Chapter Thirty Nine:
The sky over the human territory didn't just rain; it mourned. Massive, bloated clouds hung low, suffocating the horizon in a shroud of bruised purple and charcoal. Below, tucked away from the neon pulse of the city, lay the Blackwood Cemetery. It was a place where the earth felt sour, and the air tasted of wet iron and rot.
Damien stood in the center of the graveyard, his leather trench coat soaked through, clinging to his frame like a second skin. Beside him, an ancient willow tree leaned at a precarious angle, its skeletal branches dripping with moss that looked like lank, drowned hair. Perched upon those branches were dozens of crows, their feathers matted and slick. They didn't caw; they simply watched him with unblinking, obsidian eyes, their heads tilting in a synchronized, eerie rhythm that made Damien's skin crawl.
"I know you're there," Damien muttered, his breath hitching in the freezing damp.
