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The Tyrant's Tomb

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grew fainter and fainter as the flock moved off in search of quieter, less

revolting prey.

“My ears,” Reyna complained. “Oh, gods, my ears will never heal.”

“The ravens will be back,” I warned. My throat felt like the chute of a

cement mixer. “As soon as they manage to purchase enough raven-size

noise-canceling headphones, they’ll be back. Now climb! I don’t have

another Dean Martin song in me.”

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