The raven isgone.
What in the nine hells?
Did I dream it?
No.
I couldn’t have.
My confusion quickly becomes panic and I rip up the couch cushions, the basket tumbling to the floor. Dead things shouldn’t go missing. When they do, it’s never a blessing. Without care, the cushions fly from my hands. They, too, join the towel on the floor.
Nothing under the cushions.
Could it have fallen?
Dropping to my knees, I peer beneath.
Nothing.
Flinging myself upright, my head swivels as I scan the room. The tops of bedposts, the bookshelves, my wardrobe, the curtain rods, the open bathing room door—any place a frightened bird could perch.
They’re all empty.
Every single spot.
None of this makes sense.
And why am I looking in places alivingbird would hide?
I witnessed the damn thing die.
Acorpsecouldn’t have gotten far. And no errant soul would willingly claim the recently deceased flesh of abird.
There, beside the foot of the bed, a small tuft of white down lies upon the floor—near invisible against the white of the rug. Scrambling across the floor on my hands and knees, I fling back the comforter. As I lower my cheek to the floor to peer beneath, the comforter slides back onto my face.
With a snarl I tear the comforter from the bed with little regard,ball it tight, and hurl it toward the door. Out of the damn way.
As it was beneath the couch, I’m again met with nothing.
My jaw tightens.
This is ridiculous.
Sitting up I heave a sigh, running my hands over my face.
Would Ryc have noticed the raven missing?
Would he have takenit?
No. He said he would have Oraphia bring me what I needed come morn.
It takes more effort than it should to resist the idea of reaching through our bond to ask about the raven. I can’t disturb him over a bird. Adeadone at that.
The likelihood the corpse has been stolen for use in some necromantic or other blood magic ritual is highly unlikely in Eldoterra—let alonein Castle Erus.But going missing like this? I don’t like it. It doesn’t sit right.
The fire pops, pulling my attention, and a tiny crimson ember flies out of the hearth. It lands on the marble—beside another white feather.
Eyes wide, I launch myself across the room, climbing over the back of the couch. With stretched fingers, I snatch the fire iron as I tumble over, using it to prevent my stumble into the fire. In a matter of seconds, I reduce the fire to a dispersed pile of glowing embers.
