The White Raven

by Carrie D. Miller

  The shock of entering the Veil as I have leaves me breathless and faint. I struggle to remain upright. It is as though my life, my very essence, is being pulled with great force from my body. Which is exactly what is happening. Jo has hold of my Spirit’s hand in a vain attempt to control the rate at which the Veil draws me in. Her face is strained, and she staggers a step backward.

  I must go in further, but I am suddenly afraid. I don’t want to die. I have had such a wonderful life so far, save for the events of the last few hours, and I very much want to grow old with Cal and be blissfully, disgustingly happy. His fingertips dig into my flesh, but it does not hurt. I trust him, he will hold me.

  “Aven,” Jo says, “further, please.”

  The right side of my body is now held fast by the Veil. My muscles strain, and my head swims. I hear Cal’s measured breathing through his nose. The Veil quakes roughly, and I know I am out of time. Letting my body go limp, I give into the Veil.

  “Aven, no!” Cal screams as I go to my knees. All of my body except the arm Cal clings to is now within the blackness. With fading vision, I see Jo looming above me, her face hard and determined, one hand held high as she calls to the Spirit of the white raven. She brings the Spirit down upon mine as my body falls to the ground.

  A blast of bright light blinds me and knocks the breath from my lungs.

  “Cal, now!” Jo screams and there’s sharp pain as my arm is yanked hard.

  I have no strength and I cannot get a breath. Rough hands are shaking me, calling my name, and pain radiates from my left shoulder. I am pulled upright, in time to see the disappearing visage of my friend smiling back at me from the diminishing Veil.

  I will miss you.

  Jo’s smile widens, and she inclines her head to me before vanishing completely.

  Cal’s arms are around me, and he is kissing my face and whispering my name. With each deep breath, my strength is returning. I pat his arm and lean against him, but a stab of pain jerks me upright.

  “I think you dislocated my shoulder,” I say.

  He looks at my misshapen shoulder and apologizes profusely. I dismiss his apologies with a chuckle and ask him to lay me back down.

  As I lie there, the damp of the autumn earth seeping into my thin clothing, I feel something special. The coolness of the ground soothes me. Through the naked branches of the trees, the dawn sky is a soft blue. Happiness rushes through me, a kind of happiness that I have never experienced. I thought I knew what it felt like, but I was wrong. It’s this. I feel new, whole. I had never known that I was incomplete before now, that I was missing some part of myself.

  “I thought I’d lost you there for a second.” Cal’s voice pulls me back from my reverie.

  I turn my head to meet his gaze, tears spilling from my eyes.

  “Does it hurt that bad? I’m so, so sorry. I hope you can forgive me.”

  “Forgive you? You saved my life.” More happy tears stream down my face as I smile at the man I love.

  “Cal.” Reaching for his hand with my good arm, I clutch it to my heart, “I’m free.”

  Epilogue

  I sit on the rooftop terrace, reclining in my favorite spot. It is hours before sunrise, but I cannot sleep. I left Cal cocooned in the warmth of blankets with a kiss on his cheek. The cold is sharp this morning, and I pull the thick quilt tighter across my shoulders.

  I am no longer cursed to live again—my Spirit is now whole, thanks to Jo. At times, it is hard to celebrate my newfound freedom. The pain of my beloved friend’s absence taints the happiness I should feel. The manner of Jo’s death haunts my dreams. The events of three weeks ago pass across my vision each time I close my eyes.

  The end of my curse is bittersweet, to say the least. Jo had to die to discover the answer and have the power to make it right. Jo would be quite irritated at me for acting this way. Each time my thoughts turn melancholy, I can almost hear her chiding me for being such a baby—telling me to put my ‘big girl’ panties on and get over it. I know her Spirit is fine and well, and off on other adventures, but my heart does not want to let her go. I suck in a breath, and push away the guilt and sadness. I am free! I will revel in that knowledge and will be forever thankful to my friend.

  Jo kept her promise and visited her daughter for a proper goodbye. Fortunately, Jo had preplanned the details of her funeral, so Sylvia was spared that burden. Sylvia kept to herself for the first week after Jo’s death, except for the constant companionship of Maggie and Arial, who seemed to refuse to leave her side. Sylvia is slowly coming back to life—she wore yellow yesterday, and I heard her snap at Arial who apparently was hell-bent on tripping Sylvia as she came up the stairs.

  I hear the flutter of wings, and I bolt upright. Realization quickly sets in, and I slump back. I yearn for the white raven’s company; it will be a long time before those sounds stop triggering my centuries-old longing to see her. Even though Ren is within me now, part of me, I miss her physical presence dearly.

  I have not heard from Mandy since that night—she’s probably too ashamed to see me. I hope the majority of the pettiness and jealousy is gone after all this, but I’m not in the mood for any melodrama right now. I should pay her a visit soon, though.

  My thoughts move to Will and Kyle, and I snicker. I visited each in their dreams last week, giving them nightmares they’ll never forget, terrifying them so much they wet themselves. The next morning, two repentant young men were at my doorstep spewing apologies and begging forgiveness. I put them to work cleaning up the debris in my shop. Cal was quite impressed with Will’s change of tune. After many days of hard labor, they had cleaned up the downstairs well enough to allow workmen to come in and begin repairs.

  My hands and face are getting cold and, in remembrance of Jo, I magick up a hot toddy. I raise the steaming glass to the sky. “Cheers, my friend.”

  The drink goes down smoothly, the warmth blossoming through my body. It’s empty in just a few sips. I lean back with a sigh and set the glass on the side table. I miss the top, however, and the glass tumbles off, shattering on the stone tile. As I fumble to catch it, my palm is gashed by a shard of glass.

  The blood glistens black in the faint, golden light of the candles. It does not hurt much, so the cut must not be very deep. I am searching for something to wrap it with when it begins to tingle.

  Staring at my palm, I blink several times at what I see. The blood draws back into the wound, and the skin slowly closes up. There is no trace of a scar or mark of any kind.

  “No,” I gasp. “Oh, please, no.”

  I take the largest shard of glass and brace my arm on my leg, fist clenched and wrist up. I pull the glass down the length of my forearm, pushing it deeply into the skin, gritting my teeth against the pain. The long cut bleeds profusely for several seconds. At first, I am relieved at the sight of the gaping wound.

  A tingle ripples through my forearm, and I watch in horror as the blood once again draws back into the wound and it seals up cleanly. No scar or mark remains.

  The words of the white raven echo through my mind.

  Not die. Never died.

  Author’s Note

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  Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed The White Raven, I would be very grateful if you shared your thoughts on Amazon and Goodreads. Your support makes all the difference.

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  Acknowledgments

  The fact that you are reading this book is proof that dreams do come true. The only way this could be sweeter would be if my mother were alive to celebrate with me. I know she would love the story, but not so much the f-bombs.

  A big, fat hug goes out to everyone who supported me and encouraged me. You’ll never know just how much that helped.

  And to my love, Neal, who puts up with my ravings and sporadic lunacy. You are my rock.

  From the magick of Willow Cottag
e, priestess Emerald Fire Rose a.k.a. Cynthia Stevens of the Coven Raven Oak, thank you, my sweet friend, for the inspiration that led to the past life ritual Jo performs. And to my sisters, you know who you are. Without you all, I would be lost.

  Special thanks for my beta readers: Sue Zalagens, Ann Marie Meyer, Ratna Pandey, Judy Fort, Kar-Wai Ng, Ann M. Gendreau, Cassie Looby, and Kris & Tina Akerlund who provided much-needed perspective and feedback. My proofreader, Margaret Dean, deserves props also. Her simple comment made me rethink a pivotal moment in the book.

  An enormous thank you to Kristen Tate of The Blue Garret, whose edits, guidance, and suggestions taught me so much. I hope I remember it all for the next book.

  And finally, to Maan. If it wasn’t for his determination and care, not to mention his ability to talk me away from the ledge more than once, you wouldn’t be holding this book right now.

  About the Author

  Carrie D. Miller was born in Hutchinson, Kansas, on October 31, 1970. She credits her vivid imagination, as well as her sugar addiction, to being a Halloween baby.

  In a former life, she was an executive in the software industry for many years. Her career in the technology world included software product management, website design, training, and technical writing just to name a few. Although Carrie’s written a great deal over the decades which has been read by thousands of people, software documentation allows for about as much creativity as pouring cement. At the age of 45, she decided to chuck it all to become an author which had been a life-long dream.

  When her nose is not in a book or in front of a monitor, she can be found refereeing squabbles between her semi-feral cat and derpy German Shepherd (both rescues), inventing cocktails, or staring up at the stars talking to the moon. She can also be found in the kitchen making some sort of delicious, yet unhealthy, comfort food.

  Connect with Carrie:

  @carrie_d_miller

  AuthorCarrieDMiller

  www.carriedmiller.com

  carrie@carriedmiller.com

  Copyright © 2017 Carrie D. Miller

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Helen Lloyd Art (www.helenlloyd.com)

  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, without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and coincidental.

  For any inquiries regarding this book: carrie@carriedmiller.com