by Angel Lawson
I lean against the window sill and rub my face and eyes.
Jesus, what a nightmare.
Across the room on the bed I spot my journal, open with a pen in the crease. Pushing back the blankets, I grab the book and flip through the last pages, ignoring the lingering feeling in my gut.
She looks to the man and says, “What happened?”
“You’ve opened the gates of Hell, sweetheart.” The beautiful man’s face shifts, eyes turning black and skin melting away…
I’d written it—not just dreamed it. I run a hand down my face. It had been so real.
A knock on the door draws me from going back down the rabbit hole. When I open it, Davis stands on the other side. “You have a visitor.”
“Now?” I look down at my pajamas. “Who?”
“Ms. Anita Cross.” His eyes linger on my neck. “Should I ask her to leave?”
I reach for the spot, remembering Sam’s mouth being there the night before. “No, give me five minutes. Ask her to wait, please.”
I pass the journal and snap it shut, as if that will keep the darkness away. In the bathroom I lean into the mirror and look at the dark bruise on my neck. Dammit, I think, reaching for my makeup. He fucking marked me.
*
At the bottom of the stairs Davis stops me and says, “I escorted Ms. Cross to the library.”
“Thank you, Davis.”
“I also have a package for you.” He holds out a small purple box. “Damien asked me to deliver it to you.”
I look at the square box. It’s not heavy and I tuck it into my jacket pocket and thank Davis again.
On the way to the library I hear voices in the kitchen. Damien and Sam from the sound of it. My stomach flips just hearing Sam’s laughter. What he did to me last night. Wow.
Anita walks around the library, eyes skimming over the books. She’s around my age but with light hair instead of dark. She’s tall with curvy hips and a pronounced bust. A flare of possessiveness ignites and I shut the door behind me. I don’t want the boys to see her.
They’re mine.
Anita turns when the door clicks shut and I shake off the desire to toss her from the house. “You must be Anita,” I say with a plastered grin. What the hell has come over me? “Sorry to keep you waiting. I was up late and finally crashed.”
“No worries,” she replies. Her own grin seems genuine. “I was just looking around this amazing library.”
“The Nead Mansion is the gift that keeps on giving. I’m very lucky to have won the scholarship.”
“Professor Christensen showed me your submission. Luck had nothing to do with you winning. You’re an amazing author.”
We’re a study in contrasts—me and Anita. Besides the hair color, she’s wearing a sleek, gray, pencil skirt that accentuates her curves. Her white, form-fitting blouse reveals an ample view of her cleavage. And her hair is perfectly straight in a way I didn’t even know was possible.
I stand across from her in ripped jeans and a hoodie with nothing but a bra underneath. The jacket is zipped to my chin in an attempt to hide the bite marks from my housemate.
“Well, he told me some amazing things about you, too,” I say, which is a bit of a stretch. “I can’t wait to get started and review your work.”
“Oh, that’s why I stopped by today. To drop you a copy of my manuscript. I figured I’d give you a head start on reading it, then at our first ’official’, she uses air quotes, “meeting, we’ll both be on the same page.”
She opens up her satchel and pulls out a thick, bound sheath of paper. A flash drive is affixed to the cover. “Paper and digital. Whichever you prefer.”
I take the heavy materials from her. “Awesome.”
The box from Damien holds my attention—as well as keeping Anita away from the others in the house. I pause at the door, listening for voices, but quickly escort her to the front door, where Davis waits, ready to usher my guest out.
“Next week?” she asks. I nod. We’ve agreed to meet at least once a week. I clutch the manuscript she gave me. That means I’ll have to find time to read this whole thing before I see her again. “You’ll send me your updates?”
“As soon as possible. I promise.”
After she leaves I turn and find Bunny standing one floor up, watching our exchange. The weird flicker of jealousy returns and there’s something in the look we share, like he knows what I’ve been doing with the others. Sam did say there are no secrets in this house.
My hand brushes against the box Davis delivered to me from Damien and I look down. When I search for Bunny again, he’s gone; whatever moment we shared has passed.
“I’ll be outside,” I say to Davis as though he’s keeping track. He probably is for all I know but he replies with a, “Yes, ma’am,” and I walk back through the library and out the back doors. I pass the couch and unlit fire pit from the night before and touch the spot on my neck.
What am I doing? These men and their good looks and unconditional support have me rattled. The commitment to their craft and unmistakable sexual energy is difficult to ignore. I will myself to stop, but it’s like a craving I can’t control. I keep walking toward Damien’s workshop, carrying the box in my hand, feeling a distinct tug between my navel and the man I know is inside.
“Hey,” he says as I cross the threshold of his sweltering studio. It’s not a question. He doesn’t seem remotely surprised to find me in his doorway.
“You left this for me?” I hold up the box and he puts his tools down on the table. He’s not wearing his apron, but a ripped and faded pair of cargo pants and a black shirt with the sleeves torn off.
“Yes, I made it for you. Do you like it?”
“I haven’t looked at it yet.”
He frowns and walks over, taking the box from my hand. It opens with a slight creak and inside is the most beautiful silver and gold ring I’ve ever seen.
“You made this?”
It’s a stupid question. It’s obvious and I’ve seen his work. But to be given something so exquisite…it renders me speechless. Damien fills the silence by removing the ring from the box and taking my hand. He slips the ring on my finger—my ring finger—and it’s a perfect fit—almost as if it molds to my finger. A spark of electricity jolts through my body as the metal warms to my skin and I feel charged.
I feel aroused.
The worry and jealousy with Anita earlier vanish and I look up into his eyes. “Thank you.”
“Never take it off, Morgan.”
“I won’t.”
His hand reaches for my neck and he thumbs the spot where Sam left his mark. I should be embarrassed but I’m not. I feel something different, a deep need. Not the kind I experienced with Sam.
“Sam…” I start but he cuts me off.
“I know all about you and Sam. The house quaked when you orgasmed last night, Morgan. Your power and your energy are barely contained.”
It’s a fucking weird thing to say but I know that he speaks the truth. I felt a tremor when I came on the back porch. I saw the knowing in Bunny’s eyes earlier in the hallway. We’re all linked and I have no doubt I’m the conduit.
I reach my fingers into the waistband of Damien’s pants and tug him close. His eyes search mine and I tilt my head upward. He responds by placing both hands on my face and kissing me hard.
Emboldened, I move my hand to the front of his pants and feel the hard lengthening of his erection beneath the fabric. His kisses turn frantic and his hands leave my face to graze down my shoulders and arms.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, dipping his hands around my backside. I want him. All of him, but I also feel the urge to control. To take. I thumb the button on his pants.
Damien backs into the work table, tools and instruments scattering in the process. I tug his pants down, revealing the enormity of his size. This isn’t my first time doing this. I’m a virgin, not a prude, but the sheer size flusters me until I look up and Damien rubs his thumb over my lip.
I do have this.
With a strong push against his chest, Damien falls back, leaning his elbows against the counter and I take him in my hand, stroking the velvet tip. He groans in approval.
I lick my lips and kiss him before dropping to my knees. His hand moves to my hair and with a tentative lick I feel a different type of power course through my veins.
I am invincible.
I am complete.
These men are mine.
Chapter 15
Morgan
I leave Damien weak-kneed in the studio. I never knew how doing that could be so…empowering. To have a man like Damien, strong and confident, call my name out in worship…I just didn’t know. But now I do. And there’s more, too.
I feel it clearly now. I cross the yard and look up to the attic dormers. Someone, there’s little doubt who, is watching from way above. Keeping guard. It’s time for me to speak to him.
I pass back through the library and then the down the hall. Sue is busy in the kitchen preparing for dinner and rich, delicious scents travel down the hallway. True hunger rumbles in my belly, not the false kind I’ve felt for the last week. I touch my lips, still puffy from being with Damien, and feel satiated for the moment.
I take the long walk upstairs, eventually stopping in front of Dylan’s rooms. I’ve never been invited in before, but something tells me he’s been waiting for me to arrive on my own. This is only confirmed as the door opens when my hand hovers mid-knock and Dylan awaits, dark and brooding on the other side.
His blue eyes hold mine, and I can’t quite read what he’s thinking, but I step into the giant studio without further greeting. I have questions and I know without a doubt he has the answers.
The first is on the tip of my tongue but one look around the room throws me into silent awe. The walls are covered floor to ceiling with books, their binds old and cracked. An ancient map hangs from the ceiling with tiny black pinpoints. There’s a cluster near my university in Georgia and another surrounding our building here in New York.
I spot a red pin at Professor Christensen’s office. Another at my ex-sort-of-boyfriend’s apartment down south, and several others dotted around familiar locations.
A photograph on a massive mahogany desk catches my attention from across the room. I leave the map and my growing questions and approach the work space.
“What is this?” I finally ask, pointing to the picture. It’s a little girl, around three, with a halo of dark curly hair. She stands on chubby legs in a green, grassy yard pointing to the sky. I have a vague recollection of wearing the glossy red sandals strapped to the girl’s feet. “Where did you get it?”
He stands in the doorway, tall and broad. His shoulders block out half the light. Dark, leather cuffs are clasped around his wrists. “Your parent’s house.”
That stops me cold. “What do you know about my parents?”
“Morgan, I know everything about you. I was there the day that photo was taken. I was there the day your parents died. I’ve been with you since the beginning.”
I swallow, because the instant Damien put the ring on my finger memories have trickled in my mind like they’d never left. “You’re one of my ravens.”
It isn’t a question.
“Yes. I am.”
I reel. It wasn’t just a story. They were real. Not just Dylan, but the others as well. “All of you?”
“All of us.” His eyebrows cinch together. “But you know that, don’t you?”
“I don’t know anything,” I say honestly. “But I do feel something.” I hold my hand to my chest. “Something’s happening to me. The dreams. My writing. My encounters with the others.”
He steps forward and I’m dwarfed in his shadow. He touches my chin. “It’s a reawakening. It’s been predicted, and as much as I have been waiting for this day, it means the darkness is also rising.”
My hands tremble from his nearness. The other men in this house? I’ve craved their touch. Dylan? I want to pour myself into him and let him harness the energy of the past, present, and future.
“This is crazy, Dylan. Am I crazy?”
“No, little bird, you’re not crazy. You’re the strongest of us all. The steel that binds us all together. Things were different when you were younger. We could freely communicate with you, albeit in a different form. But then the darkness took notice and things changed. Your family shattered. Your memory was taken. Our forms altered. Much to our dismay, we had to leave you.”
Anger replaces my confusion. “You abandoned me.”
“I’m sorry,” he says. “There was no other way. The darkness was too close. Leaving was the only option.”
Emotion overwhelms me and I gather my wits. “What is the darkness?”
He guides me over to the far side of his massive work table. Spread across the top are photos of me and my childhood home, further proof that what he’s telling me is either the truth or he’s the worst kind of stalker. The photos have a grainy, out of this time quality about them. As difficult as it is to understand how and why Dylan has these photos, it’s the next stack that sends terror up my spine.
The photos are completely modern and could have been snapped at any moment. The images are recognizable, Times Square. The Statue of Liberty. The Brooklyn Bridge. They’re impossibly realistic other than the faded gray tone and the absolute destruction they depict. The streets are abandoned—desolate with gray, stormy skies overhead. Bleached skulls pile next to rusted vehicles. Choking vines twist up concrete buildings. Death hovers just off camera but it’s clear pure evil is behind such annihilation.
I spot the marking in the corner and rub over it with my thumb. “Sam took these?”
He nods. “Sam doesn’t see the world we do. He sees into the future and his camera speaks the truth.”
“This is why he didn’t want me in his studio?” He took photos of me. Quickly, I flip through the ones on the desk until I find the one from my first night at the mansion. The image is stark, my face bold and haunting in the decaying room. Ivy rolls up the walls and a giant hole in the building reveals the night sky. The most disturbing thing? I’m not dead. No. I’m alive and full of life. My eyes shine the darkest black and a twisted smile lingers on my lips.
I drop the picture and rub my eyes. What the fuck is that? I’m happy about the bad things coming? It shouldn’t be a surprise, not after everything else. The apocalypse is coming and I’m fooling around with a different guy every other night. Oh and they’re guys who, once upon a time, were ravens. My ravens.
I wander across the room. Finding a red velvet chair, I sit. “My writing. It’s just memories isn’t it?”
“Yes, with some embellishment.”
“And this scholarship? It’s not real. It’s just a way to keep me close.”
“The scholarship isn’t real but your acceptance into the graduate program is. We had no idea where you were until that submission came through. An associate notified us of your application. We were able to bring you back home.”
Home. This wasn’t my home. Once upon a time I lived in a nice suburban house, in a normal neighborhood with my parents. My eyes flick to Dylan’s. “My parents. The virus that no one could identify. The tests and doctors…what was that?”
He walks over and kneels. With my hand in his he says what I’ve always feared. “The darkness killed your parents, Morgan. Just like it will kill everyone else if given the chance.”
“How?” I ask, recalling the strange illness. But the memory is strong. I’ve written about it more than once. Dreamed a dozen times. I touch the charm hanging below my throat. The one Maverick discards and feels a rush of power. “The gate. I opened it.”
He nods.
“I killed them.” I look at Sam’s photos, dread creeping over every inch of my body. “Why would I k
ill them?”
He links his fingers with mine. “That’s why we’re here, Morgan. To keep the unthinkable from happening again. To help you control your urges—your needs.”
There’s no mistaking what kinds of urges he’s speaking of. My heightened desires and unquenchable thirst for these men since I arrived is undeniable. “And if I don’t control those urges?”
“Then you’re likely to open the gate again.”
“Why, Dylan? That makes no sense? Why would I want to do this to my family? To the world?”
His eyes take on a sheen of sadness when he replies, “Because you’re the Morrigan.”
“The Morrigan?” The name sounds familiar, something I’ve read in the past.
“The queen of the ravens. Harbinger of death and war. It’s in your nature and every reawakening starts the cycle again. It is our duty, the five of us, to stop you.”
Chapter 16
Morgan
Even though I’m still reeling from my talk with Dylan, I go to my quarters and change for our mandatory dinner. Despite the fact I showered and cleaned up, I still have the taste and feel of Damien on my mouth. With every floor I pass, I note the lingering effects of the men in the mansion. There’s the phantom heat of Bunny’s painted mark on my cheek. My stomach twists at the memory of Sam’s teeth on my throat and the pleasure of his hands between my legs. The image of Clinton’s eyes are scorched in my mind just like the heat of his lip as I poured my everything into him.
I carry these sensations with me as I walk past the second level and down to the main foyer. It’s with a new understanding that I enter the dining room and take my seat at the head of the table. The men wait for me with attentive, expectant expressions. I take them in one by one.
Dylan, the only one that hasn’t touched my skin, is still part of my soul. I speak to him first. “I was eight years old the first time you came to me. Nothing more than a shadow in the trees. You followed me to the bus stop and were there each day when I returned. It was you that arrived before the others—a sentinel—making sure I was safe.”
