Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) (12 page)

“Excellent,” Edgar nodded. “With all that attention
, we
need
our product on its maiden voyage. Contact our buyers along the route and find out if they would be willing to receive their tobacco order via a different distribution option. If any hesitate offer them a discount,
only
if they hesitate.”

Phillip pressed his lips together in a firm line, fighting off a
grin that would have bordered on patronizing. “Very good, sir. Your father could not have commanded such a dealing better himself.”

Leaning forward, Edgar pressed his forearms to the edge of the desk. “Careful to speak such things ab
out John Allen in this building,” he whispered. “It borders on blasphemy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Monsieur Poe
,” the younger man said with a curt nod.

“Were there any
further matters we needed to discuss?” A potent chill shivered down Edgar’s spine, a familiar affliction that hounded him whenever an ominous presence neared. Stretching his neck first one way, then the other, he attempted to ease the spasming muscles that betrayed him.

“
There is one more small matter, sir,” Phillip said.

Leaning across
Edgar’s desk, he grasped the sterling silver letter opener. Before Edgar could think to question it, Phillip seized his own tongue in a closed fist and plunged the letter opener straight through it.  Blood sprayed as he moved the blade up and down, sawing through tissue and raining fat droplets of splatter across the desk.

The moment the dull edged blade broke through the other side,
Phillip slapped the still wriggling muscle down on Edgar’s desk next to his daily planner. A free flowing spigot of crimson gushed from the wound, pouring down the file clerk’s chin and dousing his shirt with gore. “Mith Lenow wanth meh tah reminn you of yahr lunth date.”

“How could I forget such a thing?” Edgar fought to keep his expression neutral,
despite the twitch under his right eye and vomit rising in his throat.

“If there
is nothing else, sir, I shall leave you to it.” Phillip rose with a bow, any traces of his momentary self-mutilation gone without a trace.

The door no sooner clicked shut behind
Phillip than Douglas shimmered into being wearing a cat that ate the canary grin. “Not even a squeal? I feel I might be losing my touch, and that bothers me more than I care to admit, E-E-Edgar. Need I try harder?”

Time had not been kind to the
specter. His otherworldly form had been ravaged by decomposition just as his flesh buried in the ground must have. Patches of grey skin had been lost to decay, revealing the skull or bone that lay beneath.

Edgar straightened the papers on his desk, breathing deepl
y to steady his shaking hands.

“
Still ignoring me?” Douglas flopped down in the chair opposite him, his split and oozing lower lip protruding in a pout. “You cannot keep doing this, Edgar. I fear eventually my good nature will run out and things will get
ugly
for you.”

Checking the time on the pendulum clock that maintained its incessant
chorus in the corner, Edgar rose from his chair. He paused only to brush the wrinkles from the front of his slacks before rounding the desk and striding out with his head held high.

“Oh, come now, Edgar!” Douglas called after him. “That tongue debacle was truly
i-i-inspired! How could you possibly ignore that?”

“Because bouts of hell are far more tolerable when mingled with moments of pure Heaven
,” Edgar muttered under his breath and shut the door on the seething ghoul.

He
strode through the factory, giving a brief nod of greeting to the crew boxing up product. Their new Bull Jack machine belched and grinded away, filling muslin bags with loose tobacco in an efficient manner that would vastly improve their production times.

Sensing
movement to his right, Edgar felt that nagging shudder claim him. Reflex screamed for him to spin toward it and acknowledge the pulley system that had materialized, the edges waving with flickering transparency before solidifying into a full-blown vision. Instead, Edgar steeled his spine and quickened his pace. Looking wasn’t necessary. He knew from multiple horrifying viewings that a man in a brown shirt and dirty overalls would appear, guiding and directing a large pane of glass that was being raised to the waiting frame in the ceiling.

Edgar cringed at the first snap,
well aware it meant the rope had begun to unravel. The glass dropped a few inches before it caught with a sudden jerk. The heels of his shoes clicked against the floor ever faster, urging him to run, to bolt for the door before that braided rope shredded. Its fibers hissed and snapped their ominous warning. The door was mere feet away when he heard that final pop and the whistling wind of the pane’s final plummet, end over end, toward the ground.

With h
is hand on the door knob, and freedom from this ghoulish prison only a push away, Edgar leaned his shoulder in to give the heavy door a forceful shove. The angled position put him at the precise vantage point to see the ghostly apparition throw his hands up to shield his head. His effort being to no avail as the deathly sharp edge halved him from neck to hip, easy as slicing softened butter.

Pinching his eyes shut at the grisly
remains that convulsed on the ground, Edgar threw himself against the door and its promise of escape. The midday sun that had beckoned from his office window was not to be found in
this
world—nor was any hope of retreat from his chilling existence. Grey clouds of smoke and ash formed a blockade that smothered the sun’s buoying rays.

Baltimore
, with its quant storefronts and factories eructing puffs of smoke toward the heavens, faded around him. An echo lost over a valley too vast. All around him wisps of energy morphed into soldiers locked mid-battle. Canon fire shook the earth beneath his feet, sending his heart rocketing into his throat. His nose and lungs aching from the gunpowder heavy in the air; Edgar shielded his nose and mouth in the crook of his elbow. Debris, and severed body parts, thumped down around him in a horrifying shower.

Muskets fired. Men shoved and jostled pas
t him in their search for cover. Gravel pelted against his skin with enough force to leave welts on contact. A mushroom cloud of smoke and dust erupted in front of him from yet another canon blast. As the throat scorching haze it created dissipated, a face still blessed with youth’s tender touch appeared before him. The boy could not have been more than ten or eleven years old, though he wore the full military garb of a soldier.

Wide, frightened eyes, the color of ripe hickory nuts, locked on Edgar’s face. The boy’s slight frame trembling with
spastic surges. “I want to go home,” he pleaded in a hoarse whisper. “Please, sir, t-take me home.”

Smoke tendrils curled back, a black curtain revealing the gut-wrenching crescendo of this scene. The boy sat propped against a cast aside barrel of gunpowder, his lower extremities shredded to ribbons of
meat and gore.  Life gushed from him into an ever-growing puddle that stained the earth around him crimson.

The weight of his own ineptitude s
agged Edgar’s shoulders. “I am so very, very sorry.”

“Edgar? Are you okay?”
His head—drooping with sorrow—rose at the sound of Lenore’s voice.

Yellow
hair danced across her shoulders. Ivory fabric billowed out with each step. To him she became the embodiment of an angel of mercy as she crossed the battle scene. Her very presence parted the clouds, allowing the sun to shine through. Violence and chaos vanished in her wake, allowing beauty and color back into the dreary darkness he called life.

The light brush of her velvet soft skin against his sweat
-dampened cheek tethered him back to a world where happiness yet remained. “Did you have another episode, my pet? Is there anything I can do?”

Damning the restraints of proper decorum
, and the judgmental stares of those who passed by, Edgar gathered Lenore in his arms. Breathing in the scent of her sunshine-warmed skin, he attempted to steady his racing heart with a few cleansing breaths. “Yes, there is one thing,” he muttered against her silky tresses.

Tipping her
face to his, she allowed him the pleasure of plunging into the adoration that sparkled from the deep violet tarns of her eyes. “Speak it, dearest, and if it lies within my power it shall be yours.”

Gathering both her hands in his, he brushed his lips across the back of one then the other. “
Before you came into my life I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. I stood, lost deep in darkness. Wondering, fearing, doubting I would ever escape. Then, suddenly, a corner was turned and there you stood, a blaze of hopeful light before me. My love for you is more than love.”

“As is mine for you,” Lenore assured him, her voice heady with emotion.

“If my present existence with you is but a dream, it is one I never wish to rouse from.” Gulping in a breath like a man about to dive to the depths, Edgar dropped down on both knees. Completely at the mercy of she who owned his heart. “Be mine, my flower. Marry me. Let bells toll and my very spirit sing at our blessed union.”

The ring he dug from his pocket was far from extravagant. Even so, it gleamed with eternity’s spark.

Resolute devotion warmed the face of his beloved. Extending her hand, she allowed him to slip that uniting band on her finger. Before he could pull back, she caught his hand and pressed it over her heart. “Can you feel that? With every beat I love you more than the last.”

And he could feel it. That joyful
telltale beating growing louder, louder, louder still every blissful moment.  

11

Ridley

Having never changed midday before,
Ireland battled the awkwardness of the situation by puffing her cheeks and casting her stare to the steps beneath her feet. She was painfully aware that people were walking on the sidewalk not twenty feet from where she fastened the coarse wool cloak around her neck and drew her hood, but couldn’t let their presence deter her.

Madness tipped its hat
—as it always did—during the sensory extravaganza of her change. Ripe, prickling nerves alive with agonizing bliss over their heightened sensitivity. The hellish roar of the beast within rumbling through her as it stirred. Hoofbeats clapped against the pavement a moment before Regen made his regal entrance, skidding to a stop in front of her. His wide nostrils began expanding and contracting in eager expectation. Metal winged through the air, churning up the mingling scents of sunshine, horse, and leather, before she caught her circling axe and holstered it at her hip. Ireland treated the beautiful stallion to a soft muzzle scratching before she slid her scuffed black boot into the stirrup and hoisted herself astride.  Threading the well-worn leather reins into the grooves of her waiting grasp, Ireland gently nudged Regen with her heels.

“
This could be your weirdest ride yet, buddy,” she warned, blowing her bangs from her eyes. “Is there an equestrian term for conspicuous? Because we could really—
whoa
!”

Immediately, the stallion stopped short. An abrupt act that almost sent Ireland flying over his head.

“No, not you! Keep going,” Ireland urged, her voice morphing into a high-pitched squawk as she turned her hand one way then the other in front of her. Like an analog TV losing signal, her skin—along with all her other parts, accessories, and even the formidable stallion beneath her—turned to static then faded before her wide, unblinking eyes. Flipping her wrist, she wriggled her fingers. They were there, she could feel them. Be that as it may, not a flutter of motion could be detected.

“
Are you doing this, or am I?” Ireland muttered, her head shaking in disbelief. “You know what, Reg? It doesn’t matter. Just when I think things can’t get any creepier …”

The ebony stallion’s
sides quaked with a whiny; his not so subtle cue that he was still seeking a little direction.

“
Sorry, bud,” Ireland said, the leather saddle creaking as she adjusted her position. “Back on track. Let’s go flat-line Gozer The Destructor so I can return to my joyously corporeal state. Turns out invisibility makes me queasy.”