House of Beating Wings (The Kingdom of Crows, #1)

by Olivia Wildenstein

I was born on the wrong side of the canal, the dark side, the home of the half-bloods or halflings, as we are sometimes called.

she insists my presence in Scola Cuori has nothing to do with reputation and everything to do with legacy—every Rossi before me has attended that school.

Not that I know everyone in Luce, but the pointy-eared people represent twenty percent of our population, and having attended the one and only school in Tarecuori, I’m familiar with most family names.

“I know all about the queendom.” He hooks an arm on the back of his chair and pivots to face me. “Do you really?” “Yes. I really do. I know they’re savages who detest the Fae and use humans as slaves, which incited King Costa to erect wards around their island to keep them out of Luce.”

“I know they practice blood magic, which tints their eyes pink. I also know that only the women have powers.”

“The crows went to Shabbe because the Shabbins venerate animals.”

“Because Costa killed the queen’s daughter and used her blood to create the magical barrier between their island and the rest of the world.”

Luce may be far from perfect, but it’s my home. Filled with my people. My friends. My serpent. And maybe . . . just maybe, my throne.

“I should ask you for pointers, since I’ve yet to snag a man’s heart with my kisses.” “Perhaps because you kiss them below the belt, and hearts are higher up.”

“What was it about her blood that so unsettled you, Lazarus?” My grandfather’s voice springs me out of my mind’s ramblings. The healer’s gaze roams over me one last time before rising to Justus. “I thought I smelled turmeric and wondered why in Luce she’d treat an open wound with a blood thinner.” “Probably Ceres’s doing. She so loves concocting natural remedies.”

Although his comment irritates me, Lazarus’s lie irks me more, because the healer knows one of my secrets—perhaps both—and like Antoni mentioned, secrets make for dangerous weapons in our world. What will he do with mine?

The battle of Primanivi was waged by a tribe of mountain dwellers assisted by crows decked with iron talons and beaks. Morrgot has iron appendages. Morrgot is leading me into the mountain to find another crow like him. Lore’s crows. Santa merda . . . I just got into bed with my people’s enemy.

Morrgot One and Two are nowhere to be seen.

🤣🤣😭

“The Magnabellum was a war between Shabbe and Luce.” No. It was a war between the Crows and the Fae. The Shabbins were our allies.

“How did he learn of your curse?” From Meriam, his Shabbin lover. The one he later sacrificed to create the wards around the queendom.

“Cian is my mate.” “I’ve heard. He hasn’t stopped speaking about it since you penetrated his mind.”

Cian is Cathal’s brother.

Andrea Regio was willing to negotiate. We agreed on dividing the kingdom, but his son intervened.

“So why did the Crows kill Andrea? Because he changed his mind?” We didn’t kill Costa’s son. “Then who did?” Andrea was killed by his own flesh and blood. By his own son.

If you don’t untuck your fucking shirt, I’ll inflict bodily harm on every Selvatin who leers at you. Is that truly what you want?

Insults may roll off our round ears, but they also trickle inside and round other parts of us. I will not be rounded.

Although I will never sit on your shoulder, once I’m whole, we can revisit teaching them some manners.

Before I die, I want to know what Beyockeen means.

“We’re not trusting her”—Dante dips his chin, eyes darker than a starless ocean—“we’re trusting Lore.” A steel blade to the heart would’ve hurt less than Dante’s avowal.

What if I don’t want to shapeshift? Then you won’t, but I’ve yet to meet a Crow who doesn’t crave the freedom of flight.

Tell the princeling to fucking concentrate on the road instead of on your body, Fallon.

That you, Little Bird, belong to the sky. The crow emerges fully from the rocking surf, dark and huge, larger than I’ve ever seen it, a monster of down and iron. And that the sky . . . it belongs to me.

“Are you offering me your throne, Lore?” Her answer takes me by such surprise that a sound my lungs haven’t produced in years . . . in centuries . . . erupts from me—laughter.