Raven (Legends Saga Book 2)

by Stacey Rourke

  Edgar’s mouth opened and shut, his deficient mind searching for some approach that would sway her from this quest. “Lenore,” he pleaded, “you do not have to do this—”

  “Oh, but I do.” Both her hands closed around Augustus’s, securing the dagger from slipping free from his fingers. “Did you think they made it quick for them, Augustus?”

  At a loss for what else to do, the red-faced man nodded emphatically.

  She leaned in, her voice caressing his ear. “The plague would have given them a more humane end. Those men tortured them for weeks, making Pamela—the woman you swore before God to love, honor, and obey—watch as they did unspeakable things to your daughters. Her own children suffered before her eyes while she was powerless to stop it. Eventually, their bodies gave out—God’s mercy in that moment being all that finally ended their suffering.”

  “I did not know. I di—” Tears spilled over his cheeks in torrents, his legs threatening to fail.

  Lenore slammed his back against the ebony clock, forcing him to remain upright. “Do not use ignorance as your excuse! Greed and opportunity were your motivators here, nothing more!” Her iron-like grip applied steady pressure, until crimson burst from beneath the blade and soaked his collar. “Tonight will be your turn to experience what it is like for your body to be forced into acts against your will.”

  “Justice can be found another way, Lenore! You cannot do the bidding of the spirits!” Edgar’s pleas fell on deaf ears. Lenore’s stare locked with Augustus’s. Guiding his hands back, she held his gaze as she forced him to bury his own blade in his gut.

  Blood spurt from his lips, a set of false teeth slipping passed his gums as his body toppled forward. Still Lenore’s rage would not be sated. When his hands fell limp, Lenore took the task upon herself. An enraged scream tore from her throat as she rammed the blade into him over and over again. His body reduced to little more than battered meat, Augustus collapsed at her feet, his blood splattering over the ivory folds of her gown. His lifeless collapse failed to register through Lenore’s red fury. Once more her hand plunged forward, this time smashing into the base of the ebony clock.

  Blinking once, twice, and again she focused her gaze. The twisted devil’s mask she wore fading back to his lovely, serene beauty. “Edgar? Edgar wh-what’s happened? Help me, please!” Tugging to free her hand from the glossy back wood only knocked more chunks of the broken kindling free and trapped her further.

  Smoke rolled in from the hall, stinging Edgar’s eyes and tightening his lungs with each breath. “Looks to be dogwood,” he pointed out, removing some of the loose pieces holding her, “the same wood legend claims Jesus’s cross was made of.”

  Lenore’s eyebrows snapped up with an indignant flare made all the more terrifying by the blood that speckled her face. “What are you saying, Edgar? That God himself has forsaken me? Shall I remind you who made me this way?”

  “No, I am making no claims,” he corrected, pulling a rather long shard out and casting it aside. “I was merely pointing out your hand is stuck in a dogwood clock.”

  Despite his argument to the contrary, Edgar noted with great interest that if so much as a small splinter of the dogwood was touching her skin she was powerless to move it. Only when every last bit had been removed could she pull her hand free. By then the flames had reached the door, the heat rising to a level that made Edgar’s skin feel as if it were melting from the bones.

  “We cannot get out that way,” he nodded toward the door, pulling her protectively to him. “Pull down the tapestries! Perhaps they cover a window!”

  Together they grabbed the bottoms of each tapestry and ripped them free from the wall. Their urgency growing frenzied as one after the other revealed solid wall beneath. With one remaining, Edgar said a silent prayer—then yanked. Freedom stared back at waist-level.

  Wasting no time, Edgar unhooked the lock and swung the panes out free. “You first, my flower,” he yelled over the snapping and hissing flames that crept into the room behind him.

  Her hand, still chilled by death’s cold touch, closed around his. Clasping her waist, he heaved her onto the window ledge, and lowered her down as far as he could to ensure her safety. Only when her feet hit the ground with a soft thump did he turn back to the scene. For reasons he couldn’t yet explain, he felt compelled to gather a piece of the broken dogwood, and Augustus’s spewed teeth, and stow them deep in his pockets. Then, bracing himself against the frame, Edgar climbed onto the window ledge and threaded his legs out into the night. Seated there, he took one glance back at the body on the floor, the growing pool of blood, and the fire burning away any and all traces of what had occurred. So much death and destruction, yet he blamed not Lenore for what she had become, nor Augustus for his vile acts. Guilt’s dagger bore deeper than any manmade weapon could, puncturing Edgar’s very soul. For he knew himself to be the true monster here—with the hell that was spawned by his simple touch.

  23

  Ridley

  Small, rodent-sized feet scampered in the darkness, sending a shiver of unease skittering down Ireland’s spine. Water dripped incessantly from somewhere in the tunnel, creating the foreboding mental image of Death itself tapping one bone finger in eager expectation.

  “For all we know, Lenore could be down here,” Ireland grumbled, mostly to break the deafening silence, “watching, waiting for the perfect moment to finish what she started in the alley.”

  “Maybe this time you’ll get at least one good shot in before she clobbers you,” Ridley smirked, his obnoxious jab contradicted by the comforting squeeze he gave her hand linked with his.

  “Ugh! A vacation in purgatory would be livelier than this funeral precession bunch!” Young Rip threw himself back, his head lulling back in pantomimed exasperation while his smoke and mist form continued to float forward. A sudden idea caused his lips to twist in a wicked grin, his transparent gaze locking on Ireland in a way that made a knot of dread coil in her gut.

  “Except in this corner of the group.” In a wave of cresting and flowing tendrils the incorporeal nuisance manifested between Ireland and Ridley, his air-light form perched cross-legged on their linked arms. “Over here we have sexual tension so thick and palpable I could gobble it up with a spoon.”

  Ireland immediately dropped Ridley’s hand, and edged closer to Noah’s side. “What? That’s crazy talk. There’s no tension of the sexy kind, except maybe between me and this guy.” Pivoting on the ball of her foot, she playfully punched Noah in the arm. Pausing, she stared up at him, stunned by her own awkwardness. “Why did I just do that?”

  Judging by his eyebrow hitched up in bewilderment, Noah was wondering the same thing. Yet, he still came to her defense before thinking to question it. “She’s holding his hand because I don’t feel like chasing him down or getting tackled again.” His chin jerked in Ridley’s direction. “Hey Rid, are the walls talking to you?”

  Ridley’s head slowly turned their way, his eyes wide and glassy. “The fat little piggies found a delectable sandwich, and now they’re orchestrating an elaborate masquerade ball.”

  “See? Would you get him, please?” Bumping her with his elbow, Noah’s stern tone left little room for debate.

  Filling her lungs and expelling what tension she could through pursed lips, Ireland wiped her clammy palm on the leg of her jeans and caught Ridley’s hand with hers.

  The change was instantaneous. His cornflower blue eyes—made a gleaming sapphire by Young Rip’s haunting light—blinked into focus. The deep creases between his brow easing.

  Swallowing hard, he realigned his fingers with hers and secured a firm hold. “Thank you.”

  Her head dipped in a modest nod.

  Dropping his legs, Young Rip mimed walking even though his form hovered a couple feet from the ground. “Say what you want. I can smell it in the air!” His hand twirled with an extravagant flare. “Someone over here wants to put the F-U-N in fornication!”

  “There is no U in fornication,�
� Ireland scoffed.

  In a blink his ghostly face appeared in front of her, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively. “But there could be.”

  “Ugh!” Ireland cringed, shooting scowls to all three of her male cohorts that had the audacity to snicker.

  “Even in the spirit form the libido lives on,” Ridley’s tongue flicked over his lower lip as he chuckled. “Men everywhere can rest easy.”

  “Were you really that skeevy when you were younger?” Spinning on original recipe Rip, judgment dripped from Ireland’s tone.

  His mouth opened, most likely to argue, then quickly clamped shut again. His beard twitched at the corners of his mouth, fighting off a grin. “What can I thay? We din’t hath the In’ernet back then.”

  While Ireland shook her head, her disparaging smirk planted firm, Young Rip pushed on as if no one had countered his original claim. Pacing from one side of the tunnel to the other, his legs moved in wide strides while his feet dissolved into a rolling surf that pushed him along. “Still, two beings bound to such darkness and mayhem? Imagine the pull. The raw, magnetic attraction.”

  “Trust me, mate,” Ridley said, his gaze pointedly cast to the floor. “After the vision I had of her all vamped out, Queen of the Underworld style, I’d be terrified to even think of her in that way.”

  Visibly bristling, Noah stopped short. “You had some sort of morbid little fantasy about my girlfriend?” He attempted a lighthearted chuckle that somehow landed closer to an inquisitive Rottweiler ready to show fang if provoked.

  Realizing his faux pas, Ridley did a quick about-face. “Yes, I did. But you should know the sexy stuff stopped the second I realized she was wearing your head as an accessory.”

  “Wha-?” His mouth falling slack, Noah spun Ireland’s way for an explanation she couldn’t even begin to offer. “What?”

  “It was his subconscious! How should I know! Plus, isn’t this a moot point? Because, in case you hadn’t noticed,” palm raised, Ireland jabbed one hand in the direction of his face, “you still have a head!”

  “Onwy in dis cwowd ith who haths a head a wegular topic of dithcuthion,” Rip pointed out, scratching his chin beneath his beard.

  “A guy that talks to spirits,” Noah stabbed an accusing finger at Ridley, “had a vision about my girlfriend, who’s possessed by a spirit,” the finger of blame swung to her, “in which she changed my hat size in the most brutal of ways! I think a slight freak out is justified!”

  Ireland wanted to argue that she would never hurt him. Even so, the emptiness of that claim caused it to swell on her tongue, cutting off her air way. A hot wash of helpless tears flooded her eyes. Twice. Her control had slipped twice. Any reassuring claim she tried to make would ring as the hollow lie it was. All she had left was the paltry truth, whatever that was worth.

  “I would never intentional hurt you,” her trembling voice cracked with emotion, “And you still have my talisman. You know that.”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re right. It was just another one of his stupid dreams. No worries,” Noah attempted to reassure her, while his strained half-smile and slightly flaring nostrils attested otherwise.

  Ireland’s brow puckered, her head tilting to consider him. “You sure? ‘Cause your heaving chest seems to say otherwise.”

  “I’m not heaving,” Noah puffed. Noticing the odd tremor of his own voice he cleared his throat and attempted normalcy, landing closer to asthmatic mid-attack. “See? Definitely not heaving.”

  “You’re heathing a li’le,” Rip countered.

  “No. No. I mean, yeah.” Noah’s shoulders rose and fell in a series of twitchy shrugs. “Do I think there’s a chance her monster has the hots for his monster? Absolutely.”

  “My monster,” Ridley snorted. “That’s funny, that’s what I call my…”

  Ireland halted him with a finger raised in warning. “I have a sword. Do not finish that sentence.”

  “Noted.”

  Dropping all but Ridley’s pinkie, Ireland dragged him along as she closed the distance between herself and Noah. “You have to know that the only thing between Ridley and me is the boot stomping fate has given both of us.”

  Wordlessly, Ridley shifted from one foot to the other behind her.

  “I know that,” Noah’s stern gaze softened as he peered down at her. “I do.”

  “He lays on the guilt so heavily,” Young Rip moved in a snaking cloud to whisper his poisonous ideas directly into Ireland’s ear. The cool chill of his essence triggered a rash of goosebumps up and down her arms. “Yet you know he has his own little secrets. Why does he really stay? Who would voluntarily delve into such darkness?”

  Simple words uttered by an undeniably conniving presence should have been easy to cast aside. And yet … they had poked at the outwardly calm surface of her insecurities, producing a ripple effect of self-doubt.

  “Why are you here, Noah?” Young Rip clasped his hands behind his back, circling Noah he wore the glare of a protective father. “What would drive a person to choose this life?”

  Retreating into herself, Ireland felt familiar prickles dance down her spine. The Hessian had stirred, clawing and lashing his way to the forefront of her mind. Blinking hard, she fought to clear away the murderous red haze creeping around the edges of her vision—to no avail.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Noah responded tightly, his chest expanding as he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “But, I was under the assumption she and I had chosen each other.”

  Skin stretched, bones pushing outward. The abyss was racing in to claim her, leaving Ireland time only to gasp, “Noah!”

  One glance spurred him into action, sending him scrambling to dig the talisman from his pocket.

  “Again with this?” Ridley exclaimed and yanked his hand free.

  Blue lips curled back in a cheeky grin, a demonic tremor rattling from her throat. “Beguiled by a sweet smile and sashaying hips, no doubt. Even so, the willingness to overlook the truth, that hell itself lies in wait within her soul, is cause for question. Only a saint or a fool would make such a choice.”

  Claiming his sought after prize, Noah pulled the talisman into view and weighed it in his palm in an open thread. “I’ve been called one of those things and it sure as hell wasn’t a saint. Ireland, if you’re in there, now would be a great time to take the reins. Otherwise, I’m gonna have to put bonehead down for the count, and take you with him.”

  “The girl might fight to resurface,” the Horseman made Ireland’s shoulders rise and fall in a casual shrug. “If I was speaking any words she was not too cowardice to risk herself.”

  Subtle as he could, Ridley inched his way back by Rip. “Talks like this are exactly why I never stick around for long term commitments,” he muttered behind his hand.

  “I’m pretty sure never before in the history of relationships has anyone ever had the ‘can you love me even though I’m the Headless Horseman’ conversation,” Young Rip tittered with giddy eagerness, winding himself around the two men in a trail of luminescent azure.

  Ireland prowled closer with the fluidity of a jungle cat. Her head tipped, she glowered up at him from under her vein scrawled brow. “Sneaky little glances at your phone. Did you think she didn’t see those? A life you left so willing and never speak of. Admit it, boy, she is nothing more than entertainment to you. A dangerous thrill you think to indulge yourself with for a bit before running back to your real life.”

  “Is that what Ireland is worried about?” Noah practically growled, taking a threatening step forward. “Because I’d really like to hear that from her.”

  “Correct me if I am wrong,” Young Rip purred, solidifying enough to steeple his fingers under his chin. “However, that did not sound like a denial to me.”

  Noah’s head snapped toward the mouthy apparition, his lip twitching into a snarl. “Are you trying to get me killed?”

  Metal hissed free from leather. Raising her sword chest level, Ireland spun, her elbow slamming into
Noah’s solar plexus. A choked gasp lodged in his throat as the ground rose to meet him. Frantically wheezing to regain his stolen breath, Noah’s eyes widened as the edge of her blade pressed a valley of pressure against his neck.

  “Answer me, boy,” dropping to one knee, the Hessian leaned in to hiss in his face, “or shake hands with Death this very day. Why are you here?”

  “That’s … enough … of the couple … counseling … from the undead.” Gritting his teeth, Noah wormed one hand between them and slapped the talisman flat against Ireland’s forehead.

  Her lips peeling from her teeth, Ireland recoiled. The smell of burning flesh permeated through the dank tunnel. Noah moved with her without hesitating, keeping the metal coin firmly planted. As she stumbled back, Noah seized the opportunity to shift the dynamic and pinned her to the ground. Writhing in pain, the monster finally rescinded, allowing the veil of obscurity to lift from Ireland’s wide and startled eyes.

  “Noah,” she rasped, “it’s me.”

  While he was courteous enough to shift his weight slightly off of her, he made no move to let her up. “I think we’re going to have a little talk right here while you’ve got your listening ears on.”

  “Could you at least move the talisman? It’s only a few layers of skin away from melting the part of my brain that knows the alphabet.” Her attempt at humor was sullied by her tone, tight with barely concealed anguish.

  Lips, as full and tempting as ripe wild berries, pursed as Noah shook his head. The tips of his hair tickled across her forehead. “I’m thinking no. Not after learning from a demon that we have some issues to resolve. Now, I have a few things to say and need to make sure your head is completely your own, so you can really hear me.”