Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  The implied weight of that ‘but’ hoisted Ireland to her feet. Her spine straightened, her cloak rippling down her back and into place. Skin tightened over bone. Nerves set on edge with barely contained power. The Horseman stirred, only this time Ireland had no problem holding him back. This was her fight. “What about the country club?”

  Noah rose with her, his lips pressed in a thin white line of unease. “Ireland, you don’t have to do this right now. After everything that’s happened, it’s okay to give yourself a minute here.”

  Her hand rose to silence him, then curled into a tight fist of brewing, bubbling aggression. “What about the country club?” Each word was punched out slow and deliberate.

  “I didn’t see Lenore,” Ridley clarified, his palms raised to halt that idea before anyone could roll with it. “But I was told she was there … somewhere.”

  “Who told you this?” Ireland forced the words through her clenched jaw.

  Ridley’s weary gaze fell to the floor. When he glanced back up it was from under his lowered brow. “The men she killed. Apparently in her heyday she tore five men apart with her bare hands at a party back when the club was still a private residence. Needless to say, while even their lingering spirits showcased what pig-headed oafs they were, they were all more than willing to have a hand in bringing her down.”

  Wordlessly, Ireland strode to Regen’s side. The stallion eagerly pivoted to receive her. Sliding her foot into the stirr-up, she hoisted herself astride, the leather saddle creaking as she settled in. Gathering the reins in one hand, she extended the other to Ridley. “I’m going to need your help to find her.”

  “Gladly, m’lady.” Linking his hand with hers, he bounced with her boost and heaved himself up behind her.

  Ireland guided Regen’s head around, the metal of his curb chain meeting with a soft clink. Before she could spur him forward even a stride, Noah positioned himself dead center between them and the exit.

  “The last time you took her on she nearly killed you.” His nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “Are you just choosing to overlook that fact?”

  “She didn’t have me last time,” Ridley offered, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on Ireland’s hips. “Poe himself told me it will take both of us to stop her.”

  “See?” Ireland retreated beneath the shadows of her hood, and gathered the reins in a two-handed grip. “We have a plan.”

  Noah shoved his hands in his pockets, his chest puffing in a display of masculine bravado that was vastly contradicted by the fear and hurt playing across his features. “And what about us dreary mortals? Where do we fit into this ‘plan’?”

  Wetting her lips, Ireland forced her catching breath into the semblance of a neutral pattern. Her vision in the hospital had been true. She was death. And if Noah stayed, her curse would claim him, just as it had Rip. Her own feelings paled in comparison to that.

  Digging deep, she imitated the Hessian’s low-demonic rattle with a striking similarity. “Go back to Sleepy Hollow, Van Tassel. There’s no place for you here.”

  A light tap to his sides and Regen lurched forward, nimbly darting around Noah to launch them up the steep exit stairs and out into the fading day sun.

  28

  Ridley

  There was no denying it. The Hessian was crying. Ridley cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly on Regen’s haunches as yet another tear dripped down onto his hand strung loose around her middle. Her openly weeping may have made her somewhat less intimidating if it wasn’t for the blood-stained axe handle banging a painful reminder of its threat against his knee.

  The sky was an expansive canvas of vibrant oranges and deep purples. Long shadows stretched across the ground as the sun bowed its head to brother moon. Adjusting his grip around the flowing folds of Ireland’s cloak, Ridley gave a nod of greeting to an old man seated on his rickety porch swing.

  “Damn horse better not poop in my yard!” the old man scowled in place of a greeting. Turning away with a huff, he returned to his task of acting as a broom-wielding sentry to protect his trashcans from hooligans.

  In its heyday the community they galloped through must have been a sight to see with its rows of steep rooflines, gingerbread trim, and wraparound porches. Yet time had ravaged its beauty like a crumpled old crone. Still, its charm could easily be restored with a bit of elbow grease and a loving touch. Such revitalization had begun with the country club that swelled from the scenery before them. Framed in expansions jutted from each side of the once regal estate. The plywood walls were covered with white plastic Tyvek. Blue tarps protected the roof from the elements, their edges flapping in the light breeze. Broken stain glass windows had been boarded over, awaiting the special shards that would restore their elegance.

  Wiping her nose on the back of her hand, Ireland tipped her head in Ridley’s direction. “Where are we headed?”

  As inconspicuously as possible, Ridley let his gaze twitched to the side. Rip’s spirit easily kept pace with the galloping horse. His legs moving out of habit while he hovered about a foot off the ground. “Lenore is around the back, by the pond.” Transparent grey eyes flicked from Ridley to Ireland and back again, concern furrowing his brow. “Perhaps you should avoid telling her I’m here. She doesn’t seem to be coping well.”

  Ridley considered the hunched frame in front of him, moving in rhythm with each of the horse’s wide strides. Part of him believed that learning she could still communicate with her dearly departed friend could provide her with an iota of relief in this tumultuous time. Or, it could push her over the edge straight into a mindless killing spree. Those were not odds he wanted to wager.

  “Any day now,” Ireland snapped, venom dripping from her tone. “I need a direction.”

  “To the left,” Ridley mumbled, shoving her sheathed sword off his thigh. “She’s around back.”

  If she cued the horse, Ridley didn’t see it. The menacing beast seemed to respond to her very thought. Twigs snapped beneath his hooves as the stallion sprinted them across the overgrown landscape at a speed that had Ridley clamoring for a tighter hold around Ireland’s middle. Rounding the side of the building, his exuberant gait slowed to a high-footed trot.

  There she stood, the once enchanting Lenore. From their distance she appeared an ordinary girl admiring the view. Flaxen locks danced around her shoulders, the ragged lace trim of her nightgown swaying around her shins. She stared out at the small, reed infested pond. The fading sunlight warmed the water to a shimmering golden hue. Along the far edge, two playful swans alternated between ducking their heads under the water and snapping their beaks happily in the air.

  Ridley’s head cocked at the poetic nature of the scene. “She looks … serene.”

  Flipping a leg over Regen’s head, Ireland slid to the ground with a soft thump. “She turned The Bronx into a war zone. Killed one person we know of, most likely the body count was higher. She doesn’t get a free pass.”

  Ridley followed her lead, stumbling into the knee-high grass with noticeably less grace. “Never suggested otherwise. I make it a point not to argue with unstable women armed to the teeth.”

  If Ireland heard his suicidally stupid comment, she—thankfully—ignored it. “You go no farther. The rest is up to me.” The yearning for violence and mayhem emanated from her pores, vibrating the air around them. Her fingers drummed against the hilt of her sword, her chest rising and falling in eager pants. “Matter of fact, you might wanna run.”

  She punctuated her warning by drawing both weapons. Her sword hissed from its sheath, the axe handle flipping from its loop into the cradle of her waiting palm. Lowering her chin, Ireland disappeared into the obscurity offered by her hood. Appearing every bit the monster she struggled against, she turned on the heavy-tread heel of her boot and strode headlong toward vengeance—or death.

  “You cannot let her go!” Rip lurched after her, turning back to Ridley only when he realized he was powerless to stop her himself. �
��Lenore nearly killed her last time! Do you wish to see her finish the job?”

  “Your friend is quite right.” Poe’s essence glided out from behind a skeletal looking tree, its bare branches clawing toward the heavens. The manic persona history knew him for had been replaced by calm self-awareness. “By herself she lacks the capability to stop Lenore. Halt her now, or watch her die. The choice is yours.”

  “There is no choice! Go!” Rip hollered, stabbing a finger after her.

  Ridley’s lips disappeared in a tight, white line. “I am so going to end up getting stabbed tonight,” he grumbled under his breath and took off after her.

  Filling his lungs, he said a silent prayer not to lose any extremities and hooked his hand around Ireland’s upper arm, spinning her toward him. Mid-rotation she crossed her arms, shaving his neck with the edge of her sword on one side, while her axe pressed dangerously close to his jugular on the other. One scissor-like motion and his head would roll.

  Ireland stared hard at the hand holding her, her murderous glare slowly traveling to Ridley’s face. “Does that seem wise?”

  “About as sound a decision as French kissing a crocodile.” Ridley’s Adam’s apple bobbed beneath the crossed weapons. “But I need you to listen.”

  “Well done! You got her to stop!” Rip chirped, popping into sight over Ireland’s shoulder. “At least momentarily, and with her stubborn streak even that is quite commendable.”

  “I can’t risk losing her again, Ridley,” tight blue lips murmured from beneath Ireland’s hood. “What do you want?”

  “I … uh …” His wide, panicked eyes flicked to Rip, who offered only a bewildered shrug.

  “Tell her she is death,” Poe firmly stated, appearing beside Ridley in a chilling rush. “You are life. Together the two of you are unstoppable.”

  Opening his mouth, Ridley gave Ireland an apologetic smirk before muttering out of the corner of his mouth, “You think now is the best time for me to bring that first part up?”

  “Ridley?” Ireland tensed up the pressure of her duo blades. Her chin rose to catch his attention. “Perhaps you and your ghostie friends could pick a less dire moment for this conference call?”

  “Now, lad! Say it!” Poe bellowed, his gruff, unearthly tone causing a flock of black birds to flap into flight from their roost in a nearby tree.

  “You are death. I am life. Together we are unstoppable,” Ridley rambled without pausing to take a breath.

  Finally, Ireland’s readied arsenal wavered, her razor-sharp blades inching from his flesh. “Where did you hear that? Lenore said something similar right before she gutted me.”

  Ridley’s cheeks puffed to expel a relieved sigh. “Poe. He’s here and he wants to help. Since he knows more about Lenore than any of us, I think we should give him the floor for a minute.”

  “That’s who you were talking to?” For a fraction of a second Ireland’s chin betrayed her by quivering, clouds of sorrow threatening to snuff out the blaze within her stare. “Poe?”

  Rip’s hand raised behind her. His fingertips traced her shoulder, meaning to offer comfort. Instead his vaporous digits passed right through her. Curling his faulty hand into a tight fist, his bearded chin fell dejected to his chest.

  “Yeah,” Ridley nodded, the half-truth easily tumbling from his lips in the face of her bleeding emotional anguish. “It was.”

  Ireland retracted her weapons, metal raking over metal in a whispered shush. “And what suggestions does Mr. Poe have for convincing his beloved to embrace her afterlife with significantly less exuberance?”

  Ridley’s head turned in Poe’s direction, his eyebrows raised expectantly. He listened intently, giving brief nods of understanding as the man spoke. The disturbing nature of his directions tensed Ridley’s jaw, sharpening his features.

  With his hands steepled under his chin, Ridley focused back to Ireland. “My touch grants life, just as Poe’s did when he brought Lenore back from the dead. There’s only one thing that can alter my affliction…”

  Ridley’s statement trailed off enough for Ireland to pick up what he was laying down and finish for him, “My touch. Because … I am death.”

  “You touch me, I touch her, and we hold firm until she gives up this life she was never supposed to have.” Raven hair, gleaming purple in twilight’s descent, fell into his eyes as Ridley dropped his head to rub his palm over his forehead. “Sounds simple enough.”

  “Except for the fact that she’s not going to let us get anywhere near her.” Ireland glanced over her shoulder, to find Lenore wandering further down the bank of the pond. “Our last attempt at girl time didn’t end well.”

  Poe’s gaze fixed on Lenore, his features softening as he breathed her in. “She will not permit anyone other than myself near her. However, if you allow me enter your vessel, I can implement a glamor of sorts. She will see you as me.”

  Ridley raked a hand through his hair, leaving it a disheveled mess. “Didn’t you tell me you’re the guy that put her in the box? Seems to me she wouldn’t be too thrilled to see you.”

  “My hope is that she will not recall that part,” Poe mused, nervously running his forefinger over his mustache. “After all she was asleep for it.”

  “Hope?” Ridley’s hands curled in the air like he wanted to grab the long dead literary genius and shake some sense into him. “Seeing as I’m the guy that has to go slap a hand on your ex, I’d like a little more than that to go on!”

  Twigs snapped under Ireland’s boot as she injected herself into the conversation with a bold step forward. “Time is of the essence here. What is he saying?”

  Wetting his lips, Ridley did his best to keep his tone neutral—and minus any sexual undertones. “He … wants to enter me.”

  An almost smile tugged at one corner of her cobalt lips. “Well, you make him buy you dinner first.”

  “I had tickets to see Kinky Boots on Broadway this weekend,” Ridley muttered to himself as he spun to face Poe, “and plans afterwards to meet up with one of the female leads. Yet, here I am, asking the ghost of a mad man how we do this. Do I have to chant? Open my aura? Sacrifice a small woodland animal?”

  Poe didn’t wait for him to finish his rant. He drifted forward, disappearing within his host. Ridley’s hair wafted from his face. A cold chill settled into the very marrow of his bones, bringing with it the full body shivers of an impending bout with the flu. Fresh awareness cloaked his mind with a time he had never known, experiences he never lived. He still stood in the yard of the rundown property, of that he was sure. Ireland was still practically panting her agitation beside him—as if that would somehow speed this process along. Only now, another world was transposed over the top of this one, like a double exposed photograph. Silhouetting the dilapidated home was the ghostly image of the regal manor it had once been. Stained-glass windows, casting shimmering shades of every color imaginable, gleamed against fresh white paint. The landscaping was clipped and sheered with painstaking detail. On the street behind him, spoked carriage wheels crunched over gravel.

  Surrounded by spectral loveliness, yet it all paled in comparison to … her. Ridley could feel Edgar’s soul reaching for Lenore, the pull she held over him magnetic. His feet shuffled forward as if compelled by a mission all their own, disregarding the overgrown weeds that lashed against his legs and snagged the fabric of what had once been expensive slacks.

  “Ridley!” Ireland caught his sleeve between two pinched fingers and tugged him back. To ensure her message was received, she brushed her hood back from her face. “If this starts to go south, I’m pulling you out and handling this my way.”

  “Read that as ‘with an excess of violence,’” Rip interjected, his ghostly form twirling the end of his beard with one finger.

  “If that happens,” Ireland continued, oblivious to the color commentary, “I want you to run like hell and don’t look back.”

  Ridley’s head tipped, offering her his best attempt at a supportive smile in spite of his o
wn building trepidation. “Nothing bad is going to happen.”

  Loosening her death grip on the hilt of her sword, she raised her fingers to stop him. “Just … if it does.”

  Beside her Rip’s shoulder sagged, his hands plunging deep into the pockets of the last slacks he would ever wear. “She needs this, Ridley,” he muttered, each word coated with melancholy. “Please. If only to comfort her.”

  “Yeah, of course,” Ridley said. “Whatever you need.”

  With a curt nod to coax him on, Ireland retreated back beneath her heavy wool hood.

  Ridley watched his foot placement as he crossed the unkempt yard. Startling the homicidal ghoul would not be conducive to his mission to get through this with all his limbs intact. Skirting around her in a semi-circle, he approached from the far side to draw Lenore’s attentions away from the direction where Ireland cautiously crept in.

  With the moment of truth at hand, Ridley filled his lungs and prayed he could manage more than a high-pitched squeak. “Lenore?”

  Her neck curved his way with an elegant grace the wading swans could envy.

  Through Poe’s spotty vision he saw momentary glimpses of the woman she had once been. One blink; a long, flowing curtain of spun gold hair. Another: filthy, matted locks.

  “Edgar?” Hopeful recognition flickered across Lenore’s lovely—then ghastly—face. Tentatively she took a step toward him, her tensed posture slightly easing to find a recognizable beacon in a universe of strange. “Wh-what is this place? It rings of the familiar,” her angelic face turned to glance around, granting him a glimpse of the hole rotted through the grey flesh of her cheek, “yet is cloaked in chaos.”

  While Ridley found himself at a loss and stammering for a method of manipulation to use on the undead, Edgar’s essence pushed to the forefront to speak directly to his enchanting queen. “That is because this is no longer our world. Take my hand, my flower. Together, we can leave this place.”