An Enchantress of Ravens

By C.David Belt

When Lenore O'Corbain's family was viciously murdered by the "Hangman," Lenore inherited the O'Corbain legacy--communicating telepathically with birds and merging with ravens. This "talent" had been in her family since time immemorial.

Noah, a raven, is the only surviving witness to the murders, and seven years later, he has given Lenore the first clue to the assassin's identity. Now the Hangman has decided Lenore is a threat.

Lenore meets Thor Odinson, and a whirlwind courtship ensues. Lenore is swept off her feet and quickly falls in love. But Thor seems to know too much about the murders, particularly about their ritualistic nature. The Hangman is watching Lenore, waiting for just the right time to strike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Parables
• Release date: Jul 15, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005351618

C.David Belt

C. David Belt was born in the wilds of Evanston, Wyoming. As a child, he lived and traveled extensively around the Far East. In Thailand, he once fed so many bananas to a monkey, the poor creature swore off bananas for life. He served as a missionary in South Korea and southern California (Korean-speaking), and yes, he loves kimchi. He graduated from Brigham Young University with a BS in Computer Science and a minor in Aerospace Studies, but he managed to bypass all English and writing classes. He served as a B-52 pilot in the US Air Force and as an Air Weapons Controller in the Washington Air National Guard and was deployed to locations so secret, his family still does not know where he risked life and limb (other than in an 192' wingspan aircraft flying 200' off the ground in mountainous terrain). When he is not writing, he has been known to sing in the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square, and works as a software engineer. He collects swords, spears, and axes (oh, my!), and other medieval weapons and armor. He and his lovely wife have six children (and a growing number of grandchildren) and live in Utah with a cat that (as the family scape-cat) patiently and unashamedly takes the blame for everything in the household.C. David Belt is the author of The Children of Lilith trilogy, The Sweet Sister, Time’s Plague, The Arawn Prophecy, The Whole Armor of God, The Witch of White Lady Hollow, The Witch and the Devourer of Souls, and The Executioner of God. For more information, please visit www.unwillingchild.com.

Book preview

An

Enchantress

of

Ravens

C. David Belt

Published by Parables at Smashwords

© 2022 C. David Belt

Cover Design: Ben Savage

ISBN: 9781005351618 (e-book)

ISBN: 9781637322765 (paperback)

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

PARABLES

10829 Dublin Road

Walkersville, MD 21793

http://www.parables-pub.com

For Cindy,

who still enchants me

"I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity."

Edgar Allan Poe

"Ravens are the birds I’ll miss most when I die. If only the darkness into which we must look were composed of the black light of their limber intelligence. If only we did not have to die at all. Instead, become ravens."

Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum

"Always there have been six ravens at the Tower. If the ravens fly away, the kingdom will fall."

John Owen Theobald, These Dark Wings

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Epigraphs

Author’s Note

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Author’s Note

My English teacher, when I was in the eighth grade in Lexington, Kentucky, had a Ph.D. in (I kid you not) mythological birds. The woman was, in a word, eccentric, but she was also a great teacher. (What she was doing teaching junior high school was beyond me.) The focus of the class was literature. Early in the school year, we had a unit on Edgar Allan Poe’s The Raven. The teacher (whose name, sadly, I have forgotten) required that each student memorize and recite before the class one stanza (of the student’s choosing) from that classic, dark poem. For each additional stanza memorized, extra credit would be given. And if any student memorized and recited the entire poem, that student would be awarded an A for the entire year and would be excused from all other classwork and homework. The teacher said, Of course, none of my students have ever memorized the entire poem, and I’m sure none of you will either.

Was she kidding? Challenge accepted!

I, of course, memorized and recited the entire poem. As it turned out, I was the first of her students, in all her history of teaching, that had done so. I was also the last. She told me she would never propose that challenge again . . .

For the rest of the year, I quite happily sat in her class and read whatever I wanted (which actually included all the course work, plus Tolkien, Burroughs, Stoker, and Shelley). And at the end of each semester, I happily accepted my A. (Just for grins and giggles, I took the final exam, and missed only one question.)

I adore The Raven (even though what there at is, in my not-so-humble-but-almost-always-correct opinion is kind of a cheap rhyme for window lattice). The poem is masterful and haunting and deliciously dark.

At an even younger age, I developed a fascination for mythology—Greek, Roman, Hindu, and, most especially, Norse. My interest predated my obsession with comic books (and TV superheroes), e.g., Batman, Superman, the Flash, Green Lantern, Spider-Man, Captain America, Iron Man, and, of course, the Mighty Thor. I was reading Bullfinch’s Mythology in first and second grade (along with Dr. Seuss). I watched or read any retelling of The Odyssey. My parents bought me a series of books retelling the stories of Thor, Loki, Odin, Freyja, Sif, Frig, Baldur, Siegfried, and Brunhilda.

I was, in a word, hooked.

In 2019, my lady wife and I went on a cruise to the Norwegian fjords. In preparation for this voyage, I studied Norwegian. I had zero intention of speaking to anyone in Norwegian (and, indeed, I did not), but I wanted to better understand the culture by learning the language. One of the many fascinating discoveries I made in that study is that the Norwegian word for victim is "offer."

A victim is an offering.

(We had a wonderful time on the cruise, by the way.)

An Enchantress of Ravens ties in with my novel, The Sweet Sister, though only tangentially. But my research for that book (The Sweet Sister) engendered in me a fascination for ravens. They are quite intriguing creatures and often misunderstood. Ravens hold a place of significance in many cultures and mythologies.

Which brings me back to my eighth-grade English teacher with the Ph.D. in mythological birds. Her doctoral dissertation happened to be on—you guessed it—ravens. She told us that the raven is not an actual flesh-and-blood-and-beak-and-feather bird, but a purely mythological creature. Like the punk kid I was (and, in many ways, still am), I felt compelled to show her an encyclopedia entry on the common raven. (Yes, children, this was in the primordial past before the internet when we poor, benighted humans had to look stuff up in printed books, instead of on a smartphone.) Even presented with that article (which included a photograph of an actual raven), my teacher informed me that ravens did not exist in North America. Once again, I showed her the text to the contrary. She then told me that ravens were extinct in North America. When I showed her (again) the same text stating to the contrary, she declared categorically that the encyclopedia was out-of-date.

Ah, well . . .

Never let the truth get in the way of the narrative?

While, technically, it is true that any print encyclopedia entry can be out-of-date the instant it is published, ravens are most definitely not extinct in North America (at least, as of this writing).

However, she was still a great teacher. Without her influence I would never have read anything by Maxim Gorky, and I would be the poorer for it.

As an added bonus, An Enchantress of Ravens finally answers the burning question that I’m absolutely certain has been on everyone’s mind since reading The Sweet Sister: How did Winslow Abbot obtain the ravens, Bran and Badh (pronounced Bov), on such short notice? I mean, that is the burning question that’s been on everyone’s mind, right? Well, even if it hasn’t precisely been burning, at least now we have the answer . . . (if you read this book).

For those who are police-detective-TV-show-challenged, M.O. stands for modus operandi, which (for the Latin-challenged) means method of operation. In other words, how someone (usually a criminal) typically does things.

On another note, UVMA is the official acronym for the Utah Veterinary Medical Association.

Many works of fiction declare that they are, indeed, works of fiction and that any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Actually, that’s not entirely true with this story. There is one very real person (actually two, including a certain sword aficionado) depicted in this novel: Dr. Willie Lanier, D.V.M. Willie is currently (as of this writing, but then, that might be out-of-date by the time one reads this) the Chief Public Health Veterinarian for the State of Utah. He is also a great guy. Willie frequently sits next to me (once again, as of this writing) in the baritone section of the Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square. Willie has graciously consulted on veterinary matters in three (so far) of my novels. He has also consented to his depiction in this story.

I hope you enjoy my offering.

In the immortal words of Noah, Eyes tasty!

C. David Belt

July 2021

Chapter 1

Once upon a midnight dreary

Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

Springville, Utah: 2015 A.D.

He couldn’t scream.

Archie couldn’t force enough air through his throat to cry out. He could barely get a whistle of air past the constricting noose. With his hands bound behind his back, all Archie could do was kick helplessly at the void beneath his feet—and that just made the rope tighter.

Colors faded from his oxygen-starved sight, and Archie watched in mute, panicked horror as his beloved wife, Helen, and Colby, their only son, dangled and danced at the end of their own ropes. Helen rotated slowly as she hung, kicking, fighting for air. Red streaked her bulging eyes as she met his gaze for the briefest of moments, then spun away.

Colby kicked against the air, but with his slight, fourteen-year-old frame the boy was weighed down far less than his parents. Dad! the boy wheezed. Help!

But Archie couldn’t help his son. He couldn’t help his wife. He couldn’t help himself.

He couldn’t help anyone.

His eyes fell on the man in the black ski mask. The man who was killing them. The killer opened a long, thin, black case and removed three short poles, two of them with threaded bolts protruding from the tops. He began to screw the end of one into the end of another.

He looked like a man assembling a custom pool cue.

Why? Archie wondered even as he fought for breath. Why are you doing this?

You should have just sold the darn birds, the masked man said.

Birds? He vaguely remembered the man who came to purchase a mated pair of ravens—ravens with specific names. Bran and Badh? But Archie was certain this masked man was not the same nervous, agitated man who’d offered an enormous amount of money. He was not the man Archie had refused to sell to.

The murderer picked up the third extension. "Could’ve avoided all this unpleasantness. And I wouldn’t have had to take a contract in Utah. He shook his head. Never take a contract in Utah. You should never take a dump where you eat. He chuckled. But the money was just too good, you know? Two million bucks. He screwed on the last extension, making the pole at least three yards long. All for a couple of birds."

Birds?

Alice! Archie’s increasingly clouded mind fought against the darkness, against the panic, and focused on that one thought, on that one name.

On that one hope.

Archie closed his eyes and reached out with his thoughts. Alice!

And just as he had so many times in his life—and in Alice’s—he merged with her, became one with her. And Alice welcomed him.

In that instant, Archie could breathe, because Alice could breathe. Oxygen flooded his lungs. For three rapid breaths, he simply inhaled and exhaled, reveling in the joy of breathing. There was no noose about his feathered throat. There was no rope around his wings as he rode the winds.

As always, when Archie merged with the female raven at a time when Alice happened to be midflight, it took him a moment to orient himself by probing her memories and looking around. He spied Noah, Alice’s mate. He croaked loudly to the male raven. Noah, flying just behind Alice—just behind Archie—croaked in answer. Then Archie pulled his wings to his side, rolled over, and dropped through the air like a stone, trading altitude for airspeed.

As he spread his wings again and beat furiously at the air, speeding toward home, toward his family, he glanced quickly behind to be certain that Noah was speeding after him in pursuit.

I’m coming, Helen! I’m coming, Colby! Hold on!

God, protect my family!

He spied the rookery, with the word, Nevermore, painted on the sign above the door—the door for humans. Above the sign was the much smaller, special door—the door with the perch and keypad beside it. He alighted on the perch. Quickly, he tapped in the access code with his beak. He hopped back and forth on the perch, frantically waiting for the light to switch from red to green. Noah landed beside him, croaking once, sensing, as Noah always seemed to, that Archie and Alice were merged.

The smaller door—about two feet square—slid open.

Archie hopped through the opening and into the rookery office.

He instantly took in the scene.

Helen, Colby, and his human body hung by nooses from the office roof beam. Colby no longer moved. Blood dripped from the boy’s left side and onto the floor.

Colby! NO!

Helen still danced at the end of her noose. Archie’s human body, of course, hung unmoving. The killer held the assembled pole in his hands. At the end of the pole was a long, flat blade—an elongated spearhead.

And it dripped blood. Colby’s blood.

The masked man pointed the spear at Helen’s left side.

Archie spread his wings and flew at the masked intruder. He landed on the spear shaft, just above the murderer’s hand, and pecked down on the hand. Hard.

The killer yelled and shook the spear, dislodging Archie.

He fluttered back, then flew at the man’s face. He stabbed his sharp beak at the intruder’s left eye, but the killer flinched, and Archie’s beak plunged into the man’s cheek instead, driving deep past the knit mask and into the flesh.

Archie tasted blood.

The man cursed. He struck Archie with the spear shaft.

He felt the delicate bones in his right wing shatter. With an almost human scream, he dropped to the floor.

The man swung the spear around. The murderer stabbed down, impaling Archie’s breast.

Man and raven shared an instant of agony, and then Archie was back in his own body, kicking and fighting for breath once more.

Noah attacked the killer, gouging at his wounded, bleeding cheek. His black beak tore off a small strip of bloodied flesh.

The man roared. He struck Noah with the spear shaft, knocking the raven across the room.

Noah landed in a heap, a slight fluttering of his chest the only sign the bird still lived.

Archie kicked and writhed, desperately trying to turn his body away from Alice’s mangled corpse, from Noah, even from his dead son. Colby’s body hung lifeless, dripping gore. Colby!

Stinking birds! Blood streamed from the murderer’s wounded cheek. Finish the darn job, he snarled. He strode toward Helen, and out of Archie’s field of vision. Ek vígja þessi andlát til Odin, the murderer said. The killer’s tone made it sound as if he were pronouncing a solemn prayer.

Archie rotated just in time to see the man thrust the spear up and into Helen’s side.

Her eyes bulged. Blood gushed from her wound. She twitched violently.

Then her eyes rolled up into her head.

Archie couldn’t even scream.

Helen! NO!

The murderer withdrew the blood-streaked spear and turned toward Archie. He shook his head again. All for a couple of birds. He reached out and gripped Archie’s arm. Stop spinning for a second, okay?

Involuntarily, Archie was forced to comply. He could no longer see his dead wife and son. Why, God? Why? Still struggling for breath, for life, even as he knew death was approaching, he thought of his daughter, his sole remaining child. God, protect Lenore!

Ek vígja þessi andlát til Odin, the killer intoned.

He thrust the spear up and into Archie’s side, through his diaphragm, and into his heart.

As the last of his consciousness faded, Archie heard the murderer say, You should have just sold the darn birds.

Chapter 2

till his songs one burden bore

Edgar Allan Poe, The Raven

Springville, Utah: 2022 A.D.

I’m very sorry, Dr. Lenore O’Corbain, D.V.M. said, but your bird is insane. She smiled sadly at Jasper, a male white cockatoo perched on her arm. Jasper stared back at her and cocked his beautifully plumed head—but his head was the only part of Jasper that could be considered beautiful. The poor bird was completely nude from the neck down, having plucked out every single feather on his lower body. The tips of a few scraggly pinfeathers poked through his pale flesh, but otherwise, he looked like a very large, animated chicken carcass—at least below his neck.

Standing on the other side of the veterinary examination table, Marsha Turner, Jasper’s owner, chuckled nervously. "You’re kidding, right? I mean, insane? That’s . . . That’s not funny."

"I’m afraid it’s true. Jasper is a rescue bird, right? You rescued him?"

Marsha’s eyes widened in surprise. How— How did you know? Her surprise quickly morphed into suspicion. Have you seen Jasper before?

Oh, Lenore thought, that’s right. She didn’t tell me that. No, I’ve never met him before today. But he had a previous owner, didn’t he?

That’s right. But they couldn’t keep him. Couldn’t give him enough attention. So we took him in. She indicated Jasper’s plucked-chicken body. He already looked like this when we got him.

Lenore nodded, gently brushing back her long, black hair with her free hand in order to keep it out of the range of Jasper’s strong, curved, black beak. That behavior is quite common with a neglected bird, especially a sexually frustrated bird, like Jasper.

Sexually frustrated?

Yes. Jasper is a mature cockatoo, and as such, he has a strong urge to find a mate. And you don’t have a female cockatoo, do you? Or any other bird?

Marsha shook her head. No, we don’t.

And lacking a mate, Jasper needs someone to bond to. A human.

There’s me. He takes to me. She paused, frowning. At least, better than he does to my husband.

Lenore reached a hand toward Jasper. Slowly. She pushed her thoughts at the large bird. I’m not going to hurt you, Jasper.

Jasper cocked his head to the other side, staring at Lenore with the other eye. Bite. The bird’s thought rang clearly in Lenore’s mind, sounding very much like the voice of a young child.

I know. But you won’t bite me, will you?

Bite. Scared. Sad. Where Steve? Steve go away. Marsha take Jasper away. Jasper want Steve. Where Steve? Marsha make Steve go away.

I know, Lenore sent. Steve couldn’t keep you anymore. Marsha is trying to help you, Jasper.

Jasper want Steve. Jasper nipped at a small pinfeather on his wing, ripping the offending quill out, leaving a tiny spot of blood.

See? Marsha said, clearly exasperated. He does that all the time!

Lenore nodded, but kept her focus on Jasper. I’m not going to hurt you, Jasper.

You take Jasper to Steve?

Lenore resisted the urge to shake her head. The bird wouldn’t understand the motion anyway. No. Steve is gone.

Steve gone! Steve gone! Jasper shuddered violently and screeched. He flapped futilely with his naked wings. Steve gone! Jasper want Steve!

I know. I’m going to scratch you, Jasper. Behind your head. Will you let me scratch you?

Bite.

No, you won’t. Will you let me scratch you?

Jasper uttered a very human sounding moan. He inclined his head. Jasper. Pretty bird! Jasper.

Lenore reached slowly behind Jasper’s head and gently scratched under his feathers.

Jasper closed his eyes and made a chuckling noise. Jasper! Hello! Jasper! Pretty bird!

Lenore smiled. Hello, Jasper. She continued to scratch the back of his head.

"He never lets me do that, Marsha said. Why? Why is he letting you scratch him and not me?"

Lenore’s smile faded, though she never looked away from Jasper’s closed eye—in case he opened it again. "Oh, a couple of reasons. Number one, you’re scared he’ll bite you."

He can bite through porkchop bones! He could easily take off a finger.

"I’m sure he can. But he can also sense that you’re scared. He wants to be dominant, to establish the pecking order of his flock."

"But why’s he letting you? You’re a stranger."

Lenore allowed herself a wistful grin. I have a rapport with birds.

Marsha shook her head, a look of incredulity on her face. I can see that. She paused. What was the other reason? The other reason he is letting you—The other reason he won’t let me pet him?

Lenore finally looked at the woman, and saw the hurt in Marsha’s eyes. The other reason is that you took him away from—she caught herself before she could say, Steve—his previous owner.

But they couldn’t keep him! They were neglecting him, leaving him alone all day. They didn’t want him anymore. Especially after he started pulling out all his feathers. When he stopped being—

When he stopped being pretty. Lenore nodded, continuing to scratch Jasper’s neck and head. "I know. And your intentions were good. They were the best of intentions. But cockatoos are strong-bonding birds. They mate for life. And"—don’t say the name—his previous owner was his mate, so to speak. Jasper can’t move on. He’s grieving. In his mind, you’re the one who took his mate from him. He’ll probably never forgive you.

Never forgive?

It’s almost all he thinks about. She reached out to Jasper with her mind. Marsha loves you, Jasper. She loves you. She takes care of you.

Jasper want Steve! The bird jerked upright, pulling his head away from Lenore’s hand and glaring at her. Jasper want Steve! Marsha make Steve go!

I’m sorry, Jasper. I’m so sorry.

Marsha wrung her hands. But what can I do? How can I help the poor guy?

Lenore sighed. I really hate this part. Jasper needs to be around other birds, other parrots. Other cockatoos, if possible.

"But we can’t afford to get him a female. And even if we did . . ."

Lenore gave her a sad smile. "Even if you did, Jasper would never take to her. I mean, certainly, she might be able to make him less lonely, but that wouldn’t be fair to her. She needs a mate. Lenore sighed. And Jasper would never be that for her. She’d just end up like him."

Then what do I do?

I can recommend a good parrot rescue facility. Jasper would be happier there.

A tear spilled from Marsha’s eye. Will his feathers grow back?

Lenore shook her head. No. I mean, some will, but he’s done too much damage.

Oh, poor guy! Tears streamed from both of Marsha’s eyes. I’m sorry, Jasper.

I can see that you really care for Jasper.

Marsha nodded. She clamped her trembling lips together as if she didn’t trust herself to speak at that moment.

I’ll have Stephanie give you the information for the parrot rescue when you check out. They’ll take good care of Jasper. I promise. Jasper, I’m going to put you back in your carrier now.

Go Steve?

No, Jasper. I’m sorry.

Jasper want Steve.

She moved her arm—with Jasper perched upon it—toward his open carrier-kennel.

With a squawk, the bird jumped off her arm and scurried into the kennel. He went all the way to the back, hiding inside the safe, dark space.

Jasper want Steve.

Lenore closed and secured the carrier door. I know. Goodbye, Jasper.

Even as Marsha left the examination room with the carrier and the grieving cockatoo, the bird’s mind screamed, Jasper want Steve!

Lenore followed Marsha out and into the clinic office, then gave instructions to Stephanie Nakamura, her blue-eyed, graying-brown-haired receptionist and veterinary assistant. No charge today, Stephanie, Lenore added. This is almost as bad as having to euthanize a bird—at least for the owner. At least, Jasper will be happier.

Happier, but never happy.

Goodbye, Marsha. Lenore, towering over the shorter woman by more than a foot, laid a hand on Marsha’s shoulder. You’re a kind person, Marsha. A good person. It won’t make you feel any better. Thank you, for what you did for Jasper. What you tried to do.

Goodbye, Jasper.

Jasper want Steve!

Lenore turned, left the front office, passed through the examination room, exiting by the back door, and went to her private office. She settled into her chair, buried her face in her hands, and wept.

With a fluttering of wings and a loud Lenore! Noah flew from his perch and settled on Lenore’s back. The elderly raven sidled up to her shoulder. Hello. Noah. Noah. Noah. He picked at Lenore’s long, black hair, grooming her. Lenore sad. Why Lenore sad?

Lenore lifted her head. Hello, Noah. She sat up slowly, giving the raven time to adjust his balance. Yes, you’re right. I’m sad. I’m sad, because a woman came in today with a very sad bird. I had to tell her that her bird was always going to be sad. I told her she couldn’t help her sad bird. She has to send her sad bird away to a place where he can be with other birds. But he’ll still be sad.

Noah sad. Alice dead. Noah sad. Noah always sad. Other bird sad like Noah? Noah’s thoughts played in Lenore’s head like the rapid-fire notes of a staccato song—as if a manic pianist was flitting from melody to melody, from rhythm to rhythm. It was so unlike the chaotic thoughts of the mad cockatoo who, to Lenore, had felt like a toddler banging the same keys on a piano keyboard—tuneless, rhythmless, and endlessly repetitive.

But in his own ceaseless grief, Noah’s thoughts always returned to the central, melancholy theme of his existence—the violent death of his mate, Alice.

Yes, the bird is sad like Noah. The bird lost his human.

Other bird human dead? Like Archie? Like Colby? Like Helen?

Hearing the ancient raven recite the names of her murdered father, brother, and mother drove a fresh stake of grief into Lenore’s heart, opening the never-healing wound afresh. No. Not like my family. The bird’s human simply left him. His human abandoned him.

Other bird human go away? Gone?

Yes. He is gone. And the bird—

Noah croaked loudly. Alice gone. Alice dead. Bad man kill Alice with stick. Bad man kill Archie. Bad man kill Colby. Bad man kill Helen.

Yes. He did.

Noah see. Bad man kill with stick. Bad man kill Alice with stick. Noah has stick. Favorite stick. Hidden. Other birds not find favorite stick. Noah hide. Noah bite bad man. Noah eat bad man face meat. Alice dead. The ancient raven croaked again. Ek vígja þessi andlát til Odin. Bad man say. Noah remember. Noah always remember. Noah bite bad man. Alice dead.

Yes, you bit him, you brave bird. I hope you left him with a nasty scar. Brave bird. Brave Noah.

Noah brave bird. Mighty hunter. Alice dead. He leaned his head against the top of Lenore’s head. Lenore sad. Noah sad. Noah and Lenore sad together.

Yes, Noah, we are sad together. She wiped away her tears, grabbed a tissue, and blew her nose. Then she scratched Noah behind his head. And there’s comfort in being sad together, isn’t there?

Noah, the bird said. I love you. Hello. Lenore.

Lenore smiled. Hello, Noah. Stay alive, Noah. I need you. You’re my link to them, to my family. Please stay alive. You’re all I have left of them.

And you’re the only hope I have of ever finding the man who killed them. Find him and kill him.

But after seven years . . .

A knock at her office door interrupted her dark thoughts. Lenore wiped the murderous expression from her face and swiveled carefully in her chair—mindful of the raven on her shoulder—to face the door. Yes?

The door opened a crack, and a familiar, youthful face appeared. Hi, Doc.

Lenore smiled. Hello, Sammy. Sammy Rappaport always made her smile. The teenager had more freckles than face—freckles that were