ONE
NORTH
“No. Absolutely fucking not.”
I freeze, then grimace, turning slowly in an attempt to give puppy dog eyes, but the little beast on my shoulder isn’t going to let me get away with anything.
“CAW CAW!”
“You’re not bringing your devil birds into my station!” Camilo, the fire chief, narrows his eyes at me, arms crossed over his chest, making his biceps bulge, and it reminds me of when I was a rookie with a raging crush on him.
He looks more distinguished now with the greys at his temples and the tiny crow’s feet by his eyes. Which, incidentally, should make him feel a little bit of kindred spirit toward Russell.
“Don’t call him a devil bird,” I say, gently stroking Russell’s slightly downy-soft feathers on the top of his head. “He’s only small, and it’ll give him a complex.”
Russell’s been following me around since he was a chick, but this is the first time he’s followed my truck to the station, and what was I supposed to do? Turn him away? Force him to wait for me in the forest?
I mean, the answer is probably, but I’m not going to say that out loud and hurt his feelings.
“If I’m not going to allow Easton to have a fucking dog, I am not going to allowyouto bring in a goddamn crow. And don’t give me that look,” he says when my bottom lip pokes out. “It doesn’t work on me. I have a teenage son. My heart is blackened and withered.”
“Aww, Chief.” I take a step closer, and he takes one back. “Wait, are you afraid of birds?”
“I’m afraid of demons in the shape of birds who can steal your soul. You couldn’t have chosen worse, North. Not unless you’d picked a fucking owl.” He shudders.
“Oh my god, I love owls. I?—”
“North.”
My jaw snaps shut at his tone.
“No.”
With a heavy sigh, I turn and walk back to my truck. It’s in the parking lot next to Camilo’s very fancy SUV and the newest rookie’s motorcycle, which is leaning a little too far to the left.
I know it’s a project bike though. It looks rough and in need of TLC, but it’s all he can talk about, so I’m assuming it’s going to glow when it’s done.
Pulling the bed of my truck down, I hop on the back and urge Russell off my shoulder and onto his little perch. He’ll probably take off for a while, but I know he’ll be back before my shift is up tomorrow morning.
He twirps at me, and I stroke down his front. He’s still baby-soft, though his sleeker adult feathers are starting to come in. I don’t know a lot about crows. It wasn’t exactly my plan to have a stage-four clinger that won’t leave my shoulder.
But when I bought my house, someone told me that if you throw treats and shiny rocks out into your yard, you can get some crow friends. I thought it might be cool.
And it is.
I have three that never leave the massive oak shading my house, and they wake me up every morning, tapping on my window for their daily dose of dog kibble I keep in a bag by the front door.
What I didn’t expect was to find a freshly hatched nestling with a missing foot, who was probably starving to death. Several calls to a wildlife facility, who told me that I lived too far from their nearest office—and that crows weren’t endangered, so I should let nature take its course—and about a hundred hours on wildlife YouTube, and I nursed him to where he is now.
Smarmy.
Freakishly smart.
Imprinted on me like a fucking duck—if crows actually do that sort of thing.
And apparently, now determined to follow me to work.
“Um. Are you a witch?”
