Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) Page 3

  Edgar turned toward her voice, even started to straighten and go to her, before temptation’s curling, coiling finger encircled his chin and lured his attention back to those bright blue feathers. With each blink his impossibly long lashes brushed the tops of his cheeks. The birds high overhead sang such a lovely tune. More than anything he wanted this fallen vocalist to rejoin their choir.

  Extending one finger, stained with dandelion butter and grass, Edgar tenderly stroked the velvety breast of the still creature. To his surprise the bird gave an involuntary jerk beneath his touch. Through the pad of his finger Edgar could feel a soft thump begin to beat a steady rhythm within his winged friend. Warmth chased away the cold’s harsh hold. A succession of crackles and pops righted the bird’s twisted neck. Black eyes blinked, focused. Feathers ruffled, the once limp form giving a quick hop, and the bird was on its feet. Its head cocked with an avian twitch, considering the boy crouched over it.

  “Edgar, what have you done?”

  With a hot rush of blood rushing to his cheeks, Edgar whipped around. Mother had never spoken a cross word at him, never looked at him with anything except absolute adoration. Yet, in that moment, she stared at him like a lowly stranger.

  Behind him, the startled bird’s wings beat against the air, lifting it toward its second chance.

  “Mama?” Edgar squeaked, his heart thudding against his ribs.

  Gathering the billowing fabric of her skirts in her hands, Madame Poe snapped herself from her terrified trance and rushed to her young son’s side. With a palm on each of his cheeks, she turned him this way and that in a cursory examination. “W-we must … we must speak with your father. He will know what must be done. Come now.” Seizing him firmly by the wrist, she dragged her confused and frightened tyke inside.

  3

  Ridley

  The very definition of seductive swagger stood before them, one hand slung into the front pants pocket of his tailored navy blue suit. “What have we here, Meegan?” Charm exuded from Ridley Peolte’s gleaming white smile. With his free hand he adjusting the knot of his silk taupe, navy, and silver striped tie. One sleek ebony strand broke free from his flawlessly styled hair, casually grazing across his forehead. His eyes, such a deep ocean blue that Ireland could practically see the foam of the white caps swirling in his irises, immediately locked on her.

  The receptionist—Meegan, apparently—blushed bright pink clear down her neckline the second her name passed his lips. “They just wanted a moment of your time, Mr. Peolte, in regards to a piece of art. I hope it’s okay I had them wait?”

  “Again, I must insist you call me Ridley,” he corrected, the faintest trace of an accent Ireland couldn’t quite place curling through each word. “And, of course, I don’t mind. However, you will have to walk with me. I have a platter of California spring rolls calling my name and a meeting I have to rush back for.” Waving his hand to the trio in an ‘after you’ gesture, Ridley shot an over-the-shoulder glance back to Meegan. “Can I bring you back anything, my dear?”

  “Surprise me,” Meegan murmured. Biting her lower lip, she attempted a coy shrug. “I have a feeling you’d know exactly what I’d like.”

  “I’ll take my best guess.” He winked, prompting an eruption of girlish giggles Meegan hid behind her hand.

  Sliding off the couch flanked by Rip and Noah, Ireland paused to shoot a grimace at their openly flirty interaction.

  No sooner did she get to her feet then Ridley dragged one knuckle along her forearm as he sauntered passed. “Come, walk with me.”

  Watching his occasionally homicidal girlfriend bristle, Noah caught her arm and held her back for a beat. “Easy, girl,” he soothed, and tapped the iPod in her back pocket as a none-too-subtle reminder. “The sooner we get the information the sooner we can go … preferably without bloodshed.”

  Patting his hand, and dipping her chin in an affirmative nod, Ireland fixed on the pursuit that brought them there. “We don’t want to take much of your time, Mr. Peolte,” she explained, following him into the elevator. The doors slid shut, followed by that familiar stomach-dropping lurch. “I was just wondering if you’d ever seen this.”

  Turning her arm tattoo up, she held it out before him.

  “Mmmm,” he muttered in appreciation, one ebony brow hitching with interest. “Your arm? I haven’t had the pleasure. But I do hope more parts will follow.”

  The elevator dinged open, allowing Ridley to stride out without a moment’s hesitation.

  Rip patted Noah lightly on the shoulder before following. “I am still accumulating myself to modern trends, however am I wrong in assuming that what just happened here was the equivalent to you two ramming antlers?”

  “Nah, no worries.” Noah’s argument to the contrary would have been more convincing had his jaw line not tensed and his octave rose to that of a public speaker. “He doesn’t know we’re together.”

  “This beautiful siren is yours?” Ridley’s gaze flicked back briefly before being averted to an associate across the lobby that he offered a wave and chin-jerk to. “Well, these things change all the time, don’t they?”

  Noah ran his hand over the back of his neck, sucking air through his teeth. “I may have to borrow your axe.”

  “If I can’t kill anyone, neither can you.” Ireland curled her chin to her shoulder to hiss. Then, pushing past their banter, she attempted to steer the conversation back on course. “Actually, I meant the tattoo. Herb Mallark from The Richmond Gallery said he saw this same image at a private exhibit in your loft.”

  “Mallark?” Ridley snorted a wry laugh, the heels of his expensive leather shoes clicking across the marble floor. “Not the most original of pen names, is it? But I do have a lot of gatherings, so it may very well have been there. Lupé, my housekeeper, insists all cultures be represented in what we showcase and I never argue with her, otherwise she starches my boxers.”

  “I don’t know how to respond to that,” Ireland stated, looking to Noah and Rip for behavioral guidance. The best they could offer were awkward shrugs and tight lipped shakes of their heads.

  “Jerry, did you watch that game last night?” Ridley rose up on tiptoe mid-stride to catch the security guard’s eye over the milling sea of bodies in the ostentatious lobby. “Did I call it, or did I call it?”

  “You always do, Mr. Peolte!” The grey haired guard chuckled, brushing the crumbs from his over-sized chocolate chip cookie off the front of his polyester shirt. “I should know better than to bet against you!”

  Rip’s beard bobbed as he puffed his cheeks and exhaled through pursed lips. “If pompous individuals brought on my curse, I could at least have the good fortune to sleep through this.”

  Ireland’s hands balled into fists at her sides, mostly to suppress the urge to call forth her sword and hilt slap the information out of him. “So this Lupé is the one we need to talk to?”

  Ridley spun on his heel and walked backwards, his gaze slowly traveling the length of her before he concealed it behind a pair of designer Ray-Ban sunglasses. “She’ll be at my loft at nine a.m. tomorrow. You’re more than welcome to stop by and speak with her yourself.”

  “All of us will stop by,” she emphasized the first word to make it clear Noah would be playing the part of her rape whistle.

  “Splendid!” Ridley threw his arms out wide, another blindingly white smile curling across his strikingly handsome face. Plucking a pen from his inside breast pocket, he clicked it to life and seized Ireland’s arm—an act that made her inner beast snarl its outrage. He rotated her sugar skull tattoo skyward to scrawl his address in big, blue letters. The job complete, he dipped his head to blow the ink dry—those raging sea eyes peering up at her over the frames of his lenses.

  “Dude, you had business cards in the breast pocket of your shirt.” Noah pointed out, turning one exasperated hand palm up. “I can see them from here.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Ridley smirked, righting his posture and returning the gold plated
pen to his pocket. “Now, you lovely morsel, I must bid you ado. But I shall count the minutes until I’m graced by your magnificence once again.” If he noticed her pained grimace or the way she shrank from his touch as he caught her hand and dotted it with a kiss, he chose to ignore it. Then, without so much as a cursory acknowledgement to the other two men, he caught the next revolving door turnstile out of there.

  “And goodbye to you less important people as well!” Rip exclaimed in an impressive imitation of the arrogant Mr. Peolte.

  Noah and Rip chuckled together, elbowing each other and exchanging verbal jabs at Ridley’s expense. Ireland, on the other hand, stood stone still. Every fiber of her being sparking and pulsating with the charge of a yet unseen threat. Through the glass revolving doors, she watched Ridley step out onto the sidewalk. Instinct spurred her forward, charging through those same doors, before she could even question as to why. Overhead, a shadow, like a fast moving storm cloud, eclipsed the bright afternoon sun. That same darkness became a tangible menace, complete with ruffling feathers and powerful gusts that whipped and lashed against the skin of all those caught in its wake. In a violent funnel cloud of fury, what appeared to be an unkindness of ravens descended on one lone target—Ridley. Shielding his head with his arms, he cowered beneath the viciously pecking beaks and grappling claws that tore at his clothing and flesh. Slamming her weight into the turnstile, Ireland urged the slow moving door on, all the while helplessly watching Ridley’s entire form disappear beneath the shroud of angry ravens.

  Making one final push against the stubborn door, Ireland raised her hand in the air in a silent call to her blade. Gleaming metal winged through the air, settling into her palm the second the revolving door spat her out on the pavement. Two quick slashes was all it took to disband the violent flock. What they left behind was a frazzled mess of the formerly dapper business man. Glasses hanging akimbo from his nose. Expensive suit shredded to ribbons. Hair darting off his head in every possible direction. Blood dripping from his face and hands. With a look in his eye that could only be described as manic, Ridley pushed his broken glasses up the bridge of his nose. One swinging lens popped free and fell to the ground with a soft thump. Jerking his head from the fallen lens, to Ireland, and back again, he expelled a bewildered, “Huh?” before turning on his heel and stumbling into the cab waiting at the curb.

  What does a monster do at night when their skin is itching and burning for mayhem? Ireland rolled her neck one way, then the other, unable to think of anything but that particular conundrum. The pull to ride tugged at her, luring her into the darkness … where she belonged. Groaning her frustration, she slammed her forearms against the balcony rail, subsequently rolling her arms down until she clenched it in a white knuckled grasp. The twinkling lights of New York loomed before her. An entire city plagued with life and congestion, making it absolutely the most impractical place for her to sling on her cloak and indulge her inner beast.

  It was official. Whether she liked it or not, Sleepy Hollow was now her home. There, Horseman sightings were an exciting testimony to the history of the town. Here, a simple ride to ease the raw longing screaming through her veins could get her chased through the Lincoln Tunnel by a police escort. Rational thought was a cruel, relentless bitch. One whose strict parameters became far more constricting the instant her skin ignited like a struck match. Predicting the cause, she instinctively gazed the two floors down to the parking lot below. Sure enough, Regen’s narrow, onyx muzzle emerged from the thick white fog of a steam vent. His mane danced against his powerful neck with each wide stride, summoning her to him like the beckoning curl of a finger. His gleaming saucer eyes found her without fail. They always would. She was his totem. Or maybe he was hers—her true north that anchored her in the sea of chaos that was her curse.

  Clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth, Ireland grinned at the perk of his ears and his guttural whinny in response.

  One little ride. What was the worst that could happen?

  Behind her, the sliding door shushed across its track. Noah stepped out, his hand raking through hair still wet from the shower.

  “There you are.” Droplets of water flung from the damp strands. They rained down on his chest, zigzagging across taut muscles. Trailing down, they teased across the V of his hip bones, disappearing inside the waist band of his low-slung cotton pajama pants. “If you’re contemplating seeing if the Horseman could survive that jump, I’m going to ask you not to. It’s way too early in our relationship for you to hear my girly scream.”

  “No, I was just admiring the view.” Curling her face into a Ridley-esque leer, she did her best to adopt his high-class pimp tone, “Which just got a whole lot sweeter.”

  “Too good an impression.” Noah’s nose crinkled, a wet strand sticking to his brow as he shook his head. “My testicles retreated inside me.”

  “I’m guessing the suave Mr. Peolte has that effect on a lot of people.” Pivoting on the ball of her foot, Ireland leaned her back against the rail. “So, are you okay with this trip taking a couple extra days or is Sleepy Hollow falling to pieces without their prodigal son?”

  One pull-up perfected shoulder rose and fell in a casual shrug. “Running the risk of sounding like a pretentious ass, I’ll just say I have people handling everything, so I’m good.”

  “How very Corleone of you,” Ireland smirked, then hitched one eyebrow pointedly. “I’m not kissing your ring. I feel that needs to be said.”

  Closing the space between them, his tongue flicked across his lower lip. With a hand on either side of her and his body molding to hers, he pinned the suddenly breathless Crane against the rail. Cool, damp hair tickled over her feverish skin as his forehead brushed hers, nudging her face up to his. Pillow soft lips teased over hers with the tempting promise of their salty-sweet euphoria. “I can think of much more fun activities for your lips.”

  Her breath caught, swelling in her chest until it seeped past her lips in a throaty sigh.

  “Plus,” he murmured against her neck, kissing and nibbling his way down to her shoulder, “I wouldn’t miss this show for the world.”

  “Show? You mean my life?” She wanted to bristle at his words, maybe form some small iota of indignation. Unfortunately, he’d pushed the strap of her black tank top aside and was implementing a masterful technique with his mouth along her collarbone that made coherent thoughts unattainable.

  “Actually, I just introduced Rip to Breaking Bad and am looking forward to Old English calling everyone bitch,” Noah clarified, his voice noticeably low and husky. “But you keep things interesting, too.”

  With a clearer head Ireland may have been annoyed at his cavalier view of her curse. Right then, she couldn’t think beyond her own desire that scorched more white-hot than her blazing skin. Weaving her fingers into his hair, she claimed his mouth with a primal urgency, making the message clear of exactly what she wanted.

  Lifting her from the cement balcony, the muscles across Noah’s back flexed in an impressive masculine display. Ireland’s legs snaked around his waist, eliciting a deep animalistic growl that rumbled from his throat. Her fingernails raked down his back, her breath coming in urgent pants as he spun them toward the room. Pressing her back against the stucco wall, its rough surface scrapping her skin and fueling her desire, he freed one hand to fumble with the door. Ireland ground her hips against his, enjoying the swell of his excitement. Her hands traveled the expansive spread of his back, delving beneath his waistband to the seductive rise of his perfectly formed ass. Groaning against her neck, Noah forced the door open and plunged inside. A sheen of sweat glistened from the pair as they collapsed on the bed locked in each other’s embrace.

  What does a monster do at night? They live.

  4

  Edgar

  Edgar slid the gloves over his hands that betrayed him by trembling with the relentless quakes of those inflicted with the fevers. All the while he murmured a silent prayer to get his shaky digits conceale
d before Father came in to witness his state of unease. Such a display may prompt him to take back his agreement and force Edgar to stay home for yet another year of tutoring under the leadership of the dreadful Mrs. Nesbit. Often Edgar amused himself during her long-winded lectures by picturing her stern expression if she ever dared a smile. Such a simple act would surely shatter her firmly puckered face into a million tiny shards.

  No sooner did Edgar secure the supple leather of his second glove around his alabaster wrist than John Allen, his adoptive father, strolled in, trailed by his mother, Francis. While her porcelain face remained purposely neutral, her own case of nerves showed itself in the way her index finger brushed her cheek as she twirled one chestnut ringlet. Edgar expected her to rush to his side and fret over him: finger-combing his hair, straightening his collar, smoothing the creases of his tweed coat. He winced in shock when, instead, Father took a knee before him and grasped Edgar’s narrow shoulders in his large hands.

  “You look well, son. A strong lad well prepared for this endeavor.”

  Edgar nodded his enthusiasm, a lock of onyx hair falling forward and tangling in his lashes. “Yes, Papa. I am.”

  Mother stifled a high-pitch yelp of protest behind her hand, causing Father to silence her with a firm scowl before returning his attention to his son. “I know how much you want this, Edgar. Even so, you must consider how difficult it is for your mother and I to let you go. If anyone were to discover your … affliction—”

  “They could not possibly, Papa!” Edgar interrupted, his frantic voice rising with the fear of his dream being yanked out from under him. “You have already informed the Dean that I have a skin condition and must wear my gloves at all times. I promise I will not take them off! You taught me well, both of you. I know the power of my touch is an atrocity against God himself. I will not use it or let anyone know of it. I beg you, please, please, let me go to school with the other boys!”