This time he could feel nothing. It wasn’t like being behind an anti-magic ward, where he could sense his magic but not touch or shape it. His magic was gone. The magic that since his earliest memories had been as much a part of him as his hearing, his sight, his heartbeat, was gone.
He jerked upright in the bed, tubes and wires tugging on him in protest, muscles screaming at the sudden movement. His chest felt tight, and he realized he was breathing far too fast.
Nurses rushed through the door and clustered about him in a flurry of activity.
“Mr. Ravenscroft, sir, what's wrong?” a slender, dark-skinned young man asked him.
A short, blond woman pressed on his shoulders, urging him to lay down, while a taller brunette confirmed to her colleagues that the all the monitors were going wild.
Raven consciously forced his breathing to slow. Panic helped nothing, even if his magic—no, he couldn’t think it, not if he wanted to get himself under control.
“Sorry, I woke up and I—didn’t know how I got here.”
True enough, if not the reason for his reaction. Senseless, to avoid talking about his loss of magic, when any mage near him who cared to focus on him could feel it, but saying the words would make it more real. Would make him feel as vulnerable as—
As vulnerable as he truly was at the moment.
Short Blond looked over at the brunette. “Call his wife. They finally got her to go back to the bed and breakfast for some sleep a few hours ago.”
He should tell them to let Cassandra sleep, but selfishly he wanted, needed to see her.
The man introduced himself as Raj. “I’m an R.N.. We’re going to take care of you. You’re safe, everything’s fine. Your wife and some other Guardians brought you here from the cave. They said to tell you that whatever you did worked. You just need to rest now. Can you just lie back and breathe slowly for me?”
He could. Indeed, he didn’t think he could do much else at the moment. The short burst of adrenalin had left him, and his body felt as heavy as if it had been encased in lead. But he couldn’t rest until he knew. . .
“Morgan.” His voice came out raspy, weak. “Is he—”
“He’ll be fine,” Raj reassured him. “With some rest, he’ll be as good as new. We were able to discharge him yesterday.”
“Yesterday? How long have I been out?”
“It’s been three days. We weren’t sure you were going to make it. We nearly lost you. Probably would have, if we hadn’t been able to bring in Ana Greensdowne to work with our staff healers and doctors. You are lucky in your in-laws.”
“Very true.” Cassandra’s aunt had saved his life more than once, in different ways.
“You are very lucky to be alive.”
Am I? Every muscle in his body ached. It hurt to move; it hurt to even breathe too deeply. That part was temporary. He’d lived through worse. But to live without his magic was worse than any nightmare forged of his darkest memories. Except to say that he preferred death over a life without magic was to say he would willingly give up the rest of his years ahead with Cassandra, give up watching Ransley grow to adulthood.
It might not be permanent.
It was rare for a mage to lose their powers, as rare as someone surviving a bullet to the brain. Rare enough that not enough evidence existed for a reliable prognosis. There’d been a tale or two of a mage regaining magic, but without any documentation and long enough ago to be more legend than case study.
Who was he without his magic? Once he had been Raven, the feared dark mage, William’s right hand. And then Raven the spy, Raven the reformed dark mage. Raven, Guardian International Investigation’s ace in the hole. That last thing, he still could do. Although a mage to his core, he had always been a scholar as well. Much of what he did for GII he could do without magic. He still had the knowledge, the experience, the research instincts. He would just be handing off the information to people who still had magic. Staying home, safe, out of the field, while others went out to face the danger.
Could he live like that?
He would have to. If his magic did not come back, he would have to. The man he had once been would rather have died than lived without magic. Now, he had too much else he could not bear to leave behind without a fight.
Raven slipped back into unconsciousness before Cassandra arrived. When he awoke again, she was in the chair beside him, head pillowed on crossed arms on the edge of his bed. Her brow furrowed, even in sleep.
He tried calling her name, but his throat was dry and his voice weak and all he managed was a groan.
It was enough to wake her, though. Her face erupted in joy, and in that moment he knew that, whatever may or may not have happened leading up to this moment, this was real. No dream could recreate the beauty and the wonder that was Cassandra’s smile.
“We found your letter,” she said. "I swear, if I weren’t so happy to see you alive, I’d kill you myself for going off like that.”
He tried to find words to defend himself, but his thoughts were still fuzzy with sleep, and it seemed like too much effort to voice them. Besides, he suspected that, when he could think clearly again, he’d have to admit that she had a point. She usually did.
“When Rafe and I found you in the cave, you were barely breathing. I used healing magic to the last of my strength just to keep your heart beating.”
Her eyes were red and puffy, and the dark circles underneath spoke of how little she’d slept in the last three days. He knew she understood why he’d had to do what he did. Just as he understood why she had to put her own life on the line as part of her job. Understanding never made it easier for either of them.
Cassandra filled in the rest of what happened between when he lost consciousness in the cave and when he woke in the hospital. Rafe had had his cell phone with him, though Cassandra had forgotten hers in her panic, and so they’d been able to contact the Sheriff’s office. Sheriff Schmidt sent paramedics out with an ambulance so they didn’t have to risk a two-person teleport to an unfamiliar hospital. Raven admitted to himself that maybe, just maybe, it was a good idea that GII started insisting their agents started carrying cell phones, though he’d never say as much out loud.
The paramedics had found Morgan, unconscious but stable, on the way to the cave and so he was brought to the hospital as well. He recovered consciousness in less than twelve hours. He was able to give enough details of what happened for GII’s PR people. PR could spin the press a palatable story of what happened that skipped over unnecessary details about what was technically dark magic.
As it turned out, he had neither imagined, nor dreamed, Mother Crone, or Ana, nor a circle of chanting shaman. Cassandra’s aunt Ana, the most powerful healer he knew, had probably saved Raven's life, but even she was not strong enough to do more than delay the inevitable. Since they had thought the circumstances of his injury had more to do with Craft than with Art, Ana in desperation had contacted Mother Crone. They had worked together until they were nearly exhausted and still it seemed that it would not be enough.
And then a group of Native American craft practitioners showed up, filtered into the room with the barely an introduction, and stood in a circle, chanting. Though it was magic that neither Ana nor Mother Crone recognized, they could feel the strength of it. Feel the intent. Feel it flow into them as electricity flowed from the battery.
They found themselves shaping healing energy in ways that they had never done before, probably would never remember how to do again. It had been enough to stabilize Raven.
The Native Americans filed out with barely a word to any of them. Not only was there no one that Mother Crone recognized, but no one anyone in the hospital had ever seen or heard of before. Perhaps one of them had been drawn by a vision, and called the others. Perhaps it was nothing more otherworldly than that. Or maybe they had come from all times and all places, pulled from across ceremonial time. The hospital had security cameras. They considered passing the film around the local Native American c
ommunities, to see if anyone could tell them who to thank. But in the end they didn't. They told themselves it was because they didn't want to intrude, didn't want to identify people who clearly had not wanted to volunteer their identities. More likely it was because the answer would be a little too strange for even a renowned healer and Mother Crone herself to accept.
Raven’s hand crept to the silver raven on its chain. As Bran Tarrant had showed him, there were parts of magic that he still did not understand, might never understand. He was beginning to be more at peace with that knowledge.
Cassandra confirmed that the darkness was gone. The spike in violent crime has dropped as suddenly as it started. Devil’s Crossing, Bend, Portland, and Seattle, Eugene, everywhere.
Neither of them spoke of the fact that his magic had gone.
It was another day before he could manage to stand and shower by himself, and two days before the healers and doctors agreed to let him at least return to the B&B. He tried, several times, to find even the slightest trace of his magic thrumming somewhere within him. Each time he felt nothing, and each time he felt the weight in his chest grow heavier. He worried about what he would feel when the initial numbness of the loss wore off. Cassandra stayed with him in the cottage, and he had to ask her to trigger the light globe if he did not want to flick the switch for the electric lights Jasmine had installed for Mundane guests.
Eventually he would have to face a decision about putting electric lights and other Mundane conveniences in the house in Portland. Soon he would have to arrange for a car to take him home if he could not teleport. But not yet. He wasn’t ready to face that yet.
Raven’s physical strength returned a little more each day. One day he was able to walk out and sit on the porch. That night, he thought he felt a stirring of magic, so faint that he might have imagined it. With Cassandra beside him, breathing softly in her sleep, he tried to trigger the light globe on the nightstand beside the bed. It stayed stubbornly dark. The next day he crossed the lawn to visit the pony at the fence. He spent a lot of time talking to the pony about the fears that he would not express to Cassandra.
He had told himself that he was all right, that he would be all right without his magic. Back at the cave, he'd be willing to die if need be to stop the darkness. Willing to live without magic, if that's what the fates decided for him. Faced with the reality, it was much harder to be so brave. Magic was as intrinsic a part of him as his eye color, or his love of opera. Was he even the same man without it?
Would Cassandra, a powerful mage in her own right, want to live the rest of her life bound to a Mundane? He pushed the thought aside as unworthy of him and unfair to Cassandra. After all they had been through together, how could he so doubt their love? Still, a sliver of doubt remained, whispering that he might lose all that he had left, and all of his logic and all of his faith could not quite silence that whisper.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rafe came by one night after a dinner date with Scott, bringing a bottle of quite respectable cabernet. “I had brought it with me for after dinner, but we never got to it.”
Cassandra looked up from arranging wildflowers in a jar of water on the table. “Hadn’t expected to see you until sometime tomorrow.”
“Yeah, we cut dinner short and decided not to go back to his place,” Rafe said.
Raven bit down on his good riddance. Best let Cassandra handle the conversation.
Cassandra managed a neutral “Oh?”
“We, uh, had a discussion about how some things were handled. An argument really.” His gaze flicked to Raven and away, and Raven suspected that the argument had something to do with Morgan.
Cassandra handed Rafe the glass of wine she had just poured. He took a generous swallow before continuing.
“Scott started going off about how Sheriff Schmidt had endangered Morgan in the hostage situation—”
“Is the man mad?” Raven said. “There is no way that whole scenario could have been anticipated. Craig went above and beyond by bringing me in. Were it not for his flexibility and dedication, we would have never gotten out of that standoff without a dead hostage, and maybe dead officers as well.”
“Unfortunately Scott doesn’t see it that way. He thought if Schmidt’s men hadn’t pursued Heilman, he wouldn’t have felt the need to take a hostage.”
“Heilman was a loose cannon,” Raven said. “He’d already killed his family. And probably Morgan’s parents as well, forensics haven’t finished with that one yet. Craig and his deputies couldn’t just let him going around with a loaded gun. Who knows who would be next on his list?”
“Hey, I’m not arguing,” Rafe said. “Anyway, he thought it was irresponsible of the sheriff to bring in an amateur—his word, not mine, trust me—and thought that Heilman needed mental health help, not police involvement. So, yeah, we had words. And then he was blaming you for endangering a minor civilian up by the butte—”
Raven snorted. “I did everything in my power to keep Morgan out of it. I think your Scott needs to decide whether I’m an amateur or part of the evil establishment.”
“He’s not my Scott,” Rafe said. “And after tonight, he’s really not my Scott.”
Raven raised his glass in Rafe’s direction. “Here’s to better luck next time. You really do deserve better.”
Now he would never have to admit that he had worried about Rafe’s association with Scott.
He tried the light globe again that night. He tried it again the next morning while Cassandra was in the shower, and again in the afternoon when she teleported into town to pick up some meat and cheese from the deli. His efforts resulted in a fierce headache and a still-dark light globe. Raven’s first memories were of turning on the light globe in the nursery from his crib. He wasn’t sure he was even walking then. Literally a lifetime of magic, studying, practicing, training, now gone.
The headache lasted into the night. The next morning, he resolved to try one last time. Swore to himself that he would leave it alone after that and resign himself to life as a Mundane. Pain sliced through his skull, ruining his focus, but he thought he saw the globe flicker just a bit. Had he imagined it, as he had perhaps imagined feeling his magic return?
He didn't try the globe again immediately for fear of exhausting what little strength he had remaining. But that night, with Cassandra asleep, he tried again. The light globe flickered, went dark, and then came to life, shedding soft light over Cassandra’s sleeping form. She made a face in her sleep and snuggled closer to him, hiding her eyes against the light.
Just a light globe, nothing like the power he used to wield. No reason to get too excited. Or so he tried to tell himself, as he lay awake, heart pounding in joy despite the headache pressing against his skull from the inside.
The sheriff stopped in to visit the following afternoon. He brought the news that the Jansens’ family lawyer, with the aid of some interns Alexander Chen had loaned her, was well on the way to getting the parents’ estate settled, and in the meantime had managed to free up enough capital for Morgan to meet the day-to-day needs of the farm. One of the neighbors had loaned Morgan an RV to live in until the house could be rebuilt.
“After word went out about what he did on the butte,” Craig said, “a lot more folks are feeling like he really did deserve that much, and more. Thinking about a fundraising night at the Devil’s Pitchfork for whatever insurance doesn’t cover on the rebuild.”
LansingCorp had declared bankruptcy and abandoned any plans for a golf resort. However, there was a coalition made up of archeologists, the local tribes, and the Devil’s Crossing Chamber of Commerce working on plans for a museum and interpretive center that would bring in both research grants and tourist dollars in a way that did not threaten the local environment, the character of the town, or any nearby sites of cultural or historical significance.
“They’ve started planning a powwow next summer to draw publicity and maybe attract donors,” Craig said. “The powwow alone will be good for the
town. Bring in tourist dollars, and bring some life to the place.”
Raven imagined the dry, empty land echoing with drums and songs, and brightened by the vivid feathers and beads of the fancy dancers. Perhaps they should come back then with the entire household. He wanted Ransley to grow up exposed to broader and more varied cultural experiences than he had been. While he never expected to be the type of parent who had to bring a nanny on vacation, it seemed like something Tony would enjoy, so why not?
Raven and Cassandra were sitting on the porch swing, enjoying the sunset, when Morgan came to visit. He carried a basket containing jars of homemade blackberry and raspberry jams and some flowers from the garden. His mother had taught him well. Raven invited him to sit down, and Cassandra made some excuse to go inside so that they could talk privately.
Morgan sat on the artfully-distressed wooden chair in the corner of the porch, facing the swing. “Just stopping by to see how you’re doing.”
“I feel like I should be asking you that.” Raven said.
“Hey, I got out of the hospital in just under two days. You were there for a week.”
That wasn’t what Raven meant, and surely Morgan knew that. But if he wished to avoid the topic of his parents; that was his choice to make and Raven would respect that.
“Whatever Winter did up by the butte more than saved my life,” Morgan added. “She sped up the healing somehow. I felt her give up the last of her ghost, her spirit-self. Whatever you call it. She will never return to this plane in any form.” He took a deep breath. “At least it appears to have not been in vain. The healers and the Mundane doctors both were amazed at what she had accomplished.”
“I’m glad,” Raven said. “I’m not sure you realize how close you came to dying.”
“Believe me, I realize,” Morgan said in all seriousness. Then he smirked. “You still mad at me?”
Raven's Shade (Ravensblood Book 5) Page 21
