Chapter 8
Eight
Ayna
Uncomfortable doesn’t even begin to describe what traveling tied up in a bag feels like. My feathers get caught on the rough fabric every other step the male takes with the bag clutched tightly in his hand. At least, he didn’t throw me into his pack. I’d be lost for breath there. Out here, at least a modicum of fresh air streams in through the loosely woven textile. The leather string is a whole different story. I can’t open my beak enough to caw for help, and my claws are practically immobile. I tried wiggling around enough to slice the fabric open to the effect of my talons getting tangled in the fibers of the bag—magically reinforced—but that only made the string cut painfully through my feather coat, all the way to my skin.
The only positive about the situation is that hours in a bag make panic the new normal, and I start thinking clearly enough to remember I have other options than submitting to my captors and allowing them to carry me to Aceleau. Yet, I can’t remember why they’d need me specifically. I’m just a bird.
They said something about shifters, a warm, male voice whispers at the back of my head, and I nearly startle from it—nearly because moving is impossible right now.
Shifters. They did mention shifters. If I’m one of them. But what that means, I can’t tell.
Ayna, the voice murmurs, shooting tingling darkness through my mind.
The word means something.
Ayna , he says again.
“There are the city walls,” the male carrying me announces. The fact that I can understand him should tell me something, but again, I’m at a loss. “We’ll arrive in an hour.”
One of his travel companions says, “With the bird, we can walk in the front door and have a ticket to get out alive in case they catch us.”
“ If it’s a shifter, yes. Could still be a normal crow,” the other throws in.
Gus says, “So far, it hasn’t given any sign it is more than a usual bird. Unless it’s a smart one who knows how to pretend.”
Pretend what , I want to ask.
The voice in my head answers, You’re their queen, Ayna. The Queen of Crows.
A caw tears the air as birds fly overhead so fast I hear their wings only for a few heartbeats, but the echo is loud in my head, so, so loud my ears won’t stop ringing. Inside my chest, a tingling that could be from the leather string cutting into my flesh, or from something else, spreads like honey sneaking through my veins. It’s not a familiar sensation, but it’s powerful enough to make my breath ragged and kick my heart back into that state of painful panic that won’t allow me to gather a clear thought.
You’re the Queen of Crows, Ayna , the voice in my head repeats.
The caw sounds again, a warning, a summons. I want to respond, but I’m a weak thread in a tapestry of doom, and when I wiggle my claws, they cramp from being stuck in the same position for hours.
Strong wingbeats whip the air, and they are coming closer, closer, until my captors fall silent, the swaying of the bag stopping.
“Have you come to play?” Gus’s shout nearly makes my heart stop, so close to my ears. He must be holding up the bag like a trophy toward the crows circling above.
I tell myself it’s instinct knowing those are, in fact, crows out there and that they have come for me . It’s something more, though. The tingling in my chest grows stronger, like an ancient song of power and violence, of destruction and retribution.
“Come here, Crow. We have a little something for you.” Pain blooms along my back as I’m jostled around in the bag like a rag doll.
Wake up, Ayna, the voice in my head sings. Listen.
Listen to what? I want to prompt, but the bag is being torn open, and before I can make out much of the green and gray blur that is my surroundings, I hit the ground. Stars dance in my vision, threatening to take my consciousness, but at least, I can breathe again—once the force of the impact stops holding my chest in iron claws.
For a long moment, all I can do is gather my breath, blinking into the pale morning light tinting the seam of the forest in harsh, sharp shapes. And there above me?—
Wings spread wide as it circles out of reach, a majestic crow surveying the scene. A few feet above it, a second bird flutters, its movements less graceful but laced with the same sort of power.
“Have you come to get this one back?” The toes of Gus’s boots nudge my side, flipping me over, and fresh pain sears through me.
I’m bound. Helpless. I’m on the ground. And the ground is death.
You are death , the voice in my head objects.
I want to ask him who he is and what he wants, but the part of me alert enough to pay attention knows better than to expect answers.
Get up and fight, the voice orders.
I don’t bother pointing out I’m bound into a useless bundle and there is no part of me that’s still able to fight.
Gus toes me again, and this time, his boot traps my head, bending my neck so hard I believe it will snap, but when he releases me?—
The leather string shifts on my beak enough for me to open it a fraction of an inch. Not much, but when I give a pathetic caw, the sound hatches into the world.
Like struck by lightning, the circling crow flattens its wings against its sides, and I fear it will shatter if it hits the ground at the speed it’s gaining. But before it might have splattered on the leaf-covered rocks, its form flickers, expands, larger, larger, stretching into a tall, powerful male.
A beautiful, terrifying male, feathers flying from his arms as the last of his wings retracts. Smoke curls at his fingertips like ink in water, and his eyes are black from the pupil to the lid. Nightmare given form , I think for a breathless moment as I take him in, the angular features, heavy brows, black waves streaming around his head like on a phantom wind. Plain dark leathers cover him like a second skin, showing off the powerful muscles in his thighs, the broad expanse of his shoulders, the strong arms, and slender hips. The silver hilt of a blade peaks out from behind his neck as he cocks his head to the side, all predator.
I know I should be terrified of this male. Of death incarnate, the unadulterated rage rippling through him like a wave across the ocean.
The ocean.
Turquoise blue waters. The wind on my face. The sun on my skin. Freedom. Like flying.
“Hello, my little crow.” His voice clangs through me like a reckoning, clearing the haze in my head.
Myron. This isn’t just any male. This is Myron. King of Crows. And my mate.
I’m faintly aware of Gus and the twins drawing their weapons as they take in the horrible beauty of the male facing them with the wrath of the gods.
My wrath, the voice in my head corrects, and I recognize the Brother Guardian for who he is.