Death Takes a Valentine

You'd think Valentine's Day would be romantic. Candlelight. The Seine. A private table for two ancient beings who've finally figured out how to hold hands without freezing anything.

But no. I, Corvus Q. Featherbottom—raven, psychopomp, survivor of the Jamaica incident—have been dragged to Paris so Death can prove he's capable of a single evening without cosmic intervention.

The evening, as it turns out, has other plans.

Cupid has a grudge older than Rome, a quiver full of bad ideas, and the audacity to bring his own wine. The kitchen is full of French chefs experiencing emotions at fatal intensity. February's heart-attack spike has Death double-booked with destiny. And Hel is becoming increasingly convinced that chocolate is a poison mortals consume ironically.

Death wants one perfect dinner. Hel is learning that romance involves a suspicious amount of pink. And I'm perched on a gargoyle, dodging cherubs, wondering when I became emotionally invested in whether these two idiots get through dessert.

If this is the City of Love, I'd hate to see what the City of Mild Inconvenience looks like.

A chaotic, arrow-dodging romantic fantasy told by a bird who did not sign up for this.