Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  Noah opened his mouth to argue, only to snap it shut again. Pausing for a deep, calming breath, he laced his fingers behind his head, his biceps straining against the fabric of his cotton t-shirt sleeves. “You know the cloak clouds your judgment. Why don’t you shrug that thing off, and we’ll talk this out.”

  Staring him straight in the eye, Ireland thumbed her clasp free. The fabric rippled into a pool at her feet. Her lips parted, intent on informing him to run for his life, when a bucketful of icy awareness sloshed over her. She hadn’t felt the swell of her skin fleshing back out. Her nerves and senses hadn’t dulled down to normal levels. Her breath caught. Nothing had changed.

  Noah’s hands fell to his sides. His head and Ridley’s volleyed from her, to the cloak, and back again. Their brows puckered in matching looks of confusion.

  “W-why didn’t you change back?” Noah directed the question to the cloak.

  “Maybe it’s because you didn’t get to kill anyone?” Ridley offered. “We could troll by a prison, find you a truly awful specimen you could—“

  “I beg you not to finish that sentence.”

  “Sorry,” Ridley cringed to Noah. “I knew I crossed the line, but couldn’t seem to stop. Oh, look, I’m still talking.” Pressing his lips in a firm white line, he dropped his stare to the ground.

  A hot breath warmed the back of Ireland’s neck, Regen having inched up behind her as if sensing her spiraling mood. Reaching a hand over her shoulder, she sought comfort in the tender brush of his velvet soft muzzle.

  The mysterious allure of night shadowed Noah’s eyes, yet his anxiety was audible in the tremor of his throaty tone. “You’re understandably upset by Rip’s death. We all are. But if you concentrate on calming down, then maybe—”

  “No amount of deep breathing or mediation is going to change facts.” A quick sweeping motion and Ireland collected her cloak, fastening it back into place. Regen dipped his head, permitting her to hook her arm around his powerful neck. Once she had a firm hold, he raised up, drawing her feet from the ground. Angling her body, she kicked a leg over his mane and settled into the supple leather saddle.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask what you think that fact is,” Noah grumbled through grinding teeth.

  Retreating into obscurity beneath the fabric of her hood, Ireland hid the pain stamped across her features. “That there is no separation anymore. I am the monster.”

  Yanking the reins hard to the side, Ireland coaxed Regen into a sharp turn. Breaking into a full canter, the stallion shook the ground with his thunderous strides, chunks of earth flying from his hooves.

  Noah and Ridley stood powerless to do anything except watch The Horseman disappear into the night.

  Whistling a merry little melody, his peach and navy necktie flapping out from beneath his black trench coat, the blue-eyed man locked the museum’s backdoor behind him.

  Ireland watched from her perch up high. Her ebony cloak snapped in the wind behind her, a malevolent entity crackling with its own devilish intent. Regen pawed anxiously against the liquor store roof, patience clearly not a defining characteristic of the resurrected equine. Leaning forward, she scratched his neck, her soft cluck cueing him that it was time. One flip of his mane, lashing enthusiasm against her wrists, and he launched them forward at a speed that stole the breath from her lungs. Ireland kept her stare locked on her target, who spun at the ominous drumming of hoofbeats. Regen whisked them across the roofline, precariously close to the edge, yet neither flinched at the drop-off.

  Ireland listened hard, noticing the effect of their echo resounding in the alley below. The sound seemed to shift at their incoming charge, as if abruptly changing direction. Like the true phantom she’d become, the Hessian was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

  Riding the shadows.

  Claiming the darkness.

  Regen bounded off the roof’s edge without a fleck of hesitation. His taut muscles outstretched as they soared. Powerful legs bent, absorbing the shock of the fall, to deliver his precious cargo to the ground with a pillow soft landing. Tucking her chin to her chest, Ireland threw herself off his back in a tight tuck formation. She landed in a low crouch, one hand gripping the hilt of her sheathed sword. From beneath the shadows of her hood, she peered out for the man’s reaction. If she was going to burn in the eternal hell fires for embodying The Horseman, she might as well enjoy the dramatics of it.

  Not one gasp of dread was earned, or even a surprised jerk, nothing except a somewhat bored expression from the blue-eyed man that folded his hands beneath his doughy mid-section. “You did take your dear, sweet time getting here. Didn’t you, Ireland?”

  With the fluidity of predatory cat, Ireland rose to her feet. Rage bubbled through her, scorching her from the inside out.

  “You know me,” she rumbled in a demonic purr.

  The hilt of her sword hummed with energy as she coaxed it free from the leather that enveloped it. Flipping the blade over her forearm, she caught it in an inverted grasp and lunged. The air left the heavy set man’s lungs in a labored gasp, his back slamming against the red brick wall behind him. Pressing the razor sharp edge of her blade to his trachea, the lone light swinging overhead gleamed off the steel like a lone distress flare.

  The fingers of her free hand curled into the fabric of his coat, pinning him where he stood. “That should save us some time.”

  She expected to see fear widen his eyes, for the color to drain from his ruddy complexion. Once more she was met by nonchalance.

  His head merely cocked, as if she were a fascinating slide he would like to shove under a microscope and study. “In your Horseman form, no less. I wasn’t anticipating that.”

  “What can I say?” she murmured against his ear. “I made friends with the monster in my head.” Twisting the blade beneath his chin, she dimpled the wobbly flesh that hung there. “Now how about if you and I have a nice, long talk about why you’ve been sneaking in and out of my life, and what it is you know?”

  His broad chest shook with a throaty chuckle. “Sneaking? Now that’s rich.” Pressing his palm against the flat of her blade, he shoved it away and took a brazen side-step around her. “My dear girl, I was painfully obvious in my charade. The names alone that I chose should have been a giveaway; Granger, Potter, Mallark. All taken from popular literature of your time. You know, as the actual embodiment of a Washington Irving character, you might want to consider picking up a book on occasion.”

  With a showy bounce of her palm, Ireland readjusted to a standard grasp. “My free time has been sparse lately, thanks to a ghostly possession you seem to know an awful lot about.”

  “Yes, well.” Glancing down at the leather-banded watch on his wrist, he wound it once and then paused to give it a listen. “I would be happy to tell you a bit more about all of that. However, I first must ask that you stow away the sharp and murderous objects.”

  Knowing it would take nothing more than a simple thought to free either weapon, Ireland showed him her blade and stored it away. Regen snorted and stamped his disapproval behind her.

  “For now.” A cavalier indifference dripped from the clipped edge of her words. “But if I find out you had anything to do with what led to my friend’s death, I will kill you.”

  “I can assure you, I had nothing to do with Rip’s demise. Even so, his death acted as a tragic catalyst to a necessary string of events to follow.” Pulling a knit driving cap from his coat pocket, the man situated it into place on his head. “After all, it brought you here, which is right where you need to be.”

  Ireland rolled her neck, attempting to shake off the red haze of mayhem that crept in around the edges of her vision. “What about your friend that came with you to Sleepy Hollow in the rent-a-cop Halloween costumes? Did he play a part in it?”

  Stroking his index finger over his recently shaved lip, the man glanced down the length of the alley. Something that resembled regret flashed across his face. “No,” he assured her. “He would never have hurt
Rip. The bond they forged during their time in the service together was far too deep for that.”

  The taut skin of her forehead twitched into the closest she could get to a frown. Rip had told her the story of his time served. He developed a deep brotherhood with two men. The first, Ichabod Crane. The other …

  “Washington Irving? I-It can’t be,” Ireland rasped in a barely audible whisper.

  His hands fell limp to his sides, genuine disbelief carved into his round face. “You didn’t figure that out by the rant he went off on about literature verses movies? I thought for sure that had given away his true identity. Hence my decision to quickly return him to his own thread.” He flippantly waved the thought away like a bothersome gnat and checked his watch yet again. “On occasion I forget that not everyone has the benefit of the panoramic time line.”

  The deep longing to embed her sword into his frontal lobe twisted up her spine, slithering into the very marrow of her bones. Shaking her clenched fists out at her sides prevented her from doing something she would regret—at least for the moment. “I’m sorry. Am I keeping you from an important date, White Rabbit?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” he stated, turning in an about face straight toward her. “I had hoped you would bring Ridley, but we will just have to find him later. That said, we run short on time. Shall we go?” He didn’t wait for her response, before turning on his heel and marching down the alley.

  “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t toss my axe, pin your pant leg to the ground—a shot I am more than capable of by the way—and get my answers right here and now,” Ireland demanded, making the threat more real by pinching the top edge of the axe and pivoting it one way then the other.

  Filling his lungs, the blue-eyed man expelled an aggravated sigh and glanced back over his shoulder. “You want answers and I plan to take you to them. That would be why.”

  Ireland’s tongue dragged over her top teeth, the stranger’s enigmatic ways causing her pulse to throb in her temples. “You haven’t told me who you are, or how you could possibly know so much about any of this. That doesn’t breed a great deal of trust.”

  The man stopped short, his thick torso swiveling in her direction. “Heavens, I forgot to introduce myself? I definitely can’t fault your hesitancy there. Well, young lady, my given name is Herbert George.” Plucking a burnished bronze pocket watch from the breast pocket of his shirt, he compared the time to that of his wrist watch. Seemingly pleased with what he found, he spun the chain around his hand and offered her a warm smile. “However, history has come to know me as HG Wells.”

  About the Author

  RONE Award Winner for Best YA Paranormal Work of 2012 for Embrace, a Gryphon Series Novel

  Young Adult and Teen Reader voted Author of the Year 2012

  Turning Pages Magazine Winner for Best YA book of 2013 & Best Teen Book of 2013

  Stacey Rourke is the author of the young adult Gryphon Series as well as the thrilling Legends Saga. She lives in Michigan with her husband, two beautiful daughters, and two giant, dogs. She loves to travel, has an unhealthy shoe addiction and considers herself blessed to make a career out of talking to the imaginary people that live in her head. She is currently hard at work on the conclusion of the Legends Saga, as well as other literary projects.

  Visit her at www.staceyrourke.com

  diaryofasemi-crazyauthor.blogspot.com

  Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/pages/Stacey-Rourke/

  Twitter @Rourkewrites

  Instagram rourkewrites

  Special Feature!

  An Excerpt from

  Cursed: The Thorne Trilogy Book 1

  by R.K. Ryals.

  Book 3 in the Thorne Trilogy, Dancing with the Devil, Coming Soon!

  Somehow Luther's hand had made its way to my chin, and he gripped it firmly. His lips lowered. I wanted to look away and couldn't.

  "Don't make me do this," I begged.

  Luther grinned even as my lips parted. "Witch, I'm not in your head right now. What you want now, in this moment, is all you. There's a lot of things I'll take by force. Not that."

  His lips crashed down onto mine, and I didn't fight him. I didn't fight him because he was right. I wanted this.

  His free hand went to my waist, playing with the skin just under the hem of my t-shirt, and I plunged my fingers into his hair. I had planned on pulling him away, but I gripped his head instead, allowing him to deepen the kiss even as my other hand found its way to his back, fisting the fabric of his t-shirt, the move as desperate as the kiss. The muscles under his shirt were tight, restrained, and I knew then he was holding back.

  The kiss, the moment, was so wrong, and yet that's precisely what made it so right. For this moment, I wasn't broken, I wasn't cursed, I wasn't a witch. I was Monroe, the vintage loving control freak kissing a man I was reasonably attracted to. Only he wasn't a man, and I wasn't just a girl.

  Luther pulled me into him, and my hands moved to his face, my palms keeping his mouth trapped against mine. He growled, the sound primal as his hands gripped my hips painfully, one palm making its way slowly, oh so slowly, up to my ribs. I leaned into the touch.

  A sound made me freeze.

  Luther pulled away, his eyes trapping mine to his face even as I caught a glimpse of Belle at the edge of the clearing. My cheeks flamed.

  "Sometimes," Luther whispered as Belle's figure disappeared, "being bad is better."

  And with that, he released me. I almost stumbled to the ground, but caught myself, my eyes on anything but Luther.

  "Tell me something really stupid or mundane about you," I said breathlessly. It seemed such a silly thing to say, and yet I needed something from him, something that made him more human than what he claimed to be.

  I knelt on the lake's bank, one hand on the ground, an arm across my middle. My heart raced.

  Luther knelt next to me. "I collect baseball caps."

  I choked on the laugh that escaped. My eyes came back up to his. "Baseball caps?"

  He shrugged. "I don't wear them. I just collect them. I like them."

  I laughed, and this time I couldn't stop. It bubbled up and just kept coming.

  Luther stood, his hand out. "It was just a kiss, Monroe. I didn't steal your soul."

  I looked at his offered palm, my laughter turning to coughs.

  I pushed myself up without taking his hand. "To be on the safe side, let's not do that again," I said.

  Luther's lips twitched as I moved past him, my steps carrying me back toward the cabin.

  "Oh, Witch," Luther chuckled. "I don't ever make promises like that."