The Tyrant's Tomb

“A flock of ravens.” Meg sounded half-incredulous, half-fascinated.
“Those are the guards? They’re pretty.”
I groaned, wishing I could be anywhere else—like in bed, under a thick
layer of warm Kevlar quilts. I was tempted to protest that a group of ravens
was actually called an unkindness or a conspiracy. I wanted to shout that
Tarquin’s guards should be disqualified on that technicality. But I doubted
Tarquin cared about such niceties. I knew the ravens didn’t. They would kill
us either way, no matter how pretty Meg thought they were. Besides, calling
ravens unkind and conspiratorial had always seemed redundant to me.
“They’re here because of Koronis,” I said miserably. “This is my fault.”
“Who’s Koronis?” Reyna demanded.
“Long story.” I yelled at the birds, “Guys, I’ve apologized a million
times!”
The ravens croaked back angrily. A dozen more dropped out of the fog
and began to circle us.
“They’ll tear us apart,” I said. “We have to retreat—back to the first
platform.”
“The second platform is closer,” Reyna said. “Keep climbing!”
“Maybe they’re just checking us out,” Meg said. “Maybe they won’t
attack.”
She shouldn’t have said that.
Ravens are contrary creatures. I should know—I shaped them into what
they are. As soon as Meg expressed the hope that they wouldn’t attack, they
did.