by R. L. Weeks
RAVEN’S SIGHT
A Feather Dreams Book
Feather Dreams Press, 83 Ducie Street, Manchester, M1 2JQ
www.btpandimprints.com
Published by Feather Dreams Press 2018
RAVEN’S SIGHT
© Copyright R. L. Weeks 2018
All rights reserved.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and organisations are purely coincidental.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, nor translated into a machine language, without the written permission of the publisher.
Condition of sale
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Cover design © Copyright Feather Dreams Press 2018
Cover Design by Dark Wish Designs
Editing by Emily Cargile
Praise for Raven’s Shadows
The Bestselling Series by R. L. Weeks
This book is simply amazing! You will love Raven and be right there with her as she goes on her journey in this book. It plays out in your head like you are watching a movie. I was captivated from the beginning
~ Country Girl Reviews
Raven's Sight is a great start to a YA series. With a mystery to solve, Raven uses her special abilities to learn the truth. With twists and turns along the way, I found myself loving this story
~ Rena Marin, Author of Halloween Nightmare
Another wonderfully spun tale by Author R. L. Weeks! The book had just enough mystery and suspense to keep me wanting more, eagerly turning each page to find out what happens next. The ending was unpredictable and totally came as a surprise to me. Excellent start to a new series. I can’t wait for the next one!
~ Amy Cecil, Author of The Knights of Silence MC Series
The characters are perfectly flawed. It was so refreshing to read a story and not fall madly in love with the “looks” of the two main male characters, Tom and Emmet. It’s their personalities and little quirks that draw you in and make you fall in love.
Raven is a rare breed, and easy to love from the moment you begin the first page. Each character is built to perfection, each “place” is described in a way that shows you where they are.
The twists and turns are shocking to say the least and just when you think you know what’s going to happen, you’re wrong once again.
~ Magical Pages Book Blog.
Also by R. L. Weeks
Willow Woods Academy for Witches Book One
Willow Woods Academy for Witches Book Two
~
Night Stalker (Dead Loves Life Book One)
Night Wanderers (Dead Loves Life Book Two)
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The Magic that Binds Us
~
Night Night Sleep Tight (An Anthology)
Vampires in Paris (An Anthology)
Fractured Fairytales 1 (An Anthology)
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Taniquelle Tulipano for publishing Raven’s Sight. You’re a wonderful person and a great friend too.
Thank you Amy Bernal, my amazing PA and most importantly, my friend and Emily Cargile, for editing Raven’s Sight. You always do an amazing job.
Daniel Garcia, I love you so much! I would honestly be lost without you.
I want to mention some other people who have always supported me and have grown quite special to me. So thank you –
Donna Owens, Layla Ling, Erin Wolf, Amanda Lindsey, Sammy Bell, Barb Braun, Samantha Day, Amber Koch, Heather Allen, Ebony McMillan, Lynne Gauthier, Ashley Morgan, Holly Edmonds, Diana Silvia, Kayleen McSwank, Rebecca Waggner, Kelley Sanders, Laura Finley, Samantha Talarico, Mandy Buffington, Michelle Cates, Tammy Dalton, Kelly Kortright, Alicia Harrietha, Lisa Mitchell, Lis Garcia, Marie Corbin, Wendy Porter, Debbie Victorino, Tabitha Hartman, Ashlee Reed, and my author friends, Amy Cecil, Erin Lee, Michelle Ranalli, K. L. Roth, Skylar Mckinzie, and Angie Wade.
Quote
What is worse than death is the death of an illusion.
Dedication
For my readers and author friends in the indie world!
By R. L. Weeks
Poem
Moonlight shines down on me so bright, I am such a scary sight.
As I lay there on the ground, my blood is swirling all around.
Forming roses can be seen, crimson red amongst the green.
The raven sings his song of death, in the graveyard where my body rests.
One day of happiness became an eternity of pain, and here is where my ghost remains.
I’ll haunt the night and my soul will scream, until I find the one who killed me.
By Donna Owens
One
I sit on the stool and marvel at the mahogany structure in front of me. Father converted our spare room into a music room two years ago. Father loves to play the piano. I mean, he loved to play the piano and no longer loves, for he no longer is. Like everyone else in my family, apart from Grandmother and my uncle, he is dead.
I lift the heavy lid, and a row of ivory keys greet me. Father ensured that our piano had a cast iron frame installed when it was bought. According to him, it gives a more powerful sound. Father was a very smart man.
I suck in a deep breath and dangle my legs off the stool. I tap the heels of my black, shiny shoes together. My feet can almost reach the ground now. Soon, I will be nine years old, and I will be able to play the piano much better than Lissy, who lives down the road. Although, her mother doesn’t want her playing with me anymore. Apparently, I’m weird.
Tears blur my vision as I realise that I will be turning nine without Father.
I miss his sparkling blue eyes and “moments of madness,” as Grandmother called them. Father is…I mean, was, the owner of a wool factory.
Father said that his factory was one of the first to recognise a union, whatever that is, and his workers were paid fairly. He was very proud of his factory which is now owned by his adopted brother who I’ve never met. All the workers live in small houses in our small town of Cogsworth.
I used to sneak off and look at the factory after school. Sparks and flames would light up the sky that had been darkened by smoke from the chimneys. I used to watch the children that worked at his factory sit on the old wooden fence and eat their dinners before going back to finish their long day.
I look down at my little fingers and wonder if I will be put to work now that he is dead.
Grandmother says not to worry, that father has left us more than enough money and that we have enough to last us for the rest of our lives, but I am much younger than her.
I must find a good husband when I am grown up. I just hope Grandmother lives long enough for me to marry. If not, I may end up desperate and poor, without anything in the world. I am, after all, an orphan now, and the world is not kind to orphans. I know this much from the books I sneak from Grandmother’s shelves.
You see, Grandmother always hides the harsh truths from me, unlike Father, who always told me the truth, even when I didn’t want to hear it. He always said that the most important gifts he had been graced with by God were his integrity and honest tongue.
I look up a
t the door and smile at him.
“My dear,” my grandmother says crisply. She walks through Father and sits on the futon. “I know it has been hard with losing both your parents in one year, but you still have me, and I will always be here for you.”
I give her an “mmm” and hover my fingers over the keys of the piano. I don’t want to talk about my parent’s deaths right now. I don’t have time. “I am about to play a song.”
Her thin lips crack into a small smile. She nods for me to play, but the song is not for her. It is for Father. He has been standing in the doorway waiting for me to play for almost ten minutes. He is almost transparent and taps his watch, pushing me to hurry.
What if I do not play my goodbye well enough for him? How can I put all the words and memories I wished for us to have into just one small song?
I elaborate when she does not leave. “I am playing a song for Father, not you. I must make sure I get it right. I want to play it only for his ears.”
Her eyes, a paler blue than mine or Father’s, widen. “Raven…” She pauses and fiddles with the cameo necklace around her neck. “Your father, my poor son, is not coming back. He is with God now. I have told you this. You must accept it.”
I shake my head and look at Father. He tilts his head slightly to the left and drops his arms to his side.
“No Grandmother. Father is standing right there. He has to go soon, but he is waiting for me to play for him.”
I press down three keys and hold my breath so I do not tremble. I start the lullaby that I used to play with Father.
I have decided that it is most appropriate; it will be a good night to him and my life with him.
Grandmother marches over to me and grabs my arm. I miss a note and look up at her furiously.
“No!” I shout and fall off the stool. I try to wriggle free, but she pulls me across the cold floorboards.
“No! Grandmother, please. I must finish!”
“Stop being ridiculous, Raven. There are no such things as ghosts.”
I pull down on her fingers and accidentally pull off her wedding ring. I grasp it in my sweaty palms. I see Father look sadly at us before turning away.
“No! Father, No!”
I look at the door with desperation as he fades away.
“Father!” I scream. Grandmother’s grip remains tight on my arm, and I pull with all my might. “I hate you. You made him leave.” A lump forms in my throat as despair grips me. “He’s gone.”
“Enough, child,” she says and tightens her grip.
I kick my legs and scream and scream until my screams are silent. I feel nothing but rage as I kneel on the floorboards holding Grandmother’s ring.
Suddenly, the room twists around me, and everything fades to black.
The room looks different. The walls are plastered with cream paper instead of the normal pale blue and gold.
Grandmother sits with my dead grandfather. They both look younger. A boy plays on the floor with a wooden horse. He is only four or five years old. His eyes sparkle with the same blue colour as Father’s.
Grandmother plays with her wedding ring. I look down at the same ring in my hand, and my eyebrows knit together.
The boy runs out of the room with a mischievous smile. Grandmother runs after him, laughing. “Jameson, get back here,” she says through her laughter.
The memory fades from me as I feel the ring topple from my hand onto the floorboards.
“Raven?”
I open my eyes and look into my Grandmother’s hard expression.
“Raven, are you okay?” Tears have formed in her eyes.
I can feel the pain from where her nails were digging into me. “You seemed happier when you ran after Father in this room. When he was a boy,” I said in clarification.
Grandmother’s worried expression is replaced with one I have never seen on her: fear. “You and your imagination.”
I pick up her ring and give it back to her. I stand up and rub my arm. “I saw it. He was playing with a wooden horse. I think it was real,” I say. I am as confused by the memory as she is. “It felt real.”
The colour leaves her face. “He must have told you about the wooden horse.”
I shake my head.
“This is the last time we can let this happen.” Strands of her hair have freed themselves from her tight bun and now dangle wildly around her face. “Nora!” She calls for our maid.
I look at her as she runs into the room, looking flushed. “Yes, Ma’am.”
“Take Raven to her room and do not let anyone in the house,” Grandmother orders.
Nora Bonetta, whose skin is much darker than ours, looks at me curiously. “Is the child okay?”
Grandmother paces around in a circle. “I have seen this happen before, and it is happening again. We cannot have another Alice,” she says and stops in front of me. She pushes me over to Nora. “We must not let her out the house. If anyone finds out what she is…”
Nora nods, seeming to understand what I do not.
Who is this girl—I have forgotten her name already—that we cannot have another of, and what am I?
Two
Ten years later
Crisp brown leaves cover the garden. I watch them move in the breeze outside my window. I hold my breath and count to four, a technique I learned to calm my racing heart whenever I feel anxious.
November 27th is a day of lasts.
It was the last day I saw my Father. I remember the day as if it were only yesterday when my eight-year-old self sat at that piano waiting to play to his ghost.
It was also the last day I went outside of the house and gardens after my gifts were revealed to Grandmother.
However, today is also market day, which steals me time to go outside of this wretched house.
I peep around the corner and watch as Nora lays the newspaper out on the tea table for Grandmother. Grandmother must have her newspaper ready to read when she returns.
Her routine is eye-rollingly predictable. Nora turns her attention to the used tea set. She places the teapot, sugar pot, strainer, and cup and saucer on a tray and carries it out of the room. I duck out of view behind the wall in-between the living area and passage as Nora heads down to the kitchen.
I dodge another servant and open the back doors. Hurrying out, I let the doors click shut behind me. I have gotten this down to perfection.
I know what boards creak, the exact way to close the doors without making too much sound, and everyone’s schedules so I can sneak out to the garden every market day.
I run down to the end of the garden, scaring a squirrel that is foraging for nuts, and climb up the side of the wall. I almost lose my footing but save myself by grabbing a ridge.
I brush the dirt off my dark blue dress when I reach the top and dangle my legs over the edge.
I catch my breath and gaze upwards. The sky is set in a stormy grey, and dark clouds shadow Cogsworth. I haven’t set foot in the town since I was eight years old, and the memory of the place has faded. Now, I just catch glimpses of it every week and imagine what it is like for the normal people who walk throughout it every day.
I gaze over the cemetery to the church steeple, the small houses, and the Littlemoore Orphanage for Girls and Boys. The people of Cogsworth were not happy when the orphanage was opened—at least, that is what Grandmother tells me.
According to her, the orphans at Littlemore are lazy, thieving little buggers with little to no manners.
Beyond the borders of our town, I see the shadows set against the towers of the asylum. Sometimes, when everything is serene in the dead of the night, I catch echoes of screams coming from their barred windows. Grandmother says it’s my imagination, but I know different. After a while, I just started agreeing with everything she said. She didn’t like when I told her about what I saw and heard, so I just stopped telling her. My gifts scare her. She won’t talk about the mystery girl who was apparently like me and won’t so much as mention the word “ghost” while
around me.
I breathe in the crisp, cold air and run my hand over the leather exterior of my diary. Everything I know about the outside world I have learned from my tutor, my grandmother, and the books on Grandmother’s shelves.
“Whoa!” I jump as a crow sweeps down and lands next to me. “Hey there, bird.”
The crow looks at me with curiosity—I mean, as much as crow can look at a person with curiosity.
I understand why when I look down at the ground by the wall. A dead crow lies amongst the brown and gold leaves. I roll my eyes up as the crow’s spirit takes flight. “Poor thing,” I say and lick my dry lips. I sit for several minutes watching the landscape as if something may happen. Nothing does. I look back at the house and huff.
It’s time to go back inside.
I steady myself and pull my legs up so I can jump down.
I climb down the wall and pause to take in the view before I reach the bottom.
I scan the houses, the steeple, and the orphanage. I trace each and every window.
My gaze meets that of another—a man in the orphanage window. He is staring right at me. I lose my footing and feel the stone crumble beneath my foot. I grab onto a rose vine, cutting my hand on the thorns, and fall onto the hard mud below.
“Darn it!” I manage to stand and inspect my dress. How will I explain the mud?
“Hello,” a sweet voice says from behind me.
I freeze. I close my eyes tightly. “No one is there,” I say aloud.
I open my eyes and turn around slowly. “Thank goodness.”
“Sorry if I scared you,” the small voice says from next to me.
I jerk my head around and fall back against the wall.
Standing in front of me is a little girl wearing a scratchy looking white dress with patches sewn in several places. Her size tells me that she is only seven or eight years old. Her small button nose is set just above her dusty pink lips. She wears her bruises like lace around her arms, but I concern myself with a poppy bruise on her temple and scar on her neck.
