The Seven Year Crow

Fear nothing, trust no one…

The bells toll over Whitwick.
The Gate has opened.

The fog fills the streets.
The Fae have come.

The screaming has started.
The Taking has begun.

The Gate closes once again.
They have their Crow.

In Whitwick Gates, where every mortal child faces the risk of almost certain death at the hands of Fae, Perdi is named the next Crow, a sacrifice to Elphame. But once inside the Sidhe, the Fae will question if they’ve taken the wrong Crow.

Excerpt:

Whitwick Gates was nothing more than a skeleton of what it once had been. Its bones were stripped of flesh long ago by battles fought and lost, and the dead long buried and forgotten. It was a war that never ended but was fed often enough for it to quiet and allow the town to rebuild once again.

In a place that never changed, nothing ever felt the same. Death did that to places where it strangled their children more often than not. It had hung its hat in Whitwick many years before and waited, comfortable in the respite we rarely gave it. It was always there, always plotting, and was always sated in the end. You couldn’t starve Death. He ate his fill no matter how hard you prayed or bargained. Our demise went cheek by jowl with the coming of the Fae. It always had and always would. The mortal realm’s fate was to pay tithe to Gods who never cared much for mankind. Our God had left so long ago that none of us could remember His name. I didn’t blame Him. Most of us didn’t. We’d have left this hellhole if given half the chance, too.

Instead, we tried to forget. But it was hard to ignore when each time the fog came, it reminded us we could never really disregard the fate of our little town and its young, those the Fae would pick and choose from. But halflings, half of this world and half of theirs, were cursed with the knowing. We were always aware of when our time was coming for the Taking, but none spoke it aloud. Saying the words felt too close to blasphemy, offering ourselves, guaranteeing we would be next. It was tantamount to cursing the God who wasn’t here, to begin with. Whether we said the words or not, the Fae always came to collect their Crow, and when they did, the town filled the hat of death to the brim with souls who died in vain.