T I?"

"She kept me safe!" I wrenched my hand away finally, giving myself a serious Indian burn.

"She doesn't know how to keep anything safe!" He shouted back at me. "All she does is poison people's minds."

Crow made her way slowly down the stairs.

I looked at her for—believe it or not—guidance. I saw nothing but the same cold woman I'd seen the first time, although her physical presence was several shades paler. Something was very wrong with her. She was sick. I could See it even though she hid it from me, the ugly bruises that weren't healing on her arms from when she'd fallen. She'd been feeling sick to her stomach for days, unable to keep anything down, pains shooting through her whole body, her head pounding.

My dad caught sight of her and went to grab my arm again, like she might pounce on me like a crazed leopard, even though she looked ready for a hospital bed. I dodged his hand and backed away. I didn't think it was possible, but this made my dad even angrier. His lower lip folded inward. He was seething. "Haven't you done enough to my family?"

Crow closed her eyes like she had been hoping he wouldn't go there, but just did, and she was too tired to deal with him. She opened her eyes with steely resolve. That was the only thing that hadn't weakened; it might have become harder than it ever was. " _She_ came to _me_." Crow pointed to me. "Just like this one."

"You told her nothing but lies. All you do is lie." My dad stepped closer to Crow, who was level with his gaze from her perch two steps from the floor. "If my kid ends up like my wife did, I'll kill you myself."

Crow didn't even flinch, like she received death threats on a regular basis. "You should save your energy," she began calmly, "for Johnny."

The strength drained from my dad's rigid body. He exhaled and pressed his thumb and forefinger to his closed eyes, rubbing vigorously. He turned away from Crow, took me by the upper arm and escorted me out to the car.

"Crow, are you going to be okay?" I asked her as he dragged me away.

She didn't even look at me, but went back up the stairs.

"That's enough!" My dad barked at me, gave me a shake.

"Dad, where's Johnny?"

He flung open the driver side door. "Johnny?" He spat. "Johnny's in the hospital!" He sounded like he couldn't believe it himself.

"What? What happened?"

My dad shrugged, baffled. "Apparently, someone stabbed him, drugged him, and dropped him off at home. Can you believe this shit?"

I almost laughed. I could believe it. A hundred percent. "Did he say who?"

My dad started pulling out of the lot. "That's the craziest part. He says he can't remember."

I exhaled as quietly as possible, relief flooding me. It was possible that Johnny really couldn't remember what had happened that night because of the roofie Beatrice had slipped him.

Or he lied to protect me.

Which was why I just couldn't tell my dad that I'd seen Artemis' bloody sheets in Johnny's room. I just couldn't. If Johnny really hadn't done anything, telling Dad would just get him into deeper trouble for no reason. It was better that Artemis' blanket stayed hidden, buried, wherever Johnny had interred it.
19

My dad grounded me before heading to the hospital to pick up Johnny. Took away all the car keys and basically left me under house arrest. He wanted to take away my phone too, but we'd left in such a hurry that I'd forgotten it back at the Hooded Crow. The only thing left to use to contact the outside world was the landline—which was still down because of the snow. He was so dangerously angry, that he didn't even care if a fire broke out at the house or if some guy broke in and tried to rob the place. _What am I supposed to do in an emergency?_ I asked him.

_Deal with it,_ he snapped, before slamming the door shut. Damn, Dad was _pissed_. It was _not_ the right time to ask him what he'd meant when he'd accused Crow of being responsible for my mother's suicide.

Then I remembered that Scott wanted to talk to me about something. I'd forgotten all about it after getting yelled at by Crow and dragged away by my dad.

I was getting ready to call a cab when I picked up the phone and remembered that the line was down. I smacked my forehead and hung up the cordless. I considered making the journey into town on foot, but I didn't have to think about it for long, because an unfamiliar SUV pulled into my driveway, churning up snow on the sides and coming to a stop. I looked nervously out of the window. Then frowned. It was Mark and Mandy. I realized I recognized the SUV after all.

I opened the door before they made it up the porch and said, "What are you doing here? How did you find out where I live?"

Mark spread his arms out. For once, he had dressed appropriately for the cold. "I'm a kinda-sorta detective, remember?"

"That's not an answer," I retorted.

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and pulled out my purse from inside the SUV. "Okay, fine. Ms. Ó Broin told us your address. She saw we were going into town for something to eat and asked if we could swing by here." He paused. "Can we come in?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you could take me back to the Hooded Crow."

"Sure. Let's talk on the way then." When he pulled onto the road, he said, "So listen, we were wondering if you could give us a reading." He winked at me through the rearview mirror.

" _We_ weren't," Mandy corrected. " _He_ was."

"I'm not in the mood right now."

He laughed. "Oh, come on. Please?"

"No."

"Mandy wants to see if you're for real."

"I do not!" Mandy protested. "She's probably a fake anyway," she added under her breath.

Mark elbowed Mandy. She backhanded his shoulder.

"Okay, fine," Mark conceded. " _I_ want to see."

"Look, it's not something I do. Besides, I have something to do at the inn."

He smiled, not discouraged, and bobbed one dark brow up. "Come on, Annie, let's show Mandy. You up for it? I have a test already figured out. It's really easy. I have a deck of ordinary cards and you tell me what I'm holding. Ten cards in a row. Can you do it?" Man, this guy wouldn't take no for an answer.

"I can tell the future. Sometimes. That doesn't make me a mind-reader."

"Okay fine. Tell me what cards I'm going to pick. Three in a row."

"No."

Mandy slouched in the front seat. "I told you she wouldn't do it. She can't. She's not for real."

Well, if this was the only way to avoid giving a reading, then I'd have to take it. I shrugged my shoulders and tossed up my arms. "You got me. I'm a fake."

Mark lost his enthusiasm and looked at Mandy. "What is wrong with you?"

"Screw her, the documentary isn't about a psychic. Real or not."

I opened my mouth to thank Mandy for giving me an out, but the words died on my lips. I looked at Mark. I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don't do something stupid, okay?"

"What are you talking about?" Mark asked, honing in on me with his eyes.

I exhaled slowly, picking at a peeling piece of leather upholstery. "I suddenly have a feeling you're going to do something really stupid. The risk isn't always worth the outcome, you know?"

Mandy looked at me in surprise. "I always tell him that exact same thing. That's a pretty cool coincidence."

"Tell me more," Mark said.

I turned away. "I don't want to talk anymore."

Mark continued, "Look, I want details. I want to verify that—"

"This isn't some parlor trick, Mark," I told him.

"I didn't think—"

"Do you think I wanted this—this ability?"

"No, I—"

"Do you think Crow wants to be pestered by stupid people who want to know the future only to screw it up? Do you think she likes giving people a cheat sheet only to see people abuse it?"

" _No_ , I—"

"Do you think I want to be able to See things that I can't make sense of? Things that make me feel powerless and unable to figure out what's coming?"

"Why? What do you See?"

I shook my head and stared glumly out of the window. "I can't believe this."

"Come on. Don't torture me."

I sighed and said in a disaffected tone, "I See you being bitten by a cobra. It leaves you cold and broken and you're surrounded by dead bodies." I paused. "And soaking wet. You're soaking wet for some reason."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know what it means," I told him honestly.

"Does it mean I'm going to die from a cobra bite?"

I shrugged. "Maybe. But I don't think that the cobra is literal."

Mandy scoffed. "Oh, gimme a break!" Her scornful voice echoed all around us. "What a load of crap."

Mark glared at Mandy.

I shot her an annoyed look. I pointed at her. "That. That right there is priceless."

"Don't listen to her," Mark said. He sounded alarmed, already noticing that I was pulling away, closing myself off.

But I kept talking. "I love putting myself out there only to get smacked down."

" _I'm_ not smacking you down," Mark said gently.

"I love being made to doubt myself, to doubt if I'm even sane. Thanks, Mandy. Thanks for keeping me in line."

She turned to look at me. "There isn't any proof, you wackjob."

"Stop the car."

"Annie, wait."

"Stop this car!" I snapped at him. And opened the door.

Mark cursed under his breath and slammed on the breaks.

A sheet of slushy water flew over my legs, making me gasp. But it barely stopped my momentum. I jumped out, shut the door with a loud, echoing slam and crossed the road. I spotted the Hooded Crow sign. I wasn't far off.

Mark got out of the SUV and came after me, soaking his own legs in the process. "Look, I'll take you the rest of the way."

"Leave me alone."

"Come on, please."

"I said leave me alone!"

"Mark, let her go!" Mandy shouted at him.

Mark watched me walk away for a few moments before turning on Mandy.

"Way to go, Mandy. Great job."

"Hey, listen, we don't have time for your bullshit!" Mandy snapped. "We've got less than two weeks of filming left. And for the first two weeks we've been here, all we've done is film some dried out old crones and snow!" She tossed her arms up in frustration. "Look at this place! It's a disaster!"

Mark said nothing more. He got into the SUV. Mandy had hardly sat down in her seat when he gunned the engine and shot past me. Good thing I was on the other side of the road, because he would have soaked me with slushy snow.

***

Fifteen minutes later, muddied to the thighs, I made it to the Hooded Crow's parking lot. I trudged up the slight hill and headed straight for Scott's lodge, my legs stiff and my feet numb.

When I rounded the snow drifts and the lodge came into view, I saw a girl sitting in the window. She appeared deep in conversation. Her arm moved in circles and her shoulder bobbed. She was about my age, her blond waves tied in a ponytail at the base of her skull with a pink ribbon. It would have been elegant if her face wasn't so round and sort of babyish.

She heard me walk up the porch.

I gave her a wave and she smiled politely. Both her hands were slightly bloody, wet and one held a dirty wad of bandages.

I went in. A large first aid kit sat open on the floor. Hanging above the door was a string of dried flowers and brown white twine that shifted in the breeze as I shut the door. A St. Brigid's cross dangled from the middle of it. Scott's magic supplies were laid out neatly on the kitchen counter like a rack of exotic spices. A small, clean crucible sat on a three-legged stand above one of the stove's burners. A stone mortar and pestle sat there too, alongside the books I'd seen earlier. The big one, as large as a scrapbook, was still wrapped in the black velvet. It must have been something really special.

The weird purplish bush with the spiky fruits and large, marijuana-like leaves, rested on the window sill in a patch of weak sunlight.

Scott noticed me looking at his things and said, "Wanna check it out?" He asked. "Go ahead, you can borrow one of the books. Take _Magic and Me_ , it's a really good one for beginners."

I shook my head. "Nah. I'm not interested."

"Coulda fooled me," Scott said. "I can tell you're curious. Go ahead."

I declined with another shake of my head and focused on Scott's injuries. His bare left shoulder was covered with ugly red burns and oozing pus. The strength suddenly left my legs. They buckled slightly and I had to sit down and look away.

The girl made a sound of sympathy. "I'm sorry. I should have warned you."

"No, it's okay," I croaked. "Are you a nurse? I saw your car."

"No. I work at Henry's. And we go to school together, remember?"

I squinted at her. "Oh, yeah." I recognized her as a sophomore.

Sam continued, "But I'm in an early start nursing program they're offering for the first time at Raven City Memorial. This just saves Scott some trouble."

"You've done a lot more than just save me some trouble, Sam." Scot turned to look at me. "She's been helping at the diner while Uncle Henry...while I've been away. She's a trooper."

Sam blushed. "Oh, stop."

When Scott said that, I did notice that Sam, on closer inspection, looked very tired. There were dark circles around her slightly bloodshot eyes, and her hair wasn't as tidy as I thought. She wore a pair of boot cut jeans with untied sneakers and her faux fur coat was tossed at the end of the bed. Her white cardigan with tiny blue flowers was dirty at the sleeves, rumpled, buttoned wrong. But she didn't complain at all. She carefully disinfected the burns, cleaned them and bandaged them with a large square bandage with sticky edges. It looked like it came from the hospital.

Before she finished, Scott said, "Sam, can you give us a minute?"

She looked confused, then a little hurt. "Well, can I at least finish—?"

"This is really important. Just give us a minute."

"Let her finish," I snapped irritably, embarrassed at him. "It looks like she's going through a lot of trouble for you. The least you can do is sit still and let her get done. Don't waste her time."

Scott nodded. "You're right. Sorry, Sam."

"It's okay, sweetie," she said and finished quickly. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "Hurry up and get better. We need you back there."

"Yeah. Thanks, Sam."

"No problem." She washed up and picked up her coat and first aid kit to leave. She opened the door, looked back at us both, wondering if we were together. Then she smiled tightly and left.

I watched her walk away, casting one more uncertain look at the lodge.

"Your girlfriend is sweet," I said.

"Sam's not my girlfriend. I don't have a girlfriend."

"Oh."

He looked at me and gave me a smirk. "Why, you interested?"

I rolled my eyes. "Don't hold your breath, okay?"

"Come on, let's just give it a shot."

I sighed and perched on the edge of the bed. He leaned against it, spreading his arms out.

"It really, really looks like Sam would love to be your girlfriend."

Scott scoffed slightly. "Yeah, I know."

"Why were you being such a dick to her?"

"I'm not. I just—I just don't feel like that about her. I don't want to hurt her by leading her on."

"Oh."

"She's more like a sister to me."

"Oh, boy. I bet she'd love to hear that."

"She started working at the diner like six months ago. Started with the dishwashing, but when she covered for one of the waitresses, the customers really liked her. So my uncle made her a waitress."

"Smart move."

"Yeah. My uncle was great like that. He knew it would be good for business. And it was."

We both grew quiet for a long time. Finally I said to him, "Scott, I'm really sorry about your uncle."

Scott didn't look at me, didn't move. He looked down at his hands, picked at the bandage. "The cops are saying it might not be arson. That it was just an accident."

"What do you think?"

He looked at me, then back down. "You already know what I think."

"You think it was _Crow_?" I started shaking my head. "It doesn't seem like—"

"You don't sound so sure."

To be honest, I wasn't. After she all but admitted to cursing Brian, was it really so farfetched that she'd do something to Scott's uncle? Brian had done nothing to her—but Scott's uncle had called the authorities on her. He'd done something against her, and maybe she'd done something back. I didn't want to think about it. Especially that she didn't care who got hurt. She'd almost killed Scott.

I exhaled. Changed the subject. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"

He looked up at me, remembering he'd called me over. "Oh yeah. Listen, I told the cops about you. I told them that you were at the party even though everyone thought you left."

My skin turned cold. "What?"

"After I saw you yesterday, they called me in to question me again. It was the lady detective that questioned me at school, and I guess her partner. They asked me if someone might know anything about the fire. If someone might have a grudge against us."

"And you told them about me?!"

"Well, I wasn't planning on it, but it sort of ended up there, because of your prediction. And also because you tried to warn Artemis that something was going to happen. And you were saying, 'Don't drink it.'"

"Why did you tell them?" I almost wailed. "Now they're going to think I had something to do with it! _And_ Artemis! They're going to think Johnny had something to do with it!"

"You _did_ know something!"

"But not because I was involved! You have no idea what you've done!"

Scott shook his head. "I'm sorry. They had me on medication. I wasn't thinking clearly."

I jumped to my feet and flung open the door.

Scott followed after me and grabbed my arm. "Look, if anything happens, I'll tell them you had nothing to do with it."

I snatched my arm away. "Don't bother. I already told you, I don't need anyone's help."

"Look, I screwed things up. Let me fix it. Please. It's the least I can do."

"I told you, you don't owe me anything. We're even now."

"Forget about that. Why don't you get away and figure out what to tell the cops? You can borrow my truck." He reached for the keys on his nightstand as he talked.

I shook my head. "It's too late. That detective's already here."
20

Sure enough, the same, creepy detective stood in the parking lot, talking to Sam. He looked tall and hulking in his trench coat standing beside a petite female detective with short, peppery hair. Sam pointed in my direction.

The detectives turned at the same time.

The man drew out his badge as he walked over. His sunglasses glinted. "I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Detective Rafe O'Connell of the Raven City PD."

_How could I forget_? I thought. He looked like an off-duty film star. Aloof and unsmiling.

He gestured to the woman, who pulled out her badge.

"This is my partner, Detective Jo Neilson."

Jo pulled off her glove and stuck her hand out to shake mine. We shook, but I didn't think I made much of an impression.

"Can we talk?" Detective O'Connell asked. I saw my scared expression in his mirrored shades.

I thought about it for several seconds. My dad had told me to steer clear of this guy, but if I called him and told him I was back at the Hooded Crow, there was no telling how pissed my dad would be. The best thing would be to handle this myself. Without my dad, who was also my legal counsel. "Sure, we can talk," I said tightly.

Sam watched all this, but looked eager to leave. She gave me a reluctant wave as she pulled out of the parking lot. Some people have no idea how lucky they are.

O'Connell opened the door for me. "After you," he said, and I walked in.

Once inside, I took down three chairs that were placed upside down on one of the round tables. "Do either of you want something to drink?" I asked politely. Couldn't hurt to try and get on these people's good side.

They exchanged glances. "We're fine, thanks," Detective O'Connell replied. He started coughing almost immediately. Detective Neilson and I both waited uncomfortably for several seconds as he struggled to bring the coughing under control.

When he did, I asked, "Are you sure you don't want anything?"

He nodded and cleared his throat. "I'm fine."

"Okay." I sat down and he did the same after removing his trench coat. He pulled off his shades and tucked them into the pocket of his pinstriped shirt. It was difficult to ignore his gray leather holster. The handle of his gun. He clasped his hands, leaned forward and stated, point blank, "You lied to me."

I just stared, feeling blood rush to my face. I didn't even know how to respond to that.

"Why?" He asked sharply.

I was already beginning to regret not declining to speak without my dad around. I tried a different tactic. "Isn't it against the law for you to...?"

Detective O'Connell's lip curled up in a smirk. "To what? Question you without your father present?"

"Yeah," I squeaked.

He wagged his finger as his smile widened. Damn. Did he have to be so good-looking? "It's not against the law for me to question you without a parent present." He shrugged. "Unless of course, you'd like to tell your father you're speaking to me. Although I do believe he explicitly told you not to." His gaze sharpened perceptively. "Am I right?"

I glanced at Detective Neilson for confirmation. She walked slowly around the tavern, studying the little trinkets that hanged on the wall, touching a dusty, hand-woven St. Brigid's cross dangling over the door. She heard the silence and looked at me. Nodded. "He's right. We wouldn't lie."

"Yeah, right," I muttered under my breath.

"Hey," Detective O'Connell snapped at me. "Let's get something real clear. Out of the three of us, you're the only one that lied. You lied straight to my face and told me you never went to that party. Didn't you?"

I glared at him, contemplating staring him down. This guy was responsible for ruining my family, maybe even more than I was. I was just a kid at the time, but this guy? He was a cop that tried to blame my dad for _murder_. But his pale eyes told me he was used to that sort of hostile crap—either from other suspects or his own kid. I took a breath. "Yeah. I lied."

"Why?"

"Because I didn't want to get involved."

"Why not? A classmate goes missing and you don't want to help find her?"

"It's not like that."

"It's not?" He asked skeptically. "Isn't it fair to say you hate Artemis Garland? Maybe you're glad she's missing. Or maybe you even had something to do with it."

"I _told_ her not to do what she was planning that day!" I hissed at him angrily, slapping my hand on the table. "I had a bad feeling and I told her. Over and over. But she didn't listen. So I was there, at the house of a girl I hated, because I wanted to keep an eye on her and make sure nothing happened to her."

"Oh. My mistake. So you're a hero, then."

My face twisted in disgust at that word; his sarcastic tone. "I never said I was," I mumbled.

He let the words stew for a few moments. He coughed a little. "Your father tells me you haven't been living at home for a few days."

Had it only been that long?

"Yeah. I've been living here, working for room and board."

"Why? What's wrong with home?"

I looked up at him. I thought about how Crow had said that my brother wasn't home anymore. And then my dad confirming this, telling me that Johnny was at the hospital. "Did my brother tell you anything yet?"

Detective O'Connell stared piercingly at me. He cleared his throat and said, "Why? Is there something he should be telling me?" He dodged my question. Shrewd bastard.

My face turned red. "No. I just heard that..."

"Heard what?"

"That he was at the hospital."

"Who did you hear that from?"

"My dad."

"Hmm. Why is your brother in the hospital?"

I shook my head. "I don't know."

"Your father tells you your brother's in the hospital and you don't ask him why?"

I didn't answer.

O'Connell coughed while he waited. Cleared his throat. He unbuttoned his cuffs and folded them up over his shapely forearms. He undid his metal watch and adjusted the time, presumably to match the clock on Crow's mantle above the bar mirror. He took his time doing all this, letting my words hang in the thick silence of the old tavern.

"He told my dad he can't remember what happened."

O'Connell finally put his watch back on, asking as he did so, "Is your brother the kind of person who gets pretty angry when he's cornered?"

I flashed on him shoving me into the closet with the shotgun barrel digging into my back. "No. He's not that kind of person."

Detective O'Connell raised a dark brow. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Is it true that he pushed you violently in front of Scott and Artemis the night of the party?"

"It was nothing."

"Hmm. Didn't sound like nothin' to me, sweetheart. He pushed you flat on your ass, the way I heard it."

I couldn't believe Scott told him about that. Damn. What else did he tell him? "Okay, he did, but it was my fault."

"Oh? How's that?"

"I taunted him. I went too far. No big deal."

"Hmm. So, barring any provocation, your brother isn't the sort of person who would act violently?"

"Right."

"So are you saying that Scott is responsible for his own injuries? And that his uncle, Henry, is responsible for his own death? Or that Artemis Garland went missing because of her own actions? Because they all provoked Johnny?"

I stared at O'Connell. "What are you saying?"

He stared back at me. Nodded his chin at me. "You know exactly what I'm saying."

"Johnny wouldn't do something like that."

"Unless he was provoked, right?"

"You're just twisting my words!" I flared. "My brother isn't capable of—"

"Let's not speculate, okay? Let's move on. Are you aware of any tattoos or inks your brother has?"

My hands shook under the table. I squeezed them into a clasp, pressing them between my legs. I was cold. I couldn't understand where he was going with this question. "No. Our dad would kill him if he got a tattoo."

"Is your brother the sort of person who might _get_ a tattoo? In secret?"

"Maybe."

"Did he ever express any interest in getting one?"

"Sometimes. Who doesn't? I want a tattoo sometimes."

Detective O'Connell put his hands up. "Fair enough. What was in the drink?"

"Uh—what?"

"During the ritual, you told Artemis not to drink it. What was in the drink?"

I shook my head glumly. "Nothing, apparently. She was fine the next morning."

"How do you know?"

_Damn_. "I spent the night at her house," I admitted.

O'Connell was surprised. "Really?"

"Yes. She was fine. In fact, she looked better than usual. Like, totally rejuvenated."

O'Connell ran his fingers through his hair. He nodded. "So you didn't know something you weren't supposed to?"

"What do you mean?"

"Scott said you were really jumpy that night. And that you were worried about Artemis."

I clenched my teeth. "What else did that bastard tell you?"

O'Connell smiled, pleased to be getting under my skin. He exchanged looks with Detective Neilson. Then he looked at me. "I think I'll keep you on your toes, if you don't mind."

My dad was right. O'Connell really was a smug fucker.

Detective Neilson stepped forward and said, "Scott told us you gave his uncle a reading the day he was attacked."

"Yeah," I replied numbly. Why were they skipping around with their questions?

Detective O'Connell stood suddenly, stretched his back. Walked to my side.

"What did you tell him?" Detective Neilson asked, her voice curious. She was subtler than Detective O'Connell, nicer. Her voice sounded so genuinely concerned, that I wanted to tell her everything.

Ironically, I felt the most pressure from her. The words were on the tip of my tongue, everything from the moment I'd seen that cobra in my room that night, to Johnny freaking out about the snake, the bloody blanket, locking me in the closet—Oh, God, what had he done? _Nothing_ , I told myself, _Nothing. You saw him do nothing, so he's done nothing._ I could have fainted just then.

I knew where they were both headed. They were going to accuse me of knowing more than I let on. And if I defended Johnny, then they would presume we were working together. When they put together the fact that I was worried about Artemis with the fact that she was now missing, it made it seem like I had been in on some sort of plan, but then got cold feet right at the end and wanted to put a stop to it. I started to get up, needing a moment to think, to stop things from spinning out of my control, but Detective O'Connell put a hand on my shoulder, pressed down gently. I looked nervously at him. His eyes bore into mine. "Don't get up."

"I'm thirsty."

"Answer the question. We're almost done," he assured me.

_Bullshit_. I cleared my throat. Swallowed hard.

O'Connell parted his lips to speak again when he looked down at the table. He jumped back with a sudden cry. I followed his gaze. Something feathery drifted over my fingers. A cluster of spiders. The tiny kind that jump. I gasped and leaped to my feet. The spiders went flying off like sparks from a firecracker. They scattered jerkily.

I checked my clothes and shuddered.

O'Connell looked equally unsettled. But he smoothed his dark hair and said, "So you gave a reading."

I couldn't sit back down. The spiders continued to scatter, spilling over the side of the table, leaping across the floor like oversized fleas.

Detective Neilson's lip curled in disgust at the insects. She side-stepped a couple of them. Brought her attention back to me, but now it was permanently affected. She couldn't stop trying to keep track of the leaping spiders.

"What was the reading?"

"That's confidential," I snapped.

Detective O'Connell's eyes twinkled with amusement. "Oh, really?"

"If you answer the question, that'll be the end of this conversation," Neilson offered. I glanced at her disbelievingly and she nodded.

O'Connell coughed.

"You need to get that checked out," I told him irritably.

"It's the cold," O'Connell replied easily.

"You know it isn't," I shot back.

"What was the reading you gave Henry?"

"I told him he was in danger from a person with a king cobra on their forehead. But I also had another vision of a man with a diamondback rattler on his leg."

O'Connell nodded. "And what was Henry's response?"

I felt like I was being freshly humiliated. "He said, 'Are you sure it's only two people? And there isn't a third one with a puff adder crawling up their ass?'"

Detective O'Connell didn't even crack a smile. Neither did Neilson. She studied me inquisitively. "Are you sure of the species of snakes?"

"Yeah. A diamondback and a king cobra. The kind that eats other snakes. I even told him that."

"You like snakes?" She asked me.

"No." I'd heard that they never blink because they don't have eyelids. I looked at O'Connell and noticed the similarity. I didn't bother sharing my thoughts, though.

"And you told Henry that he was in danger from the man with the diamondback on his leg?"

"No," I said firmly. "No, I told him _specifically_ that guy wasn't dangerous. I told him it was the person with the cobra he had to watch out for."

O'Connell's demeanor suddenly changed. "Look." He sounded more sympathetic, understanding, like a counselor treating someone who'd just gone through a tragedy. He pulled out his wallet and slipped out a business card, extending it to me. "Take this."

I stared miserably at it, which listed an address and some phone numbers.

He patted my shoulder reassuringly. He leaned his head down a little, caught my gaze. His eyes were a grayish blue, like fresh snow at twilight. "Help your brother, all right? Tell us if you know something. He may have done something terrible, or he may not. I don't know. I'm not out to get him or anything like that. But if he _has_ done something, it doesn't have to get any worse. The sooner he tells us everything he knows, the sooner we can clear him. That's all we want to do. Clear everyone we can. So we can get the real guy. You understand?"

I gave him a sad nod.

He started pulling his coat on when there was a noise upstairs. It almost sounded like stumbling, a series of thumps, then quiet. He stopped with one arm in his coat, looked up at the ceiling.

He pulled his coat on the rest of the way, opened up the EMPLOYEES ONLY door and leaned over the banister. He turned to me. "Is she up there?"

I frowned at the ceiling. "Yeah. Crow?" I called, heading up.

"Annie?" Her voice sounded faint but audible.

"Yeah."

"Back already?"

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

"Yes," she called back. "I'm fine."

"Hello?" He called.

I joined him near the door, caught the mild scent of his cologne. I pulled away. He smelled too good.

Crow made her way down the stairs slowly. She looked disheveled. Her face was bloodless.

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She waved her hand dismissively. "I'm fine," she repeated.

She massaged her left elbow and shoulder. Pulling up her sleeve, she checked her skin. A bruise had formed rapidly, ugly and dark, right under the surface of her thin, papery skin.

"You all right?" O'Connell asked her.

"I'm fine," she repeated, rubbing her shoulder and elbow one last time. "I didn't break a hip, so I'm fine."

Despite looking concerned, O'Connell gave a friendly smile and met her halfway. He leaned in to give her a hug, panting lightly. She pulled back, narrowing her eyes at him. The color rapidly returned to her cheeks. "Why are you breathing like that?"

"Like what?"

Crow climbed down the rest of the way and entered the tavern. She glanced at me, at Detective Neilson, clearly thrown off-guard. "What are you doing here?" She asked O'Connell, although her tone suggested she already knew; she just wanted confirmation.

"An investigation." O'Connell coughed. "Just wanted to ask this young lady some questions." He gestured to me. "And take a look around the property."

Crow looked increasingly disturbed. "Do you have a warrant?"

O'Connell chuckled. Crow remained deadly serious. The smile disappeared from his face. "You're not kidding."

"No, I'm not. Get out. Both of you."

"Crow, why are you—"

"I told you to get out."

O'Connell looked more confused than suspicious. "I don't understand."

"Don't you dare come back without something signed by a judge."

Detective Neilson surveyed the exchange with calm, green eyes.

O'Connell coughed again.

"As a matter of fact, don't come back at all. Get someone else on the case. Anyone but you."

Detective Neilson put a hand on O'Connell's back.

"That sounds like a reading." O'Connell cleared his throat. "I thought you didn't give readings anymore."

"Go ask Beatrice for help. I don't like that cough. And make sure you get someone else on this case."

O'Connell shook his head. "You know I can't do that."

"Take a leave of absence. Tell them you have family problems. Do anything to get out of it."

O'Connell went closer, took her arm and led her away a little. But I could still hear. "Is there something I should know?" He asked her.

Crow took his hands, squeezed them, and said, "Go see Beatrice. She should be at the shop."

"Okay."

"Tell me you'll get off this case."

O'Connell considered for a moment, coughed. He took a deep breath, but still looked breathless. "Fine. I'll get off this case."

Crow gave him a hug. "Don't wait."

"I won't."

"Do it today."

"Okay." He paused. "Are you sure you're okay?"

She nodded. "I'm just fine, Rafe."

She let him go finally and retreated back through the door, not looking at either Neilson or me. O'Connell and Neilson made their way out of the tavern.

"You're not really getting off it, are you?" Neilson asked curiously.

"Nah." O'Connell took his coat and pulled it on. He suppressed a cough.

"I think you should listen to her," I told him hesitantly.

O'Connell nodded. "Oh, don't you worry about that. I'll get that warrant."
21

I ran to Scott's room and started banging on his door. He opened it after several minutes, squinting at me in disorientation. I shoved my way in, swatting the dried string of flowers out of the way, and slammed the door. "I need to know exactly what you told them. Now!" My voice sounded strangled.

"Huh?" He grunted, dazed. "Told who?"

"The cops!"

"Uh..." Scott struggled to wake up. He rubbed his eyes and sat down on the edge of his bed, almost missing it. He was so screwed up on medication. But he was waking up. "I'm sorry."

I shook my head at him, unable to do anything else. "Come on." I dragged him to his feet as he protested. "You're going to take me to the Witch Shop. I don't have any other way of getting there. And on the way you're going to tell me everything you told them."

"I can't drive. I'm fricken dizzy."

"Well, I don't know how to drive a stick shift. Come on."

"Are you insane? I'll crash us."

"No you won't. Come on."

He sighed and pulled on his coat. Then he slapped his face a couple of times to wake up. He went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face. "Okay. I'm good. I'll take you, but I can't come inside."

"What? Why?"

Scott hesitated. "I'm banned from the store."

"You are? Why?"

"Because Beatrice caught me stealing. She said I was banned. And that if I ever went back in, she'd call the police." He paused. "I did it for Artemis."

"Why? She can afford anything in there."

"Artemis wanted stuff that was locked up."

"Like what?"

Scott shrugged and yawned. "Black magic stuff."

***

Scott drove through the freshly shoveled town square past empty store windows and CLOSED signs. He swerved a couple of times, but it wasn't anything a jab to the ribs didn't cure.

Nothing but white covered the sidewalks and building roofs; the town center's clock face was blanketed with snow. Only a wedge was visible at the top, showing the twelfth hour behind a fog of condensation.

When we pulled into the parking lot, Scott asked, "Why did you want to come here, anyway?"

"I've got a couple of things to take care of."

"Like what?"

"Will you mind your own business?" I started to get out of the truck, but Scott grabbed my arm. "I drove you here. I think I deserve to know."

"Fine. I'm following that detective to find out what he's up to."

"Oh. Okay."

"Do I have your permission now?"

He let go of my arm and gestured regally to the door. "You may go."

I rolled my eyes.

"I plowed this place, you know," Scott informed me.

"What a surprise."

"Beatrice pays me double what anyone else pays. I do this place first."

"She still lets you work for her after you stole?"

"What can I say? I do a helluva job."

I hopped out of the truck and shut the door. "Be right back."

He leaned against the window. I think he fell asleep before I even set foot in the shop.

On the way, I spotted a shiny black car in the lot beside the building. I checked inside—and bingo. The detective's car. I could tell by his trench coat tossed in the backseat.

I looked in the window, spotted some personal items. A cell phone, GPS device, and concealed in the dark recess beneath the dashboard, on the floor, a siren that could be attached to the roof of the car. The car was totally spotless. Not a crumb of food or a speck of dirt or piece of paper out of place. The car was either brand new or detective O'Connell was a neat freak.

Even though he'd driven through the snowy road, the bottom of the car was hardly dirty, like the water and slush just beaded off. Detective O'Connell's car wasn't the only one in the lot. I saw another car, a dark red two-door that looked familiar, like one of the cars I'd often see in my school's parking lot. It belonged to one of the kids I went to school with. I just couldn't remember who.

I went inside the store. The bells on the door jingled pleasantly. Lit candles and burning incense gave off a zen vibe. Some sort of Indian tribal music played on a foreign string instrument, drums, and what sounded like tiny finger cymbals.

The store was crammed with more items than I anticipated. On the left stood several tall bookshelves with signs posted above, like Healing, Prayer, and Mythology. They left a narrow two to three feet of room to maneuver between shelves. Nearby were two wooden tables decorated with bronze vases and fronds of fresh lavender. On the right, all kinds of little trinkets had been organized—amulets, candles, pendants, packets of herbs, bottles, vials, Buddhas, goddess statues—it was a little overwhelming to look at. A pleasant indoor fountain burbled there in the middle, made of black marble. A wave of fresh disgust hit me. Beatrice owned _this_ place? While she practically had Crow imprisoned to run the shithole she called an Inn? What a bitch.

I spotted a young male clerk at the counter, too absorbed in his laptop to notice me.

I edged past the bookshelves, where I heard some females talking in low voices. A carpeted passageway led to the back. I also spotted a closed door. I tried it. Locked. I checked for light under the door, but it was just a strip of darkness. It was probably the stock room or something. I headed down the passageway, looking for Detective O'Connell. At the end of the passageway stood a narrow flight of stairs so I began to climb. Straight ahead, at the top of the landing, I noticed a sign that read, _Consultations_. That's when I noticed the store had a back entrance, which only allowed visitors through an intercom system. Was that why O'Connell had come here? For a consultation? For a cough? From a _witch_? None of this made any sense. I knew people in Raven City were superstitious enough to come to Beatrice's Witch Shop for help with sickness, like for homeopathic cures or prayers or something, but Detective O'Connell? Didn't seem the sort to believe in that stuff. He hadn't even paid much attention to Crow's warning. And it didn't take a detective—or a psychic—to see she'd been pretty damn serious about it.

I reached the top of the stairs and heard hushed voices immediately. A waiting room lay to the left, where Detective Neilson stood, staring at a series of black and white photographs. Local Raven City buildings like the school's historical church, town hall building, the supermarket.

I edged past the waiting room quietly and headed for the voices. I saw a door cracked open just an inch. I could see an office inside, with Beatrice out of sight, and Detective O'Connell slouched in a chair.

"What I don't get is, why on earth you didn't go to a specialist." Beatrice's voice was thick with criticism.

"Of course I did."

"Couldn't have been a very good one."

O'Connell shook his head. "The specialist did his best. All the damn tests and everything. He couldn't tell what was causing the pulmonary edema. I don't smoke, I don't live at a high altitude. I'm not old, no lung problems ever in my life."

"But it started the day you started the investigation into the missing girl," Beatrice stated.

"Three hours after I got the call from the scene. To the minute."

Beatrice came into view and shook her head, as though the situation lay far beyond her expertise. "Maybe you should just do as Crow said. Get off the case."

O'Connell snorted. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm just saying that—"

O'Connell cut her off. "What could be so special about this girl? That investigating her disappearance would make me sick?"

"I don't know. Nothing that I know of."

"Do _you_ think this investigation is cursed?"

"Maybe. By someone who didn't want anyone meddling. Frankly, someone that wanted Artemis to stay disappeared."

"Have you seen Artemis here? Is she deeply involved in this stuff?"

"Yes. I would say so. Her and her friends. Trying out fairly advanced spells as far as I know. Not much different than you were at that age."

"It was a little different for me."

"Well, you didn't have many friends."

"I didn't have _any_ friends, Mother."

Beatrice shook her head impatiently. "Whose fault do you think that is?"

O'Connell shot her a glare, his jaw settling in a grim line.

Beatrice cleared her throat, eager to change the subject. "Well, they tried spells. That's all. Not sure if they had any success. They wanted...certain things. Things I couldn't do for them."

"Like what?"

"That's confidential, Rafe."

"Oh, gimme a break."

Beatrice shrugged. "Give me a court order, and I'll tell you."

O'Connell rolled his eyes. "Fine. Can you at least produce a record of what they bought?"

"Not unless they used a credit card. I'm sure I could make a list, but I doubt it would be a full list. And some of these children that come here, they have sticky fingers. They want to try spells that they know are too advanced or dangerous."

"Have you noticed anything that's gone missing?"

"Yes. Some black and red candles. Some different kinds of oils and tinctures." She paused. "But about a month ago, one of my workers stole an ornate black obsidian athame from inside the locked display case."

"Okay."

"I was forced to fire the boy. I was so disappointed because he really was a good worker. You should know that he used to go out with Artemis. It was so unlike him to steal—I think maybe she put him up to it."

"Really? What's his name?"

"Scott McCormick."

If Detective O'Connell had a reaction to hearing the name, he didn't show it.

"He also stole some things from the storeroom. Nobody is allowed in there and everything is strictly controlled. I had to fire him, mostly for stealing from that room rather than the athame. That ceremonial blade was worth two thousand dollars, retail. He was pretty remorseful and even paid me for it. Begged for his job back, but I told him no."

"Really?"

"Yes. I felt so bad, but I couldn't let him back in after what he did. I told him he was banned for life and that I wouldn't call the cops as long as he didn't come back in."

O'Connell nodded, making notes on a pad. "You really think Artemis could have made him steal?"

Beatrice thought about it and nodded. "Possibly. The girl's skilled at manipulation and has a streak of real malice."

"What makes you say that?"

"I heard about an incident at the high school, where she bullied a young woman by giving her a basket of pet shampoo as a present."

O'Connell frowned. "How the hell did _you_ hear about that?"

Beatrice shrugged. "Word gets around. Mothers talk."

"Since when are you one of those kinds of mothers?"

"Since I've had an empty nest," she snapped. "Is that a problem for you?"

O'Connell shrugged. "I just remember things a little differently."

"You were no fucking picnic," Beatrice muttered.

O'Connell laughed. He tilted back in his chair, folded his arms behind his head. "Well, I learned from the best."

Beatrice shook her head, apparently struggling not to get into an argument with him. "The girl's mother came to me looking for help from her bullies. I gave her spells for strength and fortitude and friendship." Beatrice stopped and gave a small smile. "The girls became friends. I saw them together twice in the week following the bullying incident." Her expression darkened again. "And less than a week later, Artemis goes missing." Beatrice bobbed her shoulders. "The universe works that way sometimes. We all get what we deserve."

"You think a young girl like Artemis Garland deserves to disappear this way?" O'Connell demanded, disgusted, resting all four chair legs back on the floor.

Beatrice shook her head. "No, of course not. But I don't know what horrible things she's done to that poor girl she bullied. The universe does. That's my point. You're just biased because you're the father of a girl, not much younger than Artemis. You think teenage girls aren't terrible creatures. Take it from me. Sometimes, they're the worst."

When O'Connell didn't say anything, Beatrice continued to talk. She fixed him first with a no-nonsense look. "Rafe, listen to me. What's happening with your health is far beyond what I can handle." She paused. "I really think you should listen to Crow. She's the more experienced one. And if she says get off the case, there really must be nothing you can do."

O'Connell stared up at her for several seconds. Then he suddenly shook his head. "Sorry. I just won't accept that. You're telling me, the two of you can't handle it? You really expect me to believe that? After everything you've done to make sure I can never leave this place? Making sure every damn house I try to buy, the sale never goes through. Every job I ever try to get never lasts for more than a month or two. I always have to come back. To this! You—both of you—have kept me tethered here like a dog my whole life. Haven't you?"

"I'm not the one keeping you here. It's Crow. And believe me, I'd love for you to leave this town," she said dryly.

O'Connell chuckled. "It's good to see those wonderful maternal instincts of yours are still intact after all these years."

Beatrice gave a bitter laugh. "Really, you little shit? You're criticizing _my_ parenting? When was the last time you saw your own child?"

Rafe took a beat to answer. "Don't bring my kid into this, okay?"

"What's it been, about nine, ten years?" She dug at him.

O'Connell's eyes flashed. "I told you, don't."

"Does she even remember what her father looks like?"

O'Connell stood up. Leaned in a little. "We're asking the tough questions now, are we? Can you remember what _my_ father looks like? Oh wait, you were fucking too many guys at the same time, right?"

Beatrice looked stung for a split second. Fury took over her and she struck O'Connell across the face in a resounding _slap_. My hand flew to my mouth.

O'Connell's head whipped to the side from the force of the slap. He turned toward me for a moment, and I pulled up against the wall so he wouldn't get a chance to see me. When I thought it might be safe to look back, I watched as he stood there rigidly. Suddenly he relaxed and licked the corner of his mouth, then chuckled suddenly. "Did I hit a nerve, mommy dearest?" He asked mockingly.

Beatrice massaged the hand she'd used to slap him. It was bright red, like the side of O'Connell's face.

There was a tap on my shoulder and I flinched violently.

I turned and Detective Neilson stood over me, scowling with disapproval. She knocked on the door and pushed it open. "Everything all right in here?"

I recoiled, pulling out of sight while Detective Neilson diffused the situation.

Beatrice didn't say anything.

But O'Connell replied, "Yeah. I was just leaving." He looked at Beatrice and tapped the table with his index finger as he talked. "And I do want a list of all the things stolen from you, especially the ones from the storeroom. How long do you need?"

"Ten minutes."

"Fine. I'll wait downstairs."

I hurried to the waiting room, ducked behind the wall as the two of them emerged into the hall and walked by the open door.

"What was all that about?" Neilson asked.

I peeked out. O'Connell fixed his sunglasses over his eyes as they descended the stairs. "Fucking wish I was an orphan."

***

As soon as the coast cleared, I headed to Beatrice's office. She sat at her desktop, clicking on the mouse, her expression stoic. I knocked on the open door.

She looked up, surprised. Her eyes were, to my shock, a little bit red and moist. "What are you doing here?" She blinked rapidly, trying to clear unshed tears.

"Um..."

"Don't lurk in the doorway, please," she said. "Come in and sit down."

I accepted the invitation. The leather seat's iciness seeped through my jeans.

She continued to click on her mouse, pulling up various folders. A printer chugged to life in the corner of the room and started spitting out invoices. She glanced at me. "So are you here for a consultation?"

"No."

Another invoice lurched out of the printer.

She looked at me as a thought occurred to her. "Is Crow all right?"

"She's fine. Actually, she sent me here."

"For what?"

"To apologize."

"Oh." Beatrice didn't seem interested at all. She waved dismissively. "Forget about it. Run along, I've got work to do."

"What, just like that?"

Beatrice shut off her screen and turned her full attention to me. "Yes. It's nothing, dear."

"So you'll stop making the bugs show up all over the place?"

Beatrice gave me a curious smile, already forgetting the argument with Detective O'Connell. "You really think that was me?"

I just stared. "What?"

"Do you really think it was me that placed that insect in your plate?"

I frowned, my gaze dropping to the table as I thought about it. She had a photo of a cat and a little Yorkie cuddling on a pet bed. Both animals wore Christmas antlers and ugly red sweaters. They were cute as hell. Another photo showed them dressed in Halloween outfits—the dog as a ladybug, and the cat as a bumblebee. But the _missing_ photos were glaringly obvious to me. She had not one photo of her husband—if she ever had one. Not a single one of Detective O'Connell. Not a single one of him as a smiling little boy with a pet lizard, or a dorky graduation portrait. I finally looked up, my voice sure. "Yeah. It had to be you. You were the only one that handled the plates."

Beatrice simply nodded, accepting my theory. "Fine. It was me. You've apologized, it will stop. You may go on with your life." She pulled out a sheaf of papers from the printer and nodded at the door. "Come on. Out."

I stood and left reluctantly, taking one last look at the room.

"Wait. Are you okay?"

Beatrice stared for a moment. "How much did you hear?"

"All of it," I said sheepishly. "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "It's not your fault. Bad blood. It runs deep."
22

I watched from the top of the stairs to make sure Detectives O'Connell and Neilson both left. When I saw them exit the building, the bells chiming as the door opened, I hurried into the waiting room, where I saw them get into his car. He immediately spotted Scott's truck. Crap.

I swiped away condensation from the window, struggling to see. Detective O'Connell tapped a knuckle against the driver side window. Scott wasn't moving in there. He must have fallen asleep. He stirred at the noise and rolled down his window. Stuck out a hand, shook with the Detective. I couldn't hear a thing. I tried opening the window, but it was glued shut with ice. I watched as they chatted briefly about God-knows-what. Scott grinned charmingly for all he was worth, nodding at the shop's entrance. Then Detective O'Connell climbed into his car and drove away.

I breathed a sigh of relief and headed downstairs.

Before I even settled into the passenger seat, I asked Scott, "What did he say?"

"He asked about me stealing from Beatrice."

"And?"

"And I told him that I'd paid her back for everything. I also told him that I didn't think that you had anything to do with my uncle's house burning down, even though you predicted he was going to—" He cut himself off. "Even though you predicted he was going to get hurt."

I sighed. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

I gave his arm a squeeze of comfort and let go.

We rode in silence the rest of the way, because Scott decided he had to blast music to keep awake. Neither of us has the strength to yell over the noise to communicate.

He parked crookedly when we arrived at the Hooded Crow's lot.

When we got out of his truck, we split ways. But I noticed that Scott swayed as he walked. "The meds are really kicking in," he said drowsily.

"Come on, I'll help you."

Scott leaned against me. His wiry frame was a lot heavier than it looked. He smelled ashy, like soot, sort of good, but not as good as Detective O'Connell. His hoodie stretched over a bit, revealing his collarbone. From this angle, I spotted part of a tattoo there, a string of three letters. It said, C-U-T.

I hefted his weight a little bit, and Scott stumbled.

"Whoa, take it easy," I told him.

It took us a few minutes to get to this lodge. "How much did you take? Damn." I pushed open the door with my foot and went in.

"Not enough to kill me," he mumbled.

I spotted a cell phone on the window sill with a white case patterned with pale cherry blossoms and I realized it must be Sam's. She must have forgotten it.

I walked Scott to the bed. When he didn't let go of me as he fell back, I staggered into bed with him.

I tried to pull away from under his arm, but he tugged me closer.

"What are you _do_ —?"

Scott cut me off with a hard, hungry kiss to my lips. He slipped an arm under my sweater and grabbed at my chest with a rough, freezing cold hand. A shiver rolled through my body as I turned my head away and tried to pull his hand free. He couldn't have picked a worse time to pull this crap. His lips traveled over my cheek, moist, warm, and he nipped at my neck. "You smell so good," he told me.

"I smell like crap, get off me." This was such a bad time. He had to stop.

He dragged himself up to sit and pulled his hoodie off, revealing a snug wife-beater, and the rest of the tattoo across his collarbone. CUTHACH.

But Scott didn't move away. Instead, he buried his face in my neck. "Come on."

I grabbed a handful of his hair, hard, and wrenched his head as far back and as hard as I could. His face contorted in a grimace of pain, but then he chuckled a little bit, like he kind of enjoyed it.

"Get _off_ me!"

"Don't you want to?" He gave my breast another rough squeeze.

"No!"

His weight had shifted mostly off me, so I edged free and sat up. I wiped my lips and face with the back of my hand, disgusted.

I hadn't even noticed a shadow cast over us during that mess. Sam stood there, paralyzed with horror.

"Oh, no," I said.

My voice seemed to snap her out of it. Scott hardly noticed as she darted away without taking her phone.

I grabbed it and ran after her, all the way to the parking lot. "Wait!"

She shook as she tried to get into her car, dropping the keys. Tears fell over the glass on her car door, but she finally made it in.

I caught up to her and grabbed her arm. She snatched free like I'd burned her with a hot iron. "Don't leave like this," I told her, handing her the phone.

She snatched it away and tossed it into the passenger seat. She was about to drive away when her face collapsed and she sank into the driver's seat, her body wracked with sobs.

I didn't know what else to do but put my hand on her back and rub. But she didn't want anything to do with me. She reached out and pulled her door shut. She started the car and drove away, still crying.

When I went back to Scott's room, he was fast asleep.
23

Disgusted, I left Scott there.

Mark appeared suddenly from the narrowly carved pathway. He headed across the parking lot by himself, dressed in winter clothing, with a backpack on.

The white crow was perched on a branch above him. I almost didn't see it—it was camouflaged by a clump of snow until it moved. It almost seemed to appear out of nowhere. I couldn't tell if it had physically been there the whole time or if it only materialized because I had arrived.

"Mark!" I called.

He glanced at me, his face expressionless, but he didn't stop.

I jogged out after him, stopping him with a hand on his arm. "What are you doing?" I asked.

He adjusted a strap over his shoulder. "It hasn't snowed since Brian went into the woods. I found some footprints, probably Brian, so I was thinking of retracing his footsteps. I have to get something on camera. Anything."

"You can't just go in there by yourself. It's cold and there are no trails. It's dangerous. Ms. Ó Broin even said—"

Mark shrugged off my warning. "I'll be fine."

I hesitated. "Okay. Let me come with you."

He shook his head. "No. No offense, but you'll probably just slow me down."

"I won't. I promise."

"No. I want to do this by myself. It's my own burden. It wasn't fair to get Mandy and Brian involved."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'll tell you some other time."

"You're not going to find what you're looking for, you know."

Mark looked at me. "Now you want to tell me things?"

"You forced me to tell you things before, didn't you? Just like you tried to force Brian to stay here even though he was so scared. You're forcing Mandy to stay, even though this documentary is hopeless in this weather, and you tried to force Crow to talk about the missing girls." I paused, and added snidely, "Of course, that didn't turn out the way you expected, did it?"

Mark didn't try to defend himself. He simply asked, "Am I going to find anything at all?"

"If I tell you, will you stay out of the woods?"

He considered a moment, his face uncharacteristically serious. He looked up at me after several seconds and admitted finally, "No." He turned and crossed into the trees.

"I'm telling you, you're not going to find what you're looking for."

Mark seemed to notice something. His body went tense as realization struck him. He looked at me. "I'm not going to find what I'm looking for?"

"Right."

"In other words, I'll find something else."

I hesitated a beat. "I didn't say that. You read way too much into everything."

"And you don't read enough into things. All the things you see, and you turn a blind eye."

"Mark, stop!" I went after him. Grabbed his arm. "Don't go in there."

He snatched his arm away. "You can't stop me."

"Just listen to what I'm saying."

"I've heard enough," he said. "What can you possibly show me if you're unwilling to see?"

I looked up and the crow had vanished like a ghost. I never heard a single wing-beat.
24

I headed for the Inn. The door was closed; the lights off. I still had a key and knew the alarm code, so I let myself in. I had to tell Crow one of her guests decided to go hiking alone in freezing cold temperatures. She didn't answer me when I called. In light of how sick she'd been looking lately, I feared the worst. Besides, she hadn't exactly sounded full of peachy goodness the last time I'd talked to her. _Sometimes, we know when our time is up._

So I went to her attic and checked under the piles of covers. With my mind smarting with worry, I spotted the roundish imprint of her weird-shaped body in the bed, but no Crow.

Sometimes, things catch up to us.

How had things caught up to Crow?

I started to turn away when someone called from downstairs, "Hello?"

I hurried down and stopped abruptly at the doorway between the tavern and lobby when I saw who had called out—Gwen Harris.

"I _told_ you I saw her in Scott's truck," Gwen said to the other two, with a flip of her red hair. "She was at the Witch Shop."

I rolled my eyes. "What do you want?"

Gwen strolled across the floor, her boot heels clicking. She checked behind the bar, glanced up the stairs. "Where's the old hag?"

"Who?" I asked, even though I knew exactly who.

Gwen exchanged glances with the other two. One of them, Amber, clutched an old worn book to her chest. Her black-painted fingers wrapped around its spine and pages like it was a lifesaver. Amber wasn't at all what you'd call pretty. Her nose was too big and her face too thin, her eyebrows too bushy. I found it amazing what cosmetics and beauty tools could do. It was also obvious what their shortcomings were. Nothing could fix that nose but a plastic surgeon. Even then it was a maybe. She looked tired. Dark circles were barely hidden by concealer. Her bloodshot eyes flicked up to look at me, then away.

The other girl stepped closer. Moira. Her butch build seemed even more obvious when she stood next to the other two. She was an athlete. Girls' basketball or something like that. Those boot heels put her over the six-foot mark. Despite the cold weather, she looked evenly bronzed. It could have been leftover from the summer or bought at the tanning salon. Now that I looked at her, and then back at Gwen, I realized they all looked tired. There wasn't enough makeup in the world to get rid of that look, like they carried something really heavy on the backs of their souls.

Moira approached me. "We're not asking you again."

I glared at Moira. "That works for me."

Moira tapped me with both hands on the shoulders. I went stumbling back against the bar.

"Then stay out of our way," said Moira.

Gwen headed into the back through the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. Amber followed with another doleful gaze; Moira with a warning look.

I pulled out my phone when they went out of sight and called a number I had entered recently into my contacts list. I tucked the phone back in my pocket without ending the call. I held open the EMPLOYEES ONLY door and peeked into the hallway. "If you don't leave, I'm calling the cops," I informed them. They all stopped and turned to look.

Moira nodded at me. "I warned you, didn't I?"

"Let's go," Amber said anxiously. She looked ready to faint. She adjusted her grip on the thick, worn book. I caught a glance at the cover and recognized it instantly. It was the book I'd seen at Artemis' house the day after the ritual. The crow's beady black eye gleamed out at me.

I stepped closer. "What _is_ that?"

Amber looked mortified. She turned the book quickly so I couldn't see the front anymore.

Gwen squeezed Amber reassuringly. "Don't worry. Moira." Gwen nodded toward me once.

Moira reached out and clamped down on my wrist. "Let's go."

"Hey!" I twisted my arm and Moira dug her fingers into my wrist, between my bones. She jerked me closer. "You should have minded your own business."

Moira pulled me and forced me to start walking in front of her. I looked at Amber, who looked deeply uncomfortable. _Sorry_ , she mouthed to me.

I jabbed my other elbow in Moira's middle. She doubled instantly and gave a grunt, then a cough. "I can walk myself," I told her, rubbing my burning wrist.

Moira used the wall to regain her balance.

For a second she looked like she'd hit me back, but then she changed her mind.

Amber tucked a lock of brown hair behind her ear. She touched my shoulder. "We're trying to fix it, okay?"

"Fix what?" I asked.

Moira swatted Amber gently with the back of her hand and arched her brows. "Don't."

Gwen had walked ahead and exited the hallway. She popped her head back in. "Hello?" She called condescendingly. "Can we go, please?" She slapped one hand into another a couple of times, a _chop-chop_ gesture. "We don't have all day."

Moira lingered while Amber took my hand with her cold, sweaty one and pulled me along. "We're here to give this back. That's it."

"What is it?" I reached to touch it, but decided I better not. Something in my gut told me, hands off, just like at Artemis' house.

"It's a grimoire—a spellbook." Amber took her hand away as I wiped mine on my leg. She made me nervous, too. We turned the way Gwen went, through a door so narrow we had to go in sideways. Moira would have gotten her shoulders stuck if she tried to go straight. She shut the narrow door behind her, plunging all of us in darkness. "Watch your step," Amber said. "These steps are really steep."

She wasn't kidding. Each one, less than a foot wide, and more than a foot tall, required us to walk sideways. I scraped my ankle, twice in the same spot. Amber supported me when I stumbled. "Haven't you idiots heard of a flashlight?" I grumbled.

"What kind of idiot warns people she's going to call the cops?" Moira shot back.

"Unfortunately for you, I'm not that kind of an idiot."

As my eyes adjusted in the darkness, I saw Moira stop short.

Downstairs, a yellow light came on—a dirty bulb in the ceiling. It flickered a bit, casting an elongated shadow with spaghetti noodles for arms—Gwen's slender body. "Hurry up," she told us.

"She already called the cops," Moira said.

Amber looked terrified as she clutched the book even closer to her chest. I thought she'd suffocate herself.

Moira suddenly shoved me against the inner wall, made of badly-mixed concrete, full of rocks and sharp little stones. "Ow!" I protested. "Get off me!" I shoved her back.

"You guys!" Gwen sounded frustrated.

Moira began to dig her hands into my hoodie's pockets, searching. "Where is it?" She barked at me.

"Get outta my face!" I shouted back and hit her.

In hindsight, maybe I shouldn't have done it. Moira came right back and clocked me in the face with a closed fist. Just then I remembered she had five older brothers. I sank down to my knees like a rag doll.

Amber stood there, eyes wide like a frightened owl and her hands pressed her over mouth and nose. She made anxious, gasping sounds. Aw, hell, she was definitely going to pass out now.

Gwen grabbed Moira from behind. "Damn it, Moira, stop!" She barked harshly. "We don't have time for this!"

Moira ripped free and turned me over on my stomach. She pulled out my phone. Moira looked at the phone and cursed. She hit the screen with a shaky thumb and ended the call. Then she lifted a leg to kick me and Gwen pulled her away just in time. Moira's leg cut through the air like a crazed pendulum.

Gwen went to take the phone out of Moira's hand, but Moira pulled away.

I wanted to tell her to give it back, but I couldn't speak yet. I'd cut the inside of my mouth on my teeth and my head wouldn't stop spinning. I sat up dizzily.

Moira threw my phone against the wall.

"Hey!" I protested.

The screen cracked and the battery case popped open. The battery came ricocheting back, sliding under an incomplete wooden table. It looked like someone had decided to make a table out of a large tree stump, but given up halfway through. Clumps of old dirt still clung to the roots, tiny fibers poking through like hair from a corpse.

"What is your problem?" I shouted at her.

Moira wiped her upper lip. "Let's get out of here."

"You think it's my fault," I accused her.

She didn't respond. Just stared.

"You think it's my fault Artemis isn't here. Right?"

"It _is_ your fault." Moira pulled Amber toward the stairs. Spotted the book in her hand. Pulled it away and placed it nicely on a wooden, hand-carved lectern in the corner of the room. "You and your stupid brother. You were planning something."

"You're such an idiot," I spat contemptuously, blood spraying from my lips. "If I was planning something that night, why would I try to get her to cancel the party?"

Moira shook her head. "Because you lost your nerve. You knew something was going to happen, you knew you were going to do something, but you lost your nerve. But Johnny didn't, and you couldn't stop him, so that's why you had to convince Artemis to cancel the ritual."

I swallowed hard. Bitterness worked its way down my throat. "You're just mad because you had plans of your own for that night, didn't you?"

Moira looked startled.

"Special plans for you and Artemis. _Alone_ ," I taunted.

"Shut up."

"Too bad Johnny always ruined things, huh?"

Moira lifted a hand to hit me. I pulled my head back, but she managed to grab me by my collar. "I said shut up."

"You're so stupid, Moira. Artemis was never into you. She was just using you. Just like she uses everyone. She used Johnny too. She used Scott to steal from the witch shop and she used Amber to make her feel better about herself."

Moira dragged me away from the wall. She reached for a bright red curtain on the wall beside us.

"Moira, don't!" Gwen protested. "Ms. Ó Broin said—"

"I don't care what she said!"

"No one can go in there! It's sacred!"

Moira yanked the curtain and it popped off the wooden pole, the brass rings clattering all over the basement.

They revealed a set of double doors and a padlocked latch. My eyes widened.

"Open it," Moira ordered Gwen, tightening her grip on me as I began to struggle.

"Moira, come on, this is—"

"I said open it!"

Gwen sighed, plucked a key from a hook near the doors, removed the padlock and pushed open the doors with one hand. A stink rose up from inside.

I slammed my forearm down on Moira's, trying to break free. They weren't putting me in another tiny, dark room by myself. It had happened twice, but it would not happen a third time. Fuck no.

"This'll teach you to open that big mouth of yours," Moira hissed at me. She was crying, but probably didn't even know it. She barreled me with her shoulder.

I screamed as I fell down a carpeted incline, like a wheelchair ramp. I hit my head and my back, but I couldn't feel any pain through the panic. "No, don't!" I yelled, my voice high and strained.

Moira reached in and pulled the doors shut. I ran up the ramp, heard the latch go on. The padlock slid back on and locked with a heavy click. A thin line of light shone from between the doors. I watched as Moira threaded the pole through the curtain rings, and put it back, plunging me into total blackness.

"Moira!" I called out. Banged on the doors. They shuddered on their hinges, folding slightly away, then back in.

"You shouldn't have done that," Gwen said disapprovingly to Moira.

"Gwen? Amber!" I called. "Please, let me out."

I heard some scuffling, someone reaching for the door. But then Moira said, "Don't even think about it. It serves her right. Now let's go, before the cops show up."

"No, don't go!" I wailed. "Let me out!"

I heard them leaving.

"Do you think she'll be all right?" Amber asked. Her voice was softest.

"The cops will find her," Gwen reassured her.

Amber seemed to consider this. "Not if they can't hear her."

I gave it one last shot. "Come back! Please! Moira, I'm sorry!"

There was no answer but the sound of the basement door closing.

I couldn't believe it. They'd left me here, all by myself. My hands were covered with grimy dirt and it stank like hell in here. I struggled to breathe amid the cloying scent of wet earth. It wasn't even a basement, but a sub-basement, little more than a large wet hole in the ground.

I descended the downward incline blindly, forcing my eyes to adjust. I had my hands out as feelers. I brushed against something that I thought shouldn't have been there, suspended in the middle of the room. I waved my hand again, felt it for more than a split second. A thick, frayed rope, soaking wet and slimy. My dirty hands came away stickier than before. I reluctantly gave it a sniff, and it just smelled like mold. I followed the rope and found another one. And a third. And a fourth. They converged in the middle from various directions. Some were like over-tightened guitar strings. Some sagged like loose clotheslines.

I kept going and accidentally hit something with my shoe. I knocked something over.

But the longer I stayed in here, the better I could see. I had kicked an altar, toppling it over. I felt around some more, felt a cold wax candle. I straightened the wick, shook off drops of water that had collected in the small depression made by melted wax. Now I just needed a match. I felt around some more, spotted a tiny shelf in the altar. I found a stove lighter. It took a couple of tries. I had to shake it for the lighter fluid to reach to flint. When the flame popped out to say hello, I held it to the wick. It steamed a little bit—the water drying off—but then it lit up and kept the flame.

I kept finding more and more ropes converging to the middle. The ropes kept getting wetter, and they dripped. I stopped touching them. They became so crowded that I couldn't go any further without getting tangled up in them. I stopped and suddenly the large thing in the middle of the room, where all the ropes met, became clear. It looked like a tree, and something had been carved out of it. I leaned back, to get a better look at this misshapen tree. Suddenly, it became clear, like a lens going into perfect focus. I saw its red face and yellow eyes peering out from a hollow in the tree. I screamed. Amber was right. No one heard me.

25

I didn't know how long I'd been here. At least long enough that I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was disoriented for a few moments. My face ached from where Moira had punched it. When I touched it, my fingers felt like ice. My skin burned, felt a little swollen.

Then I remembered where she'd put me. I sat up, shivering in the cold pit, near the locked door. The candle continued to burn beside me in a candlestick I'd found near the altar. It sizzled every now and then as hot wax worked its way down the shaft and dripped on the wet rug. I couldn't feel my fingertips anymore. My skin felt pruny as I rubbed my palms together for warmth. I sat on them, used the corner of the rug as a blanket. But the damn thing was soaking wet. I didn't know where all this water came from—maybe snow outside melted a bit and seeped through, down into this cave.

How long would I be stuck here? With that _thing_?

Every now and then my gaze would creep over to look at it. The vivid red and yellow of its face, painted on, obviously, but creepy as hell, continued to stare as if alive. Its expressions changed from anger to horror to pain with every flicker of the candle. The ropes looked like the web of a drunken spider architect.

As I examined the ropes, I couldn't help but imagine they were there to keep a creature tied up. A dirty canvas sheet, obviously for draping over the trunk, had obviously fallen away. The cloth lay bunched up near the base. This thing was supposed to be covered and tied up.

Why in the world did Crow have this down here? How did she get it down here? For what reason? Could she really be praying to this thing? What sort of person kept their god in a dungeon?

More troublingly, what sort of god _needed_ to be kept in a dungeon?

I shuddered. I sucked in a breath and made my way through the tangled ropes again, wanting a closer look at the thing. I wished so bad I had a flashlight. But the candle would have to do.

Water dripped on my hair and forehead. I brushed it away and approached the tree. Ropes pressed against me as I parted through them. The tree rocked a little in its ditch, squelching in wet dirt. My shoe sank a little in the mud. The face, just about eye-level with me, peered out of the hollow like a face out from under a thick black hood. It had a sharp, beak-like nose, not unlike a crow. I reached out to touch it when I stopped myself a few inches away. I suddenly noticed its _warmth_. Right in this spot. I shivered a little less as I stood there, absorbing the heat. Did trees give off heat? No way. Only mammals did, right?

I'd assumed earlier that the face was painted on the tree. But I was wrong. The colors came from some type of bright mold or fungus. It had formed—naturally—into a face. The trunk of the tree bulged in areas like arms and legs and fists trying to break out of an amniotic sack. The bark remained unbroken on top of these bumps and bulges, proving to me this was natural. But it was unnatural anyway. I lifted the drenched, muddy canvas sheet and draped it as best as I could over the tree, covering the face.

I lifted the candle higher, checking around the cave. Long, vertical hollows lined in the walls, like this entire room had been dug out by some giant beast with splayed-out fingers. But hundreds of crow skeletons lined up the cavities, like a catacomb. There might have even been a thousand of them. I weaved through the ropes, ducking under, stepping over, trying to keep the flame from going out. I had the lighter in my other hand, just in case. The tree continued to creak every time I hit a rope—and sometimes even when I didn't, like it shifted in its uncomfortable hole. As to whatever was literally growing inside, I didn't want to stick around to find out.

As I circle around the tree and approached the back of the cave, I spotted a teardrop-shaped hole in the wall, large enough for me to duck through. A terrible smell wafted from that hole, like burning oil. I tugged my sleeve over my free hand and covered my mouth, my eyes watering.

But this looked like a way out. I could just barely make out a speck of dark blue at the other end, which seemed higher up and quite a distance away. Water poured down this tunnel, messing up my shoes and squishing underfoot as I walked. I slipped a couple of times, going down to my knees. I have no idea how Crow climbed through all this. Maybe she was faking with the damn bamboo cane and everything. Maybe she was a lot stronger than she looked. I glanced back at the tree one last time. As if it had been waiting, the canvas sheet that cloaked its body fell all the way down. When it fell I heard a disembodied sigh of relief. It came from the tree. It scared the shit out of me.

I slipped and slid as fast I could out of that tunnel to hell. _It's just a coincidence,_ I kept telling myself. The thing wasn't undressing in front of me. It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. It was just a tree. A very ugly tree. It was so ugly it _had_ to be covered up.

I almost forgot about the stench. Almost. How could I completely forget the stink of cooking rubber in boiling oil?

I was gripped by a hacking cough by the time I arrived outside. I expected to find a pile of tires on fire, sending columns of noxious fumes into the air. But I saw nothing of the sort. Just an untouched clearing of snow, strewn with oval beads. I stepped over the edge of the area the beads covered and picked one up. Tan-colored with dark brown swirls, it was shaped like a bean, with no holes to thread it. I knew then it wasn't a bead or a bean, but a _seed_. Hundreds of them lay around me, evenly strewn over the snow.

I started walking through the clearing, picking up seeds now and then. They really were pretty, like tiny, speckled bird eggs. I looked up to find the tree from which these had fallen, but all I saw above me was a dark sky. Someone had put this here, almost measured out with a ruler the exact distance between each seed. But this was impossible, because there were no footprints. These seeds simply didn't belong here. The words reverberated inside me and outside too, like thunder coming from the sky. _They don't belong._

I heard a soft bubbling noise behind me, and I turned. Then gasped. The spots from where I'd picked up the seeds burbled up with blood, not soaking into the snow, making tiny little red mirrors, no ripples, just pure, bright red. I checked my hands and they were suddenly stained red. The seeds I'd dropped into my pockets squelched when I took a step. I groaned in revulsion and pulled them out of my pocket, finding nothing but a thick pulpy mush, soaking with red. I suddenly felt insurmountably dizzy and dropped to my knees. A crow called from the sky, circling around and dancing in the sky with another one, a hooded crow, like the one on the old grimoire. They both landed in front of me, and started picking at something in the little pools. Their beaks dripped with blood as they pulled something from under the surface. Hair. Blonde. Blood ran off completely, leaving nothing but gleaming strands. I remembered how Artemis' damp hair had hit me in the face, the smell of her shampoo, the moist warmth of the hair dryer. Just then, something warm and damp slapped me across the cheek and nose, even though nothing was there. I fell aside with a scream. But I didn't know that the sensation had been protecting me, because just when I dodged, a huge black cobra lunged for me from behind, getting the hooded crow instead. The white one shrieked and flew away, and the hooded crow and cobra wrestled viciously. The crow screamed in agony and terror, the cobra growled with fury. I suddenly found the strength to push myself up. I pumped my legs, leaping over a fallen log into the woods, leaving behind the damn screaming creatures to sort out their beastly issues. The hooded crow continued to screech and scream, the noises echoing all around me. The further I went, the louder it seemed to grow. It caused pain, like long knitting needles prodding into my ears and piercing the nerves behind my eyeballs. I had to stop and cover my ears, ducking down for cover.

It went on for so long, I wondered if it would ever stop. But it did stop. The crow's calls became weak, tremulous wails, like exhausted breaths into a silver whistle. Eventually, even those gasps faded into silence.

When the fight was over, I stood up, searching for the snake through the trees. From here, I didn't see the blood, the seeds, nothing. My hands were no longer covered in blood. No blood leaked through my pocket.

I still couldn't see the Hooded Crow Inn. The sun had set in the short amount of time I'd been underground, and it was getting really dark and very, very cold.

I started back the way I thought the Inn would be. It shouldn't have taken me more than about ten minutes to get there, but even after what felt like twenty, I didn't find it. Maybe I'd gotten turned around somewhere? I looked back, resisting the urge to backtrack.

Then suddenly I didn't know which way I was going, and where I'd come from. I sucked in a breath of icy cold air in a frightened gasp. Oh God, I was lost in these woods. I struggled to keep my breathing slow and steady. But with the cold and the fear, it wasn't working. A ragged gasp turned into a dry a sob, then a wetter one. Burning hot tears of panic filled my eyes, ran down my cheeks in rivulets that felt like lava. I struggled to keep it together. I closed my eyes. Sweat from my exertion started to freeze on my body, stiffening my clothes, my eyebrows. Keep moving, I told myself. Keep moving. Even though every guidebook ever written about getting lost in the woods will tell you to keep busy and _stay the fuck_ put _._

So I did the exact opposite. I started walking around in the dark with nothing to keep me warm or light my way except the black candle on a stick. The wax burned my hand every now and then, dripping down every time my hand shook too hard, but I didn't care. I didn't even feel it.

I didn't know how long I stumbled around, what direction I was headed, if I'd ever get out of here alive.

I couldn't stop shaking. The cold seemed to have traveled through my skull into my brain, and everything started looking fuzzy. My face had partially frozen, and while I kept making sounds to keep myself from freaking out, my ears couldn't make out any words. I began humming to myself, my voice cracking and raspy. My throat might have been hurting more if I wasn't so cold.

Dusk had passed not long ago, and all the nightly creatures began making their usual calls. An owl screeched in the distance and some sort of tiny animal gave a death wail. What if I ran into something huge? Like a bear or a wolf? I couldn't fight off one of those things. I couldn't even fight off Moira and she was the closest thing to a wild animal I'd encountered.

I heard flapping above me every now and then, but every time I looked up, I couldn't see anything.

I spotted odd silhouettes out of the corners of my eyes every now and then, but when I lifted the candle flame, it just turned out to be a weirdly shaped bush or a dangling tree top weighed down by snow.

Then I started seeing the edge of a line of birch trees, which was a good sign, because I'd run through them on my way to the Inn that night. They looked like rows of thin people standing in the distance, their head tilted at an odd and painful angle, like their necks were broken and their heads hanged there by the skin of their throats.

I stepped through the line of birches, tramping through a thick layer of untouched snow. It became even calmer here, quieter. I'd left all the animal calls behind the shield of beautiful pale birches.

The disembodied wings flapped above me again.

As I walked along, my legs getting tired from lifting them up so high to step through the snow, I heard more cawing. The chirping, cawing, screeching continued endlessly. It became louder and louder as I walked.

I spotted some crows up ahead, black smudges against a deep blue, almost purple sky. I looked up and discovered that the stars looked huge, bright and brilliantly colored like vermillion and yellow ochre, but also soft pastels like periwinkle blue and sea green.

I spotted a break in the trees suddenly. I broke into a run even though my feet ached and my chest ached. The candle went out, but I didn't care. I tossed the candle aside. I didn't need it anymore. The Inn wasn't far away now. I'd found it.

I burst into the clearing, which had to be the parking lot. The birches were right up against the lot, I remembered. The Inn should have been on my right. But this was the wrong clearing. And this was no parking lot. It was huge, about the size of an acre, covered with a three-foot layer of snow. A massive tree stood in the middle. It shifted and moved, as if brushed with a breeze, but the air was still. In the distance, under the light of a huge half-moon and the brilliant stars, I spotted black, moving shapes on the snow. The noise was now deafening. It belonged to a group of crows living in this huge tree.

Literally thousands of crows flapped around, cawing together in one incessant, roaring din. Their beating wings, along with their noises, all of them having one big party in the middle of the night in the freezing cold.

I approached the tree carefully. Mark's little anecdote about the crows pecking at the girls pressed nervously against my mind. Maybe the girls might have even been killed if Crow had let them. There must be a reason why a group of crows is called a murder.

The dark spots—the silhouettes of crows—swooped down and flew back up, surrounding the tree so evenly, it looked like snow didn't fall there at all. They weighed down the snow, pressed it down so a depression had formed in the ground around the roots. Some of the roots pushed up out of the ground, far past the snow. With a trunk about the diameter of an SUV, the tree itself must have been about fifty feet high.

I wanted to turn back, but I spotted something white moving on the tree trunk, about eye level. The white crow. It didn't have one speck of blood on it from before, like it had never happened.

It jerked its head at me, getting a good look. Its blue eye glinted like an aquamarine, catching the light of the moon like a mirror. Then it disappeared into a hollow in the tree, the edge on which it was perched. It stuck its head out and looked at me, its head doing a weird, spastic dance as it tried to get me to come over.

I approached the tree carefully, slowly, nervous about setting the crows off. What if they were like bats? Did they freak out if something disturbed them and fly in panic, tearing stuff up? Would they do that to me? Those girls that were attacked ended up in the hospital. Would nothing be left of me after ten thousand crows had a go? Maybe nothing but bones and hair. Or maybe they'd use pieces of me to build their nests, round stubbly disks wedged into branches. I pulled my hood over my head to make sure I didn't get pooped on. Seriously, it _rained_ poop. Every other second something went _splat_ or _thunk_ in the ground. I even felt it hit my head, my shoulder. And it stunk. My nose and eyes burned, but no longer from the cold.

Black feathers coated the thick, cemented layer of poop. My shoes squished. The snow had melted so much here, that it had turned into a gray, mud-like sludge.

I kept checking for the white crow, which still waited for me, head hanging out of the hollow like a dog looking out of the window of a car. It was so white, it practically glowed, pure like fresh snow against the black tree.

I put my hand inside and winced when the crow nipped at me. Peering in, I saw a dusty glass jar. I tried to take it but the crow pecked at me again.

"What the hell is your problem?" I asked irritably.

I touched the jar and the crow jabbed at me so hard it drew blood. I looked deeper inside the hole, wondering why it was doing that. And there, curled far back inside the hollow rested a shiny cobra. Its eye gleamed out at me, but didn't move, like it couldn't see me. Then I remembered snakes didn't have eyelids. It was sleeping.

I reached in quietly, slowly, and picked up the jar as smoothly as I could.

I studied it under the moonlight and saw some strange items inside. Three long, black feathers, what looked like a lock of shiny brown human hair and several drops of dried blood that stained the inside. I turned it over and saw the bones of a bird. Unmistakably a crow.

I frowned at it. "What the hell?"

The tree shook suddenly. Twigs rained down amid furiously flapping wings. I screamed when two crows suddenly attacked me. I dropped the jar. Now slick with bird droppings and muddy snow, I scrambled for it and snatched it up.

The crows above me shrieked.

The tree shook like it was in an earthquake. The snake suddenly growled from inside and poured out like viscous oil. I ran for it. The thing began to slither after me.

I slipped in the crap, fell, dirtied up my whole backside. The cobra lunged for me, but the white crow took the hit. Lightning-quick, the cobra latched onto the bird's chest. I screamed in terror, using the thick jar to smash the thing's muscular body. It didn't let go of the bird, but I'd managed to stun it. After a moment, it coiled itself around the bird, trapping one wing, and then finally another. The bird rasped weakly, blood leaking from its mouth, trailing down in jagged lines between ruffled feathers. I watched in horror as the bird twitched, dying. The cobra seemed to be watching me with one shiny eye.

I felt a sob in my chest, but I choked it back. The black crows above whipped around in an angry frenzy. They dipped and dove at me, but I realized they were trying to get the snake. They dive-bombed the thing, pecking at it, spraying up drops of blood. The snake flopped around with each hit, hissing angrily, totally outnumbered. Some of the birds hit _me_ , in the sides, the back, the head with the force of pelting rocks.

I tucked the jar into the crook of my elbow and ran. I plowed into the woods, holding the jar like a football player.

I ran as fast as my legs would carry me through the layer of snow and uneven ground.

The trees gave me some cover from the birds. There was just no room for those winged assholes to swoop down and hit me like they had been out in the open.

Eventually there were only like ten crows attacking me. Too tired to go on, I just curled up on the ground in surrender as they pecked and ripped at my hoodie, leaving a cloud of gray fuzz and black feathers swirling in the air around me.

Once they realized they weren't going to be able to peck through the jacket to get to my flesh, they flew away, every last one.

Standing up, holding the jar under my arm, I checked my hands and saw that they were covered in tiny V-shaped cuts and blood, as well as a layer of bird crap. I uttered a cry of disgust and washed my hand as best as I could in the snow lying around. I needed a bath in the worst way.

But first I had to get out of the damn twilight zone, or an Alfred Hitchcock movie, and back to civilization.

After a little while, I found myself standing at the edge of the Hooded Crow's parking lot.

I'd never been so happy to see the damn sign. It cast its eerie purple light all over the snow. The ice glimmered like powdered glass. I ran through the lot and flung open the door to the Inn—and stopped short when I saw that the interior was all wrong. The reception desk, registration book, and waiting chairs were gone. Somehow, from the front door I'd entered right into the basement, circumventing the stairs and tavern.

The tree with a face swayed gently in front of me, ropes creaking like those on a ghost ship.

I suddenly discovered I wasn't standing at all, but lying on the floor beside the tree, using it for warmth. I scrambled back, and the thick-glassed jar rolled out from between my arms. I stared at it, confused. The jar hadn't been in this room before, had it? I couldn't remember.

My muscles felt weak and stiff, like I'd been lying in the same position for hours and hours. I coughed, my throat dry. A wave of nausea hit me, like I'd been breathing in noxious fumes for too long and not enough oxygen.

I tried to stand, but I couldn't. So I crawled under the ropes and made my way to the door, hoping that maybe someone had opened it. Maybe Crow returned and she would let me out if I screamed.

Just as I worked a deep breath into my lungs, which felt shrunken, the doors bucked in front of me. The latch on the other side jingled like chains. I started violently and recoiled, afraid the wooden doors were going to fly off their hinges and fall on me. But they bucked loudly one more time and slammed open, sending crumbs of wet dirt falling on my head.

Detective O'Connell took a slight stumble into the room, momentum propelling him forward. He would have fallen if he didn't grab the muddy wall. He looked a little bit surprised that he'd made it inside, like he didn't think the door would open.

He spotted me instantly under the bright light of his cell phone and dropped into a crouch beside me. "Can you walk?"

"What took you so long? I called you hours ago." My voice came out hoarse and weak. It seemed like no matter how much I filled my lungs, I didn't have the necessary strength in my diaphragm to actually articulate how pissed I was. O'Connell looked a little out of breath himself. His lips were parted and his chest rose and fell heavily.

O'Connell looked grimly at me, getting ready to tell me some really bad news. "No," he said, shaking his head. "You called me three days ago."
26

I stared stupidly at him, unable to focus on his pale face. "What?"

"Three days." He pulled out his phone, then muttered, "There's no service down here."

I struggled to understand. _Three days?_

He took one limp arm of mine and draped it around his shoulder. "Let's get you out of here. Come on."

He helped me to my feet and let me lean on him as we walked out of the muddy sub-basement.

"It hasn't been three days," I said stubbornly, my voice dull and unaffected. "I called you a few hours ago. If I'd known it was going to take you this long, I would have called someone else. Where were you?"

"I'm sorry, I was at the hospital. Emergency surgery. I'm not even supposed to be out. But I came as soon as I heard your voicemail."

He helped me upstairs, panting all the way. By the time we reached the top, he practically wheezed with difficulty. The hospital visit hadn't helped one bit. Once upstairs, he made a phone call. "I found her. No, Mark isn't with her. Let her father know she's all right...Thanks." O'Connell hung up the phone and looked at me. "Everyone's been worried sick. We thought you and Mark disappeared together."

"I told him not to go into the woods. He didn't listen."

After a nod, Detective O'Connell went quiet. As he got the shower turned on, I realized he seemed to know his way around the place very well. He knew where to find my room, and the bathroom. He let me sit on the closed toilet and spun the hot water tap fully open and turned it back a little bit, like he knew the damn thing never worked right. I watched him in amazement as he fluidly opened the cabinet just outside the bathroom. He pulled out a clean towel, his hand going for the correct shelf. He didn't even look. He flapped it open and tucked it on the towel rack. He knew his way around here like he _lived_ here. Then it occurred to me: Maybe he had. At some point. He did know Crow, after all. He had greeted her warmly when he'd seen her. They had known each other for a really long time. When he was done, and he got a hot shower running, he said, "I'm going to find something for you to eat and drink. Try to get warmed up."

I opened my mouth to protest, to ask him a million questions, but he put his hand up. "I can barely breathe here. Give me five minutes, okay?"

I nodded. "Okay."

Detective O'Connell dropped down onto the top step and waited for me.

I closed the door.

I had to shower sitting down. My legs were so weak I couldn't even stand for more than a couple of minutes. I used plenty of soap, but it seemed like I couldn't get rid of the smell of mildew. I also couldn't bring my body heat back to normal, like I'd be cold forever.

Once the water started to turn cold, I stopped, snuck into my room and dressed slowly, shivering the whole time. Feeling a little warmer, I walked back to the top of the stairs. Leaning heavily on the banister, I made my way down. My legs were growing stronger, so I looked around, but couldn't find him. His car was still outside. "Detective O'Connell?"

"Back here," he called from the direction of the basement.

Using the walls for support, I followed his voice.

I arrived just as he disappeared down the narrow stairs, using his phone as a flashlight. "It's been a long time since I was here," he remarked.

I couldn't believe it. I was going down there again. In a way, I kind of wanted to, to go down on my own, rather than being forced down there. Besides, I figured I could trust O'Connell not to lock me up. We were friends. Right?

I dug around the kitchen for a flashlight. I hobbled down the stairs—my ankle felt like I'd twisted it and it hurt to put weight on it.

"You've been down here before?" I asked. A thrill scurried through my body as I spoke. Someone else had been through the same thing as me.

"When I was about your age, yeah." He took a second to catch his breath at the bottom of the stairs.

"Wow. Crow's had this place for decades."

He shot me a look. "Thanks a lot."

"What? I can't help it if you're old," I retorted.

He studied the room, the floor. Spotted my phone lying there. "Is this yours?"

But my gaze remained fixed on the doors that lay wide open, the mouth of the catacomb-like a yawning lion. He nudged me, snapping me out of it.

"Yeah, it's mine." I went over to it, picked it up. I started putting it back together, but the screen had a fibrous web of cracks going through it. "Lot of good it did me."

"Why didn't you call nine-one-one?"

"Because I had just seen you at the—Wait. Never mind."

"At the Witch Shop?" He finished for me. "Yeah, my partner told me. She told me you were eavesdropping." He finished with a slight bit of disapproval.

"Sorry," I muttered.

"Hope it was worth it," he said sarcastically. He approached the podium and opened up the grimoire Amber had been carrying. He flipped through the pages.

"Are you supposed to be looking through her things?" I asked him suspiciously.

He pulled out a bunch of papers which were stapled together and stamped. "Search warrant."

I looked down at the paper. "Damn," I said. "You weren't kidding." I handed it back.

He stopped at one page in the grimoire and studied it carefully. He pulled out another piece of paper from his pocket. It looked like one of the invoices that Beatrice printed for him back at her shop. He compared the two together. Nothing matched, and he flipped the page.

"What are you doing?"

"Building a case," he mumbled and flipped some more pages. He turned another, then stopped. He turned the page back, checked if they were stuck together. "It's gone," he said, surprised.

"What is?" I asked.

He flipped quickly through the pages and checked the threads that bound the book together. "Unbelievable. It's been taken out."

"What has?"

"A spell. It's supposed to be right here, between the firestarter and the—" He cut himself off suddenly when he saw the other one.

I looked down at the next page, the one that had stunned him to silence. My eyes widened. "No way."

His eyes scanned the page and the invoices, moving back and forth.

"She wouldn't do that—"

"Quiet."

As if to prove me wrong, he started coughing.

I checked the page again, making sure my eyes weren't lying to me. They weren't. The top of the page was captioned in thin cursive, _To curse a police investigation._

His jaw set hard as he flipped more pages, suppressing another cough. An elaborate spell, it contained many different sections that needed to be pulled off simultaneously so every facet of an investigation would get screwed up—witnesses, suspects, evidence and finally, the lead detective. Hardly surprising was _how_ he'd be prevented from performing his job—sickness of the lungs.

Detective O'Connell didn't say anything. He simply closed the grimoire and started looking around the room some more.

"Don't you have anything to say?" I demanded.

"No."

"Well, what do you think? You're sick because of that spell. Do you think she'd do that to you?"

He didn't answer.

"Do you?" I pushed.

He said nothing. Instead he approached the open basement, kicked the fallen red curtain out of the way. He checked the latch on the door. It dangled off by a couple of screws, the padlock still on.

"What are you doing?" I asked, eyeing the dark insides. I wanted to go back in, get a better look.

"I'm going inside. Just for a minute."

"I'm coming with you."

He glanced at me. "That's not a good idea."

"I was down there three days. I think I can handle it." I strode past him with the flashlight guiding my way.

I heard a delicate snap behind me, a button coming undone. I looked back and saw Detective O'Connell pulling his gun.

I turned and put a hand up. "What the hell are you doing?"

But he wasn't looking at me. He raised the butt of the gun and brought it smashing down on the latch. It broke and the piece of metal clattered across the room. "Not taking any chances." He put his gun back in its holster.

"You think someone's going to magically appear and lock us in here?"

"No. But something else might try."

He walked past me, his coat brushing against my arm. I followed him reluctantly down the carpeted, slanting corridor. His feet squished gently. He held up his cell phone as he moved it back and forth, so he could see more of the room.

"You were down here before?"

"Yeah."

"How long?"

"Same as you. Three days."

"How?"

"Officially? An accident."

I frowned at him, disturbed. "And unofficially?"

"It was deliberate."

I couldn't believe it. "Crow locked you down here?"

"It wasn't Crow."

"Then who was it?"

He stopped his light on the tree with the face. He examined it for a long time, not going closer. He reached a hand up to touch it, but refrained. "It was this thing right here."

"Uh, that's a tree," I told him.

He chuckled. "Yes, it's a tree. I'm talking about whatever is living in the tree."

He picked up the cloth that lay in folds around the base of the tree.

"The cloth fell as I was leaving through a hole in the back," I told him. "But there's no hole, is there? I dreamt the whole thing."

"The cloth always falls." He weaved through the ropes and stood up close to the tree, studying the face. "It looks different," he remarked.

"What do you mean?"

"The face. The body. It's all...further along." He looked around. "There are more ropes."

Detective O'Connell reached down and pulled the canvas over the tree again, hiding all of it. "Waste of my time," he muttered.

"Why are you doing it, then?"

"Because it's calling me. Just like it did back when I was stuck here. The cloth stops it."

I thought of how the tree constantly drew my gaze as I waited for help, curled up near the locked door.

Detective O'Connell just stood there, staring at the draped canvas.

I went up to him and grabbed the arm of his coat. I wanted to tell him we should leave, but the words died on my lips. I reached out to touch the tree one last time, to thank it for the warmth it gave me, but O'Connell caught my wrist. "Don't."

"Why?"

But he didn't answer. He just pulled me along with him, pushing me out in front of him.

When we reached the exit, we heard a soft scraping noise behind us. We looked together. The sheet had returned to the floor. The yellow eyes continued to stare at us. To call. He and I exchanged glances. "I told you," he said.

I felt the first inkling of fear ever since waking up. "Let's get the hell out of here."

***

As Detective O'Connell fixed me something to eat—he knew his way around the kitchen, too—he mulled things over. I watched him from my place at the open bar top. He walked out of the kitchen, came around to the bar side.

As he put the plate down for me—the bread looked really dry—his gaze drifted up to look at the framed, metal cobra on the bar mirror. He pulled himself up on the bartop, and took the frame down. He bent down, picked up a bar napkin and ran it over a portion that would have collected dust if the thing had been hanging on the wall a long time. He showed me the napkin. Totally clean. The cobra hadn't been there long at all. He hung it back up and hopped down with a grunt. "I wonder where she got it."

"She said it was a present."

"Did she say from whom?"

"She looked at me like I was being nosy."

He rolled his eyes knowingly. He pushed the sandwich closer to me, pulled a stool. "Sit."

He had urged me to sit down before, too, but I just couldn't. I should have been exhausted, unable to move because of hunger and thirst, but a visit to the tree downstairs left me filled with manic energy.

"Where the hell is Crow, anyway?" I asked suddenly, trying to avoid the food, as he handed me the same glass of water he had offered me earlier. I took a tiny sip and made a face. It tasted like it came from the sewer.

O'Connell sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "She wasn't feeling good. After you left here, she called an ambulance. She's at Raven City Memorial."

"What's wrong with her?"

"She had a series of heart attacks. They think it may have been as many as two before she went to the hospital. She had two more while she was there. It's a miracle she's still alive."

I knew she had been looking ill. Damn woman never told anyone anything. "Is she going to be okay?"

O'Connell shook his head. "I don't know." He nodded at the water in my hand. "Drink more. You're badly dehydrated."

"I'm fine," I said, and dumped the water into the sink. "I'm not hungry either. You're wasting your time. You should know better than to make me eat or drink, shouldn't you?" I froze suddenly when I realized I knew more than I should. _Way_ more. It was like a shroud of mist had been lifted from a hazy forest. Every shiny beetle crawling over the rough bark, every quivering leaf became clear.

He leaned against a kitchen counter and folded his arms over his chest. "Why's that?"

"You know what this feels like," I said, astonishing even myself.

"What what feels like?"

I swiped at a bead of sweat trickling down my temple. "Powerful." I felt energized, even though I'd been starving and dying of thirst for three days, away from sunlight, in the dampness, the darkness. I felt super-energized, like broken power lines were thrashing around inside my body. "You forgot what it's like," I accused him. "So did Crow. You both forgot what a rush it is."

I shivered now, in a cold sweat. I dabbed my forehead with my sleeve, knowing I sounded crazy, but I didn't care. It was true. I told him the Truth. With a capital T.

I had the abrupt urge to race back downstairs, light up the candles, throw off the ropes that bound the warm tree in the basement.

I left the mop leaning against the bar, and started walking purposefully toward the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, heading to the basement, even though a tiny, sane part of me said I should definitely stay away. That I should drink and eat something, even if it tasted like it came from a landfill. But I couldn't sit still for more than five seconds, even though my muscles hurt to move.

Detective O'Connell had followed me, preemptively blocking the door to go to the basement. He _did_ know, the sneaky, sexy bastard, he knew what I was feeling. "You're not going down there," he said. He gave me an appraising look. "You know you shouldn't. You feel it."

"I do," I admitted. "But I want to."

"I know."

I forced myself to think about something else. Nothing else seemed to intrigue me as much as the tree downstairs, the yellow, magnetic eyes, the warmth that had sustained me for those days down there. Detective O'Connell was the only thing that even came close. He stared intently at me, almost like he expected me to bolt past him and down to the basement. I could see the tension in his neck, the way he waited, hunched down. And did I detect a little bit of fear?

"That missing spell in the grimoire, you know what it is, don't you?" I asked him suddenly. I couldn't stand still, so I started pacing. I wanted to stand still, but it was like trying to hold still while clutching a jackhammer as it pounded away at concrete. I let myself go behind the bar, pick up the wet rag and began to wipe the counter down.

O'Connell followed me with his eyes. "Do you?"

I nodded. "Yes." I closed my eyes briefly. "A boy almost died because of it, when you were in school."

He didn't say anything.

I shook my head. "Don't try to deny it. You wanted to kill him, didn't you?"

O'Connell just watched me.

"But when you saw what happened, you got scared. Didn't you? You always were a little chicken shit, weren't you? That's why you never fought back against him. Not when he broke your bones or made you bleed. You always just took it." I frowned at him. "Even when he put you in that gym locker over the weekend." I felt tightness in my chest, wetness down my legs, caught a pungent whiff of urine. None of it was real, though. It was just in my head. From the tree to my brain. I started wiping the bar stools. "That's when you left home, right? You came here, you lived here." I looked around and saw a lanky young O'Connell with messy hair wander slowly through the tavern, reading the Badb's Grimoire with rapt attention. Every now and then he'd look in the direction of the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, the one that led to the hallway, that led to the basement, that led to the tree. It called to him and the young O'Connell contemplated responding.

I turned to look at the detective. "You wondered if she locked you down there, didn't you? You still wonder, don't you? The tree told me you do. It told you things, too. It has more to tell you, if you care to listen. Don't you want to know who killed Artemis?"

He found the question almost irresistible. I knew it would be. I knew a lot about him. I was still learning, still absorbing information. It seemed to be coming to me like the oxygen in every breath I drew. He nodded at me, trying to remain indifferent. But his eyes shone. "Did it tell _you_?"

I smiled and stopped cleaning long enough to give him a look that said, _Gimme a break_. "It's for your ears only." I wet the rag again with cold water. "All you have to do"—I pointed to the door behind him—"is touch the tree. Just for a second. You'll get the killer's name. It just takes a second. After that you just have to gather evidence."

I picked up the broom and began sweeping, even though I'd already done everything.

Detective O'Connell said nothing about it, but I was painfully aware of him watching me. I could practically hear him thinking, _Don't you think you've cleaned enough?_

I picked up the dustpan, swept into it nothing but air. I picked up the mop, wrung it out with my bare hands and began to drag it across the floor.

Detective O'Connell stepped away from the door and headed for me.

I dropped the mop and returned to the broom. I started from the top, sweeping nothing. I couldn't stop myself. I suddenly flashed on Crow doing the same thing as a younger woman, trying to keep herself distracted from the tree, sweeping and mopping for hours, hour after hour, all night, until her hands bled and the floor became stripped of varnish, like it had been done with an industrial buffer machine.

O'Connell's warm hand suddenly clamped down on my wrist. He took away the broom and nudged my shoulder. "You need to stop."

I took his hand and pulled him to the door. "Come on. Just once. Don't you want to know who killed Artemis?"

He dug his heels in the ground. "No. Come and sit down."

"I'm fine. I heard that two girls went missing at that school when Crow was a student. They never found out what happened because the lead detective died. Do you want to know how?"

"Stop it."

"He drowned," I said. "His wife found him in bed. She thought he was sleeping, but he was dead. His lungs filled up with water and he died in his sleep. Do you know what it's like to drown, little by little?" I paused.

Detective O'Connell remained silent. He wanted to get away from me, but he knew if he left me alone, I'd go back to the basement.

"It'll happen to you if you don't get off the case like the crow witch says."

"I said stop."

"I can't. It's going to happen to you, but you don't have anyone who'll find you, do you? She left you a long time ago, along with your kid. You'll be lying there until someone smells your dead body. The only way someone will find you is from the stench you cause in their life as they walk past your apartment door. That's the only way anyone ever notices you, because all you do is stink up their lives, and you'll do the same when you're a corpse, they'll come to get rid of you, because that's all anyone ever wants to do, your own mother got rid of you, and your second mother did the same thing, she drove you away because you weren't of her womb, she despised you, she never wanted you—"

Detective O'Connell shook me violently. "Stop it! I said stop it!"

I had so much information I wanted to puke out that I couldn't even let myself take a breath to do it. I blacked out briefly, but he held me up.

"Come on, sit down."

I leaned into his body for support as my legs buckled. Had I really said he stunk up people's lives? He smelled so good. His cologne smelled so good and comforting and his body was so warm and I felt so cold. Why did I feel so cold?

He helped me sit down, and I dropped into the hard wooden seat, bruising myself. "Don't you understand that I can see you dying?" I implored him. It was just me talking now. "I'm trying to stop it." My throat felt raw, ragged. I wanted to open my mouth and say more, there was so much more I wanted to say, but I clamped down on my lower lip with my teeth. I took some deep breaths through my nose and shuddered.

"Don't bite so hard," Detective O'Connell advised gently. "You're the one in charge. It just wants you to think you're not."

I sat there clutching his hand for a grounding rod to the lightening lurching around inside me. I put my head down on the table and surrendered to the exhaustion pounding at my muscles. When I closed my eyes, I saw the tree down below, growing without sunlight, thriving without love, nurtured by the darkness of its cave, the loneliness and misery Crow had brought upon herself. I wanted to turn around and leave, stop seeing the dark basement in my mind's eye, but all I could do was open my eyes. When I did I expected to see my hand holding O'Connell's, but I could only see the tree in the dark, its face smudges of dull color. I didn't know if it was my imagination, but I thought I saw its body moving under the bark, writhing like a child trying to stretch inside a swaddling cloth. Its eyes widened and its lips parted and I started awake, hearing my name echoing. _Annie_.

I bolted upright in my chair. A blanket fell away from my shoulders. Two paramedics flanked me on both sides. But it was Scott that caught my eye. He stood over me, dressed in a charcoal suit, his hair slicked back with gel, making it darker, almost black. His face was sort of pale, grayish. But he looked very handsome. "I'm so sorry, Annie, I didn't know you were trapped down there. I couldn't believe it when I heard."

I shook my head. "Why are you dressed like that?"

He tugged at a marbled button on his shirt, like he'd forgotten he was wearing it. "I just got back from my uncle's funeral."

I closed my eyes. "Ohh. Scott, I'm sorry."

He brushed it off with a shake of his head, like he didn't want to dwell on it.

"Can you stand?" One of the paramedics asked me.

I tried to stand, with Scott's help. My legs shook with effort and I still couldn't get up. The paramedics had wheeled in a gurney for me. Scott put my arm around his shoulder, one arm under the crook of my legs, and lifted me onto it. A paramedic strapped me in so I wouldn't fall out.

I spotted Detective O'Connell in the back of the bar, on the phone. He gave me a troubled glance, said something to the person on the other end and hung up. "What's wrong?" I asked.

He was leaving, and didn't even pause as he told me, "They found Mark. He's alive."

I narrowed my eyes at him. His reaction didn't match the good news. "That's not all," I told him.

He kept walking. I reached out and grabbed his arm to stop him. He didn't look at me, but he did stop. I suddenly felt a bone-deep chill, like I'd been pulled out of a wet well after hours, maybe days of being stuck inside. I let him go, wrapped the medical blanket tighter around my shoulders, and asked, "They found Artemis' body, didn't they?"
27

I didn't know when I'd fallen asleep or for how long I'd been out. I listened through the grogginess of sedation to the tinny female voice coming from an older television set. "...Police are offering no confirmation pending the body's identification by family members, but witnesses say the body pulled from the location known as Hell's Well in Brigid's Forest could possibly belong to missing Raven City High School student, Artemis Garland. Police investigators also discovered human remains they suspect have been there for decades.

"Mister Mark Ians was admitted to Raven City Memorial in critical, but stable condition. He's being treated for hypothermia and broken limbs..."

I sat up with a struggle, then spotted my dad in the chair, asleep. Between me going missing and Johnny going to the hospital for a stab wound, he had visibly lost weight and looked like he wasn't taking care of himself.

I slipped the IV out of my arm, trying not to make noise with the hospital wristbands. I climbed slowly out of the bed. My legs shook weakly, but I couldn't stay. I had to try to convince Detective O'Connell to leave the case again. I had to try. Crow's spell, from what I'd seen, was potent and deadly, just like the _firestarter_ spell. It was no coincidence that Scott's uncle had died in a fire. I'd heard in the news, they were saying that the fire wasn't caused by arson, that it was just an accident. But I knew it was the _firestarter_ , I knew it. Scott's uncle had essentially sealed his fate when he made an enemy of Crow after she hurt his business.

I hunted for my clothes. They sat folded in a neat stack in a cabinet, a thick sweater and jeans. Picking up the clothing with both hands, I headed quietly for the adjoining bathroom to change.

I gave the door a push with my shoulder—and discovered Johnny sitting on the closed toilet, his phone against one ear, and his other hand fisted in his hair. He had a couple of medical tags on his wrist. "How's the leg?" I asked icily.

He flinched violently, fumbling with the phone. It bounced up twice, falling on the floor with a loud clatter.

I looked back and saw my dad stir, but he didn't get up.

I picked up the phone and heard someone talking, a lady. "...Hello? Hello, Johnny?"

"Who is this?" I asked him.

He stood up and took the phone back. "Sorry. I dropped my phone," he said to the lady.

"Who is that?" I demanded, suddenly worried. The voice sounded familiar, authoritative. I didn't like it at all. And with a jolt I realized the voice belonged to Detective Nielson, O'Connell's partner. I closed the bathroom door. "What are you _doing_?"

Johnny exhaled, looking exhausted and impatient. "Do you mind?"

"Give me that." I grabbed the phone from him and ended the call. "What do you think you're doing?"

"You didn't tell the cops anything," he said, almost accusatory.

"What the hell is that even supposed to mean?"

"You didn't tell them about Artemis' blanket. And you didn't tell them I had you locked in my closet."

I didn't know what to say. Finally I replied, "Are you actually complaining that I _didn't_ turn you in?"

Johnny shook his head. He lifted his football jacket off a hook on the back of the door and pulled it on, giving it a half-hearted tug when it didn't sit properly on his shoulders. The collar folded inward, but he didn't bother to fix it.

"What are you doing?" I asked him. I waited for him to fix his collar, but he didn't. He took his phone back from me and sent a short text, then gave me his phone. He pulled his keys from his pocket and gave that to me too. "She's coming to get me."

"Who?"

"Detective Neilson. I gotta wake Dad up." Johnny reached for the door to turn the handle, but I stopped him.

"Don't do something stupid, Johnny."

"I already did a bunch of stupid stuff. Believe me, this is the first smart thing I'm doing."

"And what's that?"

"Turning myself in."

"What are you talking about? You told me how it would make you look to the—!"

"I know."

"This makes you look guilty!"

He shrugged, not looking at me.

"Look, you're not," I said, touching his shoulder, feeling the bunched up lump of his collar. "You're not. Artemis was involved in—"

He looked at me, really looked, for the first time since I'd walked in on him. His hazel turned bloodshot and watery. "Maybe I am," he said. "Maybe I did something wrong. Maybe I screwed up the tincture she drank, maybe I..."

"You didn't do anything."

A tear streaked down his face, rolling over the ridge of his nostril. He swiped it away with his thumb. "How can you say that?" He asked, almost angry. "Look at what I did to you."

"Well, I stabbed you."

"That never would have happened if it wasn't for what I did."

"That's not important anymore, Johnny."

"Yeah it is." He suddenly grabbed my hand and then pulled me into a hug. His whole body shook violently. "I'm so sorry, Annie."

I felt a little choked up. "Fix your damn collar, you slob," I said and turned it out for him.

He gave a grateful chuckle, grateful for something to smile about. He knew what I said was as good as me forgiving him.

A knock sounded outside, followed by a drawn-out squeak as a door opened.

I quickly placed Johnny's things on the edge of the sink. He gave me his wallet too, finding it in his back pocket. I opened it up and pulled out a couple of singles and three twenties. "Thanks, bro," I said with a grin.

He shook his head and opened the bathroom door. Detective Neilson hadn't come alone. She had a couple of officers in uniforms with her, in case there was a problem.

My dad had risen to his feet, shaking Neilson's hand reluctantly. She beckoned him into the hallway. They returned after a minute, my dad looking inscrutable. She gave Johnny a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "You sure about this?"

Johnny nodded quickly and firmly.

Neilson patted him again. "Turn, please," she requested, pulling out cuffs simultaneously. She put them on, tightening them gently. She quietly read him his rights while my dad listened and Johnny nodded at the appropriate times.

They all left together, except for my dad. He hung back and made me get in bed. He checked my arm, mad that I took all the IVs out. "For goodness' sake, stay here. I'm going with Johnny for his statement and possibly the booking. Will you be okay?"

"I'll be fine, Dad."

He didn't look like he believed me. But he didn't really have a choice. He kissed the top of my head. "You smell like dirt," he remarked.

"Thanks."

"Behave yourself," he cautioned me, and picked up his coat and left.

I kicked off the blankets as soon as I was sure he wouldn't come back and went back to the bathroom to change. I smoothed my hair down as best as I could, then smelled my hands. My dad was right; I did smell like dirt. I started to walk out when something slipped out of a turned-out pocket. Artemis' chocolate pendant, along with the chain. I put it on. With something of hers around my neck, I didn't feel so alone anymore.
28

Sneaking out of the ward, I made my way to the hospital entrance. A gift shop sat on the ground floor right across from the entrance. I slipped inside.

The over-bright lights hurt my eyes. I squinted around, eyes watering, and spotted a rack with sunglasses. Choosing one with wide lenses, I checked for security stickers and found one. I peeled it off with some difficulty.

"Annie?" A voice said behind me. I spun around, startled.

Amber shivered slightly in front of me, dusted with flecks of ice. Obviously she'd just walked in from outside.

"What are you doing?" Amber asked, concealing most of the suspicion in her voice. She saw me trying to flick away the security sticker. I just stuck the thing back on and replaced the sunglasses. She wasn't accompanied by her more domineering pals, Moira and Gwen. Judging by Amber's plainer, but more relaxed appearance, I assumed she was no longer friends with them.

"I'm shopping," I replied.

"That's an interesting way to put it," she remarked.

My expression hardened. "Really? Are you judging _me_? You cowardly little bitch? After what you did?"

Amber looked stung. She turned her head a little to the side. Her big nose turned like a bird's. I wondered if she ran into doors all the time with a nose like that. Trying hard not to get upset, she took a calming breath and said, "I deserve that."

"Oh, really?" I asked sarcastically.

She saw that I wasn't exactly in a forgiving mood. At least, not right now. She sighed. "I'm really sorry that Moira—that _we_ —locked you down there," Amber said, her voice almost pleading. "I was coming to visit you and I wanted to buy you a present. But I..." She trailed off as she spotted the necklace around my neck. The pendant rested against my skin, under the sweater, but she obviously recognized the delicate chain. I pulled it out so she could see it.

Her expression turned worried. "Why do you have this?"

I sighed. "Amber—"

"Why?! You took this from Artemis' house the night she disappeared! She was wearing this!"

"Look, it was in her bedroom."

Amber looked ready to burst into tears. "I can't believe I was actually feeling bad about what Moira did to you."

"I didn't do anything to Artemis," I said to Amber.

"Why did you take this?" Her voice rose loud enough that the clerk came to check on us.

"Is everything okay here?" She asked.

"Yeah, yeah, everything's great," I shushed the clerk and dragged Amber outside, through the lobby and out into the chilly air. I expected to see the white crow outside, but it wasn't there. Its absence disturbed me deeply. I thought of the vision, the way it died in the cobra's venomous grasp. I hadn't _watched_ it die, take its last breath, but I knew it couldn't survive a cobra attack like that, even in a vision. Its death felt strangely concrete, and tears pricked the backs of my eyes again. I'd lost a friend. And I didn't even know how or where. I just knew it was gone.

"I can't believe you'd take it," Amber was saying. "Right when she goes missing like that."

"She was fine when I left her house. The next morning."

Amber spun around and started marching toward her car.

I ran after her and grabbed her arm, forcing her to turn. "Listen, Artemis was _fine_ when I left her."

"Get off me!"

"I saw the necklace sitting in her room. I just took it."

Amber pushed me again.

"I need to know what you guys were doing that night," I told her. "What was that ritual?"

Amber started running.

I caught up to her and gently blocked her, placing my hands on her shaking shoulders. "Look, it's not your fault, but I need to know what you guys were doing. I need to know how you ended up with the Badb's Grimoire. I need to know what happened between you and the crow witch. Did you guys piss her off?" The tree wasn't helping me See this stuff. Just like it wouldn't show me who really killed Artemis. But I had a pretty good idea who it was.

Amber cried softly. "I told Artemis I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to steal it. It was wrong. We never should have gone to her. We should have listened to Beatrice."

"It's okay. It's okay." We walked back to the hospital entrance and sat on the cold granite steps. "Shh. It'll be okay. Tell me."

Amber drew her knees up to her chin and started crying. I gently patted her back. "Why did you guys ever go there?"

Amber sighed shakily and said, "We all wanted something. There wasn't anything we could do with the stuff at the Raven City Witch Shop. And Beatrice doesn't do the sort of stuff we wanted. Moira wanted this girl on her basketball team to get hurt, so Moira would be the best player. Gwen wanted this kid to get sick so he'd be taken off the trip to Europe and she'd replace him instead. It was only the top students that got to go, the ones with the best scores. He had, like, a point-one-percent better grade. And I wanted...surgery to be pretty." Amber swallowed thickly and shook her head, disgusted with herself for ever want something so shallow. "But Artemis wanted the worst thing. She wanted to be the crow witch's apprentice.

"She wanted to learn everything. She wanted to be like her. Just like her, but beautiful. She'd gone through every single book at the Witch Shop. She hated all of them, because they never had any of the dark stuff. It was all healing and protection and druidic rites.

"She went to other witch shops in the area, but none of them would help her. They all told her to come back when she was eighteen.

"Artemis was really angry that Crow didn't want to teach her. Crow told Artemis she'd be irresponsible with the knowledge. That she was too young.

"But then Artemis started mouthing off. She called her a...crusty old bitch that had never ...been with a man her whole life. That she got off on dangling power to people then denying them it."

"Oh, boy."

"Yeah. We told her to shut up, but she didn't. She was pretty frustrated to begin with, but this was just the last straw. She started throwing a fit. But the crow witch was quiet. She didn't seem bothered by it. Artemis's behavior basically proved her point. Then Artemis said something crazy."

"Really? We're only just getting crazy?"

"Artemis threatened her. She threatened to curse the crow witch."

I shook my head. "That was stupid."

"And the crow witch sort of smirked at her. Then laughed like it was the funniest thing she'd heard in years. She had to sit down on her steps and catch her breath. I'd never seen Artemis so angry. And here's where it gets _really_ crazy. Artemis picked up a rock."

"Don't tell me she threw it."

"Well, she pulled her hand back. Moira jumped in front of her, screaming, 'Don't!' But the weird thing was at the same time she yelled at her, a crow cawed above us.

"Artemis was frozen like that, like a baseball pitcher. We all looked up and out of nowhere this huge hooded raven came and attacked Artemis. It rammed into her head like a train. Artemis dropped the rock. I think the raven knocked her out a little bit. She fell down, but then she got back up, screaming and hitting the damn thing. It was flapping and pecking at her neck. Then we heard this noise, like a wind going through the leaves. But it wasn't windy at all that day. It was just a huge flock of crows swooping down over her like a black sheet. It was crazy. They made such a mess with the black feathers flying around and Artemis ran into the woods screaming, tripping over rocks and bushes."

"Moira got pecked a bit too. Her cheek started bleeding. She went after Artemis, really panicking.

"The crow witch just sat there on the step, watching. She watched the whole time and didn't even try to stop the birds. She totally sicked 'em on Artemis.

"After a minute or two, though, Moira helped Artemis out of the woods. She was pretty banged up. There was blood and black feathers in her hair. Her eyes were all red, like from crying, but she wasn't crying when she came back out. She gave the crow witch the meanest, dirtiest look.

"Anyway, the crow witch gave like this little laugh, like she thought Artemis was really pathetic, then went inside the Inn. She looked at all of us and went, 'Are you coming or not?' And Gwen went first. Then me. We all thought Moira would stay out there with Artemis, but then she stood up and came along with us. Artemis looked like she'd been punched in the stomach. She ordered Moira to come back. But she didn't. She came with us."

"Did you guys all get what you wanted?"

Amber looked at me and nodded, deadly serious. "My parents are paying out of pocket for plastic surgery."

"Damn."

"But the crow witch told Gwen and Moira that what they wanted would arrive in three days."

"And did it?"

"Yeah. Like, to the hour."

I flashed suddenly on Detective O'Connell telling Beatrice something similar. He'd started having breathing problems three hours from the time the case had landed on his desk. To the minute. I started feeling sick. Maybe Crow _was_ the one making him sick. But she'd seemed really genuine when she told him to get off the case. Maybe she cursed the investigation before she found out he was the lead detective. The more I thought about that, the more it seemed like the likeliest theory. But seriously, did I really think better of her than she really was? I couldn't tell if she was ever lying or telling the truth. She hadn't denied hurting those girls back at her school. She hadn't denied harming Brian. I couldn't tell if she was good or bad. Maybe she was both. She helped these girls but she hurt others in the process.

"Um, Annie?"

I looked at Amber. I'd forgotten she was standing there. "Yeah."

"After that we all thought we weren't going to be friends anymore. But after a few days, Artemis came over to us with an idea."

"What idea?"

"To steal the grimoire. It contained all of the crow witch's spells, everything she'd ever created. We tried to talk her out of it, but Artemis said she was going to do it, with or without our help. She thought it would be poetic justice or something to curse the crow witch with one of her own spells. Moira said she'd go along with her. Watch her back. After that Gwen and I agreed. But the only reason I agreed was 'cause I was scared that Artemis would put a hex on me. She would say things like, 'Wouldn't it be messed up if your plastic surgery made you even uglier?' She'd laugh like it was funny, but these things really happen. And she knew enough about magic to make it happen. I knew she hated all of us for leaving her behind, so I didn't know if she'd hurt us."

I sighed, nodding. "So that's what you guys were doing. Returning what you'd stolen."

Amber looked across the school grounds miserably. "But Artemis had gone missing by then. And she'd already tried a spell out of it."

"What was the spell?"

"An invocation. Through symbolic carnal activity."

"Ew. That's gross."

"She had to offer herself to this entity for one union in exchange for something she wanted."

"She prostituted herself to a demon?"

"Basically, yes. I mean, nothing really happened. We did everything symbolically. Like the guy would be wearing a mask and markings to represent the demon. She'd be painted red, to attract it."

"Yeah, Amber, that makes it so much less creepy."

"The rest of us were her handmaidens and we had to be in a circle as the ritual happened."

"So what would she get in return?"

"She would get to be more powerful than the crow witch."
29

Amber purchased the sunglasses for me. She could see my eyes watering in the brightness outside, and worried. She asked me if I had some sort of condition. I told her it was just because I'd been in the dark for three days. Thanks to her, Moira and Gwen. She apologized again and asked if I was going to press charges. I told her, Nah. I almost added, I don't think my dad can handle anything else right now. But I didn't.

After she left, I went back into the hospital to find Detective O'Connell. I had seen his car in the parking lot.

I spotted Mandy at an array of vending machines on the way there, her bright red hair pulled into a messy bun. She was making faces at the nasty coffee from the machine when I walked up to her. "Hey," I greeted her.

She looked stunned. "Hi. I didn't know you were awake!"

I hesitated. "You knew I was here?"

"Yeah, I came to see you, but you were asleep. Mark wanted to see you, but he can't really move. He told me you warned him about going into the woods."

"Yeah. I should have tried harder."

Mandy waved her hand. "Oh, please. A freight train wouldn't have stopped Mark. When he gets his mind set on something, that's it."

"Well, all right. I'm glad he's okay. I want to see him, but do you know where Detective O'Connell is?"

"Yeah. He felt short of breath, so he excused himself for a few minutes. He said he'd be right back. He was just getting a statement from Mark. His partner was here, but she had to go. She didn't say where."

I knew where, but I didn't want to tell her right now.

Mandy dumped the coffee into the garbage. She offered to buy me something to eat, because she said I looked as bad as Mark. I declined right away, itching to tell Detective O'Connell what I'd just learned from Amber. I thought about going to see Crow, but suddenly I wasn't so sure I wanted to see her. She had something to do with Artemis dying. Maybe it was a good thing she'd had a heart attack, because if she had been well, she might get arrested. And it would be Detective O'Connell who slapped the cuffs on her. I had a tragically comical image of Crow shuffling into the back of his black car, his hand pressing down on her head.

The hospital staff had placed Mark in ICU, in room 203. He sat propped against a bushel of pillows, his head turned aside. He looked like he'd lost a lot of weight, even though it had only been about three days. His cheeks protruded from under gray-ringed eyes. He appeared to be sleeping. But when he heard us enter, he opened his eyes.

Mandy settled into a chair and wrapped herself in a crocheted blanket draped on the back.

An old man I didn't recognize sat at Mark's bedside. Thin, with fingers slightly knotted by arthritis, he looked a few years younger than Crow. A wedding band sat loosely on his left ring finger. He had thick white hair and light blue eyes. He was roused from deep thought when we entered. He gave us both a nod of acknowledgment, but said nothing.

Mark groggily stretched his back, but couldn't sit up. Both his legs were wrapped in casts, and one arm rested in a sling. The old man rose up faster than he looked like he could. He reached under Mark, counted to three and helped him lean forward as he stuffed pillowed at his lower back. "Better?" He asked.

"Yeah, thanks, Grandpa."

The old man patted Mark's tangled hair and kissed the top of his head. Mark didn't sweat it. I would have been embarrassed. I would have been embarrassed to need someone just to help me sit up in bed. Mark looked at me. "Annie, this is my grandpa."

The old man smiled at me warmly, despite looking exhausted and like he hadn't slept in a bed for days. He put his hand out to shake mine.

I put mine out. "Hello, Mister—?"

"Warren. Just call me Warren. I'm responsible for my grandson's current predicament, I'm afraid." He shook my hand firmly.

"Grandpa, come on. We've been over this."

Warren put his hand up, and his expression turned dark. "It's true."

Mark shook his head. "I wanted to make this documentary as much as you."

Mandy folded her legs under herself. "How about we call it even?" She said sarcastically to the both of them.

Detective O'Connell walked in suddenly. He narrowed his eyes at me. "Are you supposed to be out of your room?"

"No," I said.

Visibly out of breath, perspiration lining his forehead, he seemed to decide arguing with me about that wasn't worth his time.

Mark looked at O'Connell. "Detective, will you please have a seat? You look ready to fall over."

O'Connell nodded in relief. He collapsed into an empty chair, exhausted. "Thank you."

Mark turned back to me. "I'm glad you're here, Annie. Remember how I told you I couldn't quit making this documentary?"

"Yeah," I said.

"You're going to find out why. Grandpa, you're up in five." Mark slid his hand into the strap of the camcorder and hit record. "Go, Grandpa. When you're ready."

"All right." Warren cleared his throat. "Not really sure where to start. Uh...Mark, your grandmother died two years ago." He looked down at his ring and chuckled. "This won't come off. My joints are too big. Not that I want it gone. Anyway, I never told her this, or any of our kids. It was over and there was no sense in bringing it up. It would ruin the family, maybe forever. Besides, this is how she wanted it, anyway."

"Who, Grandpa?"

"The woman I had the affair with. Her name was Aislinn."

***

1978

He didn't shy away from her scars.

When Aislinn allowed him to unhook her girdle, each snap coming off with a muffled pop, she didn't look at him, afraid of what she might see in his gaze. Before he pulled it off completely, she stopped him nervously. He was intoxicated—they both were—but even after so many drinks, she couldn't loosen up about those burn scars.

Through a hazy stare, he frowned, his sensitivity toward her as keen as it had been all night. He kissed her dark wavy hair and touched her mangled skin. Aislinn froze and expected him to do so about the same time, but he didn't. His fingers ran over the bumps and swirls and stretch marks from the skin grafts from twenty years ago, when she'd been a teen. He traced the marks upward, to her shoulder blades, and back down over her back, making her tingle from the base of her skull to the end of her spine.

She allowed him to take the girdle off completely. Aislinn lay there with one arm laying over her breasts, the other over the scars on her stomach. He moved her arm from her belly, traced his fingers over the uneven, discolored skin. He never hesitated. Instead he leaned down and kissed her stomach, scars and all. She used her free arm and ran her fingers through his brown hair.

And after a while, she didn't know how long, both her hands closed in his thick hair, massaging his scalp as he traced her soft belly with his lips.

He inched upward, his lips moving to her solar plexus, between her breasts, and eventually to her lips. He smelled like beer and cigarettes and shampoo, and she didn't mind. It wasn't until the next morning that she realized she should have known better than to sleep with him.

***

She didn't know why, but she never reacted. She hadn't slapped him awake and thrown him out of her apartment. Maybe it was because he'd been so understanding with her, so tender about her scars. He'd never made her feel ashamed even once about them, and she thought she ought not to make him feel ashamed either.

She pulled on a terry cotton robe that sat draped over a wicker rocking chair. She didn't tie it. Dying of thirst from all the cocktails from last night, she went to get a drink of water from her kitchen. On her way out of the room, she stepped on a small object with her big toe, something cold and made of metal. Her head throbbed with a murderous hangover and she didn't bother to check what she'd stepped on. Reaching her kitchen, with her eyes half-closed, Aislinn gulped deeply right out of the kitchen tap a few times then filled a glass.

Water dribbled down her chin and over her naked chest. She dabbed it away with a kitchen towel and went back to the room. She supposed she just wanted to get a look at him, just like at the bar. He had this easy way of moving, this grace, this flow. She didn't know the word for a man like that, but she supposed it was dashing. An English word, really, but it fit. And a name to go with it too. She giggled quietly and giddily when she realized she couldn't remember it. She'd been fairly drunk by that time and though he'd introduced himself, his name had slipped right through the clumsy fingers of her mind.

She'd served him all night at the bar where she worked, able to pass for a silly tart in her tight uniform—a black and yellow blouse and matching skirt, like a yellowjacket—and the low, yellow lighting. Her hair gleamed brilliantly, dark brown and sleek and falling into curls over her shoulders.

Aislinn considered herself quite pudgy, not nearly as thin as she'd like to be. She was what other women called curvaceous, but Aislinn didn't want to be curvaceous. She wanted to be thin and tall and slender like Farrah Fawcett. She wanted an athletic body and those long, sinewy legs. Anyway, most of her body had been hidden behind the bar, so it was easy for Aislinn to play the part of someone who could be considered beautiful.

She'd served him with diligence and extra care, charmed by his handsome face, content to watch him from a distance. She found him not only graceful, but handsome too, and she just enjoyed watching him, the way he flicked his hair away from his forehead or ran his strong, shapely hand through it. Or the way he danced with a few girls, his shoulders broad, his waist thin.

After a few faster dances, he'd approached the bar and Aislinn's heart jumped in her chest. He smiled at her warmly, like they were old friends and she couldn't help but smile back. His eyes were a tiny bit sleepy, a sheen of sweat at his hairline and he all but collapsed on a bar stool.

He drummed his fingers idly on the bar in rhythm to a beat and Aislinn looked down at them. They looked rough and tanned, like he worked outside. A construction worker maybe, she decided. She could have read deeper, used her Sight, but she held off. She could turn it on and off as she wished. She refused to See. She liked the intrigue he posed. She rather enjoyed it. Sometimes, mysteries were more welcome.

When he saw her looking, he took his left hand away to pull out his wallet. Meanwhile, he nodded at her nametag. "Say, that's an unusual name. How do you say it?"

"Oh. Just how it looks." She paused. "Eyes-linn."

He smiled his approval. "That's pretty."

"Thank you. My grandmother named me."

"What's it mean?"

"It means dream. Or vision."

"She must have thought a lot of you if she called you that."

Aislinn laughed. "Not at all. She told me I was acting strange when I was a baby."

"How's that?"

"That I was looking around the room. Seeing things that weren't there and smiling at them. Trying to reach out and grab them."

He gave her a sort of bemused smile. "You're not like other girls, Aislinn."

She waved her hand. "I'm hardly a girl."

"Oh, come on. What are you, twenty-six, twenty-seven?"

She gave an apologetic smile and pointed to the ceiling. "It's these lights. I'm like Blanche DuBois, I keep the lights dim so people can't see my wrinkles."

He chuckled. "Well, _Blanche_ , when's your shift over?"

"Why, you wanna get a look at me under better lighting?"

He took a sip of his whiskey sour, mulled it over thoughtfully, gazing at her. Then he smiled devilishly. "Yeah."

Anyway, that had been last night. Now, in the morning, she'd wanted to look at him again. She'd sort of forgotten his face. He really was a stranger—she'd known him less than 24 hours and she wanted to look at him anew. Study him, be taken by his good looks again.

But she spotted the thing she'd stepped on from the doorway. Her eyes went to it like a paperclip snapped to a magnetic shoe. It was just his belt buckle, stainless steel and polished smooth.

Something twisted in her guts and she saw herself stepping on something else, something round and gold. And searing beyond anything she could feel with the skin on her toe.

It was the thing that had bugged her about his left hand when he'd pulled it away out of sight as he'd worked on her, beguiled her and she'd fallen hard and fast for him. This fat girl who'd won the best-looking guy on the dance floor and gone home with him. His hand was tan and slightly rough, but there was a band of whiter skin around his ring finger on his left hand, something she'd almost noted at the bar, but which had quickly vanished from her mind. Out of Sight, out of mind.

With her heart pounding in tandem with her aching head, Aislinn looked down on the pillow, where his strong hand rested by his head. That same, thin band of white skin, where the sun couldn't reach, because he usually wore a ring. A wedding ring.

She placed the empty glass on the edge of the nightstand quietly.

She sat down beside him and brushed a lock of hair. He woke up and looked at her. Smiled. "Good morning."

She forced a smile easily. She did it all the time. Aislinn had a lot of practice. "Good morning."

He shoved his left hand under the blanket. Out of sight. "I have to get going. I might be late for work." He turned his body away from her. It might not have been noticeable if she didn't already know why he was doing that. The room was bright; much brighter than the bar. "Where's your bathroom?"

Aislinn pointed. "The door right next to the bedroom."

He smiled at her. Brushed her hair gingerly with his right hand. "I want to call you. Would that be all right?"

Aislinn squeezed his wrist with fondness. She couldn't help it. She was not angry at him at all. "Sure."

He smiled at her again, almost gratefully, and disappeared into the bathroom. When the water began to run she dug into his pants pocket. She pulled out his wallet. She couldn't remember his name to save her life. Then she saw it on his driver's license and couldn't believe she'd ever forgotten it. She knew, she could See, right then, she'd never forget it as long as she lived.

***

Aislinn spotted him seven months later at the supermarket in the cookies and coffee aisle. Her heart leaped and began to pound ferociously. She turned away, fleeing as fast her swollen feet could carry her. She went against the flow of the customers, certain that he wouldn't backtrack for something he forgot.

She thought she'd lost him only to jump in surprise when there was a tap on her shoulder. "Hey," he greeted her, his warmth dousing over her like gasoline. She hid behind the cart, pulling her cardigan closed. "Hi," she said quietly. She looked down at his hands. He held two jars—peanut butter and pickles.

She couldn't stop herself from looking into her own sparsely populated cart. Amid a few random food items, were the same brand of pickles and peanut butter.

The warm smile dropped from his face and he paled in the span of three seconds. He quickly did the math in his head and suddenly looked downright sick. "You're pregnant?" He asked.

Aislinn pushed past him and hurried to the checkout counter. She placed her few items on the counter. But she soon realized her folly when he stepped in behind her. "You never called me back," he said quietly.

"I know." She watched the items move along on the conveyor. The clerk began to ring her up.

He leaned in closer, but didn't touch her. After being so intimate with her so many months ago, he couldn't even bring himself to touch her. "Is it because you're with someone now?" He asked.

She didn't answer.

"Aislinn," he began, bewildered when she didn't answer, then looked around at the other shoppers to make sure no one was listening. He placed his items down on the checkout counter after Aislinn's. "Is it mine?"

Aislinn looked at him, then took his left hand. She turned the ring on his finger, the first time she'd actually seen him wearing it. He was shaking. "Don't worry." Then she added pointedly, "It's not yours."

He looked around at the shoppers anxiously. "My wife—we got back together after you and I—"

"It's not yours."

"Look, if there's anything you need—"

Aislinn turned fully to face him and took his other hand. She brought them together in hers and said, "He's not yours. Okay? He's not yours, Warren. He's mine. And only mine."

Warren stared at her, dumbfounded. "How do you know it's a boy? Did you go to the doctor? Did they do one of those—those sonogram things?"

She let his hands go and turned away. "No."

"Then how do you know?"

"I just do."

"Can I just ask you something?"

Aislinn sighed. "What is it?"

"What are you going to call him?"

"I named him after you. Your first name."

"Oh."

"Is that all right with you?"

Warren sighed. "Yeah. Rafe's fine with me."
30

Detective Rafe O'Connell sat stone still. I waited for a reaction, a twitch, a blink even. Nothing.

Mark concluded, "So, Grandpa, the whole reason behind this documentary is trying to find her."

"Yes. I'd just like to see her again." Warren turned to gaze out of the window.

Mark reached up after several seconds and pressed a button to stop the recording. "And we're clear. Nice work, Grandpa."

"If you want to see her," O'Connell began evenly, "she's in room two-oh-seven." His voice ended with a slight tremor. "You can go see her. Actually, you should. It might be the only chance you have."

Warren looked alarmed, rising to his feet. "Why, what's wrong with her?"

"Her heart's failing. Excuse me, but I can't stay any longer. I have to be going." He stuck out his hand to Warren without hesitation. "It's good to meet you, Sir."

"You too, Detective. Hope you feel better real soon."

O'Connell nodded his thanks and walked out of the room.

I slid off the arm of Mandy's chair and hurried after him. He'd made it quite a long way down the hall already. He had started running.

"Wait!" I ran after him. My legs began to scream with pain from being used so little in recent days. But I couldn't let myself stop.

He picked up his pace, his coat flying to the sides like wings.

Just a few long, brisk strides left him panting heavily. He stopped, but by the time I caught up to him, just outside in the lot, he staggered, dropped to his knees and fell forward onto the edge of some snow.

I caught up to him, found him literally gasping.

I helped him sit up and a thin line of blood marked its way down his chin.

He coughed, pressing his hand over his mouth. He had a handkerchief ready.

"Come on, I'll help you back inside."

He clawed weakly at his tie. I relieved the tie and undid the top button of his shirt. I noticed a heavy black thread with a small silver vial at the end of it, exactly like the one my brother had been wearing. Beatrice had done her best to provide him a ward for protection. But this vial, the metal shell itself, had cracked open and now leaked dark black sludge. I pulled it off, over his head and tossed it away. He didn't stop me.

"Come on, I'll help you. This cold air isn't good for you."

"I'll be fine," he gasped.

"Come on, you dumbass. You're not fine. By the way, I have something to tell you about what might have happened to Artemis."

O'Connell still tried to catch his breath. But he started walking again. He staggered a little, but didn't stop. He headed for his car. He stopped for a moment, took a deep breath, like he could make himself breath normally out of sheer willpower.

I caught up to him again, just as he reached his car. "Where are you planning on going?" I asked him.

He leaned against his car for a second, opened his door.

"Where are you going?" I asked again. "Don't you think you should talk to Crow?" The revelation Warren had dropped on all of us hit me all over again. "That's your mother."

He gave me a challenging look. "Do you think I haven't figured that out already?"

I was taken aback. "When did you figure it out?"

O'Connell rolled his eyes. He took a couple of deep breaths and said, "Before you were even born. When I lived with Crow."

"Oh. Does she know that you know?"

"I don't know." He raised his gaze to the hospital entrance. "I just never expected to see...him."

"Don't you think you should go talk to them?"

He closed his eyes and shook his head, like it only just occurred to him that he was having this very personal conversation with me. "Listen," he started in a strangled voice. "Do you understand that this is a private family matter?"

"Yeah, but—"

"So then why don't you mind your own fucking business?"

I blinked at him, stung. I felt heat rising to my face, humiliated. "I thought..."

"You thought what?" He asked contemptuously.

I didn't answer, and for several seconds there was no sound but him breathing hard.

"You thought what?" He rasped at me.

I swallowed hard and admitted stupidly, "I thought we were friends."

He dropped into the driver's seat with a wheezing laugh. He leaned his head on top of his hands, gripping the steering wheel. He rested for a minute or two like that. Then he raised his head. "Didn't you hear Beatrice the other day? I don't have any friends." He started the car. "Now get your ass inside that hospital. You're in no condition to be outside in this."

"And you are?"

"I can take care of myself."

"Oh, like you did back in high school when you were trapped in that locker for a weekend? Did you like falling out of there and drinking filthy water out of the janitor's mop bucket because that was the closest water you could drag yourself to? You took care of yourself real well."

He said nothing, slammed the door, and started the car. He looked ready to drive off, when he turned and looked at me, lowered the window. "What did you want to tell me?"

I felt a surge of anger and bitterness. He could figure out everything Amber had told me on his own. Amber would never tell anyone else, especially not him. And he'd never find out from me, not now. Besides, he probably couldn't handle it. It was his mother, after all, that had led Artemis to her death. I didn't know how, but I knew it was her. She had motive and means and opportunity. The unholy trinity of murder. He didn't want to accept it. Just like he didn't want to accept long ago that my dad didn't kill my mother. To put it plainly, he was just a shitty detective. "I've got nothing to tell you. Not anymore."

Rather than look offended, he gave a curt nod. "Good," he snapped. The window glass moved back up and he drove off so fast the wheels squealed. They left the scent of burnt rubber in the air.

I exhaled deeply. Well, if he wasn't going to do it, I would do it. I'd ask Crow if she killed Artemis. I searched automatically for reassurance from my white-feathered doorman, but it wasn't there. As I walked back into the hospital, I reminded myself again, feeling hollow, _It's gone._
31

On the way to Crow's room, I bumped into Warren, heading my way. I almost changed my mind right then. The poor guy had no idea the woman he'd loved all these years was really a murdering witch. He gave me a little smile. "Would you like to accompany an old gentleman, young lady?"

"Sure. You nervous?" I asked.

"A little."

We were required to wash our hands before going further in, but even then a nurse asked if we were family. Warren looked disappointed by the question, ready to give an honest answer. But I said, "Yeah, I'm her granddaughter. This is my grandpa."

The nurse nodded and let us pass, just like that.

Warren smiled in admiration, whispering, "Nicely done," when the nurse went out of earshot.

"I thought so," I replied.

The small victory we shared died the moment we laid eyes on Crow in her ICU bed. Beatrice was there too, looking already bereft. She rested beside Crow's bed, her head down on her folded arms, her willowy fingers holding Crow's shorter, knotty digits. Tubes ran from Crow's bruised arm to a host of different IVs. They had her hooked up to a mass of equipment. She just about disappeared into the bed like a car into a sinkhole.

Warren exhaled beside me.

Beatrice stirred at the soft sound. She raised her head, peering at us both with sleepy, red-rimmed eyes. She didn't have on a spot of makeup. I spotted an overnight bag, a little nest of blankets and a pillow on an armchair by the window. She extracted her hand with a soft pat on Crow's arm, stretched and rubbed her eyes. She stood up and stepped closer.

Warren raised his hand to shake hers.

"Who is this?" She demanded, not budging either of her arms an inch to receive him.

Warren's hand faltered mid-air.

"This is Rafe's father," I said, popping my eyes wider meaningfully. "He's here to see Aislinn."

Beatrice blinked at me, surprised to hear me say Crow's real name with accuracy. She shook hands with Warren. Then on second thought, she wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened in surprise, but the hug only lasted a moment. "Thank you for coming. Please, sit," she said, offering her seat with a pat on the backrest. "She's in and out of it, heavily medicated. But I think she can hear you."

Warren stepped to the chair, but didn't sit. "Are you her...sister?" He asked reluctantly, noticing she looked absolutely nothing like Crow.

"No, I'm just her friend. Beatrice."

"Her best friend," I added. Beatrice was being too modest.

Warren finally sat down. But he looked uncomfortable about touching Crow's hand, even though his own hovered just inches above it.

"We'll let you have a moment alone," Beatrice said, tugging on my sweater.

I followed her out. Keeping Warren in her line of sight, she turned her attention to me. Simultaneously, we said, "I have to ask you something."

She laughed a little. "I'll go first, shall I?"

I shrugged. "Fine." I'd do anything to put it off, really.

She dug into a pocket on her long sweater and pulled out a handful of familiar spiny pods. "Do these have any significance to you?"

I looked down with a frown. "No. Why?"

Beatrice made a frustrated sound. "Crow told me to show you these. That you'd know what they mean."

"I just know they're from a candlenut bush."

"A—what?"

"Candlenut. Scott showed me. He has one of these plants."

Beatrice shook her head. "These are from a castor plant."

"No, he said—"

"Silly girl, don't you think I know my plants?"

"Yeah, yeah, you're practically a botanist," I replied impatiently. "Just like Scott."

"Scott?" Beatrice looked puzzled, then shook her head. "No. There's no way he would mistake this for candlenut. He lied to you, precious. Candlenuts are for burning."

"He specifically told me _not_ to go burning it."

"Yes, I should hope so. Because if you burn the beans in this, you release a toxin called ricin. It can be dangerous to breathe in."

Beatrice squeezed a pod and ripped it from one end. A bean fell out into her palm. _No_ , I thought to myself almost immediately, recalling something I'd simply known in a vision, _it's a seed._ Tan colored, with dark brown swirls, like caramel and dark toffee candy. I remembered how I'd put these seeds in my pocket in the vision, how they'd turned to a pulpy, bloody mush. _They don't belong._ They didn't belong in the stuff that Artemis drank.

"Beans?" I frowned down at her hand. "Are you sure they're beans?"

"They are, in fact, seeds," she replied. "But they're referred to as castor beans."

"And they're poisonous?"

"If you know what you're doing, they can produce one of the most lethal naturally occurring toxins. Quite dangerous. Takes time to act but—"

I closed my eyes and covered my face with my hand. "Oh, my God."

"What?"

I started running for the parking lot. "Would you believe I'm a fucking moron?"

"Yes," Beatrice called simply after me. "Annie, what did you want to ask me?"

I stopped short and returned to Beatrice. "Can I borrow your car?"

She looked sidelong at me and handed me her keys without a word.

I smiled gratefully and turned to leave. But I turned back and gave her a quick hug, surprising the crap out of her. She went rigid, then relaxed, patting my back.

"Thank you," I said. "Thank you for slipping my brother a roofie that night." I hesitated. "Call the cops. And send them to the Hooded Crow."

"Why? What's going on here?"

"I don't have much time to explain."

"So I suppose those pods do have some significance."

I nodded, walking away. "Oh, yeah."
32

Pulling into the parking lot, I spotted Detective O'Connell's car beside's Scott's beat-up truck. The rusted, yellow plow was still attached, showing scrapes of blinding metal in the late morning sun.

Maybe he wasn't as shitty a detective as I thought.

I parked beside O'Connell's car. No signs of life.

Turning off the engine, I hopped out, slammed the door. I decided against calling out for O'Connell. If Scott didn't know O'Connell was here, I didn't want to give him away.

Heading for Scott's lodge, I paused to stretch up on my tiptoes and give the truck bed a good look. Everything Scott and I had lugged out of there and into his lodge was now back. Well, almost everything. The castor bean plant was missing.

It had snowed lightly the past couple of days, but because no one had salted the path or shoveled, it had melted slightly and frozen again in sheets of shiny ice. I slipped more than a few times, and fell once. My legs wobbled weakly, one leg worse than the other because of a slight sprain.

I knocked on Scott's door. No answer. Where the hell could he be? And where the hell was O'Connell?

I tried the door. It wasn't locked, so I stuck my head in. "Scott, it's me. You here?"

Total silence. I checked for signs. The string of dried flowers looked like it had been ripped down. Shrunken, brown petals littered the doorway like beads from a broken necklace.

Scott's tan work boots lay by the door in a crumpled heap. His thick outdoor jacket, the one he used when shoveling snow, dangled from a hook on the back of the door. The blazer from his charcoal suit lay tossed on the bed, along with the shirt with the marbled buttons and a slate gray tie. But the bottom half of his funeral outfit was missing. Maybe he still had it on? He should have been here. I walked around the lodge, searching the bedroom I knew he used. But no Scott. And no Detective O'Connell.

Then I went into the kitchenette. A faint smell lingered here, like rotten meat. The magic supplies weren't as neatly arranged as I remembered. Some water droplets lingered in the sink. And diluted blood stains. A drop went over the edge of the sink, like an arrow pointing me and telling me where to look. I spotted the corner of a black garbage bag sticking out from under the cabinet. I opened the cabinet and pulled the bag out onto the floor. Though almost empty, its weight surprised me. The smell heightened.

I knelt down and pulled the bag closer. It wasn't closed up. The bag belched air as I pulled it closer. A white feather worked its way out, riding on a wave of rotten smell.

_Annie_. I let go of the bag, startled. The tree, back in my head, was calling.

More feathers spilled out of the bag as it deflated to the floor. White ones. Long pretty ones. Stained with blood.

I was shaking now. I knew what had happened. I didn't want to know, but the tree didn't leave me any say in the matter. But I remembered what O'Connell had told me. That I was in control. Not the tree. I steeled myself and reached for the bag. I had to see it with my own eyes. I couldn't rely on the tree. I had to see if it was right.

When I pushed open the bag, the white crow's one dead blue eye stared back at me. Its neck had diminished somehow, looking scrawny and old. It was also broken. Thin needles pierced its body, where the cobra had bitten it in my dream. I shut the bag.

I had the urge to run, but I had to find O'Connell first. He'd come here. Probably to arrest Scott. Maybe just confront him. Either way, he hadn't left. Tears pricked my eyes when I feared that maybe he would never leave, not without being cocooned by a body bag.

I stood up when something on the kitchen counter caught my eye. A pair of aviator glasses. The same kind that O'Connell wore. The same _pair_ that O'Connell wore.

I stepped over to it. A soft gasp escaped my lips when I saw a streak of blood on it.

I had to get the hell out of here.

Where are the cops?

But I couldn't even move. I spotted a large scrapbook. By its size, I knew immediately that it was supposed to be wrapped in black velvet—but it wasn't. It lay wide open to a page in the middle. A yellowing page, torn out of another book, lay on top. The title had been written with a fountain pen in feminine, but narrow cursive: _To make someone have a heart attack._ I reached out with cold, trembling fingers and closed the scrapbook, knowing what I would find. Woven out of hammered brass and stainless steel, identical to the thing hanging above Crow's bar mirror it glared back at me. A king cobra. This was Scott's grimoire.

"Are you through?" A voice said behind me.

I jumped and spun around. Scott had let himself in quietly.

He stood leaning against the doorway, heavy-lidded and grim. He wore a wife-beater that hugged his wiry frame over the slacks and glossy dress shoes. His face shone red from the cold, but sweat lined his brow, like he'd been doing hard physical work. Blood leaked from the corner of his swollen mouth. Flecks of red dotted his arms; smears marked his face and neck. I had a terrible feeling that it wasn't Scott's blood.

Clearly visible now, his tattoo framed his neck like the garland of dead flowers that lay in his doorway. CUTHACH. I knew exactly what it meant now. The tree whispered to me. A Gaelic word, for 'rage.' Scott gave the blood on his chin a swipe with his free hand. In his other hand, he clutched a double barrel shotgun.

"I guess I am," I said finally, trying to keep my voice steady, swallowing to smooth the tremors that shook my throat. "You wanna tell me what the hell you're doing?"

Scott gave me a condescending look. "What, you haven't figured it out already? Miss Psychic?"

He walked into the kitchen. He picked up the aviator sunglasses and dropped them into the garbage bag. He didn't put the gun down.

"Where's Detective O'Connell?" I asked him.

Scott burst out laughing. "I knew you were hot for him. Since you wanted to follow him to the witch shop. Since you didn't kiss me back."

"Why? Are you jealous?" I mocked him.

"He can have you, I don't give a shit. I can get any girl I want." _Okay, so he was still alive._

"Except Artemis. Is that why you killed her?"

Scott smile turned smug. "I'm pretty sure it was your brother that killed her."

"No, he didn't."

"He poisoned her."

"No. You liar."

Scott began to list facts. "He bought the ingredients for the ritual. He mixed it for her. It was his part in the ritual. And she drank it, like a good little girl taking her medicine."

"You contaminated the ingredients at the store!" I shouted at him. "You bastard, you framed Johnny! He was your friend!"

Scott laughed. "Some friend. He slept with my girlfriend. There's no such thing as loyalty anymore."

"Artemis seduced him!"

"Exactly. No loyalty. You just proved my point."

"I guess your uncle wasn't loyal either, huh? Is that why you made him burn?"

The smile faded from Scott's face. But he didn't reply.

He stepped over to me. He stood so close, purposely invading my personal space, pressing me against the counter. He brought the shotgun barrel under my chin. Its iciness seared me, like he'd pressed it into the snow outside for hours before touching it to my skin. "Do you think you can feel it when your head gets blown off?"

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat struggled past the hard, curved metal. "I don't know. But you'll have a hell of a job cleaning up."

Scott found that amusing. He chuckled and put his arm around my waist, pulled me closer. We sandwiched the shotgun between us. I pushed at him, but with his hand on the double triggers, I didn't think it was a good idea. He kept the muzzle near my eye. My lashes flicked nervously against it. He pulled me even closer. "I really am attracted to you, you know," he said. "I wouldn't have kissed you if I wasn't. You make me feel things Artemis never could."

"I feel so special."

"I don't want to kill you," he said. "You're too much like me."

"I'm nothing like you. You're disgusting."

Scott laughed. His lip still bled, but he didn't seem to care or notice my disgust when he pressed his lips to mine once more. I gave a groan. But I couldn't move, because the shotgun resting against my cheekbone. He put his thumb under my chin, guiding it upwards. I could barely breathe now. He worked his tongue inside. If the gun went off, we might both lose our heads, at least partially. Either way, it wouldn't be pretty. But he didn't care.

He pulled the gun out from between us suddenly, and I took the chance to shove him off. I wiped my mouth, repulsed. I ran to the front door, struggled with the icy lock. But Scott pushed into me within seconds, the hand with the gun slammed onto the door, his left arm snaking around my waist. Pressing me against the door with his body, grinding against me, he leaned over my shoulder and unlocked the door with a practiced jiggle. "Why are you trying to leave? Don't you want to see your boyfriend?"

He gripped my chin teasingly and I slapped his hand away. He laughed.

Grabbing my arm with his free hand, he pulled me toward the tavern. Outside he shoved me in front of him. I skidded over the slippery ice, arms wind-milling briefly until I caught my balance. I glared back at him. He dug into his pocket and tossed a set of keys at my feet. He aimed the double barrel at me. Cocked back both hammers. "Go unlock the door."

I turned away and started moving, stepping slowly over the ice. I moved too slowly for Scott's taste, so he jabbed me with the end of the gun like he would a cow with the end of a cattle prod.

The crows swirled around us, making me nervous. Many had gathered restlessly on the large tree in the back of the building, I knew. From this vantage point, I could see the tree had tilted at an even greater angle, like it was teetering on the edge of a sinkhole. It sat at about fifty degrees with the ground. But the birds didn't seem to care. They weighed it down, hundreds and hundreds of them.

They swarmed around us, and when we arrived in the open, they began to dive-bomb us. Actually, they dived at Scott. Just like the dream, I was simply in the way. I ducked down, my hands over my head. Scott dodged one or two, but he got hit several times. A bird crashed into him so hard that its beak broke against Scott's skull. It flopped weakly on the ground. Another one hit him in the head, ricocheting into a snow bank, stunning Scott so hard his knees buckled and he dropped down. The gun dangled limply from his grip. I jumped toward him, trying to take it away, but he collected himself before I even reached him. Scott cursed profusely under his breath, squinting against the blood leaking into his eyes. He tightened his grip on the gun with both hands and used it to butt me back with a hard hit to my chest. I felt a couple of ribs crack and I gasped in pain. Scott grabbed my arm and hoisted me to my feet. He aimed his gun for a thick part of the swarm and fired one barrel of the shotgun. It echoed viciously, my ears ringing. Two birds became pulverized into a mess of red and black and bone against a bank of snow. Scott whooped, shaking his hand furiously. His index finger bled scarlet. The recoil had cut him, taking off a good chunk of skin.

The birds stayed away now, swarming cautiously above. Their flapping, cawing din continued, loud enough to drown out any police sirens that may be headed this way. I strained to listen, but I couldn't hear anything over the crows.

When I reached the door to the tavern, I started struggling to breathe, my voice choking through an abrupt tightness in my throat and chest that had nothing to do with my cracked ribs. I coughed, leaning against a bar stool for support.

"Cut it out," Scott snapped, jabbing at me with the end of the shotgun.

I shot a glare at him. "I can't." I fought for a deep, filling breath, gasping hoarsely. "God, he can't breathe."

Scott grabbed my arm and pulled me toward the EMPLOYEES ONLY door. "That's okay. He won't have to much longer."

I dug my heels in. Scott gave me one hard yank and I went flying into his arms. "Let me go!" I shouted at him.

He used my momentum to slam my head against the wall of the narrow corridor. I gave a grunt of pain, and started to sink. Scott put the gun down for a moment, using both hands to lift me to my feet. My legs wobbled under my dead weight. I could practically see the bruises that would show up later, black and blue, all over my arm like the polka dots on Artemis' blanket. I blinked up at him, my vision swimming. "Why are you doing this?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he curled one of my arms around his shoulders and dragged me toward the basement, groaning with effort. I moaned in pain at the pressure on my cracked ribs.

My head throbbed where I'd hit it on the wall. When we reached the top of the stairs, leading into the basement, he paused, dangling me over the edge.

"No, don't!" I tried to scream, but it came out in a breathless huff of air. Scott let me fall.

I toppled down, smacking my head, my back, against the concrete. Jagged lines of white streaked across my vision as pain crushed against my cracked ribs. The skin on my calves split open. The last tumble knocked me out cold.

When I came to again, I groaned in pain. Liquid warmth crept into my clothes, trickling into a puddle under the back of my head and under the collar of my sweater. I hadn't been out long, maybe a few seconds. I turned my head to the left and that's when I saw shoes. I looked up and saw Detective O'Connell pressed against the corner beside the stairs. For a terrible moment I thought he was dead, stuffed there like a garish Halloween decoration with wide open eyes. He'd seen me fall mere seconds ago. His eyes shifted to the left as he listened. Biding his time. He clutched a brass candlestick, twisting his hands over it for a better grip. His chest heaved. Duct tape still clung to his wrists and the crumpled material of his slacks.

Scott hopped off the last step, jumping over me. He stopped dead when he noticed O'Connell wasn't where he left him. There was just a little one-inch knife in his place, the kind used for chopping herbs. Scott whirled around and O'Connell bashed him in the face with the end of the candlestick.

Scott's head whipped back like a punched balloon. Amazingly, he stayed on his feet. O'Connell hit him again, making his head jerk. Scott fell to his knees, simultaneously raising the gun. The muzzle hung inches from O'Connell. I reached out to grab the gun, try to throw him off balance, distract him, anything. But my arms barely lifted off the floor, waves of pain radiating through my chest and sternum. I couldn't even lift them. O'Connell dodged to his right in the narrow space, but a wall blocked him from a complete exit. Scott fired the gun.

"No!" I moaned.

The thundering shot lifted O'Connell briefly off his feet, spinning his body. He smacked into a shelf along the wall, making the bottles and jars rattle. Some toppled over and fell, shattering on the floor. O'Connell's left hand groped for a shelf edge to help him stay standing, but he couldn't find one. He collapsed to the floor, hitting the concrete so hard I felt it. He landed facing away from me. I couldn't see any blood, not until it began to pool under his legs, growing toward me like a yawning abyss.

I trembled, freezing cold all over. I dragged myself to sit, my head spinning so much I thought I'd black out again. Stabs of pain throbbed in my chest. I moved to O'Connell's side, avoiding his blood. His eyes were closed and I reached out to check his pulse. It fluttered weakly under my fingertips. Although I couldn't even stand, I went for the stairs. I'd crawl up them if I had to. I had to call an ambulance. I checked to see why Scott wasn't following me.

The hits he took were finally catching up to him. The shotgun fell from his grasp and his hands joined his knees on the floor. He coughed. Blood splattered on the floor. The right side of his face swelled rapidly, turning purple. He raised his head. Saw me watching. The whites of his right eye were a screaming, wet scarlet, like the tree down below.

His hand went to the back of his slacks and he pulled a gun. O'Connell's pistol. Scott aimed the gun at me. "Stop."

"He needs an ambulance," I said.

Scott flicked the safety off, getting it ready. His eyes closed briefly as he tried to bear the pain in his face. "He needs a mercy kill," he said coldly, his words bubbling.

"Just let me call an ambulance for him," I tried, hugging my aching chest so I could speak without gasping. "Just let him live."

"I can't."

We stared at each other for several seconds.

Scott glanced over at him and shook his head. He raised his other hand to his face. "He broke my face, the bastard."

I opened my mouth to tell him I wished O'Connell had done a lot more when a voice sounded from inside the sub-basement. _"You're still pretty, baby."_

Scott and I both looked at the double doors. The curtain lay in a pile the floor. The door shivered, creaking gently.

"Who's there?" Scott called, startled. His shock stemmed from the fact that he recognized the voice. So did I.

" _You know who it is, baby."_

Scott lowered his gun hand. He stood up, lurched toward the double doors. "Artemis?"

"No, don't!" I protested and grabbed his arm too late. He pushed open the doors. Cold, wet air floated toward us. A rumble moved through the whole building. Water dripped down in fat trickles and the earthen ceiling groaned. There was no one there. No one, but the tree. The canvas still lay puddled around its base like a dropped robe.

"Close the door," I told Scott. "Close it."

" _Scott, I don't feel so good._ Come _take care of me."_

"Artemis?" Scott stepped in, confused, bewildered.

"It's not her!" I told him, digging my fingers into his arm to snap him out of it.

He winced and struck me with the gun. I tried to pull away, but he pushed me out in front of him. "Can you see her?" He asked me.

"No," I began, "because there's no one there!"

" _Scott, I feel sick. Please, help me."_

"That's her," Scott said, a tremor in his voice. "I watched her die."

"That's not her. Please, we have to get out of here. I have to call an ambulance. Please, let me call an ambulance. I'll come right back. You can even come with me. Or you can leave. I'll tell them I don't know who—"

"Shut up!"

His head bobbed a little as he squinted into the darkness. Then he pulled out his phone and used the flashlight. Under its bluish wash, I saw that the ceiling had lowered quite a bit since I'd been in here. It rested against the upright tree like a crooked table top, pushing it into a painful-looking tilt in our direction.

"What is that?" Scott asked, shifting the light over the thing's face, the protrusions of its elbows and knees under the bark.

" _Help me, Scott."_

The voice made him jump. His gaze skittered over the walls, the crow skulls and bones, the ropes, the altar by the tree's base. He shoved me ahead of him, so he could keep the gun on me. "Go," he ordered. He followed after me, ducking under some ropes, wanting a closer look at the tree.

I had no choice. I ducked under a few of the ropes, many of which had come loose and fallen away. The canvas cloth was partially submerged under a sludge of watery mud.

" _Scott, why?"_

I turned to face him. "Look, let's please go back. You have to go back."

" _Scott."_

"Don't listen to it."

" _Scott."_

"Don't listen," I insisted to him. "Scott, listen to me. Listen to _me_ , Scott. I'm your friend."

Scott looked at me and shook his head. "I don't have any friends."

The tree and I spoke in sudden unison. _"Yes you do, I'm your friend."_

Scott stepped closer. He raised the light to its colorful face, touched the bumps and curves.

"Please, let's go," I begged him. "You don't want what's going to happen."

Scott gave a little scoff and turned to face the tree. It tilted toward him, creaking, straining, leaning in for what could have been a kiss—or a lunge for the jugular. Scott turned to me. "You want to leave? Then go."

I knew then, in that instant, why there were ropes tying a tree down.

A huge crack went through the ceiling, a bass-filled reverberation. The ceiling seemed to fall in slow-motion, but the tree snapped down in a blur, like it had been spring loaded. It cracked against Scott's shoulder. I heard bones snap, sharp, crunching sounds amid the rumbling of the ceiling.

I managed to escape the brunt of it, my breaths coming out of me in pained gasps. Some debris lay on me and the ceiling creaked, along with the roots welded into the dirt.

"Scott!" I called, my voice weak.

I heard stunned, muffled coughing coming from near my feet, where the muddy flashlight had rolled to illuminate. I spotted Scott's fingers wriggling like maggots. I scrambled forward and moved a chunk of dirt away, revealing Scott's head and more of his right arm. He blinked, bewildered, not quite knowing what had just happened. He coughed again and sputtered, blood gushing from inside his mouth. He had bitten his tongue in the fall. He groaned, raking his fingers through loose, wet mud.

"Stop, stop moving," I told him. The ceiling hung too low to even sit now, so I squeezed down on my stomach near his head in about two feet of space. "Don't move, I'm going to go call for help."

"Don't leave me," he rasped. "Pull me out. I can make it."

"I can't."

"Yes you can, you can do it. Pull me."

"It's not going to work."

"Shut up!" He growled and put his hand out, mud clinging to his thick brown lashes. "Do it."

I took his hand gave him a cursory pull with all the strength I could muster in such a claustrophobic space, and because my ribs felt like they were going to snap. Scott groaned, but the groan turned to a scream of anguish. "Something's—something's got me pinned," he said in a strangled voice. "Do it again."

"No."

"Please, pull me out."

I pulled again, tried even harder than before, but it just ended the same way. We both screamed in pain this time. Mine came out weak, breathless. His scream was deafening in the small space. He went limp, dropping his head into the mud. His blood mingled with the dirt.

"I'm going to go get help," I told him, even though I knew it was useless. It was already too late.

"No. Don't leave me like this."

"Scott, I can't stay."

"You'll just leave me here to die?"

"You're not going to die."

He gave a hysterical laugh. He held onto my hand tighter. "You're not leaving me. You brought me down here. You knew this was going to happen."

"I tried to warn you."

"You bitch, you knew this would happen."

"Let me go."

Scott held fast and tried to get out on his own.

I began to claw at his fingers. "Let me go!"

"Help me get out of here!"

"You're stuck, you dumb bastard!" I pulled free of his slick, muddy hand suddenly, launching myself against the low ceiling. I felt like I'd been punched in the chest. Despite the frightening rumble that went through the earth, followed by a long, distant chorus of caws and shrieks, I couldn't move until I let the pain subside a little. Either way, I had to get the hell out of here.

I belly crawled as fast as I could. But Scott grabbed my ankle. He pulled himself, using me as an anchor, but it didn't work. The tree had him pinned like a dead frog to a dissecting tray. Scott screamed in pain again. He managed to wriggle his left arm free, his smooth skin now mangled, bloody, muddy. He grabbed further up my leg and pulled again, whimpering in agony.

The ceiling shook threateningly. "Get off me!" I shrieked at him.

"Help me!" He said in a choked voice.

"If I help you, I'll die!"

Scott blinked at the mud in his eyes. With his voice straining, he said, "No one's gonna miss you."

"Let me go," I ordered him.

He didn't.

He left me no choice. I flipped onto my back, wincing, and stamped my foot into his face. Scott gave a groan of pain. Fresh blood spurted out of his mouth. He'd cut his lip this time. I kicked him again. "Let go of me, you crazy fucker!"

The third kick did it. It split his eyelid and he howled in pain, releasing me.

I scrambled back out of reach before his blindly scrabbling hands could snatch me again. When I could sit up I shimmied, duck-walked, whatever the hell I had to do to move quickly.

"Get back here, you bitch!" He yelled. He could have been crying.

I made it just past the threshold as the ceiling slammed down the rest of the way with a massive thunderclap that sent cracks racing through the floor and the basement walls. The doorway sealed shut instantly, sending chunks of dirt flying into my face, hair and down my sweater. Scott didn't make another sound.
33

A few months later.

I couldn't remember a sweeter first day of spring. Untouched snowmelt hung around like fluffs of bluish cotton candy, tufts dripping from rooftops and tree branches, shifting aside for bright green, baby leaves. Funny. I'd never been the sentimental type. Something had changed in me, for sure. I fingered the chocolate diamond pendant around my neck as I observed the entrance of Schmidt and Schroder Law Offices. I often found myself thinking what Artemis would say in a given situation. _Maybe the crow_ witch _had a boatload of money she had hoarded away somewhere._

Well, I couldn't deny it. The thought had crossed my mind. But I doubted it. Crow had been as poor as the dirt in her basement.

Speaking of the basement, Scott didn't die. I told him he wouldn't. I wasn't joking. But I wish he had died. From what I heard, a portion of the tree had embedded itself into his lower back, shattering his spinal column, rupturing one kidney and his spleen, and cut a long gash in his intestines. He might never walk again. I still haven't been to see him. But why should I? He haunted my dreams almost every night.

Detective O'Connell spent a few days in the hospital for the shotgun wound to his left shoulder. The shell had ripped off most of his muscle and destroyed his rotator cuff beyond full repair. He would never be able to lift that arm above his ear. But he was alive, and breathing a lot better than he had been. Beatrice told me he ran miles along a beach every day, and never felt short of breath again. He quit working for the Raven City PD. He sort of had to, but he got an award for being shot in the line of duty. Anyway, he started a private investigation firm in California. He bought a house. He was doing okay. I even heard that his daughter stayed with him on long weekends now.

He left all of us after Crow's funeral. The local press covered it, because of the sensational history of this town, with Artemis' body found in Hell's Well, the witchcraft, the crows, the strange tree with a face. I also learned from Beatrice—strictly off the record, she said—that the other human remains discovered in Hell's Well belonged to the two girls that went missing when she and Crow were students at St. Brigid's. The two girls, though they had been friends with Crow and Beatrice, decided to split off from them, and dabbled in some things that were too dangerous and reaped the rewards. Crow, Beatrice insisted, had nothing to do with their disappearance.

When city workers pulled the tree out—they had to, to rescue Scott—the press had taken tons of pictures of the weird face, the bulges which looked like the beginnings of a body. If they had excavated further, they would have found all the crow bones. But the tree didn't draw and pull anymore like it had, maybe because when it came out of the basement into crystal clear, broad daylight, it didn't seem so threatening. Or maybe whatever lived in it had moved out. They kept a wood chipper ready, just like they had an ambulance ready for Scott and Detective O'Connell. All of this happened, of course, under the watchful eyes of Crow's birds. I think they missed her. They hung around the property, waiting for her to come back. I fed them sometimes. I just felt bad for them. They missed their mom. Kind of like I did sometimes.

At the time of Crow's funeral, the snow still covered the cemetery like a deathly cold blanket. Beatrice cried silently, laying down a bouquet of powder pink chrysanthemums.

Johnny came with me, even though he didn't really know Crow. I think he felt bad for threatening her that night. My dad had bailed him out until before the trial. They were charging Johnny with manslaughter.

Detective O'Connell, who looked sad, but serene, placed down his own bouquet on her casket. Velvety, white lilies. And Warren, there with Mark in a cast and Mandy in a slender black dress, placed a single lotus flower there. The minister talked in a soothing voice as they lowered the casket, but I didn't really hear what he said. My attention stayed on a spot in the corner of the cemetery, where a hooded crow, much larger and huskier than the white crow, sat perched on a tall, thin tombstone beside the figure of an angel. When I spotted it, it flew away. Something told me I hadn't seen the last of that thing.

And sure enough, standing here months after the funeral, as I prepared myself to walk into the law office, I spotted the thing resting on the gutter on the roof, hunching down and twisting its head for a better look at me. It had to be the same one. It had a wide throat, and a bigger, more sinister looking beak. A raven, I realized. Not a crow.

The door opened before I had a chance to go in. I turned to look and saw Beatrice holding the door open for me. She wore a smart-looking pink suit with matching pink shoes. She followed my gaze. "What are you looking at?"

By the time I turned back, the bird had vanished. "Nothing. Hey, what's all this about? Today is my birthday, you know. I just turned eighteen."

"Yes, I know."

I pulled my head back, a little surprised. "How do you know that?"

"Crow found out when your birthday is. She wouldn't legally be able to do this if you're a minor."

I raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

Beatrice looked amused. "You really don't know?"

I shook my head.

She beckoned with a nod of her head. "Come on. Crow wanted you to have something when you came of age. If you want it, that is. It's actually mine to give away, but she wanted you to have it."

"Well, what the hell is it?"

Beatrice smiled. "The Hooded Crow."

Epilogue

Some years later.

Samantha Ewans twirled the crucifix around her neck as she searched for a parking spot in the tiny employees' lot. A guy who had finished his daytime shift pulled out, freeing one up. The setting sun blazed right in her eyes as she waited, so she lowered the visor to cut the glare.

As the guy drove away, he slowed down, lowered the window and called, "Good luck!"

He obviously remembered her from the group of nurse trainees he led earlier in the month. He'd given her some extra time and attention, she noticed—not because she needed it—but because he found her attractive.

"Thanks, I need it," she said with a smile.

"You'll do fine," he assured her. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

"Sure," she said. "Thanks."

When she finished parking, Samantha took her ID card and her bag with her. She showed her ID to the security guards at the entrance of Glen Garden Nursing Home. A thirty-bed institution that catered mostly to the elderly, Glen Garden also provided care for other patients that simply required more than a parent or guardian could provide. Most people couldn't take care of a sick or bed-ridden individual around the clock.

She had recently been placed as one of the nurses during the night shift, a quiet time with little or nothing to do after a couple of hours of work, like serving dinner, changing the bed sheets, reading to patients, talking with the ones who had a bit of insomnia, tending to the ones that needed help getting to the restroom, or administering medication.

She put her food away in the lunchroom fridge and stowed her bag in the office. One of the veteran night nurses greeted her. "Hi, Sweetie, we've got a new one settled in today."

Wanting to appear like she could take initiative, Sam said, "Want me to check on him?"

"Yeah. He doesn't seem to want to go to bed."

Sam frowned. "How old is the patient?"

"Twenty-four."

"Oh." Sam picked up the file and glanced at the room and bed number. She said hello to a couple of patients she'd recently met as other nurses and orderlies got them ready for bed. The patients liked her already, her perkiness, her fresh energy. They seemed to feed off of it, in a way. Her energy could be contagious. It livened up the others, made them smile, made their eyes light up. Sam didn't mind. She felt good when she made people smile.

Entering the room, Sam spotted the young patient in his wheelchair, his back to her. He stared out of the window, even though the setting sun's orange rays glared through. She dropped the file on the counter and opened up the log. "Hi there, handsome, my name is Samantha and I'll be your night nurse. I hope you and I can be good friends."

She approached him when he didn't answer. His broad but emaciated shoulders barely filled out his clothes—a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. He wore some Velcro sandals on his feet.

"Can you hear me, sweetie?"

She approached him slowly and noticed his attention remained fixed on a pair of crows outside. They darted back and forth, either fighting or mating. She looked down at him and saw scabbed-over scratch marks on his skin. She checked the log again, so she could use his name.

But when she saw his name, the blood drained from her face. It couldn't be. Her heart started to pound. She knelt down beside him and took his hand. Both his wrists dangled limply from nylon restraints. Another strap went across his bony chest. "Scott?"

She could barely recognize him. His beard, scruffy and dark, hadn't been shaved in a few days. His eyes, once a vibrant, rich brown, were now dark and receded. Hollow. He even had scratches on his face and neck.

Sam couldn't help it as her eyes burned with tears. She'd heard terrible things after she left Raven City, about what had happened at the Inn, how they'd pulled Scott's body from the rubble, barely alive. She'd heard how an unnamed young woman had been involved—unnamed because she had been a minor at the time—and it didn't take Sam more than one guess to figure out who. Sam had struggled to put the whole thing behind her. It took two years. But after she finished high school and graduated, she didn't have to look down the halls and imagine Scott there. She didn't have to remember all the places she'd seen him. She didn't have to be at the diner, which had a hole in it like her heart did. "God, what did she do to you?"

She brushed at his limp brown hair. She remembered how shiny it used to be. He could have been in shampoo commercials. Now they cleaned it with nothing but standard hospital stuff, the kind that didn't sting. His body seemed to have aged much faster than it should have. Gray hairs tracked across his scalp. Sam started crying. Tears fell on her smock as she wheeled Scott to the bed and lowered it with the press of a button. "Come on, sweetie, let me help you."

She undid one of the straps on his arm, then the other, and finally the one across his chest. Unsure if he could stand, she checked the file. Nothing indicated he couldn't. So she helped him rise gently. With her support, he succeeded in taking those two or three shaky steps to the bed.

She lowered him into the bed, pulled the sheets over him and stroked his hair. His head turned away from her, and he continued to watch the crows outside. She gripped his right hand and closed her eyes, feeling his warmth. In this moment, she regretted trying so hard to forget him.

She didn't know how long she sat there, but Scott suddenly jerked. The sun continued to set rapidly outside, plunging the room into a murky haze of crimson. Many more crows had gathered outside to circle the building and settle on the large tree in front of Glen Garden's main entrance. Scott raised his left hand and reached for the window, like he wanted something. Sam gently freed her hand from his tight grip and went to it. She pushed it open. A sigh escaped Scott and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back on the pillow, relaxed.

A gust of fresh, cool air blew through the room, and Scott's file fluttered open. Pages lifted out and scattered across the floor. Sam went to pick up the papers. She turned away from the window and bent down when a sharp, scratching thump sounded off the table by the window, followed by a huge black shadow that filled the room. She saw the wings flapping against the walls and ceiling.

Sam turned slowly and saw the biggest hooded raven she'd ever seen in her life. Twice the size of a cat. Its flinty eyes gleamed like obsidian. Snowy white feathers, regal as a lion's mane, crested across its chest like a banner. Sam had the creeping sensation on her neck that the raven had real intelligence. Human in nature. Or maybe even demonic. The raven almost levitated off the table, the wingspan several feet wide. Sam stumbled and fell backwards on the heels of her hands, avoiding a hit from the wings. The heavy bird landed gracefully on the bed's guardrail, making the whole bed rattle.

Scott opened his eyes and reached up to stroke the bird's neck and chest. The bird nipped Scott's finger gently. Sam watched as he relaxed, and within a few minutes, fell asleep. The bird looked at Sam in an almost challenging way. Her immediate, crazed instinct was to protect Scott from the bird. She wanted that disgusting creature out. It gave her the creeps, like meeting the gaze of a man she'd just noticed was undressing her with his eyes. With its intelligent stare, the raven dared her to prove her suspicions, knowing that Sam was powerless to do it. How could she possibly prove a raven that flew into a hospital room was intentionally, willfully, consciously evil?

But then she looked at Scott and noted how the bird calmed him. How much more of a reaction the bird drew out of Scott than she did. Sam felt that old familiar spark of bitter jealousy. As she walked out of the room, she hoped Scott would give some sign of wanting her to stay. He didn't. The raven watched her with one shiny black eye. She strained against giving the door a satisfying slam. Seething, seeing red in the cheery hallway, she snatched her phone out of her pocket.

She made a quick internet search for a number, then called it, her fingers trembling the whole time.

"Hello, you've reached the Hooded Crow. This is Annie, how may I—"

"If you know what's good for you, you'll keep your damn birds away from him, you witch." Sam hung up and went back into Scott's room. Her jaw dropped. Scott continued to sleep. But the window was closed. And the bird was gone.

THE END

***

Dear Reader,

thank you so much for choosing _Crows_ and taking the time to read it. Like most indie authors, I rely on reviews from readers like you to help promote my books and increase sales. If you could please take a moment to review _Crows_ on your favorite retailer HERE, it would mean so much to me. Thank you.

Yours truly,

Grace.
**Pick up where you left off...**

Turn the page and continue reading for a sneak peek at

### Crows II: The Morrígan

Coming out October 26th, 2018.
Prologue

Scott was thirsty.

He licked his prickly lips. Shards of ceramic seemed to have been pressed into his flesh, heated in the recesses of an enormous groaning oven that never cooled down, never rested, never needed to.

A drop of blood--it might have been sweat--rolled down his face, presumably from where the bitch had kicked him. When it hit the ground, which had been cold and wet, it sizzled briefly.

He suspected he might be feverish. An infection was taking over his body from lying there for so long--how long, he didn't know--impaled by a tree branch. But he wasn't shivering, and the heat that consumed his body came from around him, not within. The surrounding air didn't smell like the moist earth of Crow's sub-basement, but stank of rotten eggs.

_Sulfur_ , he thought with indifference. Maybe he'd breathe enough of it and suffocate and die. The agony would be over. Each breath tore in and out of him, rasping through his airways like a rusty saw grazing back and forth on a dead piece of wood.

He tried laying his head down on the ground, but it was too hot. He had to pull away within seconds, his skin so heated he was afraid it might begin to blister. He could only guess as to the condition of his face. She'd kicked it a few times, split his eyelid. For now it was a swollen, congealed mess of mud and blood, but maybe with time, if he lived, it would become a sexy scar.

Scott lay his palm down, calloused and covered with a layer of caked mud, then rested his head on top. His parched throat burned.

He couldn't remember what had happened after he lost sight of Annie. He thought the entire basement had caved in. Hopefully, she'd been killed the process. Scott reached out with his other hand, searching for collapsed dirt. He might have to dig himself out. That was the thought on the surface of his mind, but a deeper, subconscious part of him wanted to touch Annie's foot. He wanted to find her there, and make sure she was dead, or was going to be very soon. Maybe when they uncovered her they'd find her lungs filled with dirt. He imagined he wasn't much worse off. He probably had blood in his.

But Scott's reaching fingers touched upon nothing but hot, swirling air. He couldn't understand. Where was this heat coming from?

Scott dug his nails into the dry, parched ground. He pulled himself forward, trying to free his body from the tree that impaled him through the back. During previous tries, he'd heard the breaking of a branch, feeling its splintering vibrations grating against his spine like two bones rubbing together without the cushioning of cartilage. He thought it was sufficiently loose now, and after a couple of more tries, he should be able to free himself.

But Scott was tired. Actually he was within an inch of his life, although how true this was, he had no idea. It was more like he was an inch within his death. Just an inch in, and when he laid his head down and exhaled deeply, his diaphragm pinching, his lungs rattling, a cloud of dust cleared away from the ground. It glowed from the cracks, red, wrapped in yellow, sheathed in undulating tongues of shadow.

Scott narrowed his one good eye--the other remained a stiff, unyielding lump of flesh—and noticed something strange about this glow. It appeared to be fire, flame, maybe a river of lava running beneath him, but it cast no light. It cast no shadow. Scott blew more dust away, his breath shallow, coming out in huffing gasps. Cracks ran in jagged rivulets of red and black, still illuminating nothing.

Scott gripped the edge of one of the cracks, pulled. The branch tensed against his belly, against his insides, bowed--then cracked. He was free. Scott dragged himself forward, his strength renewed, feeling pain, but ignoring it. He lurched forward like a legless creature out of a drying ocean, the wiry muscles in his arms straining to pull his dead weight. He couldn't move his legs. In fact, he couldn't even feel them.

"Crawling in the dirt," said a voice from the darkness. It snickered. "Just where you belong."

Scott stopped crawling, raised his head. "Who's there?" His voice was an unrecognizable rasp.

"I'm no-one. Just a lonesome old crow."

Scott searched the darkness. It seemed to press against his eyeballs like a hot gas, burning and drying, making him squint. "Do you have some water?" He asked hoarsely.

The voice cackled. The sound raised the hairs on Scott's nape and arms. "Don't you know?" The voice asked. "Everyone here is always thirsty."

"Who are you? You're not Crow."

"I know that, silly boy. I'm not that Crow, although I'm certain she's here somewhere. I'm just _a_ crow."

"Let me see you, then. Crows can't talk."

"Oh, but _I_ can."

"Let me see you."

"I'm here, resting my tired wings upon the gates."

"What gates?"

There was no answer, except for the heavy, deep clang of solid metal. "These gates."

"I can't see them."

"They're there, boy. They're tall and fearsome and heated like iron in a furnace. Look closer. You'll see them."

Scott narrowed his eyes even more. For a few moments, the tears struggled to form, but pretty soon his eyes were streaming.

Sure enough, the longer he stared into the darkness, the gates appeared, glowing red and malformed through his screen of tears. The gates were so tall that the top vanished into darkness. Scott swiped his cheeks, but his tears had already dried in the heat, leaving tracks of powdery salt. The gates didn't only stretch upward, but downward too, far down beyond the plateau upon which he lay. He stretched his neck over the edge.

A large chunk of dirt broke away from under him arm. Scott uttered a cry of surprise, his arm thrusting downwards. But he caught himself.

The chunk of earth plunged into a creeping river of lava that flowed through the bars of the gates.

Scott's heart pounded in his chest. Sweat dripped from his head, the tip of his nose, drying before it even touched the ground. He raised his head at the gates. "What is this place?" He asked. But he knew.

Massive and dreamlike, the size of everything seemed distorted, like being inside a ball made of glass. Everything appeared close enough to touch, but looked very far away at the same time.

He saw the crow then, perched on a jagged crossbar that went diagonally across the vertical bars of the gate. It looked impossibly huge, about twenty feet tall based on his distorted perceptions. The bird watched him with one bloodshot eye. The eye itself didn't look shiny. In fact, it looked like a hole, a hole bored deep into the bird's face with a drill. White feathers smeared with old, diseased blood hooded the black bird like the robes of a wicked king.

The bird lifted itself from the crossbar, wings sending dust and grit flying into Scott's eyes, and rushed closer, landing heavily in front of Scott with the weight of a gently dropped tank. More dirt crumbled away, and Scott shifted backwards quickly. The bird towered over him. Scott couldn't even see its head anymore past the crest of its chest.

Scott pushed himself up and back, his legs stiff and unmoving. His back spasmed suddenly. The pain shocked him into momentary paralysis. An involuntary whimper escaped his throat.

The bird leaned its head down and observed his suffering.

Scott moaned, his fist clutching at the hot dirt. He lay there, shaking until the pain subsided enough for him to be in control of it. He glared up at the bird, which eyed him with a cocked head and a serrated beak. To Scott's amazement, he didn't see two scaly crow's feet anymore, but a pair of dirty human legs. Before his eyes the scales peeled away into nothing, and the skin turned gray, the massive creature shrinking down to a less formidable size. The feathers molted off, leaving in place a filthy white dress. Nothing crow-like remaining on the body, except the head.

The bird head blinked, the nictitating membrane bluish and veiny, occluding its black, abyss-like eyeball. "I knew from the moment I saw you that you would be the death of Crow. You killed her, didn't you?" She asked, her beak moving with the syllables.

Scott gave her a sidelong stare, studying the grotesque wrinkles around her eyes. She looked like she'd cried tears of clotted black ink. The fine feathers of her face were matted in tracks.

"Oh, I had to seize my chance when I could. I'd been waiting to kill you myself for some time, when I saw Crow would not. I warned Crow many times. She just didn't listen. She was tired, I suppose. Not tired enough to tie those ropes around me, though. And now look--me without an elder tree to call home and you without legs." She dropped into a squat and bent low, beside his face, making him recoil. "And then you had to go and try to kill her successor." She was inches from his eyes, running her serrated beak over his skin, his lashes, his ear, his lips. She used her filthy fingers to pry apart his lips, checking his teeth and his tongue. When she was finished, she lay down beside him, propping her head up on her ashen, bony hand. "I suppose you'll have to do for now. It's not like I have a choice." She gestured to the tree, which was split in two right down the middle.

Scott opened his mouth to speak, but he tasted dry feathers and dead skin. He coughed. "Do for what?"

Her beak clicked and her wide, long throat moved like she'd swallowed a bug. A deep croak sounded from her. She touched her sternum. It protruded like the keel of a boat, stretching her gray, translucent skin. Cobalt veins traversed her flesh in an intricate, lace-like web. "For me, of course." She eyed him out of one eyeball. "You killed Crow," she accused, her head nodding up and down slowly. "And you tried to kill Annie. Didn't you? Don't bother lying. I already know."

Scott narrowed his eyes. "Yeah."

She shook her head contritely. "You could have been great, you know. I don't normally choose male priests, but you could have been. Just like that detective."

Scott frowned. "Detective O'Connell?"

"Yes. But Rafe stepped down a long time ago. And you stepped in the way. There are always others, of course, but those that harm my children have to be punished." She gripped Scott's jaw. She looked right into his eyes with her own and said, "I curse you for hurting my girls."

Scott expected to be zapped, but nothing happened. "What are you talking about? Don't you think I've been punished enough?" Scott asked bitterly.

She laughed, sat up, and squeezed his cheeks forward with both hands. "Nonsense, silly boy! There's no such thing."

Fear pricked at Scott's chest. He feared she would eat him. Indeed, she eyed him predatorily, a thick-necked crow sizing up what amounted to nothing more than rodent with a broken back. He pulled back some more, but had nowhere to go. The plateau was only about ten feet across. He looked at the edge. It was shrinking. It crumbled noiselessly, jagged chunks of dirt disappearing from sight. He looked at the gate and realized he was only a few feet away from it. It was moving closer--actually it was he that was moving--and soon it would be close enough to touch. Which meant the only thing left to do was to go in.

"What do you want?" Scott asked.

It seemed impossible, but Scott could have sworn the thing smiled.

"Didn't you say you want water?"

Scott nodded. "Yeah. I'm dying."

"Foolish boy, you're already dead. But _I_ can bring you back."

"Yes. Bring me back. Punish me if you have to, but bring me back."

She pinched his cheek and ruffled his hair. "Good boy. You'll feel a bit of a _stretch._ " She stood up and shook her crow head.

"What?"

Scott watched her as she pushed the sleeves up over her elbows like a magician and wiggled her fingers. But the sleeves were oversized, and fell back down over her wrists.

"You won't be able to move or speak."

Scott put his hand up. "What are you talking about?"

"Listen, boy! In six years, when you see my omen, a hooded raven, and she lets you stroke the feathers of her bosom, the curse will be broken."

"Six years?!"

"Like the elder tree was, you will be my host, my rod, my temple, my shrine to the world above. You have died by my hand, and by the hand of the Great Queen you will live again."

"No, wait! There must be some--!"

She reached down suddenly, and gripped Scott by his upper arm and his hip. Her fingers dug into his flesh and he screamed out. She flipped him onto his back.

She dropped into a squat and pressed her fingers against his mouth. He jammed his lips together, clenched his teeth, but she was impossibly strong, prying his jaw open as effectively as a crowbar. His jaw popped, and he felt a snap that jarred him into a brief, semi-unconsciousness, his eyesight going dark. He heard scattered voices, saw a flash of brightness, a blinding white orb. Maybe it was God and Scott reached out for it, but it vanished.

The woman with a crow's head lowered her beak into his mouth and he clawed at her head, his scream muffled as his eyes popped open.

She pushed on unperturbed, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him onto her lap, making his back arch. Scott clawed at her face, feeling for her eyes and finding one. He uttered a growl of rage and pain and dug his thumb into her eye. The eye swelled with tension, then gave suddenly, deflating with a sharp squelch, hot liquid running down Scott's hand and arm.

She kept one hand securely wrapped in his hair, another on his chest, and didn't budge. She appeared to feel no pain, instead she chortled into Scott's mouth, the sound muffled.

Scott pushed at her neck with the inner side of his forearm, using his right hand to help force her out.

She gave a little, stretching her neck, the feathers standing straight up.

Suddenly, there was a tearing noise. Her loose nightgown fell away, revealing limp, deflated breasts, a prominent set of ribs and a second pair of arms that had suddenly sprouted from her back. They looked stronger, thicker than her first set, and they came down on Scott's arms, prying them away and pinning them to his sides.

Scott growled and he felt a coldness suddenly spreading in his throat, flowing down into his chest. It was like thick, cold smoke, numbing.

Scott heard more voices and he was forced to relax. His body went limp, aches seeping into his bones, his dirt-clotted eyes closing. There was nothing left of the woman with a crow head but a shadow, and he felt a surge of cold air as she completed her entry into him. His belly felt turgid and he thought he would vomit her up and he wanted to. He felt downright sick, but the tight feeling went away almost immediately.

Scott squinted at the sudden, bright light, and realized he was outside. Breath fogged from his mouth.

"Sir, if you can hear me, give me a sign."

Scott attempted a thumbs-up. But he couldn't move. He could feel his arms, he commanded them to move, but they lay there limp at his sides.

"Can you breathe all right? Can you talk?"

Scott tried to speak, but he couldn't. He gave a little moan, horror swelling inside of him.

The last thing thought in his head before he passed out was what Annie had told him. _You're not going to die._ As much as he despised the idea of it, Scott took comfort in those words. She was right, the bitch. She was right after all.
**1**

I fed the crows, waiting for my dad to pick me up. The birds kept a respectful distance, pecking at the nuts and chunks of fruit I'd tossed.

The front step of the White Crow Inn was still icy in the early morning. Summer might have just ended, but a chill that seemed to have carried over from this past winter subsisted, stubborn as dried blood on white carpet. I knew fall had arrived. Coldness rose through my legs and into my body, which was already trembling with nerves. I was having second thoughts about what I was going to do. The door to the Inn was locked, the lights turned off. I'd woken up early this morning and hadn't allowed myself much time to think.

But now, sitting around and waiting for my dad to give me a ride, I just didn't know if it was a good idea.

A crow landed a few feet away with a round pebble in its mouth, attached to a long, black thread. It waddled over and observed me with a cocked head. I glanced again at the pebble, which was shiny and smooth. I was wrong. It wasn't a pebble at all, but a polished piece of red glass shaped into a pendant. I chuckled when the bird came even closer, just an inch from my feet and dropped the glass between my sneakers' toes. _Here_ , it seemed to say.

"For me?" I asked.

The bird jumped back slightly when I reached to pick up the glass. But it didn't fly away. It waited until I took it. Then it selected a small sliver of apple, and was gone.

This wasn't the first time the birds had brought things. Ever since Crow died, I'd been feeding them, and they'd been bringing gifts. At first it was worthless stuff, like twigs and rocks. Well, it was worthless as far as monetary value, but I had a dish inside my room that was filled with each and every little stick and pebble and bit of dried grass the birds had given me. I had no intention of throwing out a single one. It meant too much to me.

But lately they'd been bringing more unusual items, more valuable ones, like cat's eye marbles, or a single silver leaf earring someone dropped in the street, or a brass key. This red glass pendant was the most beautiful one so far. I held it up against the sky, admiring its red gleam.

I heard the rumbling of a car. The driveway, which in the winter had been buried with immense snowdrifts, curved through a group birch trees like a crooked hair partition. It was only wide enough for one car, and delivery trucks that brought food and alcohol often had to drive on the gravel to make it to the Inn to make their deliveries.

Now my father's beat up old car rumbled up the driveway with all the shuddering confidence of a weak octogenarian trudging up a hill. My car was in the shop and it looked to me like his was due at the shop any day. It had almost broken down a couple of times on the highway. The car stalled just over the speed bump and died. I watched my dad shake his head and start it up again, scaring all the birds away.

He brought the car in a loop and stopped at the entrance. "You ready?"

"Yeah." I dusted my hands off and slipped the red glass into my pocket, getting into the car.

"What did you say her name was?"

"Uh...Janice. She fell down her stairs sleepwalking and broke her leg. Her friend asked me to come and see her at the hospital. She's been having weird dreams."

"Who hasn't?"

"Why, have you?"

"No."

"Stop lying, Dad."

"I'm not lying. What's with all the birds anyway? Please tell me you're not turning into that crazy old woman."

"I like the birds, Dad."

He made a sound of disgust. "Don't say that."

"They miss her, Dad. Don't you get that?"

"They're birds."

"Yes, they are," I said. I pulled the pendant out of my pocket. "One of them gave me this."

My dad glanced at it, his wavy ponytail shifting over the depression of his spine. No-one believed it when he told them he was a lawyer. It clashed almost comically with his button-down shirt and blazer, but it was a trademark now. I'd told him repeatedly I'd never talk to him if he cut it off, and worse, his clients wouldn't trust him anymore. His clients knew him from every angle in any given room. The profile, complete with dark brown hair and deep streaks of gray and a partially-obscured tattoo of a white crow--his high school mascot and mine--on the back of the neck, was unmistakable. I think it was because he looked like he'd strolled out of prison and walked into a courtroom that his clients trusted him. Because of his own experience, clients knew in their gut that my dad was 100% on the side of the wrongly accused. He gave his goatee a scratch. It was growing in nicely. It was a practicality issue more than anything else--just because he rolled out of bed five minutes before going to work didn't mean he had to _look_ like it. "It gave you a present?"

"Yeah. I think they're grateful for the food."

My dad fell silent. "Have you talked to your brother?"

"Yeah. I called him last week." I paused. "He's been having dreams too."

My dad sighed. "Have you?"

"No." It was a lie of kindness. I didn't need my father feeling inadequate ever again. Between Johnny in jail awaiting trial for manslaughter, and me ending up in the hospital twice this past winter, my dad didn't need anything more to worry about. He was here, giving me a ride, and I loved him for it.

On the other hand, I didn't want to talk about seeing Scott in my dreams. I saw him practically every night, usually images of him waking up at the hospital, grasping the IVs with a wiry, atrophied arm, pulling them free, his brown hair hanging over his eyes, over-long, unkempt, his hospital gown hanging down to just over his knees. Even though I knew his back had been broken, even though I knew I'd heard the doctors said he'd never walk again. In my dreams he was awake, able-bodied, and terribly strong. He tore a path through the hospital walls, parting concrete like Moses did the Red Sea, not even touching them, and he was coming straight for me for what I did to him.

He flew on a dark cloud, a shadow was cast over him, his face, and his eyes were completely black--no whites were to be seen. But when he caught my watchful gaze, that's when I woke up.

Sometimes I dreamed that he managed to hold me down while the ceiling collapsed in the basement when his back was smashed. And the instant that the dirt fell upon me was when I woke up, the suffocation of the immense weight still sitting on my chest, the taste of moldy, wet dirt in my mouth and tears on my face, and the feel of Scott's grimy hands on my ankles. Sometimes the smell remained in my sheets, never going away until I washed them. There was no dirt to be found, ever, but I could smell it. It hung around in the air like rancid perfume.

I would have let him be if it didn't get worse. The dreams didn't lose their intensity, but the contents evolved. In my dreams, Scott was getting closer. I no longer saw him waking up at the hospital, but floating down the street. Shadows fluttered around him, the same shadows cast over his whole body, his whole face, his eyes blacker than ever, the darkness spreading over his cheekbones, flowing down over the bridge of his nose.

Then just a few nights ago, he had been standing over my bed. It was the first time I'd dreamt this. Just staring down at me with those black, empty eyes. In my dream I couldn't move fast enough. He pressed one hand over my mouth, and with another he grasped at the skin under my lowest rib, making me gasp, unable to breath, pinching what felt like nerve.

He had smiled at my pain, my terror, the smile widening into a grin. The blackness from his eyes had spread to his whole face, skimming over his lips and spreading into his teeth. His tongue was purplish, oily-looking like a snake's, the inside of his mouth shiny. "I have something for you," he said, his voice containing a duality, like a Tuvan throat singer, a deeper voice on top of his own, a husky whisper that seemed, of all incredulous things, to attempt not to disturb the other sleeping body in the house, which was my father.

Then he was sitting on me, his knees up by my chest and his hands around my throat, choking me. No matter how hard I tried to push him off, I couldn't. He was too strong, and getting stronger. And just before I died in the dream, it ended.

There were three marks on my neck when I woke up. The burning was intense. Like I'd burned it there while cooking. It wasn't a set of cuts or slashes, but they were burns. Three hot irons dragged across my flesh.

Without realizing it, as I sat in the car with Dad, I gingerly fingering the burns under my turtleneck. My fingers were clammy, cold. They soothed a little. Part of me didn't want to know the depths of what Scott was hiding in his soul. The darkness within had been hidden so well, so completely, that even I, a Seer from when I was a little kid, hadn't caught on to it until it was too late. Until people were dead or in danger of being dead. But his exterior had cracked now, like when I'd kicked him in the face, like when Detective O'Connell had bashed him with the end of a candlestick, and it was hard to keep that filth from spilling out. Scott couldn't keep it in forever.

But part of me wanted to know. I had to know, so I could be prepared to fight it again. And every night in my dreams he grew closer and closer, and in every dream he almost killed me.

As I touched the burns, I remembered how he'd left a hickey there once, and how, at least for a short while, I'd been attracted to him. In my mind's eye, I stared into his chocolate-brown eyes that glowed a rich crimson when the sun fell through them from the side.

"You haven't had any dreams at all?" My dad looked at me skeptically. "The Seer can't See anymore?"

I nodded patronizingly. "That's very deep, Dad." But him even making a joke about my foresight was a big deal. He didn't even want to acknowledge it just a few months ago.

He chuckled at my sarcasm. I laughed along with him, although it was forced.

My dad dropped me off at the entrance to Raven City Memorial. I took a deep breath and walked in. I hadn't exactly told my dad the truth. Of course. I had to stop lying to him. I felt guilty every time, but I also felt guilty telling him the truth. How could I tell him the real reason I was here? He'd be totally against it.

The early morning sun glared on the east-facing doors of the hospital. I watched myself approach the mirrored glass. The glass shuddered as I walked up to it and smashed open. A young woman, probably about my age, crashed into me, almost knocking me down the wide steps.

"Sorry!" I blurted immediately, as if it was my fault.

She had long black hair falling straight down her back in a sleek ponytail, a round face and a spooky pair of light green eyes. She stared blankly at me, didn't apologize, and stomped down the stairs. A guy in a denim work jacket trailed after her, looking apologetically at me.

"Well, fuck you too!" I called after her.

She stopped abruptly at the bottom of the stairs. The guy stared at me over his shoulder.

"What did you say?" She asked flatly. She didn't even seem angry. It was almost like she didn't hear me.

"I said, 'Fuck you too'," I replied matter-of-factly, just in case she really didn't hear me. Communication, I was beginning to learn, is important.

The girl stood very still, staring at me. I couldn't tell if she was observing me or trying to stare me down. She wore a pair of black leather pants and a black tank top under a cardigan that fell draped over her body beautifully. She was actually stunning to look at, and I wondered briefly if she was a model. But she wasn't. She was a high-end stripper and a much sought-after witch who specialized in sexual spells--hook-ups, match-ups, affairs, love potions, that type of stuff. Not real love, but a fairly expensive and convincing imitation. And this guy with her was her boyfriend. He was in way over his head. He loved her, and that was his biggest problem.

I closed my eyes and pushed away the Sight. Ever since I'd accidentally spent time with that creepy tree in Crow's basement, I could barely contain it. It came gushing down over me like a fire hose on full blast and all I had was a dinner plate to stop it from hitting me. It was only a matter of time before it shattered.

The girl was tall, almost as tall as the guy. And her laced boots didn't even have heels. I noticed an upside-down pentagram around her neck, with the head of a wicked-looking goat superimposed on it. "Oh," she said simply, and kept going.

The guy muttered something resembling an apology, based on his facial expression, and followed after her.

I rolled my eyes to myself and walked inside the hospital. The gift shop was still closed so early on a Saturday morning, about seven. But that was okay. I was here to see someone who didn't deserve a damn thing from me.
**2**

Scott had been staying for months in a 'vegetable patch' within Raven City Memorial which was housed in a small ward. I knew that he was to be moved within a week or two to a nursing home. Scott was comatose, but his injuries had finally healed, and although he was stable, he needed round-the-clock care. Beds had to be cleared up at the hospital for those more in need.

If anyone asked how I knew I'd tell them it was a lucky guess. Telling them the truth, that I was psychic, would leave me inundated with questions that people didn't really want answered. I hadn't been to see him since it all went down. I didn't want to. It had been almost nine months and it was time for me to do something. I'd had enough sleepless nights. I'd had enough nightmares.

It was easy enough sneaking into the coma ward. It was quiet and the pale green linoleum hallways were empty. Rooms lined the right side while large windows, the left. They let in great big squares of bright sunlight, but did little to lift the heavy atmosphere of the hall. In here there were no PA calls. Only silence.

I checked the doors one by one. Some rooms contained empty beds, and some contained two beds. Scott was all the way at the end, in a room all by himself. I looked around to make sure I wasn't being watched, and picked up the patient file from the bin by the door. _McCormick, Scott James._

I skipped down to the symptoms. _Brief lapses of lucidity. Brief periods of consciousness but unresponsive. Some nurses will not administer to him alone. Head nurse presence recommended at all instances of administration._ What the fuck does that mean?

I replaced the file and looked inside. He lay in the hospital bed, still and appearing asleep. What I'd just read should have given me a few misgivings. But it didn't. I wasn't afraid of Scott. I'd faced him when he was conscious and trying to kill me; Scott lying asleep in bed wasn't anything I couldn't handle.

I pushed open the door to his room.

What I'd been seeing in my mind and what I saw now were two different realities, one superimposed over the other. I scanned the room, sensing someone, but seeing no one. It was colder than the outer hallway.

Scott looked frailer than I expected, but I shouldn't have been surprised. His hair lay in long, limp tendrils around his head, a dark halo around a pale face. A breathing tube wormed its way through his slack, cracked lips. The respirator hissed rhythmically, the monitors blinked and blipped occasionally.

His eyes were closed, looking sunken into his grayed, purplish sockets. A thin, jagged scar lined his right eyelid. Although his nose had been broken in the basement, it must have been a pretty clean break because there was no hint of damage remaining.

A splash of color caught the corner of my eye when I went in and closed the door. It was positioned just near the door. I turned to look, and it was a bouquet of flowers. Brought in just today, by the look of them.

I went to the bouquet, which sat in a clear glass vase of water. There was a note pinned there, but it wasn't filled out. The To: and From: were both blank. I replaced the note. Who would bring flowers for this sociopathic piece of shit?

Some get well cards lay on a table, curled up from being there so long. One was from his workplace, Henry's Diner. It was actually Scott's uncle's diner--before Scott killed him.

Another was from some kids from school. They'd all signed it together. Some of the colors were badly faded. The table was positioned in a way that direct sunlight could get through the window for hours at a time. I guess they thought it would be good for the flowers, but they hadn't considered the cards. I sighed sort of sadly. He'd told me no would miss me. But it looked like no one missed him. I touched one of the fresh flowers. Well, almost no one.

I heard a whirring start up near Scott's bed. I turned to see a packet of off-white, liquid paste attached to an IV rack. The whirring was caused by a mechanism that spun slowly. I realized it was some type of food, some nutritious paste being pumped into his body through a thinner tube that ran alongside his breathing tube.

I spotted the catheter running from under the sheet, traveling to a bag that contained urine.

I sighed again. He looked so pathetic I could hardly stand it. It suddenly brought tears to my eyes, angry tears. He had so much going for him. It was fucking tragic what had happened, and it didn't have to go this way.

I reached out to his left hand, to take it. I slipped it under the icy wire that connected the oxygen reader clipped to his index finger. "Scott?"

I slid my hand under his palm. "Scott, it's me. It's Annie."

I leaned closer to him, to look at his face for a reaction. I had heard that people in comas are sometimes aware of what's happening around them.

I jumped suddenly when I felt something feathery move between his hand and mine. I yanked away from it. I lifted his hand a little. A long charcoal feather lay under his arm. I pulled it out. It gleamed, bluish and iridescent in the sunlight that fell from the window. "What the hell?" I muttered, looking back at Scott's face. His eyes were wide open, staring at me.

I screamed and stumbled back. The feather drifted to the floor.

His eyelids trembled, like he was staring at a bright light or like he was grimacing in pain. His gaze followed me as I moved, then drifted to the corner of the room behind me.

I turned, but saw nothing. When I looked back, his eyes were closed.

With my fingers shaking from the surge of adrenaline, I picked up the long, dark feather. I placed it on the bedside table.

I turned back to him. Sweat lined his forehead, glistened on his throat. But it was so cold here. I found a roll of paper napkins at the foot of the bed. I ripped one off, wet it at the sink in cold water, squeezed it as dry as possible and swiped it over his forehead and neck. His skin was clammy, almost feverish. His hair was greasy, soaked with perspiration. I took another wet paper towel and wiped his face and neck down. I tossed the napkins away and wondered if he could hear me. I leaned down to his ear and said, "You know where to find me if you need my help." I straightened up and began to leave. But I came back and took his hand. I leaned in. "Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can."

It was gentle, but unmistakable. Scott squeezed my hand.

I whispered in his ear, "If you try to kill me again, I'll leave you just the way I found you."

***

The feel of his hand lingered on mine long after I left the hospital. I called a cab this time. My car should have been ready by now, so I had the driver drop me off at the mechanic. He'd been my dad's mechanic for years. It was one of the reasons my dad clung onto the pile of junk he drove around--he thought this guy could fix it.

Everyone always called him Abbott, although I don't think that was his first name. He came strolling out of the garage when I pulled up in the cab. He absently extended a hand that was as cracked and black as the garage floor. "Hey, Miss Annie. We were just talking about you."

"Nothing bad, I hope," I said and glanced at his hand.

He pulled his hand away. "Sorry."

I put my hands up. "No problem."

"This young couple here is looking for a place to stay. I told them the Hooded Crow might be open for business."

"Uh, yeah." I dug into my bag and pulled out a short stack of business cards. I'd had them made out so I could promote the Inn. My dad thought I was crazy. He told me I should focus on graduating high school first before I try to run a business. But I'd signed up for online management and hospitality classes. I'd purchased a computer, an all-in-one printer and reams of printing paper for the registration counter, and set up an internet connection, because that giant tome Crow had used had to go. I purchased a credit card machine to swipe plastic. I even bought a new cordless phone for the place. But I kept the rotary on the bartop as a fond reminder of the first time I met Crow. But now I had a few thousand bucks on a credit card and I had to start paying it off somehow. It seemed like a good idea to have people start staying at the Inn.

"Hey, Mac," Abbott called to someone far inside the garage, his voice echoing. It was difficult to see in because the morning sun was brighter than the garage's lighting.

I stepped inside the garage, my hand pulling out another business card. It was black, matte with white lettering and a logo fashioned after the Hooded Crow sign. I stopped when I saw who it was. It was the guy who had been accompanying the strange girl with the black hair. She loitered in the garage, presumably waiting for her boyfriend. Mac gave me a smile, but without any animosity. He seemed to let my cursing at his girlfriend go. "Hello again," he said.

I grinned back. "Hi." I handed him a card.

He looked it over and said, "Babe, she's the owner of the place we saw coming in to town."

The girl stepped over, actually she seemed to glide over, and took the card from his hand. Her fingernails were black and very pointed. Her rings clicked. She looked at her boyfriend. "Sounds good to me," she said. She didn't even acknowledge me.

"I'm Mac," he said and we shook hands. "That's my girlfriend, Madison."

"It's nice to meet you both," I said politely. "You know the way there?"

"Yeah, I'm sure we can find it."

"Okay, I'll see you there."

Madison turned to me and said, "What's your name?"

"My name is Annie Murphy."

She muttered something as she turned away. And it sounded like, "I thought it might be."
**3**

Once I drove back to the Inn, I waited around for Mac and Madison to show up. I didn't have to wait long. I checked the two of them in and discovered from copying Mac's ID that they were from New York State. And it was obvious to me they weren't on vacation. Madison appeared subdued and distracted, but Mac seemed intent on enjoying his time here, even though he appeared to be straining to do so. He acted almost embarrassed at Madison's rudeness. But it wasn't mere rudeness. The girl emanated hatred, but it wasn't like she walked around hating. It was directed at _me_. Ordinarily I might have said something, but this wasn't some little bitch at school. This was a business. _My_ business. I had to suck it up, buttercup.

Mac took the keys from me and I showed him the way to their lodge on an old laminated map. I told him there were signs and doorposts with the numbers. It would be hard to miss. Mac started to leave, trailing Madison, but then he said, "Babe, you want to have a few drinks?"

"No, I'm tired."

"Let's just have a beer or something."

Madison took the key from his hand and said, "You go ahead if you like. I'm going to bed."

It was hard to ignore the dismay on Mac's face. The niceness slipped from his face in one fell swoop and he turned away from her without so much as a goodbye. Madison turned and left without any reaction.

"You know how to make an Old Fashioned?" He asked me flatly, sitting down on a stool.

"It's not a beer, I assume."

Mac snorted. "No." He pulled out his phone and after a few seconds he showed me the recipe for a classic Old Fashioned.

"I think I can handle that," I said gamely.

"Mind if I smoke in here?"

I did mind, but I said, "No. Go ahead."

Mac flashed his teeth real quick and tapped out a cigarette. He gestured to me. "You want one?"

"I don't smoke, thanks."

He stood up immediately. "Oh, I won't smoke in here then." He excused himself before I could say anything and finished his cigarette outside, pacing restlessly and trying to keep occupied with his phone, but failing. He kept putting his hand inside his pocket, feeling something in there. I could see that it was small, maybe the side of a golfball, or a bit bigger. But he never pulled it out. Finally he returned, smelling thickly of cigarette smoke.

His drink was ready by then. After taking a sip he nodded his approval. "Not bad." He pulled out a fifty dollar bill and said, "I'll take another."

He drank four of them with astonishing speed. He was drinking them as fast as I could make them. He looked up at me to ask for another and his head tilted over the back of the bar stool. He stared at me, struggling to focus his gaze. But then his eyes wandered to the wooden sign mounted on the mirror, the one that said, _Psychic is out_. "There's a psychic here?"

I was torn between telling the truth and lying. "Yeah," I admitted. "Want a reading?"

"You're the psychic?"

"Yeah."

"Hmm. How much?"

"Twenty-five for thirty minutes."

"How much for just one question?"

"That's on the house."

He stared at me for a long time. "Are you the real deal?"

"Yes."

He contemplated asking a question, and I waited for him to say the words, but in the end he didn't have the nerve. He was afraid of the answer. It didn't really matter if I was the real deal or not. Any answer would terrify him. He eyed his empty glass and melting chips of ice. Just as I was afraid that he would ask for another, get totally hammered and become impossible to control or even cut off, he left me a tip and stumbled out of the tavern with a mumbled goodbye. As he left, I saw him finger the object in his right pocket again.

***

It was Sunday the next day. I checked up on my guests and headed into the woods.

This was something I'd been wanting to do for a long time. I'd been waiting for months for maps of the property, and I was shocked to discover that there was a building I hadn't even known about in the wintry weeks I'd lived here.

It was the Grand Dining Hall, massive, but hidden by a cobblestone path that had been encroached by decades of overgrowth and neglect. I had to practically hack through the bushes with a machete. But once I knew a path existed, it wasn't hard to follow. And I knew why I hadn't seen it earlier--the time I'd spent living at the Hooded Crow, everything was blanketed with thick snow. There was also a narrow peat bog alongside a creek, known as the Badb's Ford, marked with long parallel hashmarks. There was a Post-It note that warned me about the dangers of wandering into a peat bog.

It should have taken no more than fifteen minutes to reach the dining hall, but I'd struggled through the overgrown plants for more than an hour, with a sense of oppressive foreboding growing stronger by the minute. I almost turned back a half-dozen times, but I knew it would be a mistake if I did.

The forest surrounding the area, Brigid's Forest, had grown eerily quiet. Fall had arrived, yes, but here hung a deeper coldness, like the sun couldn't penetrate the forest canopy, like a small sliver of winter had remained, unable to escape, bottled up like an insidious genie, waiting for a fool--like me, probably--to come and release it.

I spotted things along the way, things that, let's say, didn't exactly grow in a forest. Dolls dangled along the way, red ones, miniature little mummies. They looked like they were just made of Barbie dolls, but after a close examination of one that had fallen onto the path, I noticed it was an animal, some type of rodent, like a ferret or something.

I'd taken a thing or two out of Detective Rafe O'Connell's handbook, and took pictures of each and everything. Sometimes video. It made me feel a bit safer, a bit detached from it all, and not like I was staring into the bared canines of a dead, possibly tortured ferret. Some of the bandages were coming loose, and the insides were not stained with red. I imagine the mummies were dipped into a vat of red paint, or more likely, based on the coloring, blood. What sort of blood, I couldn't venture a guess. I wouldn't. But I knew it was pig's blood. The knowledge hit me. It hit me all at once, a waking vision of Scott in a high-ceiling building made of slats of wood, his hands gloved in latex as he submerged the mummified creature into a metal bucket full of blood. There was a pig in the corner, suspended from the ceiling, dead, but still bleeding into a childen's wading pool, one with little seahorses and smiling goldfish.

I blinked and made the vision go away. I tried to remember what O'Connell had told me, that I was the one in control. I was frozen on the path, the mummified ferret lying on the path in front of me, my phone's camera continuing to film the dead animal.

I needed a moment. I grasped a tree trunk and took a deep breath. I steeled myself.

I withdrew a Ziploc freezer bag from my jeans back pocket and flapped it open. Turning it inside out, fitting it over my hand, I picked up the dead animal and turned the back right side out again. The mummy was too big to fit inside, but I had another bag. I fit it over the other end. I stuck it into my backpack, ready to zip it shut.

"I don't think you want to do that," a voice said.

I almost screamed. My heart jerked violently in my chest as I turned to find the source.

I spotted a pair of dark figures beyond the trees. Two men stepped out from between some trees, pushing away some branches. Brothers. Actually, twins. The first one wore a blazer jacket with some overly stylish slacks, which caught in one of the bushes. There was a loud tearing sound as it ripped. He winced as if in pain. He looked ready to go to a club, not hiking in the woods. The other one appeared to be dressed more appropriately, although he looked like a college student in a bright green hoodie and cargo pants over a well-chosen pair of high-ankled hiking boots.

The stylish one checked his pants, sticking his fingers through a large V-shaped tear which revealed a pair of silk boxers. He didn't look very embarrassed, but I thought he should be. Dressing like that in the damn woods. He nodded at the mummy in my hand. "It might be cursed."

I looked at the ferret. "Maybe." I pointed up ahead, then behind me. "I think they're just markers. Maybe wards." I looked him up and down. "You lost?"

He chuckled. "A little. My navigator here is a bit inept."

The other simply slid a scathing gaze at the back of his brother's head, but said nothing. When he noticed me looking, he didn't drop his gaze until I did.

The first one joined me on the path, then put his hand out. "Can I see?"

I gave him the bagged mummy so he could take a closer look. "Creepy," he muttered. "I've never seen such a...blend of magic."

"You know about magic?" I asked skeptically.

"Yes, actually. This is really sloppy, but it's a blend of voodoo and santeria. You can tell by the markings, see?"

I shook my head to clear away his attempt at distracting me. I had grown to despise magic over the past several months. I didn't have any opinion on it before, but now, now I was beginning to loathe it. I'd rather get punched in the face than have a spell cast on me. It was cowardly and underhanded. Of course, he couldn't have known my opinion on magic. "What are you doing here?" I asked him, hardly impressed with his analysis.

"Actually," he said, handing me back the mummy, "I was about to ask you the same thing."

"This is my property," I told him. "And you're trespassing."

A smile started forming on his face, his blue eyes crinkling beneath his blonde eyebrows. His face was unshaven just enough to give him that scruffy, rugged look, the yellow hairs of his beard sticking out over the surface of his skin. His smile stopped. "You're serious?"

"Yeah. So you want to tell me what you're doing here?"

He reached into his pocket. I pulled back, a little suspiciously, even though he looked perfectly harmless. But what the hell do I know? I'd known Scott for years, and he turned out be a freaking murderer.

But this guy, he just pulled out thin metal case made of brass. He popped out a business card, I swear à la Patrick Bateman. He made the card snap as he handed it over with a flourish. "I'm in real estate. I was...uh, let's say I was _interested_ in this property."

I looked down at the card. Evan Carmichael. "Well, I'm not selling."

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Are you really the owner?"

"Well, what do you want, a fucking deed with my name on it?"

He nodded. "Yeah. Let's see it, young lady."

I rolled my eyes and glanced at his brother, who still hadn't said a word. "Well, lucky for you, I actually have it with me." When I packed my bag this morning, I felt the urge to grab a copy of the document. No particular reason in mind at that time, but now the reason revealed itself.

Evan watched with amused curiosity as I pulled a copy of the deed out of my backpack and showed him. He studied the document, the stapled Will that named the property as mine. He handed it back to me. The other brother took a look at it, too.

"It's nice to meet you, Annabella."

"I go by Annie."

"Annie." Evan shoved his hands into his pockets. "So I guess we'll be leaving then, right? Since you found us trespassing on your property. You're not goin to press charges, are you?"

I hadn't even considered it. "No. And you don't have to leave."

Evan hesitated. Glanced at his brother. "We don't? We really should get—"

"No. I'm not making you leave. But I will consider putting up a property line one of these days."

"Oh. Well, I know some contractors that could maybe help you out."

"Thanks. So what made you so interested in this property anyway?" I asked him.

He considered it, glanced at his brother, and summed it up in two weighty words: "Its history."

"What do you know about it?"

"Why, what do you know about it?"

"More than I'd like to," I admitted. "But you didn't answer me."

He nodded and gave his head a scratch. He wore a gold ring on his finger. Actually he didn't just look like someone ready to go clubbing. He looked like a rich person. _Very_ rich. He was wearing designer clothes that looked brand new. He looked rich in that way that's sort of understated but very noticeable. Now that my surprise at seeing the two of them in _my_ woods had worn off, I was noticing more about them. Like the strap that went over the shoulder of other brother, whose name I still didn't know. It looked like a book bag strap at first glance, but it was a rifle strap, and he was carrying a hunting rifle with a silencer on it. It had been obscured before, but now I could see the barrel sticking up behind his head.

"I...don't think anyone would believe me if I told them," Evan replied.

"Try me."

Evan gave an embarrassed shrug, like he felt stupid saying it out loud. "Dreams. The dreams led me here."

I glanced at the brother, who hadn't said a single word all this time. I started to wonder if he was mute. "What about you?"

"I don't dream," he said flatly. Okay, so he _could_ talk.

I stared at him, wondering if he was telling me the truth, but for the moment, I just couldn't tell. He had one hell of a poker face. Besides, I didn't know him well enough. He seemed comfortable enough under my challenging stare, almost daring me to call him a liar. I looked away and muttered, "Some people have all the luck."
**4**

We walked on together for a while in silence, trudging over uneven ground and gravel. Twigs crisscrossed the path and Evan in his dress shoes slipped a couple of times over wet leaves, having no traction. He walked alongside me the whole time, and each time he slipped I couldn't help but have a natural reaction to jump forward and stop him from falling. "Maybe you should hold my hand," Evan said, chuckling.

"Maybe you should have dressed more appropriately," I replied, a tad snidely

Evan laughed. "Touché." His presence made me uncomfortable, but his strange brother added to it. I had the sense that he was watching us. Watching _me_. But whenever I turned to glance at him, he was looking elsewhere, deep in thought.

The other one—I still didn't know his name—trailed behind us like he didn't really want to be here. In fact, his gaze kept wandering. He'd stop, almost as if wondering if he could slip away, but then Evan would stop walking, look back, and urge him to keep up. He'd wait and make sure his brother did. More than once I thought they'd start an argument, but the quiet one always relented, taking a deep breath to calm himself, and dropping one foot unwillingly before another, a seething prisoner entering a six-by-eight for the rest of his life. He had the gun, but Evan was calling the shots.

"So how did you come by this property, Annie?" Evan asked me after a while.

"It was a...gift?" I ended it as a question because I still didn't know if I liked the idea of owning property. _This_ property. I was too close to it and at the same time I didn't know a damn thing about it. It seemed like everything I _did_ know was useless information, and everything I _didn't_ know was going to destroy me.

"You don't sound very sure."

"I'm not. I think it was a hasty decision to give it to me. But the lady that gave it to me, she passed away."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks," I muttered. I didn't really like to talk or think about her. And I didn't like talking about her to some stranger. It felt like I was violating her memory somehow. She'd always wanted to keep to herself. Who was I to reveal anything about her, even if she was dead? Sometimes when I arrived at the Inn to open up for business, I expected her to be there. Sometimes it really felt like she was there, upstairs in her attic. I'd push open the EMPLOYEES ONLY door, look up at the steps from the tavern downstairs, and sense her presence, even though I knew she'd already passed on. I expected to see her in every room I went, and when I went into the attic, which was her bedroom, I broke down and cried. I hadn't been back in the attic since.

He fell quiet and checked if his brother was still with us. He was. He wasn't looking at us, but at the gently flowing creek to our right. Based on its location, it was the one on my map, Badb's Ford. The rocks glistened in sunlight hitting through the gaps in the trees above, glinting with the brilliance of high beams in the night. It bubbled pleasantly, a slow flow that didn't churn up any foam but rippled over the riverbed of smooth, multicolored rocks. He moved to the water's edge, stopped, and looked in. He stared for several seconds. Whatever he was looking for, I didn't know if he found it or not. He simply turned away and joined us.

Past the creek, trees and bushes stretched out as far as the eye could see. It looked solid enough to walk on, but it was actually the peat bog. Beatrice had told me it was easy get lost in because of the eye-level bushes and thick trees, and difficult to navigate because the bog was about knee deep, but sometimes hip-deep in places. There appeared be patches of dirty, stagnant water floating on top, with gnats and mosquitoes lighting on the surfaces, but that was only because the silt and clay had sunk to the bottom.

"So. I couldn't help but notice a comment you made back there," Evan said after a minute or two of more silence, more respectful this time since I'd mentioned someone passing away.

"What comment?"

"You said, 'Some people have all the luck.' Have you been having dreams too?"

"Yes. Hence the reason I made that remark."

Evan waited for me to continue. When I didn't, he went, "And?"

"And nothing. My dreams are none of your business."

Evan backed off. "You're right. I'm sorry to pry."

"It's okay. I'm unapologetically bitchy."

Evan laughed. "You're not!"

"Oh, I am," I said gently. "I don't care what people think of me. You should know that."

"I'm beginning to believe it," Evan said with a nod. "You know, I should tell you that your reputation precedes you."

"Does it?"

"Yes. Just like the woman who was here before. She was a psychic, I understand? And a witch, to boot?"

"Yeah. She was both of those things. And what does my reputation say?" I studied Evan to see his face when he told me what he'd heard.

He considered for a moment, then said, "It says you almost got a guy killed. And now he's lying in Raven City Memorial. A vegetable." He looked at me. Gauging my reaction.

"Hm. I gotta say, I'm impressed with your ability to read the local newspaper."

"I assume it's not the whole story."

"Can't pull the wool over your eyes."

"What happened?"

"Would you leave her alone, jackass?" The quiet brother suddenly interjected.

I wanted to sigh in relief, but didn't want to give away that Evan was making me uncomfortable. So I didn't do anything, but turn to look at him, along with Evan.

" _What?"_ Evan asked in a tone that was both amused and threatening. "Annie, do you want to know why Bradley's dressed for the woods and I'm not?"

Bradley closed his eyes wearily.

"Actually, I've been wondering that the whole time."

"It's because _he_ was sneaking onto your property. Alone. I was on my way to a meeting and I tried to stop him. And I failed, because as you can see, we're both here."

"So, you couldn't stop him, but you came along and trespassed anyway?"

"Of course. I wasn't going to let him have all the fun by himself." The words were light, but Evan ended this sentence with a steady, stern gaze at Bradley. "Now that the fun's over, I think it's time to leave, don't you think, Bradley?"

Bradley scoffed and shook his head. "Fine, let's go." Bradley turned and started at a brisk pace, back in the direction from which we'd come.

"Don't _you_ have a card?" I called after Bradley.

He turned, but Evan answered for him. "No. He doesn't. He's not in real estate."

"Oh," I replied. "Well, I have cards for you both," I said. "I'm trying to promote my inn." I pulled some business cards out of my backpack and handed Evan one. I extended one to Bradley and he came over to take it, but Evan reached for that one too. I pulled it back. "This is for Bradley."

"We live in the same house, you know. If I have it, it's like he has it."

"I don't care. Something tells me he doesn't run in your circles."

"He doesn't have any circles. Bradley's a loner."

Bradley took the card from me with a murmur of thanks, meeting my gaze briefly, but with marked disinterest. He didn't even look at the card before handing it over to Evan anyway. Bradley shrugged and admitted, "He's right, he can promote your inn better than I can. In fact, you should give him a whole stack of cards."

Confused, and a bit slighted, I handed all my cards to Evan with a forced shrug. "Thanks for the help," I said.

"My pleasure. I have lots of people I can give these to."

Bradley started walking, his gaze drifting to the creek again. But then he stopped and stared into the bushes. He lowered the rifle strap from his shoulder, raising the weapon.

I stopped walking. Then Evan. "What are you d—" Evan began, but Bradley cut him off with a raised hand, which returned to the gun.

I sucked in a breath when I saw a head part the shifting reeds. A wolf. It pulled its gray body forward, trudging through the bog, advancing on Bradley. Bradley took some steps back, cocking the weapon.

"There must be more," Bradley said in a low, calm voice.

No sooner had he spoken, another one approached from the right side of the path, one that was all black with a grayish underbelly. With its head lowered, ears back, it stalked Bradley from behind.

"Brad," Evan said, "behind you."

Bradley tossed a quick look over his shoulder, but he did a double take. "Evan," he said, nodding at us.

Evan and I looked simultaneously and I gasped when a massive wolf, muscular with packed, thick fur, its head almost to my chest, trotted forward and barreled between Evan and me, knocking us both apart.

Evan backed away from the beast, which snapped at him, black lips peeling back from its teeth.

Another wolf appeared, and another. Soon we were surrounded and separated by about ten wolves. They were herding us, biting the air inches from our bodies, keeping us apart, not letting us run, and not letting us attack.

Four of them garrisoned around me, circling slowly. But their attention wasn't on me. It was on Evan, who had both his hands out toward the big gray one that jumped between us. It was larger than the others, a head as big as a car tire, the body like an ATV. Evan seemed to know it was going to jump before it did. We all did, and there wasn't a damn thing Evan could do to stop it.

Bradley fired a shot into the sky to scare it away, but all it served to do was confuse them for a few seconds. Even with a silencer the sound was surprisingly loud. The animals flinched, clenching in unison, digging claws into the dirt and darting aside only once. Bradley cocked the gun and fired again, but it didn't make them flinch this time. He took aim at the big gray one and fired. The bullet kicked the thing's side with such force it knocked the animal to the ground in a squirming, flailing mess of limbs. Fur exploded out with the shot, then with the frantic animal's thrashing. Its ripped flesh immediately bubbled with blood, and it jumped up and ran off.

But there were nine more to contend with and Bradley was the only one with a gun.

The second wolf to stalk him leapt into the air, flying several feet at Bradley and knocking him down with a grunt.

Evan ran forward while two wolves from opposite sides attacked him, jostling him violently in one direction then another. Two wolves and a screaming Evan went tumbling down the slight incline into the creek.

Bradley punched the wolf attacking him in the ribs, keeping his left forearm up to absorb the bites. The gun had taken a bouncing roll and then a heavy slide to the creek edge. Evan continued to scream as the wolves mauled him, ripping his clothes to shreds.

I watched the wolves circling me and there was a little gap between them. I took a chance and darted between them, turning into a side strafe to fit through a wet snout and the swishing tip of a tail. They snarled at me in irritation. A couple even took snaps at my legs, catching the fabric of my jeans and making me stumble.

I found a coconut-sized rock as I almost smashed my face into the ground. Catching myself with both palms, grazing them deep enough to draw blood, I picked up the rock and hit the black wolf attacking Bradley.

It yelped and snarled, barking at me, but it backed away, to my amazement. "Fuck off!" I shouted at it, and it turned tail and ran. Bradley trembled uncontrollably, his entire arm soaked in blood and drops covering his face. But he didn't even seem to feel the pain. He hunted frantically for his rifle, and I ran to it and picked it up. Bradley followed after me and snatched the gun from me. He aimed and fired his gun. The bullet tore through the back of one of the wolves attacking a very quiet and very still Evan. The wolf gave a howl of agony as its legs collapsed under it.

The wolf I'd smacked with the rock returned, a smudge of blood marking its forehead, and I snatched up a fallen branch, which was very heavy, and took a haphazard swing at the creature, which dodged backwards, its jaws clicking shut.

The branch was so heavy I had to let the end of it drop. I gave a grunt and twisted my body, putting my weight into another scarcely controlled swing. This one caught the wolf in the face, whipping it.

The gun fired again and Bradley dropped the other wolf attacking his brother instantly. It was a messy shot to the back of the thing's head. It twitched a few times, coming to a dead stillness on top of Evan's body.

Bradley ran to Evan and dragged the wolf off, groaning with effort. It must have been close to 200 pounds. It was huge. I dropped the branch and helped Bradley. We grabbed the thing by the legs and rolled it off Evan.

Bradley dropped to his knees and checked Evan's neck. I thought Bradley was about to faint. His eyes closed and he his head turned skyward briefly. "He's alive," he breathed. I sighed, my legs weak under me. Before my legs caved, I joined Bradley on the moist ground near the flowing creek. Evan's blood trickled through the mud in little rivulets and into the water. Bradley noticed that at the same time as me. When he saw me looking he glanced away, digging into his pocket for a phone. He dialed 9-1-1.

While he talked to the operator, his voice shaking and almost breathless, but his words clear and controlled, I looked beyond the river and saw the bog there, and a wolf peered at me through the reeds. It turned, stirring up the bog and disappeared through the tall stalks. As the greenish brown water rippled, something floated to the surface. It was a shirt, puffed up with the its contents, a bloated dead body with ropes tied around it.

I leapt up to my feet with a cry.

I startled Bradley enough to make him flinch. His eyes darted to me, then to the bog. He stared for a few seconds. Then he jumped over the creek, careful to keep his feet out of there. Evan was bleeding into it. Bradley used a wet, fraying stick to prod the object. It deflated immediately and he dragged it out of the water. It spilled green water, vines wrapped around it in a haphazard tangle. It was a green garbage bag. Not a body.

Bradley looked at me and tossed the bag back into the bog, along with the stick.

But he wouldn't look at me after that. I had the unnerving feeling that he'd seen the same thing I had.

***

Dear Reader,

thank you for reading a sample of _Crows II: The Morrígan_! If you'd like a reminder before its release, as well as news about other new releases or ARC opportunities, please sign up HERE. Thanks a bunch!

Yours truly,

Grace.

About the Author

Grace Harney has been writing since she was thirteen years old. Originally from India, she has lived in New Zealand, Louisiana, and Florida. Today she lives in New Jersey with her husband and three cats.

She writes horror, paranormal, urban fantasy, and basically anything else that has a supernatural flavor and a strong sense of realism. She enjoys reading novels by Stephen King, Gillian Flynn, J.K. Rowling (and Robert Galbraith), Lisa Scottoline, Jodi Picoult, and she has a special place in her heart for books by Christopher Pike, the reason she began writing in the first place.

She also loves writing Batman, Silent Hill, Death Note, and DC Universe fanfiction and crossovers.

She just wants to tell you a good story.

You can contact her at graceharney999@hotmail.com

You can visit her website at www.graceharney.com

