A Wolf's Courage(Tales of Europa Book 1)

Chapter 8-Kisses and Attemped Killings

I was flying, flying through the laughing wind as the air passed through my feathers. My eyes roaming across the verdant land below, the roaming hills and forest near the end of winter, awaiting the spring thaw.

Such freedom there is high in the cold gusting winds and gray misty clouds. The wind pounding in my ears in time with my beating heart. My blood thrums through me as I dip and dive through the air. Until white hot pain shoots through my skin and burrows into my bones.

Then I'm falling, my wings flapping in vain to stay afloat through the blinding pain. The arrow like a dark snake, burrowing through my feathers and into my flesh. Down I fall, the pain increasing as I near the frozen ground. In fear, I close my eyes and wait for my body to splatter against the stone.

Suddenly, a cold wind slaps me to the side, the frozen wrongness of it forcing a gasp through my lungs and wrenching my eyes open. My breath comes in quiet frantic gasps, the pain in my shoulder no longer an icy fire but a numb chill. Panting through the pain, I find myself in a light filled room.

The stone walls painted with plaster and rimmed in dark wood. A gray stone hearth roars with life as the orange flames gobble at the wooden logs. Blue woolen drapes frame a set of large glass windows to my left. The frosted glass facing out to an empty yard of dead moss and ivy.

My hand brushes against something soft, glancing towards it I find it resting by my side on a dark blue coverlet. Soon, I become aware that I am fully upright in a large oaken four poster bed. Dark blue curtains pulled back to the posts and tied with ropes of silken black ribbon. Confusion instinctively makes my hands go to my chest, my fingers finding a cotton cloth barrier instead of my skin.

I look down and find my legs covered by the warm coverlet. The color black against the pale white of the shift that has replaced my feather cloak. I run my fingers up the blouse of the shift, and across my left shoulder until they stop at a raised lump covered by my sleeve. I pull away the cloth and trail a finger down my recently healed wound, that has been stitched together with sky blue thread.

The color reminding me of a pair of eyes, eyes of kindness and fear. The eyes of a mate that I at first, did not remember I had, but there he is. The words wind through my mind like wind through the branches, as I turn my gaze from the wound to him. His tall lanky form sprawled in a plush gray armchair just a few feet away. The folds of his eyes fluttering with sleep, his face so much younger and somewhat peaceful.

Cocking my head to the side, I feel a familiar stirring in my blood. Even in pain, a crow loves nothing more than to trick and play. It is part of my nature, a behavior I've had since I was born. Even when I fled to the wood, I never lost it and still revel in its grasp.

Be it a stranger or family, they all are fair game to a crow. Though many think it a curse, others see it as a blessing to be tricked or teased by such a mischievous creature. The water pitcher on the bed side table suddenly gives me a perfectly thrilling idea.

"Water Maid swish and sway, Water Maid come out and play," I croon, in a quiet sing song voice. My pointer finger ticking back and forth as the water flows out of the pitcher's spout. The stream of water arcs and curls in the air, as the ropey drops slowly circle above the man's head.

Like the Wind Lord, the Water Maid does not need the language of the Fallen Empire to lend her power. Air and water are more palpable, their nature more willing to be used if they are asked to act in playful and mischievous ways. Such as blowing dust onto clean laundry, or sending someone for a quick swim in the creek.

The water drops as I release my control over the circling stream. It falls onto the man's head with a splash, drenching his golden hair and white crumpled shirt. His eyes bolt open and he stumbles to his feet, confusion and the remnants of sleep makes him wobble on unsteady legs.