Ah, small towns, where everyone knew everyone else’s business. Raven thanked the gods he was raising his son in Portland where neighbors for the most part kept a polite distance.
“Do you know how he ended up in Juvie?” Craig asked.
“Not the details. I know there was dark magic involved. I know it was deemed manslaughter, which means the death he caused was unintentional.”
“Or at least that his lawyer was able to convince the jury that it was. The local high school sponsors one scholarship a year. It’s a pretty big deal. One of the city founders had made his money in the California gold rush, left a large endowment. The scholarship’s not quite a full ride, but for some of these kids it’s enough to make the difference between going to college or working at the feed store for the rest of their lives. There’s a complicated formula for who gets it, a point system involving grades, SAT scores, community service. Extracurricular activities come in if there’s a tie-breaker needed. By midway through senior year, there were two contenders neck-and-neck. Morgan and this other boy, Matthew Brock. Both with a 4.0, both at the 98th percentile on the SATs. Matthew volunteered every weekend at the local hospital; Morgan built houses with Habitat for Humanity.
“April came around. The scholarship committee would be making a decision in a few weeks and neither boy yet had a clear lead. It looked like it would be coming down to the state OHSET championship in the first week of May.”
“O-set?” Raven stumbled over the unfamiliar word.
Craig smiled “O-H-S-E-T. Oregon High School Equestrian Team.”
“The scholarship was coming down to—a horse show?” Raven tried, and failed to keep his incredulousness out of his voice.
“OHSET is a big deal in this town.” Craig’s voice rose as though Raven had insulted the Rhubarb Queen, or whatever they had out here. “Not as big as football, but it’s gaining traction. Regardless, both Matthew and Morgan compete in OHSET. Morgan’s damned good on a horse. Been riding his whole life, and he worked hard at it besides. And, as I mentioned, that little buckskin of his is nothing to sneeze at.
“Matthew was good, too, but overall he couldn’t hold a candle to Morgan. I guess Morgan thought the scholarship was his, until Matthew’s parents bought him a new horse. Two-time National Working Cow Horse Champion with an amateur rider. Started trailering out every weekend to some fancy-schmancy trainer to blow hundreds of dollars on lessons. OHSET’s not supposed to be about whose parents can buy the best horse or pay the best trainer, but, well, horses are an expensive game.”
“But if his parents could afford all that, why did Matthew even need the scholarship?” Raven asked.
“He didn’t, as such. But it was a matter of pride.”
Raven winced. His family name had kept him out of Guardian Academy when he was Morgan’s age, and his rage had driven him to apprentice with the most infamous dark mage of their time. He had no idea what it would be like to be denied a dream for financial reasons, but it had to feel a lot the same.
The sheriff shrugged. “Hey, I’m not saying it’s right. But it’s not against the rules of the scholarship. There’s no needs test. Anyway, we come to the last day of the competition. Morgan and Matthew are even on points, and both far ahead of any other competitor. It was all coming down to the last event.”
The sheriff’s voice took on the very slightly sing-song rhythm of a talented storyteller. Raven wondered if Craig tended his own bar. He would probably be good at it.
“The pattern called for a spin,” the sheriff said. “That fancy horse of Matthew’s did a spin worthy of the Quarter Horse Congress finals.”
Raven could only make an educated guess as to what a pattern and a spin were in this context, and didn’t have a clue what a Quarter Horse Congress might be. He doubted that these details were important to the story, and so he let the sheriff continue without interrupting.
“Matthew—you have to understand this kid had been riding since he was ten. He’d practiced this pattern so often he could ride it in his sleep. There was no way he should have lost his balance and fallen in a routine spin. The horse continued the spin on his own, and stepped on Matthew on the last part. Crushed his throat and drove two ribs through his lungs. Kid was dead before the paramedics came.”
Raven winced. He’d spent a little time around horses while he was in hiding in Australia—enough to have developed a healthy respect for their size and strength.
“The crowd was in shock, of course. At first the assumption was that the kid had been riding too long and too hard in the heat without staying properly hydrated. Teenagers think they’re immortal; you can’t imagine how hard it is to make sure they remember to eat something healthy and drink enough water when they’re busy having fun.”
Raven tucked the thought away for future reference, to be brought out in twelve years or so. He himself had been a serious, studious child, but to hear Ana tell it, Cassandra had been a handful.
“I suspect Morgan must have counted on that assumption. He didn’t realize that when an apparently healthy young man collapses and the fall leads to a fatality, there’s a full autopsy, including not only a full Mundane tox screen but also an inspection for any signs of dark magic. You probably know the spell. It’s mild as dark magic goes. The common name is Rasputin’s Confusion.”
So named for the historically inaccurate belief that it had been used by the mad monk Rasputin to weaken the last of the Russian czars, to make him malleable and controllable. In fact, if Rasputin had used it on the Czar, he would have been too incapacitated to act as a figurehead for Rasputin’s nefarious but ultimately futile schemes.
“Morgan had never been in trouble before, but he had the most motive of anyone, and so they called in one of his teachers to see if he recognized the magical signature.” The sheriff shook his head. “Morgan claimed he didn’t realize that it would make Matthew fall, let alone get trampled. He claimed that he thought it would just put Matthew off his game.”
Raven snorted. “That’s crazy. Anyone who thinks that knows nothing about that spell.”
“He thought he could control the effects.”
“Not even a practitioner far more experienced could hope to have so much precision with that sort of spell.”
The sheriff shook his head. “Kids get cocky. And really, they don’t teach a lot about dark magic these days at school. Supposed to keep the kids from being tempted to experiment, but ignorance isn’t always bliss.”
“Not something I’d expect from a pillar of law enforcement.” Though Raven didn’t exactly disagree with the position.
“You weren’t there when this pillar of law enforcement watched a twelve-year-old girl die in his arms from an overdose. Puff the Magic Dragon, they call it. Cannabis laced with magically-enhanced crystal meth. Kids figure they drink and smoke cannabis and nothing bad happens, so they can believe their friends who tell them this stuff is safe, too. Maybe truly accurate drug information in health classes would have prevented her death, and all the others, maybe it wouldn’t. But trying to keep kids ignorant sure isn’t keeping them safe.”
They had strayed far from the topic, but Raven couldn’t help his curiosity. “I wouldn’t have thought drugs would be much of a problem in your jurisdiction. Devil’s Crossing is hardly the inner city.”
The sheriff gave a dry, bitter laugh. “You have no idea. Illegal drug use is the dark underbelly of rural America. These farm towns are drying up and blowing away. There’s no jobs, no money, and, for the kids who can’t get out, no hope. I’m not championing Lansing’s golf resort because I’m some evil fuck who wants to destroy the beautiful, rural harmony for a few extra bucks from back-East billionaires with too much time on their hands. Devil’s Crossing needs jobs, needs hope. Even if it takes, pardon the pun, a deal with the devil to get there.”
“So what happens to the golf resort with Lansing dead?” Raven asked.
“Hard to say. Technically, it was the corporation, not the individual, building the
resort, but Lansing was the majority owner. With him gone, it falls to the lawyers and the probate courts. It may get tied up for a while, it may not.”
“So if Lansing’s death isn’t stopping the thing, that somewhat weakens the motive for Morgan, or any other opponent,” Raven said.
“Maybe they didn’t realize it wouldn’t go through anyway. Maybe they just wanted revenge and it just didn’t matter.”
“Vastly different MO from what Morgan was convicted of before,” Raven hazarded. “I saw the photos of the victim from the cave. It would take a powerful dark mage, and a hardened one, to leave a human being in that condition. The incident at the championship might not have been intended to be fatal. And it takes a very different sort of person to commit what is essentially cold-blooded political assassination as opposed to an adolescent impulse to level an unfair playing field.”
“You almost make it sound like you think that what Morgan did to Matthew was justifiable.”
“Justifiable, no.” Raven said. “Understandable, somewhat. He needed that scholarship. His rival didn’t. And from everything you said, it sounds like Matthew’s parents’ money, more than Matthew’s skill or hard work, would have become the deciding factor.”
“I can understand the point of view,” the sheriff said. “But let me put this question to you. Just answer it in your own head. I won’t put you on the spot by asking for your answer, now or ever. Take a good long time and think about it. You have a son. He’s just a baby now, but that will change all too soon, I promise you. You’re a good dad, which means you are going to use all the resources at your disposal to give your son every advantage you can. And you’re a Ravenscroft, which means your resources are considerable. Now picture your boy as a teenager, nearly a young man. He’s had all the advantages, yes, but he’s also worked hard on his own to develop his talents. Hell, with you and Cassandra Greensdowne as parents, I can’t imagine he’ll be anything less than impressive.”
Provided that I don’t utterly fail at fatherhood, Raven didn’t say. He’d been assured that all first-time fathers had the same fears, but not all first-time fathers had as much reason to doubt.
“Now imagine that some other kid with fewer advantages decides to level the playing field. Maybe he intended to hurt your son, maybe he didn’t, but the result is the same.” Craig met his eyes, held his gaze steadily. “The boy you held in your arms as an infant, the boy that contains the best parts of you and his mother, lies broken on the ground, and none of your extensive wealth and power can change that. What would you do?”
I would flay him alive and burn his writhing body to ash. The dark magic within him, long-suppressed but never truly gone, surged at the picture painted by the sheriff’s words.
Raven said nothing, and not even William could have sensed magic not yet released, and yet Craig’s smile said yes, now you see.
“I understand your point,” Raven said. “But there’s a reason why judges and juries are not allowed to rule on cases in which they have personal involvement.”
“Agreed,” the sheriff said. “And if Morgan had come out of his stint in the juvie program and lived out his life as a productive and law-abiding citizen, I would have been more than happy to let bygones be bygones.”
“It sounds like you’re presupposing his guilt and then using that presupposition as evidence.”
“Maybe so,” the sheriff said equably. “But it’s not the only evidence we have. I presume you’ve seen the file.”
“I have. It’s all circumstantial.”
“Still valid.” The sheriff shrugged. “But I’ll let you talk to Morgan and make your own mind.”
Chapter Four
Raven had more familiarity with interrogation rooms than he had ever wanted, and the one in Devil’s Crossing was pretty standard. Institutional gray walls, sealed concrete floor, no windows. One wall was composed almost entirely of a mirror that anyone older than five had to know was one-way glass. A CCTV monitor stared down unobtrusively from one corner, a blinking red light warning that it was recording. Since Raven was not defense counsel, he had no claim to confidentiality with the boy.
Morgan was dressed in an institutional denim shirt and jeans. He looked up as Raven entered, his dark eyes assessing, cool but not hostile. Raven paused to take his own stock of the boy—no, young man, for Morgan’s build and bearing said that he had left childhood behind. The file said he was nineteen, legally an adult, though lacking the experience and maturity of a full adult. Morgan had the broad shoulders of someone raised with hard farm labor. Time spent out-of-doors may account for some of the deep tan, but Raven suspected that either Mexican or native blood had some influence as well. His file had only said he was adopted.
“Hello, Morgan,” Raven said. “I take it your counsel advised you who I am and why I’m here?”
“You are Corwyn Ravenscroft, infamous dark mage now working for GII. One of the counselors at the ranch has a friend in GII and pulled some strings to get you here,” Morgan recited in the sort of monotone usually reserved for algebraic equations.
“Close. I am not employed by Guardian International Investigations, though I do consult with them from time to time. I am here as a friend-of-a-friend, not in any official capacity. And please, call me Raven.”
“Raven, then,” Morgan said. “I suppose I should thank you for coming out to the outer reaches of Nowheresville, but honestly, I’m not sure what good you think you can do.”
Morgan stared past Ravenas if the topic held no interest to him. Raven suppressed the urge to grab him by the collar and shake him. Had he been this annoying when he was this age?
He reminded himself that Morgan was at the stage of life where hormones soared and being seen as weak was a fate worse than death. The more frightened a young man was, the tougher he acted. Morgan had to know how serious his situation was, how badly things could go for him.
“What I can do for you depends entirely on what I can find out,” Raven said. “What can you tell me about the day Magnum Lansing died?”
“Hey, I don’t know anything about it.”
“I never said you did,” Raven said evenly. “But you were seen in the area. Pretty remote place to be taking a walk.”
“A lot of people like to hike out by the butte. It’s quiet there. Peaceful.” Morgan’s eyes swept from Raven’s old-fashioned cravat and tailored jacket down to his well-shined Italian shoes. The look clearly said not that you would know.
Raven ignored the silent derision and focused on Morgan’s word choice. He had no formal training in the art of interrogation—did this even count as interrogation, if he was here unofficially and supposedly on the boy’s side? But he’d heard enough Guardians talking shop over microbrews (theirs) and pinot (his). He knew that, outside the classic sociopath, most people tried to avoid telling an out-and-out lie, even when they were being mostly untruthful.
“So a lot of people like to hike out by the butte. What about you? I don’t remember hiking being listed among your interests. I’d have thought you got enough exercise, between riding and farm work.”
Morgan shrugged and looked to one side, clearly uncomfortable with being caught in a near-falsehood. Ah, probably not a sociopath, then. Good to know.
“Footprints in the cave match your boots, right down to the fault in the tread on the left.” Raven pressed.
“I was in the cave a few days before Lansing died. Technically, it’s still public land. I burned a little sage to honor the spirits of the petroglyphs.”
“I thought you practiced Art, not Craft.”
“And I’m sure you know mages who go to Mass on Sunday. I wanted to honor the traditions of my ancestors.”
So, Native American, then. That would explain his protectiveness toward the petroglyphs. Though he had no indigenous blood, Raven understood the impulse. He respected antiquity, especially things of magic, whether it came from his culture or another. But he also respected the laws against murder.
“Your truc
k was seen near the Devil’s Boneyard about the time they think Lansing was killed.”
“I was looking for other caves,” Morgan burst out. “Other hidden petroglyphs. Potshards. Whatever. More proof that Devil’s Boneyard and the area around it should be preserved as a culturally significant site.”
The boy spoke with the truthfulness of passion; Raven was inclined to believe him. Still, it didn’t hurt to probe.
“Did you come across anyone else?”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “You mean, did I come across Magnum Lansing and murder him?”
Raven took a deep breath and reminded himself that practice in dealing with teen-age snark would probably make him a better father to an adolescent Ransley, gods help them both. “I meant exactly what I asked.”
“There was a man and a woman walking a dog about a quarter-mile in. They were heading out as I was going in. Doubt that they’d made it as far as the butte, though. The dog was one of those fluffy little lap dogs. Never saw the point to them. If you’re going to get a dog the size of a cat, you may as well get a cat.”
Raven didn’t have much of an opinion on dog breeds, having never owned a dog. Of course, he’d never been much of a cat person until he’d come out second-best in a battle of wills with a scruffy stray kitten. Nuisance now slept on their bed, shed white hairs on his black wool coat, and subsisted mostly on lobster and grilled salmon.
If the young man had wanted to defuse suspicion, he could have left out the size of the dog and any other details that might exculpate the strangers. “Did you see anything else? Notice anything at all unusual?”
Raven's Shade (Ravensblood Book 5) Page 4
