Daughter Of Witches

The Crow

I glanced at Henry where he preened his glossy feathers before tucking his wings neatly behind him, cocking his head to one side, shining black eye fixed on me.

“Ethie,” he croaked.

I reached up and stroked his head, glancing down again at the glass at my feet, taking note of the image. With a sickening twist in my stomach I realized I likely looked like a young Viviana Tepes, that very same nasty piece of work who got me in this mess in the first place, the ever-present crow on my sh...