Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  “Gliding in on raven’s wings, came the father of the notion that the divide between life and death is a vague one.” Even with the others pacing anxiously behind her, Ridley’s stare locked on Ireland alone. Clouds of emotion rolled into his eyes, swirling and churning in a deep storm blue. “He claimed we’re the same, he and I. Took me on a stroll into the horrors of his reality—now passed to me. All that we see—that we so desperately wish to be a dream—yet, the truth was there, waiting for me.” Ridley glanced back over his shoulder at the deadly plummet mere inches away. His brow knit together in deep, furrowed creases. “It prompted the question; would my leap of faith end in a rustle of feathers, as his did? Or would it be a free fall into that never-ending night?”

  “Mr. Ridley, no!” Lupé pleaded, her trembling hands reaching for him. “Please come down before you slip!”

  “You’re sure it’s a curse? Like yours?” Noah ventured, his hand closing around Lupé’s upper arm and guiding her back inside. Not that she blamed him. If Ridley’s monster had a blood lust like hers they all needed a football field of distance, immediately.

  Ireland cocked her head, considering the specimen before her. His tattered, unbuttoned shirt flapped open in the breeze, revealing a light smattering of hair across his well-defined pecs. “It calls to me,” she managed in a throaty rasp.

  Noah filled his lungs and exhaled through slightly flared nostrils. “I’m gonna suppress the undeniable urge to be the dick boyfriend about that comment. Instead, I’m going to get the innocent bystanders out of the way so your inner monster can slap the stupid out of his inner monster and get him off the ledge. Sound like a plan? Good. Go Team Horseman.”

  Ushering Lupé inside, Noah grabbed the back of Rip’s collar and steered him in as well. No sooner had the doors met behind her with a soft click than Ireland shifted the satchel slung over her shoulder, repositioning it in front of her.

  Fighting to keep the paranormal gruffness in her voice as subdued as possible, Ireland unzipped the bag and fished out a corner of the heavy weave fabric of her cloak. “I saw some seriously twisted things when it first happened to me: medieval torture devices being put to use, disemboweled friends, a trunk full of heads. All of it left me wishing a good brain bleaching was a feasible option. But you, sir, are fortunate enough to have something I didn’t.”

  She caught his gaze and held it. Her fingers stroked the fabric. Her breath coming slow and level as the first signs of her change began. The heightened tingles of sensation from the skin of her face pulling taut over bone. Her vision sharpening to a point that made her thankful for the grey, overcast sky. Wetting her lips, she found them cold and clammy—the only clue she needed to know they had bloomed a deathly blue.

  “You have someone that can guide you through it.”

  Ridley’s jaw fell slack, but not in fear. His chest swelled, each breath coming fast and urgent. One step forward and he landed with a huff right in front of her. His hand rose as if to stroke her cheek, yet hesitated and hovered there. Maintaining a veil of energy between them, he let the tips of his fingers trace over the scrolled veins that now decorated her porcelain skin like hand-woven lace. “A maiden of rare beauty that blesses me with the gift of her true face. Death seeping through silken pores, delicate and fatal as the petals of Night-Blooming Jasmine. The strangeness only adding to her exquisiteness.”

  “So, h-have you heard the hoofbeats yet?” Even Ireland heard how breathless the query sounded, but could do nothing to correct it. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she knew she should take a step back and attempt to break this spell with a bit of much needed space. Regrettably, her legs were less than cooperative. “First time I heard them I thought I was going nuts.”

  “Insanity is only achieved when the heart has been truly touched,” he murmured. A simple gesture that caused Ireland to wage a full-out war with herself not to become completely trans-fixed on the soft curve of his lips.

  Tucking her cloak back into her bag, she attempted to shake off her physical maladies in hopes of regaining a pinch of control. “As far as I know, there’s only one Horseman and one Rip Van Winkle. I’m not too familiar with any other Washington Irving works.” Puffing out her cheeks, she exhaled through pursed lips. Forming coherent thoughts would be so much easier if he would stop looking at her like a prime-cut sirloin. “We may have to do some research to find out what infliction you’re going to wind up with.”

  Wordlessly, he shook his head. “We walked streets of graves, tipping our hats to the dead that failed to slumber. Never once along our trek did the man tell me his name.” Bowing slightly toward her, Ridley hid his conspiratorial whisper behind the back of his hand. “He didn’t have to. I already knew.”

  Losing the battle to not to close the distance between them, Ireland leaned in. “Who was he?”

  In place of an answer, a single black raven landed on the ledge vacated by Ridley just moments before. Filling its narrow chest, it tipped its head and emitted one loan caw into the sky.

  Ridley turned an ear to the bird, his posture snapping pencil-straight, as if contemplating the perplexity of its declaration. When he met Ireland’s stare once more the emotion had been white-washed from his handsome face. Desire. Angst. Mystery. A fair amount of madness. All gone, leaving behind an empty vessel that blankly stated, “We have to go. She’s waiting.”

  Without further explanation, Ridley ducked around her, bumping Ireland’s shoulder as he passed. Her gaze wandered back to the avian messenger that seemed to be studying her with matching interest. A possible answer to this riddle teased at the tip of her tongue, luring the name to slip from her lips.

  “Poe?” she muttered in a barely audible whisper.

  The raven perched, and sat, and nothing more.

  6

  Edgar

  “Sir, your son is here,” the file clerk proclaimed, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Removing his glasses, John Allen leaned back in his chair and tossed them on his desk. “Send him in please, Phillip.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young man ducked his head in a brief show of respect before stepping back to wave Edgar forward. Breathing through his mouth became mandatory to avoid the pungent stink of alcohol and vomit that permeated from his boss’s stumbling son.

  Taking in the spectacle that was Edgar as of late, judgment curled the corners of John’s mouth. Red rimmed eyes darting around manically. Hair brushed only on one side, as if he’d lost interest mid-task. Stains of the grossly unrecognizable kind covering the front of his shirt like patch-work.

  “Phillip, please leave us. Shut the door behind you.”

  Phillip averted his gaze and dutifully obliged.

  Edgar’s plight to cross the room and settle into a chair was not unlike watching a foal take its first steps. A great deal of stumbling and bumbling, accompanied by the lingering question of success, right up until the end when Edgar seized the arm rests and lowered himself to sitting. A victorious smile spreading across his dazed face.

  “I see your misadventures have already begun for the day,” John frowned, his fingers drumming against the edge of his desk.

  “On the contrary,” Edgar helped himself to the pitcher of ice water on his father’s desk, his quaking hand causing it to slosh over the rim as he poured. “This is the remnant of last night’s debauchery. I have yet to find my bed, yet am optimistic it is where I left it. Wherever that may be.”

  John bowed his head and massaged his temples, just below his salt and pepper hairline, where a throbbing headache had sprouted. “And you are happy with this lackluster existence?”

  “Happy, Father?” Edgar snorted a humorless laugh. “Why, yes. I am gloriously beside myself that I have been chosen to walk the dreary path of being courted by death.”

  “There’s no need for such dramatics, Edgar,” John huffed with an exaggerated eye roll. “Others have suffered ailments far worse than yours.”

  Ebony brows disappeared into Edgar’s bushy hairline
. “I cannot imagine even one scenario where that would be true.”

  The chair squeaked beneath his shifted weight as John leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. “Son, I—more than anyone—know what you suffer with. I admit every day for you is its own brand of hell … if you let it be! Your schooling is done, all through home tutoring at your own accord, and you have matured to manhood. It’s time for you to find your place in this world and claim it. Or, if such a Shangri-La does not exist, then at least find a way to contribute to the world around you. Children fear ghosts and goblins, Edgar. You must no longer entertain such notions.”

  Edgar’s pale lips pressed together in a firm line. His fingers raked into his hair, gathering handfuls in his tight grasp. He could not even pretend to listen. Not after the dapper looking gentleman wafted in through a solid wall, causing the temperature in the room to plummet. Edgar knew he would be there, as he always was at two o’clock every afternoon. Hence the binge Edgar had gone on, beginning the very moment he learned his father wanted to meet with him.

  He knew this spirit by name—Benedict Carter. He had been his father’s business partner in life. Now his lingering essence showed him for the grisly mess he truly was. A broken and rotting shell, whose shoulders shook with sobs as he crossed the room like a man walking the final mile to the guillotine. His form dissipated around the edges as he wisped on top of John’s desk without disturbing a thing.

  Edgar fought to keep his expression neutral, nodding along to whatever it was his father happened to be saying. Every bit the attentive, albeit anxious, son that was most definitely not watching an apparition fling a noose over the ceiling rafters.

  “I gave up everything, everything!” Benedict whimpered, fixing the knotted loop around his neck. “Still it is not enough for these blood thirsty vultures!”

  “S’okay,” Edgar muttered under his breath in a private reassurance that this would all be over soon.

  “Such a lackadaisical existence is most definitely not ‘okay’!” His father erupted, slapping his palm down against the desk. “Do you understand at all what it means to be a man?”

  Benedict scooted to the edge of the desk on tiptoe. Tears zigzagged between craters in his sagging and rotted flesh. “Duty, responsibility, honor,” he gasped. One step and the rope was swinging under the full effects of his weight. “This … is … my … reward.”

  “Hanging from the rafters,” Edgar manically snickered, then blanched the moment he realized he’d spoken the words out loud.

  Fresh understanding dawned on his father’s face. “Give me the flask, Edgar.”

  Edgar guiltily shifted his gaze, his hand plunging into the inside pocket of his coat to retrieve his silver flask. As if to crow his father’s wisdom, he brandished the item high over his head.

  “Hand it over.” John extended his hand, beckoning him forward with the curl of his fingers.

  Benedict’s feet twitched and spasmed over the mahogany desk. Wet, choked gasps rattling from his constricted throat.

  “Absolutely, Father.” Edgar leaned in, stopping abruptly. Forcing a tight smile at his increasingly impatient father, he tried to figure out how to maneuver under the dead man without disrupting him. Finally, he ducked low to the desk and inched the flask across to his father, careful to avoid the flailing tips of Benedict’s polished shoes.

  Confusion creased his forehead as John Allen accepted the item from his splayed son. Fortunately, experience had taught him not to question Edgar’s antics. “Thank you, son. Let this be the last time I have to intervene on your excess of spirits.”

  “Of course.” Edgar’s agreement noticeably lacked conviction as he righted himself.

  Overhead, the ropes shifted. Benedict dropped to the floor with a heavy thump. “Such a good lad,” he gushed, his icy hand clamping down on Edgar’s shoulder as he found himself momentarily free of his infinite loop.

  “Is that all, Father?” Edgar asked as an involuntary shudder rocked through him.

  “Almost.” The flask disappeared into the top drawer of John’s desk. “There is one more thing. I want you to reconsider my offer for you to join me here at the tobacco company. I have a position in mind for you.”

  “Father, I do not think it—”

  John halted Edgar’s argument with one raised hand. “No need to rehash old arguments. I am well aware of your hesitations, which is why I want to show you we can work around them. Tonight I have a dinner planned with a potential client. He is a family man, therefore it would be very beneficial for us to present a united front. You and I can dine with him and his daughter. I believe her name is Lenore. What do you say, my boy? Will you dine with a lovely young Miss as a favor to your dear papa?”

  7

  Ridley

  At some point Ireland’s enraptured draw to Ridley had faded to a moderately tolerable level. If she had to guess, she would blame the bus they hopped on, that reeked of body odor and stale beer, for killing the romanticism of encountering someone else cursed as she had been.

  “The car was right there,” she grumbled, her fingers thumping against her satchel. “Right at the curb. We actually passed it getting into this … rolling house of funk.”

  “That makes it sound bluesy,” Noah mused, then immediately raised his hands in retreat at Ireland’s murderous glare. “Hey, don’t blame me! You saw how fast Ridley darted on here. Our choices were jump on or lose him.”

  Biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood, Ireland’s narrowed gaze flicked across the aisle to where Ridley sat. A tennis racquet—he’d made the point to grab before darting from the loft—laid across his lap, his finger tracing the lettering on its cover. The pretty, strawberry-blonde seated beside him, with freckles speckled across her pointy nose and the tops of her cheeks, scooted a little closer and crossed her legs in his direction.

  “Do you play?” she asked, gesturing toward the racquet. Her full lips puckered in an obviously practiced pout as she thrust out her over-worked push-up bra.

  Ireland tipped her face toward Noah’s shoulder to mumble, “Nope, carries it as a conversation starter.”

  Noah’s chin fell to his chest. The blond strands that fell across his forehead did nothing to muffle his snort of laughter.

  A third party, however, was less than amused by the harmless flirting. Call forth your sword!the Hessian roared in his beastly tremor from within the confines of Ireland’s mind. Ram it through the strumpet’s skull. She is in no way deserving of the dark magnificence that lies within that being!

  Someone has a cruuuush, Ireland thought back, playfully injecting the sing-song inflection.

  Silence, you plague on my existence! If I could will your own hands to rip out your innards and rid me of your incessant torment, I would happily oblige.

  Running her tongue over her top teeth, Ireland fished into the front pocket of her satchel to dig out her iPod. Keep talking, sweet-cheeks. It’ll make this that much more fun for me.

  Do your worst, you petty wretch! This cage cannot hold me forever!

  “Isn’t that the Carrie Underwood song about keying some cheating dude’s truck?” Noah asked, reading over her shoulder as she thumbed the selection from the menu.

  “It is!” Ireland said, her wide smile dripping with mock innocence. “I thought maybe I could work on redirecting my creepy little friend’s anger issues.”

  “Only in this group is vandalism considered an improvement.” Rip—seated on Noah’s other side—shook his head, his finger twirling and knotting the end of his beard.

  Clicking the song on, Ireland settled back into her hard plastic seat. A smug smile curled across her lips. As predicted, the Hessian sneered and grumbled his retreat into the dark oblivion of her mind. Unfortunately, after his departure she could blame no one’s interest but her own for her gaze wandering back across the aisle. For a moment she noticed Ridley’s agitated stare managed to focus. A bit of his former swagger reappeared as he ogled the ample terrain of the hussy’s
curves. An appreciative smirk tugged back one corner of his mouth.

  “I’ve always wanted to learn to play tennis.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder, the mass transit floozy forced her chest out farther still. A move that was asking an awful lot of her already strained buttons. “But for any sport like that, you really need an expert … teacher.”

  “She’s like a walking cautionary tale against VD,” Ireland tsked.

  Switching the grip on his racquet to the other hand, Ridley’s free arm slid across the back of her chair with skillful grace. His head dipped ever so slightly, allowing him to gaze up at her from under his lashes.

  “There is no topic in the world more tragically poetic,” the smooth words poured from his lips like warm molasses, “than the death of a beautiful woman.”

  Every single person within earshot, Ridley and Floozy included, froze.

  “I … uh,” her mouth falling slack, Floozy rose from her seat, “… think my stop is coming up. I should just—”

  Without another word she scurried to the front of the bus, took a seat right behind the driver, and didn’t risk a look back.

  Ridley’s face crumpled as though the incident hurt more than just his pride. “Your words, not mine,” he hissed at the floor. “In my head. Muttering. Whispering.”

  “Ya, know.” Noah cocked his head, his hand rubbing over his chin, “I really expected him to have mad game with the ladies. But if that’s the right way to pick up chicks, I’ve been doing it wrong.”

  “The can of pepper spray she just pulled from her purse says it’s not,” Ireland pointed out.

  “We cannot leave him like this.” Rip’s lower jaw worked, chewing on the matter at hand. “Ireland was never this bad. It would be cruel to leave him to face this alone. For the time being at least, it seems our little family has a new member.”