The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

“It won’t hurt. You have to trust me.”

  “Trust you? Trust you?” The fog in her mind is clearing. “This is your fucking fault in the first place!”

  Not this again. “Look, you want him gone, right? So do I. If you don’t remember he even existed, problem solved.” I raise my voice this time; my temper is on the rise as is the temperature in this room.

  She can see that I am not kidding and not going to leave. She straightens her shoulders. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  That deflates me. “I don’t want you to be afraid of me.” I take a deep breath. “Let me help you.”

  “I don’t need your help. I don’t need anyone’s help. I was doing just fine before you got here. Now, wake my friend up and leave.”

  My jaw clenches. “Melissa.”

  “Go!” She reaches out to push me. I grab each arm and hold her fast. She’s screaming at me to let her go and whipping her body around.

  “Look at me!” I say. She stops struggling at once and is captive to my gaze. Her lips move to make words but only a whimper comes out.

  “I am not going to hurt you,” I tell her, shaking her a bit to make my point. Another whimper. Her face is twisted with fear.

  I reach gently into her mind and travel through her memories of the past few weeks. It’s difficult not to see the fights with her father, or feel the pain of the slaps to her face, or suffer the terror of Morris’s visits. I can’t help but gag at the nausea that a night of bingeing on stolen liquor brings. Finally, I reach the day she and her friends entered my shop. From that point on, her memories of me, of the reading, her knowledge of her ancestor, and her research will be gone. She won’t remember the paralyzing fear of Morris’s presence or the short freedom that drugs and booze gave her. I pull those from her mind, taking great care not to remove anything unrelated. As those images fade, her body relaxes and her face softens.

  I put my arm around her waist to keep her from falling to the floor. When I am done, she goes limp. Laying her next to her friend on the bed, I gaze at them with a great measure of sadness. “Be good,” I murmur to both, brushing a few strands of hair away from Melissa’s eyes. I touch each one’s cheek and give them a silent blessing.

  The smell in the room is revolting. I only hope these two girls rise above their current station in life given the strength I’ve now imparted to them. I glare at the pot until it smolders within the plastic bag and then disintegrates. I look at the bottle of whiskey, but it’s already empty.

  With a deep sigh, I close my eyes and fade away.

  13

  The faint aroma of blueberry muffins greets me as I come into the front yard. Sylvia is baking again. My mouth waters, and I realize that I’ve not eaten yet today.

  The large aster bush that claims a majority of the right rear corner of the yard is unusually quiet. I feel the gaze of dozens of little eyes follow me. There is a flutter of large wings behind me, and I turn mostly from reflex. Knowing I will not see the bird, I turn anyway. There’s a flash of white in the large tree across the street but nothing more.

  As I enter, the shop looks abandoned. It is waiting impatiently for people to fill its cozy places with exclamations of delight and questions about what this or that is and does. Looking around, I smile proudly. It looks perfect, exactly the way I wanted it to be.

  Voices come from the shop’s kitchen—the typical, good-natured bickering between mother and daughter. This argument is about the proper amount of blueberries allowed for mini-muffins.

  I lean against the doorframe, watching the exchange with great pleasure. These women came into my life unexpectedly and unannounced, and now I can’t picture my life without them.

  “It really depends on the size of the blueberries,” I contribute to the conversation. They both start and Sylvia nearly drops the muffin tin she’s pulled from the oven. Neither must have heard the door chimes.

  “Goddess! You scared the life outta me,” says Jo, hand on her chest.

  “You two are terrible shopkeepers. I could be robbed blind while you both are in here bickering.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Sylvia says, then turns gravely serious. “Woe to the man who steals from a witch. Especially from you.”

  Remembering Will Jacobs’s terrified face when I rubbed his palm with my thumb makes me laugh.

  “What did you do to him? I’ve been meaning to ask.” Jo sits down at the table with a fresh cup of coffee and a plate piled high with little muffins.

  “Oh, nothing too terrible,” I say offhandedly, sliding into a chair and reaching for a warm muffin. “But I am hoping he tries to steal something again from someone, anyone, so he finds out.” A devilish grin creeps across my face as I pull the top off the muffin.

  Jo shakes her head. “That poor kid.”

  “Ha!” Sylvia snorts. “He deserves whatever Aven did to him. Little jerk.” While she’s acting tough, it’s obvious his comments still bother her.

  “This is the perfect amount of blueberries for these little things.” I pick up a second one and toast Sylvia with it before popping it in my mouth.

  “Excellent.” Her face brightens, and she gives her mother a snide ‘told ya’ face to which Jo responds with her own snarky expression. Sylvia turns to the stove. “I plan to make these for when we have tea parties.” Then she turns and looks at me with some hesitation. “Oh, if you are okay with that. Sorry, I forgot to ask.”

  “Absolutely!” They sometimes forget that this isn’t their own place, and that is perfectly fine with me. “You both have been amazing, and I couldn’t be happier with how much you have contributed. I want you to consider this your place too.” I feel a little guilty since Jo isn’t on the payroll, but offering to pay her earned me a smack on the arm and a snort of disapproval.

  Placated, Sylvia smiles widely then turns back to the stove and fills the muffin tin for another batch.

  “Where ya been?” asks Jo, biting into another muffin; a blueberry falls into her lap, unnoticed.

  I ponder my answer for a long moment. “Righting a wrong, I guess you could say.”

  This prompts Jo’s eyebrows to quirk up, but she doesn’t press me for details although the look on her face says she wants to. My statement induces an ominous ‘oooooo’ from Sylvia, but she keeps to her task.

  I ignore them both and debate whether I should eat another muffin. They are mini after all, so I snatch one more. In the quiet of our snacking, the vibration of my phone on the table seems overly loud, and it jolts us from our eating-induced trance. We stare at each other in momentary confusion as the only two other people who text me are in this room. Then I remember that I gave Cal my number.

  Excitement churns in my belly, but I shrug at the ladies and casually reach for my phone. It is indeed Cal, and he’s asking how my day’s been so far. I reply that it’s going well. Two pairs of eyes are burning into me, so I give them both a scolding look and leave the kitchen. Sylvia whispers, “That must be Cal.”

  Luckily, the window seat in the library has not yet been claimed by Arial. I stretch my legs out and arrange the pillows behind my back. Cal and I chat back and forth for a bit, getting all of the pleasantries out of the way.

  Got called out on a job site. One of my guys says he can’t finish the job.

  ‘Gigantic’ spider after him in the crawl space. LOL

  Called one of my bug guys out here to fog the place.

  Sending you a pic.

  I laugh at this ‘gigantic’ spider.

  That is a female hacklemesh weaver. Totally harmless. Promise.

  I bet she’s more scared than your guy is.

  Serious? It’s pretty wicked looking. You know about spiders?

  I do. Don’t kill her! Tell that wuss to get back to work. Haha.

  After many minutes of silence, I assume we are done with our conversation, and I’m disappointed that he didn’t ask to meet again. These thoughts no sooner cross my mind when my phone vibrates.

  Okay, he doesn’t believe you. Sorry. Wants
the bug guy to come.

  Are you free Friday?

  I’m about to reply to him when another message comes through from Jo, asking when Cal and I will see each other again. I ignore her.

  I am. What did you have in mind?

  Dinner. Like Italian? And something fun.

  Love Italian. “Something” fun? Like?

  Not telling. Want to surprise you. Hopefully you won’t think it’s lame.

  Well, I do like surprises. If it’s lame, I’ll tell you. Haha.

  Gotta go. Bug guy just pulled up. Jerry is jumping around him like a little girl. LMAO.

  Call you later.

  My face aches from smiling as I stare out the window, looking at nothing in particular. I marvel at my current situation. Beautiful house, my own business selling magickal wares to a somewhat accepting society, two wonderful women friends, and perhaps, a relationship. What a time I have come back to! I’ve thought many times that I’m not allowed much happiness and perhaps that is part of my curse. Part of me dreads the horrors that must be coming.

  I push these creeping thoughts aside in favor of staying positive and hopeful. I’m due for a little happiness, dammit—I have to be.

  I rejoin the ladies in the kitchen. They are still sitting at the table and most of the muffins from the first batch are gone. They pepper me with questions, and Jo throws in a lewd comment for good measure.

  I huff and fold my arms across my chest. “Don’t we have some grand opening planning to do?” At this, Sylvia yelps with glee and jumps from her chair. She rushes past me to the front counter and returns with her precious binder. Jo stares at me expectantly, but I stare back with my best stubborn face.

  Sylvia proudly displays each design option for the invitation and explains the different elements of each one, as a car salesman would with the many cars on his lot. Although I already decided on one particular design the instant I saw it, she’s put a great deal of time into each design so I let her continue, nodding and smiling. She needs to pursue a career in marketing.

  After she’s finished her spiel, I point to the one I like, and she squeals. That was her favorite too, while her mom preferred the darker, more gothic one. Having settled on the design, we discuss who should be invited. Jo suggests inviting all of the other shop owners in the area. Even Miss Perfect Pants, whom no one in this room can stand.

  “She’ll eat herself alive with jealousy,” Jo says with relish. I chuckle in agreement.

  “You two are being mean.” Sylvia eyeballs both of us.

  “We are being mean,” Jo tells her, “but she doesn’t have to come.” Jo and I both know she will and will more than likely spend a thousand dollars on her costume to ensure she has the best one.

  The shop area isn’t that big, so we’ll be utilizing my living room and kitchen area upstairs, as well as the rooftop terrace, but not my reading room. That door will be locked. I will also have to make the faire folk residing in the aster promise to behave or offer to relocate them elsewhere for the evening—which they will refuse as they absolutely love parties. It’s possible they will have a party of their own and ignore us completely. Wishful thinking on my part, anyway. While sometimes they are a nuisance and I could make them move, I do enjoy their presence—as long as they keep their mischief-making to a minimum. It would be best if I gave them a job to do during the party to keep them occupied.

  We have the list of invitees whittled down to seventy, including many folks from the Chamber of Commerce and City Council plus a few local reporters and bloggers. Jo is inviting several clients and friends, and Sylvia has a guy in mind that she’s been eyeing for a while.

  “Going to invite Cal?” Jo asks, ogling me.

  “Probably not—it’s two months away. I’ll wait and see where this goes.” A lot can happen in two months. “Oh, Sylvia, make sure Phil Spicker is on the list.” I return Jo’s inquisitive look with a lewd wink. She blushes, much to my surprise.

  As the ladies discuss outfits—Jo simply can’t wear just anything now that she knows men will be in attendance—my mind drifts to the special effects I want for the evening. I entertain the idea of inviting a few of the local ghosts to make an appearance. I might be biting off more than I can chew, though. Earth-bound ghosts, even benevolent ones, can sometimes act up and take things too far when they forget how fragile and stupid humans can be.

  I am lost in thought, and Jo has to put a hand on my arm to get my attention. She nods her head upward and leaves the room. I follow, leaving Sylvia to her new task of finding a printing company.

  Jo’s energy has changed; she’s anxious. I follow her up to the rooftop. Without speaking, she sets herself in the lounger, and I take my customary position on the double chaise facing her.

  Her expression is serious, which changes the soft features of her face, making her look older. “Why do you think the white raven has anything to do with your curse?”

  This out-of-the-blue question takes me by surprise. “I don’t know,” I say too quickly, and Jo’s look intensifies. “I mean, well…he has always been there. In every life. In the early lives, I didn’t know what stalked me. I knew it was a bird of some sort because I heard fluttering and flapping. I can only assume he’s involved. It’s too much of a coincidence that he just hangs around all the time. Why do you ask? What is it?”

  She exhales heavily through her nose. “I called up a vision that turned out to be quite disturbing. A white raven was there, and he was full of malevolence and hate. He was massive, as big as Maggie I’d say, and he glared at me with burning fire in his eyes.” Jo shudders. As if on cue, the cry of a raven cuts through the silence. Jo’s eyes flit towards the sound, and she takes another deep breath.

  “Also, I was shackled.”

  My mouth falls open. She recounts her vision. The mob with torches, filled with unbelievable anger and hatred, coming for her. The white raven glaring at her, condemning her. Her panic at being chained, the feeling of the wet ground, the bitter taste of moldy water after the vision had ended. I feel terrible that Jo has experienced so much negativity on my behalf.

  “What do you suppose that all means?”

  Jo holds her Black Fire pendant in her fingertips, rolling it gently and staring at the ground. “I have some ideas, but I’m not really sure yet.” She looks up at me. “Why do you think you were cursed?”

  “I honestly don’t know.”

  “Did you do something bad?”

  I shift in my seat. “I’ve done a lot of bad things, Jo.”

  “Can you give me some examples?”

  I huff at this. The things I could tell her would end our friendship forever. What do I say to this question? I’ve killed innocent people, not on purpose, though. I’ve murdered deserving bastards, I’ve stolen, I’ve changed the course of events to benefit me. What do I tell my best friend so that she stays my friend?

  I am silent for a long time.

  “I’ll take that as a ‘no’,” Jo finally says.

  “Suffice it to say that I don’t believe I’ve done anything that would earn me such a punishment.” I say this more harshly than I meant to.

  Jo nods, still caressing the stone. Staring at the floor, or more likely into another plane, she says to me, “You don’t seem too upset about this curse if you ask me.”

  An involuntary hiss escapes my lips. “I abhor this thing!”

  My exclamation pulls her from her reverie. “You seem pretty happy to me. At least in the—what, a year now almost—that I’ve known you.”

  I take a deep breath through my nose. “Yes, I am happy. Right now. In the seventeen years since I took Patricia’s body, I’ve put much more thought and effort into making this life work for me than pondering my curse. I have been reveling in this new life and this particular time. Because, honestly, this has been the best life I’ve stepped into. I am enjoying it. I’ve wasted so much time being bitter and angry, pursuing an answer I’m certain I will never find.”

  I clench my fists, then re
lease the tension.

  “When I look back on my lives, I’m amazed at how much time I spent on trying to fix this. It’s not that I’ve given up, I’ve simply run out of things to try, or to ask, or to look for.” I sit back in the chaise with a sigh. “So I’ve stopped worrying about the next life—stopped pitying myself, for the most part anyway. I want to make the best of this life.”

  “I can appreciate that.” Jo’s face softens then her brows knit together. “But you still want the curse to end, right?”

  Anger flares in my chest, and I jump up. “Of course, I want this damnable curse to end! What kind of stupid question is that?” I can no longer hold the pent-up rage within its confines, and I no longer care to try. The once clear sky is rolling now with dark clouds colliding with one another. There is a deep grumble within that booms across the sky. Jo is transfixed at the sight of the maelstrom and shrinks back in her seat, her eyes wide. She cowers, but I cannot stop myself.

  “You only see what I want you to see. I live in constant worry that any moment could be the end, and that I will have to do this again. It is an absolute nightmare. And this time, it feels worse because everything is going my way! Something terrible will happen and it will all be over. I will be thrust back into the Veil and pushed out. To start over, again.” Feeling suffocated by my anger, I turn my attention away from my frightened friend up to the sky, which is now a foaming vortex of darkness.

  “I don’t deserve this!” I release my agony and frustration in a scream that takes Jo to her knees on the ground, hands over ears. Thunder mirrors my pain, and I scream until there is no more air in my lungs. Thunder carries along the last of my cry, echoing across the tempest.

  Depleted, squeezed out like a sponge, I collapse onto the chaise, gasping for breath. Sorrow fills the void created by the release of my anger and self-pity.

  “I don’t think about it so I can get through the day,” I say in a small voice, letting the tears fall from my eyes. Jo has recovered herself and is staring at me with guarded hesitation. Broken and ashamed, I put my face in my hands and give in to the sobs that are fighting to be freed.