Crows were present in Ovid’s Metamorphoses, as well as in Chaldean, Chinese and Hindu mythology, and they were mentioned quite often in Buddhism, especially the Tibetan disciplines. One physical form of Dharmapala Mahakala was a crow. Crows had watched over the first Dalai Lama and had supposedly heralded the births of the first, seventh, eighth, twelfth and fourteenth Lamas. Levi was certain, however, that he could rule the Dalai Lama out as a suspect.
He stuck close to the church walls, remaining in the shadows. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the dead dog until he was almost upon it. The poor creature had been impaled on the black wrought iron fence that surrounded the churchyard. One end of the iron rod jutted from the dog’s anus. The other end stuck out of its mouth. Judging by the expression in the dogs face, it had been alive when the act was perpetrated. Without even really thinking about it, Levi reached out with two fingers and closed the poor dog’s eyes. Then an idea occurred to him. If he could find a dead human—one whose death was connected to these mysterious crow figures or the men in black—he could summon their spirit and get the answers from the departed. It stood to reason that a murder victim, especially one killed in so gruesome a fashion, would be able to answer questions about the person or persons who had killed them.
All he had to do was find a corpse, and given the current situation, that should be an easy task.
Levi grasped the iron bars and vaulted over the fence. His hands came away sticky with blood and fur. Frowning, he knelt and wiped them on the grass. Then he stood up again and walked around the side of the church, sticking once more to the shadows to avoid being seen. A black car with flames painted on the side raced past, followed closely by a revving pickup truck. That struck Levi as odd. He hadn’t heard or seen any other running vehicles this evening.
Flames flickered in the night, casting the side streets and alleys with an orange glow. Though none of the buildings in his proximity were ablaze, the fires were close enough that Levi could smell the smoke.
His eyes watered. The curtains in a few houses fluttered as he sneaked past them. When he reached an open space and ran out of cover, he darted down the sidewalk. Broken glass crunched beneath his feet. An obese woman, sobbing uncontrollably, stood on the corner, leaning against a mailbox.
“Excuse me,” Levi called. “Are you okay? Have you been injured?”
She glanced in his direction and then her sobs turned to screams. She ran away, her speed belying her size. Shaking his head, Levi continued onward.
He found a dead body at the next intersection. The victim was a middle-aged white male. His head and limbs were still intact, but his genitals had been torn off, leaving a ragged, gaping hole in his crotch. Blood shone black on the asphalt beneath him, and his shirt and the tattered remains of his pants were crimson. Levi knelt next to the corpse and stuck the tip of his right index finger into the gore. The blood was sticky but not yet congealed. He placed his palm against the corpse and found that the flesh was cool, but still pliant. Whoever the man was, he hadn’t been dead long. Levi glanced around for the missing penis and testicles and spotted them lying on the curb—which meant that whatever had murdered this man hadn’t consumed the grisly prize. Nor had it eaten or mangled the rest of him. The killing had been quick, almost perfunctory, if not for the brutality of it. This hadn’t been about torture or revenge. This killing had served a purpose, albeit a quick one. But what? His blood hadn’t been drained. His flesh hadn’t been consumed. So why kill him in this fashion?
There was only one way to find out. Only one person who would have the answers—the dead man himself.
Lord, he prayed silently, as always, I am your humble servant and your mighty sword. Guide my hand tonight as if it were your own. Let our victory be swift and just, and though my methods might not all be yours, let their purpose be to thy everlasting glory.
Levi stretched the corpse out, making sure the head was pointing north and then extending the arms and legs straight out from the torso. He noticed purple splotches on the underside of the limbs. The remaining blood in the man’s body was beginning to settle. He stood up then and wiped his hands on his pants. He grimaced at the stickiness on his palms, and was reminded of the dog that had been impaled on the church fence. There was starting to be a lot of blood on his hands tonight, and the symbolism was not lost on Levi. He wondered if it was the Lord trying to send him a message, or if this was simple synchronicity. It didn’t matter, either way. If he didn’t stop this slaughter, and soon, all of the blood in Brinkley Springs would be on his hands.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a stick of chalk with his red right hand. Then he knelt again and drew a pattern around the corpse. He followed this with several arcane symbols, drawing each one quickly but carefully. He could afford no mistakes. Something as simple as one line or dot out of place could have unexpected—if not disastrous— consequences. Despite the chill in the air, sweat dripped from his forehead and the tip of his nose. Levi was careful not to let any of it fall inside the pattern. He worked in silence, except for the screams and occasional gunfire that still echoed across the town.
When he was finished, Levi stood up and surveyed his handiwork, ignoring the aches and pains in his joints and back. Satisfied that he’d done it correctly, he stood over the body, careful not to let his shoes touch the chalk lines.
“I’m deeply sorry about this,” he whispered. Then he raised his voice and chanted in a guttural combination of ancient Sumerian and a language not normally spoken by human tongues.
A black crow hovered above the carnage while two of its brothers, both still in human form, eviscerated a family of four—father, mother and their children, a boy and a girl. Insatiable, they feasted greedily on the departing souls of the parents and the boy, pausing only to engage in a tug-of-war game with the little girl, using her arms as a rope. The limbs popped from their sockets. Sinew and muscle twisted and tore. The girl’s shrieks reached a fevered pitch. The crow swooped downward, resuming its human guise.
“Don’t play with your food.”
Its brothers laughed. They pulled harder and the limbs came free. The girl toppled to the ground, unconscious yet writhing. They jostled one another for the departing soul, but stopped suddenly.
“Do you feel that?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Someone in this town still knows the ways of old. He or she seeks congress with the realms beyond.”
“If they can do that, then perhaps they are skilled in other works. Perhaps they can defeat us?”
“Reach out. Do you feel their power? This one is dangerous.”
“Indeed.”
“Find them immediately. But be careful. This one isn’t like the others. This one is like those we faced of old.”
Without another word, all three reverted to crow form and flew into the night, leaving the mangled bodies where they’d fallen. The birds soared in different directions, searching the darkness for the source of the disturbance, and their cries were terrible to all who heard them.