Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) (9 page)

“Ya, know
.” Noah cocked his head, his hand rubbing over his chin, “I really expected him to have mad game with the ladies. But if that’s the
right
way to pick up chicks, I’ve been doing it wrong.”

“The can of pepper spray she just pulled from her purse says it’s not,” Ireland pointed out.

“We cannot leave him like this.” Rip’s lower jaw worked, chewing on the matter at hand. “Ireland was never this bad. It would be cruel to leave him to face this alone. For the time being at least, it seems our little family has a new member.” 

Ireland filled her lungs and forced the breath out through pursed lips.
“I just wanted to know the origins of my tattoo. Maybe get a little insight into who made me the Horseman’s bitch—”

“
Heehee
, bitch,” Rip giggled, despite the suddenly somber mood.

Purposely, she chose to ignore his amusement over his new favorite word.
“But, you’re right. We need to keep an eye on him. Find out if he’s going to end up caught in some crazy poltergeist time loop like I did. Even if it means following him to what has to be a pretty friggin’ crucial tennis match to interrupt his current cloud-o-crazy.”

“Uh …”
Pinching her chin between his thumb and forefinger, Noah pivoted Ireland’s head toward the window. “I don’t think we’re headed to any kind of country club.”

Outside, high rises had been replaced by dilapidated housing. Shiny town cars and taxis
had switched out for lowered rides and pounding base.

“It could still be a country club,” Ireland
argued weakly. “Maybe the membership dues are just
insanely
reasonable.”

A
scraggly beard wedged itself into the conversation, Rip craning around Noah with his watery eyes widened to goose eggs. “You know all of those horrible stories depicting New York as a terribly scary place? I fear we have found ourselves in the birthplace of that particular reputation.”

Brakes squeaked as the bus slowed to yet another stop
, and the door hissed open.

“This is it!” Ridley
instantly brightened. Bolting from his seat, he flipped his covered racquet over his shoulder.

“Of course it is
.” Rip yawned, reluctantly rising to his feet to follow his troop from the bus. “The upside is if my sleep curse strikes, I will blend with all the other vagabonds slumbering on the sidewalks.”

She couldn’t have prevented it if she wanted to. Horns honking. Brakes squealing. Rip, halfway across the street, spinning at their high-pitched screech. Black clouds, reeking of burnt rubber, billow
ing out from the tires of the fish-tailing full-sized pickup truck.

But the ugly truth was, part of her didn’t want to prevent it.

Ireland’s heart stuttered in her chest. Her breath coming in anxious pants as the bumper slammed into Rip’s knees, rolling him over the hood and shattering the windshield. She loved her friend, wished him no harm. Yet she couldn’t deny the fiery flush that tingled over her skin, sparking every nerve ending with violent delight. Her mouth watered at the blood that gurgled over his parted lips, staining his beard as it puddled beneath his head.

Her name formed on Noah’s lips as he darted between cars.
The sound of his call drowned out by the deafening roar of her pulse pounding in her ears. Hooking his forearms under Rip’s arms, Noah eased the injured man from the hood and immediately began CPR.

Such a good boy.

Working so hard.

Completely oblivious to the truck door
opening, or the hooded figure that emerged. Thick weave fabric, so eerily familiar, brushed against the driver’s calves as they rounded the open door.

My cloak,
Ireland’s muddled mind managed to form the thought only to lose it to the tight fist of fear that constricted her throat.

Her
gaze locked, transfixed, on the narrow, female hands that rose to grasp the hood’s edge. Vertigo pinched her reality, stretching it out wide, before snapping it back with dizzying force. The earth itself seemed to buck beneath her, her knees threatening to give.

The face beneath the hood
glaring back at her … was her own.

“You are death
,” her doppelgänger purred through blue-kissed lips. The black, scrolled veins visible beneath her skin moving and shifting like living artwork.

“I
am not.” Ireland’s nostrils flared, her palms itching to call for the reassurance of her weapons. “You are the monster.”

“You’d love to think that
, wouldn’t you?” Her darker self turned away, a prowling panther not the least bit concerned by the quaking antelope before it, and sauntered to Noah’s side.

Flaxen hair fell into his eyes as
he glanced up at her … and froze. His life saving task all but forgotten. One seductive curl of her finger was all the motivation he needed to raise to his feet. Truly a man bewitched, who refused to allow even a blink to break his enraptured stare. 

“You are me, and I you.”
Curling her fingers around the collar of his shirt, her Hessian counterpart pulled Noah’s body against her. Her lips teased over his, causing his entire frame to tremble at her touch. “We are the harbinger of death. Our very touch is as deadly as a blade when wielded properly.”  

In a blur of speed, she stabbed her arm forward. A choked gasp ek
ed past Noah’s slack jaw. His chin dropped to his chest, staring in bewildered astonishment at the hand buried wrist deep in his chest.

“I-Ireland?” he croaked
, accusation and confusion gouging deep lines between his brows.

Sticky
, wetness beneath her hand yanked Ireland’s head down sharp. Her cloak snapped out behind her in the night breeze, its familiar cadence welcoming her home. She had become the beast, Noah’s still beating heart pulsating in her grasp. She wanted to loosen her hold, to set him free. Even so, her murderous limb rose, holding the dying muscle up for him to see.

“Nothing to offer, but death.”
Crimson streaks raced down her fingers, dripping from her palm as she dug her nails in deep … and squeezed.

“Ireland?
The flashing, illuminated man means walk,” Noah patiently explained, gesturing to the street sign behind him. “Look, it’s even counting down for you! You now have 16 seconds to cross the street before this become a game of
Frogger
.”

Ireland came to with a start,
finding herself standing on the opposite side of the four lane street from her troop with her frontal lobe throbbing. Blinking hard, she took a quick beat to clear her head before darting across the street like a cat duct taped to a firecracker. 

“There she is. See traffic lights are our frie—
whoa
, okay.” Noah’s glib comment cut off the second Ireland threw herself at him.

Her arms twined around his neck, squeezing tight as she peppered his face with kisses.

“Yes, crossing the street
can
be scary.” He patted her back in comfort, shooting Rip a confused cringe.  “It was pretty touch-and-go there for a minute, but you totally made it.”

Ireland’s breath came in stuttered gasps.
Reluctantly she pulled away, resting her forehead against his chin. “Just had a moment. Like the library all over again, only without the charming third person perspective.”

“Was that code for something?” Noah asked Rip over her head in a barely audible whisper.

“I’ll explain later, when she’s not shaking like a nervous chihuahua.” Craning his neck over Noah’s shoulder, Rip invaded Ireland’s space with an expectant stare. “While I’m sure this moment is justified by some scarring form of torture the Horseman inflicted upon you, I must point out that Ridley just disappeared around the corner. Perhaps you could put a pin in this particular meltdown until later? We can all watch that movie about iron magnolias and weep over a communal box of tissues.”

Centering all the physical and emotional angst from the Hessian’s cruel joke
into her core, Ireland pushed it down and buried it deep. “No,” she said as she steeled her spine and pried herself free from the comfort of Noah’s arms. “I’m fine. Let’s go get Ridley.”  

The trio rounded
a bend landscaped with mulch and fresh saplings, their strides matched in determination. Immediately, they stopped short. Ridley stood statue still; a display of chiseled—yet slightly insane—beauty, staring eagerly at the charming white bungalow before him.

Blue eyes, wide with hope, flickered her way. His smile spread a touch too wide, crossing the threshold into manic.
“
This is it
. The orangutan told me.”

While her boys hung back, Ireland approached with
cautious steps. “Ridley,” she tsked in her most maternal tone, “don’t you know not to believe every primate that talks to you?”

Her words stole the smile from his face, forcing
on a mask of aghast revulsion. “
This one had a blade
!” he hissed in an urgent whisper.

Grinding the butt of her palms into her temples, Ireland massaged her head in small circles. The base drum headache had swelled into a pounding marching band drumline.
“I-I have no idea how to respond to that.”

“Neither did I,” Ridley shrugged, h
is stare wandering back to the small house so painstakingly maintained. The covered porch and walkway were framed by meticulously groomed flower gardens. To the right of the stairs, nestled in a bed of burgundy and yellow mums, sat a bronze engraved plaque.

Ireland
rocked forward on the balls of her feet. Stretching her neck to see, she read it out loud, “Brooklyn Historical Society; Cottage of Edgar Allen Poe.”

Noah
bumped Rip’s arm with his elbow. “You know anything about this?”

Rip directed his answer to Ireland instead, weariness
adding a few more years to his centuries of life. “I have told you before of the cloaked men that gathered a group of us and stressed the urgency of us hiding the truth behind our situations. Those men demanded absolute confidentiality. We were not allowed to tell one another much of anything that may give away what they considered to be ‘too much.’ However,” starting at his mustache, Rip brushed his hand down the length of his beard, “I have since seen pictures of Mr. Poe, and I do believe him to have been the slightly troubled lad that sat directly beside me. I sincerely wish I had more information than that to offer.”

Ireland’s chin dipped in a brief nod. Beside her, Ridley shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. Under his breath he muttered incoherent words in a methodic cadence. A soul lost, searching for
answers to questions he couldn’t fathom to ask. She knew that feeling well. She’d been there herself, recent enough for the memory to still sting.

Irving.

Poe.

She was right. The pattern was repeating.

“Ridley
.” His name slipped from her lips in a throaty breath. “Is there something in there you need?” 

The once suave
businessman nodded. His glossy veneer rubbed away to reveal the frightened, child-like reality beneath.

“Then let’s go find it
.” Flipping her hair from her eyes, and refusing to grant her throbbing head another moments thought, she offered Ridley her hand, “Together.”

Tentatively
, he laced his sweat-damped hand with hers. His eyes snapping open wide the second their skin touched. Unbridled awe dawned across his face, brightening the shadows that burrowed into the hollows of his features.

“Al
l right,” Ireland snipped, fighting off the urge to retract her hand. “Quit looking at me like Heaven opened and angels are singing, and let’s get this over with.”

Prompting him forward with a light tug, the two strode inside. Side-by-side.

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