Prey

Image by Peter Pang from Pixabay



People blame me for the fog that shrouds the night.

I let them believe what they will. It is good that they fear
me. “Go my lovelies. Find the one I seek.”

The crows’ eyes flash red in understanding, and they take to
the skies, ebon feathers drifting slowly to the ground. I close my eyes to see
through theirs.

I feel the blood rushing through their veins. Thrilling.
Tempting. Maddening. I push down the animal inside and ignore the sound
thrumming in my ears. I am flying.

The billowing clouds rush past below me. I am the murder,
and their eyes are mine. I dive below the fog and a city takes form. My servants
see what mortal men cannot. I spread out through the streets.

Lights burn, inviting, behind shuttered windows. I ignore
them. My quarry has taken to the streets tonight. A bawdy song breaks the
silence and I become the crow that heard it. A man in top hat and cape leans
against the tavern wall relieving himself on the cobblestones.

Repulsive. On another night, I may have stopped to remove
this blight from the world, but I hunt other prey, and will not be diverted.

A flash of skirt in a dark street draws my attention. I switch
crows and bank toward that motion. The bird cares nothing for the glimpsed
bosom, the wisp of hair trailing down her long neck, but I push it closer and taste
her perfume as we dart past. I will remember her.

A third crow hears the clink of holy water bottles, sees the
glint of the gilded crucifix ever at his chest.

I open my own eyes, and instantly I am there behind my prey. “Hunter,” I whisper, baring my teeth to strike before he can turn.

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