Was that a pulse?
Impossible.
I snort at my silliness, my mind racing through explanations for the ticking. One takes precedence over the others: something must be locked inside the statue. A weapon or a mechanical clock or something . . . something magical.
I edge back over to it, seize its wings, and flip it onto its stomach, then scour its back for a paper-thin seam or a miniscule latch. Nothing. I lean over to peer between its legs, and my pulse goes wild when I spot a small depression. I dart my finger against it, then spring backward, expecting the statue to detonate.
I’m almost disappointed when nothing happens. I creep forward again, inspecting the tiny indent. Blood pools into my cheeks as I realize what I must’ve just touched.
I, Fallon Rossi, have just groped a statue’s crotch.
This is a new low, even for me. Thank every Fae god that Phoebus wasn’t around to witness my fondling.
Pushing out a deep breath, I decide I must’ve imagined the ticking. I poke my thumbs into what’s left of the black spikes. The surface is hard and cold, slightly crumbly. One eases free, plopping out onto my bedsheet. The other takes a little more prodding but comes loose as well.
I’m about to turn the crow back over when the large holes in its wings shrink before vanishing entirely.
Holy mother of all Cauldrons . . . I rub my eyes. When I lower my fists, not only are the hollows gone, but the iron body has also filled with color. The statue is entirely black, except for the shiny silver talons and bill.
A soft rustle whispers across my bedroom as the crow’s splayed wings retract like a fan snapped shut.
I stumble backward, tripping over my own feet, and land hard on my ass. The crow plants its claws into my bed to right itself, then pivots its head and sets its cold gold eyes on me.
Oh . . .
My . . .
Gods . . .
When it flaps its wings, a shriek tears up my throat but collides against my clenched teeth, emerging as air.
Everything I know about crows drums into me, heightening the frantic pounding in my chest. Keeping the creature in my line of sight, I scrabble backward like a bug, my heels catching in my dress, making me topple back onto my stinging ass. I miscalculate the distance and bang the back of my head into the wood.
The crow’s wings beat frantically, churning the air in the room, the oxygen in my lungs. After another crazed loop around my small bedroom, it arrows for higher ground and perches on my armoire.
My fingers inch toward the doorknob as the bird glares my way.
I swallow, heaving myself to my feet in slow motion.
The creature tilts its head sideways, observing me as though I’m the oddity. As thoughI’vejust color-changed and come to life.
“What the underworld are you?” I hiss.
Great. Now I’m conversing with this . . . thing. Sure, I talk to Minimus but Minimus is real.
The crow doesn’t caw. Merely keeps observing me with that unnerving intensity.
I twist the knob.
The bird stretches its wings.
I bang the door shut, panicked it’ll swoop out and into Mamma’s room, or worse, into Luce.
What have I released?
What have I done?
Twenty-Four
