Wicked Prayer by Norman Partridge

to look in the rearview mirror to know that something was trailing the Merc like a ragged, wind-tangled black kite tied to the bumper.
    Besides, the shrunken head that hung from the rearview mirror was already doing that bit of surveillance work for Kyra. Menacingly lit from below by the glow of dashboard lights, the head hung between Johnny and Kyra by its knotted hair, swinging back and forth like some diabolical pendulum, its tiny eyes trained on the dark slab of night framed by the Merc’s rear window.
    “We’ve got company,” the head said through stitched lips.
    And it was right.
    Desert wind cooled the Crow’s wings as it swooped down on the Mercury.
    Driven by unnamed instincts that pumped through its beating wings like black fire . . . driven by the primitive concept of tribal retribution buried deep in the base of its avian brain . . . driven by the ancient thirst for vengeance.
    Driven to catch the car, and the dead man inside.
    A corpse who would become the black bird’s designated avenger.
    For in the world of the Crow, vengeance was plural. . . not singular.
    It took two, working together . . . man and bird.
    But to revive its human counterpart, the Crow required strength, concentration, and contact.
    The Crow’s scream tore the night as the bird closed on the Mercury. The Crow beat its wings, reached out with its talons, strained every muscle as it neared the car. It saw its own reflection in the gleaming paint, felt the pain of the dead couple locked within, knew exactly what actions were required to take that pain away.
    Black talons raked the trunk. Claws on steel: just for a second. Then the Mercury accelerated, lake pipes billowing a sickly yellow exhaust that stank of brimstone.
    The car pulled away, and the bird was momentarily blinded by a dervish of hell fumes. But the Crow fought through the smoke, its wings a blur of motion, still moving forward, closing on the trunk once more.
    Once again, the bird’s reflection gleamed on the chrome bumper, dark body painting the chrome letters on the trunk as the Crow screamed, spreading its wings, ready to light on the speeding vehicle.
    The Merc’s engine roared. Instantly, five feet separated the bird from the automobile.
    But the bird closed again, with desperate speed and agility.
    A moment too late.
    Red flames flared from the lake pipes, singeing the Crow’s feathers to black tar The Merc was gone in a hellfire burst, leaving the bird behind—two pounds of muscle and blood and feathers and hollow bones, tumbling through the air.
    An ordinary bird would have been doomed. But the Crow was no ordinary bird. Though its talons scraped pavement and sparked like knives, the bird’s dark wings never touched ground.
    The Crow climbed through the night air. Moonlight washed its singed wings, wings that sprouted new feathers in less time than it took a slug from a .357 Magnum to rip through a man’s heart.
    A mile ahead, demon tailights flared.
    Black wings that glowed as brightly as gunmetal beat furiously as the Crow fought to close the distance.
    “I guess the Crow didn’t know that this ride is supercharged by Satan,”
    Johnny Church laughed. “That’ll teach ol’ Tweety Bird to fuck with a gearhead who’s got a devil woman ridin’ shotgun and a shrunken head for a pit crew!”
    Kyra Damon nodded. “All you have to do is rig your engine with a little nitro and a hellfire chaser. . . . Why, that’s enough to put a hitch in anyone’s getalong.”
    Her own laughter joined with the blond killer’s, and the sound was a dark symphony to Kyra’s ears. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed Johnny C. on the throat. He smelled good: hot and sweaty and male, and she liked the way his carotid artery pumped beneath the tanned skin almost as much as she liked the smooth, muscular bulge of his biceps.
    Johnny’s full lips curved into a smile as Kyra’s hand traveled the slick length of his leather-clad thigh, coming to a rest close to his