Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  A jumble of thoughts and emotions slammed into Ireland all at once. Every pivotal experience of her twenty-four years taking its final bow. Pushing all of them aside, she gasped one final warning to the world, “Horseman … won’t … die.”

  Violet eyes, brilliant as a neon marquee, swam over her. The once stunning corpse smiled warmly, impossibly long lashes coquettishly brushing the tops of her grey pallor cheeks.

  “He is life.” The head trauma could’ve been to blame, or perhaps the veil between life and death was retracting. Whatever the reason, Ireland suddenly had no problem understanding Lenore’s triumphant trill. “You are death. An unholy union that shall never be.”

  Grinding the blade in deeper with a vicious twist of her wrist, Lenore severed the world’s tether to Ireland Crane.

  12

  Edgar

  “The torture is unbearable,” Edgar breathlessly gasped. “I beg you, my flower, if the love you have for me is true, please do not withhold relief a moment longer.”

  “Regretfully, I cannot.” Lenore giggled, her head tipping with pity. “I will not end your life, no matter how much you beg. This is a lesson you must learn on your own. That at a wedding cake tasting you sample each with a bite, not by devouring six full pieces of decadence.”

  “If our time together has taught you nothing else, you should know self-control is not one of my stronger attributes.” Edgar offered her a playful wink that quickly morphed into a pained grimace.

  “I’m sorry, love. Here I am making light of your misery whilst you suffer. Shall I take you home and rub your belly like a mother would her constipated toddler?” Lenore hid her smirk by turning her shoulders to acknowledging the carriage driver with a polite nod as he hopped down from his seat to wrench the side door open for them.

  “You tease, m’lady. However I find that idea quite appealing,” Edgar jibed. Tucking his hand under his arm, he stepped from the mahogany stained carriage. “I may even be able to put my pride aside—”

  His thought abruptly trailed off, distracted by the ominous sight across the street.

  The branches of a tall maple rooted and roosted—an impossible feat they were somehow managing. Green leaves, that ought to be dancing in the day’s light breeze, were blocked out by bluish-black feathers. Every branch, every limb, every twig was occupied by regal breasted ravens. Countless black, marble eyes watching … waiting. Edgar rubbed is hands over his arms to chase away the goose pimples that suddenly dotted his skin.

  The avian gathering wasn’t found bothersome by him alone. A young man, with his shirtsleeves rolled up his forearms, stood at the base of the tree. With wild swings of a broom handle over his head, he attempted to dislodge the settled congregation. Not one feather ruffled for his efforts.

  “That’s not how you scare birds away!” a toothless old man rasped, stomping out of the neighboring apothecary shop. His hunched shoulders curled in, as if hugging the musket gripped tight in his arthritic hands. “Out of the way, boy!” he hollered, shoving the lanky lad aside. Pressing the butt of the musket tight to his shoulder, he aimed it straight up into the tree.

  Edgar’s gaze flicked up to the body of life that was the birds. A chill skittered down his spine at the recollection of the call names of this particular grouping, a conspiracy or unkindness of ravens. Without tearing his stare away, his hand closed around Lenore’s as she eased her foot onto the first step descending the carriage.

  “Lenore, wai—”

  One lone shot cut-off his warning and shattered their peaceful serenity. The birds rose as a single entity, moving in a malicious cloud of black that swirled and churned in search of direction. They should have gone up, seeking altitude’s sanctuary. For unexplainable reasons that went against the very laws of nature, they did not. Instead, the ebony wave crested above the tree, banking hard to the right in a rip current that then dove straight to the ground—right in front of their carriage horses.

  The frightened geldings backpedaled, nostrils flaring, ears pinned back. Their frantic heads jerking one way and the other in search of shelter from the noise and chaos. Lenore hesitantly pulled her foot back, only to have Edgar’s grip tighten on her delicate hand. A protective flame burned in his eyes as he pulled her from the carriage and into the safety of his arms.

  “Easy now.” The carriage driver’s attempt to soothe the frantic horses fell on deaf ears the moment the flock looped around for a second swoop.

  Edgar and Lenore pulled apart, shielding their faces with their arms to ward off the funnel cloud of wings that lashed against them. The palomino gave two warning hops on his front hooves before arching back in a mighty rear. The chestnut brindle quickly mirrored the act, his front legs pawing viciously at the attacking sky. Their primal need to flee won out over the hushed whispers of their caretaker. Both of the agitated horses launched themselves toward the left side of the carriage, flipping their heads and fighting for freedom against the harnesses that held them tight.

  Time slowed.

  The carriage rocked on its narrow wheels.

  Urgent whinnies accompanied the stomps of frenzied hooves.

  The carriage driver backed from Edgar’s side, his eyes wide.

  Edgar’s hand closed around Lenore’s upper arm, tugging her back … just as the carriage tipped.

  Her graceful hand was ripped from his grasp, lost in a wash of snapping boards, airborne cargo, and flying kindling. Those violet eyes he treasured locked with his as she sank beneath the weight. Edgar scrambled for a hold, his deficient fingers catching nothing but the whisper of where she had been. Yellow hair fanned around her face, giving her the appearance of a surfaced mermaid swan diving back to the depths. The toppling beast of a carriage stole the very breath from Lenore’s lungs in its crash, pinning her beneath its weight.

  “Help me!” Edgar screamed over his shoulder at the carriage driver, his fingers grappling under the rumble for a corner he could seize. “We must lift it off of her!”

  “S-sir,” the maddeningly still driver stammered, “the … blood.”

  Edgar refused to acknowledge the growing crimson pool around his feet, would not entertain where it was coming from. No. Such things were of little consequence. All that matter was freeing his bride-to-be.

  “That matters not!” Edgar bellowed, the pounding of his heart resonating in his temples. “Help me, damn it!”

  “Edgar,” his trapped angel whispered, without the slightest inkling of fear. “Be still, my love.”

  Abandoning his mission, he fell to his knees at her side. Quaking fingers he scarcely recognized as his own brushed strands of hair from her paling face. “I am here. Right here. Stay with me. We will get a team of men, if need be, to—”

  “Shhhh. Let me look upon thy face,” her full lips, which death so selfishly robbed of color, barely moved at her faint declaration. “So fair … and debonair …”

  Locked with the desperate stare of her lover, Lenore took her last lingering gaze.

  “Lenore? Lenore?” Edgar’s fingers clasped the fabric of her sleeves in a white knuckled grasp, the realization slowly seeping in that this beautiful temple that once held the essence of his beloved was noticeably, irreversibly vacant.

  He rose on jelly legs that threatened to fold beneath him. His place in the world snatched from him with the sigh of Lenore’s last breath. All around him darkness descended. Spirits slunk from the shadows, wringing their hands with devilish delight. Edgar stumbled over his own feet in a scramble to escape the cold, demanding hands of the dead that clawed at him. Caught in the flurry, he found himself spun in a dizzying waltz of the past and present. Being jostled from one entity to the next. A jumble of faces swirled before him. Some marred by death and tittering with glee; others folded in concern, the spark of life still burning within their eyes. None belonged to the only person that truly mattered. Even so, she had to be there. Seeing her one last time would finally give him reason to thank God for his affliction. It would give purpose to his curse i
f it granted him the chance to say a proper goodbye.

  “Lenore! Lenore!” Breaking free, Edgar dashed up and down the street like a madman, screaming her name all the while until his throat grew raw and parched. His urgency reached its peak when the flurry of faces began to duplicate with no sight of her. A choked sob caught in his constricted throat that threatened to rip his very soul to ribbons if he accepted the nightmarish reality before him.

  His beloved Lenore, the flower that brought beauty back to his dismal existence, would be his … nevermore.

  13

  Ridley

  Desolate, barren land comprised only of varying hues of grey. Arid earth cracked in patchy scales as far as the eye could see. The only vegetation thriving in such a wasteland was a thick trunked tree that grew roots up. Its thin, twining appendages stretched to the heavens, praying for a sip of life giving water. In this world of death and despair, Ireland Crane was queen. Her crown a braided grapevine decorated by a spray of raven feathers. Sand, caught in harsh gusts of relentless wind, lashed against the bare skin of her arms. The constricting bodice and flowing skirt of her ebony gown caught several of the airborne granules. They clung to the fabric, reflecting light like precious jewels inlaid in the layers of silk and taffeta.

  Her loyal subjects knelt before her. Their chests bare. Their hands clasped behind their backs, while they tipped their faces to her in admiration. The first two in line were Victor Van Tassel and Mason Van Brunt, her first two victims after becoming inflicted by the Hessian’s curse. Neither man’s vigor had been plucked by the sling of her blade, but had flourished in it. Victor’s youth had been restored; his thick gut and thinning hair replaced by luxurious locks and a barrel chest. Mason had claimed his manhood; the sharp lines of his handsome face having chased away youth’s last remaining traces. Each man omitted a low, throaty groan of pleasure the second she placed a palm aside each of their faces. The energy that animated them pulsed through her, lighting her skin with an ethereal luminescence. As their pallor paled, Ireland bloomed. The eyes of both men rolled back. Their bodies shuddering as the throes of euphoria consumed them. Like the harsh landscape around them, the vitality of their skin drained to ash. The next passing breeze exploded them both into puffed clouds that swirled around her waist in one final farewell before they fluttered off wherever the wind would take them.

  Lifting her skirt enough to allow herself movement, Ireland ventured further down the line to those patiently awaiting her attention. Her breath caught, the next two faces turning to her like flower petals meeting the rays of the sun. Rip Van Winkle, not the decrepit shell of himself she knew but the man he had once been, knelt before her. Strong, strapping, and staring up at her with a level of trust and admiration that made a flush of guilt stain her cheeks. Forcing her troubled gaze to travel farther still, she found her heart seized in desire’s iron fist.

  His name escaped her parted lips in a breathless sigh, “Noah.”

  A crooked smile meant just for her curled the corners of his lips. “You know what we want and why we’re here …” his words trailed off as he tipped his head, offering her his throat.

  Beside him, Rip matched the gesture.

  Ireland stumbled, her heel tangling in the hem of her skirt. “No! I-I could never hurt you! You know that! You know me!”

  Catching her hand, Noah reeled her body back to him. One strong arm hooked around the rise of her hips and pinned her to him. “Your gift is beautiful. Don’t ever doubt that.” Turning the inside of her arm skyward, his mouth teased the tender flesh of her wrist. The heat of his breath and delicate caress of each dotted kiss sent waves of desire coursing through her. Hazel eyes, warmed to molten gold by palpable desire, locked with her own and refused to falter. “Please, don’t deny me.”

  The adoration in his gaze, and the seduction of his touch made Ireland feel like the most beautiful being on the planet … until she caught sight of Rip out of the corner of her eye. He was wearing that matching mask of longing. It wasn’t her they wanted—it never had been—but a taste of what she could do. To be near death, and delve into the darkness. Their own twisted yearning to thumb their nose at mortality led them to follow her.

  Clamping her eyes on the wash of tears that threatened, Ireland ignored the wailing of her heart … and laid a palm to each of their cheeks. One lone tear snuck between her lashes at the cascade of tingles seeping up her arms.

  “You can’t blame them for not understanding,” a familiar voice drawled behind her.

  She spun as he neared, leaving Rip and Noah wheezing for breath—or, more likely, completion of her task.

  Techno-colored flowers bloomed in a colorless world each time the sole of Ridley’s shoes met the earth. The crisp cut of his white, tailored suit was accented by a burst of color from the button-down shirt beneath that changed in hue to match the species of flowers that sprung to life. Hydrangeas blue. Orchid purple. Lily fuchsia. Rose coral. As he neared, Ireland noticed his eyes morphed to match as well. The result hypnotic.

  His haggard and troubled façade was a thing of the past. The man before her exuded confidence and a zest for life from every pore. The draw of which was so magnetic Ireland had to fight to keep her feet planted while her body insisted she close the distance between them.

  “To them this is a thrill, a game of chicken against the Reaper himself.” Ridley paused beside her, his shoulder skimming hers. Even then he didn’t grace her with a glance, his attention fixed on Rip and Noah. Tipping his head toward her, the warmth of his breath teased over her breast bone. “For us, it’s destiny.”

  The moment he stepped away from her, the chill of solitude lashed at Ireland’s soul and cut deep. Bending eye-level with her withering subjects, Ridley pursed his rose petal lips to blow a soft, healing breath over both of them. Wan complexions of the dying were ripened to plump apricot. Both men blinked away their disappointment before dipping in a low bow—foreheads to the ground in a show of respect.

  “No need for that, boys.” Ridley smoothed the front of his suit coat, a self-depreciating chuckle playing over his lips.

  Neither humbled servant budged.

  “You’re like me?” Pacing in a slow circle around him, Ireland’s eyes narrowed.

  He matched her steps, leading them in an intimate waltz normally reserved for predators—or lovers.

  “Like you?” He tsked. “Oh no, my darling flower. There is no other like you. Our only similarity is being pawns in a game that began centuries before either of our fathers got an amorous gleam in their eyes.”

  Ireland’s gaze lingered over the soft curve of his mouth, wondering if his lips could possibly taste as delectable as they looked. “How do we play?”

  Curling one finger into a ruffled tuft of her skirt, Ridley pulled her to him. Bowing his head, he brushed his cheek over the delicate curve of her collarbone. “The game is already in motion,” he murmured. “The rule sheet not meant for our eyes. All we can do now is stay alive.”

  Ireland weaved her fingers into his hair, yanking his head back with a passion driven force that bordered on violent. “I’ve taken lives. I’m a monster,” she snarled against his lips, tormenting them both with the agonizing veil of energy that denied their touch.

  His hand snaked up her arm to find her fingers and loosen her grasp. Palm to palm. Fingers entwined with fingers. “Does granting it make me any better?”

  Ridley didn’t give her time to answer. With one hand pressed to the small of her back he crushed her to him. Their lips met with a desperate urgency that caused Heaven and Earth to quake in nervous anticipation of what was coming …

  A soft chorus of beeps roused Ireland from what was turning out to be a disturbingly hot dream. Fighting against medicinally weighted down eyelids, she struggled to reclaim her consciousness. Her head lulled to the side, the pillow beneath rustling like sandpaper, in search of the warm and delicate touch that cocooned her right hand. She expected Noah to be the cause as he diligently hovered by her bedsid
e. A dry rasp, that sounded a little too much like a groan, escaped her parched throat before she could stifle it. The cause? Ridley, staring down at her while clutching her hand in both of his. Behind him was a backdrop of medical supplies and contraptions.

  A plethora of questions pirouetted through her mind, Why are you touching me? Where are we? Did I make sex noises in my sleep? What the hell happened? Are you really that good a kisser? Thankfully, the one that snuck past her chapped lips was, “Where’s Noah?”

  Ridley rubbed the rough stumble of his chin against his shoulder to scratch it instead of releasing his hold on her suddenly sweaty palm. “Rip watched them insert your I.V. and hit the floor like a chopped tree. A flurry of activity followed. It seems to the medical community a black out like that is a cause for concern. Noah followed them out, screaming at them that using a defibrillator on a narcoleptic would make matters far worse. I’m sure he’ll be back soon.”

  The simple act of swallowing awoke what seemed to be shimming razor blades lining Ireland’s throat. “You’re surprisingly articulate for a guy that admitted to conversing with an invisible orangutan a few hours ago.” Wincing and adjusting her position, she attempted to retract her hand from his. “Can I have that back, please?”

  “No!” he barked, then immediately attempted a softer approach at her wide-eyed reaction. “I’ll explain, I promise. Just, please, don’t let go yet.”

  As odd and uncomfortable as it was to endure physical contact of any kind with the guy she just dream cheated with, Ireland couldn’t bring herself to deny his desperately pleading eyes. “Okay, easy.” Her free hand rose, the heart monitor waving off her pointer finger, to halt his freak out. “Take a breath and maybe loosen your grip a little. I’d like to be able to feel those fingers again when you’re done with them.”