Soul of the Crow: An Epic Dark Fantasy (Reapers of Veltuur Book 1)

of the six figures behind me have stopped staring at me in that expectant way. Truth be told, many of them seem to be growing impatient.
I snap back to the crow.
“Come here,” I command, stomping my foot.
The bird squawks again.
Before either of us do anything more, the ground begins to quake beneath my feet. A low rumble disturbs the realm. The birds in the other trees begin cawing frantically. I sense the danger too, the warning in the tone of the air, and I’m not sure if it’s directed at me or the crow.
“Get over here!” I say, more sternly yet, and make my arm even more rigid.
This time, the crow listens. It dives from its branch like a spear aimed directly at my heart. Before the point of its beak can penetrate my chest, it curves upward and lands on my shoulder with an unbalanced thud.
Caw, it croaks in my ear.
I turn back to the looming figures.
“She has chosen,” one of the seven says, his voice crackling like fire. “The Councilspirits pronounce Sinisa Strigidae, the newest member of the Reapers. May she serve Veltuur well.”

Contract to Kill


Sinisa
I awaken beneath my scarred tree to the familiar sound of crows. The rumpling of feathers, the squawking, the blinking that should be almost imperceptible is orchestrated into an ominous and delightful symphony. Their song is a moonlit night. It is the comfort of home, but perhaps that’s because for these past few years it is all I’ve known.
I spot Crow with ease among the birds above me. The bluish-black glint of its wings is similar to that of any of the others, but there’s something about the way it carries itself that always stands out to me. It’s hunched a little more, like its back has given up on it. I’ve tried examining it, to see if it’s an injury or something—although I’m almost positive that the crows of Veltuur can’t be injured—but it won’t let me get a good look at it. All crows are obstinate, hateful things like that. It’s just embedded in the Reaper-crow relationship. If we didn’t need them to pass in and out of Veltuur, I doubt any Reaper would willingly work with the winged creatures.
“Crow,” I call, and all of the birds fall silent. Mine turns to me with an odious glare. “Don’t look at me like that. You know the drill.”
Crow doesn’t budge.
I’m in no mood for another obstinate day from it. Some days, Crow seems more obedient than others; I’m not sure why. It’ll come and go at my bidding without so much as a squawk.
I was hoping today would be one of those days.
Today is special, after all. Today I claim my five thousandth soul, allowing me to petition for the role of Shade, a promotion of sorts, although nowhere near as prestigious as becoming a member of the Council. Honestly, I think those roles have been set for the rest of eternity.
I take a second to pin the front section of my hair up to keep it out of my eyes during the day’s events, before stretching from the sodden earth. It’s a short distance to the hollow on the other side of my tree, but I take my time trailing my fingers along its knotted bark. When I reach the black hole, I plunge my hand inside the shallow cavern and pull free a dry piece of splintered wood. All of the trees in Veltuur have a hollow, where a Reaper’s daily assignments appear. It’s as if the trees themselves are delivering our orders, but I know better.
The chunk of wood ignites at my touch, red embers burning without heat in my palm. The red fades to black, coals turning to ashes, and the remnants crumble between my fingers as I let them sift to the ground, though they don’t make it. They never do. Wraiths scuttle across the woodland beneath the haze and devour the ashes just before they reach the earth. Grotesque creatures, they are, surviving solely off death order remnants and the Reapers they’re permitted to torture.
I turn back to the leftover dust in my palms just as a mental blast of power, something more vibrant than memory, bursts in my mind.
The first force hits me like the power of the moon high overhead, and I am overcome by something akin to a vivid dream. I catch a flash of pink hocks and sharp hooks as I intrude on the crowded streets. Inside the breezeless city, I am sweating. It’s more than just mere images though. The vision attacks all of my senses, and before I know it, I recognize the bustling sounds and rank smells of the market as well. Everything is so realistic, it’s like I’m already there even though I am merely an observer. For now.
As soon as the image forms, it fades.
There’s a pause. A long one. The dwindling seconds make my throat dry, and I start to worry that I might only have the one assignment for the day. That wouldn’t normally be a problem, but today, with only one kill, that would mean I won’t actually meet my goal.
My heart plummets the longer I wait until finally there’s no hope. With only one life to claim, I’ll have to wait one more day to petition to become a Shade. Considering I’ve already waited this long, I know that one more day won’t kill me—as if I could die anyway, not as long as my servitude is active—but I can’t help but let the reality deplete me.
Just as I’m accepting defeat though, another blast of images burrows into my thoughts, ripping me away from my self-pity. I see a crown, gold and dazzling with jewels. I feel the softness of green velvet against my skin, a fabric I don’t think I’ve ever felt before and one I don’t want to stop touching. But I drop the fabric when I see who’s wearing it: a small girl with a