Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109878 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 549(@200wpm)___ 440(@250wpm)___ 366(@300wpm)
As we approach the front door, it swings open before Blue can knock. The woman who emerges looks exactly like what you’d get if Tim Burton designed a funeral director and then gave her a sense of humor. Deep brown skin with dramatic dark eye makeup, raven-black hair twisted into an elaborate updo secured with what appear to be tiny silver skulls, wearing a fitted black dress that manages to be both funeral-appropriate and fashion-forward. But it’s her smile that catches my attention—wide, genuine, and absolutely wicked.
“Blue, you magnificent bastard,” Vespera says in a voice like silk wrapped around steel, pulling Blue into an embrace that would be inappropriate at an actual funeral. “And this must be the infamous Miss Mitchell. The woman who’s got our boy here breaking all his retirement rules.”
“Guilty as charged,” I say, shaking her surprisingly warm hand. “Technically, I think he’s the one corrupting me.”
Vespera throws back her head and laughs—a sound like champagne bubbles bursting. “Oh, I like her already. Come in, come in. I was just finishing up with a client.”
The interior of the house is even more dramatically gothic than the exterior. Deep red wallpaper, antique furniture that looks like it belongs in a vampire’s parlor, and enough candles to stock a cathedral. But what really catches my attention are the photographs lining the hallway—before and after shots of Vespera’s work. The befores show people in various states of . . . well, death. The afters show the same people looking like they’re simply sleeping peacefully.
“Impressive work,” I observe, pausing beside a particularly striking transformation.
“Twenty-three years in the business,” Vespera says proudly. “Working on the living is far more rewarding, I must say. Dead people never appreciate good contouring.”
Vespera gestures toward a door marked Private in elegant script, then unlocks it with a key hanging from a chain around her neck. The room beyond is like stepping into a completely different world.
It’s part laboratory, part workshop, and absolutely magnificent. Stainless-steel tables line one wall, equipped with drainage systems and ventilation that clearly handle messy work. Along the opposite wall, a massive industrial incinerator hums quietly, its door sealed with locks that look like they could stop a tank.
“Welcome to my sanctuary,” Vespera says, spreading her arms wide. “Where problems disappear and secrets go to die.”
Blue leans against one of the tables, completely at ease in this chamber of horrors. “Vespera handled Julian Crow for us last night. Had him processed and gone before dawn.”
“Julian Crow?” Vespera perks up with professional interest. “Oh, that was delightful work. Young man, good bone structure. Shame about the personality, but they can’t all be winners.” She glances at me with something that might be pride. “I heard you were the one who did the actual honors. How was your first kill?”
The casual way she asks the question should probably disturb me more than it does. “Honestly? Terrible,” I say, feeling heat creep up my neck. “I mean, he died, so mission accomplished, but I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m basically winging it and hoping nobody notices I’m a complete amateur.”
“Ah, honesty! How refreshing.” Vespera claps her hands together with genuine delight. “Blue, darling, you’ve brought me a protégé who actually admits she’s a work in progress. How absolutely wonderful.
“The Crow are an awful bunch,” Vespera continues, her tone shifting to something darker. “They deserve whatever’s coming to them. Thank goodness Blue finally got some sense into that thick skull of his and left them behind.”
I stop breathing. “Wait. What?”
The room goes quiet except for the hum of the incinerator. I look between Blue and Vespera, suddenly understanding that I’ve just learned something huge.
“You were one of them?” I ask Blue, my voice barely above a whisper. “You were a Crow?”
Blue runs a hand through his hair, messing up that perfect styling.
“Shit,” Vespera says, covering her mouth too late.
“What do you want to know?” Blue asks, already knowing what I’m going to demand.
“Everything,” I say without hesitation. “I need to know everything.”
Blue is quiet for a long moment, studying my face like he’s looking for something. Finally, he nods. “Blue Crow.”
Vespera busies herself organizing tools on one of the tables, but I can tell she’s listening to every word.
“I was in my early twenties when Brutus recruited me,” Blue continues. “Fresh out of the military, looking for purpose, to apply the skills I’d picked up. Brutus saw potential in me that I didn’t even know I had. He convinced me I was wasting my talents in civilian life, that I could be part of something bigger.” Blue’s hands clench into fists at his sides. “He made it sound like an honor. Like joining the Crow was the most important thing I could ever do.”
“He was your mentor.”
“He was my father figure, my teacher, my god.” The admission comes out bitter. “For eight years, I was Blue Crow. I killed whoever Brutus pointed me at, however he wanted it done. I thought I was part of something legendary.”