Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) (31 page)

Noah edged up beside her, the warmth of his arm brushing against hers. “He doesn’t want this, Ireland. You need to listen.”

His rattling cough easing to a labored rhythm, Ireland rotated Rip back with visibly shaking hands and pressed on. “We don’t want to shove the blade in further—if that’s possible, I buried it deep—but if you hook your hands under his pits and hoist him up …”

Her orchestrating efforts
were derailed by the rise of Rip’s trembling hand, and his clammy palm pressing to her cheek.

“Ireland, please stop.” His dry, sandpaper tongue dragged across his lips. His words
, weak and fading, seeming to act as the last granules of sand sifting through his hourglass. “I need you to know. In my eyes you … will always be … a hero.”

His
sentiment trailed off, the light behind his eyes slowly fading. Ireland placed both her hands over Rip’s, anchoring him to her if only for a moment longer. “Stay with me, buddy. I … can’t do this without you.”

Regen galloped up behind her,
announcing his arrival with a snort and toss of his regel head. Rushing in with the stallion came a strong gust of wind, blustering down the tunnel. It settled over Rip’s frame, tussling his beard and tossing the course hair off his forehead, as his gaze fixed on a great beyond he alone could see. A slight smile curled the corner of his lips and held. With the gentle, loving caress of a mother’s touch that same wind reclaimed the surplus of years loaned to him. The peachy hue of his skin faded with his very essence, reducing him to an ash molding of himself. Not unlike the statue she’d first believed him to be.

Ireland’s face
crumbled, a spigot of free flowing tears gushing passed her lids. Once more the gust churned, delicately whispering to the sleeping New Englander that his journey was not yet over. The breeze caught the particles that once defined him, and swirled them up, up, up in a jovial corkscrew overhead before setting off on a voyage wherever the wind would take him.

Noah’s hand curled around
Ireland’s shuddering shoulder. Pulling her to him, he enveloped her in the security of his arms as her body dissolved in soul crushing sobs. As if sensing his totem’s sorrow, Regen nudged Ireland’s back. His hot breath in her ear acted as an equine message of love. The comfort of their contact became mandatory for Ireland to draw a breath through her gutted core.

“I got a cell phone.”
Thudding down the stairs covered in a light sheen of sweat, Ridley brandished the little black device high over his head. “I’m pretty sure the old woman I took it from, that spoke
very
little English, thought I was robbing her. But I got it!”

Noah’s hand weaved into Ireland’s hair,
his lips brushing the top of her head. “It’s too late.”

“It is?” Raven brows drew together in confusion, Ridley’s gaze flicking to the pillared archway to the right of them. “Oh. I saw … and I didn’t realize …
”

Abruptly, Ireland pushed herself away from Noah, wiping her face with the
back of her hand. “What else did you see up there? Young …” saying his name was a knife in the heart she made herself endure, “…
Rip
said that this was the place we were looking for.”

“It’s mostly old, residential housing occupied by overly trusting elderly people.” Ridley raised the phone as a case in point. “
But
then there’s the country club, currently closed for renovations.”

The implied weight of that ‘but’ hoisted Ireland to h
er feet. Her spine straightened, her cloak rippling down her back and into place. Skin tightened over bone. Nerves set on edge with barely contained power. The Horseman stirred, only this time Ireland had no problem holding him back. This was
her
fight. “What about the country club?”

Noah rose with her, his lips pressed in a thin white line of
unease. “Ireland, you don’t have to do this right now. After everything that’s happened, it’s okay to give yourself a minute here.”

Her hand rose to silence him, then curled into a tight fist of brewing, bubbling agg
ression. “What about the country club?” Each word was punched out slow and deliberate.

“I didn’t see
Lenore,” Ridley clarified, his palms raised to halt that idea before anyone could roll with it. “But I was told she was there …
somewhere
.”

“Who told you this?” Ireland forced the words through her clenched jaw.

Ridley’s weary gaze fell to the floor. When he glanced back up it was from under his lowered brow. “The men she killed. Apparently in her heyday she tore five men apart with her bare hands at a party back when the club was still a private residence.  Needless to say, while even their lingering spirits showcased what pig-headed oafs they were, they were all more than willing to have a hand in bringing her down.”

Wordlessly, Ireland strode to Regen’s side
. The stallion eagerly pivoted to receive her. Sliding her foot into the stirr-up, she hoisted herself astride, the leather saddle creaking as she settled in. Gathering the reins in one hand, she extended the other to Ridley. “I’m going to need your help to find her.”

“Gladly, m’lady.” Linking his hand with hers, he bounced with her boost and heaved himself up behind her.

Ireland guided Regen’s head around, the metal of his curb chain meeting with a soft clink. Before she could spur him forward even a stride, Noah positioned himself dead center between them and the exit.

“The last time you took her on she nearly killed you.” His nostrils flared, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “Are you just choosing to overlook that fact?”

“She didn’t have
me
last time,” Ridley offered, his hands sliding down to rest loosely on Ireland’s hips. “Poe himself told me it will take both of us to stop her.”

“See?” Ireland
retreated beneath the shadows of her hood, and gathered the reins in a two-handed grip. “We have a plan.”

Noah shoved his hands in his pockets
, his chest puffing in a display of masculine bravado that was vastly contradicted by the fear and hurt playing across his features. “And what about us dreary mortals? Where do we fit into this ‘plan’?”   

Wetting her lips, Ireland forced her catching breath
into the semblance of a neutral pattern. Her vision in the hospital had been true. She
was
death. And if Noah stayed, her curse would claim him, just as it had Rip. Her own feelings paled in comparison to that.

Digging deep, she
imitated the Hessian’s low-demonic rattle with a striking similarity. “Go back to Sleepy Hollow, Van Tassel. There’s no place for you here.”

A light tap to
his sides and Regen lurched forward, nimbly darting around Noah to launch them up the steep exit stairs and out into the fading day sun. 

28

Ridley

The
re was no denying it. The Hessian was crying. Ridley cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly on Regen’s haunches as yet another tear dripped down onto his hand strung loose around her middle. Her openly weeping
may
have made her somewhat less intimidating if it wasn’t for the blood-stained axe handle banging a painful reminder of its threat against his knee.

The sky was an expansive canvas of vibrant oranges and
deep purples. Long shadows stretched across the ground as the sun bowed its head to brother moon. Adjusting his grip around the flowing folds of Ireland’s cloak, Ridley gave a nod of greeting to an old man seated on his rickety porch swing.

“Damn horse better not poop in my yard!” the old man scowled in place of a greeting.
Turning away with a huff, he returned to his task of acting as a broom-wielding sentry to protect his trashcans from hooligans.

In its
heyday the community they galloped through must have been a sight to see with its rows of steep rooflines, gingerbread trim, and wraparound porches. Yet time had ravaged its beauty like a crumpled old crone. Still, its charm could easily be restored with a bit of elbow grease and a loving touch. Such revitalization had begun with the country club that swelled from the scenery before them. Framed in expansions jutted from each side of the once regal estate. The plywood walls were covered with white plastic
Tyvek
. Blue tarps protected the roof from the elements, their edges flapping in the light breeze. Broken stain glass windows had been boarded over, awaiting the special shards that would restore their elegance.

Wiping her nose on the back of her hand, Ireland tipped her head in Ridley’s direction. “Where are we headed?”

As inconspicuously as possible, Ridley let his gaze twitched to the side. Rip’s spirit easily kept pace with the galloping horse. His legs moving out of habit while he hovered about a foot off the ground. “Lenore is around the back, by the pond.” Transparent grey eyes flicked from Ridley to Ireland and back again, concern furrowing his brow. “Perhaps you should avoid telling her I’m here. She doesn’t seem to be coping well.”

Ridley consider
ed the hunched frame in front of him, moving in rhythm with each of the horse’s wide strides. Part of him believed that learning she could still communicate with her dearly departed friend could provide her with an iota of relief in this tumultuous time.
Or
, it could push her over the edge straight into a mindless killing spree. Those were not odds he wanted to wager.  

“Any day now,” Ireland snapped, venom dripping from her tone. “I need a direction.”

“To the left,” Ridley mumbled, shoving her sheathed sword off his thigh. “She’s around back.”

If she cued the horse,
Ridley didn’t see it. The menacing beast seemed to respond to her very thought. Twigs snapped beneath his hooves as the stallion sprinted them across the overgrown landscape at a speed that had Ridley clamoring for a tighter hold around Ireland’s middle. Rounding the side of the building, his exuberant gait slowed to a high-footed trot.

There she stood
, the once enchanting Lenore. From their distance she appeared an ordinary girl admiring the view. Flaxen locks danced around her shoulders, the ragged lace trim of her nightgown swaying around her shins. She stared out at the small, reed infested pond. The fading sunlight warmed the water to a shimmering golden hue. Along the far edge, two playful swans alternated between ducking their heads under the water and snapping their beaks happily in the air.

Ridley’s head cocked at the
poetic nature of the scene. “She looks … serene.”

Flipping a leg over Regen’s head, Ireland slid to the ground with a soft thump. “She
turned The Bronx into a war zone. Killed
one
person we know of, most likely the body count was higher. She doesn’t get a free pass.”

Ridley followed her lead, stumbling into the knee-high grass with noticeably less grace. “Never
suggested otherwise. I make it a point not to argue with unstable women armed to the teeth.” 

If Ireland heard his suicidally stupid comment, she—thankfully—ignored it.
“You go no farther. The rest is up to me.” The yearning for violence and mayhem emanated from her pores, vibrating the air around them. Her fingers drummed against the hilt of her sword, her chest rising and falling in eager pants. “Matter of fact, you might wanna run.”

She punctuated her warning by drawing both weapons. Her sword hissed from its sheath, the axe handle flipping from its loop into the cradle of her waiting palm. Lowering her chin, Ireland disappeared into the obscurity offered by her hood. Appearing every bit the monster she struggled against, she turned on the heavy-tread heel of her boot and strode headlong toward vengeance—or death.

“
You
cannot
let her go!” Rip lurched after her, turning back to Ridley only when he realized he was powerless to stop her himself. “Lenore nearly killed her last time!
Do you wish to see her finish the job
?”

“
Your friend is quite right.” Poe’s essence glided out from behind a skeletal looking tree, its bare branches clawing toward the heavens. The manic persona history knew him for had been replaced by calm self-awareness. “By herself she lacks the capability to stop Lenore. Halt her now, or watch her die. The choice is yours.”