The Ravens

by Kass Morgan

  The house was silent. There was no one here.

  She lifted a blackout curtain and looked outside. About a hundred yards away and barely visible through the trees was another small building, this one slightly larger than an outhouse.

  “Jackson,” she whispered, and he nodded grimly.

  Together they walked quietly out of the house, cut through the overgrown grass, and, keeping to the shadows, made their way to the shed. The trees grew haphazardly back here; the ground was covered with a mix of dead leaves and sandy dirt. A squirrel skittered along a branch, and a bird let out a high-pitched cry. Scarlett’s heart beat loudly in her chest as they drew closer to the shed.

  It was weather-beaten, made of long, splintered wood planks held together with rusted nails. The door stood crookedly on its hinges, and there was a grimy, half-shattered window set into the left side.

  And that was when she heard the muffled thump.

  She whirled around, grabbed Jackson’s arm, and pressed her finger to her lips, then tiptoed to the window. Jackson’s breath was hot on the back of her neck as he edged up behind her.

  From this angle, she could see only a small slice of the room—but it was enough.

  The shed was lit by flickering candlelight. There was a pentagram painted on the floorboards in a dried reddish-brown substance—something that looked an awful lot like blood. Taper candles surrounded the pentagram. And kneeling in the center, lifting something small and wriggling over her head . . .

  Gwen. Scarlett would have recognized that dark flowing hair anywhere.

  The object in Gwen’s hands writhed again, and Scarlett’s stomach lurched. She noticed the long whipping naked tail, caught a glimpse of frightened red eyes. A rat. Then, with a sound like twigs crunching, Gwen broke the animal’s neck.

  In that instant, a flood of energy exploded through the shed. It vibrated like a blown-out speaker, bringing with it a loud, angry ring, almost like the molecules in the air were screaming at her.

  Magic.

  But it was magic as she’d never felt it before, raging and violent and raw and hungry. It sent her stomach into free fall and constricted her lungs. It was so strong, it blew the remaining shards of glass through the window—and knocked Scarlett backwards. She fell into Jackson and they both landed hard against the side of the shed. “Who’s there?” Gwen shouted. Maybe it was because Scarlett hadn’t heard the girl speak since her return, but something about her voice sounded deeper, more ominous than before, almost like she was speaking in two registers at once—her own, and a lower, more gravelly one.

  Scarlett didn’t stop to think. She grabbed Jackson, hauled him upright, and sprinted as hard as she could for the road. To his credit, Jackson didn’t waste any time asking questions. He ran right with her, eyes wild, as they raced down the gravel path and through the woods, brambles tearing at their faces and clothes.

  Only when they reached the main road did he ask, through panting breaths, “What . . . the hell . . . was that?”

  Scarlett couldn’t answer him. She could barely admit the truth to herself.

  Her worst nightmare had come true. Gwen had her magic back. Wicked magic.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Vivi

  Vivi stared out the window of the West Tower, a campus snack bar that felt like the kind of exclusive country club her mother used to mock during their stint in New England. It stood at the highest point on campus, the top floor of the clock tower, and offered a view of the sprawling quad through massive bay windows. She’d been camped out in one of the leather armchairs for the better part of the afternoon, scrolling through page after page of the digital archives of the Gazette on her laptop, hoping for any mention of the talisman. It’d been nearly twenty-four hours since her discovery in the archives, and Jess, investigative journalist extraordinaire, had taken charge, assigning the younger Ravens a number of periodicals to review while the older sisters continued to work magical leads. They now had less than a day to find the talisman, and apart from discovering that it had been stolen from Westerly, they had learned nothing.

  After reading about nearly every jewelry theft in Savannah this century, Vivi was staring out the window, a cup of coffee in her hand. She was starting to feel like she’d hit a wall, and she knew she wasn’t the only one who felt like that. Dahlia had taken to muttering under her breath as she walked the halls of Kappa House, pausing for long moments in front of Tiffany’s room. Mei, who hadn’t glamoured herself in days, had bitten her nails to the quick, and Scarlett seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Vivi had never seen her look so frayed before—she’d left the house that afternoon wearing just a tank top and jeans. Vivi hadn’t even known Scarlett owned jeans.

  Scarlett had been horrified when Vivi told her what happened at the library and agreed that it sounded like Gwen’s doing. But she’d also raised a good point: If Gwen wanted them to find the talisman, why was she trying to scare off the people looking for it? Was it because she knew the archives were a dead end?

  “Is there a UFO out there or something?” a deep voice said, startling Vivi enough that she spilled the gross cup of cold coffee she’d been absently sipping for hours.

  Mason’s face fell as she looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Despite her fatigue and the coffee seeping into her sleeve, Vivi smiled. There was something quaint about his use of the word frighten when most people would’ve said scare or surprise. Every time she and Mason spoke, he revealed some charming, unexpected quirk at odds with his frat-boy exterior. “You’re not exactly frightening,” she said. Especially compared to the shit I’ve seen lately.

  He ran his hand through his hair and looked uncharacteristically flustered. “I mean, I want to respect what you said—at least, what you kind of said—the other night about not wanting to make things weird with Scarlett. I don’t want you to think I can’t take no for an answer.”

  Vivi tried to ignore the pang in her heart. “It’s fine. I still want to be friends. I mean it.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “And in that case, show me that UFO you were looking at, because if I upload a photo to Reddit, they’ll make me their god emperor.”

  “No UFO, unfortunately. I was just staring into space.” She shot him a quizzical look. “You’re a Redditor?”

  “I like the history threads. I’ve been in a three-year fight with this adjunct professor in Alaska who believes the Confederacy won the Civil War.”

  “That sounds like an excellent use of your time.”

  He grinned and gestured to the empty chair next to her. “Mind if I join you?”

  “I’d be honored. But why are you here instead of out partying?”

  “You sound so suspicious!” Mason laughed as he sat down. “Do you think I came here to creep on unsuspecting students?”

  “No! I don’t think you’re creepy.” She bit her lip. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right.”

  “No, that’s okay,” Mason said, nodding gravely. “‘I don’t think you’re creepy’ is probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He took a sip of his coffee and pulled a laptop out of his messenger bag. “To answer your question, my adviser’s writing a book on women in colonial Savannah. I’ve been reading letters and diaries at different libraries across the city and I need to synthesize my findings for her. It’s due Monday.”

  “You’re a history major?”

  “I am indeed. Why do you sound so surprised?”

  Vivi considered this. She knew he liked history, but she had never imagined that he was majoring in it. Embarrassingly, the real reason was that, in her head, historians wore tweed jackets and muttered to themselves; Mason looked like an off-duty Ralph Lauren model in his snug white T-shirt and preppy green twill shorts. “You seem too outgoing for a history major,” she said, though that hardly sounded convincing. “Shouldn’t you be studying something like public relations or, I don’t know, sports marketing?”

  “Sports mar
keting? That’s not even a major here!”

  “Excuse me for not memorizing the course catalog,” Vivi said, raising her hands in surrender.

  “Sports marketing,” Mason repeated as he shook his head with mock dismay. “Do you know that Westerly has one of the best history departments in the country? Do yourself a favor and sign up for History of Cemeteries. Every week, there’s a field trip to a different graveyard. I know it sounds morbid, but it’s really fascinating.” He paused. “I’m creeping you out again, aren’t I?”

  “No, not at all,” Vivi insisted, although she’d already spent more time than she cared to in a local cemetery. Vivi looked at Mason in a new light. She’d never heard an attractive guy speak so passionately about history. She’d never heard anyone speak so passionately about history. For a moment, she imagined herself in a white sundress, wandering arm in arm with Mason through a graveyard dripping with Spanish moss, then blushed and shook her head slightly to dispel the ridiculous notion. She’d already tried to go down this road and knew it had a bold DO NOT ENTER sign on it.

  “Seriously, though, why are you holed up here instead of out with your sisters?” he asked. “We might be the only people on the entire campus working right now.”

  “I’m doing a little history project of my own,” she said, turning her computer screen toward Mason. “I’m tracking former Kappa sisters through the ages.” She figured a half-truth was safe enough.

  “Ah, a favorite activity of mine.”

  “Now, that does sound creepy.”

  He laughed and leaned back in his chair. “Sorry, you’re right. I’ll just open my laptop here and we can spend the rest of the evening working in companionable silence. Unless you’d rather have some alone time?”

  “No, I’d appreciate the company.” After all the chaos and anguish, she thought it would be nice to be around someone who wasn’t caught up in a magical kidnapping. She waited for him to continue the lighthearted banter, but his expression turned serious as he scrutinized her.

  “Are you okay? You look a little . . .” He hesitated, clearly searching for the most diplomatic phrase. “Worn out.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I just fell a little behind during rush and now I’m trying to catch up.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing else going on? You can talk to me, you know.”

  She tried to imagine what it’d be like to confide in him, to have him listen quietly and sympathetically as she told him all about the ongoing nightmare of Tiffany’s disappearance and the hunt for the talisman. As a historian and a researcher, he might even be an asset. But talking to Mason about this wasn’t an option. Nothing would put the Ravens in greater danger than spilling their secrets to the outside world. “It’s nothing, I promise. I guess studying hard just doesn’t suit my delicate constitution,” Vivi said, forcing a smile.

  “I didn’t mean it in a bad way,” Mason said quickly. “Sorry, I just thought you looked a little tired. But still beautiful.”

  The moment the word escaped his mouth, Vivi could tell he regretted it. He turned slightly red and shook his head. “Okay, I’m clearly not doing a very good job with this ‘friend’ thing. I’ll leave you alone now.”

  He stood and began to stuff his laptop into his messenger bag. “Mason, wait,” Vivi said, reaching for his arm. The word had landed on her skin like a butterfly she was afraid to touch lest it flutter away. No one except her mother had ever called her beautiful. “It’s fine. You don’t have to go.”

  He paused, then lowered himself back into the chair with a sigh. “You’re sure I haven’t made you uncomfortable?”

  “Just the opposite.” Without thinking, she placed her hand on his arm. “It was nice of you to say.”

  “I cannot tell a lie,” he said in a mock-serious tone. Then he went quiet, his eyes locking with hers, and he leaned in slightly; she could see the flecks of gold in his eyes, his jet-black eyelashes, the tiny scar in his left eyebrow.

  She should move. Lean away. But she stayed where she was, unable to breathe, unable to make her muscles shift so much as an inch. She shivered as he touched her cheek lightly with his hand and then leaned forward until his lips grazed hers.

  A bolt of electricity shot through her, burning away all thoughts except how good his lips felt and how much she wanted to lean into his kiss.

  But instead she pulled back. “Mason, we can’t do this. I’m sorry.” She couldn’t kiss her Big Sister’s ex-boyfriend, especially not when Scarlett was in such a bad place.

  He sat back and let his head fall into his hands. “I know. You’re right, Vivi, I just wish . . .” He trailed off, then sat up and looked at her with a sad smile. He took a deep breath and said with forced cheer, “Okay, then. Back to work.” He glanced at her open laptop and frowned. “Hey, is it just me or does that girl look familiar?”

  “What girl?” It took Vivi a second to find what he was looking at among all her open research tabs. In the corner of her screen was a color photo, faintly blurred. The caption read: Members of Kappa at Homecoming. It looked like it had been taken in the ballroom of the main administrative building. There were seven beautiful girls in the picture, all dressed in timeless little black dresses. One was Evelyn Waters; Vivi had seen a picture of her at the house and recognized her strawberry-blond hair and high cheekbones.

  But it was the girl in the center of the photo who caught Vivi’s attention. She was the only one looking at the camera. She had her arm around Evelyn’s waist, and around her neck she wore a large oval pendant that looked almost like a geode. It was blue glass with a series of circles and what could only be described as an evil eye at its center. On the girl’s face was a little half smile, as if she knew something the rest of them didn’t. Vivi recognized the smile. She’d seen it nearly every day of her life.

  “Did your mom go to Westerly too?” Mason asked.

  Vivi didn’t answer. She could only stare at young Daphne Devereaux, grinning up at her from the past.

  Not only was her mother a witch—she’d also been a Raven.

  And she was wearing the Henosis talisman.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Scarlett

  It was dark by the time Scarlett pulled the car up in front of Kappa. She turned the engine off and stared forward, watching as the streetlights flickered on one by one.

  “Scarlett, we have to talk about what happened,” Jackson said.

  Scarlett kept staring ahead. She hadn’t been able to say a single word the entire ride home. She hadn’t had the energy to concoct some elaborate cover story to explain what Gwen was doing. It’d taken all her remaining strength to keep the car on the road and keep the gaping emptiness inside her from filling with tears. Scarlett had failed, which meant Tiffany was going to spend another terrifying night wondering if every breath would be her last.

  If she was even still alive. Scarlett’s hands itched for her cards and for their library. She needed a spell, a proof-of-life spell, something that would tell her that Tiffany’s heart was still beating. She needed proof that it wasn’t too late, because not only had Gwen regained her powers, but her magic seemed even darker and more potent. She’d been willing to harm Tiffany before her accident—who knew what she was capable of now?

  Part of her had wanted to storm into the shed, confront Gwen right then and there, and force her to take her to Tiffany. But how was Scarlett going to make that happen? Rain on her? A few drops of water couldn’t counteract the evil she felt pouring off Gwen. She needed her sisters’ powers to take her on.

  “Have you ever seen anything like that? Do you know what Gwen was doing?” Jackson asked.

  “No, of course not,” Scarlett lied. “It was some kind of weird fucked-up serial-killer stuff.”

  “I don’t think serial killers make a habit of using pentagrams and candles,” Jackson said. “That looked like something ritual. It looked like . . .” He paused for a long moment, as if searching for the right word. “It looked like witchcraft.”
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  Scarlett turned to him. His face was hollowed, his eyes slightly bloodshot. She’d seen him be angry and sanctimonious. She’d seen him be kind. But she’d never seen him be scared before. She put her hand on his. It was warm beneath her grip.

  “There’s no such thing as witchcraft.” Her voice sounded thin, even to her. She’d never had to say those words aloud. Most people lived their small lives in an ignorant stupor—too dull or unimaginative to sense the magic lying just out of reach. She’d always pitied them, living in a black-and-white world when there was a dizzying array of colors just beyond the veil. But at this moment, she’d trade places with any of them in a heartbeat if it’d bring Tiffany back. What was the point of magic if you couldn’t protect the people you loved?

  “Come on, Scarlett.” Jackson shook his head. “You know what we saw. You know what we felt. That blast that knocked you back—how do you explain that?”

  Scarlett shrugged and sat back. “There wasn’t a blast. I just lost my footing when I saw her.”

  “Don’t lie to me, Scarlett.” He shifted in the passenger seat and took hold of her shoulder. Turned her body toward him. She set her jaw. But one peek at the expression on his face melted her resistance. She recognized it all too well. Desperation. The kind she was only just beginning to understand, with Tiffany missing.

  “I have been watching your house for an entire year,” Jackson said. “There’s something different about you Kappas. Something strange. And I saw your expression tonight. It wasn’t surprised. It was worried.” He paused, his brow furrowing. “Gwen used to be one of you. My sister was her best friend. And I found things after she died—that pentagram on the floor? She drew that symbol in a lot of her notebooks. So . . . just tell me what she was involved in.”

  The desperation in his voice was almost enough to undo her. Jackson had suffered as much as any of them. More, in some ways, because he’d had no one to confide in. No one with whom he could share the disturbing thoughts forming from the fragments of his grief. But she couldn’t tell him the truth without endangering the Ravens. “We’re just a sorority,” she said hoarsely.