secured the glass jar in my backpack. Then I unslung the bow from my shoulder.

“Scram or die!” I yelled at the birds. “You get one warning!”

The ravens cawed and croaked with derision. One dove at me and got an arrow between the eyes. It spiraled downward, shedding a funnel cloud of feathers.

I picked another target and shot it down. Then a third. And a fourth.

The ravens’ caws became cries of alarm. They widened their circle, probably thinking they could get out of range. I proved them wrong. I kept shooting until ten were dead. Then a dozen.

“I brought extra arrows today!” I shouted. “Who wants the next one?”

At last, the birds got the message. With a few parting screeches—probably unprintable comments about my parentage—they broke off their assault and flew north toward Marin County.

“Nice work,” Meg told me, retracting her blades.

***

The Tyrant’s Tomb, Chapter 31