I pause, a muffin tin in my hand, cocked and ready to fly. “What?”
“A job. Youarea heaven hopper, aren’t you?”
I lower the tin warily. “Who’s asking?”
He lets out a long breath, as though he’s relieved, but I haven’t ruled out beaming him in the forehead with the tin.
“My name is Rook Crawford.” His chest is still heaving, and his three-piece suit is now one and a half pieces. “And I’m here to—” He cuts off into a coughing fit. The guy—Rook, I guess—frowns. “Are you going to do something about that?”
I should mention the house is now fully on fire.
“I’ll get to that,” I say, projecting confidence I don’t feel. There is a chance I’m about to let my ancestral home burn to the ground, all so I can maintain the upper hand with this guy. “First, why don’t you tell me what you were doing waiting for me in my house, in the dark.”
“Have you been outside? It’s freezing.” He seems to notice the fishnets. “It appears you’ve acclimated to this weather quite well.”
I won’t give him the satisfaction of blushing, so I take off my jacket, revealing a flowy backless top.
He clears his throat, but apparently the fire is a bit more distracting than my outfit, because he rolls up his sleeves, mumbles something under his breath, and claps his hands.
The crackle of magic permeates the air, and then it starts raining. Inside my living room. Cold droplets spatter my skin.
Rook rolls his hands around as though he’s twirling a ball and then flicks one hand out, flinging the magic away. The rain starts falling in pressurized arcs, like a fire sprinkler system.
It doesn’t surprise me that he has magic. Most people who hire heaven hoppers have either been to the Afterlife themselves or inherited magic from an ancestor who had. What does surprise me is thetypeof magic. I’ve never seen anything like it. Water out of thin air, shaped into arcs. And the spell keeps going, even though he’s now returned his focus to me.
“My sister is dead.”
I stare at him. My clothes grow heavy with water. Rook’s white dress shirt is already soaked through.
He clears his throat. “She died about a month ago. I need to get her soul back, but no one will take the job. An associate gave me this address. They said…they said if anyone could help, it would be you.”
“One,” I say, raising my pointer finger, “I’m sorry for your loss. Two”—I raise another finger—“no one under fifty hasassociates, and you can’t be more than twenty, so you should stop using that word. And three”—this time, I leave only the middle finger up—“if you’ve been looking into it, you know that you can’t bring anything back from the Afterlife that you didn’t take with you, least of all a soul. So why are you really here?”
“I wouldn’t have come all the way here if I didn’t know it was possible.”
“Oh, okay,” I say sarcastically. “So, how exactly am I supposed to bring back a soul? And then what? You just want your sister to bean untethered soul? Or do you have some way to put her back into herdeadbody?”
Rook opens his mouth to respond, but a strident screech pierces the air, followed by a series of clicks as the undead crow from earlier soars through the open front door. She dive-bombs Rook, wings furiously flapping.
“Late as usual,” I mumble.
Rook curls in on himself, hands shielding his head, as the crow continues to attack, all claws and beak and wings. I let her go on for a few more seconds than necessary.
“Alright, that’s enough.”
The undead crow immediately retreats to the corner to settle on two interlocking crutches, holding each other up to form a makeshift perch. Half the bird’s feathers are missing, revealing desiccated skin and exposed bone. Her beak is cracked, and one eye is milky white, the other shining with an otherworldly glow. When she spreads her wings, she forms a tattered silhouette against the night.
This is:
Crowlene
My familiar and the one piece of magic I have ever done successfully. Well. Successfulish. Familiars are usually still alive, but I’m not picky.
Crowlene ruffles what feathers she has against the deluge of water, keeping her one good eye locked on Rook, who pushes himself up with a groan. With a snap of his fingers, the rain stops. The candle is now a smoldering mess on the hardwood, and a shadow of soot and ash climb up the wall.
“Have you heard of the Voynich manuscript?” he asks, breathing hard.
“Yes.” I bite the inside of my cheek.
