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CROWMON STROLLED THROUGH the woods near his shrine while he waited for his worshippers to return with fresh sacrifices. Once, his territory had been filled with life, now the trees were black, dead and rotting. Vella had promised him that their vitality would return as he grew stronger. He was no longer sure he could trust anything his High Priestess told him. She’d manipulated him and his congregation to suit her own needs. Now she had a handsome elven lover at her beck and call. She’d tied herself to both the deity she’d promised would become a god-king and to Brycen.
The deity’s pale green eyes hardened as he considered what he was going to do about the treacherous elf. He couldn’t kill Brycen. He needed the strength that filtered to him through the bond Vella had forged between them all. Without his priestess and priest to sustain him, he would be feeble and bedridden. As it was, he barely had the strength to take a short walk through the woods.
His breath frosted into an icy mist as he shuffled through the deep snow. His cloak made from crow feathers was far warmer than he’d expected. It shielded him from even the worst of the elements. When Crowmon reached the edge of his territory, a wave of dizziness swept over him. The trees and foliage were only showing a few signs of sickness in this area. He leaned against a tree for support and the bark began to wither and blacken beneath the touch of his fingers. “What’s happening to me?” he whispered in despair.
A crow landed on the dying tree. It peered down at him through piercing brown eyes. It cawed forlornly as if commiserating with him that his mere touch had become so deadly. Another crow arrived and settled on the branch beside the other bird. They watched him expectantly, as if they were waiting for him to do something momentous. “You lads will be waiting for a long time if you expect me to perform any magic,” he muttered.
The first crow cawed again and opened its wings. It shuffled its feet, then settled back down again. The second bird just continued to watch him intently.
Vella had told Crowmon that he’d become a carrion deity now, but that he would transform into a true god of death eventually. Without his olde-worlde magic, he didn’t even feel immortal anymore. He’d lost everything that was special about him and he was now just a shell of his former self.
Self-pity rose inside him that he’d allowed himself to become so badly diminished. He couldn’t even leave his shrine. Every time he tried, he became weak and helpless. The death magic that he’d been infused with was tied to his shrine and kept him imprisoned here.
A pale, wan soul drifted through the trees, seeking him out. It sank into him and momentarily infused him with strength. Both crows cawed and flapped their wings in apparent excitement, as if they sensed his death magic swell.
Acting on impulse, Crowmon lifted his hands and pointed at the birds. He harnessed the soul that he’d just ingested and propelled the energy towards the crows. To his utter amazement, he felt his death magic permeate them. Their hearts burst inside their chests, but they didn’t fall to the ground. Their bodies stiffened, then their eyes turned as pale green as his as his death magic took over their corpses and bound them to him. Their undead minds melded with his and he found himself looking at himself through their eyes.
Disoriented, he staggered backwards, then fell down in the snow. He lay on his back, blindly staring up at the snowflakes that were falling towards him. The birds took to wing and his head spun dizzyingly from their dual perspectives. He closed his left eye and found himself looking through the first crow’s eyes. He switched eyes and found he was now looking through the second bird’s eyes. “Well, now, this is an interesting development,” he whispered, then giggled quietly. It wouldn’t do for his followers to know about this new talent. Instinct told him to keep this incident to himself.
The weather steadily worsened and the former trickster was soon covered in a blanket of snow. Eventually, he dimly heard voices calling his name. Shifters and vampires had an excellent sense of smell, but the snow would have covered his scent, making it impossible for them to find him. He weakly dug through the snow and lifted his hand. He cut his connection to his flying minions as they soared above the fae woods in random patterns and his vision returned. Unfortunately, all he could see was darkness. He’d pulled his hood over his face as the snow had begun to fall thick and fast.
“There he is!” he heard Vella shout in relief. “Dig your god-king out of the snow! Quickly!” Her urgency was real, but Crowmon knew he wasn’t going to die from hypothermia. His feathered cloak had kept him warm and mostly dry. Still, he shivered when icy water trickled down his sleeve.
His followers frantically dug him free of the snow and pulled his hood away from his face. “Are you well, my king?” Brycen asked.
Crowmon had to force himself not to scowl at the elf. His High Priest’s face wasn’t the first one he’d wanted to see after being rescued. “I’m fine,” he replied, but his voice sounded weak and petulant even to himself.
“You shouldn’t wander so far from your shrine, my king,” Vella scolded him. She scooped him into her arms and carried him through the dead grove towards their house. He hated being treated like a child. It was no wonder he felt so emasculated. A man shouldn’t have to rely on his woman to carry him around like a damsel in distress.
Brycen shooed the rest of the worshippers away, then entered the house he now shared with his god-king and the High Priestess. Vella carried Crowmon over to an armchair that sat in front of the fire. She placed him gently on the chair, then fussed around him until he was comfortable. “I wish I could make you a potion to speed up your recovery,” she said in distress.
Brycen came to stand beside her and put a hand on her shoulder. “Our king will be fine, Vella,” he said. “He’s not a mere mortal like we are.” They both wore the black and green robes that denoted their status as his holy people. The rest of his worshippers wore brown robes over normal clothing. During their nightly sacrifice rituals, they sometimes wore crow masks.
Crowmon smiled up at the pair while mentally stabbing the elf with a large, rusty knife. “What would I do without my High Priestess and High Priest?” he asked. He had to be careful not to lie to them now that they could sense when people were being untruthful. Unfortunately, that wasn’t a talent Crowmon possessed. Worshipping himself didn’t give him that particular power.
“We would never let anything happen to you, my liege,” Vella vowed. She knelt in front of him and put her hands on his knees. “You are the reason we exist,” she said, then she spread his legs open and shuffled forward until she was mere inches away from his groin. “Let us loan you our strength, my king,” she said, then she shed her robe until she was naked before him.
Brycen eagerly disrobed and knelt behind Vella. He reached around to grasp her breasts, then entered the High Priestess from behind. His hands were pale next to her dark skin as he began to thrust into her. Vella’s head went back in ecstasy and it was all Crowmon could do to restrain himself from reaching out and throttling her.
The god-king clenched his teeth and forced a benign smile to his face as the elf yet again rutted with the woman he loved. He was thrusting into her so hard and fast that the chair shook from their frenzy. Vella moaned and feathers began to sprout from her face as she partially shifted into her crow form. Her beak nuzzled Crowmon’s crotch as the elf brought her to the edge. She nudged her god-king’s flaccid member, then let out a caw of disappointment that he wasn’t responding to her lust.
Crowmon reached out and petted his beloved’s feathered head as she gripped his thighs when she began to buck in pleasure. His touch was gentle, but a seed of hatred bloomed inside him at her ongoing betrayal.
