Mother gathered the billowing fabric of her skirt to drop to her knees beside them. Gently, she cocooned Edgar’s hand in both of hers. Pressing his fingers to her cheek, she dotted his palm with a quick kiss. “Edgar, you do not have to do this. There are other options. Remember Stanley Lankey from down the street? Ever since he fell off his parents’ roof he spends his days home with his mother. They make cookies together. She wheels him out into the garden where he watches her tend to the plants. That sounds nice, does it not? We could do that!”
“Mother, the boy is not an invalid, nor shall we make plans to treat him as one.” Father urged in his deep baritone that left no room for argument or discussion. “Edgar is ten years old and is dabbling with all the facets of what it means to be a man. If he claims he is ready for this, we must trust him and support his decision.”
Edgar’s scrawny chest puffed to emulate the proud stance his father often assumed. “I’m ready. I know it.”
“Very good, then.” Flecks of gold, that only appeared when he was truly pleased, beamed within the molasses pools of John Allen’s eyes. “Mother, please fetch his satchel and umbrella. We will have the carriage driver drop him at the school gate.”
Indecision marred Mrs. Allen’s elegant perfection with concerned creases that cut between her brows. Pressing her lips together hard enough to cause white lines around her mouth, she rose to her feet, flipped her mane of pin-curls, and—with visible reluctance—strode off on her task.
Only at her exit did Father’s brave façade crack. His hands slid down his son’s arms until he caught both the boy’s wrists. Turning Edgar’s hands palm up, he inspected the gloves, searching for any snag or catch that would allow the horrifying truth to seep through. “Whatever happens, do not remove your gloves. Promise me that?” His gaze scoured his son’s face, encouraging the words he longed to hear to tumble passed his lips.
“Of course! I promise, Papa!”
Folding both his hands around his son’s, John brought them to his chest as if in prayer. Suddenly, the man that always seemed able to mold the world to his will appeared genuinely vulnerable … and frightened. “If anything happens, Edgar, anything that scares you or that you cannot control, you run straight home without pause. It will not make you a coward, son. It will make you a man aware of the severity of his condition. Do you understand?”
Edgar swallowed hard around the lump of trepidation that had wriggled its way into his throat. “Yes, Papa. I understand. Yet you must know that nothing will happen. Death does not loom on school yards.”
Outside the wind lashed and whistled, its powerful gust allowing a nearby tree branch to scratch against the windowpane like bony fingers.
“Edgar Allen,” John muttered, staring out at the threatening storm. “I fear wherever you are, death will always follow.”
Happiness was shoes clumping through busy halls, the hum of constant chatter, and boys stealing one another’s caps and playing ‘keep away’ with them. Edgar watched all this as an outsider not yet initiated into the fold, yet he remained optimistic. More than one of the lads gave him a friendly nod of the head in greeting. A simple gesture that made the heart of Poe, the eternal outsider, sing. To be one of them, to be included. Such an idea was nothing short of pure bliss.
Despite his distaste for Mrs. Nesbit, Edgar did owe her great respect. He was right on track with all his classes, except for mathematics where he was actually a lesson or two ahead. Retrieving his coat from the row of hooks, he prepared to join the other boys for their post-lunch outing to stretch their legs. The heels of his shoes scuffed across the hardwood floor, his hands plunging deep into his pockets. Moving with the crowd toward the door, he kept his gaze cast to the floor. Air, still crisp from the morning rain, swirled around him the moment he stepped into the yard.
Many a time Edgar had stared out his bedroom at the orchard next door and tried to picture what an actual schoolyard would look like. The reality did not disappoint. Under the canopy of a towering oak, a group of boys engaged in a lively debate over a leather bound text. At the picnic table beside them, another group set up dominos in a path that led across the table, down to the bench, and ended with a spiral on the ground. In the center of it all sat the field where a dozen or so lads retrieved cricket equipment from a storage closet and assigned themselves positions for a game. Unsure of where he fit in any of this, Edgar skimmed along the brown stone school. The rough brick snagged his wool jacket as he slid down the wall to watch their game.
“Ayo, ayo, chaps! It looks like we ‘ave a new bilge rat in our galley!” A hefty lad with a shock of red hair and forest of freckles flung his cricket bat over his shoulder, shooting a grin to Edgar.
More than anything, Edgar wanted to acknowledge the boy’s greeting. Unfortunately, his own painful anxiety allowed him little more than a forced glance, before returning his stare to the top of his shoes.
It was a rodent-faced boy with a crooked smile that came to his aid. “D-d-don’t mind H-h-Harold,” he stammered. “H-h-he learned of the East India Company hiring C-c-Captain Kidd to combat p-p-piracy in history class t-t-today and n-n-now wants to be just like him.”
“Not just like him,” Edgar softly advised, brushing the dirt from the tips of his shoes. “He was later tried for treason and hanged.”
“Blimey,” Harold’s face fell, his bat wielding arm dropping limp at his side. “We didn’t get that far in the lesson yet.”
A plain looking boy with sandy-brown hair hanging in his eyes flung an arm around Harold’s broad shoulders. “You cannot let that bit of trivia stop you! Your frame could use a bit of stretching!”
Harold used excessive force to shove the boy away, sending him stumbling back three paces. “To bowler’s position with you! If you want to have time for a game at all!”
“I’m Douglas b-b-by the way,” the boy with the lopsided grin announced, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the other players taking their position. “D-d-do you play?”
Edgar gnawed on his lower lip, his own inadequacy growing into a ravenous monster that threatened to swallow him whole. “I know the theory behind it. That the bowler bowls to the batsman, who then attempts to score runs. Unfortunately, I have never had the opportunity to play … or even watch a game for that matter.”
Douglas nodded as if he understood Edgar’s very plight. “Watch a g-g-game or two. S-s-soon as you are ready, you can p-p-play substitute.”
With an eager nod, Edgar settled back on his heels to watch as the game began. The blond fellow, referred to as Anderson by the other players, seemed quite the bowler. The majority of batters swung and missed at each of his powerful throws. All took turns taunting each other’s failed attempts at bat, yet none seemed up to the task of besting Anderson.
Until Harold stepped up.
Ball and bat met in a clap of thunder, wood splintering at the impact. The bat snapped in two, the ball shooting out long behind the hefty redhead.
“What should we call that play?” Harold bellowed, leading the boys in a rousing chorus of laughter.
“Land a second one, Harry, and we can name it after you!” Anderson teased, grabbing another ball from the pile beside him and rolling it in his palm.
Harold tossed the half of the bat he still held aside and accepted the new one offered to him by Douglas. “Not a hard feat, considering you throw like my sister!”
“Do we want to speak of sisters?” Anderson smirked, throwing the ball and catching it behind his back. “Because with tits as big as yours you could pass for one!”
“From what I heard you know the curve of your own sister’s breast well.” Harold took a practice swing, a cat that ate the canary grin curling his thick lips. “Amusing you must be one of the poor girl’s chores.”
Ignoring their banter, Douglas bent to retrieve the section of shattered bat that had fallen beside Harold’s feet. His bent posture prevented him from seeing Anderson, face flushed with aggravation, arch back and whip the ball with all hi
s might. Oblivious to the warning cries of the horrified onlookers—Edgar’s own voice among them—Harold instinctively swung just as Douglas’s head rose at their shouts.
Many ghoulish things would haunt Edgar Allen Poe all of his days. None more so than the gruesome, hollowed thunk of the bat colliding with Douglas’s temple, splitting his skull open wide. His head snapped to the side in an inhuman angle, a steady current crimson gore pulsating from the wound. The bat slipped from Harold’s guilty fingers, slowing time with each of its rotations before hitting the ground. The entire schoolyard seemed to suck in the same shocked breath. Moving as one body, every boy rose to their feet in fretful panic. The hue of Douglas’s skin drained chalk white, his eyes rolling back as he toppled to the ground, stiff as an axed tree. His jaw hit first, driving into the dirt with the unmistakable crunch of bone. Like an enraged mother aching at the pain of her young, life picked that moment to roar back to real time.
Anderson dove to Douglas’s side, cradling his friend’s lulling head in his lap. Yanking off his blazer, he pressed it firmly against the spurting gash. “Harold, go get the school nurse! Now!”
Harold stood rooted to that spot, gaping down at the expanding patch of blood soaked grass stained an inky black. Sweat dampened hair clung to his head as Harold shook his head in denial of the truth staring back at him with fixed eyes.
“Harold? Go!” Anderson bellowed.
Seeing how fear had immobilized the larger boy, two of the domino players darted inside to fetch help. A crowd gathered behind Anderson, each boy looking every second of their youth in the face of true travesty.
It could have taken a minute or an eternity for the nurse and two teachers to come spilling out of the school’s double doors. They brought with them a flurry of activity: frantic footfalls, fumbling hands assessing wounds, exchanged looks of shock and knowing. Two fingers nestling into the crook of Douglas’s neck, just below his slack jawline. And the head shake—that fateful gesture that dashes all hope without a single word being uttered.
Violent sobs shook Harold’s hefty frame as the nurse shook out Anderson’s blood soaked blazer and used it to cover Douglas’s face. Students huddled together, whispering their shock and awe of the unimaginable. All this noise and chaos faded to a dull buzz in the background of Edgar’s existence. Staring down at his hands, he pinched the tip of fabric on one gloved finger and peeled the leather away. Alabaster fingers wiggled back at him, daring him, taunting him. Whispering he could be a hero—with a simple touch.
“Dougie, come to dinner,” a high-pitched voice mocked from beside him. “Every day at dinner time, as long as I can remember, that is how my mother called to me. The fact that I was on the precipice of manhood made no difference to her. Why would it? She saw me as nothing more than her precious baby boy who only stopped wetting his bed two short years ago.”
Eyes bulging, bile rising up the back of his throat, Edgar slowly turned to find a form of Douglas standing beside him. The boy leaned casually against the wall, seemingly oblivious to his gaping head wound or the blood that matted into the hair around it. His jaw hung unhinged on one side, giving his smile the demented twist of death.
“Do you think she will finally call me Douglas at the wake?” The ghoul’s smile widened, grey gums visible where his jaw swung slack.
Edgar’s chin retreat to his chest, his hands rising to curl around his ears. “Y-y-you’re not here, cannot be real.”
“L-l-liked my stutter so much you had to steal it, Edgar?” Douglas scoffed, dabbing at his wound with the tips of his fingers, then wiping the ooze on the leg of his pants. “But know, my friend, that I am very real. Of course a little less real than I would be if you had used that little talent of yours.” Douglas’s head rolled toward Edgar, his eyes narrowing with malicious intent.
Edgar’s nervous gaze flicked around the crowd in front of him. No one was turning their way or tearing their stares from the body still sprawled in the grass. Which meant this little haunt was reserved for him alone.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Edgar whispered, trying not to let his lips move, else he look like the mad loon he was certain he’d become.
Douglas rocked up onto one shoulder to face him. “Oh, yes you do, Edgar Allen Poe. We all know about you. What you are, what you can do.” He leaned in close, his rancid breath making the air around them unbreathable. “Did you think you could hide it from us forever? That darkness within you offers such promise to all of us that have found ourselves in the unfortunate vocation as worm food.” His head fell back to guffaw at his own humor, his jaw fully unhinging like a hungry serpent.
Blinking hard, Edgar tried to free himself from what had to be a macabre hallucination. “What do you want from me?” His voice betrayed him by cracking, rising with the bubbling panic he could no longer contain.
A few of the nearby boys glanced his way, sizing him up with judgmental glares.
“What do we want? Well, let us take a moment to ponder that. There is that magic touch of yours that could give any of us a second chance to shimmy back into our meat suits and dance. That is, quite obviously, a hardy handshake we deeply covet. However, there is also the more … subtle gift of yours. Where, once you find yourself by the location of our demise, you can see us plain as day.” Douglas’s head dipped, allowing him to glare up at Edgar from under his lowered brow. Blood welled within the whites of his eyes, spilling over the lids in ruby torrents. “And that makes us want to play.”
Finding himself at sanity’s limit, Edgar pushed himself off the wall. His loose glove fluttered to the ground at his feet as he sprinted across the schoolyard.
“Edgar? Edgar Allen! Where are you going?” one of the teachers called after him.
Edgar didn’t pause to acknowledge him, but slammed into the gate and forced it open with fumbling hands. The heels of his shoes dug deep into the soil with each pounded stride.
Even his own heaving breath huffing in his ears couldn’t drown out the chilling echo that pursued him. “See you soon, E-E-Edgar!”
5
Ridley
“By definition it means ‘female dog,’ which is why calling someone that is so comical!” Rip gushed, facing the closed door before him.
Ireland cast a sideway glance to Noah, her expression dripping with judgment. “This is your doing. You get to have the appropriate public conversation topics talk with him.”
“I totally deserve that,” Noah admitted, reaching one arm out to knock again. “Peolte said nine a.m., right?”
Before his fist could meet the door for a second rap, it flung open wide. A stout, frazzled looking woman, whose caramel-skin was dotted with beads of sweat, grabbed his arm and yanked him into the apartment with an impressive amount of force.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she fretted, both of her quaking hands clinging to Noah’s wrist. “I’ve never seen him like this before! You must help!”
“Uh … if you called for some kind of assistance, we aren’t it,” Noah stammered, his confused gaze drifting to the vacant, yet extremely expensive looking, fish tanks that lined both sides of the stark white hallway. “We’re here about a piece of artwork—Ireland?”
Ireland caught his hint, knew that to be her cue to thrust her tattooed arm forward for the question and answer portion of their visit. Unfortunately, the perplexing matters of her own cursed existence couldn’t break through unexpected fog clouding her mind.
True darkness lurked within those walls. It batted its lashes, curled one taloned finger, and beckoned her closer. Shuffling forward without an actual invitation, Ireland heard nothing but the seductive symphony of her racing heart thumping against her ribs.
“It’s like stumbling into the nest of the Skymall core demographic,” Noah muttered, taking in the white, leather, and chrome décor. His quippy comment cut off short as his gaze fell on his hypnotized sweetie.
Ireland could feel the heat of his stare boring into her back and wanted to reassure him,
but couldn’t tear herself from the magnetic pull tethered to her very core.
“Ireland?” Noah ventured. “You okay? You’re not in need of that certain special piece of jewelry I’m holding, are you?”
“There’s no time!” the woman, Ireland assumed to be Lupé, insisted. Hooking her arm through Ireland’s, she herded her in the direction of the open French doors that led out onto the balcony. “He’s going to fall! You must help him!”
Feeling her skin was scorching beneath Lupé’s touch, Ireland shook herself free. There he stood, the beacon of darkness that had called to her. Perched atop the cement ledge that acted as the balcony rail, his stare cast ten stories straight down. Shocked gasps and whispered plans buzzed around her, annoying as a bothersome fly. Ireland swallowed hard and flicked her tongue over suddenly dry lips. Stepping out on to the balcony, the wind whipping her hair from her face, Ireland gaped in awe at … Ridley.
“A parade of fallen angels. Their sin? A simple step.” His chin tipped toward her, allowing her no further acknowledgment than his perfectly carved profile. “I can see them all.”
“Has he self-medicated in some fashion?” Rip asked, straddling the balcony threshold to maintain a safe distance from the potential jumper. “I once tried opiates and thought myself to be a barn owl.”
“No, sir,” Lupé fretted, nervously wringing her hands. “He tried a friend’s homemade absinthe once. Made him think he was Spiderman and he got stuck up in the ceiling rafters for three hours. After that he swore he would never do anything like that again.”
“He’s not on drugs.” Though the words slipped from Ireland’s lips, their deep gravel tremor belonged to another. “He’s cursed.”
Ridley’s spine straightened in response. Crossing one leg over the other, he slowly turned their way. This simple, yet dangerous move caused Lupé to clamp a hand over her terrified yelp. The man they had met mere hours ago was gone, robbed of his polished perfection. His onyx hair darted out in a disheveled mess. The peaches and cream pallor of his skin had drained ashen. A shadow of stubble had sprouted across his jawline and lip, sharpening his features and giving him an alluring edge of mystery.
Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) Page 4