A Gathering of Crows

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For this new edition of A Gathering of Crows, my thanks to everyone at Deadite Press; Alan Clark; Mark Sylva and Tod Clark; Tim and Brindi Anderson, who fed me while I was writing the last half of this book; Princess Alethea Kontis, who let me use her bucket of snakes; Bob Freeman, who provided a luminol light when I really needed it; Stephen Poerink; Miss Muffintop and the boys in the warehouse; Mary SanGiovanni; and my sons.

When the sun went down, and dusk gave way to night, the mountain came alive. A chorus of insects buzzed and hummed in the darkness. Birds chirped from their treetop nests. Tiny frogs—called spring peepers by the locals because of the peeping sounds they made when they came out of hibernation each spring—sang to one another from shallow, hidden bogs and winding, narrow creeks. Nocturnal animals prowled the mountainside—coyotes and deer, black bears and foxes, skunks and raccoons. Leaves rustled, swaying in the light breeze. All of these sounds and more combined to form a natural cacophony as loud as any city street. The mountain thrummed with energy and life.

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