Coven of the Raven: box set

by Shona Husk

  He picked up her hand and examined the wound. Then he pushed up her sleeve. Her forearm was marked with cuts, old and new. That was her arm. How did she not remember, how did she not feel the pain?

  Her stomach twisted as memories flashed through her mind. A knife flashed and blood spilled into a glass. Candles and scent she couldn’t place. A tightening around her throat, binding her to his will. Her breath locked in her chest. Magic. But she couldn’t pull away from him. She was trapped, unable to free herself. She’d tried before, a long time ago when she’d made promises to another.

  “What happened to the blood?” He looked up at her. His gaze cool and distant, but she felt the pressure of the stare and wanted to look away. The memories began to fade.

  No! She had to hold on. She had to write them down and see if she had the answers in her book. Mylla blinked, that fraction of a moment was enough for the memories to remain. They were there, but fragmented and just out of reach…but they were there. What else had he made her forget? How many years had been lost, buried? How was he doing this to her?

  Magic wasn’t real, and yet even as she thought it her heart beat faster as if something dark and monstrous was drawing closer.

  She met Mr. Quigley’s gaze and hoped she appeared calm and unruffled the way he expected. “I…I cleaned it up.” As she spoke her voice became more certain, as if he were demanding it of her, and not even her voice was truly her own, just what he expected.

  “How?”

  What had she done? There’d been blood on the knife and the chopping board…Oskar had taken the tea towel…but Mr. Quigley wanted to know what she had done. “I washed it up.”

  He nodded and released her from his cool grip. “I’m the only one allowed to cut you. Be more careful.” His warning echoed in her bones and she knew it was an order that she would obey without thought and one she couldn’t rebel against. He pulled her sleeve back down. “There are consequences for carelessness.”

  “Yes, Mr. Quigley.” Control of her thoughts began to fracture as she agreed to be more careful.

  “If not for me, you’d be nothing. Remember that, Mylla.” He gave her arm a last caress. “I have made you what you are.”

  “Thank you.” This time the words fell off her tongue unbidden. She didn’t want to be grateful for this. She wasn’t grateful. No, she hated what he’d done to her.

  “Go on. Clear dinner away, get ready for bed and sleep until your alarm wakes you.”

  She nodded and began gathering dishes. She couldn’t have walked out and left them even if she’d wanted to. And while he was watching, she moved carefully and cautiously like she always did. It was what he expected, and yet sometimes when she was alone she was able to move faster. Clean a room quickly and then stare out the window and dream of flying free like the birds. Like the crow on the balcony.

  Yes. One day she’d be free. She’d find her voice and never stop talking.

  Mr. Quigley had given her another clue. The cuts on her arms. She repeated it to herself as she washed the dishes and dried up. She helped herself to a bit more food—she was hungry all the time.

  As she ate a piece of chicken in the kitchen she knew she was being watched, but not by Thomas. At first she ignored it as that was the safe thing to do. Safe from what? Mr. Quigley and his demands? She didn’t want to obey him. So she turned, only to prove she had that small measure of control over her body.

  Oskar was in the doorway.

  “Do you need any help?”

  She shook her head. He was interrupting the time when she had the most freedom and yet she didn’t resent it. When she was near him, she felt as though she was feeling the sun on her skin for the first time in…she had no idea how long she’d been here, not really. If Mr. Quigley dulled her mind, something about Oskar made it sharper. She wanted to be able to say something to him. To warn him that not everything was as it seemed, and yet even if she could speak what proof did she have? A few nightmares and random memories? The cuts on her arm?

  Oskar would think she was mad, that’s all. The crazy, mute maid with the scars. Her eyes burned and she turned away. Oskar was upsetting the balance and changing things. It was better when she couldn’t remember, then she wasn’t confused and upset. She just existed. The way she’d existed for God knew how many years. She couldn’t go on like that. Something had to change. Maybe that was Oskar.

  “Are you sure? I can dry?” She could hear the smile in his voice, as if he found her inability to talk a challenge and not a handicap.

  Deliberately, she turned her head and gave a single nod. He could dry, save her some time, and then she’d have longer to read and make notes in the book.

  He walked over and picked up the tea towel and she kept washing. He hadn’t even been here one day and he was changing her routine. What would happen if Mr. Quigley came down and saw them together? Fear stabbed her and halted her breath. She looked up from the sink and over to the stairs.

  Oskar looked as well. “Am I not supposed to help? I thought because we’re both employees here for the moment…”

  She glanced at him. He was frowning at her.

  How could she explain it when she wasn’t sure herself? It wasn’t that he wasn’t allowed to help, it was just that he hadn’t been told to help and she knew that Mr. Quigley wouldn’t like it, although why, she couldn’t say, and she didn’t know if any of the other gardeners had ever offered to help.

  Which made her frown harder. Her memory was so patchy, like a moth-eaten blanket. What would happen when the holes became too large? Would her mind simply fall apart? She shook her head and went back to washing. It was better to get this done and get to the safety of her room. Her mind hadn’t been this clear in a while and she had to make the most of it. She needed to spend longer reading tonight, going through her notes and hoping that something would become clear in her dreams. Sometimes she wrote her dreams down, too, if they were more than a muddled jumble of things. Faces, statues and blood were what usually haunted her sleep.

  But they wouldn’t tonight. She knew that already, something was off kilter and she blamed Oskar, as well as thanking him. The bonds that kept her mind trapped had loosened and he didn’t even realize what he was doing. Maybe it wasn’t him and Mr. Quigley was testing her. And if she failed?

  She glanced at Oskar. He stood next to her radiating a warmth that she missed, and if she missed it she must have felt it before, even though she couldn’t say what it was. If she was tinder, he was a spark. Yes, a spark. Dangerous and unpredictable, would he snuff out or burn? She wanted to burn.

  Without meaning to, she watched Oskar work. His hands on the towel as he rubbed each piece of cutlery dry. He had nice hands, strong hands. His skin had a glow, as if he spent time outside. Questions formed on the tip of her tongue but stuck. She opened her mouth but there was nothing there to come out.

  If Mr. Quigley could make her talk, why not give her that gift all the time? Words clogged her throat. She was sure she’d once been able to talk.

  “So…” Oskar looked at her as he leaned against the kitchen counter, still carefully drying the silverware. “If you can’t talk, can you read or write?”

  What did he think, she was some kind of half-wit? Is that what Mr. Quigley told everyone who came here so they wouldn’t even try to talk to her? Heat crept up her cheeks. She could read and write. Damn it, she could talk, but only to Mr. Quigley.

  She huffed out a breath, unable to vent her frustration and nodded in reply.

  “Okay then, because, if I only had myself to talk to for the next few months I might go a little crazy. But if you can write, then maybe we can talk. If you won’t get into trouble.” He was studying her again. His dark brown eyes were totally unreadable, but she was sure he was seeing more of her than any man should. A flutter of excitement caught her off guard. Yes, she wanted to bask in the heat, even if it destroyed her. Then the fog in her mind moved around and smothered the possibilities and her thoughts of freedom and a life beyon
d the house.

  “And you can’t answer that because it wasn’t a yes or no question.” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Will you get into trouble?”

  She shook her head. She hadn’t been given an order not to associate with Oskar.

  “Do you want to talk to me?”

  This felt like the first real conversation she’d ever had. And she was enjoying it. Something else Mr. Quigley could never find out. Her joy dampened. She shouldn’t be keeping things from him. But her bedroom was a shrine to the things he wanted her to forget. No, this was for her, and maybe she could warn Oskar that something wasn’t right—without mentioning magic. Maybe he could help her escape. She nodded, but cautiously.

  “Good. So…you worked here long?”

  She opened her mouth, how did she answer that when she didn’t know herself? Sometimes she wasn’t even sure the marks on her wall made sense. She shrugged then nodded. He would make of it what he would. Tomorrow she’d find some paper and put it in her dress.

  I must remember to find paper. And then destroy whatever I write.

  As long as Mr. Quigley didn’t give her any orders or look into her eyes, she should be able to hold onto that thought. She pulled the plug and let the water go. With the dishes dried, all that was left was to put them away. Having help was nice. She hadn’t realized she’d ever felt alone until now, and yet that must have been what was missing in her life. The only person she ever saw and ever spoke to was Mr. Quigley, and he filled her with a sense of dread, a cold seeping sensation that started at the base of her spine and spread like paralysis poison.

  Her muscles remembered being frozen in position, unable to move as the knife flashed closer.

  “Are you okay?” Oskar placed his hand on her arm.

  She looked up at him and wanted to sink into the warmth of his gaze, concern and something else. Her heart did a strange pitter patter that sent a tingle to her toes. And heat from his hand seeped through her dress and into her flesh. Her lips moved, then she nodded. Would he care if he knew about the strange memories that were fighting to surface?

  And yet he needed to know about Mr. Quigley, that there’d been other gardeners and something had happened to them, something bad. A tidy garden meant bad things happened. The chill was back, surrounding her and crushing her.

  Mylla took a breath and shook her head. She needed to go. She needed to remember what was going on so she could warn him. She didn’t want anything to happen to Oskar. She couldn’t imagine his life choked off the way hers was. And she knew she was being stunted, trapped. The walls of the house closed in.

  Oskar touched her face. “Breathe.”

  As soon as he touched her she felt the bonds loosen and the fear subside—not leave, but lessen. If Mr. Quigley was darkness and oppression, Oskar was light and freedom. He was a spark, she needed to hold onto it and nurture it so it grew into a wildfire that would burn down this house. She wanted to taste it, taste him. Her lips parted. Attraction, that’s what was sliding through her body and warming her blood.

  For a moment neither of them moved. Then Oskar stepped back, his hand slid away from her cheek and she missed his touch immediately.

  “I should get to bed. Long day of gardening ahead.”

  She glanced down, knowing he was right, and yet not wanting this to end. But there was always tomorrow. And she would have paper. And she’d have pieced together a bit more about what was going on—as long as Mr. Quigley didn’t realize she was thinking and remembering and fog her mind again. She’d have to be very careful.

  But the risk would be worth it.

  Oskar closed his bedroom door. His heart was beating too fast. Adrenaline and fear. He was going to have to get used to that living here. It was definitely not caused by the look in Mylla’s blue eyes, the choked glimmer of life, and the way her lips had parted. He’d been tempted to lean a little closer and kiss her just to see if the life in her eyes would glow brighter. He couldn’t afford a distraction, no matter how pretty.

  For all he knew she was upstairs with Thomas repeating everything he’d said. He’d bet his life that she talked for Thomas. He wanted to hear her talk to him. The idea of a cold shower was becoming more appealing. Mylla could be the trap. Still, there were worse ways to die, and it had been a very long self-imposed dry spell. What kind of person decided to give up sex for the last year of their life? It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Noble even. Not passing the curse on was a good thing.

  The Morrigu said he’d fulfill the last part of his vow. Mylla was the temptation.

  Pain in his palms made him look down. He’d curled his fingers into fists. He forced his hands to open. He should have gotten a vasectomy, then he could’ve had all the sex he wanted. But even now that idea rang hollow. A cheap escape and a lack of will and strength. Things the Coven of the Raven prided themselves. They used magic without ritual tools and chants, drawing from within and the Morrigu. It had saved many of them in battle.

  He peeled himself off the door and gathered up his things.

  A shower would wash away desire and the traces of death magic clinging to his skin, and then he’d spend some time exploring the house.

  Less than thirty minutes later he was sitting cross-legged on the bed, eyes closed, wearing pajama pants and trying to still his mind. The shower had helped—and it had been cold. The bathroom was an add-on with no heating and the shower was a spout and a hole in the floor that didn’t encourage lingering. He missed the cruddy motel with the lumpy mattress already. He was missing his life.

  He was a researcher, not a practitioner, and he sure as hell wasn’t a gardener.

  And he had to stop thinking like that. If he didn’t believe it, no one else would. He took another breath and pushed away the doubts while drawing his focus inwards. He wasn’t going to talk to the Morrigu. She wasn’t helpful, and talking to an entity that powerful would be sure to trigger some kind of magical warning system.

  That was his job tonight; find out how well the house was warded and how they had been constructed. Research. And nothing different to the things he’d done before. The coven liked his research because he remembered, not just the big things but the small things, too. If they’d practiced ritual magic with chants, he’d have been all over that. His lips curved and he dragged his concentration back.

  He needed this recon done.

  With his attention turned inwards, he built up a circle around himself. In his mind it became real and solid; he gave it just enough to be stable, but hopefully not enough to raise any suspicions. Then he let his mind wander to the house, starting with this room.

  What he was doing was less dangerous than astral projection. This was more of a feeling out, letting his consciousness expand and roam beyond physical constrains. People did it naturally when day dreaming but they generally weren’t actually focusing and doing anything useful with the skill. Focusing and roaming free at the same time took practice.

  His room had traces of the death magic clinging in the corners, the way spider webs might gather. They were dark and sticky but harmless, even if they did make his shudder with revulsion when they brushed his skin—much the same as anyone would if they walked into a spider web.

  He drifted farther out to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. More webs, and a few trailing ends dangling down the stairwell. He’d brushed through them. It was good to know he hadn’t been imagining the brush against his skin…kind of. No wonder he’d felt better after the shower when the remains of the sticky strands had been washed away. How many showers could he have in one day before questions were asked?

  He let the thought go, he was going to have to suck it up and get used to the touch of it on his skin. As he drifted up the stairs the webs changed, coalescing into something thicker, denser and with more sentience. Here it was fresh and active. But his consciousness wouldn’t trigger anything. If he had been projecting and creating an astral body ready to do some serious spell work, the alarms would be going off alread
y. Like this, all he could do was look, although in truth it was more sensations, which his mind turned into images, some created from his memory of the house. To another witch the death magic might feel different, but to him it was a web, and Thomas was the spider at the center.

  He stopped his mind from wandering off to find his great uncle. Looking at him more closely was a job for another night. Mylla, on the other hand…was she Thomas’s prey or partner?

  He was aware of more stairs, but because he hadn’t actually been on the second floor he had no visual just a sensation. The web here coated the walls and pulsed. Blood vessels was his next thought. Not a web, a web implied it was stationary and this was something else. He’d never seen anything so well developed, but then, Thomas had lived for a very long time, feeding and growing his power. Peeling back the death magic to get to Thomas wasn’t going to work, there was too much of it protecting him and the house.

  Around him was the pulse of death. It beat and lived because it fed on others. Someone passed by him. Mylla. His mind recognized her even though he couldn’t see her.

  Even like this he felt the shuttered light. Like this he knew why she was smothered. The black, pulsing magic was wrapped around her like a cocoon. It coated her skin and dug into her. Tentacles of it pushed into her head and wrapped around her throat. She was under Thomas’s control. But he still didn’t know if it was a trap designed to catch witches. No one else would try to help her as no one else would be able to see. He watched her a little longer, the dark mass clinging to her and invading didn’t look new. It looked well established, as if she were part of the house.

  The idea was repellent and he drew away.

  She wasn’t a construct and she wasn’t hollow. She was a person, not a living doll, but Thomas had done something to her and it had something to do with the damn necklace. He was pretty sure that if he killed Thomas she’d also die because she was wrapped up in whatever he was doing. Could she even be saved?