Chapter One

You can send me ravens
I have the will of a demon
wish me all the ills you have

Dot Allison - Sirens

Her heel caught in a crack on the pavement.

Sarah Williams bit back a curse and hopped, juggling her armful of bags and packages as she squinted through a veil of dark hair and the heavy fall of snow for the steps to her apartment building.

Christmas was coming up, and had hit her with a vengeance; she had packages to wrap, and wrapping to unwrap not in that order, and dinner to cook, and a script to memorize. On top of this, a probably—yep, damn it—broken heel, twisted ankle and the slickness on the ground was just icing on the cake.

“A very merry Christmas to me.” She sighed, and brushed hair out of her eyes as she carefully began maneuvering up the steps. “Not like this week hasn’t been hard enough.” At least Toby would be calling, which was always a treat. And she’d finally gotten all her presents together and managed some semblance of organization.

Her key fit in the lock and she slipped inside, sucking in nicely heated air and sighing in relief as she shifted her grip and kicked the door shut behind her as gently as possible. The inside was all antiques and the landlord’s knickknacks; downstairs belonged to permanent residents who had bought their space, and renters climbed up the long, winding dark-mahogany steps.

Sarah didn’t usually mind. She thought the whole place was beautiful. But tonight, her foot hurting and the heel wobbling and broken and her arms full, it was a climb.

She couldn’t take the strappy shoe off unless she put down all the packages, so she limped on tiptoe up two flights, desperately glad she hadn’t taken the attic, and fumbled her way into her quiet, dark apartment.

The air tasted like the incense she’d burned and her cat approached, eyes gleaming. “Just a minute, Tatiana—” The bags rested on the floor and table, and she sat down right in the hall to carefully unwind the shoe and let her throbbing ankle get some relief.

“I hate being formal.” She told Tatiana, who purred approvingly as she stroked her behind her ears. Tatiana’s version of formality being turning her back while she washed herself it likely didn’t mean anything, but it was always nice to hear some support.

She fished today’s mail out of a pocket of her coat and stood, hobbling into the kitchen. The message light was blinking, and she rolled her eyes and punched it as she dumped the envelopes onto the counter.

“Hello, Sarah—” Karen’s voice was warm, and there was a boy shouting in the background. “I’d hoped to catch you before you headed to rehearsal, but Toby needed a bath.”

Sarah grinned as she piled several bills on one corner of the counter. She and her stepmother had first been officially united in wrestling her little brother into the tub.

“We’ll call you later, of course. I hope things went well.”

Bills, bills… “Hey, Sarah!” James’s boisterous voice burst out into the room, making her jump and yelp as she came down on her foot. “You’re totally there, and Abby’s almost drunk already, and you need to come down tonight and stop being such a priss. We’re old friends! Hurry up.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. Old friends or no, they lived worlds apart; Sarah had little patience for carousing and parties whose sole purpose seemed to be getting drunk and date-raped without the date. Abby knew better than to get drunk in one of those places. Still, he meant well. She’d call them later.

A letter from Toby, her name scrawled in bright marker across the front. She smiled and placed it on the cutting board, dumping a brightly colored flyer in the recycling and looking over the last three letters. One was a newsletter from the drama department, the other from Abigail Sanders, and the last—

Frowning, she put the other two down beside Toby’s. The third was heavy parchment, writing in red ink curling across the front. Sara William, it read, and she pulled a face and turned it over.

An honest-to-god red wax seal. She started to laugh, uneasy and disbelieving, and then stopped as the hairs on her arms lifted.

She could almost make out the image on the seal. Something—a bird? Spread wings, and dark round depressions for eyes, and—

And owl. It was an owl.

Sarah threw the letter across the room, stumbling back, and gasped for breath. No. It was impossible. Magic was reserved for the stage now, for how fast she could move and how loud she could speak and the tricks they could play on the eyes.

There are no goblins here. Snatching up her keys and shoving her feet into sneakers, she ignored Tatiana’s inquisitive yowl and snatched up the overnight bag she kept in the closet.

She had to get out of here. Hot pain spiked up her ankle as she hurried down the stairs, the door locked perfunctorily, and rushed towards the front hall. Someone called her name and she flinched, glanced back, and hurried forward, the door smacking against her palm as she shouldered through.

She’d go home, reassure herself, talk to Toby—Tatiana, she thought briefly and wildly, flaring with regret, I should have brought her—and she wheeled to go back inside and landed on ice.

Her foot went out from under her and she gave a high, sharp gasp—breath sucking icy into her lungs—and flung out a hand, desperate, for support. The bag went flying as she tumbled backward in the opposite direction.

Concrete, and the curb and a sick flare of pain as her head hit.

And then quiet.