Lenore reached for his offered hand, her flawless alabaster fingers flickering with decay. Abruptly, she paused. Confusion puckered her brow. “I woke in a box. Unable to scream. Unable to move. Was that your folly, Edgar? Did you imprison me in that tomb?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ridley caught sight of Ireland prowling closer. Her sword swung out in wide practice arcs to one side, then the other, slicing nothing but air—for now.
“No!” Ridley regained control of his senses to scoff at the glowering ghoul. “I would never …”
“T’was I,” Poe took over and finished for him. “I cannot and will not fabricate such a jarring truth to you, my darling. That heinous act was indeed committed at my hand.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ridley yelped at the lethal glare Lenore fixed on him, only to have Edgar’s powerful essence stifle him back into submission.
“I could not live with myself knowing of the affliction I had bestowed upon you. I sought protection for you whilst I hunted for a way to reverse the curse and free you. Now, I have found just that. All you have to do is take my hand and we shall move on—together.” In spite of her flaring nostrils and hate filled glare, Edgar offered Lenore his hand a second time.
Black storm clouds of rage eclipsed the purple moons of her irises. Grey, cracked lips curled from her teeth in a menacing snarl. “You buried me in the ground.”
Her body angled, Ireland neared with stealthy side-steps. The shadows of her cloak could not hide her violent intent as she crossed her weapons in front of her, poised for battle.
“I did,” Edgar answered with the right combination of apologetic calm, even though his host’s pulse was pounding through his veins. “It was an act of desperation, one I committed purely out of love.”
“Love?” A grave rattle reverberated from the depths of Lenore’s darkened soul. Her hands clenching into unforgiving claws at her sides. “That is your definition of love? Trapped down there, praying for death. It whispered and taunted, yet never claimed me. You profess that to be love?”
Bile rose in the back of Ridley’s throat at the brown ooze that seeped from the flaking flesh of her cheek. “It was far more humane than what would have become of you had anyone learned of what transpired here at this very residence,” Edgar continued to answer for him.
“Mercy, was it?” Lenore practically spat. Taking a threatening step closer, she treated Ridley to a frightening glimpse of her pupils dilating. Her eyes transformed into swells of writhing black despair. “Perhaps I should return that same gesture?”
Ireland adjusted her grip on her weapons, steadily moving into striking distance.
“You could,” it was Edgar’s spirit that straightened Ridley’s cowering spine, “strike true and fair in a vengeance that would be just. Even so, I am confident you will not.”
His bold statement was punctuated by Ridley’s involuntary whimper.
Lenore cocked her head to taunt, “Bold words from a visibly trembling man.”
Ridley’s chest swelled with purpose granted to him by Poe’s mission of redemption. “I tremble not of fear, but of joy. To see your face, to hear your voice after years of longing is a bliss the likes of which the throne of Heaven could not compare. I tremble to hold you once again. After years of solitude, left alone with thoughts of what we had, I believe that to be your desire as well. Why else would you have been tirelessly searching for me?”
“Revenge is as good a motivator as any,” she sneered.
Finally positioned directly behind the glowering corpse, Ireland drew back to strike.
This time it was under Ridley’s own control that his hand rose to halt her advance. Edgar quickly claimed the gesture in his attempt to plead to the softer side of Lenore, that may have been left in her dogwood coffin. “I sought you out, my flower. I am not hiding. Here I am. Do what you will, knowing I am now, and will always, be yours.”
Lenore stalked closer, daggers of devilish intent radiating from her glare. Ridley’s breath caught, wavering to claim a rhythm, while Poe tipped his chin skyward to offer Lenore his throat. Nails, grown to razor-sharp talons, drew alongside her face. Her fore and middle fingers wiggled back and forth, as if eagerly twitching for a kill. Ireland matched her step, her silver blade gleaming in the rising moonlight. Still, Ridley silently pleaded with her wait.
The tips of Lenore’s icy fingers brushed his cheek, her clammy palm cradling his face. She moved in body skimming close. The rancid, stale air trapped in her long dead lungs assaulting his senses. Ridley jerked back as she rose up on tip-toe and pressed her putrefied lips to his.
Bony hands, covered with a thin veil of flesh, weaved into his hair, prompting an unintentional dry heave. The slab of rubbery flesh that had once been her pink, wriggly tongue forced its way between his lips, flicking over his teeth and twining with his own unresponsive counterpart. Every fiber of his being wanted to forcibly shove her away and heave the contents of his stomach into the yard. Unfortunately, Poe was goal oriented enough not to allow such a veer from their task. Taking control of Ridley’s appendages, he wrapped one arm around her waist, feeling each vertebrate protruding from her back as he held her body to his. Sweeping the other arm under Lenore’s armpit, he flailed wildly for Ireland’s hand.
Ireland’s prepped weapons fell, her nose crinkling in disgust. “That’s … committing to a cause,” she muttered under her breath.
Ridley’s fingers snapped, his splayed fingers demanding hers.
“Oh, right!” Holstering both her weapons, Ireland took a deep cleansing breath and took his hand.
Lenore’s eyes popped open the second their skin made contact. Her appreciative sigh of pleasure morphing into a choked gasp. Slapping her palms to Ridley’s chest, she pushed and flailed against him. Finding her monstrous strength suddenly zapped, she was helplessly at his mercy. Black veins bulged beneath the surface of her skin, her violet eyes rolling back. Her legs buckling beneath her, Ridley held her tight against him and eased her withering frame toward the ground. The fight left her body, her clawed hands curling to her chest. Gently, Ridley guided her down, oblivious to the extreme sensitivity of her skin until it brushed the thick brush beneath her and popped her like an over-filled water balloon.
Goo—reminiscent of ink mixed with raw chicken skin—sloshed over him. A bit of turpentine flavored foulness seeped between his teeth, sliding down his throat. Ridley gagged, his stomach instantly revolting. Fat drops of sludge dripped from his hair, hunks of unnamable nastiness caught in his lashes. Slowly he righted his posture, trying to decide if he should vomit before or after throwing himself into the pond.
“It’s over now, right?” His skin crawling, Ridley fished for the reassurance that there would never be a repeat performance of any of this. “Edgar’s gone, I assume to escort Lenore wherever she went. So, we did it and I can go home now?”
In place of a response or the slightest acknowledgment of his plight Ireland stuck two fingers into her mouth and whistled. Regen rounded the side of the country club at a wide gait. His neck arched, his muzzle tucked tight to his broad chest as he galloped to collect her. The black mane rippling from his neck with each stride. Adjusting the weapons at her hips, Ireland stalked across the expansive grounds to meet him.
“No, my friend,” Rip somberly stated, staring after her. “I fear it’s just beginning.”
29
Edgar
“You are the first visitor he has received. You shall soon see why.” The young physician pushed his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose and eased the door open into a darkened room. Light seeped in only through one small window well above eye level, particles of dust dancing in the lone beam it cast. “He gets agitated quite easily, and can become volatile. There is an officer stationed outside the door if any issues arise.”
Huddled on the floor beside his bed, Edgar peeked up from under the shield of his arm. “Say it, if it is so! I cannot possible begin to know unless you tell me!” Bloodshot eyes bulged,
frantically flicking from side-to-side. Spikes of matted hair darted from his head in every direction, a spray of disarray. “Simple rule,” he muttered more to himself than his guests, “simple, yet critical.”
“My apologies, Edgar,” the doctor said with a slight bow of his head. “I am accompanied by another party today. I can assure you, he is quite real.”
The newcomer’s eyebrows rose at the odd statement, his facial expression registering closer to mild amusement than surprise of any kind.
The doctor’s questioning gaze shifted from Edgar to his guest and back again, as if mentally placing bets on how each would fare in one another’s company. “I will grant you a few moments alone with him, however I must request that you not upset him in anyway. Last night it took four orderlies and myself to restrain him long enough for me to administer a mild sedative.”
The heavy set guest smoothed one hand over his mustache, seemingly fending off a grin. “From the plethora of dire warnings you have riddled me with, I can assure you that his state of peaceful serenity has become my top priority.”
Bidding him good luck, the doctor showed himself out, the click of the door echoing off the barren walls.
“Edgar, Edgar, Edgar,” the man tsked. Grabbing the back of the chair in the corner, he dragged it across the floor to the trembling man’s side. “Of all the places for someone with your particular affliction to hide, why in God’s name would you choose to join the military? I wager every floor in this hospital alone has the spirit of at least one fallen soldier wandering through it.”
Twitching his discomfort at the unwanted attention, Edgar turned his face to the wall and traced the groves in the brick with the tip of his finger. “Limbs squirming and wriggling long after being hacked off.”
“As I expected.” The man nodded as if he understood that inane line of thought perfectly. “Which brings us back to the question of why you would voluntarily enlist? ‘Tis no more noble a job than that of a soldier—except for by someone like you, Edgar.”
“Someone like me?” His shoulders curled in, Edgar cast a leery glance at the presumptuous guest.
One bushy brown eyebrow rose quizzically. “Oh, I am dreadfully sorry. Am I confusing you with another young man that sees ghosts and can raise the dead with a simple touch?”
Edgar’s mouth fell open in a wide maw, yet could manage no sound.
“Compelling argument. You should consider a career in politics. Now, let us direct this conversation back to why you are here.” The man leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Could it be guilt that drove you head long into your own private hell?”
Edgar’s eyes rolled ‘round their sockets. “Guilt is a human emotion,” he rasped. “I am the reigning King of the Dead, anointed with a crown of feather and bone.”
“You are indeed very kingly, cowering there, reeking of your own urine, your majesty. Tell me, then,” ducking to the side, the man captured Edgar’s wandering stare, “where is your queen? The lovely Lenore?”
One simple word. Two meaningless syllables. String them together and they formed a name so powerful it instantly whipped Edgar’s head around, his gaze sharpening. “What do you know of her?”
“I know the world has not seen the last of her.” The chair creaked beneath him as the man shifted his weight. “One day she will rise from her makeshift grave, an unstoppable plague against mankind. Unless you help me prevent that.”
Edgar shook his head. Slow at first, but quickly building in speed and urgency until he was frantically flinging it from side-to-side. “No! No grave! No telltale heart beating ‘neath the floorboards! She lives, having left me for a man of higher station. I do not fault her that. I wish her nothing except happiness and a warm hearth.”
“Is that so? Hmm.” Leaning back in his chair, the man smoothed out the wrinkles of his coat. “I suppose that is a far more appealing story to convince one’s self of that than to have buried the woman you loved alive.”
Edgar tried, and failed, to blink away the wash of tears that flooded his red-rimmed eyes. “I could never—would never …” A sudden sternness overcoming him, Edgar sprang to his feet. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Who are you? Why have you come here, speaking of such atrocities?”
“My given name is Herbert George, however I doubt that is of any consequence to you. What I am is an extensive traveler, of sorts. I have witnessed a great many things on my journeys, and have gained more knowledge than any one man should possess. With that knowledge comes the resolute conviction that a crazed mayhem will be unleashed if Lenore is ever freed ... unless we handle it properly.” Herbert George paused, tilting his head to consider the visibly dubious Edgar. “Is it such a farfetched concept that I could obtain such awareness considering your own circumstances? Perhaps, instead, we should trade a bit of explanation for a dash of trust?”
“Will you hush! I am handling this!” Edgar snapped to the vacant space beside him. Filling his lungs, he exhaled through flared nostrils. “What did you have in mind?”
The man’s blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Have you ever wondered why Lenore alone was able to block the spirits from haunting you?”
His legs threatening to fail him, Edgar eased himself down on the side of his thin mattress. “Yes, of course,” he croaked.
“I researched her ancestry quite extensively in search of that answer,” Hebert George explained, twiddling his thick thumbs. “It seems Lenore’s great, grandmother was a white witch—a pure and good child of the earth. From what I can tell, she past that trait down to the unsuspecting Lenore, who, in turn, safeguarded you from the dark energy that surrounded you. It is quite fascinating really.”
The rare smile that curled the corners of Edgar’s chapped lips was an awkward fit, yet he allowed it to linger for a moment. He could easily picture Lenore in a white lace gown, living in a small cabin in the woods. She would kneel in her exquisite garden of wild flowers and herbs to collect ingredients in a hand-woven basket to use in healing tonics. Another life. Another world. Another chance.
“She truly was magical,” he murmured to himself, his smiling fading into nothingness.
“She was.” Hebert George dropped his head for a moment, his expression turning somber when he raised it once more. “And now she is shut in a little wooden box, slowly going mad. You had a very good reason for doing what you did, Edgar—”
“The images of her spree still haunt me,” Edgar interjected and attempted to run his fingers through his hair, stopping when they got tangled in the mess.
“As they would any witness to such ferocity. Which is why we must do what we can to ensure she is never allowed to hurt anyone else.”
“How?” Edgar hesitantly asked. “I wish to do her no further harm.”
“Nor will we.” Hebert George’s broad chest swelled, drawing in a deep cleansing breath. “It will not be an easy feat. In fact it will take both of us and a few trusted colleagues of mine to manage it. According to your physician, you can be discharged into capable hands due to your condition. That shall work in our favor. Rumors of her resurrection and the massacre that followed have already begun to spread. That means we need to get in front of the fast moving gossip train and derail it, so to speak. We can hide the truth in plain sight under the guise of freshly penned tales, weaving facts into works of fiction that can be easily dismissed as untruths.”
“How do we accomplish such a deception?” Edgar asked, intrigue leaning him into this mysterious stranger.
Hebert George folded his arms over chest. His warm, friendly smile countered by the impish gleam in his ice blue eyes. “Tell me, Mr. Poe, what talent have you for writing?”
Epilogue
“Great work, except for the part where Ridley played tonsil hockey with the undead.” Noah commented with a slight lift of his chin. Positioning himself directly in Ireland’s path, he hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans.
The mere sight of him caused her heart to lurch. Unfortun
ately, that foolish muscle fluttering away in her chest could no longer be trusted. As ideally perfect as Noah was, with his quippy humor, sculpted jaw line, and hazel eyes that flawlessly reflected the sky’s indigo hue, there was no place for him beside her. At least not one with a long life expectancy, and she’d be damned before she’d ever allow herself to hurt him—or anyone else—again.
He makes you weak, girl, the Horseman purred to his audience of one.Draw your sword and—
No! Her own resolute roar echoed off the torturous cell walls of her mind, drowning out his voice altogether. He will not be harmed!
To her surprise, the beast fell silent.
Squaring her shoulders, Ireland concentrated on keeping her tone ice cold and aloof. “What are you doing here?”
Biting his lower lip, Noah tried to distract from the smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What because I didn’t vanish at your blatantly obvious White Fang technique? You know, the one where you try to get rid of me under the guise of protecting me? I don’t know. It’s a mystery why that didn’t work.”
“Yes!” Sauntering up behind them, Ridley threw his hand in the air, fat drops of black ooze flinging from his arm. “I knew that whole scenario seemed oddly familiar!”
Their cavalier attitudes threw gasoline on the fire of Ireland’s resolve. Her fingers drummed against the handle of her axe, in a tangible reminder of the new identity that claimed her. One she now had to draw strength from. “You both saw what I did to Rip. I tried to cling to normal, surrounding myself with people I cared about, and he paid the price. This is my curse. I will not allow it to become your death.”
“You’re right. We were there,” Noah agreed. His one tentative step forward forced her back three paces. “We saw what happened, and it wasn’t you! In the same situation, it could’ve happened to any of us.”
“Any of you?” Ireland huffed a humorless laugh, her gaze momentarily drifting skyward. “So, you all have homicidal monsters living inside you, too? Fantastic, we’ll set up play dates.”
Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) Page 21
