Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  His hands dropped to his sides in frustration, a wad of black fabric clutched in one fist. “Seriously? Again? I’m going to start taking this personally.”

  “Sorry, reflex.” Ireland squinted to counter the sudden twitch beneath her right eye. Coppery warmth tainted the air. Blood, free flowing crimson, rushing, flowing, pulsating over the very walls around her. Recognizing it as a vision, Ireland sheathed her sword with a trembling hand.

  Feel that, lass? the Horseman growledfrom his dark cavity within her.Death is coming, and the hand he requests for tonight’s promenade might be your own.

  “What’s going on?” she gulped, searching for a tone that somewhat resembled normal.

  Noah’s narrowed gaze scoured her face, catching every one of her anxious tells as if they were glowing neon. “Young Rip said the exit up ahead will take us to where Lenore is hiding. He suggested you throw your cloak on and get ready.” His hand rose in offering. One edge of the heavy wool fabric slipped past his fingers, unfurling in sensual, curling waves that beckoned to the most sinister side of her character.

  Her fingers itched to close around the course wool, a hypnotic longing throbbing through her to lose herself in the tantalizing rush that came with fastening the cloak around her shoulders. For that very reason, she hesitated. She was acting like a junky in need of a fix, only this particular addiction was wasting no time spiraling out of control.

  “Ireland?” Ridley stared hard at the vacant space beside him. Leaning away from it, his muscles seemed set on a hairpin trigger to bolt. “Your friend is back.”

  “The Horseman? You can see him?” Ireland’s hand instinctively rose to her face, feeling for the telling protruding bones.

  “Different friend,” he corrected, flinching away as if she’d tried to touch him. “Same panache for being unperturbed by the binding restrictions of death. Namely, the incredibly pushy Eleanora. She wants me to give you a message. Which I will deliver so she doesn’t requisition my body again!” He shouted the last part of his proclamation over his shoulder for the benefit of an entity only he could see.

  Ireland and Noah exchanged strikingly similar looks of apprehension. “What is she saying?”

  “A change in hue, a shift of light.” Ridley said each word in the broken cadence of someone reading back a transcript verbatim. “Enemies conspiring their deadly plight.

  “A shift in light?” Ireland repeated. Spinning in a slow circle, her brow furrowed. The change was subtle. So much so that she almost glossed over it. Yet the minute it registered she sucked in a shocked gasped. Unleashing the steel viper at her hip, it hissed free with venomous intent. “The wrong Rip is glowing! You were just with them, Noah. You didn’t think to mention that?”

  Noah turned with a jerk, his stare bouncing from Ireland to Rip and back again. “Okay, I never claimed to be the most observant person, but I swear that was not the case a minute ago.”

  Ridley stepped closer, knitting their huddle in tight. “What were they talking about before he sent you over here?”

  “Nothing important,” Noah shrugged, blinking rapidly in confusion. “Sleepy Hollow, mostly. The way it used to be.”

  Looking more villainous than friend, their Rip peered over his hunched shoulder. Fast moving fronts of animosity and uncertainty collided in a storm cloud of emotion that ravaged the lines of his face.

  “The way it was when they first met the Horseman?” While Ireland posed her words as a question, she needed no confirmation. The air around them was charged with conspiracy, crackling with glee at the prospect of claiming one of their own out from under them.

  She didn’t wait for his response. Her boots slapped the ground with determined strides, her heavy footfalls echoing off the cavernous walls like an unseen army.

  Young Rip turned at the sound of her trudges, his face a convincing mask of innocence. “You see how she comes with her weapon readied? That is the monster using her as his marionette. Think back to the girl she was when you first met. Would that once innocent soul have been so quick with the sword?”

  Rip shook his head, struggling to clear his foggy head from the apparition’s trance. “The firsth time we met she whacked me with a Magwite. So, yeth, I bewieve had there been a sword handy she would have utiwized that as well.”

  Blind rage flashed across Young Rip’s face that he quickly squelched with a sharp twitch of his head. “Then the beast had already taken up residence within her! Either way is of little consequence. You know she has been slipping as of late, losing control of her monstrous tendencies. The very same beast that killed our dear friend Ichabod is chained within her, and you have seen with your own eyes that those chains are weakening!”

  Flipping the hilt over the back of her hand, Ireland caught it and readjusted her hold to bring the blade up alongside her face. Her other arm stretched out before her in a battle ready stance. “Funny, I don’t remember signing up for the celebrity roast. What’s the play here, Astro Rip? What are you after?”

  Young Rip hooked a hand around the older man’s neck and pulled him closer in a conspiratorial embrace. “You—nay, we—failed Ichabod once before! Do not let his death be in vain by allowing her to claim even one more life!”

  Crossing her back leg over her front in a cautious side-step, Ireland prowled around them in a slow, deliberate circle. “Rip, you know me. Don’t buy into the Hessian hate propaganda. Remember when I explained to you the modern day meaning of the term ‘dick?’ Well, consider this guy exhibit A.”

  Young Rip’s jaw tightened as he watched his counterpart’s expression soften at the memory. Using more force than necessary, he yanked Rip forward and snaked his arm around his neck. The embroidered sleeve of his coat became a tight noose that streaked the older man’s gasping face with plumes of red and purple.

  “I know the dreams of that horrifying headless corpse hunched over Ichabod’s sprawled form haunt you,” he snarled against Rip’s ear, “as they do me.”

  Rip’s watering eyes locked on Ireland, shouting an unspoken plea that she answered with a resolute nod.

  “We fought with all we had.” Pressing his face to Rip’s cheek, Young Rip seemed oblivious to the tears that streaked the wheezing man’s face. “As if broken fence posts were any sort of weapon against hell’s favorite pet. Yet she claimed him. Stole his head while we were powerless to do anything except watch in abject horror!”

  “He’s rewriting history.” Ducking her head to catch his eye, Ireland purposely ignored the ranting essence and addressed Rip directly. “You guided me. For that I am so very appreciative, because I know I couldn’t have survived this without you. Please, don’t let him cloud the truth we worked so hard for.”

  “Enough of this!” Young Rip released his older counterpart, casting him into the circle of space between them.

  His beard clinging to his sweat soaked skin, Rip eagerly filled his lungs by the gulp.

  “I extended this proposition to you only because we share blood. In my mind that made you my brother. However …” Young Rip turned to Ireland with a murderous gaze, the pupils of his eyes dilating to thick pits of tar hungry to consume. “I offered only as a courtesy. I have fulfilled the mission binding me to deliver you here—wherever this is. In exchange I have been granted corporeal form.” Throwing his arms out, he turned to address each of them one by one. “All can join me, or burn alongside her. The choice lies with each man.”

  “Congrats on the new legs, Lieutenant Dan.” Noah ducked his head, casually rubbing the back of his neck beneath his hairline. “But where the redhead goes, I follow.”

  “Me too.” Ridley let one shoulder rise and fall. “If for no other reason than the fantastic view.”

  Noah’s head lulled to the side, shooting him a glare of annoyance. “Think you can agree with me in a way that doesn’t make me wanna punch you in the face?”

  “It’s doubtful,” Ridley admitted, his face reading genuine apology.

  “Have it your way!” Young Rip snee
red. A geyser of black smoke festered beneath his feet, elevating him on its ominous pedestal. “You all deserve to die by the very hand you clamor to kiss. Fortunately, I will grant mercy enough to spare you that fate!”

  His arms rose with the swell of darkness. Hoisting. Coaxing. Encouraging it to new heights before his head tipped in Ireland’s direction, a lethal smile lacing across his face.

  “How does that thing do against smoke?” The first traces of unease snuck into Noah’s tone as he nodded at her sword.

  “We’re about to find out!” Ireland barely got the words out before man and mist arced back in a reptilian roll … and struck.

  Throwing his shoulder in, Young Rip slammed into her mid-section, forcing the air from her lungs. Her sword clanked to the ground, stolen from her grasp the moment her head cracked against the unyielding tile floor. Spots popped and swirled before her eyes, pain blooming at the base of her skull where her wound from Lenore reopened. Desperate to reclaim her breath, she forced air into her lungs only to choke on the dust cloud they had kicked up.

  “Ireland! Take your cloak!” Noah’s cry came muffled and warbled, as if he was shouting through water.

  Young Rip’s full weight bore down against her. His face contorted with rage, lips peeling back to expose rotted teeth set in a ravenous snarl. “I know what you are! I have seen your true face! You are the Mistress of Death, bringing despair to all the lives you touch! If you truly care for any of these men, lay down your life now and spare them all your shroud of misery!”

  Wedging her forearms between them, Ireland strained with all she had. The tendons of her neck bulged, the veins of her face threatening to pop. Strength, which could only be described as demonically charged, allowed the enraged being to press in harder still. Turning her face from the rancid breath assaulting her, Ireland caught a glimpse of Noah creeping in. Her cloak clutched firmly in his hand.

  “Noah, stay back!” she screamed to be heard over the roaring in her mind. “I can’t trust myself to unleash him here! It’s too risky for all of you!”

  “A noble monster is it?” Craning his neck, Young Rip forced her to meet his stare. “I wonder if that boy you murdered thought so. Did he call for his mommy? Beg to be spared before you embedded your axe in his spine?”

  Noah ignored her warning and lunged, snapping her cloak open and ready. Ridley dove to stop him, snatching a corner of the fabric and yanking it back. Voices rose; their debate quickly becoming heated. Above her came a jolting shudder as Rip launched himself onto the back of Young Rip. Wrapping his wiry arms around his youthful doppelganger’s neck, he thrashed and twisted in his best attempt to free her from his clutches.

  Unfortunately, none of this mayhem reached Ireland. She was already gone; transported by a simple look. The pits of hell awaited in Young Rip’s irises. One direct glance and she was sucked through their scorching ring of fire and plunged into the depths of madness.

  26

  Edgar

  The porcelain teacups were unusually heavy on the tray. Their burden weighed them down like a loaded pistol cocked and ready to fire. Desire to fling his entire cargo against the wall rose, Edgar only managing to squelch it by biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste the coppery rush of blood. He had poured the amber liquid with trembling hands, all the while praying for another alternative to reveal itself. None did. Instead Edgar found himself peering into the unknown, fearing and doubting his own motivations while anguish seized his heart in a crushing grip.

  “Edgar!” Lenore called from the veranda. “The sun is setting in the most gorgeous display! Come watch it with me!”

  Tray in hand, he trudged across the house. His lead feet dragged him forward as if bound for the hangman’s noose. His spirit lifted, in the most bittersweet of ways, the moment his gaze fell upon her. Gilded light from the low resting sun illuminated the room, adorning Lenore with a haloed radiance. Hair like spun gold, danced over her shoulders in the faint breeze. Sleep had worked its healing magic over the last week. Only a trace of the gouge over her eye could be seen. The scar on her cheek reduced to a mere shadow. The fractional bit of beauty death had stolen from her had been restored—at least externally.

  “Hurry, sit!” Taking the tray from his hands and easing it down on the table, she bubbled her enthusiasm like a giddy child.

  Edgar took a step toward the spot reserved for him, only to have his gelatin legs fold beneath him. Splayed on his knees before his queen, he gathered her hands in his and pressed them to his face as if in prayer.

  “From the second my gaze first fell upon thee, you claimed my heart.” Barely contained emotion clipped his words to a raspy tremor. “Even in my grave, all will not be lost. For my soul will still ache for you.”

  Retracting one icy hand from his grasp, Lenore brushed her fingers across his jaw line in a delicate caress. “I would never doubt otherwise, nor do I believe there is a force on this earth strong enough to tear us apart. Even so, why do such dark thoughts plague you, my darling?”

  “My own inadequacies make me a failure unworthy of you and—” his voice breaking, Edgar swallowed hard and tried again, “—for that I am forever sorry.”

  Bronze light from the sinking sun reflected off Lenore’s pale skin in an enchanting illusion that she glowed from within. With one finger under his chin, she tipped his face to hers. “You have never failed me, Edgar. You love me with every fiber of your being and I beg you not to apologize for that. In your eyes I see the depth of your devotion and it renders the meager word ‘love’ insignificant.”

  Edgar squeezed his eyes shut and leaned in to her touch, nuzzling into the palm of her hand.

  Too soon for his liking, Lenore retracted both her hands and rested them daintily atop her knees. “Now then, the sky is a lovely painted canvas. I wish to enjoy it with a strong arm holding me tight and I have found yours to be a perfect fit for the task, n’est-ce pas?”

  “How could I deny such a request?” Edgar attempted a smile despite the ache of his crippled heart. Arranging himself onto the settee, he draped an arm around her and guided her head to his shoulder. Reveling in the sweet torment of her body pressed to his, he gazed out at the haphazard brush strokes of pink, purple, orange, and yellow that zigzagged across the sky.

  Beside him, Lenore reached for her cup … and the world slowed. No longer could Edgar linger in the moment’s perfection. Hell’s reign was about to descend upon his life. The dainty cup met her lips in a tender kiss, russet liquid spilling into her mouth. He forced himself to look away, the urge to slap the cup away and suck the tainted liquid from those red, supple lips growing too strong to bear. He clasped his hand down on his knee to steady his leg that began to shake with anxious jitters. With slow, leisurely sips she drained the cup. Each one taking a blink—or a lifetime. Then, flicking her tongue across her top lip to relish the lingering sweetness, she returned the empty cup to the table.

  The effects of the dogwood did not take long. They never did. Yawns hidden behind the back of her hand; blinks made long by heavy lids. Like a contented cat she curled against him, her rhythmic breathing purring from parted lips.

  Burying his face in her hair, Edgar breathed in her mingling floral scent and let his tears slip free. Twilight’s brisk breath slapped against him, sending icy prickles through his hollowed core. The time had come, he knew by the atmosphere of sorrow he breathed in. Extracting himself from beneath Lenore’s sleeping frame, he allowed his body to be ravaged by one more anguished sob. Then, wiping his face on the back of his hand, he capped his emotions tight and forced himself to task.

  The chirp of the crickets pounded into Edgar’s already throbbing head with the potency of driven railroad spikes as he crossed the yard to his work shed to retrieve his pry bar. With each step he prayed for divine intervention. Yet, the sky did not open allowing an angel to descend. The shrubberies remained silent and devoid of guiding flames. Perhaps God had indeed forsaken him for utilizing a curse that went against the natura
l order of things.

  Or, Edgar contemplated as his hand closed around the cold, iron bar, perchance religion had simply evolved out of fraud, fear, greed, imagination, and poetry.

  Meaning he truly was alone.

  Weighing the bar in his sweat dampened hands, Edgar spun on his heel and marched back to the house, leaving the shed door open and creaking on the hinges behind him. He could hear his father’s gruff voice in the back of his mind, clear as if he stood beside him, belittling him for taking the coward’s way out. That may have been true, yet he could see no other way.

  Stalking through the veranda to the main living quarters, Edgar purposely averted his gaze from Lenore’s slumped silhouette. His waning conviction could afford no further distraction. Wood scuffed over wood as he hooked his forearm under the back of her rocking chair to scoot it aside. The floor boards were loosened, the nails removed in preparation. Wiggling the pry bar between the planks, it took little more than the flick of his wrist to pop them free. Palming each section, he stacked them in a neat pile behind him.

  The fruits of his labor appeared in the gaping hole beneath him. A hand built coffin, assembled with fresh dogwood, lay in wait that he had toiled over night after night. He drained the last of his savings to buy the lumber and have it delivered in the late evening hours. Forgoing sleep, he had ignored aching muscles and extreme exhaustion, and pushed on: building the box and lid, digging the hole, preparing her tomb, then hiding all his labors as the sun rose and her soft snores grew light before her wake. Now, the time had come to put his efforts to use and he could not loathe them more. He knew he was doing the right thing. The spirits had manipulated her once and they would do it again. Even so, he dubbed himself a heinous weakling for not being able to protect the one being whose life he treasured more than his own.

  Far too soon, he was gathering his beauty in his arms. Her long, luxurious hair tickled over his arm in a cascade of yellow waves, her face falling toward his chest. Staring down at her, he ached for her eyes to flutter open that he may dive into those pools of violet paradise once more. Unfortunately, such a fantastical plunge would not be granted. He had ensured that by doubling the dose of dogwood in her evening cup of tea. Experience taught him that under its effects she would not rouse for a full night, no matter what kind of ruckus he made—and tearing up the floor to dig the enormous hole had not been a quiet endeavor.