Coven of the Raven: box set

by Shona Husk

  Laughter echoed around the room. Where was the attacker?

  Something whispered over her skin and she lashed out, slicing only air.

  Anthony gasped, his face contorting. “Run!”

  Like hell. She wasn’t leaving him behind. Or their paycheck.

  She hooked her arm under Anthony’s and dragged him out of the room, the blade scraping over the floor. Laughter followed. The hair on her scalp tugged as though being pulled free.

  Panic burst in her heart. They had to go.

  Anthony flopped like a dying fish, his body going rigid and then soft as he struggled to breathe. She glanced around, the floor plan she’d memorized fragmented under the fear. They’d get out the way they’d come in.

  She’d hauled Anthony down the hallway toward the window. He was heavy, a dead weight as she tried to get them away from whatever magic was doing this to him. Why was she unaffected? Or was it just because he’d broken through the security on the cabinet?

  His gasps were becoming less frequent.

  She needed to call 911, but not while they were in the process of stealing a valuable magical sword. She wasn’t under eighteen and getting caught was the last thing either of them needed. Anthony had already done a twelve month stretch; he’d get longer if caught again. Cosima just needed to get him safe and then she’d take the hit this time.

  “We’re almost there.” She lay him down and re-opened the window. If she had to throw him out and hope for the best, she would.

  But when Cosima looked at him, she wasn’t sure he was going anywhere.

  His face was streaked with greenish veins, his eyes bulged, and each breath was a struggle. His gloved hand was locked around the sword. They’d paid good money for those gloves; they were supposed to be warded against magic. An ambulance wasn’t going to help Anthony.

  “I’ll take you to a witch to fix you.” She knew one, but she wasn’t sure he’d be willing to help either of them. She’d beg Sawyer if she had to, anything to help Anthony. She couldn’t lose him. He was all she had.

  Anthony shook his head. “It’s the sword.”

  “So, drop it.” She’d rather have her brother than the money. They should’ve never taken the job. It was better to be small time thieves than rich, dead ones.

  He shook his head. “I can’t let go. It wants me.”

  “It’s just magic. Let go.” She went to pull his fingers free and he jerked away before she could touch the metal.

  “Leave me.” He ground out the words.

  “No.” Her voice broke. He was the only family she had. They were a team.

  “I’m dead.”

  Fear free fell into despair. “No, you’re not.”

  Anthony was talking, still breathing. There was time. Whatever magic the sword had—which was supposedly to only grant the wielder charisma—could be undone. It had to be. Could she rip the sword out of his hands?

  The sword no longer looked old and dull, it had a sheen and a lure.

  His body twitched twice, and the sword clattered to the floor.

  She dropped to her knees; her hands fluttered uselessly trying to find a pulse. The green faded from his skin. Anthony was dead. Her thoughts stuttered as her heart shattered.

  A dog barked. Mallory, the sword’s owner, had two of the small white bitey ones. She still had the scar on her ankle from a run in with that kind when she was nine. From deeper in the house, the man grumbled. Mallory wasn’t supposed to be home. How had she messed this up so badly?

  A door opened. Mallory said something to his dogs and their claws scrabbled over the floor.

  She grabbed Anthony’s arm, but his body was cold and rigid as though he’d been dead for hours not seconds. The sword gleamed as though freshly polished. Whatever magic it had, it was not granting the user charisma. Bright had lied to them—she wasn’t surprised, only angry.

  Cosima hesitated, torn between wanting to grab the sword and finish the job she’d been paid to do, and wanting to live.

  Cowardice won out. She didn’t want to die.

  Two fuzzballs, barking like she was the anti-Christ, ran toward her.

  The middle-aged real estate agent ran after them. “What are you doing?”

  She was doing only thing she could do. Leave.

  There were three things Sawyer was good at. Hooking up, breaking up, and taking things that didn’t belong to him—and that included magic. Sometimes he could do all three with one person in one night. He couldn’t conjure fire like Noah or create blood spells like Peyton, but he could take the magic from something and use it like it was his own for a time. He could never keep it, though. He was little more than a witch with a bag of tricks. A literal bag, because he couldn’t hold the spell in his mind the other witches could.

  Noah thought of fire and then it was at his fingertips.

  It didn’t matter how much Sawyer thought of a spell he couldn’t make it work unless it went into an object. He was forever stuck at beginner level magic and with no natural talent. Every other witch he knew had a natural talent.

  Except him. His only skill was stealing. He was barely a witch, and while no one else in the coven cared about his lack of skill he did. But no matter how much he pushed or focussed or trained, he didn’t get any better. His lack of magic bothered him like a scab that wouldn’t heal. And he couldn’t leave it alone.

  He cased the shop, wondering what would be fun to take and what he could get Rachel for the upcoming housewarming party. He’d never steal a gift, but he was sure there was something he needed.

  Somehow, he’d proven himself a good enough witch to be accepted into the coven. Or Mason had just wanted to make sure a witch didn’t get done in for stealing. Try explaining magic to the cops and they’d be recommending special meds—much like Sawyer’s parents had when he’d first asked about magic.

  “Can I help you, sir?” The shop assistant smiled at him, but it was that frosted smile as though he shouldn’t be there.

  “My partner wants one of them, but I don’t know which one to get.” The lie rolled off his tongue. If he mentioned the party, the woman would immediately try to talk him into the most expensive stand.

  “A cake stand?”

  “Yes.” He beamed. He didn’t give a shit about cake stands—though he was sure Rachel would like one she was always cooking—but he rather liked the look of the marble rolling pin just a little further along the wall. Didn’t every house need one? And he didn’t have one.

  The rolling pin was big enough to be a challenge to steal and might actually come in handy as a weapon. He could put it next to his knife block. Or add it to the pile of crap that he didn’t need or want but had fun stealing.

  “Is it for a specific occasion? What style does she like?”

  He stared at the cake stands having no idea what Rachel liked, but needing to keep the lady talking so he could get his hand on the rolling pin. “Nothing too expensive. It will probably end up living in a cupboard.”

  And his cupboards were full of crap that he’d taken and hadn’t gotten rid of. He should have a garage sale, or the online equivalent at least so he didn’t have to deal with strangers coming into his home.

  The lady gave him a glare like he was a cheapskate. She had no idea how cheap. Then she went to pull down the cheapest one they had. Even he could see it was ugly. He wasn’t giving that to his friends.

  “Not the cheapest either.” He smiled and slid his hand to the white marker in his pocket. He could’ve put the simple spell into any object, but he liked pens and markers because they were cheap and easily portable. The markers could also be color coded. He always used white for invisibility. It wasn’t true invisibility, but more of a mask. The sales assistant wouldn’t see the pin in his hand as long as he wasn’t swinging it around. He could walk straight out of the store holding it.

  It wouldn’t even show up on camera, not unless they knew exactly what they were looking for. And when people looked at CCTV footage, they weren’t looking for
specifics; they were looking for clues. To see through magic, they had to already know it was him and what he was holding. The spell wasn’t great for robbing museums—he’d learned that one the hard way.

  The shop assistant pulled down something made entirely of glass. “This is a very nice cake stand. Most people get quite a lot of use out of them.”

  Were these people having parties every weekend or did they just like cake?

  “That’ll do.”

  She gave him another glare like he was a shit boyfriend. Which he was, when he was attempting to be a boyfriend, which wasn’t very often. The women he liked were always trouble, and the ones that weren’t didn’t interest him. His taste in men was no better.

  He’d had more than his fair share of trouble. More than most people, including the other members of the coven, and trouble arrived on their doorstep daily with its wallet open seeking help.

  His phone chimed. He needed to wrap this up and get home.

  When the woman turned away, he picked up the marble rolling pin already liking the feel of it in his hand. The marker was pinched between his pin and palm and he directed the magic down the pin—otherwise it would look as if his hand were to suddenly vanish. He’d had those mishaps before while figuring out what he could and couldn’t do.

  The ‘couldn’t do’ list was far too long. How he’d scraped through the tests to become a coven member, he didn’t know. But Mason was fascinated by his ability to borrow the magic from objects. Key word there was borrow. The magic wasn’t his and he couldn’t hold it. He had no innate skill that wasn’t tied to the physical. He wasn’t a witch; he was Mason’s pet project. A curiosity to be solved. With Mason leaving, what would happen to Sawyer?

  He used his other hand to tap his credit card and walked out with a present for Rachel and the rolling pin and a smile on his face from what he called a successful morning.

  Cosima sat across from the plain brown building drinking an iced coffee and pretending everything was fine, when nothing was ever going to be fine again. She blinked rapidly and tried to find that place of calm again. If she fell apart, she was dead.

  A headache throbbed behind her eyes and she was sure they were puffy. But she didn’t have time to wallow. Anthony would know what to do next. She watched the door of the building knowing Anthony would also hate that she was here, even considering this.

  She must have hit her head scrambling out the window. Her throat swelled as she remembered leaving him. He was already dead, so it didn’t matter. But it did. She shouldn’t have left him. Anthony wasn’t the first person she’d left behind on a job, but he was the most important person to her. It still didn’t sit right.

  She sipped her iced coffee and fiddled with her phone while watching the building.

  The text message she’d received from Bright had left her with few options.

  Even if she ran nowhere would be safe. She checked her phone again. No more messages since she’d told the buyer there’d been a hiccup on the job.

  Anthony was dead. That wasn’t a fucking hiccup.

  But she couldn’t tell the Bright that. He was only interested in results and if she failed to get results then she’d be joining Anthony very shortly. Not that he’d written that in the text message, but that was the way things worked when dealing with Bright. The better they’d gotten at stealing magical items, the more attention they’d attracted until buyers came to them with the details of the thing they wanted.

  She made it happen. Did the recon and planned the job. And this job could’ve set them up for life. Afterwards they could’ve gone somewhere where no one knew them and started over, doing something legit with no magic. Instead…

  The iced coffee was hard and cold in her gut and her hand shook. She should’ve eaten something but didn’t know if she’d be able to keep it down.

  Anthony was dead. Every time she closed her eyes he was there. Cosima didn’t want to sleep, though. She needed to get the sword, and for the first time in her life she didn’t know how to start.

  She stared up at the building that looked completely ordinary—ugly even—and wondered how the hell Sawyer had turned his life around and gotten out of the gutter they’d called home. The back of her throat froze as she sucked down the rest of her drink. He’d been gone half an hour. She needed to move.

  But she didn’t. She sat there crunching on the ice and getting brain freeze.

  Everything would be fine.

  She’d ask for help and he’d be delighted—it’s what he did now.

  It’s not like she’d had a massive argument with him while on their last a job.

  And broken his nose.

  And hadn’t spoken to him in five years.

  And not even because he’d banged her brother long before they’d dated.

  Because if that had happened, asking her ex for help would be a disaster.

  She shoved her chair back and it squealed. She slung her small backpack over her shoulder and crossed the road. Her life was circling the drain anyway; what did she have left to lose?

  The iced coffee made her stomach a cold hard knot. It wasn’t fear. She wasn’t afraid of Sawyer, or magic. She handled magical shit all the time and it had never hurt her. She should’ve picked up the sword, not Anthony. Would the magic in the sword have killed her? Would Anthony be running to Sawyer for help?

  It didn’t matter now. She couldn’t go back and take Anthony’s place.

  All that mattered was completing the job, before her employer decided she was a liability that needed cleaning up. Even if she did get the sword what was to stop Bright from erasing her?

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Why did stealing swords always cause problems?

  Every job she’d done that had issues was over a sword. Witches and their magical swords. They were both more trouble that they were worth.

  She pushed open the heavy door and made her way up to the third floor. The inside of the building was nice, clean. Dinner smells drifted down the corridor; someone was cooking a roast. There were only four apartments to a floor, and his was at the end. Even though she knew he was out, she knocked, because knocking gave her a chance to start using her lock picks.

  No one answered. And no one stuck their head out.

  She knelt and quickly finished unlocking the door, but she didn’t open it right away. The cold from the drink had spread from her stomach to her lungs, making it hard to breath. The coffee sloshed and rose up her throat.

  Not nerves…maybe the milk had been bad. She’d tipped the waitress, goddamnit.

  Cosima swallowed hard and hoped for the best but knew there was no good outcome possible. Just a less bad one.

  Sawyer wouldn’t have a regular security system; he’d have something magical. Would she be turned into a frog? She paused but couldn’t wait in the corridor. She took a couple of breaths, stealing herself for whatever was on the other side, and then went in.

  Magic rippled over her skin. But there was no fire, no smoke, and she was definitely not a frog. Relieved, Cosima shut the door and leaned against it.

  Well, hadn’t the filthy-mouthed, gutter brat landed on his feet. His apartment was cozy and full of stuff. He had knickknacks everywhere. Bookcases lines the walls in his living room, and they were filled with books and ornaments. She took a step further in.

  Most of the apartment was white, with the occasional splash of navy blue. Had he redecorated or had it been sold revamped? He didn’t rent—she knew that much. He didn’t squat either anymore. But she remembered many months of living in vacant apartments with him and Anthony when they were teens. Fine in summer, but a bitch in winter.

  On the kitchen counter, a candle burned. Cloves made her nose tingle. Had that candle been burning when she entered? Didn’t he know it wasn’t safe to leave candles lit when he was out.

  The cold reached her heart. Her fingers curled ready for a fight.

  Where were the weapons? He’d have some, she knew him. Had known him.

 
This man, the one who lived here…she didn’t know him. If she hadn’t been sure before coming that this was his place, Cosima wouldn’t have believed it. Sawyer had been a live out a bag kind of guy. But that had been before the coven got their talons into him.

  She knew all about them, too. Uncommon Raven Agency. They took regular PI and security work as well as magical cases. All the men were witches. Just like Sawyer.

  When he’d discovered his magic, he’d become too good for her and Anthony.

  Asshole.

  Her apartment was nicer. It had better security, too.

  She pinched out the candle and dropped her bag on the ground. There was a broom in the kitchen—had he learned to fly? A baseball bat and mitt by one of the bookcases, though she wasn’t sure he’d ever played. Of course, who had the money for team uniforms or equipment when they were kids, when sometimes there wasn’t money for food? She’d stolen food because her da had drunk all the money. It was better after he’d died; they still had no money, but they didn’t have a drunk yelling at them from the loungeroom.

  She wandered deeper into the apartment.

  Two nice bedrooms, in softer shades of blue. Two slick white bathrooms. She didn’t know what witches got paid, but she doubted it was enough to cover the mortgage on this place. There were no obvious weapons and while she could dig through his closet, she knew most of his skeletons far too intimately.

  It could take a while for him to get home, and while she once would’ve messed up his bed, she wouldn’t be welcome between the sheets these days. She turned away and then stopped cold.

  The candle was lit.

  Maybe I didn’t actually put it out.

  She licked her fingers and pinched the wick hard. That particular smell of put out candle didn’t happen. All she could smell was cloves and apples and sweet pastry, like apple pie.

  Why did Sawyer have an apple pie scented candle that wouldn’t go out?

  She jerked her hand back. Magical object. The flame bloomed back into life as though she’d never touched it. But it danced when she blew on it and the wax in the glass jar melted like a regular candle. It just wouldn’t go out.