Coven of the Raven: box set

by Shona Husk

  His paranoia dialed up another notch.

  He didn’t think he had. The necklace was there, it was pretty. End of story. It wasn’t like he’d said, Wow, that delicate chain holds a pretty strong enchantment. Let me see if I can remove it so we can have a chat about why you are here.

  He’d wanted to do exactly that, but the moment he’d thought about removing the necklace the thought had vanished. A normal person would think they just forgot something. Because he was a witch, he knew magic had masked the thought, and it was an unpleasant idea that Thomas could affect his mind so simply. Mylla wasn’t mute. He was sure that if that necklace came off she’d be able to talk. Somehow Thomas had laced the necklace with a spell to prevent her from speaking, and another to stop anyone from trying to remove the necklace. One hell of an enchantment. The trouble was, removing the necklace would reveal that he knew more about magic than a broke traveler should, assuming he could hold onto the thought long enough to try. Maybe he could seduce her and just whip it off while thinking of something else…

  He gave a low laugh. That wasn’t going to happen. His body disagreed. Blood rushed to his groin and made him ache. He gritted his teeth against the sensation. Only a few more months to go. He’d expected celibacy to get easier, not harder. What a miserable way to be spending his last few months: surrounded by death with a beautiful, mute maid he couldn’t even share a laugh with. Seducing her wouldn’t win any points with Thomas either. And he didn’t need the distraction.

  Oskar stood up, he needed to get moving. Bring his duffle bag in, leave his laptop and phone in the car, then check out the garden and the shed. None of which filled him with cheer. Doubts sprung up faster than he could push them aside.

  He made his way out of the house via the kitchen door, noting he hadn’t been given a house key. Then he moved the van so that it was hidden from the street before tucking his electronics under the front seat. With his duffle slung over his shoulder, he walked around the back and into the kitchen.

  Mylla was in the kitchen peeling vegetables with a small knife, but she didn’t look up. It was as if she didn’t see him or hear him. Creepy. He was tempted to talk to her, thought better of it, then changed his mind again. The more he engaged her the more he’d be able to make a determination as to whether he could trust her, or if she was an extra set of eyes and ears for Thomas.

  “What are the best bits of the garden?”

  She looked up, her eyes wide as if only just realizing he was in the room. Her hand slipped and the knife sliced her finger.

  Oskar dropped his bag and grabbed the tea towel, pressing it to the cut. “Are you okay?”

  What was he asking for? It wasn’t like she could answer. No, but she could listen. Why would she listen to him? She didn’t know him.

  Her gaze remained on her hand, now smothered in a tea towel. But he felt the tremor.

  “Hey, you’re not afraid of a little blood?”

  She shook her head, slowly, as if each movement cost her. Maybe it did. That necklace wasn’t a low-level magical trinket.

  He lifted the tea towel up and had a look at the cut. Not too bad, but he was guessing there weren’t any Band-Aids in the house to put over it. “I didn’t mean to startle you before. I just wanted to know a bit more about the garden. Any bits you really like?”

  Mylla closed her eyes; for a moment he could see her fighting with herself. Her eyelids twitched and fingers flexed. She dropped the knife and it clattered on the wooden chopping board. She opened her eyes and looked at him as though it hurt, then turned away and picked up the carrot and knife and went back to preparing what would no doubt be dinner.

  Okay. Maybe she doesn’t get out much.

  Maybe Thomas could hear every word he said and was watching his every move. Oskar backed away, the hairs on his neck spiking up. He was like a cat walking on hot coals. Everything here was making him jumpy. He picked his bag up off the kitchen floor and walked to his room. Once there he realized he was still holding the bloodied tea towel. He looked at the bright red splotches. Most people would chuck it in the wash and think nothing of it. He should get rid of it. And yet…he held it for a moment longer, then decided it was worth the risk to keep it. He carefully folded the tea towel, keeping her blood on the inside, and tucked it under the mattress. Having someone’s blood could be very useful.

  With nothing better to do until dinner, which would be an exercise in awkward, he went into the overrun yard. Yard implied something small, this was expansive. What had once been lawn was now knee-high grass full of weeds of all kinds. The pond was a stagnant mess of water and scum. As he waded through the grass he was glad summer hadn’t started, otherwise he had no doubt there would be snakes. There was a cluster of fruit trees that had seen better days and a pavilion that needed more than a coat of paint. Everything here was decaying.

  Death breeds death.

  But the rotten scent of the magic was less. A raven landed in a fruit tree and looked at him. Usually he would have said hi, but not here. Thomas would know exactly what that meant. He inclined his head slightly. When the bird fluttered to another tree he let his gaze follow. It took a few moments, but he realized he wasn’t looking at just a stand of fruit trees and shrubs. He walked closer, squinting as dusk began settling. He should’ve brought a flashlight was he allowed a flashlight or was that too modern?

  In the grove of trees, tangled by grass and vines, were statues. Once the effect must have been pretty, as if people were enjoying the garden. He glanced across and saw others on a bench. His gut clenched. He spun again, and in the shadows they seemed to move. Here the scent of decay was stronger, the despair more solid, and through the ground there was an echo of pain, as if someone was yelling.

  He stepped back, his stomach heaving.

  They weren’t statues. They were stone corpses. They’d once been people.

  “Amazing aren’t they? So life-like.” Thomas handed him one of his kerosene lanterns.

  Oskar jumped. His heart pounded too loudly and the silent scream from the statues grew louder. He hadn’t heard Thomas approach, but they had and they were afraid. So was he. His stomach rolled itself up and lodged at the back of his throat. But fear was something to be overcome. Fear meant he was still alive.

  Yeah, and so were they. So was Mylla.

  He took the offered lantern, dusk now deepening to night. “You surprised me. I was trying to work out what the trees were.”

  “I’m not sure what my father planted. Probably a standard assortment. I think there’s a grape vine over there.” He pointed with the lantern, the light catching the features of one of the statues. A man with a beard.

  Oskar nodded. Each one of these stone-looking things had once been a living, breathing human. No wonder the police had never found bodies. They were looking for flesh, not stone. If Thomas caught him, would he be spending a very long time in the orchard dying? Or would his death curse save him when he turned thirty? Either way it was nothing to look forward to.

  “This was one of my favorite places to play as a child.” Thomas swung the lantern in his face. “Do you like it?”

  All Oskar wanted to do was break whoever was alive out. But he didn’t know where to begin. It was a magic far beyond him. “I think it needs a bit of work, but come spring when the trees are flowering it could be beautiful.”

  Thomas eyed him. “I’m glad you like it. I’m sure you’ll enjoy spending time here.”

  Oskar managed to force a smile. “I’m sure I will.” But only because the statues might be able to help him defeat Thomas. But if he killed Thomas, would that also kill the statues and Mylla?

  Chapter 4

  Oskar put on a clean shirt—what was currently passing for neat in his second-hand, scruffy wardrobe—and went upstairs to the dining room. Being invited to dinner with Thomas wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d kind of been hoping that Thomas would leave him alone. If his great uncle dug too deep he might uncover the truth, and that wouldn’t go well. />
  Still, looking a little nervous and uncertain was probably the way to play it, and his discomfort was real. At least he wasn’t having to fake his way through everything, he’d never been a very good liar. Thomas was already sitting; he had a glass of wine in front of him and was looking quite cadaverous. As the candles flickered, Oskar was able to see death clinging to the man. In daylight they looked around the same age, but now? It wasn’t that Thomas looked old, but there was something about him. A hunger. Death magic required feeding.

  Oskar sat at the only other set place at the opposite end of the table. He forced a smile; at least he wasn’t sitting close to his uncle. “Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

  “Oh, don’t expect it to be a regular occurrence. You will eat in the kitchen. Mylla will set you a place.”

  Oskar nodded, relief coursing through him and tangling with the adrenaline that refused to leave. He’d get used to it. The constant otherness of the house and weight of magic, along with the taste that slicked his tongue and the back of his throat, but if he grew accustomed to it, would that mean he was hopelessly corrupted?

  “But I like my staff to have their first and last dinner here, a…” Thomas waved his hand. “A thank you, if you will.”

  Last dinner. He hoped that never came.

  “Very generous of you.” He glanced around the candle-lit room. “Nice place.”

  Thomas sipped his wine. Mylla stepped forward and poured some into Oskar’s glass. He took that moment to study her face, but she didn’t even look at him. Was she locked in her own world, aware and screaming to get out, or completely numb? Which was worse? And yet she’d seemed aware of him earlier—yeah, like when he’d startled her and she’d cut herself? Her level of awareness changed unpredictably.

  “The house has been in the family for many generations. Although I must say it is becoming harder and more expensive to maintain.”

  “Old houses.” Oskar gave a shrug. A witch of Thomas’s experience must know he was hastening the decay. “Not thought of moving?”

  “I have, but I’ve been here so long I can’t imagine living elsewhere. This is home. What about you, where is home?”

  “My van at the moment. Girlfriend and I split, so I thought I’d take the opportunity to travel.”

  “And your parents?”

  The questions were pushing into cracks. Thomas was using them and low-level magic to find out what he wanted. An outright lie would be discovered and that would mean more questions, and then Thomas would be trying to work out why he was lying and what he was hiding. When Oskar was younger he’d tried lying to Mason only to discover that Mason could sense it—along with having the ability to tell when Oskar was about to do something that would get him into trouble.

  “Dead.” That was the truth. “Dad had a heart attack.” Which was almost the truth. “And Mom got taken by cancer.” If not for Thomas, his father would still be alive. Maybe his mother could’ve been saved if they’d had better health insurance.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Oskar picked up his wine glass. “Thanks, but that won’t bring them back.”

  And while there was magic for that, it was stuff best not touched. Not only because of the cost, but because what came back wasn’t entirely right. He wasn’t talking horror movie monsters, zombies or vampires, just that the soul wasn’t made to cross into death and be dragged back. By the time the magic was worked, the soul really was in a better place and coming back damaged it; they were wounded in a way that could never be healed. This had all been explained to him when he’d asked Mason to bring his mother back. He’d been such a brat. It had only sunk in what magic could do if abused when Mason had dragged him to the underside of New York. There was a sub-culture, magic users and abusers. Most were a few cents short of a dollar. People unaware of magic blamed drugs, but there was difference between a drug addiction and bent magic. The Morrigu, for all She could be a pain in the ass, channeled the power and stopped brains from frying.

  How was Thomas staying sane? But then, using death magic to prolong life wasn’t the dictionary definition of sane.

  “It must be terrible being so alone.” Thomas leaned back as if to study him.

  Mylla placed bowls of soup on the table. When did she eat? She gave him the smallest glance and he was sure she was alive in there, the way he’d first thought. Did Thomas’s power over her wax and wane or was she fighting against it? He wanted to know what the bond between master and servant was and how it worked. It was interesting, disturbing, and something he’d have to investigate later.

  “I’ve never felt alone.” He’d always been surrounded by cousins, and then the coven. Being alone was a luxury. Being alone was all he’d have here. “Between friends and extended family.”

  “Ah yes, the relative in Canada.”

  Oskar simply smiled and started on the soup. It was better than he’d hoped for. And if he was going to spend his days doing manual labor and nights trying to work out how to break the curse, he was going to need to eat. Magic was draining, physically and mentally. Looking at Thomas and his thin frame, he either didn’t eat enough or he worked with magic too much. Oskar was betting on the latter.

  Not for the first time he wished that someone from the coven had come with him. A second opinion and extra strength for spell work. But that might have raised eyebrows. At least as a gardener he would be overlooked and underestimated.

  Thomas watched more intently than was polite. Did Thomas not believe him?

  “So, Mylla, is she a relative of yours?” He smiled at the maid, but her expression never changed. It was as if he didn’t exist unless she was serving him. Maybe she didn’t because Thomas had magical blinkers on her. As much as he’d like to find out more, now wasn’t the place. Later he’d work out if she was a living doll or a woman trapped inside her own body, and if he could help her without revealing himself as a witch.

  “No, a friend of the family asked that I employ her. The modern world is a difficult place for those who don’t communicate. Here she is protected.” Thomas smiled but it never reached his eyes. The candlelight stole any warmth it might have had and made it into something much more sinister.

  Or his imagination was getting ahead of him.

  Would he be as paranoid if he didn’t know about the death magic and how old Thomas really was? Sometimes knowing about magic and how it worked made everyday life that little bit sharper. The difference between using an electric razor in the morning and a straight razor. One could be used with little thought, the other required skill and concentration and losing focus could mean death. Staying here was like wielding a straight razor, and he wasn’t entirely sure how to use it.

  Mylla brought out chicken and vegetables; she moved almost silently, like a ghost, and his gaze was drawn to her. Would a normal man’s? He was second guessing his every action. Oskar wanted this dinner over before he screwed up…and yet he couldn’t rush or Thomas would wonder why he’d been so keen to leave.

  The two men ate in silence, and even though Oskar didn’t lift his gaze farther than his plate he felt Thomas watching him. And occasionally Mylla, too. There was more going on than just the necklace and Thomas’s control over her. She was laced in magic. A web that was strong enough to bind her every move and every thought—and yet he’d seen glimpses of her beneath it. He really wanted to believe it wasn’t a trap, but Thomas hadn’t lived this long by being stupid. He’d have traps for witches. Wouldn’t he?

  If it were Oskar sitting at the head of the table, he would. But he’d been raised in a different era and trained in a different coven. When Thomas was young, witches had been trained in swords and guns, not martial arts; there’d been a different code of conduct. And yet somehow none of it had rubbed off on Thomas. What had happened to make him turn his back on the Morrigu and jump into the black water of death magic?

  His research had turned up nothing specific.

  Did Thomas research covens so he’d recognize a thr
eat? Was that lazy snake-ish half-smile because he knew what game Oskar was playing and he was willing to go along with it because it amused him? A shudder scrambled down his spine.

  Paranoia was not his friend.

  He took a breath and a sip of wine. He’d kill for a beer with a tequila chaser. TV in the background and the other guys from the coven talking shit about what was the worst spell they’d fucked up, or who they’d saved or what demon they’d almost put to ground.

  Not even one night here and he missed the bastards. They’d have punched him in the arm just for thinking that. He almost smiled. If he got through this, he’d have the biggest story to tell, but he suspected Mason was picking out headstones.

  Mylla watched Oskar leave the dining room from the corner of her eye. He’d been a bright spot in a dark room. Her eyes had been drawn to him, so she’d had to make sure to look straight ahead, to pay him no attention incase Mr. Quigley realized she had any freedom. Now she waited for her next orders. It would be clean up, get ready for bed and sleep. Her favorite few hours because they weren’t specific. She could read and remind herself of all the things she forgot. And there were so many. More than she could read in one night. The book of Shakespeare that she had was full of her writing in the margins. She read as much as she could each night and wrote down anything that had come to her during the day. Today it was Oskar. That’s a pretty necklace, Mylla.

  Mr. Quigley beckoned her forward. “You have a cut on your hand, how did it get there?”

  She stopped beside him and looked at her hands. She’d forgotten about it. It was a tiny nick, and yet the idea of spilling blood made her shiver, but the motion was repressed, even though she could feel it course through her. “I was cutting vegetables.”

  If he knew Oskar had been present, there would be consequences. Bad consequences. While she couldn’t avoid answering, she could pick her words carefully. She’d learned how to do that—remembering to do it was harder. She had to be constantly aware.