Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  “Sorry. It’s just …” His scruffy chin fell to his chest. His pause dragging on in his hunt for the right words, “Right after the birds, everything changed. I started hearing … voices.”

  Feeling her eyebrows raise, Ireland struggled to maintain a neutral façade and prayed her expression came across as even remotely casual. “What kind of voices? More ‘Come play with us, Danny’ or ‘If you build it, they will come’?”

  “Horrible ones, saying ghastly things.”

  “The Stephen King variety then. Never a good omen. Can you hand me that water?” Ireland rasped, lifting one finger to point at the tray behind him.

  Ridley released her hand with one of his. The wheeled stool beneath him squealed its protest as he pivoted to retrieve the Styrofoam cup. Positioning it beneath her chin, he guided the bendy straw to her lips. “The visions started soon after that. Awful, horrible things that would make every scary movie ever made look like a Pixar fairytale. I felt myself on the verge, about to break. Then, at the cottage, I realized there is one thing that can make it all go away—your touch. The moment you took my hand, you hushed all their ghostly shouts and scared away their rotted forms.”

  Cringing at the pain that jolted through her contracted her muscles from tipping her head, Ireland eased herself back down on to the pillow. “We’re really going to have the ‘I see dead people’ talk?”

  “I guess you could say that,” he huffed with an almost smile. “Only they were well aware they had died and were ten degrees of pissed off about it. Like when the EMTs first wheeled you in here, two men appeared in the hallway charred to black smoldering briquettes. They were gang members burned alive in front of their rivals as sport. Can you imagine anyone doing something like that in jest?”

  Her mind drifting to the Horseman living inside of her and all the atrocities he committed, Ireland shifted her gaze away guiltily and merely nodded her head.

  After setting the cup back down, Ridley leaned his forearms against the edge of her hospital bed. His index finger traced the edges of her sugar skull tattoo. An intimate gesture Ireland bristled at, however considering that he was pouring his heart out she refrained from clubbing him with her I. V. pole—for now.

  “One spirit in particular warned me that there was more to this than the voices and apparitions. He claimed,” Ridley’s tongue flicked out to wet his lips before he pressed on, “that my touch could … resurrect the dead.”

  A fresh rush of panic launched Ireland’s palpating heart into her throat and lodged it there. “I was stabbed … oh, God. But … that’s not … you didn’t bring me back did you?”

  The terms of her curse were quite simple; the Horseman is unending. Ireland’s death would not stop it. Instead, the end of her mortal life would allow the beast to run free without the limitations of her humanity to keep it in check. Her hand fluttered nervously to her neck, wishing the talisman, which kept her other half at bay, there.

  “No. No,” He reiterated for emphasis. “Your wound—severe as it is—miraculously missed anything vital. Before we arrived here at the hospital the EMTS already had you stabilized.”

  Puffing her cheeks, Ireland exhaled a relieved sigh through pursed lips.

  Ridley bowed his head sheepishly. His gaze cast to the flimsy blanket that covered her, he found a fuzz ball and plucked it free. “Even if you hadn’t been, I couldn’t have attempted it. Not after what the spirit told me.”

  Whether she believed his story or not—and really, she was the last person that should ever accuse an idea of being too far-fetched—there was no denying that Ridley was a broken version of the man he’d been just yesterday. Gone was the chiseled heartthrob. Hours in his haunted hell had cut heavy bags under his eyes. Turmoil had sharpened his features, drained his complexion to a sickly yellow.

  That alone was all the reason she needed to hear him out. “What did he tell you?”

  “That if I touch someone like that, they come back … wrong. That’s why he led me to her. He wanted me to see for myself. A lesson I could’ve learned without the help of that terrifying visual aid, by the way.”

  “So, she was real?” Pinching her eyes shut, Ireland raised her free hand to massage her temples. “I get some pretty messed up visions of my own and I was really hoping she was one of them.”

  “Nope, she’s very much real and very much still out there somewhere.”

  “Well, aren’t you a sunbeam of happy news,” Ireland grumbled mostly to herself just as the pink curtain, spotted with yellow diamonds, that surrounded her bed hissed across the bar.

  “Look who’s awake!” The doctor’s eyes crinkled at the corner, the rest of his smile hidden beneath a surgical mask. His thick apple shape strained against the fabric of his light blue scrubs. “You gave us all quite a scare. It’s not every day we get a patient in here with a broad sword injury, of all things.”

  “Well, that’s me.” Ireland stared at the drop ceiling overhead, blinking hard in a paltry attempt to distract from the sharp ache drilling through her core. Whatever they had given her for pain was clearly wearing off. “Always thriving to be different.”

  “Maybe next time just try an outlandish hair color.” Hooking his hand underneath the edge of the bedside tray, the doctor wheeled it around to the edge of the bed and stopped it in front of him. From one scrub pocket he pulled a packaged syringe, from the other a small vial. “Now, it’s medication time. Which, unfortunately, means your boyfriend is going to have to step out for a minute.”

  “I’m not her boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend” Ireland and Ridley clarified in unison before exchanging matching offended sneers at each other’s disgusted tones.

  “No offense intended.” Amusement drew the doctor’s eyebrows up to his surgical cap as he gripped each side of the syringe packaging in a gloved hand and tore it open. “I saw the hand holding and took a guess.”

  “He’s just really needy.” Ireland’s dry snort of laughter quickly morphed into a pained cringe.

  “I hope that hurt.” Ridley glared out of the corner of his eye, his mouth twisting up to the side.

  Turning the vial top down, the physician rolled it between his palms. “Friend, brother, neighbor, distant cousin—doesn’t really matter. You two can work that out between you, after I administer the medication. But for now, out ya go!”

  For a brief moment, Ridley had almost returned to himself. His over-confident Casanova gleam warmed his ocean blue eyes like the tropical sun coaxing lapping waves onto a white sandy shore. Yet all it took to turn those blue seas stormy was the mention of him extracting himself from her touch.

  “I-I can look away,” he stammered in his building dismay. “But you have to understand after the scare she gave us, I hate to leave.”

  The doctor’s head cocked in sympathy. “I can respect that. Truly, I can. Even so, it’s hospital policy and my hands are tied. I’m sure you can understand that.”

  Something in the physician’s comforting tone sparked a memory that skirted along the dark corners of Ireland’s mind, refusing to step into the light. She was snapped from this momentary reverie by Ridley’s hands tightening around hers in a vise grip that threatened to reduce bones to splinters.

  “Hey,” her voice sounded weak even to her, but she fought for some semblance of assertiveness, “It’s only for a minute. You’ll be—” Her stare flicked to the doctor for a quick check that he hadn’t caught that very blatant slip up, “—I’ll be fine. Then you can come right back in here and be the creepy guy watching me sleep, if you need to.”

  His dutiful smile failed to make it to his eyes. “Only for a minute,” he mimicked quietly.

  Ireland placed a comforting hand over his, her face a mask of mock sincerity. “Ridley, for someone that seemed disgusted by the idea of being my boyfriend you’re coming off as really codependent in front of the good doctor.”

  The doctor stifled a snort of laughter behind his meaty hand, playing it off as a sudden coug
hing fit.

  Her ill-timed jab succeeded in releasing a bit of the tension from Ridley’s shoulders. “Point taken. I’ll be right outside, but rest assured the second he’s done I will be back.”

  “I’ll be counting the seconds.” She couldn’t have blocked the snark from that rebuttal if she tried.

  Filling his lungs, as if the last remaining passenger going down with the Titanic, Ridley released his hold and bolted from the room, the curtain waving after his rather rash exit.

  Injecting the syringe needle into the vial, the doctor pulled back the plunger and drew it back slowly. “I know it’s none of my business, but I think you’re wise to stay platonic with that one.”

  There it was again. Something in that considerate tone that tickled at a particular memory. Ireland’s eyes narrowed. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

  His gaze immediately snapped to her face. Was that alarm creasing his brow, or professional concentration? Whatever it was vanished before she could pin a label on it. “I have been tending to you since you came in, perhaps you weren’t quite as out of it as we believed?”

  A low-lying fog was setting in from her injuries, clouding her already hazy mind. “No, it’s not from here.”

  “Another life, maybe?” He chuckled. Holding the syringe up, he tapped the bubbles from it as he approached her bedside. The liquid inside looked more mystical than medicinal. Its bright purple hue swirling with iridescent shades of blue and pink.

  She opened her mouth to ask what it was, when her sleep-weary gaze traveled to his face. The memory slammed into her, pinning her back against the bed. An extreme case of vertigo spun the room around her allowing only one image to catch and hold. Those eyes. Crystal blue, almost clear. She had seen them before.

  “I remember,” she gasped, just as he injected his odd looking concoction into her I.V. port.

  “What’s that, dear?” His tone was light, as if playing along to a delusional ranting. Even so, Ireland detected the sharp, tense edge that snuck into it.

  The medication worked fast, surging an icy blast through her veins and coating her tongue with the taste of metal. Her lids grew heavy, each blink becoming a fight to maintain consciousness. “You came to my house when I first moved to the Hollow,” she slurred. “You were a cop.”

  “A cop and a doctor? I’ve been very busy.” Reaching one hand to the opposite ear he released his surgical mask, letting it flutter to the floor. Resting a hand on the bed rails on either side of her, he leaned in and stared her straight in the face to watch the realization seep through her dulled senses. “Haven’t I?”

  “The museum … Mr. Mallark?” She forced the words out through what felt like a mouthful of molasses. “Wha-what do you want from me?”

  His thick moustache twitched as a slow smile curled across his round face. “You will soon see, my dearly treasured Hessian,” he whispered.

  14

  Edgar

  Blades of a windmill suffered the onslaught of ferocious gusts, whirring ever faster. The hum of their rotations drowned out all other sounds around them. Edgar’s pulse drummed that same tune in his ears, detaching him from this life he no longer recognized as his own. All around him activity flapped and fluttered, just as those murderous ravens had.

  Flowered donations were carted in and positioned around the casket.

  Sorrow filled faces offered hushed condolences.

  Bent knee prayers were whispered beside Lenore’s mahogany pedestal.

  Gleeful ghouls wrung their eager hands at the prize they had claimed.

  And the whispers—all muttered from behind backs of hands.

  “They were to be married.”

  “Coming from a dress fitting, is what I heard.”

  “He ran up and down the street shouting her name, while she lay alone and heaved her last breath.”

  “She is one of us now, Eddie boy,” Douglas sneered, tap-tap-tapping one grey, bony finger against the edge of her coffin. “If you loved her enough you could see her. Yet, woefully, it seems even in death you were not deserving of that b-b-beauty.”

  Through all this Edgar sat. His stare fixed on the profile of the sleeping princess nestled against her white silk pillow.

  His father’s face swam before him—stern and intense. “You are not to be alone with the body under any circumstances. Do you understand me, Edgar? I know what you are thinking. Quite honestly, if I were in your position, capable of what you are, I would be tempted as well. However, as your father, I cannot and will not allow it. I will save you from yourself, if that is what is required of me.”

  Edgar simply peered back, his face a chalkboard wiped clear of all markings of expression. “Yet, you are not truly my father at all.”

  He had not meant that as an insult, had injected no malice behind it. Even so, he watched as his father’s face ripened from red to purple. With an indignant snort, the normally poised John Allen spun on his heel and stomped off.

  Moments later—or perhaps it was hours—his mother eased herself into the chair beside him, gathering his gloved hands in hers. “Your father and I are worried, Edgar. You have suffered one of the greatest losses a heart can endure.”

  Edgar’s head cocked. His wide and manic eyes scoured her face, searching for signs that she genuinely understood his anguish. Slumping in resignation, he realized meat molded into a mask of mourning was all that stared back at him.

  “You must remember, my sweet boy,” Francis leaned in close, her breath—smelling of strawberries and honey—warmed his cheek as she whispered, “your ailment is not to be exploited. It is an affront against God. One your soul would burn for if you dared dabble with. You mustn’t bring her back, son. If you truly loved Lenore, let her go. Grant her peace.”

  Edgar blinked. Once. Again.

  Mother’s gentle palm pressed to his cheek, perhaps under the misconception her message had gotten through. Then she was gone, lost in the sea of mourners coming in going in an incessant ebb and flow.

  At some point the crowd dispersed.

  At some point the casket, situated in the parlor of the Allen estate, was closed.

  At some point the lamps were extinguished.

  Only then did servants come to collect Edgar. Wrapping his limp arms around their necks, they escorted him to his room and tucked him in like an exhausted child. The vacuum tube light fixture clicked off a moment before they eased the door shut behind them, their steps fading down the hall.

  Edgar lay there, staring into the darkness. His muscles rigid beneath the blanket drawn to his chin. There he waited until the entire house settled for the night. Sure he had heard the last of the scuffs and shuffles, he rose on legs made steady with conviction and slid the gloves from his hands. For her that now so lowly lies, he would return the light within her eyes.

  The casket opened with little more than a creak. The spirits lingering around him sank silently into the shadows, their rotting lips curling with malicious eagerness. There she lay, his beautifully broken porcelain doll. The side of his hand gently brushed her dandelion yellow hair from her face, revealing the stitches that ran from the corner of her mouth to her cheekbone. A deeply bruised gash zigzagged over one of her closed lids. Both were remnants of injuries from the crash that had been covered by an excess of powder and carefully arranged hair. He would treasure those scars, because they were a part of her now and would forever act as a reminder that even death’s harsh hand could not extinguish the flame of their love.

  Catching a lock of her hair between his fingers, Edgar’s hand slid down the silky length of it. All the while envisioning the moment of her awakening, the same kind of pivotal romantic eloquence found in classic fables where the prince awakens the sleeping princess with a loving touch. Her eyes would flutter open to gaze adoringly upon her rescuer. Finding her legs too weak to stand, he would cradle her in his arms and carry her forth into their future of limitless bliss.

  The tips of his fingers, tingling in anticipation, hovered over her skin.
Heaven awaited, and it would be brought forth by a simple touch.

  “Edgar, do not do this,” a hushed, yet urgent, voice directed from behind him.

  Guilty hands slapped to his sides. Edgar spun to find his mother in the doorway, a cup of tea cradled in her grasp.

  “Mother, I—”

  “Extend me the courtesy of not lying to me, Edgar Allen,” her tone turned icy as she placed her cup down on a neighboring table. Standing ramrod straight, Francis folded her hands in front of her. An indignant flare lifted her chin. “Step away from the casket, immediately.”

  His trembling hands rose, palms out. “This is not as it appears, I assure you.”

  “Oh, I know exactly what this is, which is why I insist you step away from her, now. Keep in mind that I will alert your father and the entire staff if need be.”

  The idea of attempting a fabrication taxed Edgar’s already weary soul, forcing his chin to his chest. For lack of a better alternative, he opted for the painfully ugly truth. “I-I cannot walk this earth without her. Cannot fill my constricted lungs knowing she is gone. My serenity has been stolen, casting me to the very bowels of hell. Even if she were to come back … changed, she would be here and she would be mine once more.” Tears he fought to keep at bay slipped over his lids, streaking down his cheeks.

  Her stony exterior chipped away to reveal hints of the compassionate pity that lay beneath. “Edgar, I know of your pain and more than anything in the world I wish I could take it from you and shoulder it myself. However, deep inside you have to know this is not the way. The road you are on leads only to further anguish.”

  Francis took one step forward, driving Edgar back protectively to the side of the casket. “We will go away together,” his words tumbled from his lips in a hurried pant. “I give you my word. Far from here, where—if there be any issues—they will not befall you or father.”