Coven of the Raven: box set

by Shona Husk

  Usually she didn’t have to ask for permission to go to the bathroom, but then he didn’t usually sit and watch her work. She just took a break when required and then went back to work. However, she had discovered she was unable to linger too long as the order to work on whatever job she was supposed to be doing was still there.

  She glided out of the room and downstairs to the bathroom. She didn’t really need to go, she just needed a moment alone without his cold gaze on her. How could he sit there so calmly as he plotted murder?

  But even as she used the water closet, she didn’t dare resist the order to return. She was doing her best to convince Mr. Quigley that she was as empty as she had been. That thoughts of her and Oskar together didn’t fill her heart and give her hope, that the idea of getting free of the house didn’t enter her mind. There would be no notes and no longing peeks out the window this morning. No, but that didn’t mean she didn’t notice Oskar standing in the orchard with the statues, the rain obscuring the details so she glimpsed only movement.

  She had to find a way to warn him. If Oskar was going to do something, he had to do it before the Sunday roast.

  Once he’d tuned out the cold, being in the rain wasn’t so bad. There was a steady rhythm to the drops and the rain had a meditative quality, as if he was in his own creepy little world with only the statues to talk to. Although there was less talk and more endless cries of souls in torment that he couldn’t tune out. He wiped over each one, studying the clothes to get a clue as to when each had been turned. One poor guy was naked and with a look of horror on his face, as if he’d known what was coming. He looked as though he’d wanted to run and been caught mid-stride. The poor bastards here never had a chance.

  As he wiped over the guy’s face—and he was still in there—Oskar apologized. “Sorry, buddy.” It was more of a mutter.

  And yet in that moment, Oskar could’ve sworn the statues attention turned to him. There was no movement, but there didn’t have to be for the unnerving prickle down his back to hit the already overused adrenaline button.

  Maybe they were more alive than he’d thought, except for the man toward the back. He had a beard and looked old, even as a statue. The first one or just someone who was already tapped out? It was hard to tell. Men’s pants and shirts didn’t give many clues, well, not many he could pick anyway. Some, like naked guy, were in less. But at least the screaming had stopped for the moment. All he could hear was the hammering of his heart and the rain splatting on stone. But he’d swear over his own grave that they were looking at him with their blank, stone eyes. He half-expected them to move. If that happened, he was running. He might be an almost-witch, but he was sure no one would remain standing in the middle of moving statues. Not even Noah—and he faced down demons on a regular basis. Oskar took a slow breath and tried to be calm. Nothing was moving, it was just a change in the energy. He’d obviously been reading too much pulpy sixties fiction.

  He wiped the cloth over the statues, rubbing away ten years’ worth of moss and mold. The rain sluiced away the remainder. Did he want to have a discussion with these men? Or would Thomas be able to hear every word?

  If he was just talking to himself, then it wouldn’t matter, right?

  Naked guy was half-mast; Oskar could guess what he’d been up to when caught. “Man, who buys a statue like this.” He shook his head and ran the cloth over the moldy dick of the statue. He wouldn’t want to be standing there forever watching moss grow on his bits. Nine months was nothing to what this guy was going through.

  Alive, came the whispers—some yelled it, some pleaded as if begging to be heard one more time.

  It was horrible to hear, yet it was nothing he didn’t know already. He didn’t respond. Yet he needed to be keeping up the chatter in the hope one of them would say something useful.

  “A bunch of mismatched men.” He laughed, as if finding it amusing. “How come there are no chicks?” He started rubbing clean the face of another. “I’d much rather be scrubbing down the body of a pretty woman than you ugly bastards.”

  That was true as well—although it would have been way more awkward and he’d probably have done more apologizing for inappropriate touching. He probably should anyway, but he didn’t want to let them know that he knew they were alive in there just in case Thomas was paying attention.

  There was a rush of thoughts from not ugly to who are you calling a bastard? As if they were greatly offended.

  Some voices were fainter than others, but he was getting somewhere. He was going to work on the assumption that the fainter voices were the oldest and almost dead. It was probably more complicated than that, though.

  He grinned now, warming to the idea. “You know this whole place could do with a woman’s touch.”

  Mylla.

  Several of them spoke her name. But naked guy’s was the most anguished. Interesting. He put the thought aside for later.

  “I mean, the whole mansion with the eccentric owner; it’s like one of those horror movies.”

  A jumbled wave of thoughts broke over him, all urging him to run. Yeah, under normal circumstances that would be a great idea, as things never went well for the blond who hung around to investigate.

  “Even the maid is odd. Never says a word and her eyes are empty.”

  Mylla. Naked guy sounded like his heart was breaking.

  Oskar’s gaze skimmed over the statue, felt the pain as if it were his own, and understood what had happened. Naked guy had been caught in the act with Mylla. But how long ago? No clothes and no clue. Only that naked guy’s voice didn’t sound as fresh as the others.

  He pushed wet hair out of his eyes. Not that it made any difference as rain still streamed down his face and neck.

  “I should write a book, something creepy. Make Mr. Q a vampire. Yeah, vampires are popular and the maid can be his queen; together they trap innocent victims and drain them.”

  Witch.

  Devil worship.

  Satan.

  Mylla is innocent.

  Okay. So some of them had worked it out, except for the devil bit. No devils or demons or other Gods here. And Satan was still a god-like entity for channeling power, even though religion would beg to differ.

  He stayed quiet for a bit until a guy whose long hair was pulled back into a ponytail caught his eye. He fitted the missing person’s description that was in the file. There were plenty in there, but not all fitted the pattern of ten-year gaps. This was the man who’d used the shed before him.

  And no doubt the bed.

  “Don’t you look like a hippie.” Long hair, t-shirt and shorts. His feet were bare.

  You will be next. Don’t eat the dinner.

  “I found some pot in the shed, useless now. Last gardener must have been up for a chuff.”

  The statue swore, something about stealing his stash.

  Oskar expanded his consciousness to see if this guy was beyond saving. If he was, then the others definitely would be. If he wasn’t, then he had another problem.

  His mind hit the stone and slid deeper, hoping it was just the skin that had been changed, but it wasn’t. Inside was a body, organs and blood vessels, all of them stone. He drew back. He couldn’t reanimate stone. All that was left of these men was their soul, which was tethered to the stone and unable to pass on. The best he could do was free them with death, and it was tempting.

  But then Thomas would notice his supply was cut and the game would be over.

  They’d have to wait a few more days to find peace. And it would only be days. He didn’t want to wait much longer. He’d made his plan, knew what he had to do, and was ready to fight. All he needed was Mylla to agree.

  And if she didn’t?

  His thoughts stuttered and stopped like a car without gas. He had no plan B.

  Oskar snuck up behind her as she did the dishes and slipped a note into her apron pocket. Then he kissed her neck, his arms sliding round her waist. Mylla paused for a moment to lean her head against his chest. Tod
ay had been the longest day she could remember. Not that it meant much, as her memory was patchy at best.

  She breathed him in. Soap and greenery. Alive. His body was warm against hers. She wanted to revel in that heat, feel his skin against hers. She turned her head and met his lips for a kiss. Then he nudged her out of the way and took over so she could read the note.

  The urge to do the dishes was still there, but they were technically getting done… As she thought it the order faded. There were ways around them. She’d learned that by not letting Oskar talk.

  As she watched him, she slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out his note. It was written on a slip of the old paper he’d found in the shed, his scrunched up handwriting filled the yellowed paper.

  I think I know how. He meant the necklace, but hadn’t written it in case the note was found. If any note were found, there would be trouble. If Mr. Quigley stopped her from writing… She had to remember to breathe. It was the only thing she had. But there are risks. It might be noticed. Or it might harm you.

  She wanted it off. She wanted to be able to hear Oskar’s voice again. She wanted to be able to speak freely. But it wasn’t worth the risk. Memories of her fiancé, Charlie, came back, of being caught with him. The fury and yelling, and then the horror as Mr. Quigley had taken the person she loved away and then trapped her. She couldn’t go through that again.

  She replied on the same bit of paper. Too dangerous. Can you kill?

  She wanted to kill Mr. Quigley. Her thought smudged and faded into the fog. She hesitated, knowing she’d been thinking something important, then she glanced at the note. Killing Mr. Quigley was a good idea. Again she felt her thoughts slide away, even though she tried to hold them.

  She saw the note in her hand and knew something on the note was causing her thoughts to scatter. Instead of reading what she’d written she held it out for Oskar to read.

  He frowned, his lips parting as though he wanted to argue. She held her breath. Then he wiped his hands on his shirt and took the paper and pencil.

  Can’t. Not yet. Need to discuss. He glanced at her as she read what he’d written. She shook her head and held her hand out for the pencil.

  I don’t want to die.

  I don’t want you to die either.

  She looked at him and saw only concern in his brown eyes. Is there no other way?

  I can’t defeat him without removing it.

  She worried at her lip with her teeth. His choice of words was odd, her blood cooled and a shiver swept over her skin. She hesitated before writing, but she needed to know. Magic?

  For a moment he didn’t move, it was as if he’d already been turned to stone. Then he gave a slight nod.

  He was going to use magic to defeat Mr. Quigley? How was that possible? Was Oskar like Mr. Quigley? Did he also worship the devil? She crossed herself and stepped back.

  He turned over the paper and scrawled something down before returning to the dishes. But she could see the tension in his shoulders, as if he hadn’t wanted to tell her on paper.

  She crept closer and read what he’d written while he pulled the plug, her job done for her.

  I’m not like him. He’d underlined it to make the point.

  I know. But that didn’t stop her from being afraid. She wanted to tell him about Charlie and how she’d ended up like this, and how Mr. Quigley kept telling her he was helping her, fixing her, and making her better. But how could she do that in a couple of lines?

  Dinner is coming.

  He nodded. We need to act.

  She knew that, but she’d been trapped so long that even thinking about freedom and what that would bring made her stomach knot. No, the idea of being free filled her with hope; it was the getting free that clenched her gut in an icy fist. Give me tonight to think.

  He sighed, then nodded. But in that moment, she knew he was hiding something. What? Another danger? Something about magic? Something about the necklace? There were many things he hadn’t told her and she understood why, but now was the time to be open. Wasn’t it?

  That was why he wanted to remove the necklace, so they could talk freely and plot and plan, though she was sure he had a good idea about how to kill Mr. Quigley. The fog swept through and muddled her thoughts, swirling around the lantern and confusing her.

  What would it be like to think clearly?

  She touched her collarbone. Once it was off she could leave—if Mr. Quigley didn’t realize they were up to something. She wanted to curl into a ball and hide. She didn’t want to risk everything. But the idea of being stuck, living forever as Mr. Quigley’s servant and toy, was worse.

  Was she brave enough to take the only chance that had ever been offered to her?

  Oskar waited until the house was still and silent, then he created a circle to hide and protect himself. He opened up the small silk pouch and pulled out his father’s bone bracelet. His fingers smoothed over the cool bird bones. Made by his mother, worn by his father, it was the most tangible thing he had of his family.

  His father had never considered coming here, nor had his grandfather. They’d both wanted to know more before getting a coven to take up the cause. They’d think he was reckless. Had they sat up and waited for death to come? Or tried to sleep and pay it no heed?

  He couldn’t do that, and he’d known that for several years. The plan to come here had formed two years ago. He wasn’t going to wait for death to come to him. He was going to challenge it and hope it decided he wasn’t worth the hassle. He slid the bracelet on, this time paying attention to the weight and feel, the noise it made as he moved his hand. In his mind he built up an image of it. Once it felt real in his mind, he slid all the emotional weight and old magical residue that the physical bracelet had and moved it to the one he’d created in his mind. The image held, glowed for a moment, then settled.

  When he took off the actual bracelet, the one he’d created remained around his wrist—for a moment he was convinced it was the real thing. Well, it actually was now. The physical bracelet was just a collection of old bones. The intent was now bound in another form.

  He did the same for his mother’s necklace. St. Christopher, the patron saint of travellers. Bridging the gap between death and life counted as a journey in Oskar’s mind. He hoped the saint wouldn’t mind, or maybe he’d lend a hand. Some entities hated being associated with certain forms of magic. The Morrigu would never assist in Christian rites as She still harbored a grudge for turning the Celts away from the old ways. Hopefully St. Christopher wasn’t quite such a hard ass.

  While Thomas would sense a change in him, Oskar doubted he’d be able to pin it down because Thomas had never seen the physical objects and they had meaning only to Oskar. The best constructs were personal. It made it much harder for someone else to tear them apart because they didn’t know what they were tearing—physically or emotionally.

  He took a breath. He still needed to find a way to control the magic. Images started forming. Bridle—no, death magic wasn’t horse-like. He discarded the image and let others form; his subconscious would come up with something. Maybe less control and more channeling. Funneling…

  A funnel.

  Now that was more like it. Death magic in and something he could control out. He worked on the image until the glass funnel was as real to him as if he was holding it in his hand. Then he put it aside. It was there, ready to be called on if he needed it. He also had a sword, a set of armor, and a couple of vials that contained ready-to-go spells. All of those constructs had been created for other jobs, but they were there, ready to be used. He spent some time with each to make sure they still held up. Then he checked his weapon constructs. They were the first things he’d been taught to create, as a warrior should always have weapons.

  As he ran his finger down the sword, his surrounds changed. Today the battlefield was clear of corpses and blood, the sky was blue and the grass was green. It was more unsettling than sitting in the aftermath. He lifted his gaze as the Morrigu sat opposi
te him. Dressed entirely in black, She looked far more seductive than in Her warrior persona. The deep neckline of Her dress revealed the swell of Her breasts, and Her bare legs were revealed by splits that… He leveled his gaze at Her face.

  “You appear to be preparing for battle.”

  “I am.” He laid the sword in front of him. “Would you care to bless the weapon?”

  She grinned, and it sent a jolt through his body that ran through his blood and ended in his hardening shaft. “I just did. You won’t be needing a sword of metal, Oskar.”

  “I want to be prepared.”

  “You are. You have put enough thought into the preparations. You need to seize the opportunity.”

  He had no idea when that would be. Not yet. “What day would be best for the battle?”

  She considered for a moment. “He plans your final dinner. The chance will arise.”

  Oskar swallowed. That was leaving things to the last minute—literally. “He plans to turn me to stone that night.”

  “Yes he does, but you will know when to act.”

  “You’ve read the signs?”

  “I went hunting and the deer intestines showed me what would pass. She was pregnant.”

  “I know what needs done. I just need to get Mylla’s consent.” His lips turned in a cool smile. Had She expected him to fall for that trap?

  Her eyes widened for a moment. “Very good.” Then She looked at his wrist where the bone bracelet rested, and then at his neck where St Christopher gleamed in silver. “Your choice of attributes is interesting, but you would do best to hide them.”

  She placed Her hand on his chest over the necklace. Pain rippled through him as if his skin was melting and absorbing the construct. He gasped, knowing his physical body would be suffering more than what he was—he just couldn’t feel it at the moment.