Bryant took the lead, flashlight out, sweeping it over alleyways and between the shuttered windows of closed shops. The cold was sharper here, the wind less forgiving. The women followed in a tight cluster, eyes alert.
It was Olivia who noticed the first sign. “There,” she whispered, pointing to a set of fresh footprints leading toward a narrow alley behind the hardware store.
They hurried down the alley, the world closing in with every step. The prints wove between garbage bins and broken pallets, leading into a dark corridor that let out onto a smaller street, one Grace didn’t recognize.
A low sound broke the quiet: the caw of a raven, so sudden and close it stopped everyone in their tracks.
Grace’s heart hit her ribs. She remembered the vision, the voice.Some people deserve to die.
She looked up, and there it was: the raven, perched on a streetlight, watching them with its single, soulless eye. The animal didn’t move, didn’t speak, but Grace could feel its message radiating outward, pressing on her from the inside.
“Move,” she said, voice raw. “Go!”
They ran, following the footprints, Bryant a step ahead, the women fanned out behind. Then, the footsteps disappeared before their eyes like someone had waved a magic eraser.
“Damn it,” Bryant muttered, then looked back at Grace. “Which way?”
Grace felt the world tilt, time thinning and stretching, the street narrowing to a tunnel of possibility. Her instincts screamed for her to obey, and she took the lead. There were no more footprints. Just fragments of a vision that pulled her along further and further until they entered a neighborhood of silent streets. Every hair on Grace’s body stood on end, and she knew… she knew they were close.
They turned off the road and into a yard—a silent patch of snow, untouched by even the wind. At the center, sprawled across the ground, was a body.
Tessa Monroe.
She wasn’t dead. Not yet. But her hands were clawing at her neck, eyes wide and rolling. The necklace, the iridescent teardrop, had cinched tight around her throat, cutting deep into the skin, the metal gleaming wet and red. Blood splattered the snow in a wild, artless arc. Tessa’s face was purple, mouth working for air that wouldn’t come.
Grace dove for her, hands going straight to the necklace. The metal was hot, too hot, and seemed to writhe under her touch. She tried to pull it off, but it bit into her palms, drawing blood. Tessa’s lips moved, a desperate “please,” but the chain only pulled tighter.
Bryant dropped to his knees, reached for his utility knife. “Hold her still,” he barked, and Grace braced Tessa’s shoulders, feeling the convulsions rack her body.
With a single, brutal motion, Bryant slipped the blade under the chain and sawed. The metal sparked, screamed, then snapped. The necklace broke, taking a chunk of Tessa’s skin with it, but suddenly she could breathe again. She coughed, the sound wet and ugly, then sucked in air with animal desperation.
Grace cradled her, pressing a scarf to the wound, hands shaking.
The others circled around. Anna dialed 911 with professional calm. Olivia ripped off her coat and wrapped it around Tessa’s shoulders, while Caroline hovered close, scanning the shadows for any hint of the attacker.
Bryant tossed the broken necklace into the snow, where it steamed and hissed like a dropped coal. He looked at Grace, his face a map of anger and relief.
Tessa’s eyes focused on Grace. She tried to speak, coughed again, then managed, “I heard a voice from far away. It said, ‘some people deserve to die’.”
Grace nodded, squeezing her hand. “You’re safe now. It’s over.”
But even as she said it, the raven cawed, this time with a sickening, human glee.
Caroline saw it too. “What is that thing?” she whispered.
The bird cocked its head, then, with a voice that sounded almost like laughter, said, “We’ll try again on Valentine’s Day. But who will die this time?”
The words hung in the air, a curse and a promise.
Then the bird was gone, wings slicing through the night.
They waited with Tessa until the ambulance arrived. The paramedics worked in silent, efficient tandem, bandaging her throat and loading her into the back of the rig. Tessa clung to Grace’s hand until the last possible second.
When the doors shut, the group stood in the yard, not speaking, the only sound the distant, receding wail of the siren.
Grace looked down at her hands, at the blood and the hairline cuts from the necklace, at the line of crimson staining the snow. She had saved Tessa. She had changed the story.
But the game wasn’t over. Not even close.
