Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) (8 page)

Edgar

“Sir, your son is here,” the file clerk proclaimed, his hands clasped behind his back.

Removing his glasses, John Allen leaned back in his chair and tossed them on his desk. “Send him in please, Phillip.”

“Yes, sir.” The young man ducked his head in a brief show of respect before stepping back to wave Edgar forward. Breathing through his mouth became mandatory to avoid the pungent stink of alcohol and vomit that permeated from his boss’s stumbling son.

Taking in the spectacle that was Edgar as of late, j
udgment curled the corners of John’s mouth. Red rimmed eyes darting around manically. Hair brushed only on one side, as if he’d lost interest mid-task. Stains of the grossly unrecognizable kind covering the front of his shirt like patch-work.

“Phillip, please leave us. Shut the door behind you.”

Phillip averted his gaze and dutifully obliged.

Edgar’s plight to cross the room and settle into a chair was not unlike watching a foal take its first steps
. A great deal of stumbling and bumbling, accompanied by the lingering question of success, right up until the end when Edgar seized the arm rests and lowered himself to sitting. A victorious smile spreading across his dazed face.

“I see your misadventures have already begun for the day,” John frowned, his fingers drumming against the edge of his desk.

“On the contrary,” Edgar helped himself to the pitcher of ice water on his father’s desk, his quaking hand causing it to slosh over the rim as he poured. “This is the remnant of last night’s debauchery. I have yet to find my bed, yet am optimistic it is where I left it. Wherever that may be.”

John bowed his head
and massaged his temples, just below his salt and pepper hairline, where a throbbing headache had sprouted. “And you are happy with this lackluster existence?”

“Happy, Father?” Edgar snorted a humorless laugh. “
Why, yes. I am gloriously beside myself that I have been chosen to walk the dreary path of being courted by death.”

“There’s no n
eed for such dramatics, Edgar,” John huffed with an exaggerated eye roll. “Others have suffered ailments far worse than yours.”

Ebony brows disappeared into Edgar’s
bushy hairline. “I cannot imagine even one scenario where that would be true.”

The chair squeaked
beneath his shifted weight as John leaned forward, folding his hands on his desk. “Son, I—more than anyone—know what you suffer with. I admit every day for you is its own brand of hell … if you let it be! Your schooling is done, all through home tutoring at your own accord, and you have matured to manhood. It’s time for you to find your place in this world and
claim
it. Or, if such a Shangri-La does not exist, then at least find a way to contribute to the world around you. Children fear ghosts and goblins, Edgar. You must no longer entertain such notions.”

Edgar’s pale lips pressed together in a firm line
. His fingers raked into his hair, gathering handfuls in his tight grasp. He could not even pretend to listen. Not after the dapper looking gentleman wafted in through a solid wall, causing the temperature in the room to plummet. Edgar knew he would be there, as he always was at two o’clock every afternoon. Hence the binge Edgar had gone on, beginning the very moment he learned his father wanted to meet with him.

He knew this spirit by name
—Benedict Carter. He had been his father’s business partner in life. Now his lingering essence showed him for the grisly mess he truly was. A broken and rotting shell, whose shoulders shook with sobs as he crossed the room like a man walking the final mile to the guillotine. His form dissipated around the edges as he wisped on top of John’s desk without disturbing a thing.

Edgar
fought to keep his expression neutral, nodding along to whatever it was his father happened to be saying. Every bit the attentive, albeit anxious, son that was most definitely
not
watching an apparition fling a noose over the ceiling rafters.

“
I gave up everything,
everything
!” Benedict whimpered, fixing the knotted loop around his neck. “Still it is not enough for these blood thirsty vultures!”

“S’okay,” Edgar muttered under his breath in a private reassurance that this would all be over soon.

“Such a lackadaisical existence is most definitely not ‘
okay
’!” His father erupted, slapping his palm down against the desk. “Do you understand
at all
what it means to be a man?”

Ben
edict scooted to the edge of the desk on tiptoe. Tears zigzagged between craters in his sagging and rotted flesh. “Duty, responsibility, honor,” he gasped. One step and the rope was swinging under the full effects of his weight. “This … is … my … reward.”

“Hanging from the rafters,” Edgar
manically snickered, then blanched the moment he realized he’d spoken the words out loud.

Fresh understanding dawned on his father’s face. “Give me the flask, Edgar.”

Edgar guiltily shifted his gaze, his hand plunging into the inside pocket of his coat to retrieve his silver flask. As if to crow his father’s wisdom, he brandished the item high over his head.

“Hand it over
.” John extended his hand, beckoning him forward with the curl of his fingers.

Ben
edict’s feet twitched and spasmed over the mahogany desk. Wet, choked gasps rattling from his constricted throat.

“
Absolutely, Father.” Edgar leaned in, stopping abruptly. Forcing a tight smile at his increasingly impatient father, he tried to figure out how to maneuver under the dead man without disrupting him. Finally, he ducked low to the desk and inched the flask across to his father, careful to avoid the flailing tips of Benedict’s polished shoes.

Confusion creased his forehead as John Allen accepted the item from
his splayed son. Fortunately, experience had taught him not to question Edgar’s antics. “Thank you, son. Let this be the last time I have to intervene on your excess of spirits.”

“Of course
.” Edgar’s agreement noticeably lacked conviction as he righted himself.

Overhead
, the ropes shifted. Benedict dropped to the floor with a heavy thump. “Such a good lad,” he gushed, his icy hand clamping down on Edgar’s shoulder as he found himself momentarily free of his infinite loop. 

“Is that all, Father?” Edgar asked
as an involuntary shudder rocked through him.

“Almost.” The flask disappeared into the top drawer of John’s desk. “There is one more thing. I want you to reconsider my offer for you to join me here at the tobacco company. I have a position in mind for you.”

“Father, I do not think it—”

John halted Edgar’s argument with one raised hand. “No need to rehash old arguments. I
am well aware of your hesitations, which is why I want to show you we can work around them. Tonight I have a dinner planned with a potential client. He is a family man, therefore it would be very beneficial for us to present a united front. You and I can dine with him and his daughter. I believe her name is Lenore. What do you say, my boy? Will you dine with a lovely young Miss as a favor to your dear papa?”

7

Ridley

At some point Ireland’s enraptured draw to Ridley had faded to a moderately tolerable level. If she had to guess, she would blame the bus they hopped on, that reeked of body odor and stale beer, for killing the romanticism of encountering someone else cursed as she had been.

“The car was right there,” she grumbled, her fingers thumping against her satchel. “
Right at the curb. We actually passed it getting into this … rolling house of
funk
.”

“
That makes it sound bluesy,” Noah mused, then immediately raised his hands in retreat at Ireland’s murderous glare. “Hey, don’t blame me! You saw how fast Ridley darted on here. Our choices were jump on or lose him.”

Biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood, Ireland’s narrowed gaze flicked
across the aisle to where Ridley sat. A tennis racquet—he’d made the point to grab before darting from the loft—laid across his lap, his finger tracing the lettering on its cover. The pretty, strawberry-blonde seated beside him, with freckles speckled across her pointy nose and the tops of her cheeks, scooted a little closer and crossed her legs in his direction.

“Do you play?”
she asked, gesturing toward the racquet. Her full lips puckered in an
obviously
practiced pout as she thrust out her over-worked push-up bra.

Ireland tipped her face toward Noah’s shoulder to mumble,
“Nope, carries it as a conversation starter.”

Noah’s chin fell to his chest
. The blond strands that fell across his forehead did nothing to muffle his snort of laughter.

A third party
, however, was less than amused by the harmless flirtin
g
. Call forth your sword
!
the Hessian roared in his beastly tremor from within the confines of Ireland’s mind
.
Ram it through the strumpet’s skull. She is in no way deserving of the dark magnificence that lies within that being!

Someone has a cruuuush
, Ireland thought back, playfully injecting the sing-song inflection.

Silence, you plague on my existence!
If I could will your own hands to rip out your innards and rid me of your incessant torment, I would happily oblige.

Running her tongue over her top teeth, Ireland fished into the front pocket of her satchel to dig out her iPod.
Keep talking, sweet-cheeks. It’ll make this that much more fun for me.

Do your worst, you petty wretch!
This cage cannot hold me forever!

“Isn’t that the Carrie Underwood song about keying some cheating dude’s truck?” Noah asked, reading over her shoulder as she thumbed the selection from the menu.

“It is!” Ireland said, her wide smile dripping with mock innocence. “I thought maybe I could work on redirecting my creepy little friend’s anger issues.”

“
Only in this group is vandalism considered an improvement.” Rip—seated on Noah’s other side—shook his head, his finger twirling and knotting the end of his beard.

Clicking the song on, Ireland settled back into her hard plastic seat. A smug smile curled across her lips. As predicted, the Hessian sneered and grumbled his retreat into the dark oblivion of her mind. Unfortunately, after his departure she could blame no one’s interest but her own for her gaze wandering back across the aisle.  For a moment she noticed Ridley’s agitated stare managed to focus. A bit of his former swagger reappeared as he ogled the ample terrain of the hussy’s curves. An appreciative smirk tugged back one corner of his mouth.

“
I’ve always wanted to learn to play tennis.” Flipping her hair over her shoulder, the mass transit floozy forced her chest out farther still. A move that was asking an awful lot of her already strained buttons.  “But for any sport like that, you really need an expert …
teacher
.”

“She’s like a walking cautionary tale against VD,” Ireland
tsked.

Switching the grip on his racquet to the other hand, Ridley
’s free arm slid across the back of her chair with skillful grace. His head dipped ever so slightly, allowing him to gaze up at her from under his lashes.

“There is no topic in the world more
tragically poetic,” the smooth words poured from his lips like warm molasses, “than the
death
of a beautiful woman.”

Every single person within earshot, Ridley and F
loozy included, froze.

“I … uh,” her mouth falling slack, Floozy rose from her seat, “… think my stop is coming up. I should just—
”

Without another word she scurried to the front of the bus, took a seat right behind the driver, and didn’t risk a look back.

Ridley’s face crumpled as though the incident hurt more than just his pride. “Your words, not mine,” he hissed at the floor. “In my head.
Muttering. Whispering
.”