Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) (5 page)

“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 ag
ainst 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 le
aned 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, h
is 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, t
he 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? The
y 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 concealed 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!”

Mother gathered the
billowing fabric of her skirt to drop to her knees beside them. Gently, she cocooned Edgar’s hand in both of hers. Pressing his fingers to her cheek, she dotted his palm with a quick kiss. “Edgar, you do
not
have to do this. There are other options. Remember Stanley Lankey from down the street? Ever since he fell off his parents’ roof he spends his days home with his mother. They make cookies together. She wheels him out into the garden where he watches her tend to the plants.  That sounds nice, does it not? We could do that!”

“Mother,
the boy is not an invalid, nor shall we make plans to treat him as one.” Father urged in his deep baritone that left no room for argument or discussion. “Edgar is ten years old and is dabbling with all the facets of what it means to be a man. If he claims he is ready for this, we must trust him and support his decision.”

Edgar’s scrawny chest puffed to emulate the proud stance his father often assumed. “I’m ready. I know it.”

“Very good, then.” Flecks of gold, that only appeared when he was truly pleased, beamed within the molasses pools of John Allen’s eyes. “Mother, please fetch his satchel and umbrella. We will have the carriage driver drop him at the school gate.”