The thing at Mara Vey’s window had three wings, and one of them was on fire.
It struck the glass hard enough to rattle the iron latch. Mara woke with a cry, tangled in her blankets, while rain hammered the roof and lightning whitened the room. For one breath she saw only the familiar shapes of home—the crooked wardrobe, the chair draped with yesterday’s dress, the pale blue curtains breathing inward as if the storm had learned to breathe. Then the creature hit the window again, and a black claw scraped down the pane.
Mara snatched the candle from her bedside table. Its flame bent sideways, though the window was shut. Outside, the creature clung to the ledge, no larger than a fox but stretched thin as a nightmare. Feathers slick with rain clung to its narrow body, and two ragged wings beat against the glass while a third, smaller wing twitched beneath its ribs. Silver blood streaked the stone.