The muffled screams of the birds reached through the windows the second before it happened, and someone had the sense to yell, “Get down!”
There was a rapid thud, thud, thud as feathery bodies hit the windows.
Shock rooted Dayna to the spot. She felt each impact through the soles of her feet.
The sound of shattering glass jerked her awake, and she dove for the desk as a blur of smoke-colored feathers hurtled toward her. She scraped the heels of her hands on the carpet, hardly registering the pain. From there she could see Morgan’s legs, hear her screams. Students were falling, birds clawing their faces, wicked talons tangled in hair extensions, tearing at designer T-shirts and hoodies, bloodying faces.
Something hit her desk with a thud, and Dayna scrambled back. Her elbow smashed into the chair leg with a bone-jarring crack, and she gasped, blinking tears away as a bird glanced off the desktop beside her.
This was a nightmare, some bizarre dream. She’d wake up any second now.
Samuel was there suddenly, his arm warm against Dayna’s skin, his back to the chaos as he tried to shield her. His eyes were wide, one hand clutched over his mouth. He gripped her arm, and she didn’t pull away.
Something crashed to the floor behind Dayna, and she jerked back, nearly knocking Samuel over.
A crow lay on the carpet.
Although…not a crow, she realized. It was too big.
A raven.
The bird struggled, wings flapping, beak open in distress. A jagged piece of glass was embedded in its chest, glittering under the fluorescent lights. One shiny black eye blinked at Dayna. It seemed impossible the bird should focus on her, but it locked on her face and stayed there, shining with a kind of intelligence that made her stomach squirm. Its chest heaved once and then fell still.
A second later the classroom went abruptly silent. Some of the students had fled, others stayed huddled under their desks. Most of the ravens seemed to be dead or dying.
Dayna edged her way out to stare at the bird, her heart drumming hard against her rib cage.
The raven’s eye had never moved from her face. Like it had been fixated on her right up until the moment of its death. Her hand shook as she let it drift toward the raven’s chest, over the glass embedded there.
It looked peaceful in death, and strangely elegant. Long and sleek with coal-black feathers. The way it had looked at her…as if it meant to say something but hadn’t had the chance.
Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. She knew Sam was watching, but she clasped her hands in the air over the bird anyway. Pulling them back, spreading them in a T-shape before her heart. The sign of the battle sword.
Ravens belonged to the Morrigan, and a witch could not allow their souls to pass this way, panicked and alone.
Dayna stayed beside the raven, curling her knees to her chest, blinking back tears. Her throat felt tight, and she wasn’t sure if the tears choking her were over the shock of what had happened, or the sight of the dead bird at her feet.
At least she hadn’t thought of her breathing this entire time.
She had to force down the hysterical laugh that threatened to bubble up.
The classroom was growing steadily colder now; the wind rushed in past the broken windows, and the teacher was rounding up the remaining students, ushering them out into the hall.
A thought kept coming back to her, and as strange as it was, she couldn’t shake it.
What did the ravens want?
CHAPTER THREE
DAYNA
“So the sergeant is there now? Or did they send animal control?”
Reagan Etomi’s voice came from the passenger seat, a little fuzzy through the speakerphone, but Dayna could still hear the amusement in her best friend’s voice.
“Or what passes for animal control in this town,” she replied, easing up on the gas as she turned the corner.
“So…two guys and a butterfly net?”
Dayna snorted. “Hey, by the way, you know Morgan Brennan?”
“Like, Bible-study Morgan?” Reagan’s voice was scornful. “The one who read your journal and spread your sexuality all over the school Morgan?”
“That’s the one.” Dayna grinned. “Is it awful to enjoy the fact that she got her face all slashed up?”
“Hell no, that’s just karma. You’re allowed to enjoy that.”
Dayna smiled. Even though her hands were still shaking on the wheel, and she kept seeing flashes of black feathers every time she blinked, she could feel her shoulders relaxing.
“But you know what the others will say, right?” Reagan’s voice grew serious. “It’s definitely an omen. You’re a witch. There’s no way they crash into your classroom and it’s a coincidence.”
She sighed. Another uncanny habit of Reagan’s: saying exactly what Dayna was thinking. “I know.”
“We can do a reading. But you’ll have to stop by Sage Widow; the aunties are out of tea. Bronagh says you should pick some up.”
Dayna groaned. “Fine. I’ll grab it on my way.”
It wasn’t that she minded the errand. It was that she’d have to go by the church on the way there.
The Church of the Blood of the Lamb was her father’s territory, and it wasn’t just because he was the reverend there, but because he seemed present in the very structure of the building. It was constructed of blocky gray stone and loomed above every building in the village. Its lines were perfectly straight, and the stained-glass windows of the tower were done in muted purples and blues.
This was a no-nonsense building. It did not tolerate revelry or foolishness.
It made her wonder what camp was like, if it had the same somber, prisonlike feeling.
The idea made her feel slightly nauseous.
There was a billboard at the bottom of the church lawn. Every week someone arranged the letters on it to spell a different message. Today it said, Try Jesus. If you don’t like him, the devil will take you back.
It wasn’t the billboard that made her nervous, though; it was the crowd gathering around it. The people at the bottom of the slope held an assortment of cardboard signs. One woman in a long flower-patterned dress held a sign that proclaimed, Repent, Pagans! Another wore a makeshift sandwich board with red marker across the front: Thou Shalt Not Suffer a Witch to Live, Exodus 22:18.
“Um, listen, I gotta go.” Dayna jammed her foot down on the gas, alarm prickling through her.
There was a pause on the other end, and then Reagan said slowly, “You’re sure you’re fine? You’re not driving like a maniac, right?”
“I’m fine. Listen, I’ll see you soon, okay? Bye.” She waited for Reagan’s grumble of affirmation and then hung up before easing off the gas pedal. It should have been disturbing that Reagan knew her that well, but she was used to it.
Anyway, the sign was probably nothing to worry about. Even though it shook her, she knew it had nothing to do with her coven. Judging by the slogans, they were going after Metaphysical Gifts, the store on Main Street that touted itself as a “Pagan gift shop.”
Over the years, her father’s church had begun to stray into strange territory. Likely they no longer qualified as Catholic. As far as she could see, they did what the reverend told them to. Picketing, protesting, ruining people’s lives and businesses…
They couldn’t be going after Sage Widow.