The polished wood bar was clean, at least, and the patrons, though loud, did not seem overly rowdy. In fact, he suspected that much of the volume resulted from an attempt to be heard over the music.
“What’s your poison?”
Raven turned to face Craig, who tossed a coaster in front of him in anticipation of a drink order.
“You don’t look like much of a beer drinker,” Craig said. “And our wine selection is a choice of house red or house white. I doubt either would meet your standards.”
Raven was certain that they hadn’t discussed wine at any point in their short acquaintance.
His confusion must have showed on his face, because Craig chuckled. “When you’ve tended bar as long as I have, you learn to read your customers. I do have an imported absinthe you might find to your taste.”
Raven had imbibed far more absinthe than was good for him during his time serving William. He’d only indulged in the stuff a time or two since then. He hadn’t intentionally avoided the wormwood liqueur, but perhaps his subconscious had associated it with memories best forgotten.
“Absinthe would be fine. I’m surprised you carry it.” He suddenly found he missed the strong licorice flavor, the bitter of wormwood balanced by the sweetness of the dissolved sugar. He’d buried William almost two years ago now; time to lay the memories to rest as well.
“There used to be a small goth crowd in town, and they drank it. Most of them found their ticket out of town, one way or the other. Moved to Portland or Seattle.”
Raven looked around the bar. Most tables were occupied by men and women in faded and worn jeans—the fade and the wear honestly come by, not like the ridiculously expensive and artistically torn denim that went in and out of fashion every few years. Baseball caps and t-shirts advertised feed stores and rodeos, and the occasional cowboy hat looked like it actually may have seen a cow.
“You get goths in here?”
Craig grinned. “When you’re the only game in town, you’d be surprised who turns up.”
The man prepared the absinthe in the traditional way, measuring the deep green liqueur into a tall glass, balancing a slotted spoon across the mouth of the glass and placing sugar cubes over the slots. He dribbled water slowly over the sugar, allowing it to carry the dissolved crystals into the glass until the resulting mixture was an unearthly shade of pale, clouded green. The challenge in his smile as he placed the glass on the coaster in front of Raven seemed to say See? Not so much a hick as you thought.
Raven reached for his wallet, but Craig waved for him to put it away. “On the house. Worth it to someday tell the grandkids that I served absinthe to the famous Corwyn Ravenscroft.”
“Famous? Or infamous?”
“Oh, I’d say the best legends are a bit of both.” A Trickster gleam lit his eyes, and Raven realized then that law enforcement was lucky Craig was on its side.
“A legend? Gods, I hope not,” Raven said sincerely.
Craig clucked his tongue. “Bit late for that, I’d say.”
“Sister’s kids keeping out of trouble?” Raven asked to change the topic. See, Cassandra, I can do small talk. When I want to.
Craig sighed. “At least since this morning. So far as I know.”
Raven chuckled. “Ever thought of settling down yourself.”
Craig’s smiled was wistful. “Someday, maybe. Haven’t had much luck with women. Or men, for that matter.”
Before Raven could respond, Craig cut him off. “I’m guessing the person you came to meet just walked in the door.”
The newcomer did bear a resemblance to the description Rafe had given of his new friend. His curly mop of hair was so blond that it shone nearly white in the strong light near the entrance of the bar. He wore a faded concert t-shirt, at least three strands of stone beads, and a hemp necklace with a peace sign. He saw Raven at the bar and strode up to him, holding out a hand to shake.
“Corwyn Ravenscroft?”
“I go by Raven.”
“Scott. Thanks for coming.”
Scott had a strong handshake; Raven could easily imagine him climbing rock walls with ease. He didn’t however, use that strength to try to crush Raven’s hand in a macho dominance game, so that earned him a point, at least.
“Let’s get a booth where we can talk privately.” Scott shot a significant glance toward the sheriff.
Why come into the man’s establishment if you are so worried about him eavesdropping? Perhaps he was trying to make some sort of obscure point. Perhaps he meant to annoy the sheriff with his presence—though, if so, he was a bit wide of the mark, to go by the sheriff’s bland, unruffled gaze. Perhaps, as Craig himself had said, it was simply that Devil’s Pitchfork was the only game in town.
Raven carried his glass of absinthe, following Scott to a corner table. A waitress in dark jeans, a fitted white t-shirt, and a nametag that read Cyndy promptly arrived. Scott ordered some brand of beer Raven had never heard of, presumably some sort of microbrew. Scott made small talk about the problems he was having fixing the old beater of a truck they had on the program’s farm. Raven knew nothing about automobiles and cared less, but the younger man was an engaging storyteller and managed to entertain him until the waitress came back with a chilled glass and a bottle with mountains and trees on the label.
“So you talked to Morgan?” Scott said.
“I did.”
“And?” Scott prompted. “Surely you can see that he’s no killer.”
“I don’t think I can make a judgement on his character on such short acquaintance. But one thing that I do think—he might be talented for his age. He certainly has a lot of potential. But I cannot believe that he’s powerful enough to be behind what I felt up on that butte.” Even now, with the babble of the people all around and the most prosaic of music blaring from the jukebox, the memory of that darkness made him shiver. “I can’t imagine how the sheriff could think he is.”
He had to talk to Craig about the cave, but the bar was not the place.
“He’s a cop. He doesn’t care so long as he can call the case closed.”
Raven had his share of problems with law enforcement, sometimes even when he was working with law enforcement. But Craig didn’t seem like the type; he actually cared about justice.
Even if he didn’t, he had better start caring about whatever was going on up in that cave. Because anyone that dark and that powerful was dangerous, and Raven didn’t think the problems would stop with the death, however gruesome, of one greedy land developer.
“If there’s not the evidence to convict, surely they will have to let him go,” he said aloud.
Scott fiddled with his beer glass, already almost half-empty “Unless they simply manufacture whatever they can’t find.”
“And I thought I was cynical about law enforcement.” Raven shook his head. “Sheriff Schmidt may be a bit short-sighted, but I don’t think he’s actually corrupt.”
Scott’s mouth twitched like he wanted to argue but didn’t want to piss off the consultant who was currently working on his pet cause. “Time will tell. Time that a young man who’s trying to turn his life around will spend behind bars, getting even more cynical about his chances of success in life.”
Raven’s brow furrowed. “Haven’t they set bail?”
Scott snorted. “Far higher than Morgan’s parents could pay, even with a bail bondsman. The farm is already mortgaged to the hilt to pay the legal fees from the last time. The prosecutor argued against setting bail at all due to the serious nature of the crime. The judge said that he had to take into account Morgan’s exemplary conduct, outside of the juvenile conviction, which no longer bore legal relevance now that Morgan was an adult. I understand that the same prosecutor had wanted to try Morgan as an adult for the first manslaughter charge, and was not too shy to share his feelings on the judge’s refusal to do so. I think that the grudge match between them is the only reason the judge set bail at all.”
Well. One of the few advantages of being
a Ravenscroft; if it was the sort of problem that could be resolved merely by throwing money at it, it soon ceased to be a problem.
“I’ll speak to my attorney in the morning and he’ll have bail arranged by the afternoon. Meanwhile, our best hope is to find out what did happen in that cave. It seems like the evidence seems mostly circumstantial. It might help if we had another solid suspect. I have a friend from GII looking into the financials. You’re active in the Stop the Resort movement. Is there anyone you know of who has a particularly short fuse, or a history of dark magic?”
Scott’s eyes narrowed. “The idea here isn’t to save Morgan by ratting out someone else.”
“I thought the idea was to get to the bottom of what really happened, thereby clearing Morgan’s name.” If in fact he is innocent, Raven didn’t add, knowing that it would only set Scott off and make the conversation even less productive.
He himself had very few doubts left as to the young man’s innocence. Not because he had that much faith in his ability to judge character, but because he had faith in his ability to judge power. Whatever the hell had happened in that cave, he doubted very much that Morgan was strong enough to be behind it.
“Law enforcement’s just looking for any excuse to come down on activists.”
Raven raised an eyebrow. “You are aware that Rafe is with GII, yes?”
Scott shrugged. “He was also with Cam. I figure he had to be one of the few open-minded guys on the force.”
Raven took a sip of his absinthe. Yes, Rafe had come a long way from the days when he believed that there was no such thing as a reformed dark mage. Raven and Cassandra had had something to do with that. Cam had done more. Yet Rafe still gave the cold shoulder to Tony Borzoff, refusing to accept that Tony was trying to turn his life around after his long-ago conviction.
He finished off the absinthe and tried to decide if he wanted another. Rafe could do so much better. He fought the urge to drop a few well-chosen facts about Rafe that would cause Scott to break off all contact. Rafe was a grown man who could make his own decisions.
Cyndy stopped by to ask if they needed anything else.
Raven looked over to Scott. “Did you want to eat while we’re here?” Raven, for his part, figured he might as well—the only other option in town, so far as he saw, was the corner convenience store/bait shop/deli, which Raven considered dubious at best.
Scott hesitated.
“My treat, of course.” Raven said.
Scott brightened. “Yes, then, thank you.”
“Two dinner menus, then,” Raven told Cyndy. “And another absinthe. Another ale?”
Scott nodded eagerly.
“And another ale.”
The waitress returned quickly with the menus and the drinks. “I’ll be back in a moment to take your orders.”
Raven made his own choice, then used the opportunity to watch Scott. The blonde man didn’t spare more than a glance at the front of the menu where the burgers and sandwiches were listed, but went directly to the full dinners at the back.
Cyndy returned as promised, and Scott ordered the Surf’n’Turf and added a side of mozzarella sticks. The Surf’n’Turf, Raven noted, was the most expensive item on the menu.
The money didn’t matter to him personally, but Raven still made note of how easily the man let him pick up the tab on such short acquaintance. Rafe, like Raven, had been raised with an old-world sense of what it meant to be a gentleman, even if Rafe’s sensibilities were less elegant. It would be too easy for Rafe, heart still mending, to be taken advantage of by an unprincipled suitor.
Chapter Eight
“Your friend was right,” Alexander Chen’s voice said through the message crystal the next morning. “Bail’s been set high, but it’s been set, which is a miracle given what this kid’s been accused of. There’s enough money in the Cam’s Kids fund, no problem there.”
The Cam’s Kid’s fund was something he’d set up after about the fourth or fifth time Rafe’s late boyfriend had come to him asking him to bail one of his projects out of jail, or pay for emergency housing when it wasn’t safe for one of Cam’s clients to go back to the home they were living in, or to throw money at a hospital that balked at providing necessary medical care for an uninsured minor. After he’d done the latter a few times too many, Raven made it a practice to make a donation to the campaign of a random politician in favor of national health care every time Cam or someone from the foundation woke him up in the middle of the night to guarantee that a bill would be paid.
“I just want to make sure you’re certain that this is what you want to do,” the lawyer continued.
In truth, Raven was far from certain. He had not forgotten the sheriff’s hypothetical, nor his failure with Adam. And yet. . .innocent until proven guilty. He believed in the precept, the more so because it had seldom been applied to him in his youth. Morgan was right; coming from a family without money was often treated like as big a crime as coming from a family of dark mages. It wasn’t fair, in either instance. The world wasn’t fair, but where he could Raven would change that.
This wasn’t like before, like Adam. He wasn’t taking the young man on himself, he was sending him back to his parents who knew him and could deal with him. The court had an approved method of releasing someone until his guilt or innocence could be appropriately judged. Raven was just correcting for economic injustice.
“Do it,” he told the lawyer.
He wished he felt as certain as he sounded. The younger Raven had been so much more self-assured. Of course, the younger Raven had sworn himself to William. No matter what his test scores said, the younger Raven had been a bit of an idiot.
Jasmine had dropped by with breakfast in a basket, and the scent of baked goods wafted from beneath the blue gingham towel that covered it. The kitchen contained a respectable selection of teas, including both plain Earl Grey and an Earl Grey with lavender. Raven decided to sample the latter. The fragrance of black tea, bergamot and lavender provided the perfect counterpoint to the smells of warm apple and cinnamon rising from the basket. Raven allowed himself to push away his doubts about Morgan and his concern over the dark magic he felt on the butte, focusing instead on the simple and splendid repast.
Thus fortified, he teleported to the sidewalk in front of the closed tavern and crossed the street to the library housed in a white Victorian structure that reminded Raven just a bit of a wedding cake. He strode up the steps, stopping on the porch to read the engraved metal plaque on the door.
Chadwick Memorial Library
Our town’s library resides in what was once the home of Doctor Michael Chadwick, Devil’s Crossing’s very first medical doctor. The wealthiest man in town, most of his money came from timber and mining interests inherited from his father, not from his medical practice. They say he never turned away a patient and never charged more than someone could afford to pay. Legend has it that, as well as money, he accepted as payment: a Smith and Wesson revolver; a turkey fresh-plucked and dressed; a jug of homemade hard cider, and a bull terrier pup he named Terror.
Doctor Chadwick and his wife Julia were never blessed with children. Doctor Chadwick predeceased his wife by less than a year. Julia’s will bequeathed their entire estate to the town of Devil’s Crossing. She stipulated that, in memory of her husband who loved learning and loved his neighbors, part of the funds be put in trust to build and support a library.
Raven put his hand to the doorframe. Warmth spread in his chest, warmth toward the doctor and, by extension, the town.
The library smelled of books and old-fashioned linseed floor polish, and Raven felt at home in a way he hadn’t since coming to this infernal town. It was blissfully, blessedly quiet—none of this library-as-community-center nonsense where library staff said nothing to parents who let their children run screaming through the aisles. Not that he had a problem with community centers. He’d even contributed generously to campaigns to build them in disadvantaged neighborhoods. (At Cam’s behest, but sti
ll.) He didn’t even have a problem with children in libraries per se. The neighborhood library had been his favorite refuge from the time he was old enough to walk there on his own, at a considerably earlier age than most children today. But to him the library had been a special place, a sacred sanctuary of quiet and books, a haven from loud, bullying peers. The world was filled with places for people to be loud and boisterous. He felt sorry for introvert children today, growing up without a quiet place to just be, as well as adults stuck in thin-walled apartments or shared living situations who had no place they could go to hear themselves think.
The library carried back-issues of the Crossing Guard, the local paper. Raven scoured these for any information on the cave in the Devil’s Boneyard and the controversy over the golf course. Raven discovered that, despite the newly-found petroglyphs’ age, the sealed cave environment had preserved the pigments so well the archeologists who studied them believed that the colors looked much the same as they would have the day they were applied. It seemed inconceivable that they could be endangered for something as tawdry and unnecessary as a golf resort. Had people no respect for antiquity? Had they no soul?
Being trained in Art rather than in the Craft tradition, Raven knew only a little about petroglyphs in general. The local tribes believed that the ones in the cave had been created by a people so ancient that they had little or no direct connection to the tribes that dwelt there when the white men first came. Some papers made reference to the Old Ones or the First Ones, but Raven couldn’t be sure if these were terms that came from the tribes, or if it was a bunch of romantic clap-trap with origins only as old as the imaginations of the white reporters.
Raven found an article about the Devil’s Boneyard petroglyphs in one of those glossy news magazines and studied the pictures. The photographer had won a lottery to be allowed to go into the cave and do flash photography—it was feared that too many flashes could destroy the pigments. His eyes kept going back to the warrior figure near the cave entrance, and to the huge raven at the cave’s end. The warrior protects the raven and the raven protects the world.
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