Last of the Ravens

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Duncan studied the ruined net as he held one palm against a bloody wound, and in that moment he hated Korbinian more than ever. The thing was as unnatural as any vampire or out-of-control witch or loosed demon, and he had to die.

  Chapter 9

  Miranda sat on the cot butted up against one wall of the windowless room where she was being held, her legs drawn up beneath her, her arms and bound hands crossed over her stomach. If she could draw up into a tight, tiny ball and disappear she would; this was as close as she could get. Two armed young men stood near the metal staircase, watching her with open suspicion and vigilance. They’d joined her a couple of hours ago, when Roger and Ward Quinn had left. Was she so dangerous that they thought she needed two armed guards at all times? What did they think she was going to do? She talked to ghosts, which was hardly a dangerous ability.

  At least they hadn’t shackled her, though there were shackles nearby should they be needed. The metal restraints and short heavy chains made it very clear what this room was used for, as if she needed those obvious signs to understand what kind of nightmare prison this was.

  There were stains on the gray walls here and there, stains someone had tried to scrub away but that would not entirely fade. Some of those stains were large, others were small, as if discolored droplets danced across the plain walls. There were four cots like the one Miranda sat on, all of them narrow and hard, and attached to the walls beside those cots were shackles of different sizes and strengths. Beside one cot there were four metal shackles attached to four chains, as if it was intended that a prisoner being held there be restrained hand and foot. What creature would require a chain of such a massive thickness?

  This room was normally reserved for those who had unusual abilities that were, or could be, deadly. Miranda knew that because several lost spirits lurked in the corners, afraid to come near her. Afraid to speak. Even though they remained silent, not asking for help as most did when she saw them, she could feel the violence within them.

  One poor soul was caught between man and some kind of large cat. He often covered his face with clawed hands, and he cried softly and constantly. There was a large man who even in spirit form bore the marks of torture, and though the chains he dragged behind him faded into nothing, he continued to wear the shackles that had bound him in life. Four of them. A female’s dark soul watched Miranda from the center of the room, not afraid or confused but cautious. The woman was young and beautiful, with long dark hair, large green eyes and a pale and flawless face made more austere by what had been, in life, an excess of mascara and eyeliner. Colorless lips curved into a sad and still-evil smile.

  Other less clear souls flitted in and out of Miranda’s line of vision, weaker than the others or simply less present. All of them had suffered. Some of them had, perhaps, deserved that suffering; some had not.

  Miranda wished fervently for Dee. Friendly, helpful, kind Dee, who had only appeared from the next world in order to help. Unfortunately she couldn’t call ghosts to her. They came to her in panic or sorrow, usually in or near the site of their death.

  A few hours ago Quinn had personally delivered a pot of tea and a very nice porcelain cup, along with anything Miranda might want for that beverage. Beside the teacup sat sliced lemons, cubed sugar, a small pitcher of whole milk and what appeared to be homemade blueberry scones. She tasted none of it, afraid the old man would happily poison her, smiling all the while. And Roger? Would he allow it to happen? Would he poison her himself? There had been a time when she’d trusted Roger entirely, but she didn’t know about him anymore. She couldn’t be sure of anything.

  After a while the female spirit in the center of the room spoke. “They’re going to torture and kill you just as they did me,” she promised in a whisper. “All in the name of keeping peace, they say. Even when they cause great pain in trying to exact information, even when they take a life, quickly or slowly, they think themselves the good guys. Heroes of the world. Warriors of the freakin’ Order.”

  “Who are you and what do you want?” Miranda asked. The only way to get rid of a ghost was to see to its business and send it on to the other side, where it belonged.

  “My name is Roxanna,” the spirit said. “And all I want is to warn you.” She looked to the two silent, stoic guards. “The blond one is afraid all the time.” There was a touch of glee in the statement. “If you say boo, he’ll probably piss his pants. The redhead is more experienced, more hardened, but he’s also completely convinced that the world will be a better place if we are all like him. Dedicated. Untalented. Ordinary. Boring beyond belief.” The spirit smiled. “He will drive a knife through your heart with the absolute certainty that the world is safer without you in it.”

  Roxanna opened her shirt and showed Miranda a pale, marred chest that still bore the marks of such a knife.

  “Did he kill you?” Miranda whispered.

  The spirit nodded silently and covered the wound that would not heal even in death.

  “Why?” Miranda asked.

  Roxanna shrugged and her form fluttered in and out of substance. She looked solid, then misty; she faded for a few minutes, then regained her form. “I killed a few men who did not deserve to live, that is all. I sought them out and I gave them what they wanted from me and then I fed on their souls. With each feeding I grew more powerful. Not powerful enough, apparently,” she added bitterly.

  As Roxanna spoke more spirits took form, perhaps heartened by the fact that Miranda could see and hear and speak to the dark ghost. All of them were tortured, all of them were different. Very different. They made Miranda look like an ordinary girl next door, ghosts and all. Monsters, Archard would call them. Some were indeed evil, but others, like the half-human creature in the corner, had only committed the crime of being different. Like her. Like Bren.

  Male and female, dark and light, the spirits began to take shape more clearly until many of them appeared solid to Miranda’s eyes. Some, like the creature who cried, remained distant, but others were emboldened by the knowledge that they could be seen. They all spoke at once, shouting, whispering, begging. The very large man who dragged his chains behind him came closer. His eyes burned red.

  The tortured spirits descended on Miranda, moving closer, talking more insistently. She begged them to leave her alone, and when that did not work she ordered them to back off. She told them this place was for the living, not the dead, and they must move on. They heard but they did not obey. Try as she might, she could not make the tortured spirits go away.

  Bren alighted in the thickest part of the forest, and in a burst of energy he reclaimed his human form. For a moment he knelt amidst the trees, naked and alone, heart pounding. He had studied the area from the skies. Not too far away there was a small town, complete with a quaint steepled church, a general store, a gas station, a sprawling school, a small and neat collection of homes that spread out from the center of town and an old-fashioned main street. There he could steal or beg clothes, and when that was done he could make his escape. No one would catch him again. Realizing that there were men in the world who knew his secret, he would be sure to hide well. From now on he’d be on constant guard.

  But instead of taking flight toward escape, he stood and turned to face the other direction, toward the farmhouse where his captors waited. Miranda was there, and she was not safe. He knew it. Felt it. Felt her as if she were screaming in his blood. If he had ever doubted that she was Kademair, those doubts were now gone.

  All his life Bren had accepted that he was the last of his kind; he’d never doubted that truth. His father had warned him well and often, pointing out the decline in population over the years and the age difference between himself and his Kademair, as if Denise Brown’s birth had been an afterthought or even a mistake. Bren’s mother had been more optimistic about the future, but that was simply her way. She always saw the best, especially for those she loved. She very much wanted her son to know the bond of Kademair to Korbinian, and so she convinced herself that
it would be so. Joe Korbinian had been more pragmatic and better informed about the history of his kind.

  Believing his father, Bren had buried himself in work for as long as he’d been able. Work had become his life, filling the place within him that others might fill with family, with devotion for another. He’d come to like his life as it was; he’d been content. And now here he stood, the most important decision he’d ever have to make before him.

  A new, lonely life and safety awaited him to the west, but to the east waited Miranda and an entirely different future. A part of him whispered that life without her was not life at all; it was simply existence. He had existed all these years, creating houses in the mountains he called home, flying alone, determined, destined, to live and die alone.

  If he closed his eyes he could see and smell and taste Miranda. To claim her would mean an end to any ease in his life. He would have not only her to protect but the children they would make. It would take unending diligence to teach and protect a family, if he dared to take what this world now offered.

  Bren burst once more into seventy-seven ravens and he flew.

  Just when Miranda thought she could not take any more, when the voices and the pain of the spirits who lingered here reached the point where they overpowered her will, a strange sensation of peace fell over her. The voices dimmed, then stilled, and one by one the ghosts disappeared.

  All but the spirit on the bed beside her, the one who wrapped her arms and her warm aura around Miranda in a protective manner.

  “You should not be here,” Miranda said, grateful but confused. Spirits remained near the site of their deaths. Always.

  “All Kademair are gifted in some way,” Dee said softly. “It just so happens that my special ability kicked in after death.” She sighed. “I’m stronger than other spirits in many ways, as you well know. Perhaps that’s no coincidence. Perhaps I was so gifted so I could assist the future mother of my grandsons now.”

  “What is a Kademair?” Miranda asked. The word Roger and the others had spoken was familiar to her, as if she’d heard it long ago, or in a dream.

  Dee smiled kindly. Her aura grew brighter, more golden and warm. “No one has told you yet.”

  “Told me what?”

  “You are Kademair. You are the mother of my grandsons.”

  Again with the grandsons. Miranda was in no mood for cryptic and incomplete answers, not even from this kind spirit who sheltered her and offered much needed peace.

  “You’re being very specific. What about grand-daughters?”

  “Bren will only have sons,” Dee said. “That is the way of his ancestors, the reality of what being a true Korbinian means. I would’ve loved to have a daughter, but it was not meant to be. You are the closest I have ever known to a daughter, my dear Miranda. I wish I had known you in life, but again, that was not meant to be. There’s nothing to be gained by wishing.”

  The information Dee offered was too much to absorb. “I barely know Bren. What makes you think that if I ever get out of here there will be kids?”

  “Kademair are the mothers of Korbinians,” Dee said simply. “You are Kademair.”

  Dee’s words didn’t make any sense to Miranda. Kademair? She couldn’t possibly be pregnant, and yet you’d think she was already carrying triplets! All boys, to hear Dee tell it. There were those who wanted to make sure Bren never fathered children, and then there was his mother, who apparently wanted to be a grandmother from beyond the grave. Miranda was pretty sure Bren was no virgin, so why all the fuss now?

  “I won’t be the future mother of anyone’s grandchildren if I don’t get out of here.”

  “He’s coming,” Dee whispered, as if the guards who stood on the other side of the room, the guards who had apparently become accustomed to their charge speaking to the ghosts that inhabited this prison, might hear her voice.

  “Bren?” Miranda responded as softly.

  Dee nodded.

  “No!” Miranda tried to touch the ghost but could not. Her fingers penetrated Dee’s misty form as if falling through fog. “If he comes here they’ll torture him just because he’s who he is.” Man, raven, the last of his kind. Archard used the word monster when he spoke of Bren. No matter what abilities Bren might have, he was no monster. “They’ll kill him.”

  Dee’s face remained solemn. “I imagine they will try.”

  “You must find him and tell him not to come here,” Miranda said desperately.

  Bren’s mother shook her head. “Even if I wanted to, I cannot. I’ve tried to talk to my son before, many times. Abnormal spirit strength or not, he cannot see or hear me. Among the living I have seen since death only you have that ability, Miranda.” The ghost once again strengthened her aura and used it to wrap Miranda in a warm blanket of serenity. “He’s coming,” Dee whispered once again, and Miranda was washed in an echo of a protective fear she herself felt to her bones.

  Bren stood in the shadows of the forest and watched the farmhouse. Miranda was there somewhere, but where? How could he get to her when he had no idea where she was being held? The house was large, two stories with an attic and possibly a basement. The barn was massive, but should be easier to search than the house, if he could find a way in. He burst into his raven form and attempted something he had never before tried. Instead of moving as one, the ravens spread far and wide. Some remained in the forest, observing the larger scene before them. Still others flew to the farmhouse and to the barn, flying past windows and looking inside; more importantly, trying to capture and refine the invisible and undeniable lure that pulled him to Miranda.

  It was dangerous, he realized that. These people knew who he was and what he could do. Would a single raven alarm them? Would that shotgun reappear? He had no idea what would happen to him if one of the ravens that made up the whole was injured or killed. It had never happened before. Would he be able to take human form again if the flock was incomplete? Would all of him die if one part was destroyed? He didn’t know, but it didn’t matter. Miranda was in there somewhere, and he had to get her out, no matter what the risk.

  He didn’t see her through any window in the house, though he did watch Archard and Talbot speaking with the old man who’d tried to shoot the ravens. He also spied on a gray-haired woman who busied herself mindlessly mending a man’s shirt in another room. Bren found himself pulled more and more strongly toward the red barn. There were no open windows there for him to peek through. The structure was closed up tight, which was unusual for an outbuilding. There weren’t even any considerable gaps around the doors and shuttered windows.

  Nor was there the sound of animals inside. Bren strained to hear some noise from inside the structure, but there was nothing, not even the rustle of a mouse. He moved closer and listened more intently, calling on all his senses. And then he knew; Miranda was there.

  He’d not been circling long when the door to the house opened and the three men stepped out—arguing, as they had been doing for as long as Bren had been watching. The raven perched atop the overhang remained still and silent, watching. Waiting to hear Miranda’s name from their lips.

  They walked to the barn, where the old man took a key from his pocket and unlocked the sturdy padlock there. Talbot was last to enter the barn, and before he disappeared from view he glanced back. Bren remained still, but he was certain Talbot saw him. Would they all come rushing out? Would Bren have to flee from the shotgun once more? Apparently Talbot wasn’t alarmed by the presence of one raven. He followed the others inside and closed the barn door tight.

  Miranda had almost fallen into an exhausted sleep, but the appearance of the three men—Roger, Archard and Quinn—scared and alarmed her. Through the ghosts in this room she’d seen too clearly what these people would do. Were they here to torture her as they had tortured others? Would she soon haunt this prison as the other sad souls did? Even Dee’s protection wasn’t enough to ease her now.

  There were no windows, no door in her line of vision. There were only the s
tairs the men descended. Miranda tried to work past her fear and panic to think rationally. Could she run toward the stairs and the trap door above it? Five men stood between her and freedom, five men who all wished her dead. Her eyes fell on Roger. Even this man she considered her friend wanted her dead, if that meant saving his son.

  “She’s been talking to ghosts,” the blond guard revealed in a lowered voice.

  “Truly?” Quinn said. “How extraordinary. I had no idea the fiends we exterminated here had souls that lingered on.”

  Miranda saw no reason to hide what she knew. “Some of those you killed here were innocent.”

  “None of the creatures who were disposed of in this room were innocent, I assure you,” he said.

  Roger tried to step between them. “We don’t need to address this—”

  “But we do,” Quinn said sharply. “It’s too late to hide, too late for deception. If your girl had never learned our secrets, she might’ve been allowed to live out her life in peace and ignorance, but not only did you tell her more than she should know, she’s been talking to the enemy and might’ve been corrupted by their lies. You have no one but yourself to blame for this situation, Talbot. You took Ms. Lynch into Korbinian’s circle, you all but introduced them, you told her secrets that were not yours to share. And now here we are. Korbinian has escaped and your little medium has been speaking to the insignificant remains of the enemy.”

  Miranda’s spine straightened, as three words played again in her head. Korbinian has escaped. They’d tried to take Bren and he got away!

  “There’s only one logical solution,” Archard said bitterly. “Without her we won’t have to worry about there being more Korbinian freaks.” Miranda could not help but notice that his neck was thickly bandaged in two places. She could only hope that a raven or two had taken some chunks out of his hide. “Even if we don’t catch up with Korbinian, the world will one day be safe from his kind.”