Raven's Shade (Ravensblood Book 5)

by Shawna Reppert

  “I’ll come along, if that’s acceptable,” Raven offered. “If nothing else, I may recognize the signature. And I would like to see if there’s anything strange about the magic used.”

  They were able to use the sexton as a teleport anchor, and arrived on the well-kept lawn of the historic building. The sexton was a friendly-looking man, broadly built and ebony-skinned, showing just the beginning of softness of middle age and sedentary living. The day had turned blustery, but the tight braiding kept his collar-length cornrows neatly controlled despite the strong wind.

  “Hi, I’m Simon Reeves. Thank you for coming.” He shook Cassandra’s and Rafe’s hands in turn. His eyes grew a little wider when he recognized Raven standing just behind them, but he recovered quickly. “And Mr. Ravenscroft, what an honor. I didn’t expect you.”

  “I’m Cassandra Greensdowne, and this is Rafe Ramirez, my partner,” Cassandra said.

  “Ms. Greensdowne, yes of course. I should’ve recognized you from your photos.” Simon paused then, wincing slightly as though he wasn’t quite sure if he was supposed to acknowledge that he had seen all the newspaper articles on Cassandra and her famous, sometime infamous, husband.

  “The report you made with the local Guardians stated that you were woken at about four in the morning by the wards pinging an alert.”

  “Yes, we’re rather old-school here. The wards were keyed to me by my predecessor when I took the position. They’re looped into a crystal messaging service as well, as a backup. We’re, well, Wilhelm’s is a special place. Working here, it’s not just a job. It’s a commitment, a sacred trust. People put their loved ones in our care. Not to mention the responsibility that comes with preserving an historic site like this. And, of course, there’s the danger represented if any of the more illustrious remains fell into the wrong hands.”

  “You contacted local Guardians right away?” Cassandra asked.

  “Yes, and then I came right down to the mausoleum, but whoever was trying to break in was gone. The Guardians arrived soon after.”

  “Weren’t you afraid?” Raven asked. “Coming here before the Guardians arrived. It could have been dangerous. What if the mage trying to break in was still here?”

  “Then I would defend the mausoleum as best I could until the Guardians arrived.” The man lifted his chin. “I may not look like much, but I can hold my own.”

  Raven sent out a tendril of his own magic, just enough to test the strength of the man’s shields. Simon met Raven’s gaze with a challenging smile. Point to him; most people would not have even noticed the intrusion. The man was stronger than Raven had expected, although Raven doubted that he would last long against a dark mage of any serious caliber. Fool, was his first thought but then he saw both the humor and the fire in the man’s amber gaze. Simon knew his abilities, but he also knew his job. Raven doubted Wilhelm’s actually expected or wanted Simon to put his life on the line, but that would not matter to a man like Simon. His commitment was to the mausoleum itself; its history, the art of its stained glass, sculptures and fountains; the preservation of the privacy and peace of those interred within. Raven gave the man a nod of respect.

  “May I?” Raven gestured toward the invisible wards. It’s what they were there for, to see what they could sense before the signature faded, but it was respectful to ask before reaching out to anyone else’s wards.

  “Please do,” Simon said.

  Raven closed his eyes and reached down, brushing against the fabric of the wards. He could feel the ward spring instantly to life, a little extra prickly and wary given the recent attempt to breach it. The wards were over a century old, and yet no less lively for that. They couldn’t seriously injure him if he did not attempt to breach them, but they were ready to give him a warning shock if they even suspected he was about to make an attempt. Ssh, my lovely, he thought to the wards. Just wanting to see who else was here.

  The magical signature of the would-be grave-robber was less impressive than the wards. Not a long background in dark magic. A dabbler if anything. No one he knew, probably not even taught by anyone he knew. And there, underlying it all. . .

  It was weaker here. He wouldn’t have sensed it if he wasn’t looking for it, if he didn’t know what to look for. But there was, yes, clinging to the magical signature a touch of the same darkness that had overwhelmed Heilman.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Raven returned to GII with Cassandra and Rafe. They needed to discuss his findings with Sherlock, although where to go with the information was not as clear.

  “So your sense of the darkness is weaker the further you get from the cave and Devil’s Crossing,” Sherlock said. “Which would make sense if, as you suspect, whatever happened in the cave is the source of all of this. But if that were the case, one would think that there would be a steady line of destruction between Devil’s Crossing and here, and that doesn’t seem to be what is happening. Could this darkness be like a virus, infecting one person, who then travels and infects others they come in contact with traveling?”

  “Except so far as I know there wasn’t anyone traveling from Devil’s Crossing to Portland since the incident started and before I came back,” Raven said. “Devils Crossing is a small enough town that we could actually confirm that pretty quickly. I’ll check in with the sheriff there to see if he knows of any comings and goings. My understanding is that Scott contacted Rafe via message crystal.”

  “Raven’s right.” Rafe had made a detour when they first arrived, and held a fresh, steaming cup from the espresso stand. “Scott came to Portland on his way to Devil’s Crossing, and he hasn’t been back since.”

  “I definitely think it’s an angle worth pursuing,” Sherlock said. “Remember, Portland is a hub for environmental activism. It’s entirely likely that another of the activists from Devil Crossing traveled to Portland, and perhaps Eugene and Bend as well. Devil’s Crossing may seem that small, but I’m not convinced its sheriff can know all of its citizens’ travel plans. I doubt the activists are going to be particularly forthcoming unless he can persuade them that it’s a matter of life or death.”

  True enough. Raven eyed the cup in Rafe’s hands with envy and decided he needed to make a trip down to the espresso stand before settling in to the library. He wasn’t thinking clearly.

  He realized, too, that Scott could have travelled to Portland on activist business and not visited Rafe or even let him know he was in town. He fought down the temptation to say so in front of Rafe. He had no reason for his suspicions other than his deep dislike of Scott, and didn’t know if he wanted to bad-mouth the first person Rafe had shown any romantic interest in since Cam died. On the other hand, wasn’t it a friend’s duty to warn a man that his potential boyfriend was trouble?

  Cassandra was better at these things. He’d share his impressions with her and let her decided the best course. It could wait until they had dealt with the bigger crisis.

  But if Scott was somehow involved in bringing this nightmare across? He’d met the man. Could he believe the man capable of ushering such darkness in the world? Not intentionally, no. Could he believe that he would be cocky enough to summon something to tear Lansing apart, believing that he could control it? Unfortunately, he could, though where would he get the knowledge? He promised himself he would at least run the idea past Cassandra or Sherlock at the first opportunity.

  Rafe turned to Raven. “It isn’t possible for something like this to travel through message crystal, is it?”

  “I can’t say for certain, since I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this to begin with,” Raven said. “But everything I know about how magic works and how message crystals work says that it’s unlikely.”

  “Not to mention that the virus theory wouldn’t account for the nearly simultaneous outbreak in Bend, with Seattle following soon after,” Cassandra put in. “If it had started in Portland or Seattle, that might make more sense. But from the way Raven described it, Devil’s Crossing is hardly a hub for anythin
g.”

  “Maybe this thing, whatever it is, is traveling of its own will, for its own purposes,” Raven said.

  “You talk as though it were sentient,” Sherlock said.

  “Sentience is hardly a black-and-white quality,” Raven said. “Are wards sentient? They react to any attempt to cross them or dismantle them. They can recognize their ward masters. They can be soothed and quieted into somnolence with a gentle enough touch even while they are being taken apart. Yet I’ve never had a real conversation with one, nor met one with hopes, dreams, and ambitions. Are soul stealers alive? Experts have been debating that for centuries. Having dealt with them myself more than anyone ever should have, I can only say it depends on how you define alive or sentient. As with many things, how you phrase the question gives you your answer. And this thing is an even greater mystery than the soul stealers.”

  Rafe jumped in. “If it’s of limited sentience, how is it directing individuals the way you theorize? Making this person kill his family and that person break into a mausoleum?”

  “Keeping in mind that this is all theory and guess-work,” Raven said, “I think it’s just getting inside people’s minds and working with whatever’s there. Whatever ambitions or hidden resentments that person has, whatever wild conspiracy theories they saw on the internet.”

  “What about the person who created it, or drew it across, or however it happened?” Rafe asked. “Could they be directing the spread?”

  “At this point I can’t discount any possibility,” Raven said. “Some things would make more sense if this darkness were something deliberately created or summoned. Set up your base in Devil’s Crossing, a remote little town where you’re less likely to get caught. Move on to major cities, where you’re likely to get the most impact and attention.”

  “You suspect some kind of terrorism?” Sherlock asked.

  “The theory could fit the facts,” Rafe said. “Except that there’s been no demand, and no claiming of responsibility. What would be the point to an act of terrorism if no one knows that it’s an act of terrorism?”

  “They could be biding their time, making sure the impact has been fully realized before they make their demands,” Cassandra said. “My intuition says we’re wandering down the wrong path, though. Although I could be wrong.”

  “I had Chuckie look into the groups organizing the protests of the golf resort,” Raven said. “He would have alerted me by now, surely, if he found anyone with the talent and the tactics that match this sort of thing. Everything I’ve seen in the news articles I found so far indicates that the protesters have been scrupulous about acting within the law. The worst I found was a citation for trespassing, and that seems to be a result of confusion about where the public land ended and the private land began. Besides, why target Portland or Bend? They have nothing to do with the proposed golf course. So far as I know Lansing doesn’t even have any contacts in either city.”

  “I’ll have Chuckie check for any corporate ties we’re missing,” Sherlock said. “But it does seem unlikely. If someone was trying to make a point, they’d go for something with publicly known ties.”

  “Some radical back-to-the-land type who has a beef against cities in general?” Rafe suggested. “I know it’s reaching.”

  “Again, I would’ve expected some sort of statement or manifesto by now,” Sherlock said. “And I would’ve expected the violence and destruction to be more targeted. People more directly involved in development. So far the only victim who really ties in to that angle is Lansing. Still, maybe someone new at the game? Possibly unstable?”

  “I’d say definitely unstable,” Raven said. “If they’re willing to unleash something as powerful and uncontrolled as what I sensed in that cave.”

  “I’ll reach out to Chuckie and make sure he’s continuing to look into the political angle,” Sherlock said. “I’ll let him know that this is now an official GII investigation, not just a side project.”

  “If it’s truly back-to-the-woods types behind it, would Chuckie be able to find anything in the computers?” Raven said.

  “You’d be surprised,” Sherlock said. “He also might have a feel for who we can talk to in the anti-development group. If someone is using the environmental cause as an excuse to kill people, it’s in their interest to nip it in the bud before the whole movement gets discredited.”

  “Scott has contacts with those movements. He might be able to give us a hand with that,” Rafe said.

  Good luck with that. Raven bit his tongue on the comment. While he didn’t think much of Rafe’s new friend, perhaps Rafe could get more cooperation and less vitriol from him.

  “Raven, let’s keep you on research as we planned,” Sherlock said. “If we can’t figure out who at least let’s figure out what.”

  “There may not be a who at all,” Raven said. “Except, perhaps, as an inadvertent carrier. Remember what I sensed in the cave. How the petroglyphs seemed to be some sort of protectors. The biggest of them had a crack running straight across. Perhaps the petroglyph was holding back some darkness until it was damaged by the same heavy equipment that opened the cave.”

  “We’re back to hypothesizing some shadow-entity unlike anything known to exist,” Sherlock said. “And do petroglyphs even work that way?”

  Raven shook his head in frustration, not negation. “I don’t know enough about how petroglyphs work. Given the age of these petroglyphs, I’m not sure anyone alive knows enough about them to answer that question.

  Sherlock heaved a deep, soul-weary sigh. “You have the best chance of any of us of finding out what we’re dealing with. I’d loan you Cassandra to help but we do still need to hold the lines.”

  “I understand.” Raven smiled. “That’s why you have a consultant to do this sort of research.”

  The intern returned, looking more frazzled than before. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just got an urgent request. Kidnapping. British ambassador’s daughter. There was blood all over the primary scene.”

  Raven hesitated. “Do you want me to stay?”

  Sherlock shook her head. “At this point I think we need you on research more. I need to know what the bloody hell is happening.”

  Cassandra looked from Sherlock to Rafe. “Can you give us a minute? I’ll meet you outside, beyond the anti-teleportation wards.”

  As soon as Sherlock and Rafe left, Cassandra closed the door behind them. Then she shoved Raven against the wall, pulling his head down to her, and kissed him very thoroughly. “I missed you so much.”

  He held her tight to him for a few moments longer, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of her hair. “Gods, I’ve missed you.”

  “I need to go,” she whispered.

  He kissed her once more, chastely this time, an affirmation and a promise. “I know.”

  Oh, it was hard for him to let her go off into a volatile, potentially dangerous situation alone while he went off to research. Not alone. Rafe and Sherlock are watching her back. Besides, Cassandra was strong in combat magic herself, one of the best GII had. This was the price he paid for loving a strong, independent, powerful mage. It was worth every bit of it, and more. Always and forever.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Raven met with Mother Crone at the overlook in the Craft lands above Newberg. Tall, centuries-old trees stood like a fortress behind them, and laid out before them was a patchwork of pastures, hay fields, and vineyards with clusters of houses and roads in the distance. Though Raven had no fondness for hiking and other outdoorsy pursuits, there was still something about woods, and these woods in particular, that lifted his spirits and soothed his soul., The cool dampness and the deep scent of evergreen and earth was a much-needed balm after the stark, dry emptiness that was Devil’s Crossing

  “Raven, it is always good to see you.”

  A common pleasantry, and yet from Mother Crone it carried the depth and sincerity that wrapped around him like a blanket.

  “You as well.” He meant his reply as much as she had mean
t her greeting.

  Though he had never studied Craft, Mother Crone had given him access to the Craft lands from the time he was an adolescent. They met through his piano teacher who followed the shamanic tradition. Raven could only guess she’d seen in the younger him a desperate need for the peace and the stillness the Craft lands could provide, and a need for a place that he could be himself, not the son of a notorious dark mage killed by Guardians in the Mage Wars.

  She told him after his pardon that she had never revoked that access, not even during the years he’d spent as the right hand of the most powerful and darkest mage of their time. Foolish, he might have said in more cynical moments. The fact remained that Mother Crone’s faith in him had stayed more constant than even Cassandra’s or Ana’s. Certainly she’d had more faith in his capacity for goodness than he had had himself during those years. It was a notion he’d clung to in the difficult times immediately after his pardon when he was trying to reintegrate into a world outside of dark magic. He’d like to think that that faith had borne out in the end, and so who was he or anyone to question her wisdom?

  “Walk with me,” she said.

  Raven fell into step beside her, shortening his strides to match hers. Though Mother Crone was fit for her age, she was some twenty years older than him and significantly shorter in leg.

  “I’ve spoken with the medicine people in the local tribes, and even in some of the tribes further out. I made sure that they understood both the seriousness of the situation and the sincere respect and purity of purpose behind the queries.”

  He didn’t ask her if she told them that she was making the inquiries on behalf of a Ravenscroft. He left that to her conscience and wisdom. He respected the tribes’ reluctance to be open with outsiders and accepted any historical suspicion and ill will they might still bear toward his family.

  “I’m certain the tribes were being candid with me when they confirmed that they didn’t know anything about the petroglyphs in the cave beneath the butte. They also state that, although there’s tales of an earlier tribe in some of their oral traditions, the tales really don’t give too many details beyond the fact of their existence and that they coexisted peacefully with the tribes that came later. Most of the tales state that they eventually married into them to the extent that the former, smaller tribes no longer exist as a separate entity. Many of the current tribes do consider them to be among their ancestors.