I watched Ms. Cormier cook up a potions for at least an hour. Because of the curtains blocking all light I wouldn’t have been able to tell with my human eyes, but I knew the sun was setting. Elvira sat on a kitchen counter watching Ms. Cormier as well, and every now and then grabbing a cookie from an open glass jar. (After the fifth one, Ms. Cormier started slapping her wrist with a wooden spoon every time she tried.)

Eventually Ms. Cormier poured a spoonful of the potion on an off-white saucer. It probably looked different to humans, but I saw it as a purple-ish colour. Elvira sniffed it suspiciously. “What’s in it?” she asked.

“You don’t want to know,” Ms. Cormier said. I had a feeling she meant: He won’t drink it if he knows. “There are some clothes in your old room. They should fit. And here… is something for the scratch.”

Ms. Cormier scooped up a spoonful of another potion. This one had turned into a thick paste that smelled like the herbs in Fiona’s garden. She put some on another saucer and gave it to Elvira.

“Alright. Come on, crow,” Elvira said. I flew clumsily onto her shoulder again, and we headed upstairs.

When we got to Elvira’s old bedroom, she let me hop on the bed next to some neatly folded clothes. She put the saucer down as well and before she left, she said: “I’ll be waiting outside. Let’s hope it works.”

Yeah, I hope so too, I wanted to answer. I didn't want to doubt Ms. Cormier's potion brewing skills, but a part of me worried that I was stuck as a bird for the rest of my life. Flying was cool and all, but I had more important things to do. My family and friends were on the line. I didn't want to think about what was happening at the Tribune Tower while I was on the other side of the city, a boy in the form of a bird.

Drinking as a bird was harder than one would imagine, but once I got the hang of it I managed to get a few drops in. At first, nothing happened. Then there was an odd bubbling sensation in my throat and stomach, like I imagine a can of coke would feel when it gets opened. (If a can of coke was sentient, I guess.) I felt hot, and then incredibly cold. Freezing cold, like I was going to become an icicle and never move a finger (or a claw) again.

Out of the blue, I started growing. It’s hard to describe how it felt. Do you remember when you used to get growing pains in your legs at night, and nothing helped and you just cried against your pillow until you fell asleep? Yeah, it was like that, except with my whole body and a hundred times worse.

The room was quickly filled with black feather rain, so much of it that I could not see anything else. And once they settled, I was back to normal, buck naked and sitting on the bed with my bare feet against the cold floor. My head spun a little and the world looked dull, but other than that, I didn’t feel bad.

I took the other potion and rubbed it on the wound that had ripped open during my transformation back to human. It was deeper than I had thought. It stung at first, but felt nice and cool after a few seconds. The pain didn’t go away, exactly, but became so dull it was easier to ignore. I made a mental note to treat it better once I had time.

I dressed up. The clothes had likely belonged to Elvira once, and they fit just fine though I had to roll up the pant legs a little. They were black ripped jeans with a chain attached. The top was a faded Black Sabbath shirt with its sleeves messily cut off. It made me feel very insecure about my skinny arms, so I was happy there was a black zip-up hoodie as well.

The underwear and socks were just some cheap store-brand ones and a little bit too big. Next to the bed were a pair of black leather boots, a lot like the ones that Amelia wore a lot of the time. I preferred Converse, but I wasn’t going to complain.

“Good to have you back,” Elvira chuckled when I opened the door.

“Yeah. Good to have thumbs again,” I said, and showed her a thumbs up as a demonstration. “We’re going back to the tower, right?”

“Obviously,” Elvira said.

“And you’re letting me come with?”

“I’d be stupid not to.”

Ms. Cormier was gone when we got downstairs. Hathor and Amon were blocking the door, though. They wore identical disturbing grins.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Elvira muttered.

“Sibyl sends a message,” Hathor said.

“You guys know Sibyl?” I asked.

“We’re in Chicago. Everyone knows Sibyl,” Elvira said.

“She has a prophecy for you, little crow,” Amon purred. Coming from someone who wasn’t Fiona or Elvira, the nickname sounded extremely creepy.

“This one is smaller. Not as world-ending,” Hathor promised.

“Okay, just get on with it,” Elvira snapped. She crossed her arms impatiently.

“One shall fall,” Amon said.

“One shall sway,” Hathor said.

“Six will remain,” Amon said.

“Families reunited, only to crumble back into pieces.”

“A battle in the sky; none left alive.”

I looked at the twins expectantly, but they didn’t say another word. “Is that about tonight?” I asked. Neither of them answered. They just stepped aside, and the door opened by itself.

“Cryptic ass bitches,” Elvira grumbled as we walked out and down the front steps.

“Have they always been like that?” I asked.

“As long as I can remember,” Elvira answered. “It comes from their mother’s side, I suppose.”

“Who’s their mother?”

“Sibyl.”

I was taken aback and had to stop in my tracks for a second. “Seriously? But she’s so…”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“Old? Yeah, so are they. Vampire genes, am I right?”

—

I couldn’t believe my eyes when Tribune Tower came to view. The storm that had been brewing for the past weeks had gathered into a dense black cloud above the tower, thunder crashing over it and lightning striking its highest point at least once every minute. Something that looked like big birds circled the top of the tower. From the street level, they just looked like flies, but judging by the distant mad cackling I guessed they were actually harpies. The same ones we had seen in Washington.

“A battle in the sky,” I said. Like many others, we had stopped to look at the storm.

“None left alive. Don’t turn into a crow again until we’re out of Chicago, alright?” Elvira said and clapped my back. She started walking again.

“I’ll try not to,” I said, though she probably didn’t hear me because she was a few steps ahead of me.

We were greeted by the same guard as before. When he saw me, his face went angry red. “No! You are not getting in again, I am not getting fired, I will call the goddamn cops—“

“Shut up,” Elvira said in a bored voice. All she had to do was raise her hand and the guard collapsed. At first I was so shocked I could barely move — had she killed him? But then I saw his chest rise and fall steadily. Elvira saw my worried face and said: “Don’t worry. He’s just sleeping.”

“When exactly are you gonna tell me what you are?” I asked.

“Later,” she said.

We hurried in. The lobby wasn’t as busy as I imagined it was during peak work hours, but there were still a whole bunch of workers pouring out of elevators and chatting on their phones, ready to head home for the night. None of them looked panicked, which I took as a good sign.

“There,” Elvira said and nodded towards an elevator that had just brought a swarm of late workers downstairs. We got in, and Elvira pressed the highest number on the pad. California Dreamin’ was playing, making me oddly homesick. Not just because of California, but because Killian liked the song.

Every couple of floors someone came in or went out, but by the top floor, we were alone. I took the lead from there; thanks to the previous night’s explorations, I knew exactly where the stairs leading to the rooftop deck were.

Under any other circumstances, I would’ve stopped to gawk. The top of the Tribune Tower was gorgeous, gothic archways reaching up into the sky all around me and the city lights shining through them. But I had more important things to look at. For the first time, I could see the harpies somewhat up close. They circled the tower so fast I could only get a glimpse every now and then. They had the faces of ugly old women, and their bodies fat fluffy birds. Their claws were massive and sharp, covered in blood and gunk.

Ewart was holding Uncle Killian in the very middle of the rooftop, under where the moon should’ve been. Killian was on his knees, dripping blood and sweat. Every time he breathed out, blood splattered on the floor. Fiona was on her knees in front of him, her own spell-book in hand, and holding a silver knife.

I tried to go closer, but an invisible barrier stopped me. They didn’t seem to see me. Elvira pulled me behind a set of benches and chairs that the Tribune workers must have used on their breaks. “We can’t do anything yet,” she whispered to me.

“Under a dark night, under a blanket of mystery and sorrow,” Fiona began in a theatrical voice. “Two families unite. Blood for blood. Magic for magic. Come forth, Killian Monroe, and offer me your palm as I offer mine.”

Fiona offered her hand palm-up. Killian did the same slowly, though unlike Fiona’s steady hand, his shook so much Ewart had to hold it still.

“What say you?” Fiona asked. When Killian didn’t say anything, she repeated the question louder.

“Blood for blood. Magic for magic,” Killian whispered. Elvira held my arm tightly.

“Hear me, Magik, and take this offering to unite two families as one,” Fiona bellowed. She brought the knife to her palm and sliced. Aside from her eye twitching, she didn’t grimace even when fat droplets of blood formed. She did the same to Killian.

“Blood for blood. Magic for magic,” Fiona said once last time. Then, she took Killian’s hand and squeezed. Killian made a face; it must have hurt. I could see their joined blood form a small puddle on the ground between them. And then, because all that wasn’t disturbing enough, Fiona let go and put her hand on Killian’s face, smearing it with red. Killian did the same to her. They both looked absolutely wild, like old warriors ready for battle.

Ewart tossed Killian aside like a ragdoll. He gave Fiona a familiar book; our spell-book, the one I had looked through in Killian’s office a lifetime ago. Fiona opened it and carefully ripped out one of the first pages. She folded it and tucked it into her breast pocket.

Running footsteps approached us from behind. I turned around and saw none other than Amelia, Charon and Tusk, all looking extremely exhausted. Amelia had a black eye, Charon limped and Tusk looked like Tusk but had blood on his chef’s jacket. (Though, I supposed that wasn’t very out of the ordinary for him.)

“Shit! Did it happen already?” Amelia asked. She squatted down next to us, and Tusk and Charon did the same.

“Uh, the creepy blood-sharing ritual between Fiona and my uncle? Yeah,” I answered. “What the hell happened to you?”

“We—“

“We don’t have time for that. Get your uncle and let’s go,” Tusk growled. He punched the invisible wall and just like that, it shattered.

“Whoa,” I said.

Elvira didn’t hesitate. She went straight for Ewart, a furious untamed glint in her eyes. As soon as he saw her coming, he raised a hand and uttered a quick spell. Elvira was lifted into the air and crushed against a stone column.

“Hello, daughter,” Ewart drawled. “Long time no see. You’ve grown.”

“Fuck you,” Elvira spat. She made some sort of an intricate movement with her hands, and dropped to the ground. She landed gracefully on her feet.

“That’s not the kind of language you use in a family reunion,” Ewart tutted. Something formed in the palm of his hand — something that looked like pure darkness — and he cast it at Elvira. She nearly dodged it completely, but it scratched her cheek. Where the darkness had touched, her veins turned black and skin ashy.

I turned to my friends and Tusk. I said in a hushed voice: “Ewart is busy with Elvira right now. I’ll distract Fiona. Will you guys be able to get Uncle Killian?”

“Yes, but we need to hurry,” Tusk hissed. I nodded.

I emerged from our hiding spot and shouted: “Fiona!”

“Oscar,” she said, expressionless. Not a hint of guilt in her voice. She didn’t even look surprised to see me.

“You can still stop this,” I told her, even though I had no idea if that was true.

She shook her head. “Even if I could, this is the right way. The only way,” she said.

“No, it’s not!” I insisted.

Fiona stepped forward. Her cloak and white-streaked hair flapped dramatically in the wind. She brought out her hand — the non-injured one — and suddenly I was flying towards her. It wasn’t like flying as a crow; I couldn’t control anything, and neither could the winds. It was all her.

When I was in front of her, feet glued to the floor, she put her hand, warm as ever, on my forehead and said: “Let me show you.”

Before I knew it, I was falling. Falling through earth and space and everything else there was in the universe. An infinite blackness. All I could hear was Fiona’s voice echo in my head.

“We have more in common than you think, crow,” she said. “And you’ll see, soon. You’ll see why I have to do this, and maybe… maybe we can be a family again. Maybe you can forgive me.”

I opened my eyes, which I didn’t remember closing. I smelled the sea, but not the one I had learned to know in California. This was a colder, harsher sea. I was in a black void, nothing in sight except a little girl in front of me. Her hair was red and untamed, braided messily. She wore a grey skirt and a grey blazer, which looked too dull to suit her fiery hair and determined eyes. Her hands were bruised like she had been hit with a ruler.

“Will you listen to a story?” the girl asked. Her voice was higher pitched, but she had Fiona’s accent.

“Do I have a choice?” I said. My voice sounded hollow.

The girl flashed me a lopsided grin. “No. Not really,” she said.

“Fine,” I said. “Shoot.”

The void melted away and was replaced by a grim scene. Wind howling, wet snow covering everything in a white-grey blanket. I was in front of an old cottage. It was like the ones you see in fairytales, except depressing. Falling apart, probably full of mould.

The second I took a step closer, the cottage engulfed in flames. I could very faintly hear a baby cry. The girl appeared next to me.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“My mother died in childbirth,” the girl said in a flat tone. “I never got to see her, not even a picture, because my father couldn’t bear to keep any. To be fair, I don’t remember much of him either. It took days for anyone to find me in that scorched cottage we once called home. He didn’t have many friends, you see, and the only frequent visitor we had was Father Sheahan.”