Alister
Warmth clings to the pavement, mixing with the smell of grilled food, distant cigarette smoke, and wet grass from earlier sprinklers. Somewhere behind me, a dog barks, a train rumbles overhead, and a woman shouts into her phone loud enough for the next block to hear. But I keep walking.
My shirt's opened enough that the gem glows faintly with each breath.
I move through the crowd like I'm hunting ghosts—scanning reflections in windows and listening for footsteps that echo wrong. A couple stumbles out of a bar, drunk and laughing. A cyclist nearly brushes my shoulder. The city's alive in that half-feral way it always is in the evening. But none of them are watching me. Not the way I need.
I've already circled through six neighborhoods. The sky's gone from dusky purple to full black, stars fighting through the glow of city lights.
Still nothing.
When I reach the edge of the district, I pause near a broken streetlamp. Helena leans against a rusted fence like she's been there the whole time.
"See anyone?" I ask.
"No." Her answer's clipped. "Again."
I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the ache. "That was the last street on our list."
She groans. As if she was forced to walk beside me instead of floating in the air. "Perfect. Can't wait to make another."
"I'm not stopping," I say, looking down the empty road ahead. "Not until I find someone."
She steps forward. "It's been three hours. No one's following us."
"Yet."
She lets out a low breath. "You think there's a shortcut out of this curse. You think someone's just going to appear and hand it to you."
"No," I say quietly. "I think someone out there knows more than we do. And if there's an easier and faster way to break this thing... I'm not giving up until I find it."
She falls silent, and for once, doesn't argue.
"So," I mutter, "what other streets should we hit?"
She shrugs, arms still crossed. "Maybe East Alder... or Beacon Hill."
I nod slowly, turning the names over in my head. "Let's add Three Pines and Judson Square. We'll start with East Alder."
The ride is quiet, and I'm glad for it. No static, no ghostly muttering, no commentary from the back seat. Just the hum of the engine, the glow of passing streetlights across the windshield, and the distant beat of bass from some club.
I pull up a few blocks from East Alder, easing the car into a spot between a graffitied truck and a rust-eaten sedan.
The place is packed with young couples and families, older folks sitting on folding chairs by tiny stores, and street performers playing violins. A night market. Of course it had to be a night market.
I glance back at the ghost, who's floating just a step behind. She smirks faintly. "Well, if you wanted eyes on you..."
As we move slowly through the flow of pedestrians, our eyes scan for flickers of danger. Neon storefronts glint against wet pavement, casting everything in hues of blue and violet. The air carries the smell of engine oil and something sweet—candied nuts, maybe—drifting from a food cart we pass.
Then, Helena suddenly jolts and points. "Look at that."
I follow her gaze.
In the center of the avenue, where the buildings fall away into open space, stands a statue. A weathered bronze horseman, reared up on his steed, one arm stretched high holding a broken flagpole.
But it's not the statue that makes my breath catch.
It's the crows.
Dozens of them, gathered all over it—lining the man's body, gripping the saddle, packed along the outstretched flagpole like ornaments on a skeletal tree. Some flap lazily in place, others pick at their wings. But one—
One crow is different.
At first, it blends in. But when I walk abit closer and squint, I notice the glint of silver around its neck—a thin choker, almost too slim to see from this distance. Its eyes aren't like the others. They are storm cloud grey.
"Do you think..."I begin, but the words fall flat. I already know the answer.
"Only one way to find out," she murmurs as she vanishes.
I adjust the facemask and head towards the statue as the strange crow watches in silence.
I stop in front of it, boots planted firmly on the pavement. The crow remains still on the rider's helmet.
Then, without a word, I shut my eyes. I take a deep breath. Feel the hum under my skin. My fingers twitch inside my pockets, and I glance down.
The nails are glowing silver. That meant my eyes are, too.
When I look up again, the crow is still there—but something's changed. It tilts its head in sharp, sudden angles now, like it's agitated or excited. Like it knows.
Then it caws. The sound echoing through the avenue.
I turn away and start walking, letting the crowd swallow me. I keep my pace casual, eyes scanning for a break in the buildings.
An alleyway. Somewhere private.
I find one tucked between a bookstore and a dark café and walk towards it.
The wind shifts above, and I hear it. The heavy flap of wings.
I glance up. There it is. The crow. Gliding silently overhead, eyes locked on me.
As soon as I'm deep enough into the alleyway and sure no one's watching, I concentrate. The flapping is closer now, behind me.
I spin around and hurl the knife.
A sharp clink echoes as the blade hits its mark. The crow shrieks, slammed against the brick wall, one wing pinned beneath the dagger. Its feathers scatter from the impact, the bird flailing wildly with its free wing, cawing in a frenzy.
I take a slow step toward it. "Calm down. Luckily for you, I'm not too fond of hurting animals."
Its remaining wing beats the air in weak, jerky motions, but it can't break free. Just as I reach out, the crow opens its beak.
"Let me go. Let me go."
I pause as my brows shoot skywards. "Oh? You can talk even as a crow?"
I press one hand against its body, the other gripping the hilt of the knife.
"I said let me go, you worm," it hisses in its raspy voice.
I lean in, lowering my voice. "You've got two options. I could cut you up right now and leave you to die or get eaten... or, we could do this peacefully. You answer a few questions, and if I like your answers, I let you go. Deal?"
The crow stills in my grip, its wings twitching. Its sharp, storm-colored eyes flit left, then right. "Fine," it finally croaks.
I yank the knife out and free it. The crow screeches, wings flaring wide—but I'm faster. I grab it with both hands, holding it tight against my chest. Its feathers are coarse, and it thrashes wildly, slamming its wings into my forearms.
"Easy," I mutter, adjusting my grip. Its heart races fast beneath my fingers. "Now… time to find a more private location."
I glance back toward the mouth of the alley, trying to recall any abandoned buildings or empty homes we passed on the way here.
"I did spot something. An empty house. Two blocks ahead, near the corner with the rusted sign." Helena murmurs, floating beside me.
I shift the crow in my grip, its feathers rustling, and step back onto the main street.
We continued down the sidewalk. The house Helena had seen was just ahead—its windows were dark holes, with ivy snaking up its wooden frame like fingers pulling it into the ground. It sat, forgotten by time, with a collapsed fence marking what used to be a yard.
But I couldn't focus on it. Something felt... off.
Then I heard it.
A soft flutter above me. I stopped and turned slowly.
There were crows everywhere.
Silent silhouettes gathered like shadows with feathers. They line the roofs on both sides of the street. Sat hunched on lampposts and balconies. Perched on stop signs, railings, and power lines.
"Is this your doing?" I asked, gaze flicking to the sea of dark feathers above us. "Are you calling for backup?"
The crow turned its head up to meet my eyes. "Perhaps," it rasped. Its voice was scratchy, like it had smoked a lifetime's worth of ash. "Don't you know what they say about crows—and what happens when you harm one of ours?"
They say a group of crows is called a murder for a reason. They remember faces. Hold grudges. Pass vengeance down through generations like family heirlooms. If you hurt one, the others never forget. They don't forgive. They mourn. Then they come for you.
The door creaked open with a groan, its hinges long rusted from disuse. The house was hollow, peeling blue wallpaper clung to the walls like dead skin, and the floorboards moaned beneath every step. I bypassed all that, heading deeper.
I searched until I found what I needed: a room with a very high window. Four moldy walls and a door I could shut behind me.
I turned to face the crow still in my grasp.
"Transform," I ordered, "Now."
Its eyes blinked at me in surprise.
"And don't even think about fighting back," I added, stepping further in and closing the door behind us. "I'll be faster."
I hurled it to the center of the room.
Its wings spread wide to balance, talons scraping the wood—but then, its form began to change. Bones cracked and lengthened with sickening precision. Feathers melted into flesh like ash washing away in the rain. The wings folded inward and split, reshaping into long arms. I watched in frozen awe as it unfolded into a man.
He was crouched on the floor and looked older than me—maybe early twenties—with olive skin covered in so many scars. His hair, impossibly long, and black as pitch, spilled around him like a living cloak. Draped over his shoulders and back, spilling across the floorboards like roots seeking soil.
He raised his head and looked up at me. Same grey eyes. He crouched low, half-feral, like a beast mid-hunt. He looked like something far less civilized. Still a bird, even now.
"How did you know I could transform?" He asked in a deeper voice.
I pointed to the silver choker wrapped snug around his throat.
"That's an artifact, right? An animal wearing it only means one thing."
His fingertips brush it like he didn't even realize it was still there.
He stared at me, stunned. "How do you know about this?" He asked. "About artifacts?"
Before I could answer, Helena appears by my side. "You're wasting time. Interrogate him about the item already. I don't like the feel of him." She eyes him suspiciously.
I turn my head slightly toward her, letting a small smirk curl at the edge of my lips.
"I'd rather interrogate you, though…Leora."