Watcher: A raven paranormal romance (Crookshollow ravens Book 1)

by Steffanie Holmes

  And so I’d stood there, silent as stone, as Victor informed me of my fate. And I hated myself for my weakness, for my inability to stand up to him, to fight through the pain. But at that moment, I hated Victor more.

  “Who?” I managed to choke out. “Who will be my master?”

  “I have sold you to Sir Thomas Gillespie,” Victor looked up at me then, his cold hard eyes dancing with glee. “I think you will find him a much stricter, much more cruel master than I have ever been.”

  The very mention of that name filled me with a sudden, cold fear. Sir Thomas Gillespie wasn’t just one of the most powerful men in all of England, the last in an ancient noble family. He was also one of the few remaining vampires in the country, notorious for his cruelty and indifference. He was the man who had killed my father. I would no longer be ruled by a man of flesh and blood, but an immortal being of infinite cruelty.

  “But you … how could … you hate Sir Thomas.”

  “I wanted to be rid of you, and he offered a fair price. My personal feelings for the man did not enter into it. You will perform your usual duties and watches until the end of the week, but you are forbidden to leave the castle grounds until Gillespie arrives to collect you, unless I give you permission. I won’t have you trying anything desperate. Is that understood?”

  Despite every muscle and sinew in my body struggling to prevent it, I nodded slowly, the words rushing from my mouth before I could stop them. “Yes, master.”

  “In the meantime, I want you to finish your watch for today and then head down to Oxford to escort my son home. I’d like for someone to watch him, make sure he doesn’t get himself into any trouble. And don’t think this is your chance to escape, for Harry is expecting you. He will hold you to your bond.”

  “Yes, master.” Harry had learned cruelty from his father. He would make certain I knew my place.

  “You may leave,” Victor turned away from me. “Shut the door on the way out.”

  And just like that, I had been thrown from the only home I had ever known. I turned on my heel and strode away, slamming the door shut with such force the entire wall shuddered in protest. A piece of the horse’s mane broke off and clattered on the marble floor. What did it matter? What could Victor do to me now?

  I raced through the castle, barely registering anything around me. My whole body surged with anger – my mind replaying the whole conversation over and over. How dare he?

  By the time I got back to the roost, I was a ball of rage. The black panel beeped angrily at me, letting me know the others were on their way home, and that I was past due to start my journey down to Oxford to meet Harry. I balled my hand into a fist and punched the panel with all the force I could muster.

  I yanked my hand back, wincing at the pain in my knuckles. A long, jagged crack appeared across the screen, trailing out to the edges in an impressive spider-web pattern. The panel beeped angrily, but the lights continued to glow.

  My ring hummed against my skin, reminding me again that I should be on watch. Fine, if Morchard wanted me to watch, then that’s just what I’d do.

  I leapt on the bike again, jammed the helmet on my head, and steered the machine out of the grounds. I sped toward the edge of the county, toward the line of trees on the horizon. The forest. The one part of Morchard’s estate that he could not entirely control, the only place in my tiny world that had some semblance of wildness.

  I found my usual hiding spot out on the edge of Crookshollow forest – a small, overgrown parking lot marking the start of one of the less-frequented hiking tracks. I parked up and turned off my bike, then wheeled it into the bushes and hid it underneath the shrubs. Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, I pulled off my clothes, and stashed them in the pillion. My hands shook. Whether it was with anger, or with fear, I couldn’t tell.

  I closed my eyes, and I forced myself to change.

  It is said that a process of changing forms is a highly individual experience. No two shapeshifters will have the same sensations, nor will they change in exactly the same way. My mother used to describe hers as a sensation of sinking into the ground, collapsing in upon herself like a toppling house of cards. For me, it was as if I were some living statue made of clay, unable to move or cry out as my maker rearranged my pieces and cut away at my limbs. The sounds disturbed me more than anything – the scrape and crunch of my bones recasting themselves, the hiss as my pores opened up to allow my feathers to grow through, the crinkle of my skin folding away to be rolled out again later. Ever since I was a child those sounds haunted my dreams.

  Even in my raven form, I was still a prisoner. This body – built for stealth, for hunting – kept me a slave.

  I opened my eyes again, and the world became new and strange once more. I saw more than just colour and light, the energy of the world bounced back at me, a wild cacophony of new sounds and sensations resonated within my skull.

  I unfurled my wings and took off, heading along the path of my usual afternoon round patrolling the western edge of the Morchard estate, heading back in the direction of the city. As I flew, I thought of all the awful things Victor had done to me, all the crimes he’d forced me to commit in his name, and what he had done to my mother when she had most needed his help. I thought of the carefully laid plan Mikael and I had been working on for months, all the pieces nearly in place to ensure both our escapes from this life of servitude. I came to the spot where I was supposed to turn around and head south along the other boundary.

  Instead, I just kept on flying.

  At first I felt nothing but a euphoria. I had done it. I’d actually left. I’d gone rogue. After all these years of thinking and planning for it, it was as easy as flying in a straight line. I glided over the rolling countryside with a strange sense of power. My beak hurt from the un-ravenlike smile that pulled at it. I was a bird in the sky. What could Victor Morchard do to me up here? I was free.

  I managed two miles off my usual flight plan before the pain kicked in. The ring tightened around my wing, making flying difficult, slowing my escape. As I flew further from the castle, waves of agony assailed my body, and within minutes I was panting, my feathers slick with sweat. I barely had the energy to move my wings.

  I have to reach Mikael. He’s my only hope.

  Mikael would still be at the pub. I was four miles from Crookshollow village, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it, but I had to try. My throat constricted, and I wheezed as I struggled for air. I dipped, my right wing collapsing under the tightening ring. I hurtled down, the road rising up toward me.

  No!

  I squeezed my eyes shut, and pushed with my mind, forcing my wings to respond to my commands, not the ring’s. Slowly, too slowly, I broke through the pain, forcing my own muscles to obey me, moving my wings apart, spreading them wide, feeling the wind ripple through my feathers.

  I opened my eyes just in time to see the individual stones in the asphalt hurtle into focus. I jerked my neck back, and rolled over, flinging myself toward the heavens once more.

  That was close.

  I sucked in my air, opening my wings as wide as I could and straightening my neck and back, making myself as streamlined as possible. Ahead of me, I could see the houses on the outskirts of the village, and the gleaming glass facade of the Halt Institute on the northern end of the high street. The faster I could get to Mikael, the less chance—

  I sensed, rather than heard, the other bird behind me. I didn’t have to turn my head to know who it was.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Cole?” Pax hissed in caw-tongue, the language of Bran. His words bit the air like teeth.

  “This is a very stupid thing you’re doing,” added Poe. Out of the edge of my eye I saw his sleek figure slide through the air beside me, moving closer, blocking my escape.

  I couldn’t believe they’d found me this quickly. Byron must’ve reported me missing when I didn’t cross his path on his watch as I headed to Oxford. Probably he’d seen the smashed screen back at the ro
ost, too. Byron was such a stickler for the rules. He couldn’t possibly know that I’d been sold to the Gillespies already, but he probably thought I was having it off with some girl – a fair assumption considering my past behaviour. My thoughts drifted briefly back to the black-haired beauty in the bakery. I wasn’t going to be getting it on with her any time soon.

  Just this once, I wished Byron could have left me alone. I darted my head from side to side, searching for him, but I couldn’t see him nearby.

  I’d known, of course, that Morchard would send the other Bran after me. It was one of the factors Mikael and I were trying to mitigate in our escape plan. Of course, I’d gone and shot the escape plan to shit, and now Pax and Poe flanked me, forcing me to fly lower and lower across the village.

  Rows of brown-roofed terraces zoomed below me, growing closer and closer as Pax and Poe pushed me down, down … I tried to turn against the wind, hoping to give them the slip, but the ring tightened around my skin, collapsing my wing and sending me into an uncontrolled spin.

  I struggled to regain my balance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pax dive for me, his talons pointing directly at my throat. I spun away, and his sharp talons snagged my leg. I cried out as he tore through my flesh.

  My leg flared with pain. I heard something snap in my wing, and the whole side of my body went limp. The air around me changed, and suddenly I was no longer buoyed up by the hot currents.

  I was falling.

  Houses zoomed past me at odd angles, colours spun around me like some terrifying funhouse ride, but I knew it wasn’t the world spinning out of control. I was the one flailing through the air.

  Then my body slammed against something hard, and everything went black.

  3

  Belinda

  Usually, I kept the bakery open until five thirty, or whenever I sold out. But on Tuesdays – my slowest day – I shut the shop at 4pm. This gave me an hour in the village before the other shops closed to get to the post office, do the grocery shopping, and make my deliveries.

  The local authorities mandate that we’re not supposed to sell anything that’s freshly baked after a day, and no matter how carefully I planned, I usually had leftover food. Most of the other store owners in town dumped it in the rubbish, but I hated the wastefulness. So on Tuesdays I took a box of goodies over to the Crookshollow Rest Home, the women’s refuge, or the homeless shelter. It was nice to spend an hour a week brightening someone else’s day; it made for a pleasant break from staring down my own private tunnel of disaster.

  This week had been relatively busy, so all I had left were a couple baguettes and three custard slices. Not enough to feed a horde of bored seniors or several mothers with excitable children. So I decided to go to the park. I knew some other creatures that would appreciate some free food.

  Two blocks back from the Crookshollow high street was Fauntelroy Park, a large green space dotted with bright flower beds, towering oaks, a Tudor garden, some questionable sculpture installations, a beautiful Victorian gazebo, and a large pond filled with ducks. The land had been donated to the village during the eighteenth century by the Fauntelroy family – my friend Alex’s ancestors – who’d owned a significant tract of land in the area. Now, the park was owned by the council, who kept it in excellent condition, installed cycle lanes and picnic tables, and posted large signs warning people not to fall in the pond. The park hosted a series of events throughout the year, including sculpture trails, Easter-egg hunts, and a summer Shakespeare festival.

  Since I spent most of my time holed up in the shop or my flat, I didn’t get out much. Crookshollow village was surrounded on two sides by dense woods, and the rest of the landscape was picturesque rural views. It was the perfect village from which to begin a ramble, but I couldn’t ramble while there were loaves to bake and Eccles cakes to ice.

  But I could get to Fauntelroy Park. Walking through the park never failed to help me clear my head. Here I felt calmer, as though all the problems eating me up inside were really quite manageable after all. There was something so peaceful about sitting beside the water, listening to the gentle ripples lap against the concrete edging. The air smelled fresh and sweet with the scent of the flowers. Birds sang in the trees, and the ducks and pigeons hopped excitedly all around. The council liked to encourage other birds to frequent the park, and sometimes I even saw majestic ravens preening themselves beside the water.

  It wasn’t yet five o’clock, so most people were still at work, and the park was practically deserted. I found a seat on a bench not far from one of the most impressive oaks. The bench was only a few feet from the edge of the pond. Perfect. I ripped the first stick of bread into tiny chunks and threw it out at the ducks. They all leapt and squabbled for the scraps. One tiny bird kept grabbing the largest chunks he could find, only to have his elder siblings rip them from his mouth. Finally, he got so sick of it he hopped up on the bench beside me and started pecking at the other loaf. I laughed at his antics.

  When was the last time you laughed? I asked myself, and a wave of sadness hit me. There hadn’t been much to laugh about lately. Ethan had taken my sense of humour when he took my bed linen and all of my Monty Python coffee mugs.

  My body sagged with exhaustion. I was only twenty-three. I should have been backpacking through Cambodia, or following a death metal band around Germany, or getting my pilot’s license, or something equally frivolous and reckless. I thought again of my girlfriends, who were all pursuing their dreams with their dream men and having loads of fun. I had been working my arse off on my bakery dream of the last three years, and all I’d got for my efforts was a nightmare.

  But what could I do? I still owed £15,000 on the credit card from Ethan’s spending, and at least double that to the HMRC. I couldn’t afford to hire anyone else. If I could somehow find the time to take on more catering jobs, I could replace some of the furniture Ethan stole. The shop was doing well, and as soon as I was out of debt, I could afford to ease up a little. But until then, I was trapped, and this tight, frightened feeling in my chest wasn’t going to go away.

  I wished I didn’t feel so tired all the time, so stressed. Even when I collapsed into bed at night after twelve hours of non-stop work, I felt panicked, as though there were something more I should have done. I was too young to be tied to a job for 75 hours a week. But tied I was, thanks to my own stupid decisions.

  My chest heaved, and I sucked in a couple of deep breaths, feeling a lump rise in my throat. I was dangerously close to bursting into tears. Crying is pointless, Belinda. You’ve cried enough over Ethan already. It won’t get the bills paid and the debt wiped. All that will do that is hard work.

  I buried my face in my hands, dragging my feet up to my knees as I desperately tried to get my emotions under control. As I did this, I knocked the second baguette off the bench. I peeked through my fingers, watching as it rolled across the grass, gaining momentum as it headed toward the lake. All my duck friends waddled after it, diving for the water as the roll fell in with a plop. The ducks swarmed around it, my presence instantly forgotten as they tore at the loaf.

  So much for my company.

  I pulled out the other paper bag, and took out a custard slice. I was getting sick of my own baking, and the habit of subsisting primarily on pastry was starting to show around my stomach. But today I was having a hard time coping, and the interaction with the biker in the shop this morning had left me feeling strange and sad. His handsome face flashed across my vision, that cheeky smile, those smouldering eyes that betrayed a hint of sadness and pain beyond their mischievous sparkle. How would it feel to be desired by a guy like that? What would it be like to kiss those lips, feel that stubble against my skin, the tendrils of his hair falling over my face?

  And why did his attitude change so suddenly? Why was he flirty one moment, and intense and sad the next?

  I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. He didn’t want me. Of course he didn’t. He’d made that perfectly clear. My cheeks burned at the
memory of his remarks. He was probably still laughing about it as he drank Tennessee whiskey with his mates down at the pub. He could have any girl he wanted. Flirting was a game to him. And that wasn’t a game I wanted to play.

  But that sadness in his eyes, the pain raw on his face ... it had flickered there for a moment, but I had seen it. He knew my pain, because he’d been hurt by someone, too.

  What had he said? “You’ve been hurt badly.” Was it that obvious? Was Ethan’s betrayal written all over my face, the way the biker’s pain flickered over his?

  I am not sweet, not even close. Maybe I didn’t need someone sweet. Maybe what I needed was someone to fuck and forget, someone who could rid my head of all the painful memories of Ethan. Hot Biker could have done the trick, but he didn’t want someone like me, someone “sweet.” He probably wanted a succubus in leather.

  The custard slice smelled so good. What the hell. It’s not as if a little sugar can make things worse.

  I took a big bite.

  The creamy custard filled my mouth, exploding from the edges of the pastry and coating my hands. I’d forgotten how messy these things were. And how delicious. My custard was the proper homemade stuff, flavoured with real vanilla and a hint of lemon. It didn’t come from a Sainsbury’s packet mix, like other bakeries.

  Croak, Croak!

  Below me, I heard a strange squawk. At first I thought it must have been the ducks coming back to beg for a custardy dessert, but I could still hear them flapping about in the water as they tore apart the last of the baguette. Plus, this sounded nothing like a duck. It was more of a deep, throaty croak.

  Croak! Croak! Crooooooak!

  I heard it again, louder this time, more urgent. It sounded distressed. At first, I couldn’t see where the noise came from, but then I noticed a large black lump hiding between the twisted roots of the oak tree.

  I set down my dinner and went over to investigate. As I leaned over the lump, its shape became clear. It was a raven. I’d never seen one of the huge black birds so close before, and it was even more beautiful than I imagined. It was huge, nearly the entire length of my arm, and covered in smooth feathers that appeared to be made of black silk. A frill of shaggy feathers around its throat and above its beak gave the bird a distinguished, regal air. There was a black ring around the top of its wing, almost like some kind of tag. Its long, curved black beak turned and it regarded me with a wide, watchful eye, then let out a tiny squeak, as if begging me to take pity on it.