BIRD OF PREY

Zawadi watched Asha throw herself into her sister’s arms, overcome by the power and the change of form. The magic was taking a heavy toll on her. Zawadi was thrilled to see the child of her destroyer, acting like her father and being pulled apart bit by bit with her insatiable hunger for power.

Or she should be.

She lingered a moment in the shadows watching as her prey turned to the sister she knew so little. Zawadi remembered a time when she had arms to turn to. She watched Zuberi’s eldest, though she could not know the girl before her was her sister, crouch down and try to comfort her. It made no sense. She had a dark soul. Perhaps not evil, Zawadi hadn’t spoken to her yet, hadn’t offered her a wish. But it was dark, uncharted territory that even Zawadi’s magic was afraid to traverse.

Yet Zawadi watched her and felt awakened to memories she’d thought long dead. Memories of taking joy in her power. Memories of when the magic was new and she’d turned to other arms in excitement, in wonder—to show off. For some fairy, the change of skin was as simple as blinking an eye, skin slippers; they were known as among the fey. Only as many as three were born in each generation with the natural gift. Zawadi had not been a natural. She was born a fairy of the light, her power tended towards guiding others, but it was not until she was eleven and saw the death flock for the first time that she was drawn to this power.

She had been playing in the Whispering Wood, chasing a bit of a riddle between the branches of trees, back when she had a name given her by her parents, back when she thought the world lovely and uncomplicated. She had raced up the trunk of a tree, and out across its branches, she saw a group of fairy, surround and attack another. She felt the man scream out in pain. Felt it in her soul. She’d rushed towards him, intent on saving him, but he was dead already when she reached him, and his attackers had fled, hearing the high screech Zawadi had not realized was her own at the time.

She'd sat with him crying then she felt the birds above her; a flock of dark birds, their wings and tails so thick they looked like robes of death billowing in the air. They swooped down beside the dead man and their feathers split apart, creating a whirlwind around them before reforming into dark gowns and shawls over their heads as they became women. Mother Bird was the first to move, she looked down at them and glanced behind her.

“Wren, bless this victim's wish." At her words, a young woman in the back of the gathering rushed forward and lay her head against the dead man's whispering and the air about him glowed.

Mother Bird watched Zawadi silently observe the process. When it was done, Mother Bird crouched before her. “That was quite the cry you let out, Oriole," she said, a soft smile tilting her wrinkled lips.

“That isn't my name," Zawadi had said, and it hadn't been.

“Not yet," she agreed, her voice a scratchy chuckle. “But it could be. Our flock has been longing to grow, and then I heard your cry."

“But...I am not a skin slipper."

Mother Bird shrugged one tiny shoulder. “This magic is merely a skill to be learned. But to cry out like that, to pull the entire flock back into the Fairy Realm from which we were banished, only to bless one dying man. To have in your soul such a desire to right wrongs— These are qualities that cannot be learned. These are powers unseen in the flock for generations. The flock will welcome you, should you choose to join. Should you not, we still will watch you grow with great interest."

It had been the most startling, exciting thing she’d ever heard. And for years after she joined, she’d met each new challenge with enthusiasm and joy, and the same excitement she’d had when Mother Bird asked her to join. It was beautiful, the other women were her sisters and her friends. They traveled the world offering wishes to the dying so that their wills might live on past their lives.

It had been beautiful.

Zuberi’s eldest turned, revealing the scars on her neck. Zawadi shuddered, feeling her own scars hidden by this borrowed skin, but forever marring her being. Zawadi wasn’t here for new members of the flock.

She should not look back on those years with pleasure and nostalgia. She should never have joined. The old Mother Bird was wrong to welcome Zawadi among them, and even more a fool for making Zawadi mother of the flock when she united with eternity. She had been mistaken about Zawadi; her power wasn’t to right wrongs. Her power was to guide a soul—to its doom.

Now she would use that power on the family of her enemy since using it on her enemy was impossible, though she was not finding this as satisfying as she’d expected.

Zawadi spun around and set her eyes on her next quarry: Jauhar. She crossed the ballroom straight for the woman. This skin was the perfect form with which to torture her. Zawadi used to feel the magic choose a skin and know it was one that would bring the most comfort to the dying. Not so now. She’d come to Zuberi’s beloved in the skin of the women he’d slain. Selecting them herself, so they might take part in the vengeance. But this—Asha’s skin—Zawadi couldn’t tell for certain if it was the magic that selected it or her own will. And it made little difference. It was serving her purposes well. She began to feel the moments that formed Asha, the moments that connected her to Jauhar. She didn’t care what force had selected the skin, as long as it served her purposes.

Zawadi was no longer the girl she’d been born, nor the young woman she chose to be, nor even the mother bird she had been for a time. She was a new creature, created of suffering and rage. She was Zawadi. A bird of prey, cloaked in magic to appear harmless as she dove in for the kill.