“I tried to get a hold of him,” Carrington shrugged, folding her arms over her chest. “That was a six hour appointment, and I had people that wanted to get in! Unfortunately, the only contact info he gave me was his business card from The Richmond Gallery on Fifth. I could never get that wuss to even pick up the phone.”
Rip, Noah, and Ireland exchanged matching looks of intrigue.
“How far is that from here?” Even Ireland heard the surge of hope that quaked through her tone, but found herself powerless to squelch it.
“Three streets north, turn right. Then, it’s four blocks down.”
Without the courtesy of a goodbye, Ireland seized Noah’s hand and spun for the door.
Rip, at least, was thoughtful enough to tag on a quick “Thanks,” before falling into step behind them.
“If it’s any consolation,” Carrington called after them, “that design is more your style. That skull was meant for you!”
“Yeah,” Ireland grumbled through her teeth, shoving the door open and rousing the chime overhead. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“I have heard things like this happen in New York,” Rip yawned, visibly trembling through his onslaught of exhaustion. “I just never expected to find myself subjected to it.”
“We’ve been through way worse than this.” Ireland pressed her lips together, her hand curling around Rip’s upper arm to keep him standing before his stress-induced narcolepsy stole him from her. “I need you to stay with me, buddy.”
“I-I can’t!” Rip threw his hands in the air, his fingers coiling into frantic claws. “Look at the horror that surrounds around! H-h-how could you, Ireland? How could you bring me here?”
Heaving a deep and aggravated sigh, Ireland let her hands fall to her sides with a burden-heavy slap. If for no other reason than to humor him, she spun in a slow circle. Her head cocked as she considered the full spectrum of the art gallery’s exhibit. Life-like mannequins were arranged in various situations to make them appear human: waiting for a bus, playing tag with their mini-mannequin kids, showering. Bile rose in her throat at the shocking realism of the bloody car accident, and labor and delivery scene. “I won’t be buying the annual pass, I’ll give you that.”
“This is not art!” Rip sniped. “This is a glorified game of dolls! What kind of society have I found myself in that would pass this off as—”
Just like that he hit his trigger. Ireland dove to catch him as Rip’s sentence trailed off and eyes rolled back.
“I never knew you were such an art snob,” Ireland grunted through her teeth as she hoisted up his dead weight. Hooking his gangly arm around her neck, she propped him up Weekend at Bernie’s style.
“Oh, dear! Is he okay?” The apple-shaped man’s silver and black necktie blew to the side, flapping against the sleeve of his burgundy dress shirt in his dart to their quickly sagging side. “I saw him going down and tried to get here in time. You’re tougher than you look to have caught him.” Immediately taking Rip’s other arm, he helped to guide them to a nearby settee.
“Almost to a fault,” Ireland mumbled, unceremoniously flopping Rip down on the sage green upholstery.
“Is-is he snoring?” her helper asked, smoothing his tie back into place.
“Sadly,” her gaze flicked up to read his Richmond Gallery nametag, “Herb Mallark, he is. In every friendship there are those annoying traits you have to tolerate to keep that person in your life. This would be his.”
The corners of Herb’s crystal blue eyes crinkled with his warm, friendly grin. “Then he must be a cherished friend that you stick by him through it.”
“Yeah, he’s a hoot,” Ireland stated dismissively, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing at his oddly familiar face. “I’m sorry, have we met?”
“Well, I’m not sure.” Herb pivoted to face her, his sausage link index finger brushing over the strands of his thick mustache. Suddenly, his features brightened. “Broadway in the Park!” He snapped his fingers in recognition. “You understudied Annie, didn’t you? I worked set design!”
“No,” she snorted at that mental image and flipped her bangs from her eyes. “That most definitely was not me.”
Noah picked that moment to round the Family Biking display, his nose wrinkling in poorly concealed distaste. He thumbed his phone off as he neared and dropped it into the breast pocket of his blue flannel shirt.
“Is everything okay?” Ireland nodded in the direction of his phone, anticipating life had officially caught up with her exceedingly wealthy beau that had shunned all his responsibilities to take this impromptu road trip with her.
“Yeah, absolutely,” he dismissed, his eyebrows rising at Rip’s splayed form. “What happened to him?”
“He is suffering the effects of interpretive art. It seems he is not a fan,” Ireland explained and turned back to the issue that was nagging at her. “Now, Herb here and I are trying to figure out where we know each other from.”
“Ever been to Sleepy Hollow?” Noah hooked his thumbs into his belt loops, the muscles of his forearms flexing.
“Can’t say that I have.” Herb glanced down at the gold watch fastened on his wrist, his eyes twinkling with an air of mischief. “Although with as steeped as it is in legend, I would love to make the trip.”
He’s lying. Deep within her a rusted cell door yawned open, releasing a presence as smooth and deadly as the curved blade of a scythe. The spirit of the Horseman that possessed her … that ownedher … had awoke.See how his stare fixed on yours and held? He thinks he’s clever by adopting so bold a strategy. Fortunately, you feel it as well as I. This man is hiding something, and only you have the capabilities to draw that truth from him.
Ireland ran one shaky hand over the back of her neck that was suddenly dotted with sweat. “Actually, the reason we’re here is this.” Her arm visibly quaked as she stabbed it forward, tattoo up. “Someone here on the staff was going to get this tattoo. Do you have any idea who it was?”
Herb rocked up onto the balls of his feet to lean in and get a better look. “Ah, yes! That would be me. Although now that I see the beauty of it in ink, I regret my cowardice.”
The Horseman was right. Ireland’s breath caught, anticipating the slew of violent suggestions sure to be his counterpoint. Frantically patting at the pockets of her jeans, she found herself minus the one—and only—tool she had to keep the beast quiet; her iPod cued up to the twangiest country music imaginable. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths as the horrifying reality set in. She didn’t have it. She was surrounded by innocent people and was at the beast’s mercy. Closing her eyes she fought for neutral, taking deep cleansing breathes to fend off that spiral into darkness. Risking a peek through one eyelid, she realized with a shocked appreciation that her paranormal squatter remained noticeably silent.
Seemingly oblivious to her turmoil, Noah latched on to this new slab of information like a hungry Rottweiler. “Then you can tell us where the idea came from, and what was so special about that ink!”
“Goodness, you’d think we were talking about a quest for the Holy Grail!” Herb chuckled, his belly jiggling like a certain jolly ole’ elf. “There’s really not much to tell. The ink I bought online because I’m a bit of a germ-aphobe and wanted the security of my own bottles. The design I found at an art show held at the home of one of our very best clients.” Digging into the pocket of his perfectly pressed grey slacks, he extracted a gold clip holding an assortment of business cards. Shuffling through them, he plucked out one that was stark white with silver lettering and held it up for them to see. “Ridley Peolte, a passionate art lover and stock market Midas, whatever that boy touches turns to gold. And let me tell you, when Ridley invites you to a party, you go! It was there, in his loft, that I saw a painting of that sugar skull image. I found it so barbarically common I thought it would be a fantastic tattoo—oh, no offense intended.”
“None … taken.” Ireland mumbled, her nostrils flaring.
She could hear the
pounding rhythm of Herb’s heartbeat pulsating through her very core, could feel the tantalizing pull of raw, primal mayhem. This had to be a new ploy of the Horseman, to tempt her with the seduction of savagery. No way could it be her own free will luring her to call forth her sword and unleash a crimson geyser that would paint the walls with scarlet gore.
“Could we keep that card?” Ireland practically panted. Fidgeting and squirming on her feet, she tried to find some comfort in her own skin. None could be found. Every pore of her sizzled and screamed to be sated. “If the guy is a regular client, you could get another, right?”
“Absolutely!” Herb chirped.
Pinching the card between two fingers, his hand brushed hers with a feather light touch. The chill that ripped down her spine shuddered through her frame. A mere blink and intoxicatingly nightmarish images flashed behind her lids. One hand closing around his wrist, holding him firm as she raised the other. Metal winging through the air, her axe soaring in, end over end, until it settled into her waiting palm. Spinning into a forceful swing, she widened his smile with the edge of her blade, splattering the floor and herself with a succession of heavy ruby droplets.
“Are you okay, miss?” Herb’s bushy brows puckered in tight with concern. “Your lips are turning … blue.”
Noah’s chiseled features swam before her, prompting a naughty little giggle to escape her parted lips. His hazel eyes bulged, instinct causing him to recoil at the visible black veins scrolling and snaking across her face in intricate patterns. Her skin stretched taut over bone, dark shadows swallowing all but the gleam of her irises.
“Time for us to go.” Seizing her wrist, Noah yanked Ireland to him, capturing her in a firm reverse bear hug with her arms pinned tight to her sides.
“Mmmm, Van Tassel,” she purred in a throaty rasp more demonic than human. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to get rough and bring the kink.”
“Ha-ha!” Emitting a sharp bark of shocked laughter, Noah’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. He addressed the stunned museum curator over Ireland’s rolling, writhing shoulders. “There’s no pretending ya didn’t hear that! She … uh … suffers from low blood sugar. It turns her into a slightly demonic nympho. Awkward as it is here, family gatherings are the real bitch.”
“C-can I get her anything? Some juice perhaps?” Herb’s head cocked, his stare locked on the experiment into the paranormal that was Ireland Crane while Noah scooted her toward the exit.
“Nope, we’re good,” he lied through a forced smile, before muttering against Ireland’s ear, “Do you have your iPod?”
“Check my pockets.” Cherry-cola red strands tangled with her lashes as Ireland’s head lulled back against his shoulder, the tip of her tongue teasing over his bottom lip. “And dig deep.”
“Gonna go ahead and take that as a no.” Noah glanced back over his shoulder to see how far they were from freedom. He had her talisman in his pocket, but knowing the effects it had on her, chose to keep that as an absolute last resort—for now.
“What about him?” Herb called after them, jabbing a thumb in Rip’s direction.
“I’ll be back for him!” Noah’s hair clung to his head in a fresh sheen of sweat while Ireland nipped and nibbled at his neck. “In the meantime put velvet ropes around him and pass him off as an exhibit. He’ll fit right in!”
Out of ideas and quickly losing his hold, Noah bought them a few extra moments the only way he could think to. With an awkward nod to the lingering exhibit attendees, he launched into an off-key rendition of Desperado and dragged his hissing, spitting girlfriend the remaining distance to the car.
Ireland flipped the business card between her fingers, making it roll over each digit before catching it with the next. “What do you think came first? The opulent office with white and silver décor or the pretentious business card with the same color scheme?”
Crickets may as well have chirped in response with Noah ignoring her altogether and Rip giving a quick shrug with his lips pressed in a firm line. Not that this was a new development. It had been a long and insanely uncomfortable ride to the mysterious Mr. Peolte’s high-rise office.
Shifting on the white leather waiting room sofa and shooting a forced smile to the perky receptionist, Ireland crossed her legs at the ankle and braced for the onslaught. “I can’t help but think something is bothering both of you.”
“There is!” Rip erupted in a hushed, but venomous whisper. “I cannot believe you two left me behind! I mean, yes, eventually you came back for me—and I thank you for that. However, that does not change the fact that I woke up to an Asian family taking pictures of me! It is hard to determine who was more traumatized by it, me for waking up with an audience or them for thinking one of the statues came alive. From the way their kids screamed, I assure you they will never set foot in a museum or gallery again! I ruined culture for those poor children!”
Ireland blinked hard, clamping her teeth down on the insides of her cheeks to stifle a threatening snicker at that vividly hysterical mental image. “Again, Rip, couldn’t be sorrier.” Taking a beat to clear her throat, and drowned the lilt of amusement dripping from her tone, she turned her attention to her visible seething paramour. “What about you, Van Tassel? Is there anything you’d like to share with the class?”
“Oh, are we talking now?” he snipped, his hazel eyes glittering gold with resolute indignation. “Because I didn’t think we did that anymore. I thought we were going to ignore the fact that,” he glanced around to see if the Barbie doll receptionist was listening before dropping his voice to a barely audible, but clearly pissed off, rant, “you were going full out Horseman in the middle of the day without your cloak! Now you’re trying to play it off like it was no big deal! What if I hadn’t been there, Ireland? I thought you had a handle on this!”
“I do, and you were, okay?” she hissed back, matching his muted but urgent tone. “Catastrophe was avoided, and I thank you for that. My iPod is now in my pocket and I learned from my mistake. Can we have a little bit of a learning curve here? Please?”
“A learning curve?” Pushing himself to the edge of the couch, Noah leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. “You ‘slip up’ and people die!”
Behind her glass and chrome desk, Barbie glanced up. Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose in question.
Noah’s chin dropped to his chest, flaxen strands curtaining his face. In the pregnant pause that followed, Ireland watched the muscles of his back expand and contract with a deep, cleansing breath. He allowed himself the moment before he raised his head and met her gaze straight on. “We learned how easy it could happen, and no one got hurt. I’ll take that as a win. But I need you to promise me that if you feel yourself slipping again, you’ll tell me. I can have your back like I did today, or break out your talisman if we’re past that point. You know I’m in your corner. However, and here’s the huge clause in all of this, the whole system we have going here only works if you are brutally—hey-Noah-I-wanna-slaughter-everyone-in-the-room—honest with me. Deal?”
Dragging her tongue over her top teeth, Ireland tried to wipe away the sour taste left in her mouth by admitting she needed help. Even so, Noah was right. Casting her gaze to the floor in what felt like defeat, she nodded. “Too much is at stake. If I feel myself slipping, I’ll tell you.”
She caught her tongue before tagging on, as long as there’s time. Instead that weighty provision hung in the air between them in a rip and pregnant pause.
“He’s coming!” the receptionist practically sang in a giddy trill as she pushed her chair from her desk to sashay around it, front and center. Flipping her curtain of blonde waves over her shoulder, she soothed her peach pencil skirt into place and adjusted the plunging neckline of her blouse.
An eager smile dawned on her lovely face the same moment the French doors on the opposite side of the room swung open wide. Sunlight flooded in, haloing his physique in a glowing luminescence. There, framed by the doorway with charis
ma wafting off of him like the enticing burst of scent from a freshly bloomed rose, stood … Ridley Peolte.
2
Edgar
Wings, as light as wisps of air, tickled across one round, dimpled cheek. The sweet melody of a child’s laugh rose up in a chorus the angels would envy. Plump little fingers moved for the butterfly’s orange and black wings just as they fluttered out of reach. On roly-poly toddler legs, little Edgar hobbled after his new friend.
Colors exploded around him like an enchanted fairy land. Trees blooming with bright pink pompons. Every color in the rainbow sprouted from the ground in fluffy bushels. Around each turn a new adventure awaited. Magic grew and evolved in the Poe gardens, all of it just waiting for little Edgar to discover each and every time his mother opened the door and invited him to go play.
Edgar rounded the towering tree that canopied the far corner of the garden with its sweet smelling shade. His tiny white shoes scuffed along the dirt path, laces dragging and flapping behind him. Abruptly, his shuffled steps stopped short. His toffee colored eyes widening the moment his gaze fell upon the blue bird splayed on the path before him. Its head was twisted at the most unnatural of angles. Its black bead eyes fixed in eternity’s stare.
“Pretty birdy,” the cherub faced lad cooed. Bending into a squat, he waddled closer, leaning his body first one way then the other to maneuver. Baby-fine strands of ebony silk tickled across his forehead with the inquisitive tilt of his head.
“Edgar!” his mother called. “It’s time for lunch, my darling.”
The toddler didn’t respond, but scooted one foot forward. In hopes of rousing the sleeping bird, he poked it gently with the toe of his shoe.
“Edgar? Where have you hidden, my silly boy? I have berries and cream inside for you.” Mother’s tone was sweeter than the afore mentioned berries, her words slathered in love and adoration.
Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) Page 2
