piece of cardboard stamped with suitably gothic script, were two small plastic containers of foundation makeup, only partially used.
One stark white. One jet-black.
The Crow tapped each container in turn, then nudged them toward Dan’s feet.
Dan looked down, between his scuffed Wolverine work boots. The boots were now dappled with bloodstains, fine droplets gone nearly black on sand-colored suede.
As if waiting, the Crow cocked its head and stared at Dan with black eyes like bullets. Dan couldn’t look away from the eyes set in the bird’s tiny skull, for what he saw there was more than darkness.
He saw another man, face painted, a stranger whose expression was equal parts harlequin, demon, and angel.
Without thinking, Dan bent low and picked up one of the containers. The Crow’s voice filled his head. I can help you, the bird said. But you must help me. We must work together. Do you understand?
Dan didn’t speak. The wind picked up. Brittle shards of garbage churned in the night. Dan saw the man with the painted face standing before him like a ghost delivered by the night, and he saw other men . . . and other women. Each of them had faced the moment Dan faced now, and each of them had chosen to walk beneath the shadow of the Crow’s wing.
Dan saw their faces, felt their stories pour over him like healing waters. He knew they were fellow travelers, for the bitter memory of loneliness pulsed in their veins . . . but they were no longer alone. They had joined with the Crow, and the bird had delivered them from the jaws of death, giving each of them a second chance.
A chance to set the wrong things right. A chance to escape their loneliness and reclaim their love. A chance to live again, in the righteous fire of vengeance. And to die again ... in peace everlasting.
A chance to sleep in a place where pain could never wake them.
I can guide you, the Crow promised . Please believe me, Dan.
Dan stared at the make-up container nestled in his palm. Vampire—that’s what the manufacturer had named the dead- white color
Dan swallowed hard. Halloween was in the past, and he wasn’t a monster
He was a man.
Dan dropped the makeup container on the ground.
What are you doing, Dan?
“What I’ve always done.”
He turned his back on the bird, and he walked away . . . alone this time.
He walked to the one place in the world he had to be—Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin’s unhallowed tomb. Dan’s love lay bent on the freezer’s floor, legs twisted beneath her at a tortured angle, long dark hair framing empty eye sockets that seemed to bleed tears.
“Oh, God,” Dan whispered. “Oh, God—Oh, God ...”
Nothing could have prepared him for the horror of this sight; the brutal ugliness, the abominable violation. This was the work of monsters. Vengeance forgotten, Dan fell to his knees, sobbing.
"Why didn’t you let me die?” he cried. “Oh, God, why didn’t you let me die?”
I can guide you, the Crow promised, dark wings whispering over Dan’s shoulders as it landed on the sepulchre. I can help you find the peace you seek.
The words hit Dan like a hard slap. He turned on the bird, his anger flaring as he pointed at the freezer “Can you really help me find peace after this?"
The bird cocked its head and looked at him. Its beak seemed a welded point, like a nail, and the voice that had filled Dan’s head was suddenly nowhere to be found.
“The truth. Crow,” Dan demanded. “I want the truth from you. Can you help me find peace after this?”
Still no answer.
"Talk to me, dammit!”
The bird cawed—raw, primal, an angry cry needing no translation.
Dan turned away. “I guess I have my answer.”
If that is the answer you want, the bird said . I don’t pretend to know everything, Dan. I can’t predict the future. ... I can't chart the course of your immortal soul. But I do know this: Leticia's murderers are strong, and they're alive, and they're out there. Kyra Damon and Johnny Church are
One stark white. One jet-black.
The Crow tapped each container in turn, then nudged them toward Dan’s feet.
Dan looked down, between his scuffed Wolverine work boots. The boots were now dappled with bloodstains, fine droplets gone nearly black on sand-colored suede.
As if waiting, the Crow cocked its head and stared at Dan with black eyes like bullets. Dan couldn’t look away from the eyes set in the bird’s tiny skull, for what he saw there was more than darkness.
He saw another man, face painted, a stranger whose expression was equal parts harlequin, demon, and angel.
Without thinking, Dan bent low and picked up one of the containers. The Crow’s voice filled his head. I can help you, the bird said. But you must help me. We must work together. Do you understand?
Dan didn’t speak. The wind picked up. Brittle shards of garbage churned in the night. Dan saw the man with the painted face standing before him like a ghost delivered by the night, and he saw other men . . . and other women. Each of them had faced the moment Dan faced now, and each of them had chosen to walk beneath the shadow of the Crow’s wing.
Dan saw their faces, felt their stories pour over him like healing waters. He knew they were fellow travelers, for the bitter memory of loneliness pulsed in their veins . . . but they were no longer alone. They had joined with the Crow, and the bird had delivered them from the jaws of death, giving each of them a second chance.
A chance to set the wrong things right. A chance to escape their loneliness and reclaim their love. A chance to live again, in the righteous fire of vengeance. And to die again ... in peace everlasting.
A chance to sleep in a place where pain could never wake them.
I can guide you, the Crow promised . Please believe me, Dan.
Dan stared at the make-up container nestled in his palm. Vampire—that’s what the manufacturer had named the dead- white color
Dan swallowed hard. Halloween was in the past, and he wasn’t a monster
He was a man.
Dan dropped the makeup container on the ground.
What are you doing, Dan?
“What I’ve always done.”
He turned his back on the bird, and he walked away . . . alone this time.
He walked to the one place in the world he had to be—Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin’s unhallowed tomb. Dan’s love lay bent on the freezer’s floor, legs twisted beneath her at a tortured angle, long dark hair framing empty eye sockets that seemed to bleed tears.
“Oh, God,” Dan whispered. “Oh, God—Oh, God ...”
Nothing could have prepared him for the horror of this sight; the brutal ugliness, the abominable violation. This was the work of monsters. Vengeance forgotten, Dan fell to his knees, sobbing.
"Why didn’t you let me die?” he cried. “Oh, God, why didn’t you let me die?”
I can guide you, the Crow promised, dark wings whispering over Dan’s shoulders as it landed on the sepulchre. I can help you find the peace you seek.
The words hit Dan like a hard slap. He turned on the bird, his anger flaring as he pointed at the freezer “Can you really help me find peace after this?"
The bird cocked its head and looked at him. Its beak seemed a welded point, like a nail, and the voice that had filled Dan’s head was suddenly nowhere to be found.
“The truth. Crow,” Dan demanded. “I want the truth from you. Can you help me find peace after this?”
Still no answer.
"Talk to me, dammit!”
The bird cawed—raw, primal, an angry cry needing no translation.
Dan turned away. “I guess I have my answer.”
If that is the answer you want, the bird said . I don’t pretend to know everything, Dan. I can’t predict the future. ... I can't chart the course of your immortal soul. But I do know this: Leticia's murderers are strong, and they're alive, and they're out there. Kyra Damon and Johnny Church are
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