Coven of the Raven: box set

by Shona Husk

  “Has the gardener spoken to you?”

  “No.”

  “I thought he liked to talk to you. Why did he stop all of a sudden?”

  Mylla couldn’t think of anything to say that would cover the truth.

  “Answer me!”

  “I did this.” She placed one finger over her lips. It was the best she could do to protect what she and Oskar were up to, but without lying and drawing more attention to the fact that they were planning something.

  Mr. Quigley stared at her, then slammed the glass down. The base shattered and it fell over, rolling over the table. The sharp edges gleamed, tempting her to pick it up. What had Oskar said, they wouldn’t last thirty seconds if they attacked him outright? But she wanted to pick up a shard and drive it into the pulsing artery in Mr. Quigley’s neck. His face was contorted in anger.

  His lips pulled back in a snarl. “And why would you do that?”

  “I didn’t want to forget.” She managed to bite back on Oskar’s name. She wouldn’t say it in front of Mr. Quigley.

  “Forget? He is no one. An itinerant lay about. Why would you even look at him?”

  “He looks at me, spoke to me. I want to be more than a maid.” She wanted to be herself, a person she no longer knew. She was sure she’d never imagined stabbing someone before, nor had she ever considered magic real and that she could live for ninety years without aging. She’d changed, even if she hadn’t been alert enough to realize. Thomas hadn’t created the perfect maid; he’d made a woman ready to fight to live her own life. That must be a terrible disappointment.

  “I offered you marriage and you refused. You could have run this house with me. But no, you chose to whore yourself to the gardener.” He bit out each word as if the pain was still fresh.

  For a heartbeat Mylla thought he knew about Oskar, then she realized he was talking about Charlie. She took a shallow breath; that was good. And there was no order compelling her to answer.

  He walked a couple of paces away, then turned around. He gazed at her with that cold, hard stare that seemed to permeate her bones. “You remember.”

  “Remember what?” She had to force out the words instead of simply saying yes.

  “What is it about him that makes you remember?”

  She shrugged. The broken glass was so close to her fingers.

  He leaned over her, the smell of decay was all consuming. Death magic. That’s what he smells like. Whereas Oskar smelled like life and living things, that was why he woke her up. Opposite magics, like Oskar had said, and she was caught in between them.

  “It doesn’t matter how much you remember, you will never be free and you will always be mine.” He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. “Do you know how long you have already been mine?”

  “Over ninety years.”

  He looked momentarily surprised. “You see, you are mine. And once he is gone, I will make you forget again so I am the only man in your tiny little mind.” He rubbed his hand over hers. “Even your body is mine to command.” He leaned in closer. “Perform for me, dear, since I cannot join you.”

  The order was there, tugging on her limbs. The glass was gleaming. She would not do that for him again. Her hand darted out and snagged the broken glass. It arced up toward his neck. Then his fingers were around her wrist. Thin and strong, like a bird’s talons. A crow.

  “What has he done to you?” He forced her to her knees, his grip crushing her wrist. “What is Oskar Clark?”

  She wished Oskar had never told her his plan or the truth about what he was. He should have kept it a secret until it was time to act. She bit her tongue to stop the words from forming.

  “Tell me.” His nails dug into her skin and trickles of red ran into the cuff of her black gown.

  “He is a witch.” The words were oddly stilted, as if being torn from her mouth one syllable at a time.

  “What did he promise you?”

  “Freedom from you.” She spat out the last word.

  Mr. Quigley released her and drew back as if touching her hurt. But she couldn’t feel any sympathy for him. He deserved whatever he got.

  She had to warn Oskar that Mr. Quigley knew. They had to act now, not later. There may not be a later. She should never have put the necklace back on. They should have prepared and done something the moment Mr. Quigley walked through the door. But Oskar had said that wouldn’t work. Something about power and the element of surprise. Now that was gone because of her, and they were both in trouble.

  She tried to rise but couldn’t. Her muscles were locked in place. Something was wrong. She fought for every breath. Mr. Quigley fisted his hand, her blood on his fingers.

  “I have done everything for you. Given you a life far longer than you should have had. And instead of thanks, you betray me once again. I should’ve known I could never fix you.”

  Her lungs burned, crying out for air. He was stopping her from breathing. There was nothing she could do.

  “Perhaps I should take this chance to let you die. Is that what you’d like?”

  The edges of her vision went black and a buzzing started in her ears; she could hardly hear what he was saying. At least in death she would be free. But without her, Oskar wouldn’t be able to break the curse.

  She had to live. The shutters fell open and the light she’d been hiding spilled out.

  Mr. Quigley unfisted his hand and she gasped, sucking in air.

  “I have a better idea.” He smiled, cold and thin. “You can be turned with him, and spend decades knowing that you both are prolonging my life while yours is draining away.”

  A gunshot made Oskar flinch. Through the branches of the tree he saw Thomas walking out from the house, rifle in his hand. Even from the orchard Oskar could feel the change in Thomas.

  His first thought was Mylla. Had Thomas killed her? Oskar started down the ladder.

  Thomas raised the rifle and fired into the trees. There were no crows sitting in the branches today. The only Raven was him.

  His blood chilled, replaced with iced water, and his heart beat too fast to make up for the lack of heat. Thomas knew.

  “It’s been a while since any witch has been brave enough to confront me, but to come onto my land and mess with my staff…” He shifted the bolt and the rifle spat out the casing, ready to fire again. Which he did. The bullet hit the trunk of the tree Oskar was in.

  If he climbed down and ran, he’d be shot. If he stayed, he’d be shot. But at least he’d be able to throw some magic. He climbed up into the tree, putting as many thick branches between him and Thomas as he could.

  “You have balls.” He worked the bolt again and got ready to fire, resting the butt against his shoulder and peering down the barrel.

  Oskar called up the armor spell he kept prepared for moments like this and felt it slide into place around him. It probably wouldn’t stop a bullet, but it would lessen the impact and damage, and also mitigate any magical damage.

  “I must get them from you, uncle. Flouting the laws of magic for your own gain.” He drew up power from the tree and from himself, then sent a shockwave through the ground.

  The ground didn’t respond the way it should. Normal soil would have rippled because it was alive. Here everything was so soaked in death that the ground simply sunk in places. And Thomas kept walking toward him as if unbothered by the sinkholes opening up.

  “That the best you got? Following that bitch has left you weak. I command real power. I can live forever.”

  “You’re killing, trading their lives for yours.”

  “They are nothing, servants. Their lives are spent serving me.” He fired again, the bullet tearing past leaves next to Oskar. “I am their God.”

  “You’re not a God, just a man drunk on stolen life. When you die, there will be payment to be made.”

  “I don’t plan on dying.”

  “No one does.” Except him, but death curses made people face up to their mortality in bright, brutal light.

  �
�You don’t have to die, Oskar. You’re a Quigley; my blood is in you.” That was a horrible thought. “You could join me. Learn my magic. Death provided an endless supply of power. No conniving Goddess to issue orders and restrict the flow. Pure, untapped magic.”

  “And what? Live out here in the middle of creepy-ville? I like cities, the noise, the people—”

  “People are fodder. They are cattle who have no concept of the greater world.”

  “And what do you do with all this power? What has it gained you?”

  “Eternal life.”

  “That’s it? What about wife and children?”

  “Women betray—but then you should know that. Mylla was so eager to betray me and you. Did you know she can talk? She tells me everything.”

  Oskar doubted that, but he let Thomas have that delusion.

  “She told me you are a witch and that you’d promised her freedom. Here’s the trick, boy. She leaves the property, she dies. You remove the necklace, she dies. She is bound to me and the property. Mine. But she will be punished. You both will be.” He raised the rifle again.

  Oskar drew up the camouflage circle. Slowly, he moved. Too fast and the effect would be ruined. He eased down the ladder and pulled up one of his prepared spells, felt the glass in his hand as if it were a physical vial, then threw it at Thomas. Light flashed and sand exploded out of nowhere.

  Temporarily blinding your enemy was an old trick, but so very useful. Oskar slid down the ladder and started moving toward the house.

  Thomas was swearing—very uncreatively for a man who’d lived for well over a century. Then, even as he was wiping sand from his face, he turned directly to where Oskar was standing. For a moment Oskar thought his camouflage had failed—it was made for spying and hiding, not running.

  “I may not be able to see you, boy. But I can sense you. I can hear the life in your body. Whatever you choose, you will join me. Either as sacrifice or partner. I’d like to pass my knowledge, and since I can’t have a son…”

  “I’m willing to bet death magic stole your erection.” Then he walked slowly back toward the orchard, let Thomas think he was heading to the house to get Mylla. That was what he wanted to do, but it was also what was expected.

  A bullet burned past where he’d just been standing. He hated guns. He reached out and tried to jam the rifle, but it was wrapped in death and his magic slid off. Fuck. He needed something alive—the trees. He coaxed the roots out of the ground and they wrapped around Thomas’s feet. Thomas slammed the butt of his rifle down on them and the tree withered.

  His great uncle didn’t even try to open his eyes, and that was when Oskar knew he was truly screwed. Thomas was finding him on a different plane. Thomas raised the rifle and Oskar dropped the camouflage and ran back into the orchard.

  He was not going to be gunned down here. He lived in New York and had never been attacked by a gang—except the one that were trying to harness hell hounds, that hadn’t worked out well for anyone. Especially Peyton, who’d been bitten by one. The Morrigu had let him keep that gift.

  Oskar pressed his back against a tree and tried to become part of it. It sometimes worked, depending on if your enemy knew what they were doing. Thomas seemed to know far too much. He drew in a couple of careful breaths. He was no warrior. He was a researcher. He was back up, not front line.

  “Come out and face me like a witch. You know what I did to the last coven? I gave them a taste of the magic I control. All the years of death, layer upon layer of power. They burned. Or at least the ones who’d survived the initial attack burned. The others became those large rocks in the front garden.”

  Layers of death.

  Thomas shooting crows.

  Where did their bodies go?

  Oskar peeked around the tree to look for Thomas. He wasn’t where his voice had indicated. The rifle went off from the opposite side. Heat scored Oskar’s arm, the armor around him shimmered from the impact but held. He pressed his hand to the wound and it came away bloodied.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  “Ah, there you are.” Thomas stood ten yards away, the rifle held at the ready. His eyes were still running with tears, trying to flush out the sand.

  “Well, have you made up your mind?”

  “I’ll never join you.” The sword formed in his hands. Just because it had no actual mass or metal didn’t mean it wasn’t effective.

  “Swords, is that what She is teaching you? I know She cursed my family, so how far are you from dying? When is your birthday?”

  “I would rather die with honor than join you.” He stepped forward. Blood hit the ground. Layers of death. He could use that somehow—not to draw on the death but to give life.

  “Honor? Do you think any death is honorable? You haven’t seen men dying and bleeding in the mud. Shot down because someone told them to fight for a cause. Death is messy and painful. How is your arm?”

  “Fine, thanks for asking. How’s Mylla?”

  “Fine, doing as she’s told.”

  Fuck. How tightly was she wrapped now?

  “Did you really think you’d be able to free her?”

  “I planned on killing you, actually.”

  Thomas shook his head. “When I die, all the magic will be released. This whole area will be flattened. You and Mylla included. You would know that if you are any kind of witch.”

  “But I will have stopped you, and that is all I came here for. Mylla was a complication.” Which wasn’t entirely true, but it seemed as though Thomas had no idea of the extent of their relationship or what his true plans involved, which meant he still had a small amount of surprise up his sleeve.

  “And you just had to interfere. She will be punished because of you.”

  “That is your choice. You could show compassion and let her go.” A few more drops of blood hit the ground. Blood magic wasn’t his thing, and he was sure Peyton would have had a much better idea, but it was all he had. He just hoped that the Morrigu would deem it an acceptable use of magic.

  I offer my blood to you, raise your flock and let them soar one more time.

  His life as a gift to Her, and to get back at Thomas for shooting the birds sacred to Her. Oskar was pretty sure She’d like it. For a moment nothing happened, and he wondered if enough blood had been shed or if the Morrigu would make it possible and give him the power to make the crows fly. He reached out to the ground, feeling for the remains of the birds. For a moment he felt nothing except his own desperation and the stinging of his wound. Then power began to rush through his veins like adrenaline, his fingers tingled, and in his mind ghostly birds took flight.

  The ground began to shake.

  Oskar charged Thomas, sword ready to strike. They clashed, Thomas using the rifle to defend against a sword that wasn’t physically there. But Oskar wasn’t aiming to kill, he just wanted to wound him. Death magic wasn’t so great at healing. And Thomas was right—he couldn’t kill him and survive, not without Mylla. The rifle slammed against his wounded arm, but the armor absorbed some of the impact—however, there’d still be a bruise tomorrow. Thomas grinned and raised the rifle for another blow.

  More blood hit the ground like heavy drops of crimson rain. The ground heaved beneath his feet and started breaking apart. Thomas wobbled and glanced down. Oskar used that second of distraction to thrust the sword through Thomas’s shoulder. It wasn’t like striking flesh, as there was no resistance. Thomas should’ve been wearing magical armor. A physical wound opened as Oskar pulled the sword free; the damage done to Thomas would take time and effort to fix—assuming Thomas could heal himself with magic at all—and buy him some much needed time.

  Thomas’s blood splashed on the unsettled ground, then dozens of crows broke free from the soil. They blackened the air with their tatty feathers, some falling apart as they flew and becoming dust as they hit Thomas. Their ghostly bodies buffeted Thomas, but he swung the rifle like a bat, as if to keep them back. Oskar didn’t stay to watch what happened, but he had no d
oubt the freshly risen birds would leave more wounds on Thomas’s non-corporeal body. He ran to the house. There could be no more waiting. Thomas wouldn’t. He’d need to draw up power to try and fix himself, or at least stop the blood flow, and that was the opening Oskar needed.

  Chapter 15

  In the kitchen, Oskar grabbed the bloodied water he’d prepared last night and placed in the spice rack as promised. As much as he wanted to look behind him and see how close Thomas was, he knew he didn’t have the time. He ran up the stairs, Mylla’s name on his lips. But if he spoke her name she’d forget him, and she couldn’t answer him anyway.

  He opened door after door, looking for her. All except Thomas’s study. He found her in the dining room kneeling on the floor, a broken glass on the table. She didn’t move when he came in. With the necklace on, Thomas controlled her totally. It needed off.

  He unscrewed the lid as he walked up to her, casting a quick and dirty circle to shield what he was doing and little else. With magic, it really was the thought that counted. Then he shook the water around her neck. He wasn’t trying to preserve the spell this time so he could reseal it. He skipped finesse and went for fast. The spell unraveled.

  Mylla looked up at him but didn’t say anything. He glanced over his shoulder; no Thomas yet. She reached up to remove the necklace but he stopped her.

  “No, leave the chain in place; it might buy us a bit more time.” Hopefully Thomas wouldn’t realize for a few minutes.

  She hesitated. “I want it off.”

  “I know, but the spell is gone. He can’t just reactivate it, he has to recreate it.” And that would take time. He hoped.

  “Thank you.” Then she crumpled and sat on the floor. “He knows. He made me tell. I’m sorry. You should never have told me.”

  “I had to. We still have to stop him.” He squatted down. “Unless you’ve changed your mind?”