by Bree Moore
Raven Born
Lost Souls Series Book 1
Bree Moore
Raven Born by Bree Moore
Published by Innate Ink Publishing
www.AuthorBreeMoore.com
© 2020 Bree Moore
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:
[email protected]
Cover by German Creative on Fiverr.
Editing by Melissa Meibos at www.thenovelthing.com.
Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9600087-3-5
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-9600087-5-9
To Vall.
Without you, these characters, this book, and this entire series wouldn’t exist.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Acknowledgements
Also by Bree Moore
About the Author
Chapter One
Harper
“Winged-woman sighted: experts argue—succubus or were-eagle?”
Harper squinted at the grainy black and white photograph on the cover of Supernaturals Monthly. It wasn’t likely to be anyone she knew. The figure could have easily been photoshopped, or maybe it was a distant airplane at just the right angle. Her brother, Quinn, would agree it was a fake. She drew her hand back and resisted adding the magazine to the pile in her arms. A gossip magazine wasn’t a reliable source, even if the picture did turn out to be real.
“Miss??”
The cashier’s voice startled Harper, and she nearly dropped everything in her arms. She slid several cookie packages, two wrapped sandwiches, a bottle of Fanta, and a handful of jerky sticks across to the cashier, then snatched a Milky Way from the display by the counter and slapped it on the pile.
The cashier raised her penciled eyebrows and reached for the first item to ring up.
“Road trip?” she asked.
Harper nodded absently, her fingers lingering on a single lint-covered bill in her pocket while she watched the gas station windows.
The woman cleared her throat. “That’ll be $13.07.” She popped her gum.
Harper handed over the twenty. She needed to get more money somehow, but there weren’t many job opportunities for someone like her anymore. People were too scared.
A sleek silver Camry pulled up outside, parking in a stall near the front. A man in a suit emerged from the driver side, auburn hair flashing in Harper’s peripheral. She tugged down on the ball cap covering her short-cropped hair as the woman behind the counter tried to grasp a bag for the items, but her false nails seemed to get in the way. She licked her fingers and tried again. Harper breathed in through her nose, then out again slowly to calm her itch to run. The door chimed and the man stepped in. Harper’s breathing hitched.
He passed behind her, moving toward the coolers lining the back wall. The cashier extended the bag and change. Harper snatched them up and pivoted toward the door.
“Have a nice day,” the cashier said, snapping her gum.
A crash and a shriek came from the back of the station. Harper turned, seeing the contents of a display of canned tuna salad rolling on the tiled floor while the suited men pinned down a struggling girl with dirty blonde hair. Her eyes caught Harper’s, pleading.
Harper gave a slight shrug and took several shuffling steps toward the door, wishing she could explain. She couldn’t do anything to save her without getting caught. The girl grimaced, and her eyes flared with determination. Her skin began to shift, to transform. Fur grew, her arms shrank and moved forward, sliding out of the cuffs the man had put on her. He yelped in surprise—an amateur hunter if Harper ever saw one. The cashier snapped her gum and pulled the phone receiver off her wall, so calm she must have done this a hundred times.
A wolf with mottled grey fur squirmed out from beneath the auburn-haired man, snapping and snarling. He yelled and scrambled back.
“We have a 6-1-1. I repeat, a 6-1-1,” The cashier’s nasally voice announced. Stiffs would arrive any minute. That was Harper’s cue.
The glass door swung shut as she released it, obscuring the chaos within.
Outside, Harper froze. There was a second man getting out of the car, slicked-back blond hair and sunglasses.
Act natural. She angled her head down, hat visor obscuring her face. Her stride lengthened as she passed the car. The blonde man dashed inside to help his partner. Harper stuffed down the urge to sprint. Halfway across the parking lot, she let out her breath.
Then came the sirens.
Stiffs.
Harper broke into a run, tightening her grip on the bag in her fist so it didn’t bounce. Stiffs were always bad news. They’d infest the entire place, their detection equipment picking up all traces of paranormal presence. Including Harper’s.
She veered toward a black truck, running around the back side, her fingers fumbling against the door latch before it gave way. She dove onto the dirty seat. A wave of fresh cigarette smoke wafted into her nose as she sucked air and slapped the dashboard. “Go, go!"
The beard-faced driver grabbed the stick and shifted, pulling out fast. The sirens wailed and he looked at Harper, his human ears finally picking up on the sound.
“Is that for you? I hope you have another cenote for me. What’d you do, steal that?” He nods at the bag clutched in her hand.
“Not exactly. Turn right.” The truck halted at a stop sign. Harper could almost see the man’s brain working. It was slow and painful to watch. The green lights flashed out the driver’s side window. The driver noticed and squinted at her.
“Those ain’t cops. You ain’t one of them paranormal freaks, are you?”
Three cars pulled into the gas station, bearing the insignia of the S.T.F, or Supernatural Task Force. More would be coming. Their response time was reported as being three minutes or less in populated areas, and once they locked a target, their pursuit was relentless. The driver grabbed his door handle, but Harper moved first.
She swung her fist, catching the side of his head in a hard right hook, putting more power behind the blow than she intended. He slammed into the driver side window, cracking the glass. The truck sputtered and died, thrown out of gear as the clutch released.
The guy put a hand to his head in a daze. It came away red. His eyes widened. Harper leaned between his bulk and the wheel to open the driver side door, then shoved the stunned man out onto the road. Idiot never put on his seat belt.
Sliding into the now-vacant driver’s seat, Harper started the car and shifted the truck into gear. Her foot jammed down on the gas and clutch. The truck jolted, then died. Out the rearview she saw the task force swarming the gas station. Sever
al looked her way. Damn. She rotated the key again. The truck rumbled to life.
“Yes!” Harper tore out of there with tires squealing, sweaty hands adjusting on the wheel. She pulled too wide into traffic and forced an oncoming car to swerve. They struck the median and spun out in Harper’s rearview, hitting another oncoming car and blocking the path of pursuit.
“Take that, Stiffs!” She gave a whoop and stepped on the gas, relief and adrenaline flooding her system. She kept her hands clasped tightly to the wheel, stilling the tremors in her arms while she surveyed the damage in the rearview. No one would die, at least. She couldn’t believe she had pulled off a move like that in a truck. She did feel a little guilty about the guy. Her punch probably didn’t cause permanent damage, but she had to be more careful. Incidents like that were what made paranormals illegal in the first place.
Harper’s victory was short-lived. From the corner of her eye, a green light flashed on the dashboard. The Stiff insignia. She cursed. Because the truck was old, she hadn’t bothered checking for the call button. They were only installed in newer vehicles, or so she assumed. And this guy had been willing enough to give a hitchhiker a ride, as long as he got paid. He hadn’t seemed like the paranoid type. Harper pushed the button again, hoping it might turn the signal off, but no such luck. Likely it wouldn’t turn off until the Supernatural Task Force answered the panic signal.
“6-1-1, describe what you see.” The call came through the dashboard, like one of those roadside assistance features.
Harper cleared her throat. Should she answer and say everything was fine? That she had hit the button on accident?
“Sir?”
Dammit. They were expecting a man. It made sense; a man owned this truck after all. Harper stayed silent, focusing on the road. Might as well get as far as she could.
“Sir, if you can hear me, help is on the way. Stay where you are.”
Like hell.
The truck was being tracked. She would get caught. Getting caught meant her current mission would fail, and her butt would get sacked into a Naturalization camp. And that was the last place she wanted to end up.
Harper’s stomach pinched, more out of hunger than fear, but the fear was definitely there. She couldn’t think with an empty stomach. She rummaged through the bag on the passenger seat, grabbing a sandwich and unwrapping it. Chewing, she washed down mouthfuls with the crisp citrus drink. Her body relaxed as the food hit her stomach. She opened a cookie package with her teeth.
Stomach satisfied, her mind moved on to tackle the problem at hand. Once the Stiffs got a handle on that werewolf at the gas station, they would be after her in a second. How far could she get on one tank of gas? There was no way she could outpace their cars without starting a high-speed chase, and they would catch her for sure.
Unless she flew.
Woods surrounded the road on both sides. She didn’t have the lung stamina to fly above the clouds for long, but they could cover her long enough for her to get out of reach.
Harper veered to the shoulder and parked, truck idling while she took inventory of the truck. She needed a map. Nothing in the glove compartment. Unbuckling, she checked the space behind the seat. Nothing. She frowned, brushing uneven bangs from her eyes, then leaned over the passenger side again, feeling underneath. There, tucked under the seat, her fingers found the hard edge of a vinyl cover. Two tugs and it slid out. She grinned at the warped and dusty maroon plastic before throwing it open against the wheel.
A book of maps spread out before her. Its surface, wrinkled and yellowed with brown water stains and dirt, showed a map of Oregon. Exactly what she needed.
Harper’s finger darted along the yellow highway line marked 97 to where it connected with highway 20. She pulled a scrap of paper from her back pocket. The words “Eastern Oregon Youth Correctional Facility" scrawled above an address and several lines of directions. The facility didn’t exist; she already knew that. She knew it from the moment they told her that her brother had been sent there for “minor infractions of violence.” Someone was covering up. She had never understood why they didn’t drag her off at the same time, but she’d always be grateful. It gave her time to formulate her escape from the foster system, and she’d been running ever since.
Three years on the streets. Three years looking for her brother. Harper’s latest lead would take her to him. It had to. Anticipation buzzed in her bones. That twitchy Salem vampire better not have faked her, not for the price she paid him to give her directions to the secret location of the nearest paranormal Naturalization facility.
Harper rubbed the pinprick marks on her wrist. The spot still felt sore, though the fatigue of losing a significant amount of blood had faded days ago. The things I do for you, Quinn.
She took a final bite of cookie and chewed furiously, then rolled the last sandwich up as tight as she could and shoved it in her hoodie pocket, briefly mourning the loss of the other items. She couldn’t take them with me, not if she wanted to go fast.
Harper shut the truck off and jumped out onto the side of the road. Sure enough, sirens sounded behind her. She had to get into the sky.
There were cars on the road, but they were moving fast. By the time the Stiffs got here, there wouldn’t be any witnesses to tell them where she went. Hopefully.
She gave in to the burn between her shoulder blades, breathing deeply when the familiar fire consumed her back and her black feathered wings flared. Cars honked. Tires skidded.
Harper pumped her wings, lifting slightly, then coming back down and running a few steps before leaping off the ground.
Air rushed past her face as she beat against the pull of gravity and thrust up past the trees and toward the clouds. Sirens and flashing green lights sped down the road. They were still two miles away, but no doubt they could see her. Time to hide.
Wings and lungs burning, Harper soared up as fast as she could, flying faster than any bird, faster than a plane could take off. It wasn’t sustainable, but she only had to hold it for a moment longer to get up to those low-hanging clouds.
Harper heard a twang and glanced down in time to see a net gun in the hands of two Stiffs. How did they get there so fast?
She dodged to the left. The net whistled past, the edge flicking her right wingtip. She wobbled and corrected her flight. The clouds were only a couple hundred feet away. If they couldn’t see her, they couldn’t hit her.
Another twang. Harper closed her eyes and strained her wings, everything on fire, air pushing past her face.
It was a perfect shot. She had no time to dodge and just enough time to wonder how bad it would hurt to hit the pavement as it rushed toward her.
Chapter Two
Tyson
New resident coming in.
Tyson rubbed his eyes against the brightness of the LED screen as he read the text message, sitting up on his bed in the dark bedroom. It was after 1:00 a.m., and Dr. Hartford had texted him.
Tom. He said to call him Tom, but Tyson was still building the habit. He blinked at the text message. It was significant, but he couldn’t quite wrap his head around why.
New resident coming in.
His thumb hovered over the keys to type a reply, when another text blinked in below the first.
I’m headed to Chicago. Batter’s up!
Crap.
Tyson ran his hand through his hair. His mentor, Dr. Thomas Hartford, was presenting at a seminar in Chicago. That meant the only paranormal counselor available to check in this new resident was Tyson.
Tyson swiped across the screen. When? He asked.
Any minute. Tom responded.
I have a two-hour drive. I’ll get there as soon as I can.
Call Violet. Came the swift reply.
No. There had to be another way into the camp beside relying on that...that...witch.
Tyson stood, leaving his phone on the bed while he paced. The policies that governed the Naturalization camp he worked at requ
ired that a certified human counselor be in place when a new resident was brought in. Tyson had done check-ins before, but never without Tom. Usually, Tyson had weekends off so he could afford to live close to Nana. His grandmother didn’t have anyone else. He was paying the price for that now.
Tyson let out an exasperated half-growl and lunged for his phone. He dialed Violet’s number.
“Miller? What a surprise. Did Tom get a hold of you?”
“Yes,” Tyson snapped, grimacing at the knowing gloat in Violet’s voice.
“And what can I do for you?”
Tyson clenched his teeth, sucking air in and blowing it out slowly. “Get a 209c permit and meet me at my place in half an hour.”
“A portal? Well, imagine that. The human needs me to do magic for him.”
“Don’t be condescending, Violet. It’s not flattering.”
“It’s just that I didn’t expect a purist like you to ever need the services of a witch like me. A portal is a big deal, Miller. A 209c is no small bit of paperwork.”
Tyson ground his teeth at her simpering. “There’s a time and place. They wouldn’t have licenses for this sort of thing otherwise.” He rubbed a hand along his jaw, trying to convince the muscles to relax.
“Half an hour, then.”
He cut the call off before she could, then tossed the phone back on his bed. Not all witches were as obnoxious as Violet, he reminded himself. He liked plenty of them. But Violet had a special talent for getting on his nerves, and she was in a unique position to give him a hard time right now. Well, all that would change in a couple weeks if Tyson could pull his final review off. He was up for promotion to become a full partner with Dr. Hartford.
He shook himself and gathered some clean clothes from the dresser, then headed to the bathroom to freshen up. He still felt groggy, but the adrenaline spike was working to clear his head. By the time he got back to his room, he felt ready for anything. And it was a good thing, too. Any minute now, a portal would open up and take him halfway across the state in a blink.