The *** and the Parliament

The floor no longer between my body and the open air, I began to fall.

I only let myself drop a few feet before unfurling my wings and flapping them so I could rise above the tops of the trees.

I wasn't sure which I liked better about flying--the exhilaration and freedom of soaring through the sky or the graceful beauty of my wings during the night. They were about fifteen feet, from one wingtip to the other, and their silky, black feathers glimmered deep violet in the moonlight. Of course my being different had its downsides, but my wings were my inhuman pride. If not for them, I might see something worthwhile in leading a normal life.

As I crept up upon civilization, I flew higher, just to avoid being noticed. Even though at this distance I looked like a freakishly large bird—I was a Crow after all—I didn't want to attract attention to myself. Partly because I was really a winged human, and partly because I was about to commit a few crimes.

I perched silently on the highest branch of a tall tree and looked down at the relatively small house directly below me. It was late, just before one in the morning, and I saw no movement. Once I felt it was safe to get closer, I glided down to the backyard, where I peeked into the windows of the house. The bedroom I observed in one window contained a rather heavy man of moderately old age. His mouth was wide open, and he was snoring. I couldn't hear it through the closed window, but I could see his grey mustache quivering with his breathing.

A decent specimen.

To keep them out of my way, I tucked my wings in as best I could without actually contracting them back into my body, since I would still rely on them to get home. I crept toward the back door and tried to open it as softly as I could. It was locked, but I used my long nails to pick the lock, then slipped quietly into the house.

Once inside, I could already hear the old man's loud snoring. Good--that meant if I accidentally made a noise, he wouldn't hear it anyway. Had I needed practice, this would be perfect, but I didn't. I had done this every night for the last eleven years of my life, and I would do it every night until I died. Carefully, I made my way to the old man's bedroom.

I slowly opened the door and crept up next to him. I noticed that he was still sound asleep, and also that the lower portion of his arm was sticking out of his blanket. I delicately ran my fingers along the vein on his wrist before inserting my fingernail into it. The old man gave a small jolt in his sleep, startling me, but he quickly relaxed.

I held up his arm, put my lips to the cut, and drank his blood.

I took about a pint before leaning away and wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. I looked at the incision I had made. The old man would notice it in the morning and probably think he had scratched himself in his sleep.

Like Derik, I didn't enjoy hurting people, but this was what gave me power in a literal sense. This was what I needed to do to survive.

I was seven when my mother told me about the curse. I was disgusted, and, being the bullheaded little girl I was, I dared to challenge her claim, and so she took the opportunity to teach me a lesson. She stopped serving me blood, and I lasted two days before I felt hunger. I asked her for blood, and she only said, "One pint won't be enough this time, Lauren."

That night, I hunted for the first time. My mother took me, and we did just as I did tonight, except she was right--one pint was not enough.

I had been seven when I committed a murder.