“Oh, come now, Edgar!” Douglas called after him. “That tongue debacle was truly i-i-inspired! How could you possibly ignore that?”
“Because bouts of hell are far more tolerable when mingled with moments of pure Heaven,” Edgar muttered under his breath and shut the door on the seething ghoul.
He strode through the factory, giving a brief nod of greeting to the crew boxing up product. Their new Bull Jack machine belched and grinded away, filling muslin bags with loose tobacco in an efficient manner that would vastly improve their production times.
Sensing movement to his right, Edgar felt that nagging shudder claim him. Reflex screamed for him to spin toward it and acknowledge the pulley system that had materialized, the edges waving with flickering transparency before solidifying into a full-blown vision. Instead, Edgar steeled his spine and quickened his pace. Looking wasn’t necessary. He knew from multiple horrifying viewings that a man in a brown shirt and dirty overalls would appear, guiding and directing a large pane of glass that was being raised to the waiting frame in the ceiling.
Edgar cringed at the first snap, well aware it meant the rope had begun to unravel. The glass dropped a few inches before it caught with a sudden jerk. The heels of his shoes clicked against the floor ever faster, urging him to run, to bolt for the door before that braided rope shredded. Its fibers hissed and snapped their ominous warning. The door was mere feet away when he heard that final pop and the whistling wind of the pane’s final plummet, end over end, toward the ground.
With his hand on the door knob, and freedom from this ghoulish prison only a push away, Edgar leaned his shoulder in to give the heavy door a forceful shove. The angled position put him at the precise vantage point to see the ghostly apparition throw his hands up to shield his head. His effort being to no avail as the deathly sharp edge halved him from neck to hip, easy as slicing softened butter.
Pinching his eyes shut at the grisly remains that convulsed on the ground, Edgar threw himself against the door and its promise of escape. The midday sun that had beckoned from his office window was not to be found in this world—nor was any hope of retreat from his chilling existence. Grey clouds of smoke and ash formed a blockade that smothered the sun’s buoying rays.
Baltimore, with its quant storefronts and factories eructing puffs of smoke toward the heavens, faded around him. An echo lost over a valley too vast. All around him wisps of energy morphed into soldiers locked mid-battle. Canon fire shook the earth beneath his feet, sending his heart rocketing into his throat. His nose and lungs aching from the gunpowder heavy in the air; Edgar shielded his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow. Debris, and severed body parts, thumped down around him in a horrifying shower.
Muskets fired. Men shoved and jostled past him in their search for cover. Gravel pelted against his skin with enough force to leave welts on contact. A mushroom cloud of smoke and dust erupted in front of him from yet another canon blast. As the throat scorching haze it created dissipated, a face still blessed with youth’s tender touch appeared before him. The boy could not have been more than ten or eleven years old, though he wore the full military garb of a soldier.
Wide, frightened eyes, the color of ripe hickory nuts, locked on Edgar’s face. The boy’s slight frame trembling with spastic surges. “I want to go home,” he pleaded in a hoarse whisper. “Please, sir, t-take me home.”
Smoke tendrils curled back, a black curtain revealing the gut-wrenching crescendo of this scene. The boy sat propped against a cast aside barrel of gunpowder, his lower extremities shredded to ribbons of meat and gore. Life gushed from him into an ever-growing puddle that stained the earth around him crimson.
The weight of his own ineptitude sagged Edgar’s shoulders. “I am so very, very sorry.”
“Edgar? Are you okay?” His head—drooping with sorrow—rose at the sound of Lenore’s voice.
Yellow hair danced across her shoulders. Ivory fabric billowed out with each step. To him she became the embodiment of an angel of mercy as she crossed the battle scene. Her very presence parted the clouds, allowing the sun to shine through. Violence and chaos vanished in her wake, allowing beauty and color back into the dreary darkness he called life.
The light brush of her velvet soft skin against his sweat-dampened cheek tethered him back to a world where happiness yet remained. “Did you have another episode, my pet? Is there anything I can do?”
Damning the restraints of proper decorum, and the judgmental stares of those who passed by, Edgar gathered Lenore in his arms. Breathing in the scent of her sunshine-warmed skin, he attempted to steady his racing heart with a few cleansing breaths. “Yes, there is one thing,” he muttered against her silky tresses.
Tipping her face to his, she allowed him the pleasure of plunging into the adoration that sparkled from the deep violet tarns of her eyes. “Speak it, dearest, and if it lies within my power it shall be yours.”
Gathering both her hands in his, he brushed his lips across the back of one then the other. “Before you came into my life I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. I stood, lost deep in darkness. Wondering, fearing, doubting I would ever escape. Then, suddenly, a corner was turned and there you stood, a blaze of hopeful light before me. My love for you is more than love.”
“As is mine for you,” Lenore assured him, her voice heady with emotion.
“If my present existence with you is but a dream, it is one I never wish to rouse from.” Gulping in a breath like a man about to dive to the depths, Edgar dropped down on both knees. Completely at the mercy of she who owned his heart. “Be mine, my flower. Marry me. Let bells toll and my very spirit sing at our blessed union.”
The ring he dug from his pocket was far from extravagant. Even so, it gleamed with eternity’s spark.
Resolute devotion warmed the face of his beloved. Extending her hand, she allowed him to slip that uniting band on her finger. Before he could pull back, she caught his hand and pressed it over her heart. “Can you feel that? With every beat I love you more than the last.”
And he could feel it. That joyful telltale beating growing louder, louder, louder still every blissful moment.
11
Ridley
Having never changed midday before, Ireland battled the awkwardness of the situation by puffing her cheeks and casting her stare to the steps beneath her feet. She was painfully aware that people were walking on the sidewalk not twenty feet from where she fastened the coarse wool cloak around her neck and drew her hood, but couldn’t let their presence deter her.
Madness tipped its hat—as it always did—during the sensory extravaganza of her change. Ripe, prickling nerves alive with agonizing bliss over their heightened sensitivity. The hellish roar of the beast within rumbling through her as it stirred. Hoofbeats clapped against the pavement a moment before Regen made his regal entrance, skidding to a stop in front of her. His wide nostrils began expanding and contracting in eager expectation. Metal winged through the air, churning up the mingling scents of sunshine, horse, and leather, before she caught her circling axe and holstered it at her hip. Ireland treated the beautiful stallion to a soft muzzle scratching before she slid her scuffed black boot into the stirrup and hoisted herself astride. Threading the well-worn leather reins into the grooves of her waiting grasp, Ireland gently nudged Regen with her heels.
“This could be your weirdest ride yet, buddy,” she warned, blowing her bangs from her eyes. “Is there an equestrian term for conspicuous? Because we could really—whoa!”
Immediately, the stallion stopped short. An abrupt act that almost sent Ireland flying over his head.
“No, not you! Keep going,” Ireland urged, her voice morphing into a high-pitched squawk as she turned her hand one way then the other in front of her. Like an analog TV losing signal, her skin—along with all her other parts, accessories, and even the formidable stallion beneath her—turned to static then faded before her wide, unblinking eyes. Flipping her wrist, she wriggled her fingers. They were there, she
could feel them. Be that as it may, not a flutter of motion could be detected.
“Are you doing this, or am I?” Ireland muttered, her head shaking in disbelief. “You know what, Reg? It doesn’t matter. Just when I think things can’t get any creepier …”
The ebony stallion’s sides quaked with a whiny; his not so subtle cue that he was still seeking a little direction.
“Sorry, bud,” Ireland said, the leather saddle creaking as she adjusted her position. “Back on track. Let’s go flat-line Gozer The Destructor so I can return to my joyously corporeal state. Turns out invisibility makes me queasy.”
Cueing him on, she experienced the familiar, but always exhilarating, rush of his muscles contracting beneath her. The pull-back right before the jarring launch, that whisked them head long into adventure, stole the very breath from her lungs.
Ireland leaned into his strides, his hooves cracking a sharp chorus against the pavement. Turning the corner, they found the street bustling with activity. A fact that made that particular ride even more invigorating. The thrill of the forbidden. Ireland’s head spun, a smile teasing across her sapphire lips, as she watched a man chase his newspaper that the forceful gust of their passing ripped from his grasp. With expert precision Regen dodged and weaved, winding himself between bewildered pedestrians that were bumped and jostled without a clue of what caused it. When the congestion of milling bodies on the sidewalk became too constricting, Regen veered into the street. His gait opened up, full gallop toward a taxi stopped for a red light. Ireland’s breath caught as they went airborne. Metal creaked, buckling the hood in a perfect horseshoe formation. A split second before they slammed into the windshield Regen tucked his front legs, catapulting them in high arc over the cab and its bewildered driver. Ireland couldn’t have stifled her giddy peel of laughter if she wanted to—and she had no desire to do anything of the sort.
Her momentary elation was squashed by a chorus of screams and gasps up ahead. Standing up in her stirrups, Ireland craned her neck to see over the gathered crowd. A flash of dandelion yellow set her jaw firm, her palms itching for her weapons. Distance being the cruel bitch it was, Ireland could do nothing but watch a well-meaning man approach the ghoul with his hands raised to steady her.
“Now if not sooner, Reg,” Ireland urgently clucked just as the nightgown clad undead grabbed the man by both shoulders and frisbeed him onto the hood of a passing car.
Cowering at the screeching brakes and panicked screams that followed, the violet-eyed ghoul disappeared down the alleyway behind her. A spray of loose gravel kicked up under Regen’s hooves as he skidded to a stop at that same alley entrance, his unseen form blocking anyone else from entering. Kicking her leg over his head, Ireland dismounted. Her knees bent to absorb the impact. The second the soles of her boots hit the cement, her corporeal form rushed back. Toes to head in one broad sweep.
“Huh? Guess it was you.” Ireland gave credit where it was due, in this case to her still invisible horse.
Any frightened animal, with their hackles raised and lip curled in a menacing snarl, still couldn’t hide the fear boiling deep in the reflective pools of their gaze. The same could be said for the creature pacing before her. In life the girl must have been quite the hottie; with her delicate features, supple shape, and ethereal violet eyes. Unfortunately, no amount of skin cream or Botox could wipe away the tread marks where merciless time had stomped across her face in iron-spiked boots.
We could take our time with this one, the Hessian purred from the dark recesses of Ireland’s mind, his demonic tremor husky with longing. Imagine, playing with it here in the open. No one would say a word to stop us. Hell, girl, they may label us a hero for ridding the world of its existence.
Ireland filled her lungs to capacity and exhaled slowly, snuffing out the desire that flared at his suggestion. The fluttering twitch beneath her left eye made the strain of her internal struggle visible. Still, she squared her shoulders and overcame it.
“You don’t fit the monster stereotype,” Ireland pointed out, her fingers drumming against the hilt of her sword. “Maybe it’s the quiet contemplation angle you’re working. Although, I’m guessing the guy you flung into traffic would disagree.”
Full lips, cracked and weathered by the abrasive sands of the hourglass, parted. The ghoul’s tongue struggled to force words passed her desiccated throat, “P-p-p.” Long, matted locks slapped against her cheeks as she shook her head in frustration and tried again, “P-p-Poe!” Victory brightened her eyes with bursts of silver sparks.
“As in Edgar Allen?”
Dipping her head, the ghoul nodded in a way that would’ve appeared demure if not contradicted by her morbid appearance. Again, she paced. Mostly likely feeling the need to move after centuries trapped in a coffin. Her bare feet cracked at the wear, brown ooze seeping from the wounds.
Ireland widened her stance, a foreboding chill prickling down her spine. “And you would be—?”
The bewildered ghoul cocked her head, as if mystified by the question. “L-l-Len-o-ore,” she managed.
“Lenore? You’re not quite as fictional as American Literature would have us believe.” Running her tongue over her top teeth, Ireland chose her next words very carefully. “I really hate to tell you this—especially since you seem to be having the mother of all bad centuries—but Edgar Allen Poe died over a hundred years ago.”
Lenore’s indigo eyes narrowed, her hands curling into claws at her sides.
“Easy, blondie,” Ireland warned. One hand rose to halt the ghoul’s threatening advance, the other closing around the hilt of her sword. “Just to be clear, I had nothing to do with his death. Alcoholism was rumored to have played a part.”
An animalistic roar tore from Lenore’s throat as she charged with death steaming from her glare.
“I guess talk time is over.” Unsheathing her blade, Ireland flipped it over the back of her hand before allowing it to nestle into her waiting palm. “Any way I can get you to reconsider this? We had a good thing going on here. We’re practically girlfriends.”
In place of a response, Lenore swiped at Ireland’s core with yellow dagger-like nails.
A spinning side-step landed Ireland safely out of the way, yet also invited in the red haze of malevolence that clouded the edges of her vision. “Look, I get you’re pissed,” she snarled through her teeth. “You’ve been in a box! But as far as New York real estate goes, it was surprisingly roomy.”
At the second vicious swing that winged passed her face, Ireland arched back Matrix-style to avoid getting her nose pierced in the most unsanitary way. Black tendrils of madness crept up the back of her neck, urging her to give in and unleash the salivating beast just beneath the surface.
A pause.
A breath, as she waited for her conscious to weigh in with the moral implications. Only to hear … silence. The fingertip hold of control she clung to slipped away, that red veil descending before her eyes.
“Ireland is ever the diplomat. Always talking, seeking the nonviolent methods.” While it was her own throat that reverberated with the menacing growl, the booming voice belonged to another. The Hessian raised the sword before him, turning the blade to admire how it gleamed in the sunlight. “But you’re not dealing with Ireland anymore.”
Leaning to the side, he kicked Lenore away with a well-executed boot to the mid-section. She stumbled back maybe four feet. Her nostrils flared, a deadly hiss seeped from her blackened teeth.
The very definition of casual nonchalance, the Horseman flipped the blade over the back of his hand and caught it in the other with a liquid fluidity. “Let’s have it then, beastie,” he snarled, crouching into a battle ready stance.
A sly smile curled across Lenore’s time ravaged face, her chin rising with a haughty indignation one wouldn’t expect a corpse to possess. She closed the distance between them with two wide, determined strides. Before the Hessian could plunge his blade, her hand closed around it. If she noticed the deep valleys that i
t sliced into her putrefied flesh, it failed to register. Instead, she yanked it free from his grasp, as if confiscating the favorite toy from a naughty toddler. His upper body spun for the axe, only to be caught by Lenore’s unrelenting grip to his throat. One hand, its flexing tendons visible through decomposing flesh, was all she needed to raise him high over her head.
“No manners,” she rasped and spiked him to the ground with bone rattling force.
Ireland’s head cracked against the unyielding pavement, jarring the Horseman’s essence into retreat. White starbursts danced before her eyes, hot, sticky warmth trickled from the back of her head and soaked her hood. Blinking hard, she fought for sight in a suddenly blurry, warped world—a seemingly simple act that made her wince in agony. Instinctively, she raised one trembling hand. The axe shifted at her hip. Wiggling free, it winged from its holster—only to be intercepted by the hand of her hovering enemy.
“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Lenore taunted, waving the lethal edge back and forth before Ireland’s tearing eyes.
“Well, shit,” Ireland mumbled weakly and let her hand fall limp to her side.
Wind whistled passed the axe blade as Lenore offhandedly flung it through the air, the strength behind her effort embedding it deep into the wall of the brick building beside them.
Ireland knew enough to know she should be bothered by this—or at the very least, vaguely concerned. However, as her world spun like a carnival ride around her, she couldn’t seem to muster the strength. She found her lone focus on a shimmer of silver that appeared overhead. A lone star visible in the impending darkness.
As she watched with hazy vision, that same star plummeted to the earth in a shower of twinkling lights, tearing through her core and pinning her to the ground. Electric shocks of pain shuddered and nipped through every nerve ending in her body. Choking on the gush of coppery warmth that bubbled up her throat and foamed over her lips, Ireland forced her heavy head from the ground to tip her chin to her chest. To her shock she found her own sword jutting from her gut. Regal and proud it stood, like the proverbial sword in the stone, with Lenore’s bony hand possessively clasped around the hilt. The new power. Victorious.
Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) Page 8
