The Rook and The Raven

by R. H. Burkett

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Did I say something bad?”

  “No, child.” Madame Katanga sighed. “Not bad. Disrespectful. But you new to our ways and have no knowledge of the peoples that bend time and walk through dimensions. The Rook is most real. Madame Katanga knows many things. She knows he will come again.”

  “But, why?” I asked.

  She reached for my hand and squeezed hard.

  “To claim his woo-man.”

  Chill bumps popped on my arms.

  She dropped my hand. “I close shop today. Take you home now.”

  We climbed in Mama ChiChi’s old station-wagon and chugged out of town. I mentally braced myself to see a run-down shack tucked deep inside some alligator and mosquito infested swamp. The two-story plantation house on the outskirts of town was a pleasant surprise. Even though the place needed a fresh coat of paint, she was a proud lady of the South surrounded by a fragrant jungle of plants, flowers, and cypress trees draped in yards of Spanish moss.

  A deep breath told me the grass had been mowed recently and honeysuckle ran amok.

  My pickup was parked in the drive. Another surprise. “How?” I asked.

  Mama ChiChi chuckled. “Little bird tell Earl where to find.”

  I wondered if the little bird was a fat loudmouthed crow.

  My suitcase sat on the front porch steps, compliments of Earl I guessed, even though he was nowhere to be seen. I picked up the shabby case and followed Mama ChiChi’s swaying hips inside.

  The heavy oak door closed behind me, and I crossed over into simpler time, one of cotillions under the magnolias and mint juleps on the veranda.

  Flower papered walls absorbed the click-click of my heeled sandals on the shiny hardwood floors and dissolved the sound into nothingness. The sleepy whirl of ceiling fans cooled the sweat from my brow, and I sunk onto a deep comfy couch with a contended sigh. Eyes closed, I took a deep breath and exhaled every fear, doubt, and worry that had plagued me for so long. The house pulled stress from my body.

  The soft meows of two Maine Coon cats the size of bear cubs pulled me out of my reverie. Stretched out full length in sunlight that leaked through the rich maroon curtains and crept across the wood floor like a spilled container of Sunny Delight, they blinked a welcome with their wise mysterious eyes.

  The scent of citrus entered the room.

  Two seconds later Madame Katanga stepped into the doorway and motioned to me. “Your room upstairs,” she said.

  I climbed the steps and trailed my fingers along the cool smooth mahogany banister. Madame Katanga opened the door to the first bedroom. Light blue walls, plush carpet, large windows, French doors that opened onto a screened-in balcony, and a canopy bed made me squeal.

  “Was my granddaughter’s room,” Madame Katanga said. “But she doesn’t live here anymore. Do you like?”

  The twinge of sadness in her voice caught my attention. She blinked quickly but not fast enough. I saw tears in her eyes and wanted to ask where the girl was and what had happened. But I knew this wasn’t the time or the place. Instead, I hugged her.

  “I love.” I whispered in her ear.

  Something furry brushed against me. The largest of the Maine Coons wove figure eights between my legs.

  “This big baby is Mortimer.” Madame Katanga

  said. “He will sleep on the bed with you. Okay?”

  “Perfect,” I said and stifled a laugh. Mortimer would be the first man I’d shared a bed with in over a year.

  “No pressures here. No worries. Walk barefoot in grass. Sit by water. Heal the scars. Come to shop only when you ready.”

  That night I opened the French doors, lay in bed, and listened to the night songs of crickets and bullfrogs. Whippoorwills and owls. The soft purrs of Mortimer joined with the dull hum of the ceiling fan, and I fell into the first peaceful sleep I’d had in months.

  ****

  Early spring turned into summer. During the days, I busied myself at the shop, organizing the inventory and clearing clutter. Able to walk between the aisles without bumping into each other, tourists came to buy and investigate the mysteries of every aspect of the paranormal. Tarot, Wiccan, Shamans, Voodoo; you name it, Madame Katanga’s little shop had it.

  The rattle of bones, shuffling of cards, and the ching-ching of the cash register were constant. Business was good.

  My nights were spent reading on the balcony, walking along the riverbank, or playing cards with Mama ChiChi, who cheated like a Mississippi riverboat gambler.

  Madame Katanga traveled out of town almost every weekend and wasn’t home much. Dancing barefoot under the full moon, mixing potions in deep, dark night, or simply away at some physic event, I didn’t know and didn’t ask.

  My anxiety pills hit the trash and the prescription was never refilled. I didn’t have one thought about the mysterious Rook.

  Life was good.

  Chapter Two

  Bare feet skimmed across the moss covered path.

  The moon hung like a scoop of lemon sherbet in the starry sky.

  Soft, warm breezes carried the thick scent of coming rain.

  A figure stood tall and wickedly dark by the moonstruck water.

  Moonlight broke from the clouds and bathed his chiseled profile in sensuous light.

  My breath caught.

  To say he was handsome would be an injustice. To compare him to a Greek God, an insult. Gorgeous? Magnificent?

  There were no words in the English language that could describe the essence that was the Rook.

  Without thought or hesitation, I walked into outstretched arms and shuddered in his embrace. I knew those arms. They’d held me long ago in their strength and gentleness. Wrapped inside a cocoon of black feathered wings, I leaned against his broad chest and listened to a heart that beat strong and steady. Truly, I could walk through the shadow of death and fear no evil with him by my side.

  “I wished for you tonight.”

  God that voice! Deep and rich like a bow crossing the strings of a cello.

  My knees trembled when his long fingers slid sensuously over my bare arm and lifted my chin to gaze into eyes that gleamed like silver-white mercury. A muscle twitched in his square jaw and a slow smile, half mischievous, half dangerous made my stomach fall to my feet.

  He took my mouth with savage intensity.

  It wasn’t a kiss.

  It was rapture.

  His tongue burned into my soul.

  Desire, too long dormant, woke and demanded attention.

  With a low growl, he lifted me off the ground.

  Strong hands cupped my bottom and held me against his hard body.

  That growl inflamed me.

  Every thought vanished.

  All I wanted was to become one with his mouth and lips.

  To crawl into his skin.

  If only I could stop this ringing in my ears.

  Ringing?

  One moment, there.

  The next, gone.

  ****

  Damn it!

  I woke panting like a greyhound.

  A dream? Had all of this been just a stupid dream?

  I ran my tongue over my lips. They tasted like warm buttered rum.

  No not a dream.

  The Rook had come.

  If not for the alarm, I would have too.

  Damn it!

  Mortimer jumped and ran when the clock hit the wall and shattered into a hundred pieces.

  I smothered a groan deep inside the folds of the goose-down pillow. Never had I been kissed like that. Never.

  The strong hardness of his lips betrayed the gentleness of his touch. And his scent! Wind and rain. Wood and musk.

  Who was this guy? I had to know more.

  In my haste to get to the kitchen, I almost tripped and fell down the stairs. The rich aroma of strong black coffee and the sizzle of bacon and eggs usually made my mouth water. But not this morning. This morning the memory of the Rook’s kiss remained on my lips.

 
As was her habit, Mama ChiChi sat at the round table thumbing through the Tarot deck asking the cards what the day would bring. Madame Katanga stood at the stove stirring a pot of grits. Her back stiffened when I rushed in. Ever so slowly, she turned and stared.

  “You kissed by Rook.”

  It wasn’t a question. Rather a statement of fact. How did she know? Was the glow burning deep in my gut leaking through to my face?

  The Lovers Card flipped from the deck.

  No sense in denying anything now.

  “Does it show that bad?” I asked and sunk onto the wicker-backed kitchen chair.

  “You wear his mark.”

  What? Where? I needed a mirror.

  I ran back upstairs cussing under my breath. Madame Katanga had one rule about mirrors—they weren’t allowed. Claimed they were bad MoJo. The oval shaped looking glass in my bathroom had been her granddaughter’s and the only one in the house. Maybe the girl’s defiance of her grandmother’s rule was one reason why she was gone.

  I looked into the glass and went numb.

  Usually a mess of shoulder length unruly blue-black curls, my hair fell stick straight with one silver streak running down the middle.

  “His mark is permanent.”

  Madame Katanga stood at the bathroom door.

  It constantly amazed me how such a large woman could walk so quietly. I hadn’t heard one footstep on the stairs.

  Still staring into the mirror, I croaked. “Does this happen to everyone he touches?”

  Low chuckles came from Madame Katanga. “Only to the ones he kisses.”

  I turned my head from side-to-side looking at the silver streak from every direction. Hmm...really not that bad. “It’s kinda of sexy.” I laughed.

  “And him?” she asked. “Is he pretty man? Sexy man?”

  “Oh, my God, yes,” I said and swept past her to flop onto the bed.

  She settled her hefty butt in the rocking chair sitting in the corner and smiled. “Tell me, child.”

  I couldn’t help but giggle. I felt like a teenager telling my best friend about prom night. But Madame Katanga was more than a friend. She was a second mother. That realization hit hard, and my silly giggle hic-upped into half a sob. If she noticed the botched chuckle, she didn’t betray my change in emotions. Instead, she rocked back and forth and waited patiently.

  “At first I thought I was dreaming,” I began. “The moon hid behind the clouds, and this tall dark figure stood mysteriously by the water.”

  My sigh shook the bed.

  “Silver eyes pulled me like magnets into his arms. I kept thinking I should be scared, but that was silly. I’ve known him since I was ten. His sleek chestnut hair touched the tips of his wings.” I gulped for air. “Oh, yeah, he has gold-tipped wings.”

  “And when the moonlight washed over his muscles and bronzed skin I thought I’d die.” I giggled again. “He’s perfection. An image trapped in stone that Michelangelo chiseled free.”

  “And him kiss?” Madame Katanga asked.

  The memory of his kiss sent an electric shock between my legs and caused desire to stir.

  Heat rushed up my neck. All I could do was shake my head. Madame Katanga gave an all-knowing smile.

  I sat crossed legged on the bed and toyed with the lace pillowcase. This whole thing was too surreal. What did it all mean? No man had ever desired me. Walt only married me to have someone to push around. What did the Rook see in me? I gazed up at Madame Katanga.

  “Why does he claim me? I’m not anything special, just a scoop of plain vanilla in a mocha chocolate world. And now with this skunk stripe in my hair, I look like a freak.”

  “No!”

  Her outburst scared the liver out of me. She swooped from the rocker to my side, lightning quick. How could that mass move so fast? Her hands gripped my shoulders, hard.

  “Never say you like freak! Never!”

  Her body trembled when she took a deep breath.

  “You not plain. You most beautiful. Skin smooth and rich like butterscotch. Hair thick and black as sin. Cheek bones high with pride.” She lifted my chin with her finger. “Eyes shine and glow with wisdom and a knowing beyond your years. Body lithe and graceful like dancer.” She reached out and tucked the silver strand behind my ear. “To wear the mark of the Rook is a great honor and demands respect.”

  “Most people wouldn’t agree with you,” I scoffed.

  “The enlightened ones will and the remainder do not matter. You must swear never to say you freak again.” She shook my shoulder. “Promise!”

  “Okay, I promise.” Geez, why is this so important to her? “I’m sorry I upset you.”

  A deep sigh shook her heavy bosom, and she patted my hand. “Child, Madame Katanga should be the one to say she sorry.”

  “It has something to do with your granddaughter, doesn’t it?”

  The statement surprised me as much as it did her. Where the thought came from I had no idea. Maybe her mind-reading talents were rubbing off on me.

  With a grunt, she heaved her mighty frame up from the corner of the bed and walked over to the balcony. Seconds stretched into minutes, and I didn’t think she would answer. When she did, her voice came so low I strained to hear.

  “My only daughter, she died bringing the most beautiful baby into this world. Angelina. Her father, a handsome gypsy man from Russia, was so full of life. A loving, intuitive man with good intentions, but helpless against the rambler’s blood running hot through his veins. He left before Angelina was born. I doubt he know about her.”

  A mockingbird started its morning serenade in the cypress tree outside the window, and Madame Katanga seemed lost in its song before she turned and looked at me.

  “Angelina has the gift of sight. I encouraged her to speak and tell everything she sees. Most peoples understood, but others, they not be so kind. Called her freak. She be young, embarrassed by grandmother who tell fortunes and dabbles in things supernatural. All she wanted was to be normal, whatever that mean. When she realized she never would, she run. I to blame.”

  The sorrow in her voice wrenched my insides. I went to her and put my arms around hefty shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

  “She is gone one year. Is only sixteen. I search but cannot find my Angelina.”

  A sudden realization hit me. “That’s why you travel so much, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, child.” She laughed. “Oh I know when I go you think it is for business, to read cards or gaze into the crystal ball, but all those times away I hunt for my Angelina.”

  Embarrassed, I ducked my head. “How did you know I thought that?”

  “Madame Katanga knows many things.”

  The humor in her voice made us both smile, and I pulled her out onto the balcony. A spiced ribbon of magnolia and jasmine scent circled the small screened porch. We sat together on the cushioned futon and listened to the mockingbird’s song and the whispering wind.

  “Can’t you throw the chicken bones or have Mama ChiChi read the cards to find out where she is?”

  “Do you not think that is the first thing I do?” Her tone sounded injured. “Bones and cards cannot find one whose soul is gone.”

  I gasped. “You mean dead?”

  She smiled. “No, child. That the cards would tell. There is much evil in this world that preys on the innocent. I fear wickedness has claimed her. She is lost. Cannot find her way home.”

  “You mean like drugs?”

  “Yes, child. That and other things.”

  She shook free from her melancholy and patted my knee. “Enough. There is more I must tell about the Rook.”

  My heart leaped at the foreboding in her voice.

  “You tasted his essence and he yours. Him charms not easy to deny. But it is said if one lies with the Rook, no other will ever please. Understand?”

  I nodded. So what? Nothing new there. Walt had never satisfied me in bed.

  “To lust for the Rook is one thing, but to fall in love with him is another. Him not
from this dimension.”

  “Then why does he come to me?”

  “Since the start of time Sentinels cross the line into this world to join with mortal women.

  “But they cannot stay and never fall in love. From beginning, I say this Rook different from all others. Him in love. The heart wants what it wants. No Tarot card, crystal ball, tea leaf, or chicken bone can predict what is to be.”

  She rose from the cushions and walked to the door. “Beware, child. Always remember. You mortal. Him is not. You cannot live or even find his world.”

  The mockingbird’s melody ended and it flew from the tree. Morning warmth turned to early afternoon heat. Madame Katanga’s words revolved around in my head while I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt.

  Her warning came too late.

  With only a single touch of his lips, I had fallen in love with the Rook.

  Chapter Three

  In the shadowed silence between time and space, the Rook stood alone. The remembrance of the girl’s lips, soft, yielding, vexed his being. The old man spoke true. A crooked smile tugged at his lips. Ah, but then again, the Keeper always told the truth.

  So what if altering fate wasn’t allowed? Rules were made to be broken. Let the righteous angels uphold the faith.

  He thought himself strong enough to sever the bonds that tied her soul to his—and he was. For years, he watched over her, stood by her bed at night, walked by her side during the day. Fifteen years. When would he release her? A deep sigh sent icy fog into the emptiness.

  Never.

  Her soul uniting with his wasn’t the problem. No. She had captured his.

  From the moment his arms had wrapped round her as she fought against the tide and turmoil of the sea those long years before, he belonged to her.

  The memory of her sky blue eyes, the feel of her warm breath on his neck, the softness of her breasts against his chest haunted him night and day—made his life force flow through his veins like molten lava. His wide shoulders tensed.

  He must have her.

  Would have her.

  Damn the old man and his rules.

  Mortal or not, he would find a way to bring her to him.