Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  Ireland filled her lungs and forced the breath out through pursed lips. “I just wanted to know the origins of my tattoo. Maybe get a little insight into who made me the Horseman’s bitch—”

  “Heehee, bitch,” Rip giggled, despite the suddenly somber mood.

  Purposely, she chose to ignore his amusement over his new favorite word. “But, you’re right. We need to keep an eye on him. Find out if he’s going to end up caught in some crazy poltergeist time loop like I did. Even if it means following him to what has to be a pretty friggin’ crucial tennis match to interrupt his current cloud-o-crazy.”

  “Uh …” Pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, Noah pivoted Ireland’s head toward the window. “I don’t think we’re headed to any kind of country club.”

  Outside, high rises had been replaced by dilapidated housing. Shiny town cars and taxis had switched out for lowered rides and pounding base.

  “It could still be a country club,” Ireland argued weakly. “Maybe the membership dues are just insanely reasonable.”

  A scraggly beard wedged itself into the conversation, Rip craning around Noah with his watery eyes widened to goose eggs. “You know all of those horrible stories depicting New York as a terribly scary place? I fear we have found ourselves in the birthplace of that particular reputation.”

  Brakes squeaked as the bus slowed to yet another stop, and the door hissed open.

  “This is it!” Ridley instantly brightened. Bolting from his seat, he flipped his covered racquet over his shoulder.

  “Of course it is.” Rip yawned, reluctantly rising to his feet to follow his troop from the bus. “The upside is if my sleep curse strikes, I will blend with all the other vagabonds slumbering on the sidewalks.”

  She couldn’t have prevented it if she wanted to. Horns honking. Brakes squealing. Rip, halfway across the street, spinning at their high-pitched screech. Black clouds, reeking of burnt rubber, billowing out from the tires of the fish-tailing full-sized pickup truck.

  But the ugly truth was, part of her didn’t want to prevent it.

  Ireland’s heart stuttered in her chest. Her breath coming in anxious pants as the bumper slammed into Rip’s knees, rolling him over the hood and shattering the windshield. She loved her friend, wished him no harm. Yet she couldn’t deny the fiery flush that tingled over her skin, sparking every nerve ending with violent delight. Her mouth watered at the blood that gurgled over his parted lips, staining his beard as it puddled beneath his head.

  Her name formed on Noah’s lips as he darted between cars. The sound of his call drowned out by the deafening roar of her pulse pounding in her ears. Hooking his forearms under Rip’s arms, Noah eased the injured man from the hood and immediately began CPR.

  Such a good boy.

  Working so hard.

  Completely oblivious to the truck door opening, or the hooded figure that emerged. Thick weave fabric, so eerily familiar, brushed against the driver’s calves as they rounded the open door.

  My cloak, Ireland’s muddled mind managed to form the thought only to lose it to the tight fist of fear that constricted her throat.

  Her gaze locked, transfixed, on the narrow, female hands that rose to grasp the hood’s edge. Vertigo pinched her reality, stretching it out wide, before snapping it back with dizzying force. The earth itself seemed to buck beneath her, her knees threatening to give.

  The face beneath the hood glaring back at her … was her own.

  “You are death,” her doppelgänger purred through blue-kissed lips. The black, scrolled veins visible beneath her skin moving and shifting like living artwork.

  “I am not.” Ireland’s nostrils flared, her palms itching to call for the reassurance of her weapons. “You are the monster.”

  “You’d love to think that, wouldn’t you?” Her darker self turned away, a prowling panther not the least bit concerned by the quaking antelope before it, and sauntered to Noah’s side.

  Flaxen hair fell into his eyes as he glanced up at her … and froze. His life saving task all but forgotten. One seductive curl of her finger was all the motivation he needed to raise to his feet. Truly a man bewitched, who refused to allow even a blink to break his enraptured stare.

  “You are me, and I you.” Curling her fingers around the collar of his shirt, her Hessian counterpart pulled Noah’s body against her. Her lips teased over his, causing his entire frame to tremble at her touch. “We are the harbinger of death. Our very touch is as deadly as a blade when wielded properly.”

  In a blur of speed, she stabbed her arm forward. A choked gasp eked past Noah’s slack jaw. His chin dropped to his chest, staring in bewildered astonishment at the hand buried wrist deep in his chest.

  “I-Ireland?” he croaked, accusation and confusion gouging deep lines between his brows.

  Sticky, wetness beneath her hand yanked Ireland’s head down sharp. Her cloak snapped out behind her in the night breeze, its familiar cadence welcoming her home. She had become the beast, Noah’s still beating heart pulsating in her grasp. She wanted to loosen her hold, to set him free. Even so, her murderous limb rose, holding the dying muscle up for him to see.

  “Nothing to offer, but death.” Crimson streaks raced down her fingers, dripping from her palm as she dug her nails in deep … and squeezed.

  “Ireland? The flashing, illuminated man means walk,” Noah patiently explained, gesturing to the street sign behind him. “Look, it’s even counting down for you! You now have 16 seconds to cross the street before this become a game of Frogger.”

  Ireland came to with a start, finding herself standing on the opposite side of the four lane street from her troop with her frontal lobe throbbing. Blinking hard, she took a quick beat to clear her head before darting across the street like a cat duct taped to a firecracker.

  “There she is. See traffic lights are our frie—whoa, okay.” Noah’s glib comment cut off the second Ireland threw herself at him.

  Her arms twined around his neck, squeezing tight as she peppered his face with kisses.

  “Yes, crossing the street can be scary.” He patted her back in comfort, shooting Rip a confused cringe. “It was pretty touch-and-go there for a minute, but you totally made it.”

  Ireland’s breath came in stuttered gasps. Reluctantly she pulled away, resting her forehead against his chin. “Just had a moment. Like the library all over again, only without the charming third person perspective.”

  “Was that code for something?” Noah asked Rip over her head in a barely audible whisper.

  “I’ll explain later, when she’s not shaking like a nervous chihuahua.” Craning his neck over Noah’s shoulder, Rip invaded Ireland’s space with an expectant stare. “While I’m sure this moment is justified by some scarring form of torture the Horseman inflicted upon you, I must point out that Ridley just disappeared around the corner. Perhaps you could put a pin in this particular meltdown until later? We can all watch that movie about iron magnolias and weep over a communal box of tissues.”

  Centering all the physical and emotional angst from the Hessian’s cruel joke into her core, Ireland pushed it down and buried it deep. “No,” she said as she steeled her spine and pried herself free from the comfort of Noah’s arms. “I’m fine. Let’s go get Ridley.”

  The trio rounded a bend landscaped with mulch and fresh saplings, their strides matched in determination. Immediately, they stopped short. Ridley stood statue still; a display of chiseled—yet slightly insane—beauty, staring eagerly at the charming white bungalow before him.

  Blue eyes, wide with hope, flickered her way. His smile spread a touch too wide, crossing the threshold into manic. “This is it. The orangutan told me.”

  While her boys hung back, Ireland approached with cautious steps. “Ridley,” she tsked in her most maternal tone, “don’t you know not to believe every primate that talks to you?”

  Her words stole the smile from his face, forcing on a mask of aghast revulsion. “This one had a blade!” he hissed
in an urgent whisper.

  Grinding the butt of her palms into her temples, Ireland massaged her head in small circles. The base drum headache had swelled into a pounding marching band drumline. “I-I have no idea how to respond to that.”

  “Neither did I,” Ridley shrugged, his stare wandering back to the small house so painstakingly maintained. The covered porch and walkway were framed by meticulously groomed flower gardens. To the right of the stairs, nestled in a bed of burgundy and yellow mums, sat a bronze engraved plaque.

  Ireland rocked forward on the balls of her feet. Stretching her neck to see, she read it out loud, “Brooklyn Historical Society; Cottage of Edgar Allen Poe.”

  Noah bumped Rip’s arm with his elbow. “You know anything about this?”

  Rip directed his answer to Ireland instead, weariness adding a few more years to his centuries of life. “I have told you before of the cloaked men that gathered a group of us and stressed the urgency of us hiding the truth behind our situations. Those men demanded absolute confidentiality. We were not allowed to tell one another much of anything that may give away what they considered to be ‘too much.’ However,” starting at his mustache, Rip brushed his hand down the length of his beard, “I have since seen pictures of Mr. Poe, and I do believe him to have been the slightly troubled lad that sat directly beside me. I sincerely wish I had more information than that to offer.”

  Ireland’s chin dipped in a brief nod. Beside her, Ridley shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Under his breath he muttered incoherent words in a methodic cadence. A soul lost, searching for answers to questions he couldn’t fathom to ask. She knew that feeling well. She’d been there herself, recent enough for the memory to still sting.

  Irving.

  Poe.

  She was right. The pattern was repeating.

  “Ridley.” His name slipped from her lips in a throaty breath. “Is there something in there you need?”

  The once suave businessman nodded. His glossy veneer rubbed away to reveal the frightened, child-like reality beneath.

  “Then let’s go find it.” Flipping her hair from her eyes, and refusing to grant her throbbing head another moments thought, she offered Ridley her hand, “Together.”

  Tentatively, he laced his sweat-damped hand with hers. His eyes snapping open wide the second their skin touched. Unbridled awe dawned across his face, brightening the shadows that burrowed into the hollows of his features.

  “All right,” Ireland snipped, fighting off the urge to retract her hand. “Quit looking at me like Heaven opened and angels are singing, and let’s get this over with.”

  Prompting him forward with a light tug, the two strode inside. Side-by-side.

  8

  Edgar

  “I could make it all go away. I long to make that so.” Douglas murmured against Edgar’s ear, his rancid breath causing the young man’s nose to twitch with disgust. “All you have to do is listen to me—to us. Help us, Edgar, in ways we can no longer help ourselves. You do that, and your existence will instantly become far less … dreary.”

  Edgar’s head twitched to the side, beads of sweat forming along his hairline. He tried to stay attentive to the dinner conversation, for his father’s sake. A task that proved increasingly difficult. Eyeballs rolling in the ice water. Maggots squirming between the tongs of his fork and all through his salad. None of it was real, he knew that. Still, it succeeded in squashing his appetite—as it always did—and made him thirst for a long pull off the freshly purchased flask in his coat.

  “Are you well, son?” Father’s bushy-bearded business associate, whose name Edgar could not recall, asked between mouthfuls. “You are chasing that lettuce all around the bowl, yet have scarcely managed a bite.”

  Across the table John Allen’s posture went rigid. His jaw tightening in barely concealed disapproval.

  “I am, sir,” Edgar forced his gaze up to their guest, hoping that—despite how awkward it felt—his attempt at a smile came across even a smidgeon believable. All the while he tried to wade through the murky fog of his mind for a plausible explanation. “I … ahem … had a rather large lun—”

  Distraction picked that moment to blow in on a gust of fresh air and jasmine. Edgar blinked hard, momentarily convinced only he could see this yellow-haired seraph before him. The low scoop neck of her emerald green gown hinting at the supple curves beneath the layers of flowing fabric.

  “Ah! There you are, my darling.” Mr. Reynolds dabbed the corners of his mouth with his cloth napkin before pushing his chair back from the table. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet my daughter—”

  “Lenore.” The name the angels themselves must have dubbed this enchanting vision slipped free from Edgar’s lip before he could think to filter it. He slowly rose from the table on wobbly legs that threatened to fold beneath him.

  Her head cocked with interest, she turned his way. A soft smile lifted the corner of her luscious lips as she peered at him with eyes the exquisite violet shade of impending twilight. “That’s right,” a lilt of laughter bubbled through her tone. “And you are?”

  His mouth opened to answer when a sudden rush of awareness seized in his throat in a constricting vice grip.

  Stillness. All around. Douglas’s unsettling presence, along with his maddening tricks and illusions, were … gone. No longer did the shadows across the ground elongate into disfigured ghouls shrieking his name and pawing at him with decaying fingers. Tranquility had followed this mesmerizing beauty. Peace and serenity had a name—more beautiful than any other.

  “Lenore,” Edgar whispered a second time.

  “Well, that will make it easy to remember.” Lenore giggled, gracing him with the full wattage of her beaming smile. “However it will be dreadfully confusing at gatherings of any sort.”

  “Edgar,” his father injected, wiping his face before standing in greeting. “His name, which seems to have eluded him, is Edgar Allen. And I am his father, John.”

  “The pleasure is mine, Monsieur Allen.” Lenore offered him her hand, dipping in a slight curtsey. John dotted it with a quick kiss, then caught Edgar’s eye to silently encourage him to do the same.

  A hot flush rushed to Edgar’s round face. His trembling hands racked over his unruly hair, suddenly wishing he had taken a bit more time to tame it. It probably jotted off his head like a plethora of carrot sprouts. Even so, he eagerly anticipated the offering of her hand … which failed to come. Instead, she momentarily stuck a blade into his heart by taking a step back toward the door she entered.

  The blow was softened the moment she spoke. “I passed the loveliest garden off the foyer. Edgar, would you mind showing it to me? I am enamored with flowers of any sort.”

  Before Edgar could trumpet his ready acceptance, Mr. Reynolds intervened. His plump chest expanding in a huff. “Lenore, you know this to be a business dinner. Such flights of fancy are highly inappropriate.”

  She waved his bothersome words away with a flick of her delicate hand. “Yes, and I know that Edgar and I were only brought here to make you both appear to be upstanding family-men deserving of each other’s trust and association.”

  Silence fell across the room. Each shifted foot blaring like a train-whistle. Both men in question pointedly cast their stares anywhere but at Lenore or each other.

  Biting her bottom lip to stifle a grin, Lenore attempted another tactic.

  “Of course, Father, you know as a female I haven’t the sense for business.” Lenore innocently widened her eyes, her impossibly long lashes brushing her brow. Catching one cascading lock of her hair, she twirled it around her index finger. “Saddle Edgar with the task of occupying my simple mind with the lovely blooms of their garden, and I will spend the time regaling him with stories of what a kind and doting papa you are.”

  Instantly, her father’s features softened. Like so many men, he was putty to be molded by the whims of his little girl. “Of course, my dear,” he grinned, leaning in he brushed a quic
k peck to the tip of her nose. “Our talks will be frightfully dull for you. This is, by far, the preferable option.”

  Over her father’s shoulder, Edgar watched Lenore’s expression of mock innocence sharpen with sly victory as she shot him a conspiratorial wink.

  For years the vindictive spirits had denied Edgar the beauty of the garden, making it appear to him as nothing more than a rotted and barren wasteland. In Lenore’s presence the floral paradise had returned to him. Unable to contain his enthusiasm, Edgar released the arm linked with hers and rushed to the giant pompon puffs of the pink and blue hydrangeas. Gathering them in gentle hands, he tipped his face to inhale their sweet, but light, fragrance.

  “Heaven to the senses, yet so fleeting,” Edgar murmured. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied the long pink and white petals of the stargazer lilies. Dirt and rock kicked up from under his shoes as he darted the distance to the beckoning blooms. Eagerly, he filled his lungs with their aroma. “Mmm, you could scour the world over and would be hard pressed to find a sweeter, more intoxicating, smell.”

  Behind him, Lenore folded her hands in front of her. A small smile tugged at her glistening lips. “Monsieur Poe, I had expected you to show me the garden, not the other way around. You do realize it is in your backyard? This beauty is always here for you to enjoy.”

  Edgar righted his posture, yet could do nothing about the wide smile that made his cheeks ache. “Apologies, miss. The last time I frequented the gardens all I saw was …” unable to think of a suitable description he opted for the blatant truth, “… death.”

  Dandelion-yellow brows disappeared into her hairline. “Such a dreary description for the winter months! Surely, you can see some beauty in their death though?”

  His heart pounding a happy rhyme against his ribs, Edgar turned his head one way then the other, not wanting to miss one leaf of his enchanted garden restored. “In theory, I know the passing of each withered petal allows for fresh growth to take its place. Even so, I have come eye to eye with death more times than I care to admit. I shall not grant it the mercy to say beauty lies there. It only corrupts what once had been.”