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

joyful smile, despite her lips being damaged by a jagged crack that trails up to her nostril.
Once again, just as the vision begins, it too dissipates. This time, no more come and Veltuur reappears around me.
Although there are never any words spoken or written, I understand my assignments. Today there are only two lives to be claimed, and thank Veltuur, it is just enough to reach my goal.
“Wretched day, Reaper Sinisa,” rasps a familiar voice from behind me in the fog.
Turning, I bow deeply. “Very much so, Councilspirit Leumas. The best kind.”
The red robes drag along the damp earth as the Councilspirit limps toward me. He reaches out his bony, frail fingers to cup my chin, raising me with little effort. As my gaze befalls him, I smile. It’s the kind of smile only a mentor of great respect and love could ever earn. If it weren’t for Leumas, this day might not have come for another dozen years. He took me under his wing when I first came to Veltuur, taught me the ways of the Reapers, and inspired me to be more. At his instruction, I met each of my orders with eager efficiency. I showed Veltuur that I could handle multiple contracts a day, and in doing so, I’ve climbed through mountains of deaths far faster than any other Reaper among us.
Leumas grins sweetly, sickly, in return. “I see you’ve received your orders for the day. Is it enough?”
The question bubbles in my stomach, an excitement I’ve never felt before. Leumas knows of my intentions of applying for my ascension. Actually, he’s been instrumental in encouraging me to do so. On numerous occasions he’s told me he thinks I’ll make a fine Shade, so when he asks now, I do not want to disappoint.
I nod eagerly. “I was just going. Don’t want to leave death waiting.”
His eyebrows quirk with amusement. “No, we wouldn’t want that.”
“Come, Crow,” I say, looking over my shoulder and finally wiping the ashes from my hands onto my red tunic. “Take us to the meat merchant.”
Caw, it protests, but it’s an empty objection. The crow flies to my shoulder, and within seconds, I am feathers, I am shadow, I am dust, I am nothing, as Crow fazes us into Tayaraan, the realm of the living.
We appear in a blaze of smoke. People gasp as it dissipates, and though I can’t see them yet, I know they’re scrambling to get as far away from us as they can. Reapers are common enough, but still mostly feared, despite the contribution we bring to society. Without us, where else would their souls go?
As the haze clears, I find myself standing beneath an awning, an array of brightly colored fabrics with embroidered designs and tassels hanging all around me. I recognize the marketplace of Oakfall instantly, for it is the only place I’ve ever visited to have the Oakfall king’s banners at every street crossing.
One step after another, I move from one stall to the next, maneuvering my way through the bustling marketplace until I recognize a particular shop of handwoven bracelets and beads. Our destination is just a few streets away.
I don’t know if Crow does it on purpose, but we are never exactly where we should be, only close. It never simply fazes us to the life I’m meant to claim. Instead, it makes me work for it, like the recalcitrant creature it is.
Before I can smack Crow over the head, I’m drawn instead to the singsong chanting of children:
Reaper, Reaper,
Death’s little keeper;
Not a believer?
I wasn’t neither;
But one touch: bleeder,
A crow’s approaching, eager;
Reaper, Reaper,
Vile, wicked creature.
When I finally come across the little urchins, I stomp a single step toward them, and they scurry beneath the hem of a woman’s skirt. I hate these people. I have no memory of my life before becoming a Reaper, but considering that life ended with a pool of blood, I’m fairly certain that these mortals did nothing for me then, and they want nothing to do with me now.
As I walk down the cobblestone road, a path opens with every step I take. Even the donkey with a cart full of date-palm clambers out of my way, like it, too, knows who I am. I am not easy to miss. If my crow isn’t a dead giveaway, I am easily recognizable by the flawless skin of my face. Unlike the mortals, I bear no runes on my forehead. I lost mine the day I was initiated, not that I even remember having any. I don’t even know what color they were or which of the runes I had earned.
With Crow in the sky, I make my way through the streets with my head held high, the masses continuing to part like the wind broken by an arrow flying by. The scent of warmed wheat guides Crow and I down the crowded streets. As abruptly as we turn every corner, the aromas shift. One stretch of the market is sweet with the scent of candied peaches and pears, while another is heavy with clove and cardamom. But when we finally reach the familiar block, all of the previous scents bleed into the stench of raw flesh.
Halfway down the path, I nod at another Reaper as he strides by in the opposite direction. The life he is here to claim must be nearby, otherwise he and the crow gliding behind him would’ve fazed, but that’s not why my attention lingers on him. There’s something unsettling about this Reaper. Most of our kind are poised, unperturbed by emotions, and focused only on our kill orders. It’s just the way of things: every living this must die, and we aid them in their journey to the afterlife in Veltuur.
But this Reaper’s eyes dart from one dark corner to another, distracted, maybe even afraid. It’s so uncharacteristic that it causes me to search the area myself for any signs of the danger he seems to think is lurking.
Not too far behind him, I find