Last of the Ravens

by Linda Winstead Jones

  An urgent tapping against the bedroom window made Bren’s head snap around. The warm and willing woman beneath him vanished, leaving him alone and cold as a soft voice spoke within his mind.

  Save me.

  Miranda awoke in a sweat, dragged awake from the most startling and unexpectedly delicious dream by what sounded like a pecking against the window. A bird’s insistent beak, pebbles being thrown against the glass, fingernails…

  The noise came again and she sat up slowly, running her fingers through her hair and grasping for reality. For a moment she thought a dream had awakened her, a bad dream brought about by Autumn’s disturbing e-mail about a murderous burglar. And then she heard it again. That sound wasn’t a part of any dream; someone was out there. No one was tapping against her window trying to get her attention—someone was trying to break into the cabin. Miranda glanced at the clock on the bedside table and found it dark. The power was out. She reached for the phone on the nightstand and lifted the receiver to discover that it, too, was dead.

  This was no bad dream, though she fervently wished that it was. She had no cell service, and there was no one within miles but the man she’d been dreaming about. No way could she scream loudly enough for him or anyone else to hear. Like it or not, she was on her own, and as isolated as she had felt earlier. She was alone.

  Heart hammering, Miranda slipped from the bed into inky darkness. She knew where the intruder was by the sound of him trying to work his way past the lock on the front bedroom window, which faced the narrow road and the empty driveway. She’d like to think that the intruder thought he was breaking into an empty cabin, but since he’d cut the phone lines and the power, she couldn’t be sure that was the case. If he realized she was here, then he knew she was helpless, so to cry out and confront him with threats at this point would be useless. Best to make a quick, quiet escape. But how?

  Miranda left the bedroom, moving through the completely dark space with only memory, the feel of the floor against her bare feet, and searching hands in the air before her as her guide. There were flashlights in just about every drawer in the cabin, but to switch one on would warn the intruder that she was awake, and then he’d stop being cautious and quiet and force his way in. His caution bought her a little time.

  In the main room a touch of moonlight through the sliding glass door kept her from complete darkness. She snagged a flashlight from the desk drawer closest to that door and then she eased the door open and stepped onto the deck to look out over a vast and deserted moonlit landscape. In the moonlight the green trees looked black and forbidding. The dead tree where earlier the ravens had stopped and spoken to her was stark and cold. She glanced up the mountain to where Bren’s house was located. Without a single light on, she could only place it by memory.

  “You could get your ass down here and save me,” she whispered in frustration as she tiptoed to the railing and looked over. What good was a studly and interested neighbor if he couldn’t be summoned when she needed him? Her stomach flipped over as she looked to the ground below. It was a long way down, but what choice did she have? From inside she heard the tinkle of breaking glass; her intruder had gotten impatient or brave or clumsy and was no longer taking care to be quiet. There was no time to lose.

  Miranda made her way to the far side of the deck, where the drop was slightly less overwhelming than elsewhere. From here she’d gazed down upon a naked Korbinian—had it been just last night?—and had felt herself perfectly safe, since she was so far off the ground and he was so far below. Now she was going to have to try to make her way down, preferably without breaking her neck or any other vital body part.

  No longer listening for sounds from inside the cabin but concentrating entirely on escape, she stuck the flashlight into the elastic waistband of her pajamas and sat on the wooden railing. The night air was colder than she’d expected on her bare arms, chasing away the warmth of her erotic dream and making her wish she’d grabbed a robe or a sweater on her way out of the bedroom. Shoes would have been nice, but she was not going back into the cabin, not even for appropriate footwear.

  She’d lived alone for years, and in all that time she’d never worried excessively about the dangers. Oh, she locked her doors and windows and she took all the normal precautions, but never had she expected anything like this. Why here and now, when there was nowhere to run to for help?

  Miranda said a short prayer as she swung off the deck and grabbed the support post that held the deck up off the rocky, unfriendly, much-too-distant ground below. She hung on, and as she did she heard footsteps from inside the cabin. Those footsteps made her heart climb into her throat, and she clung to the post with all her might, knowing if she made a sound he’d know exactly where she was. Did the intruder have a weapon? Of course he did. A gun, most likely. Maybe a wicked and sharp knife. If he saw her here, if he leaned over the railing with a weapon in his hand, she’d be a sitting duck.

  Miranda tried to ease her way down, slowly and cautiously. Splinters stung her bare arms, arms that strained to keep hold. She scraped her bare feet and ankles against the rough wood. A fall from this height would kill or cripple her, but now that she was here, she wasn’t sure she could make it all the way down. She held on with her legs, which were wrapped around the rough wooden post as they had been wrapped around Bren in her dream, thankful that her pajama bottoms were more substantial than the little shortie top, which was comfortable but offered little protection in this situation.

  She had a horrible thought that made her forget the pain in her arms and her legs. Was that Bren in the cabin? Was he truly the psycho Cheryl had said he was? Were his lack of social skills and grumpy nature signs of some psychotic disorder? Her taste in men had reached a new low, if that was the case. For the first time in years she’d attracted a man, and the next thing she knew he was breaking in with foul intent. She was so good with the dead and absolutely dismal with the living! Her hormones were definitely interfering with her instincts, if she was so off base about Bren.

  The footsteps she’d heard in the cabin moved onto the deck, and Miranda went very still. Instinctively she held her breath. Through the slats above her head she saw the shape of a man. His steps were slow and his boot heels thudded ominously on the wooden deck. She didn’t dare breathe as he walked to the railing that looked out over the valley, whispering darkly, “Where are you, Miranda Lynch?”

  She couldn’t see his face, not through the narrow gaps in the deck floor, and the voice she heard was not familiar to her, though it was such a low and angry whisper she wasn’t sure identification was possible. But he’d said her name. He knew her; he had come here for her.

  Breathing became essential, but she did so as shallowly and quietly as possible. Her arms ached, but she didn’t dare move. The man above might hear her. She clung to the post with all her might, hanging on for dear life—literally. Her arms were growing weak; they trembled. How long could she hold on? The man above finally turned away from the railing, and between the boards above, illuminated by moonlight, she saw in his hand what she had feared he might have. A gun.

  In her line of work she’d talked to quite a few ghosts who’d been killed with such weapons. No violent death was pleasant, but she’d had the sensation of hot metal entering the body, destroying the bone and flesh in its path, described by the victims too often not to fear it. The intruder didn’t go inside, but stopped there on the deck, standing still as if listening very hard. Listening for her, she imagined.

  She couldn’t last much longer and she didn’t dare move. Her arms continued to tremble; her stronger legs kept her from falling to the ground, thank goodness, but she didn’t have much hope that they’d hold out much longer. Her entire body shook so fiercely she was afraid the man above would hear the rattle of her bones.

  Suddenly she was no longer alone. Strong arms were wrapped around her, supporting and comforting. Those strangely substantial arms kept her steady. “Hang on,” Dee said, her ghostly voice for Miranda alone. �
��He’s coming…he’s coming.”

  Miranda shifted her body slightly and when she did, the flashlight she’d stuffed in her waistband fell free. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed in horror as the flashlight crashed to the ground below, landing loudly and then rolling away. The man on the deck took a step toward her; he breathed loudly in what seemed to her to be satisfaction and perhaps excitement. A gunshot from above or a fall to the ground below? Which would be the better way to go?

  She heard the birds before she saw them. Their caws broke the night, and for some reason she couldn’t explain she felt a rush of relief as they neared. The way their wings disturbed the air spoke to her; they had been called here by her distress.

  The flock of large birds swooped under the deck overhang and swarmed the intruder long before he could reach the railing directly above Miranda. Their shrieks of outrage and the surprised cries of the man they attacked with beaks and claws covered the sounds of Miranda’s quick descent down the post. She might not have made it without Dee’s assistance, and even though Miranda had been surprised by the ghost’s display of unusual strength just that afternoon, she was now very glad of it. She was vaguely aware that above her the intruder ran into the house and slammed the sliding glass door shut behind him. He ran noisily through the cabin and exited boldly through the front door. Soon a car engine revved, and the birds that circled above the house screamed a protest.

  She could swear they shouted her name, each syllable a shriek called by a different raven. Mir-an-da. Mir-an-da.

  Miranda had almost made it to the ground when her arms gave out and Dee’s support was no longer enough to keep her aloft. She fell with a short and automatic scream, as the car that had been parked out front raced down the hill, the noise of its engine obscenely loud in the otherwise silent night.

  She landed hard on her left leg and tumbled down the steep hill, but was able to find purchase on the uneven ground and right herself. The sound of the intruder’s car faded and died away, the swish of birds’ wings increased in volume and pace and then stilled completely. Miranda took a deep breath and strained to hear, since she could see nothing from this vantage point. Was she right in thinking the car was going down the hill? Was it possible it was headed up, instead?

  His voice came out of nowhere. “Are you hurt?”

  Miranda scrambled to her knees. Caught in a combination of shadow and moonlight, Bren stood, naked as he had been last night, as he had been in her dream. Her first reaction was one of relief. He hadn’t been in the car that had made its escape; he wasn’t wearing the boots that had clomped through the cabin in search of her.

  Her second reaction was definitely mixed. Bren was naked and fine and tempting, leanly muscled and entirely male. Since she’d just been dreaming about him in such a state, her body reacted as any woman’s might, even given the dire circumstances. Something low inside her clenched and trembled, and she could almost feel him entering her, slow and thick and inevitable. Suddenly she was not cold at all. In fact, she grew quite warm. Her heart still beat too hard, she was scared, she was going to be bruised and sore tomorrow…but she was safe, at the moment. She was safe thanks to a flock of birds that shouldn’t have been in flight at this hour and a man who liked to tramp around the mountain naked in the middle of the night. A man she was drawn to much too strongly.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked again, more intensely this time as he took a step closer to her.

  “I think I’m fine.” She held out a hand, palm forward, to command that he stay where he was, and he obeyed. The inky shadows that fell across his body were interestingly placed, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to see more of Bren. Not at the moment, anyway. She could see just enough to know that cold or not, shrinkage was not a problem. She wasn’t sure she could take any more than that. “A man broke into the cabin,” she said. “Did you see him?”

  Bren shook his head. “Not well. It’s dark, and he had something over his face. He’s gone now,” he added in a soothing voice.

  “Why are you here?” she asked, still not rising to her feet.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Thought I’d take a walk to clear my head.”

  “I told you he’d be here,” Dee whispered, popping back in for a moment. And then the ghost was gone, and Miranda was once again alone with Bren.

  Chapter 5

  North Carolina, near the town of Silvera

  Duncan Archard presented his report solemnly, trying to hide the excitement that had been building inside him for hours. He’d spent fifteen of his thirty-six years studying and shadowing the last Korbinian, collecting a scattered history of the species, watching from afar as the last of an unnatural breed lived out his life. At the first sign of misuse of power, Brennus Korbinian was to be eliminated.

  This was much worse than an abuse of power, in Duncan’s opinion.

  Ward Quinn, long-time leader of the Fifth Division of the Order of Cahir, studied the written report carefully, his gray head bent, his weathered hands gripping the paper too tightly. When he was done he read the report again, his eyes snapping up to the top of the page. The second time he read more slowly. Duncan waited for the questions that were sure to come.

  “Are you sure?” Quinn asked in a low, commanding voice. They were alone in a farmhouse kitchen. Mrs. Quinn slept in the bedroom upstairs, after all this time still oblivious to her husband’s true purpose. Other warriors of the Order, dedicated men like Duncan, had been stationed all over the world, their assignments much like his. Watch. Report. Keep peace at any cost.

  There were other stations like this one situated here and there, other leaders like Ward Quinn who had spent a lifetime fighting monsters of one sort or another. Last Duncan had heard there were sixteen active divisions around the world; he was too low on the totem pole to know everything, so by now there could very well be more.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Korbinian has been interested in women before.” Quinn slapped the report down on a weathered oak table. “He’s even had a few relationships, as is to be expected with a man of his age. What makes you so certain this one is Kademair?” He had no qualms about taking out unnatural beings that posed danger to others, had in fact done so many times—personally—but as long as the subjects lived peaceably among the natural world, he was content to allow them to live.

  “She arrived on Saturday,” Duncan said. “By Sunday afternoon they were grocery shopping together. For a man who keeps to himself most of the time, this is not normal behavior.”

  “That’s hardly proof.”

  Duncan pulled a photo from his jacket pocket. “This is the woman in question. Recognize her?”

  Quinn glanced down at the photo on the table, his expression grim. “Of course.”

  “There’s no proof that Kademair are always gifted in one way or another, but it is alluded to in several of the ancient texts…”

  “And talking to the dead is most definitely a gift,” Quinn said. “Not one I’d choose for myself, but still…I’m afraid this does change things.”

  Duncan felt what could only be called a rush of excitement. He’d joined the Order to kill monsters, not to observe them until he was as old as the man before him. “Yes, it does,” he said, his voice calm even though he was anything but.

  Quinn glared across the table, his pale eyes sharp and surprisingly clear for a man of his years. “Still, it is not our way to eliminate beings as a precautionary measure.”

  Duncan shook his head. He wasn’t as judicious as his boss and mentor. He could’ve made this report by phone or e-mail, but the farmhouse was just a few hours drive from his home base, and he wanted to look the old man in the eye as he made his argument. “As it stands, Brennus Korbinian is the last of his kind. He’s not a sixty-year-old man like his father was when he found his Kademair—he’s barely thirty years old. If he joins forces with Miranda Lynch, they might have a dozen children. We can’t be at all sure that they would be as circumspect and law-abiding as their father.
Could we even watch them all when they grew to manhood? Could we ever be sure that one of them wouldn’t use his powers for something less than noble or, heaven forbid, go public? One is all it would take, you know that, Ward.” He didn’t have to argue that when those Korbinians had sons of their own, the Order would need to start a serious recruitment program to be able to watch them all, and it wasn’t as if they could advertise in the newspaper. Instead of the end of his kind, Brennus Korbinian would be the father of a new wave. “Best to stop it now.”

  Quinn’s eyes met Duncan’s. Outwardly Ward Quinn was shabbily dressed and rumpled, the sweet, slightly absentminded grandfatherly type. But his eyes were sharp and even hard. He was not a man to be taken lightly. “I cannot speak for everyone around the world, but this division of the Order has never committed murder in the name of convenience. You’re suggesting that we act as a prophylactic to keep Korbinian from reproducing.”

  Duncan didn’t bother to argue that point. “With good reason.”

  Quinn rapped the table with his bent, wrinkled fingers. This was an odd conversation to have in the warm, traditional kitchen where Mrs. Quinn had prepared many a fine meal for her husband and his associates, but it was not the oddest Duncan had ever participated in, in this very room. “When we first studied Ms. Lynch’s case, you didn’t suggest that we eliminate her,” Quinn said in an accusing voice. “Even when her abilities became public knowledge, you did not support such a drastic measure.”

  Frustrated, Duncan said, “She can’t prove she talks to ghosts. There are too many alternative explanations, and people don’t always believe what they can’t see. But a man breaking apart into a flock of blackbirds in front of a television camera would be tough to dispute. The situations are not the same,” he said tersely. “It’s not necessary that we eliminate them both,” he said, trying to sound sensible. “One can do little harm without the other.” Korbinian had been quiet for years. Would having his Kademair taken away spur him to action? Duncan would reveal no preference to Ward, but in truth he’d much rather see Korbinian eliminated than the woman.