Liam Davis & The Raven

by Anyta Sunday

  LIAM DAVIS & THE RAVEN

  ANYTA SUNDAY

  First published in 2014 by Anyta Sunday

  Buerogemeinschaft ATP24, Am Treptower Park 24, 12435 Berlin

  An Anyta Sunday publication

  www.anytasunday.com

  Copyright 2013 Anyta Sunday

  Cover Design 2014 Caroline Wimmer (Streiflicht Fotographie)

  Content Edited by Teresa Crawford

  Line Edited by Lynda Lamb

  Copy Edited by HJS Editing

  All rights reserved. This publication may not be reproduced without prior permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  All the characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This book contains explicit sexual content.

  To Pittsburgh, for all the adventures we shared together . . .

  CHAPTER 1

  Freddy Krueger was the reason I was sitting in the back of some guy’s car, speeding to the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center.

  I replayed the evening’s events over and over, but if I had really thought about it—difficult with the burgeoning concussion—the point of no return had passed that morning . . .

  Man Dead a Week in Central Pittsburgh Apartment

  I lingered at the newspaper stand with the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette—paid for and tucked tightly under my arm—nudging the strap of my messenger bag. The headline begged me to come closer and check out the lurid report.

  A breeze folded the corner of the paper, hiding half the columns and making it impossible to read at my current intellectual-who-shouldn’t-care-for-sensationalist-reporting-but-no-one-has-to-know-I’m-actually-riveted distance.

  Pushing up my glasses, I glanced to either side of the empty pavement. Empty, save the vendor, but he was tucked behind his stand scratching at his Sudoku. Quickly, I sidled closer to the rickety red rack. I lifted the flap of paper and scanned the first paragraph:

  A man has been found dead in his apartment. Police say he appears to have been dead for close to a week. The body was discovered after neighbors complained about insistent whining from the deceased’s near-starved cat. . . .

  “Ya gotta be kiddin’!” the vendor chimed in a heavy Pittsburgh accent, pushing in his racks under the safety of overhead balconies. I lurched away from the rack, from the cat that, despite being “near-starved,” hadn’t yet started chewing on his owner. . .

  “Ya know it’s goin’ to rain,” he said, stretching a finger toward the thick gray clouds in the distance. As if to emphasize his point, a gust rolled down the street, rustling the papers and whistling through the gutter grates.

  “Better be on my way, then.” If I hurried, I’d miss the downpour. The clouds appeared lighter around the city’s prominent Cathedral of Learning, close to where I was heading.

  Maybe I’d be lucky.

  Readjusting the strap of the messenger bag carrying my essentials—laptop, pens, notebook—I hurried toward campus while scouring the articles on the first pages of the Post-Gazette.

  Some of the headlines lacked zest and catchiness, something that I wouldn’t let happen with Scribe this semester if I got promoted to features editor.

  When I got promoted to features editor. If I wanted the apprenticeship at my father’s firm, I had to prove I could hold an editorial position—for two consecutive years.

  I swallowed the lump of excited nerves that’d been bundling in my throat all week and hurried toward the large, concrete block of hideousness that housed the magical world of the student magazine.

  Just a few pathways stretched between me and my reporting assignments for the semester. Maybe I’d be reassigned the student politics column I wrote last year. Or, since the final year of my undergraduate studies had finally accepted me into its embrace, maybe the chief would give me my promotion—

  Clash! Thunk!

  I hit metal and tumbled, landing with a smack against the pavement. The newspaper ripped. A tingle of pain burst through my wrists and everything blurred. An amused voice sounded from my left, and I shifted into a crouch, brushing the grit off my grazed palms.

  A guy in a black-and-silver wheelchair sat with his arms folded. “If you wanted to catch my attention, you could’ve started with ‘hello’.”

  “I didn’t see you,” I said, plucking up my glasses and getting to my feet. The frames were a little scratched, but not too bad. I slid the glasses back on.

  The spiky-haired guy smiled. Tattoos of hummingbirds trailed up his arms, and his pierced brow was spectacularly arched.

  “Sorry,” I said, collecting the paper and folding it. “Are you all right?”

  “Better than you are.” He rolled his wheelchair back a few feet and then forward again. “Chair’s good too. Word of advice, watch where you’re going next time.”

  Well . . . he had a point. I should be more observant, especially considering I prided myself on noticing details others tended to overlook.

  Someone behind me caught his attention, and he waved. Sparing one more amused glance my way, he rolled around me and up the path.

  A splash of rainwater hit my nose. The clocktower in the distance chimed the hour.

  I jogged the remainder of the path just as the splashes snapped into a downpour.

  Sopping, I scurried into the concrete block of hideousness.

  Surely, the day could only get better.

  With its flaky wallpaper and threadbare carpet, the Scribe boardroom provided a wonderful view of the proudly-towering neo-gothic Cathedral of Learning. Twelve clever minds seated at an oval table readied to make the room my favorite place in the world.

  I slipped into the room, and a whiff of tension hit the back of my nose with a tickle. Editor-in-Chief, Harry Benedict, settled his steel gaze on me, flustering me at once. Yes, sir, I know exactly what you’re going to say—

  “Nice of you to finally join us, Liam. Make it a goal this semester to pay as much attention to punctuality as to your impeccable reports.”

  Jack Briggs and Marc Jillson—kings in here because they ran the most successful opinions and party page columns of the last decade—sniggered across the notebook-studded table.

  Jack calmed down and Jill came snorting after. Hannah, next to him, shifted her notes, though she should have lifted her notebook to protect her face from the discharge rushing her way.

  I swung off my messenger bag, shrugged out of my wet sweater, and palmed the cool metal back of the last free seat as the chief gave Jack and Jill a bland stare that shut them up quite nicely.

  “Let’s continue, shall we? Right.” Chief Benedict opened the frayed leather binder before him, thumbing the worn spine with tender strokes. “This year we are going to have a few structural changes.”

  My pulse picked up, ringing in my ears. The chief came sharply into focus. He stroked the beard he’d spent the last year cultivating—to stop pulling the hair on his head—and scanned the paper before him. Changes. Yes. This was it. His gaze lifted straight to mine. Any second now, he’d promote me to the position I’d worked toward my entire undergraduate education.

  He pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair. One by one, he looked at us: content editors, copy editors, and columnists. But he lingered on me, and surely that was a spark in his eye?

  “Tell me, what are an editor’s best attributes?”

  Was he drawing this out on purpose? Perhaps he was demonstrating how to hook an audience. Heat thickened in the room, the frictional anticipation of twelve ambitious student journalists. Come on, chief. Look at me. Let me answer, and then we can get on with the promotion.

  The chief laid his gaze on Jack. The lucky son-of-a-gun. “Vision,” Jack said, shruggi
ng his broad shoulders like it was obvious. “The ability to see beyond what the magazine is to what it could be.”

  “Good. What else?”

  Chief was really going to milk this today, wasn’t he?

  Jill’s turn. He whipped his sandy bangs out of his brown eyes with a jerk of his head. His slightly upturned nose made him look as arrogant as he was. “He must be able to draw in readers with eye-catching headlines and choose the most evocative photographs and captions.”

  “He or she. Good.” Chief Benedict swiveled his gaze to me with a subtle raise of his brow.

  I returned it. “They must also understand the technical aspects of publishing.”

  The Scribe quarters were my second home. Maybe even my first, since I knew it better than my own apartment. Some nights I stayed here until the wee hours of the morning and didn’t leave campus at all. I knew this place. All the ins and outs. Everything.

  Chief knew that too.

  He narrowed his eyes, and glanced at his binder. Again, he stroked the spine with his thumb. “And,” he continued, “editors must not only be exceptional writers. They must be creative. They must be able to see the team’s creative vision, then help materialize that vision.”

  He picked up a sheet of paper, and the light from the windows behind him made the paper transparent. What did it say? Were those names? If the chief would just tilt—

  “With that in mind, I’m doing something a little . . . unexpected this semester.” He rested the paper back in the folder. “I’m reassigning most of you to new positions. Something that I feel will challenge you, broaden your horizons, and make you better columnists and editors.”

  Getting the features editor position would definitely be a good challenge. I straightened my glasses and pulled out the pen I always, always carried in my pocket. Grabbing my notebook, I was ready to take notes of the new structure.

  Jack rolled his eyes and pulled at the black Desperado T-shirt that hung loosely on his frame. If he were an ounce less of a prick, he’d be an interesting guy to have a conversation with; as it was, he needed taking down a peg or two. If I ever got to be executive editor, I could do it, too. Oh yes, my pen is mightier than any sword . . .

  “Jack,” Chief Benedict said suddenly, “say goodbye to the opinions column and hello to politics.”

  I stilled, my pen scratching to a halt against the fresh page of my notebook. “Jack, politics?”

  “Me, politics? But you need me for the opinions—”

  The chief drew a sharp line in the air that silenced Jack. “Hannah will take over opinions for the semester.” Jack gripped the table, his lips parting as if to start protesting again, but the cold, staunch stare of Chief Benedict made him hold his tongue. Instead he jerked back violently in his chair and raked a hand through his short black hair.

  I blinked down at my page. Just a minor blow. I didn’t need to run the politics column if I got the features editor position. That would take up most of my time anyway. I probably wouldn’t have time to contribute regularly.

  The chief kept delegating the new positions, earning some wide smiles alongside the disappointed scowls.

  “Marc, you’re news editor.” Jill turned a dark shade of crimson. News editor was a tough but rewarding job, and the chief made a good decision giving the job to Jill. Pain in the ass though he was, he definitely had potential that needed nurturing.

  And what nurturing do I need?

  “Liam Davis,” Chief Benedict read from the sheet.

  My pen cut into my palms. This was it. After countless nights working to deadlines, writing, re-writing, editing, I’d finally be Scribe’s features editor.

  “You won’t be working in an editorial capacity this semester.”

  The pen fell from my grip, clattering on my notebook. “Wh—what? But I—I’m the best.”

  “And you don’t lack modesty.”

  I blinked, struggling to focus on his next words through the ringing of his last words.

  “ . . . an exceptional editor, I’d like to see you expand your skill set. And this goes for all of you. I’m trying to challenge you to approach topics that are out of your comfort zone. . . .”

  Won’t be working in an editorial capacity.

  “. . . commit yourselves to this, and you’ll be better prepared for the real world of publishing once you’re through here at the Scribe.”

  Won’t be working . . .

  “ . . . Liam, I’m challenging you with the party page.”

  The what?

  Was this a joke?

  Jill shot to his feet, knocking over his chair. His nose flared again, and sweet, shy Hannah flinched as spittle flew out of Jill’s mouth.

  “You’re giving the most popular page of the magazine to him? Liam effing Davis? How can you give someone who doesn’t have a single friend outside Scribe the party page? That’s a recipe for a stuck-up, frigid disaster. Someone who has no life will not be able to give this column life!”

  “That’s quite enough, Mr. Jillson. Contrary to popular thought, your opinions are not always welcome.”

  I placed my pen in the center of my notebook and stared at the chief. He’d known what I’d really wanted. He’d even talked me through what the position meant and how to be the best. Why did he give me this? Had I offended him somehow? The chief wasn’t the passive-aggressive type; he’d have told me if I rubbed him the wrong way.

  Jill threw his hands up. His mouth opened but his raging voice was the last sound I wanted in my ear. Calm and easy did it. We could discuss the issue and politely make it clear the chief had made a mistake. “Jill—”

  “Marc, to you.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Jill, you don’t like me, that’s clear, and believe me when I say the feeling is quite reciprocated. But you’re also protective of the party page, and I can appreciate that.” The chief raised both brows close to his hairline. “Unfortunately, sir, he has a point. I don’t have enough jackass in me to run the party page as well as Jill can.”

  “I seem to sense the potential.” Chief Benedict laced his fingers together and leaned forward, his elbows resting on either side of his binder. “But it’s quite simple, Liam. Do you want to be on the Scribe staff this semester?”

  What kind of question was that? “Of course—”

  “Then we’re settled here.” He brushed his beard again. “Now, before we discuss the particulars of this year’s first issue, I want to remind you all that this year’s Best College Article deadline is at the end of next week.

  “Pick only what you believe are your top three pieces from last year. Two external judges from prominent newspaper agencies will be reading and ranking your articles. One from our own Post-Gazette and another from out of state. So please, consider wisely which pieces you’ll submit . . .”

  Drenched again, this time in afternoon rain, I let myself into apartment twenty-three, and lowered my bag next to my forgotten umbrella at the door. If I’d taken it this morning like I’d meant to, would the day have turned out differently?

  Maybe I wouldn’t have fallen over, gotten soaked, and arrived late to my meeting. Maybe that would’ve put the chief in a better mood. Maybe he would’ve changed his mind about me doing the party page?

  I stripped out of my wet clothes and padded to the laundry room to start a load.

  But it was what it was. I had fallen over, arrived late and wet—and tonight I’d have to do research for my first column.

  They’re only parties. I can handle it.

  I just have to be professional and choose an angle that will work for me. The politics of student parties, perhaps?

  Back at my bag, I pulled out my notebook and, bypassing the dining table by the large arched windows, moved to the couch. I took out the flyers I’d grabbed from bulletin boards on campus.

  The folded bunch rested heavy in my hand. One by one, I leafed through them. Bling Bash. Derelict Dance. Nightmare on Shady Avenue. Booze Banger.

  I shook my head at a crude dra
wing of a shot glass nestled between breasts. “Doesn’t that sound awful?” The only answer was an echo of my voice. Even the rain pattering against the window lessened.

  Thick clouds layered the apartment in dark shadows so I turned on a light before sliding out my laptop.

  I read through an email my mom sent me, and looked over her application to work as a nurse in a retirement home. After sending it back to her with a few minor suggestions, I began choosing my top three articles from last year for the BCA competition.

  The article I knew had to be submitted centered on the importance of student activism on campus. “By far my best work,” I said, shifting my feet over the cool hardwood floors.

  I really needed to get a rug, warm the place up some more.

  I hesitated before composing an email to my father. I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be when I wrote to him that I didn’t land the features editor position. We didn’t talk often, and the last time we saw each other face-to-face, while I was visiting New York, he calmly sat me at his desk, shaking his head.

  “Everyone has different abilities. I’m sure you’ll find something you’re good at, but you don’t have the right . . . personality to work as a journalist here.”

  I leaned forward, steepled my fingers together and rested my elbows on his desk. “I want a apprenticeship at this company. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  My father leaned back in his chair, frowning. “When I was at university, I held the student newspaper’s features editor position for two years. A tough feat, the competition was stiff. Do the same, and you have a apprenticeship.” He scribbled something in his diary. “But, Liam, there will be other things for you out there if you fail.”

  “I won’t fail.”

  I shut down my laptop. I wouldn’t tell him anything just yet. There had to be a way for me to land the features editor position.

  I picked up the flyers once more. Carrying them around the narrow kitchen island, I popped a slice of bread into the toaster. It sparked.