Still distracted by the birds in the tree, I saw a flash of color and darkness at ground level, a person walking toward the stark branches. Ms. Wilson’s charcoal-colored dress peeked out from beneath her green coat. Rubber boots with a slight heel made it seem like she’d expected to be tramping around in the rain. Her hands were outstretched, something black in her arms. Suddenly, the sky filled with birds, all coming toward her.
The people walking to their cars paused, some of them pointing at the swirl of coal-colored creatures. Amid croaks and caws, more birds flew toward the poplar.
Ms. Wilson stopped below the tree. I was close enough now to see she held a bird, small, black, motionless. Another raven. The cawing intensified as the tree filled with more and more birds. They watched Ms. Wilson, seeming to understand what she carried. Within a few minutes, every branch was occupied. At this point, she held up the small corpse and an intense chorus kicked up. Almost as if the birds were mourning.
I stood motionless, mesmerized by what was unfolding. Ms. Wilson turned in a circle and at last saw me. Her eyes flashed with acknowledgment, but her solemn expression didn’t change. With one hand, she pulled a black cloth from her pocket and covered the raven, respectfully, deliberately slow. The tree began to empty, the participants flying off, some of them in groups, not all of them in the same direction.
I threaded around the graves and reached her as she was tucking the wrapped bird into an oversized leather bag, ending whatever this ceremony of hers was. “What were you doing?”
“Raven funeral,” she said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“For Mr. Gray?”
“No.” Her lips were painted the same ruby red as always, but they looked more vivid in the bleak setting of the cemetery. “I didn’t know Mr. Gray, but I hear he was a former mayor.” She arched a silky eyebrow. “Perhaps you’d like to write a piece on him for the student paper?”
“He killed Mr. Bowman, so maybe that wouldn’t make the best feature,” I said, trying not to sound like a jerk.
She sighed and gave me a sad smile. “Oh, right. Then maybe not.”
I was still puzzled by what she’d been doing in the cemetery with the birds. I’d never seen anything like it. “So, a raven funeral?”
Ms. Wilson nodded. “Researchers discovered that ravens and crows mourn. I found this little guy half-eaten in my yard this morning.” She patted her leather bag. “Before I bury him, I thought they’d like to know. Tell his family, that kind of thing.”
“Family?”
“Corvids are fascinating. The social aspect of their lives is the subject of a lot of speculation. They’ve done some great work at the University of Washington on this funeral phenomenon.” She settled the straps of her bag over her shoulder. “Minor in biology,” she said, in answer to my open-mouthed expression. “I dreamed of writing for National Geographic someday. Study populations of animals in the wild or ancient mysteries. That didn’t turn out as expected.” She started walking and I kept pace with her.
“You gave up that dream to teach high school?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Teaching is another dream of mine. But I still write and try to understand the mysteries of the world.”
We meandered through the rows of graves, our heels sinking into the damp grass, the mist shimmering like a translucent curtain around us.
“Ms. Wilson,” I said, “If you’re so curious about mysteries, why didn’t you want me to include the murders in the festival story?”
She stopped and turned. Her gaze skimmed over me, as if she were deciding what to say next.
“If you like weird histories, then you would have loved that angle,” I added, feeling a little color rush into my cheeks.
“Some of the great mysteries of the world exist on purpose. That’s what I’m finding out.” The wind lifted a strand of her curls, dragging it across her cheek. She brushed it away, silver rings gleaming on her fingers.
I felt a little chill creep across the back of my neck. “The lovers who were killed in the woods that day—”
“No one said they were lovers,” she interrupted.
“Okay, the two people. That wasn’t a random crime, I don’t think so anyway…”
She nodded. “The young woman once owned the house I live in. She had secrets, from what I’ve heard.”
A cold wind whispered across my skin. “And so…”
“We need to let the dead rest. It’s better for the living.” Ms. Wilson gave me a curt nod and walked off, leaving me in the old section of the cemetery.
I felt—unsettled about our conversation, surprised that Ms. Wilson had depth I hadn’t seen previously. That she was attuned to oddities, to respecting people’s secrets. The silver rings on her hands gave me pause, though. That much silver could hurt a number of supernatural beings. Was she afraid of something—of us?
As I stepped onto the main path, a flapping of wings startled me. I ducked as a raven swooped over my head, alighting on a crypt. Maybe it was a lingering mourner from Ms. Wilson’s strange bird funeral. My heart raced from the surprise. The bird’s beady eyes glistened as it stared at me for a moment, and then it flew off.
Uneasy, I reached toward the empty place at my collarbone, where my lupine stone used to rest, a source of comfort, even before I knew what it was for. “Birds,” I muttered. I hurried to the main path and could see the road ahead clogged with cars, a procession heading to the funeral dinner.
And then I noticed Morgan leaning against a stone post. His eyes brightened when he saw me. As I got closer, I saw he held two tall cups from Pioneer Perk. “I figured you could use some warming up,” he said, holding one out toward me.
I took one and inhaled the delicious smell of a freshly made mocha. “You always know how to make me smile. Even at a funeral.”
Morgan saluted me with the other cup and took a sip. “It’s a unique talent.”
Overhead, another flock of birds gathered in the trees surrounding the cemetery. “The ravens seem aware they’re hosts to a werewolf population,” he said.
“You think?” I squinted toward them. The birds struck up a chorus of cawing that filled the cemetery and sounded like it was repeated all the way toward Falls Park. Even though it was far off, I swear I could hear the rumble of the waterfall, true and deep, powerful and unrelenting. I felt like walking over there. Felt like I was being pulled.
Morgan cleared his throat. “Aren’t we expected at the dinner?”
“Yeah, but…” I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something about the water, the birds, maybe the woods that edged the waterfall. I was almost getting a picture in my mind.
“It’s odd. But I need to go to Falls Park. Now.” My voice sounded robotic, definitely weird. I handed Morgan my untouched mocha and hurried out the gates. I could hear him running behind me to catch up.
As I reached the path that led to the woods, the birds’ cawing intensified. Drawing me closer to something. Something dark. And If I’d learned anything from Ivan North’s death, it was not to ignore omens like that, bad or otherwise.
The ravens were calling me. And they would not be ignored.
Lily and Morgan’s story continues in A LIGHT SO CRUEL, Book Three in the Pioneer Falls Series. Keep reading for a sneak peek!
Sneak Peek of A LIGHT SO CRUEL
Chapter One
The thick canopy of trees in the woods near Pioneer Falls Cemetery nearly obscured the light. Moving along the makeshift path, I wished I had the nerve to transform into my wolf self so I could see better, but it was mid-afternoon and the town was full of folks attending Mr. Gray’s funeral and the church dinner afterward.
People had turned out in droves, unable to keep from gossiping about the murder committed by Mrs. Gillingham, who ran the pawn shop and apparently was a black widow who’d killed before. She’d probably be charged in connection with our former Protector’s death, too. That tragedy seemed far off at the moment, though.
Ravens had led me to these woods.
I couldn’t quite explain it, but I felt like they wanted me to see something. I’d taken their presence in the cemetery a few weeks ago as a bad omen—so maybe it was happening again. Then again, most everything that happened in Pioneer Falls was bad since I’d learned my family’s secret.
An unbreakable curse can really ruin your life.
As I moved through the brush, I caught a deep iron smell. Blood. I was a little too familiar with that scent. My wolf-enhanced sense of smell was picking it up a lot lately.
“Lily!” Morgan McAllister, my boyfriend, called behind me, but it seemed far off—somewhere in the distance. Like he was calling me from near the falls, and we were separated by the rush of water, a spray of mist.
I moved forward, toward something unnatural, out of place on the ground among the leaves and branches. As I got closer, I saw it was a discarded black eye mask, like something you’d wear to a masquerade ball, with long red ribbons and ebony feathers. I bristled. Was this a castoff from the Harvest Festival we’d had in Pioneer Falls a week earlier?
But then I found a shoe. A man’s loafer, to be exact.
My skin prickled with warning. I no longer heard Morgan calling me. Looking down, I saw two piles of leaves, raked in mounds. An unwelcome coldness filled my belly. I smelled the iron smell again. Not fresh blood. Old blood. Dead. Lifeless.
Horrified but unable to stop myself, I knelt next to the mounds. I brushed away some of the leaves. Flesh. A human arm. Frantically, I uncovered more of what appeared to be a man, buried in a shallow grave. My stomach roiled against the smells, the visual of the graying skin, the sightless eyes. A bullet hole carved a rust and black depression at his temple. He wore a velvet jacket, some kind of black pants, an old-fashioned cravat at his throat. It didn’t make any sense, but maybe someone had gone missing from the festival.
I turned to the other mound and did the same thing, revealing a woman in a brocaded corset and a silky full skirt trimmed with lace. Beneath her pale makeup and red-stained lips, her skin was greenish-gray. At her temple, a bullet hole had leaked dark, oxidized blood onto a powdered wig. I was careful not to touch things, aside from the leaves. I slowly backed up from between the two bodies, the full realization hitting me. Dead people in the woods. Again.
My stomach rumbled a warning and I took off for the bushes. I hate puking, but as much as I tried to rein it in, I couldn’t. When I’d finished, I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve and then spit a couple of times to try to clear the taste. In my pocket, I found a balled-up tissue and I used it to cover my nose and mouth as I went back toward the victims.
Instead, I found Morgan. “You all right, love?” he asked, his amber eyes full of concern. I lowered the tissue from my mouth and breathed in the smell of his leather jacket, his piney cologne as I hugged him. “What is it? Are you ill?”
“I was—anyone would be at the smell. It’s awful,” I replied. “Can’t you smell it?”
“What?” Morgan asked, letting me go. “I don’t understand.”
“They’re right here…” I glanced around, but it was as if a gust of wind had come and resettled the mounds of camouflage. Shaking, I got down on my hands and knees and started searching around for the bodies. But where were they? Frantically, I pawed around at the leaves.
“Lily…” Morgan crouched beside me. “What is it?”
My frustration grew. Surely, this had been the place. I hadn’t run far to throw up. But I couldn’t seem to find anything. I backed away from the spot, scanning the forest floor. At last I saw something at the base of a tree. Something bleached out, weathered—a scrap of moldering reddish ribbon. I used the tissue in my hand to pick up the fragment.
Something rustled in the canopy of branches. Wings.
I stared at the piece of ribbon. I could have sworn it had been attached to the fancy masquerade eye mask I’d seen a moment before, but in my hands it was nearly disintegrated. As if it were decades old. A new wave of nausea hit me and I staggered backward. “The scene of the crime.”
Morgan caught me in his arms. “What crime? Should we call your father?”
“Not now,” I murmured, my lashes fluttering as I felt shadows swimming around me. A raven cawed. I flashed on the forest floor again, the bodies, uncovered as I’d left them a moment ago. The scene of the last Harvest Festival murder. Decades ago.
Morgan rubbed my shoulders, bringing me back to the present, to my body. “What are you seeing? Are you with me?”
I opened my eyes. “The ravens wanted me to know what happened here.”
He steadied me. “Are you saying you saw ghosts?”
“I don’t know... a memory. Maybe not a ghost.” I tugged at his hand. “C’mon.”
As we walked over to the cemetery, I thought of my teacher Ms. Wilson, of how she’d rented what once had been the dead woman’s house. How she’d insisted the deceased pair hadn’t been lovers, but I saw that wasn’t true. They’d been dressed in a couple’s costume—some variation of Marie Antoinette. And most disturbing of all, they’d each died from a single shot to the temple. Execution style.
Morgan and I wound through the rows of graves, finally coming to the crypt where the raven had spooked me before leading me to the woods. I knew what I’d find even before I traced the names on the brass plate. Millicent and Charlie. The victims from that infamous Harvest Festival murder.
Ms. Wilson had warned I should let the dead rest, that it was better for the living. But I was about to discover that the ravens of Pioneer Falls wouldn’t leave me alone until I uncovered the truth.
Until I set things right.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Heather Davis lives in the Pacific Northwest where she writes Young Adult Paranormal Romances about smart, courageous girls in extraordinary circumstances.
In her books, you’ll always find mysterious (and often brooding) heroes, dark secrets to uncover, heartfelt emotion, and plenty of sizzling kisses along the way.
Heather is the author of the Never Cry Werewolf series and other books for teens, including the 2011 RITA Award Finalist for Best Young Adult Romance, The Clearing. A fan of indie bands, movies, kittens, and green tea lattes, she loves connecting with her readers.
www.heatherdavisbooks.com
https://twitter.com/heatherdbooks
https://www.facebook.com/HeatherDavis.Author
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Dear Reader:
Thanks for sharing this second adventure in Pioneer Falls with me! As an indie author, I would love your help in spreading the word about this series. Please consider leaving a review at your favorite online book retailer. I’m excited to hear what you think––even if it’s a brief review.
Thank you so much!
BOOKS BY HEATHER DAVIS
THE PIONEER FALLS SERIES
A Curse So Dark
A Forest So Deadly
A Light So Cruel
THE NEVER CRY WEREWOLF SERIES
Never Cry Werewolf
Sometimes by Moonlight: A Novella (Book 2)
Always in Shadow: A Novella (Book 3)
STAND-ALONE YOUNG ADULT ROMANCES
The Clearing (Time-Travel Paranormal)
Wherever You Go (Ghostly Paranormal)
A Forest So Deadly (Pioneer Falls Book 2) Page 25