Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  A man thrown in a pit of sleeping lions, Ridley attempted to extract himself as quickly and quietly as possibly—only to feel her unrelenting grasp tighten.

  Her head turned on her struggling captor. Peering at him from under her lowered brow, venom radiated from her glare. “This is Poe’s little stooge?”

  Ridley’s free hand rose and fell to his side with an exasperated slap. “Is there an answer I can give here that will make you drop the sword?”

  “Not likely,” she hissed and lunged for him.

  A flick of her hand and flawless steel whipped in a wide circle at her hip. Ridley backpedaled as far back as her bear trap grasp would allow, only to get tangled in his own feet. A malicious smile twisted across her face as she followed him down, pinning him to the pavement. The edge of her blade pressed to his throat, bobbing with his deep gulp.

  “The spirits whisper that you’re some sort of messiah,” the Hessian murmured through Ireland, his fleshy vehicle. “I wonder if your touch could set me free? Release me from this hellish prison?”

  Ireland’s pointy-pink tongue dragged across Ridley’s top lip, despite his best efforts to pull away. The pressure of her blade kept the threat of death unmistakably real.

  “Mmmmm.” She relished the taste of him as if contemplating a fine wine. “Not what I hoped for, but possibly something even better.”

  Taking advantage of the distraction, Noah caught Ireland in headlock with one arm and used the opposite hand to press the talisman flat against her forehead. Even as the skin sizzled and an anguish wail tore from her throat, he held firm. The whites of her eyes grew, rolling back in her head. Noah grunted and shifted his restricted arm to around her torso as her body fell slack, giving Ridley the opportunity to stumble free.

  “That was … invigorating,” Ridley’s chest rose and fell with each panted gasp, “and somewhat arousing in an incredibly confusing way.”

  “That pretty much describes every day spent with Ireland Crane,” Noah admitted with a subtle cock of his head. Easing her sleeping form to the ground, he brushed a lock of hair from her face and watched the Hessian’s hold slowly relent. The peachy hue returned to her lips. Dark, scrolling veins were hidden by life, plumping her skin. The black, bruise-like circles around her eyes faded, leaving no trace behind they had ever been.

  She came to with a start, bolting upright with her body quaking in fear. “What happened? Did I hurt anyone?”

  “No.” Noah gently caught her chin with his hooked index finger and tipped her face to his. “Everyone is fine.”

  Her eyes sparkled with a flood of tears she tried, unsuccessfully, to blink away. “I lost control so fast. I couldn’t even—”

  “Hey, that’s why I’m here with that nifty piece of jewelry, remember?” The chain rippled from the side of his palm before the talisman caught and swung from Noah’s pinched fingers. “Consider this you adding purpose to my life.”

  Her own self-loathing took the form of a steady pounding between her eyes, forcing Ireland to press the heel of her palm to forehead. “And Ridley thought hanging with me was the safer option than the voices and visions.”

  “Ah, he was being an arrogant prick.” Pocketing the talisman, Noah offered her a hand and hoisted her to her feet. “Maybe this was a learning experience for him.”

  The minute the treads of her boots hit the ground a thought jolted through her, snapping her spine straight and clenching both her hands on Noah’s forearm. “That man in the hospital! Whatever he injected me with could be responsible for me losing control! I mean, I couldn’t even attempt to stop it! What if next time—”

  “Ireland!” Noah barked in stern interruption, despite the deep creases between his brows that mirrored her own concern. “We have enough life-and-death crap to deal with right now without playing ‘I think we might have another problem.’”

  “I hate to interrupt,” Rip called, his hand tentatively rose to get their attention. “However, I think we might have another problem.”

  “It’s like I’m talking to myself,” Noah mumbled, throwing his palms skyward as he turned.

  The new issue wasn’t hard to spot. Ridley stood statue still, his unblinking eyes drained milky white. The petals of his lips moving in an inaudible chant.

  Ireland puffed her cheeks and scratched at the back of her head. “Some couples order Chinese food and watch movies on the couch.”

  “And us?” Noah smirked in expectation of her answer.

  “We go see what the catatonic stock broker is mumbling about.”

  The trio inched closer, turning an ear toward him. Their cautious steps pausing only when the hushed syllables began to make sense.

  “Moonlight comes with dark intent.

  Caution sinners, ye must repent.”

  Ireland’s head spun in Rip’s direction, her cherry-cola colored bangs falling in her eyes. “Is that..?”

  “Eleanora,” he finished for her. His expression rivaling her own on the stupefaction meter.

  The long dead witch, easily recognizable by her habit of only speaking in rhymes, had helped Ireland once before. However to utilize her services on that occasion they had to perform an intricate summoning spell inside a crypt. This time she found her own doorway in. The questions of how and why sent a tingle of unease skittering down Ireland’s spine.

  “A curse released with a raven’s flap,” the spirit continued in her chilling death rattle.

  “Now the mortal coil threatens to snap.

  An infamous love, destined nevermore,

  for death could not claim the enchanting Lenore.

  She walks the earth, a plague on mankind,

  searching for he her rotted heart doth pine.

  Combine the forces of dark and light

  to overcome this monstrous plight.

  Yet, ye be warned, as the raven doth fly,

  for the rest to live … one must die.”

  “You know what I didn’t miss having in my life?” Ireland said, her fingers combing through her hair to push her bangs behind her ear. “Cryptic rhymes.”

  “The last part of the message was quite clear, and not the least bit uplifting.” Rip cringed and stifled a yawn behind his hand.

  Ridley lurched forward a step, the motion appearing more mechanical than human. “A tool gifted by the dead, revealing the path you must be led.”

  Noah, Rip, and Ireland all matched his advance with wide steps back.

  “Like a supernatural compass?” Ireland’s uneasy tone rose to a breathless squeak. “That could be helpful, right?”

  One hand fumbled in his pants pocket as Ridley’s form was stiffly forced forward another step. “A lone being, split to two. Only one will lead to the devilish shrew.”

  “Okay, that one I didn’t get at al—whoa!” Ireland’s statement was cut-off by Ridley forcefully shoving her into Noah in his dive at Rip. All the air left the shocked old man’s chest in a wheeze as Ridley’s forearms hit him mid-chest and rode him straight into the sidewalk.

  “Get off me you crazy nit!” Rip slapped at Ridley’s hands, which had caught his bearded cheeks and pinched his mouth into fish lips.

  Noah steadied Ireland on her feet then stepped around her, intent on breaking up the tousling twosome. Her one step to follow instantly jerked his arm, blocking her path. “No way. You stay out of this. Turn around, meditate, whatever; just stay nice and Zen. Your involvement would turn this birthday candle event into an erupting volcano.”

  “Good analogy.” She nodded her approval and jabbed a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ll be over there.”

  “All right, little buddy,” Noah said through gritted teeth. One hand grasped Ridley’s collar, the other looping around his belt to hoist him off Rip—whose eyes were beginning to roll with the threat of an impending snooze. “Off ya go!”

  A second before being yanked out of arm’s reach, Ridley scrambled with whatever it was he had dug from his pocket and forcefully shoved it between Rip’s puckered lips. The sho
ck of the intrusion set Rip over the edge, his body sagging as sleep claimed him ... with the mysterious item still lodged in his mouth.

  Ireland’s head pulled back in a disgusted cringe, while conflicting gross interest inched her closer a couple paces. “What the heck did he put in his mouth?”

  Sparing the delicate touch, Noah dropped Ridley to the ground with a heavy thump. “Really trying not to think about that just yet.”

  “They’re teeth,” Ridley’s own voice filtered up, muffled by the concrete sidewalk his face was mashed into. Rolling to his side, he sat up, still blinking away the effects of his spiritual overtaking.

  Every level of confusion swirled across Noah’s chiseled features, his mouth opening and shutting like a land-bound cod. “Wha … how … whe..?”

  “Start with why,” Ireland suggested. Crouching beside her snoring friend, she pulled his top lip up to take a peek. “Why you would ever put what looks like antique dentures into another person’s mouth?”

  “An incredibly demanding spirit was insisting on it.” Ridley rubbed the side of his cheek where the pavement had kissed it to a bright pink. “I tried to fight her, but the psychotic witch commandeered my body!”

  “She actually was a witch, we’ve met.” With one finger Ireland attempted to wiggle the teeth, only to find them locked firm despite Rip’s slack jaw. “He’s going to go on a full-blown tizzy tirade when he wakes up, because these babies aren’t moving. Where did you even get them?” she posed the question over her shoulder to Ridley.

  “They were in the box …” Ridley gulped, forcing the words out as if purging razor blades, “… with Lenore.”

  Three sets of eyes slowly turned in Rip’s direction. A stream of drool streaked down his cheek and dripped to the ground.

  “So, you found them on a shelf in the cottage you say?” Noah prompted.

  Ridley flinched, his head slowly shaking in confusion. “No. Poe appeared to me and told me to fish them out right after she exploded from the floor boards. They were down by her feet in the coffin.”

  Still crouched down, Ireland rested one arm on her knee as she explained, “I believe what Noah is asking is if when Rip wakes, is he going to find out he has teeth stuck in his mouth that are laced with a couple centuries worth of decomposing feet tissue, or the slightly less gag worthy dust from sitting on a shelf for display purposes only.”

  For a beat Ridley merely stared. “I misunderstood,” he finally nodded, “they were most definitely on a shelf.”

  Two quick blasts from a police siren preempted a silver and blue patrol car gliding up beside them with the fluid nonchalance of a post-meal shark. The passenger-side window slid down three-quarters of the way, revealing a shadowed silhouette hidden behind reflective sunglasses.

  “Everything okay here?” the officer called out. “Does that man need an EMT?”

  In an instant the air around Ireland came alive, sparking with energy and a tangible threat. She rose to her feet. Tendrils of darkness twined up her spine, veiling the edges of her vision with thick clouds of red that churned with burning embers. It was him. Officer Granger from Sleepy Hollow. Mr. Mallark from the library. The doctor that injected her with God only knows what. He’d shaved off his moustache and hidden those unmistakable eyes. Even so, every fiber of her being screamed it was him.

  “Everything is fine, officer,” Noah said with a forced smile. “Truth is, our friend here suffers from stress induced narcolepsy. He thought he saw that zombie-chick everyone is talking about and hit the ground.”

  Ireland didn’t tear her murderous gaze away, her hope being to magically bore holes in his stupid, lying, serum-injecting face. If he noticed, he kept his expression at a practiced neutral. He did, however, shift in his seat. Sticky vinyl could’ve been to blame, but Ireland chose to take credit anyway.

  “Your friend has reason for concern. There is a perp out here tonight that is said to be armed and dangerous.” The officer shoved his glasses further up the bridge of his nose with one sausage link finger. “I’d advise you all to get off the streets for your own safety. There’s a subway tunnel terminal one block up and three blocks east of here. That will take you where you want to go.”

  “Where we want to go, or where you want us to go?” Ireland vehemently snarled.

  The officer huffed a humorless laugh, as if contemplating introducing her to his baton.

  “Ireland, what are you doing?” Noah hissed out of the corner of his mouth.

  Ridley raised one hand, craning his neck to be seen around Noah. “I’m not with them and am far too pretty to go to jail.”

  Officer Fake-Identity casually adjusted the brim of his hat. “No worries of that, son. She is just a confused, frightened girl speaking her mind about matters she doesn’t understand.” Tilting his chin, he fixed his stare on Ireland. In spite of those reflective lenses she could feel his piercing eyes peering into her, exposing all her sins and truths. “You have many choices before you, my dear. Many of which will be paved with regret. I can tell you with the utmost certainty the tunnel is the least of many possible evils.”

  Without the courtesy of further explanation, he gave a brief nod and pulled away from the curb.

  19

  Edgar

  Six months’ worth of changes, not all of them welcome. If Edgar’s parents had searched for them, their efforts had been fruitless. Not a day went by that he didn’t think of them. Despite what he had done, would they—could they—ever be proud of the life he had forged for himself and Lenore? The bungalow he had found them was a modest one. It consisted of little more than four rooms and a water closet, yet Edgar had put great care into restoring it. That, along with lovely view of the pond out the back windows, made it quite the cozy abode.

  The beginning, however, wasn’t all comfortable bedspreads and afternoon tea. It was overcoming one agonizing obstacle, only to be struck by another without the luxury of a pause to exhale. Lenore couldn’t rest for more than a few minutes at time. Each time she dozed it ended with her bolting upright in bed, trembling and shrieking to the heavens. Edgar watched her while she slept, at her insistence, so that the very moment she woke in her fit of terrors he could gather her in his arms and shush her quietly while they rocked. His lips would nuzzle her clammy forehead. The front of his shirt soaked from her tears.

  The spirits, now visible to her, haunted her mercilessly. Many a time he had found his troubled angel cowered in a corner, chanting soft pleas under her breath. Her clawed hands scrapping against the walls until her fingers bled as if trying to burrow her way to a safety. How he wished there were tricks he could teach her to help her manage the torment. He viewed himself a failure for having suffered through the same curse for so long without having one shred of helpful counsel to offer. The only solace he could provide was the same he had often opted for; the occasional pull from a flash of brandy to dull the senses and provide momentary interludes of calm.

  Just when Edgar resigned himself to that being their new norm, things changed in the most perplexing way. Lenore stopped cowering. Gave up sleep altogether. Would no longer humor him by even attempting to nibble at food. Instead, she spent hours staring out the picture window at the two white swans that paddled around the pond in an enchanting water ballet. No longer did a trace of melancholy mar the serenity of her stare. Curled up in the quilt he had bought her at market, she rocked in the worn wooden chair that had come with their furnished home. Hour after hour, day after day, she would sit, unaffected by the world around her. At least externally. Edgar toyed with the idea that perhaps the apparitions had relented. Their power over her finally fading to nothing, allowing her to simply revel in the solitude of her restored sanity.

  Then he heard the first giggle …

  Penning a letter in regards to a much needed job prospect, Edgar paused. A foreboding chill skittering down his spine.

  “Everything okay, dearest?” he called from the other room.

  Only silence answered.

 
; Wetting his suddenly parched lips, Edgar rose from his desk chair. As he rounded the bend into the sitting room he felt fear’s icy fist plunge into his chest and clasp his pounding heart tight.

  Surprisingly, her rocking chair was vacant, the door to the veranda open and swaying in the slight spring breeze. For reasons he couldn’t yet explain, that creaking door held the ominous threat of a swinging noose.

  He found her on the settee, her legs curled casually beneath her. His soul ached at the warm smile that brightened her face. It had become such a rarity he thought it extinct. Edgar’s gaze flicked to the side in search of what had drawn out that elusive beam by his beloved. She leaned in toward … nothing … engaged in an intimate discussion of muted chatter with an unseen force.

  Catching sight of him in the doorway, Lenore shushed the vacant seat beside her and righted her posture. “Edgar, have you finished your letter?”

  “Nearly.” His upper body pivoted back toward the door he entered through. The woman before him was the embodiment of his very heart. Why then was he fighting the urge to bolt from the room? “I took a pause to ensure you were well.”

  Her head cocked as she rose from the settee. Sunlight gleaming off her alabaster skin, she closed the distance between them. Curled lashes batted over her enchanting amethyst stare, somehow made more hypnotic against their black backdrop. “You never need to fret over me. I am here because of you, to take care of you. After all you have done, and all you can do,” she purred, her gaze wandering down to his hands. “I know now what a true treasure you are.”

  The curves of her body skimmed against him, her chest rising and falling in breathless anticipation.

  “Ahem, thank you,” Edgar cleared his throat and fidgeted with the suddenly constricting collar of his shirt. While he enjoyed her affections immensely, the transition from patient to vixen after so many months proved a hard one to accept. “I should get back to work. Our finances are tight and it has become mandatory that I secure employ.”

  Edgar turned on his heel, only to have Lenore catch his arm and draw him back to her with a force he could not have resisted if he tried. The chill of her fingers curled into his hair and held firm, her stare locked with his. “Tonight Winston Miller, unarguably one of the most influential men here in Brooklyn, is having a masquerade ball. The very contacts to which you were just writing will be there, their bellies full of decadence and wine. We can go! You will be your charming self. I will be your sweetly demure paramour. They will be so taken with us that you will find yourself tripping over job offers.”