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

want chicken too—”
“You could always just kill one yourself,” I say with a wicked grin.
The woman blanches, her bottom lip bobbing. “I can’t—I couldn’t… I’d become a—”
“Relax, it was just a joke,” I say, rolling my eyes. These mortals have no sense of humor when it comes to matters of Reapers. They’re so terrified of ever becoming one that even the mere suggestion sends them quaking. “Look, I don’t make the rules. I just follow them. I have one contract for one pig, so that’s all you’re getting from me. If you want more, then write another request and bury it like you did all the others. I’m sure it wouldn’t take that long for the scripture worms to collect and deliver it.”
“It’ll take a day at least, and the Festival of Wings starts tomorrow. The people need the meat today. They need to start preparing it—”
I extend my fingers and drown her out by reaching between the wooden rails to touch the plumpest hog between the eyes.
Death itself billows in plumes from my fingertips. I channel it into the pig’s skin, and its eyes go wide with fright. Since becoming a Reaper, I’ve learned that every living creature seems to know when death has finally come for it, like an inherent sense that’s only triggered the once. This swine is no different. It sees my hand and knows its end has come. Luckily, it doesn’t have to be afraid for long. All it takes is one gentle caress of my toxin and the pig collapses with one final breath, mud splashing up on my black, knee-high boots.
My job complete, I step aside to give Crow space. It spreads its wings, smacking me in the eye, before launching forward. Crow swoops to the pig’s dying flesh and rests upon the sow’s limp shoulder.
Crow’s beak opens wide. I see its thin tongue sliding hungrily in its mouth before it lets out a ravenous, Caw!
Only in Veltuur do crows’ eyes burn red. In the realm of the living they are usually black as ink.
Except for when they feed.
As Crow unhinges its mouth, its eyes dazzle like that of rubies against the moonlight.
To the mortal eye, nothing happens. All that the mortal woman can see is the crow’s mouth opened in a gurgling cry.
But as I am not a mere human, I bear witness to what it is really doing.
A colorless, shapeless miasma lifts from the pig, hovering toward Crow’s widening maw. It’s like the swine’s very essence is being pulled from its lifeless body. As I’ve seen thousands of times, the vague form resists at first, seeming to cling to its host with sticky hands. But the resistance never lasts long, especially not in beasts.
Crow snaps its head back, and as the hazy thing reaches its beak, it guzzles the cloud in one-two-three quick gulps.
There. Death fulfilled; contract complete. Four thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine lives under my belt. Only one more to go.
Emotion has no place in my expression as I address the merchant. “The pig is ready. If you’d like the other creatures taken care of, you’ll have to request another contract.”
Part of me wishes otherwise. I’d much rather fulfill my Shade requirements here in one stop, but that’s not the way things work. I go where I’m told. I claim those ready to be claimed.
I’m already halfway in the doorway when her jaw starts bobbing. She wants to insist I do more but is too afraid to suggest it.
I stretch my arm out to Crow, but let it fall to my side before it has the chance to stubbornly decline. “Take us to the palace,” I command.
Crow stretches, and for half a second, I think it’s not going to obey me. I assume the day will come when one day it won’t. But today is not that day. Today, Crow hops off the pig, squawks at the woman as it bounces past her, and jumps onto my shoulder.
The world disappears behind murky gas, and we’re off to our next assignment.

The Next Heir


Acari
“You’re doing it again,” my handmaiden teases, dipping the comb into a basin of spring water.
“I’m not doing anything—doing what? I’m just sitting here, completely void of all doing-of-things. Except for blinking…and probably breathing.”
A soft giggle, one that I see from the reflection of the mirror before me, makes her eyes crease. “You’re worrying about becoming king, my prince,” she says, running the comb through my dark hair.
I shudder. There’s that word again: king. I am no more a king than I am a merchant or a craftsman. I have no ornate skill or extensive training in ruling the kingdom of Oakfall, and yet, despite what would be considered best judgment, I will ascend into the role regardless. Who decided that the only necessary requisite for the crown should be heredity? It seems a little less than sufficient. Just because of my bloodline, I will sit on a throne that I’ve never wanted, nor was it intended to be mine before a few weeks ago.
But here I am, the new rightful heir, the new future king. King. What does that word even mean? I wonder if it came before the word kingdom, or if it was the other way around—which begs the question, what of the kingdoms ruled by queens? Why aren’t they called queendoms? Struck by the intellect of the Divine Macawna! Does the Queen of Ghamaya refer to the kingdoms as queendoms. She probably does—why wouldn’t she? Which begs a further question: when I’m king, do I refer to them as queendoms in her presence as well?
“Acari?” a distant voice calls.
Probably because I was thinking about the Queen of Ghamaya, my first thought is that it’s her calling my name, and a scene plays out of our hypothetical first formal greeting, where I accidentally tell her that her kingdom—instead of queendom—is fortunate to have her, and the entire room uproars with unrelenting laughter at my utter incompetence and ignorance.
But once the