“Pete has your nose,” Miranda said gently. “He also has your gentle heart and did not want to join his father in hunting down the wicked and those whose only crime was to be gifted with some power that’s not yet understood.”
“You’re a con artist of some kind,” Mrs. Quinn whispered. “You’re cruel to remind me of the son who ran away.”
“Your son didn’t run away,” Miranda insisted once more. “His father offered him tea and then he slit his throat. Call the police and I’ll show them where Pete was buried. If I’m wrong, then you can shoot me.” The woman’s questioning eyes met hers. “I’m not wrong,” Miranda added kindly. “Help me, please.”
But it was too late. It had taken her too long to convince Pete’s mother of the truth. While they’d been talking, Ward Quinn and Duncan Archard had left the barn and positioned themselves between Miranda and the forest. They were both armed. She couldn’t convince herself that they would be as hesitant as this woman to pull the trigger.
Miranda prepared herself for the shot that was coming; she imagined both men were accomplished marksmen, and now she was their target. It was over. Her gamble in racing here had failed.
But Mrs. Quinn nudged Miranda to the side and stepped around her, effectively shielding Miranda with her broad body. “Ward, you have some explaining to do.”
“Now, honey, this is my business and you have no—”
“Did you kill Peter?” the woman asked outright, her voice almost steady.
Miranda expected the old man to lie to his wife, but surprisingly, he did not.
“There was an accident and Pete was wounded. He got very sick within hours, and soon I could see that he was turning into one of the creatures he worked so hard to fight. He was tainted by bad blood and he ceased to be the boy we both loved…”
“So, you did kill him. Slit his throat and buried him in the woods, to hear this girl tell it.”
Quinn took a step toward the porch and his armed wife, while Archard moved to the side, no doubt trying to line up a clear shot at Miranda.
“I made Pete’s passing as quick and painless as I could, and then I protected you from the ugly truth.”
Pete sighed. “I was not a monster on the inside.”
Miranda repeated his words in a soft voice for Mrs. Quinn alone, and as she did she heard the sounds of birds, of ravens, approaching. Her heart reacted and her stomach flipped. Bren was coming. He hadn’t forgotten her.
“I didn’t have a chance to fight for my life, or say goodbye.”
Again Miranda told Pete’s mother what he said.
Without warning, Mrs. Quinn fired on her husband. The blast was deafening, the effects of the shot on a man so close was gruesome. Miranda turned her head to see that Archard had not been fazed by the violence. He took aim. At her.
The ravens dove, the man with the gun their target. Seventy-seven ravens diving at full speed was an awesome sight, one that took Miranda’s breath away. Once before the birds had attacked Archard, but this time their intent was much more deadly. Claws found and tore skin; sharp beaks stabbed. They forced his arms out and away from his sides, and they snatched the gun from his hand and dropped it to the ground several feet away. When that was done, the attack lessened, but did not stop. Duncan Archard was surrounded by flapping wings that covered his face and surrounded his body, pecking, scratching, disorienting him. Ravens dove in and out, wave after wave moving in to attack and then winging away, making room for another.
When Miranda had been surrounded by the ravens, she’d been protected. Archard was under full assault, and he didn’t know how to defend himself.
In the distance Miranda heard approaching sirens. Lots of them. Bren hadn’t abandoned that part of his plan, after all. Help was on the way. The birds that had attacked Archard dispersed as a line of sheriff’s cars entered the driveway, lights flashing. Archard lay on the ground, bleeding and shaking, incapable of speech or movement.
The officer in the lead car leaped out, armed and alert as he surveyed the situation. Mrs. Quinn held a shotgun, and her husband was very dead, obviously killed by the weapon she held. Archard was alive but badly injured. His injuries were not so easily identifiable to those who had not seen the ravens’ vicious attack.
Those birds flew into the forest, disappearing into the trees as the gruesome scene was surrounded by armed lawmen. Only Miranda watched them go.
Mrs. Quinn wisely and calmly put her shotgun down. “He murdered my son,” she said simply. “Peter’s body is buried in the woods and this girl can show you where.” With that she turned away, showing her back to the armed lawmen. “My biscuits are burning, dammit.”
Chapter 13
In the years since Jessica’s death and the awakening of her abilities, Miranda had been in some strange situations. Nothing topped this one.
The sheriff and his deputies raided Quinn’s bunker and arrested the two young guards. Poor boys, they were confused. All along they’d thought they were the good guys. The lawmen believed differently. Roger and Jackson were freed. Roger desperately needed sleep and Jackson suffered from a kind of hangover, thanks to the drugs he’d been given. They were both taken to the local clinic for treatment and observation.
The sheriff decided the shotgun blast that had killed Ward Quinn had been an accident, and none of the deputies said a word to hint otherwise. Mrs. Quinn gave a brief statement but was not detained. Miranda suspected the local lawmen knew more than they let on. How could they not? There had to have been years of strange comings and goings from this farm where no traditional farm work was done, and no one who spent much time with Ward Quinn could possibly think him an entirely innocent man.
The fact that Archard was raving like a madman and also that an FBI agent and his son were being held captive didn’t hurt Mrs. Quinn’s case at all.
Miranda declined to make a trip to the clinic where Roger and Jackson were being treated, instead accepting Mrs. Quinn’s invitation to rest in Pete’s room until she felt like traveling. No one had slept in his bed for sixteen years, but unknown to Ward Quinn, his wife had laundered the sheets at least once a month, preparing for their son’s eventual return. What Quinn had done to his wife was almost as cruel as cutting his own son’s throat. He’d let her believe that Pete had run away; he’d allowed her to grieve and to hope all these years. He had taken from her the right to tell her son goodbye.
After the majority of the lawmen had cleared out, Miranda had accepted the loan of a nightgown much too large for her and had crawled gratefully into Peter Quinn’s bed. She’d gone to sleep with her window wide open and the sheriff’s words echoing in her brain.
A naked fella showed up at the station before the crack of dawn with the most outrageous tale I’ve ever heard. Ran in and out in a matter of seconds, telling the deputy at the desk that a couple of fellas were being held captive in Ward Quinn’s barn. The deputy on duty tried to detain him. It’s against the law to run around town with no clothes on. But the guy ran around a corner and was gone, just like that. ’Course, Jim’s been known to take a drink or two on a slow night, so there’s no tellin’ where that naked fella actually took off to.
Miranda was relieved to know that Bren hadn’t been late arriving because he’d had second thoughts about her. About them. He’d gone to Silvera for help, and then he’d flown to her. If she’d done as he’d instructed and waited for him in the woods, she never would’ve been in danger. Not that she regretted forging onward. Still, if she had known what he’d planned…
With her head resting on Pete’s pillow Miranda fell asleep quickly, exhausted and shaken, yet certain that somehow everything was going to be all right. Bren had not deserted her.
She didn’t dream of ravens or men. In fact, she didn’t dream at all, not that she recalled. The bed was like warm, welcoming quicksand that sucked her in and allowed her to claim the rest she so badly needed. When her eyes opened, the sky beyond the open window was dark and Bren sat on the side of the bed. She’d
thought he might come to her, which was why she’d left the windows open when she’d gone to sleep.
He was not entirely naked, having found and donned the trousers she’d left in the woods. His expression was not one of sweetness and love, nor was it of relief. No, he was furious with her and didn’t mind at all that she so easily saw his displeasure.
“I told you to wait. Didn’t you hear me?”
“Hello to you, too,” she said. “I’m fine, really. Not hurt at all. I ache everywhere, but that’s thanks to the hike through the forest, not anything Quinn or his twisted allies did.”
Bren pulled her up and into his arms, so that her head rested against his bare chest. He held her close, his warm, hard body telling her what he refused to admit aloud. He’d been scared, not angry, and fearing for someone else’s safety was new to him.
“Right now I just want a hot bath and some clean clothes,” she said, resting her cheek against his chest and loving the way he felt. After that…she didn’t know what would happen after. She was Bren’s Kademair, his life mate; she’d easily accepted that fact in the heat of the moment. But was that true or was it only desire that made him think there was more to their feelings than sexual attraction? Would Duncan Archard have kidnapped any woman Bren expressed a quick and intense interest in? Maybe the whole Kademair Korbinian thing was just what it sounded like. A fairy tale.
“You’ll get your bath, and I have clean clothes for you.”
She tilted her head back to look at him. This close she could see the stubble on his untended chin, the pulse at his throat, the lips she longed to kiss again. “Did you steal them off someone’s clothesline?”
“I borrowed them from Mrs. Quinn.”
Miranda tried to imagine what the much larger woman might have that would be suitable, thinking that she’d end up in something like the nightgown that now swallowed her whole, when Bren added, “The clothes are not exactly in style, but they should fit you well enough to do until I get you home.” He sighed deeply. “The woman apparently never throws anything away. She also offered me some of Pete’s clothes if I should need them.”
“Are we leaving tonight?”
Bren shook his head. “Tomorrow morning you’re going to show some of Roger Talbot’s associates—associates of the FBI type, I’m happy to say—where the bodies are buried. Literally. He says these will be men you’ve worked with before, so we don’t have to worry about hiding what you’re doing or convincing unbelievers. When that’s done we can go home.”
Miranda sighed. She wanted to go home, and she so wanted that home to be in Bren’s mountain house. She waited for him to say something to that effect, but he didn’t. In the cave where they’d made love he’d talked about disappearing, but now he talked easily about home. His? Hers? Theirs?
Bren drew the oversize nightgown over her head and tossed it aside. He touched her, caressed her body as if she was precious and fragile. She liked the feel of his hands on her body—she always had. Relaxing in his arms, giving in to the sensations that the simplest touch aroused, was the most natural thing in the world. Apparently he wasn’t too angry with her.
She wanted Bren inside her, again and again, but he didn’t go that far. Instead, he stopped far short, snatching up the gown he’d tossed aside and pulling it over her head, gently tugging it down so it covered her body, loosely and completely. When that was done he gathered her in his arms and lay down beside her, holding her close, keeping her safe. She didn’t question why he’d stopped, why he didn’t make love to her.
“You came for me,” she said softly, content to cuddle in his arms for now.
“Of course I did. Did you doubt me?” he asked.
Miranda didn’t answer that question. She didn’t want to admit to Bren that she had doubted very much.
Bren stood in the hallway outside the bathroom while Miranda took her shower. He listened to the spray of the water and imagined her there, tired and shaken but thankfully whole and alive. He could’ve waited downstairs or in the room where he’d found her asleep, but he didn’t want to be that far away.
Because she was his, a group of nuts had tried to kill her. Some of them might’ve been well-meaning nuts, but the rest were simply killers who found a way to rationalize their violence and hatred. They would’ve taken her life without hesitation, thrown her to her death just because she had the power to give birth to a Korbinian.
Ward Quinn was dead and Duncan Archard was under constant guard at the local clinic, where he occasionally raved about birds attacking him, flapping his arms as if he was surrounded by ravens pecking at his flesh. When he was lucid, the badly wounded Archard steadfastly denied breaking into Talbot’s cabin and making an attempt on Miranda’s life there, but he did admit to kidnapping Bren on Quinn’s orders. Naturally he wouldn’t say anything to the local lawmen about why he’d been given such a command.
Bren didn’t think for a moment that because those two were out of the picture, it meant the Order was done. No, there were others like Quinn and Archard, including some who were probably worse. They would return one day to finish what the others had started. All too soon other men would take their places and the quiet war would continue.
How could he take Miranda home, marry her and give her children when he knew there were those in the world who would take drastic measures to end the Korbinians? How could he make her a part of his life not knowing when someone would come for them? He’d thought they could hide, but could they? In a world so small was it possible to disappear?
All his life he’d known he was meant to live and die alone. For a few days Miranda had jostled that certainty, made him think he could have more. And now he was going to have to give her up, for her own good and for his.
The shower was turned off, and he listened to her movements on the other side of the door. It was possible that she was already pregnant, but it wasn’t a given, not by a long shot. His parents had been married for months, almost a year, before he was conceived. He’d have to keep an eye on her for a while just to be sure, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t let her go.
If she did have a baby, it would be years before the Korbinian abilities kicked in. Until then, he could stay away from both of them; he could watch from a distance and do what he could to keep her safe. If there was a child. If not, then he could simply cut all ties with Miranda Lynch. That would be for the best, for both of them.
She opened the bathroom door and stepped into the hallway with an unexpected smile on her face. “Very cool, eh?” she said, twirling to show off her brightly colored striped halter top and the lime-green bellbottom pants that hugged her hips and dragged on the floor. She was several inches shorter than Mrs. Quinn had been when she’d been small enough to wear this particular outfit.
“It’ll do,” he said, trying to ignore the blatant fact that she wore no bra, resisting the urge to fold her in his arms again. “Hope you saved me some hot water.” He walked past her carrying the clothing Mrs. Quinn had given him. The worn blue jeans and KISS T-shirt were not quite as dated as Miranda’s borrowed clothes. “Roger and Jackson are downstairs,” he said coolly. “They’re anxious to see you.” With that he closed the bathroom door behind him. He stood there without moving until he heard Miranda move away.
Miranda was still leery of Roger. Yes, he’d helped her and had almost paid a high price for that help, but he was not the man she’d thought she knew. He’d lied to her for years. As far as she was concerned, there had been an ulterior motive behind every kind word he’d ever spoken.
She had no reservations about giving Jackson a long, tight, heartfelt hug, before she sat down at the dining-room table across from Roger. He was wise enough not to rise and make a move toward her. There would be no hugging for him, probably not ever again.
Mrs. Quinn had apparently passed the day cooking. Maybe it was her way of relieving stress. Maybe she didn’t know what else to do with herself. Heavenly aromas drifted from the kitchen, and the table was laden with homema
de cookies, biscuits, casseroles, a chocolate cake and a loaf of freshly baked raisin bread. A bowl of steaming stew sat in front of Roger, and Miranda hadn’t been in her seat more than a few minutes before the older woman delivered a similar bowl and a soup spoon.
Miranda reached out and took Mrs. Quinn’s hand. “You don’t have to do all this,” she said kindly. “Sit. Rest.”
Mrs. Quinn held on to Miranda’s hand for a long moment, and then she squeezed it tightly. “I need to keep busy,” she responded. “It’s best to keep my mind off what happened this morning as best I can.” She sighed and removed her hand. “I suppose I always knew deep down Ward’s business was no good, but his intentions seemed to be noble ones. I had no idea how far he would go. I didn’t know innocent people would get hurt. And Peter…” She shook off the thought and returned to the kitchen to lose herself in pots and pans and flour.
Miranda looked Roger in the eye. “Now what?”
“A team of FBI agents will be here in the morning…”
“I’m not talking about that!” she snapped. “This Order you belong to, the men who are so damn determined to see that anyone who has an ability they don’t understand is wiped out, what will they do next?”
Roger’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
Roger looked at a wide-eyed Jackson. “Go see if you can help Mrs. Quinn in the kitchen.”
“But, Dad…”
“That’s not a request.”
Jackson rose slowly and with that boneless grace only the very young possess, and with a decided lack of speed, he made his way into the kitchen.
“The Order of Cahir has existed for thousands of years, and their purpose has always been a noble one,” Roger said in a lowered voice. “Yes, now and then someone gets carried away, but that’s not the norm. We serve a purpose, Miranda. We stop monsters.”
“Monsters like me and Bren?” she asked.
Roger’s eyes flashed. “We also observe and study those who have nonthreatening paranormal abilities. There’s a great store of knowledge in the Order, and scientists are always trying to find out why some among us have such abilities while others do not.”
Last of the Ravens Page 19