by Angel Lawson
Chapter 7
Morgan
She blinks, and from her position and the hard surface under her back she knows she’s back on the table. She feels the whisper of a paintbrush on her toes. She glances at the ceiling and it’s not the vaulted beams of the attic but the square mahogany tiles of the dining room. With a look upward, she spots Bunny and smiles.
“What are we doing here?” she asks. “Did the runes not work?”
Her voice comes out muffled, like she’s underwater. Bunny stands above her head, speaking but she can’t hear what he’s saying. A raven caws in the distance and he smiles, but it doesn’t reach his coppery eyes. She opens her mouth but a figure catches her eye and she looks to the side.
It’s Sam with his handsome, charming smile. A knotted bun of hair sits atop his head, making his cheekbones even more dramatic.
He holds a thin paintbrush dipped in gold and paints her left breast with delicate precision.
Before she can react, she feels the pinprick of both her nipples pebbling in pleasure and looks to her right.
Damien uses his own brush to coat her flesh. The crystal chandelier makes the smooth dome of his head gleam. His violet eyes focus intently on his work. His hands are quick and worshipful. A tremor coasts down her body.
Near her belly she feels the cool smear of paint followed by a sharp hunger in her loins. Morgan lifts her head to get a better view of Clinton placing kisses with gold-coated lips past her belly button. She smiles when she sees him, pleased. Another set of hands, strong and capable, push her legs apart. She searches in the hazy light, expecting to find Bunny but instead it’s Dylan between her thighs. A surge of warmth destabilizes her.
The lights flicker and in the dark she realizes the paintbrushes have become hands, mouths, and the velvet tips of hidden skin. Morgan blinks again and she’s on all fours. She can’t see her guardians but she feels them. Lord, she wants them. From the mouth suckling on her breast to the whisper of kisses on her neck. There’s the delicious feel of a tongue lathing against her most sensitive part, sending shockwaves up her body. There’s the heavy feel of a man behind her, his cock sliding between her cheeks.
A dim light fills the room and Morgan is astonished to find it coming from herself—from the runes glinting with life.
She turns her head to see which guardian is behind her, beg him to do it, take her virginity. She’s ready for the next step. With any of them. All of them…
A loud horn blares and I lurch forward, jostling against the seat.
“Sorry,” I say to the woman next to me, shifting back over to my seat.
“Are you okay?” she eyes my face. It’s heated. My armpits are drenched under my thin summer sweater. My panties are drenched and I’m thankful my skirt is black.
“I just don’t like small places. It makes me feel claustrophobic.” I stand and pull the cord. I need to get off the bus. Get some fresh air. What kind of dream was that—on the bus of all places?
The bus doors open with a whoosh. I stumble off, taking a gulp of the warm but fresh air. My feet touch the pavement and I’m grounded, the confusion of my dream—or was it just a fantasy?—dissipating.
The university office is only a few blocks away and my heart rate settles as I get closer. A shadow passes overhead and the ruffle of feathers draws my attention upward. A sleek, blue-black raven roosts above the office building. It ducks his head and blinks at me with one eye.
I feel a sense of familiarity and also a spark of anger. Are they following me? I know they’re technically my guardians, but I’ve never been told they would do this. I also didn’t know they could still shift.
Leaving the raven and the muggy air, I duck inside the building and head to Professor Christensen’s office.
The secretary waves me in. I have a standing weekly appointment to discuss my novel, Maverick’s Murder. I started writing this novel in my head many years ago, and then in college submitted a section to my creative writing teacher. She suggested I use it to apply to graduate school.
In my head, Maverick’s Murder was nothing but a story—a story I was deeply invested in. I thought about it. Dreamed about it. Frankly, I obsessed over it. Now I understand why. Maverick’s Murder isn’t about a girl and her birds. It’s about me, the Raven Queen and my murder of crows. My raven guardians.
The first passages in the book are memories. Slightly altered retellings of how, as a child, I had five guardian ravens that followed me around. They’d been assigned to me by the gods to monitor the Morrigan’s Darkness that resided inside. Agents of evil, in my book a cat and a prince, lured me into the woods behind my house to open a gate that flows between this world and another. On the other side is something I can only describe in the book as death; a vengeance wanting to consume the lives and souls on Earth.
It’s not pretend. It’s real, and if the Darkness lures me back again and that portal opens, the apocalypse will begin.
Professor Christensen’s door is open and I’m surprised to hear another voice in the room. The professor is incredibly punctual—always waiting for my arrival and dismissing me when it’s over. I stop just before entering, recognizing the voice. It’s Anita Cross. My critique partner.
I tap on the door and peek inside. They both smile when they see me.
“Morgan, come in.”
I greet them both and add to Anita, “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”
“My fault,” Professor Christensen says, leaning back in his seat. He’s distinguished as always, with his gray hair and expensive suit. “I had the crazy idea to get you both in here together. I wanted to hear how things are going.”
I’d read the first five chapters of Anita’s book. Her writing is spectacular—to the point it makes me feel a little inadequate. Interestingly, her book is a dystopian theme, focusing on an America in the distant future. Plague has taken the country and the survivors create a new breed of royalty.
I take the seat next to Anita. She’s poised and perfect-looking, of course. Not a hot mess of sex fantasies and sweat. “I’ve truly enjoyed reading Anita’s work. She’s an amazing author.”
“She says the same about you,” he replies. “Which is why I decided to give you both a little assignment. You’re almost too flattering of the other’s work. Like you’re afraid to help the other push a bit deeper. I’d like you to come up with three questions for the other author’s main characters, trade, and then answer truthfully. Dig into the meat of these creations, their true motives and desires.”
“That’s a great idea,” Anita says, scribbling the instructions on a note pad in her lap. I reach into my bag and rummage around for my own, dropping my pen three times in the process.
Today is not my day.
“I’d like you to get on this immediately,” Professor Christensen says. “Text one another the questions in the next twenty-four hours. Meet up again on Thursday to exchange ideas.” His blue eyes move between us. “Sound good?”
I’m mentally going over my schedule. Besides writing, I have my lessons back at The Nead. I’ll just have to rearrange some things. “Yes, that sounds great.”
“Morgan, maybe we can meet at your place. You have that fantastic library.”
I don’t like the idea of another woman in my home. I’m not exactly jealous—more protective than anything else. I’m also concerned about the increasing amount of magic being performed. Before I can come up with a good excuse Professor Christensen nods his head and says, “That’s a fantastic idea. There’s so much history to that house. I hope you make the most of your stay there.”
I have little choice but to relent. “We can meet at my place. I’ll text you the time, okay?”
“Perfect,” Anita says as she stands to leave. I struggle for an extra moment to get my notebook back in my too-full bag. “Morgan, can you stay for just a moment?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He stands and moves to close the door. When he returns to his desk he says, “How are things
with your housemates?”
I brush a curl of hair out of my eyes. “Good. They’re great, actually.”
A thin line creases on his forehead. “They’re not too distracting? I’d hate for something to derail you from your work.”
“Distracting?” I fight the heat in my chest. Hell yes, they were distracting. But also sweet, encouraging, and teaching me how to survive. “That hasn’t been a problem at all. Some days I barely see them.”
Unless I’m dreaming of them. Touching them. Testing their mettle as I seek my mate.
“Good, good. I just wanted to keep up. It’s an unusual situation.”
I frown. “Have you ever met any of them before, Professor Christensen? Are there specific reasons for your concerns?”
He clears his throat. “No, I haven’t, but a few have reputations in the community. Underground exhibits and performances. I admit it’s nothing more than rumor but it’s my job to advise you.”
Now I’m annoyed but try to keep the tone out of my voice. “Are you finding my submissions lacking? Is there a problem with my work?”
“No.”
“Well, then I need you to trust that I’m an adult and can manage my personal life.”
“It’s just that you have no parents to rely on—”
“My parents?” A cold, angry feeling sparks in my chest. “Professor, I made it through my senior year of high school and four years of college without their guidance. I think I can manage.”
I grab my bag off the floor and exit the office, even though I hear him calling my name. Out on the street, I gather my composure. Christensen may be an overbearing ass but he did do me a favor by revealing the rumors about the boys. I knew they were going somewhere at night.
Now I plan on finding out more.
Chapter 8
Morgan
Davis, the butler at The Nead, waits for me in the foyer when I arrive at home. He hands me a tray of lunch. I thank him and he adds, “Don’t forget your appointment with Master Dylan at one o’clock.”
“Sharp,” I say, rolling my eyes and shoving a piece of cheese into my mouth. “Got it.”
Although there’s nothing specific to confirm this, I’m getting the feeling Dylan is trying to push me away. It’s stupid. He’s the one that broke the news about me being the Morrigan and about the need for me to find a mate. He understands the importance—as much as anyone else. Except when I’m with him it’s all history and business and death and war. As I approach my door, I know that even though we haven’t crossed any intimate barriers with one another, it’s going to happen. It has to. Soon.
Maybe today.
Quickly, I shower, rinsing off the sweat and grime from my bus ride. My mind wanders to the assignment given to me by Professor Christensen. Anita’s book has three main characters—each seemingly lucky to have survived the deadly virus that wiped out a huge portion of humanity. They take on roles of leadership as communities rebuild. One female and two males. They fight over her affection and the glory of producing the first heir to their new world.
I lather and wash my hair, feeling the suds drip down my body. It brings to mind my dream on the bus. The feeling of all the men touching me at once. Five men.
What have I gotten myself into?
I rinse out the shampoo and turn off the water. I only take a few seconds to dry off and slip into the closest thing: a black and white print sundress. The straps are made of thick, glossy ribbon that tie in a criss-cross in the middle of my back. The dress doesn’t require a bra but I do find a pair of black lace panties in the top drawer. Once things heated up between me and the guardians I made a trip to the nearest lingerie boutique. It seemed necessary.
The clock by my bed says 12:57 and I do not want to incur Dylan’s wrath again. With damp hair and zero makeup, I grab my homework and leather-bound notebook before racing up the stairs to Dylan’s quarters.
I run into Bunny at the top of the stairs. Fully aware that I’m pushing the time I grab him by the arm and ask, “Do those runes have any side effects?”
He frowns. “Like what?”
“Dreams? Fevers?”
“It’s possible,” he replies. His clothes are covered in paint and there are two blue smudges on his cheek under his glasses. “Did something happen?”
“Not bad.” No, that dream wasn’t bad. It was…just a lot. “Honestly, I was probably just tired. Things have been a little hectic.”
A line of concern slashes across his forehead. “If you need to slow down, say something to Dylan. He’ll understand.”
I glance at my watch. 12:59. “Shit, I gotta go.” I lean over and give him a quick kiss on the lips, feeling a bit of my anxiety burst. God, these men are better than Xanax. “Bye!”
Running down the hall, I notice Dylan has left the door ajar once again. I step over the threshold right at one p.m.
“I made it,” I say, walking into the main study. Dylan leans over a table, his eyes focused on a book. “Hello?”
He glances at the empty chair across the table from him. “Sit. Get out your assignment.”
I follow instructions, pushing back the heavy wooden chair and flipping through my book. The room is silent—there’s not the constant strain of music like in Clinton’s room or the gym. Nor the hum of machinery from Damien’s workshop out back. Sam is eternally talking. To himself. To me. To the images in his photographs. And Bunny is so engrossed in his paintings sometimes you forget he’s there entirely.
Dylan’s presence is unmistakable. He’s the sentry, of course, the first of my guard. He’s always been there to make sure I’m safe and there are no predators or dangers around. Even in the silence it’s impossible to ignore him. His size. His face. The assured confidence that rolls off his body.
“Did you complete your reading?” he asks, finally looking at me. His eyes take in my still-wet hair and plain face. Unlike the others that brighten when they see me, Dylan’s expression is indifferent.
“Yes.” I push the book forward to reveal the page. The books in Dylan’s library go much deeper than any account of the Morrigan’s history via an internet search, or even the university’s well-stocked library. “According to the lore, the Morrigan was not always so angry. She had a happy childhood but she did have the heart of a warrior. Which is why she was smitten with the Cu Cuchulainn. She thought they could run the battlefield together.”
Dylan watches me as I speak.
“Cu didn’t believe a woman could match his strength, but he did find the Morrigan’s body worthy of a tryst. They made love by the river bank—one that soon would flow with blood from the battle—and when they united, she thought they would be partners forever.”
“Then he rejected her,” Dylan says.
I point to a passage in the book. “He took her virginity—then her heart. He mocked her desire to fight side-by-side. He left her, stole from her, abandoned her, and that’s when something fragile and dangerous in her broke.” I look into Dylan’s brilliant blue eyes. “She summoned her rage. And the ravens followed. She sent the birds to be a harbinger of death so Cu would understand his fate was sealed. Then she turned on his army and slaughtered them on the battlefield. The blood from the slain men soaked in her feet, building a force of rage that scorched the world and blocked out the sun. The land turned barren. The sky an ashy gray. The gods shut down the entry points between worlds, locking that one away from this one.”
Dylan leans back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. “Throughout history the barriers have been weakened and broken, allowing the essence of the Morrigan to cross over. The black plague was one time. The Spanish flu was another. The sickness sometimes infected individuals directly. Attila the Hun. Franco. Genghis Kahn. Queen Mary. And of course, Hitler and Mussolini.”
“Wait, the sickness infected them and turned them into mass murderers?”
“Yes. Sometimes it took decades to stop either the actual illness from wiping out humanity or the people that carried the virus.” He
sighs. “The difference now is that that same sickness is inside of you, Morgan, and the gods anticipated it. They gave you the five of us as your guardians. Only we have the strength to tolerate the pain and aggression that builds up inside.”
“But only one of you is my true mate.”
“Yes.” His jaw tics. “Eventually, the ones not chosen will leave for new assignments.”
Leave? I don’t like the idea of that at all.
I push back my chair and walk across the room to the expansive wall of windows that looks out over the city. The sky is a bright blue. The park below a vivid green. I feel Dylan behind me, a charged current passing between us.
“The whole thing is very surreal,” I finally say.
“I imagine it’s hard to comprehend. The gods blessed you with snippets of the Morrigan’s memory and the ability to write them in your book. Just as they have done the same with the guardians and their skills. It’s so important that you’re strong enough, because the time will come when you’ll be tested. It has happened to each one of those leaders I mentioned. Do you realize that most of them came from lower positions in society? Regular soldiers. Peasants. Failed students. Pathetic leaders of rebellions. Yet they all lit a spark in their followers. That spark is the Darkness.”
“And one day it will come for me?”
“Again. It already has once. That day behind your family’s home. The day your parents died. We shut it down, but other opportunities will arise. Soon.”
I know the warning is true. I feel it in the way my skin itches. The way my stomach twists with constant desire. Still staring out the window I ask, “Why won’t you touch me?”
“Excuse me?”
“You haven’t touched me, Dylan. Not like the others. If it’s so important for me to pick a mate—test your strength—and control the Darkness, then why haven’t you stepped up to the plate?”
He pales, making his eyes seem brighter and jet-black hair darker. “I’ve been focused on your studies. Have the others not fulfilled your needs?”
“Some of them,” I reply. “But you know exactly how I’m doing. We’re all tuned in to one another. You feel what I feel. Something is holding you back and I’d like to know what it is.”