Sword of the Raven (13 page)

“Thank you. Milk and raspberry syrup.”

He pushed aside the Tiffany lamp, clock, and a stack of law books to slide the tray onto the bedside table. “Do you mind if I park on the edge of the bed?”

He waited for her permission before he sat, facing her.

“Rowan.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “I scratched your cheek…and your neck.”

“Eh, not a problem.” Adrenaline still zinged his system, and he hadn’t even remembered she’d nailed him.

“Those gouges look awful. You should put antiseptic on them.”

He’d handled far worse without medical treatment. “Mages heal fast.”

Her luscious mouth turned down at the corners. “I’m so sorry.”

“Forget it, sweetheart. You startled awake with a naked man draped around you.” A very obviously horny man. “Any woman—”

 
“No.
Any woman
wouldn’t
have instantly attacked you.” She regarded him. “From recent events, I take it you and I are…fated…to work together?”

“Aye. As you’ve now realized, you have unique Powers.”

“Three days ago, I would’ve called the men in the white coats to haul us both to the cracker factory. But since then, a whole lot of weird has gone down.”

Poor wee lass. He wanted nothing more than to comfort her, but she wouldn’t welcome it. “You’ve had a series of nasty shocks.”

“My brother…I found him in that Abyss place. He isn’t in his body, but he’s very much alive. I talked to him. Hugged him. Do you know how to bring him back?”

She’d located Connor’s essence?
Only Enforcers could unerringly track an essence, and only after years of training. And
never
into the Abyss! Camouflaging his shock, he poured steaming coffee into mugs, sloshed raspberry syrup and milk into one. “I can’t say for certain until I know the exact scenario. If there’s any way to free your brother, I’ll try to find it.”

“You’ll teach me to channel and use these…Powers?”

“That’s my purpose for seeking you.” One of his motives, anyway.

Her unsteady hands grasped the cup he offered. “I owe you an apology for the major flip-out.”

“None is— ”

“If we’re partners in this insanity, I don’t want you wondering if I’ll fall apart at a crucial moment. Or feel like you have to tiptoe on eggshells around me. I pull my weight, MacLachlan. I’m not a fragile china doll.”

He shot her a grin over the top of his mug. “Never imagined you to be one.” He sobered. His priority now was to learn her origins. “Forget the apology. I’d rather you fill me in about your background. About Connor’s. Where did you grow up, what were you like as kids, who were your parents? Humans can’t acquire Power, ‘tis inherited. There might be something that’ll clue me in to his situation.” And hers.

“Telling you…it will help Connor?”

Through their shared link, Rowan sensed turmoil churning inside her. Felt the burden of long-carried, suppressed emotions straining for release. Apparently the lass had another wound that needed lancing. He gulped coffee, appreciating the kick of heat. “And help you as well, I’m thinking.”

“It’s important that you know?”

“Aye. As detailed as possible.” He passed her two scones on a saucer, snagged four for himself. He bit into warm crunchy sweetness. Listening to raindrops plunk the rooftop, flames snap on the hearth, he drank his coffee and waited for Delaney to decide to trust him.

A year spent chained like a dog had taught him patience.

“I’ve never told anybody
all
the…details. Not even Archer. It’s not a pretty story.”

Although she didn’t realize it, the Guardian would already know everything. “Judgment-free zone here, lass.”

“I… If it’ll help rescue Connor…” Visibly collecting herself, she sipped from her cup. Once. Twice. “Delaney Morgan isn’t my real name. I was born Erin Byrne.”

Bloody interesting. Many Supernaturals hid their true names for self-protection. Names were highly significant in Magic rituals, and imbued with special power. Erin was another name for Ireland. The Irish surname Byrne had belonged to ancient Irish kings. And it meant
Raven.

“Connor began life as Eamon,” she continued.

Which meant
Guard of the Treasure.
Letting her set the pace, Rowan ate a second scone.

“We grew up in an average suburb in Iowa. Our dad was a state trooper. When I was six, he was struck and killed by a car when he stopped to help a stranded motorist. Connor was ten.” Delaney stared into the fire, as if seeing the past. “Our mother nose-dived into depression. She got hooked on drugs, legal and otherwise. Connor took care of me. Cooking, laundry, grocery shopping, taking me to school, he learned to do it all. I helped as much as I could. Dad’s insurance gave us some income. Connor also learned to get to the mailbox first, so our mother wouldn’t blow the check on her anesthetic of choice.”

Ah.
“I ken why you two have such a solid bond.”

“Absolutely. It was the two of us against the world. We managed for five years, until my fourth grade teacher got suspicious and notified Child Services. The court ordered our mother into a counseling program, where she met and fell for Doctor Stanton P. Graves. He was a psychiatrist and senior partner at the therapy practice…very influential, intelligent, and charming. I didn’t care one way or the other, most of the time I ignored him.” Her fingers whitened on her cup. “But Graves and Connor despised one another on sight. Instant, mutual antagonism. Of course that minor detail didn’t stop freshly sober Mommy Dearest from marrying Graves.”

“Wouldn’t his dating her have been a violation of the doctor patient relationship?”

“Graves wasn’t
her
assigned shrink, so technically no. Besides, the community practically nominated him for sainthood for adopting a mouthy pre-teen girl and rebellious teenage boy. And after the wedding, mom’s newfound sobriety lasted a record seven months before she nose-dived off the wagon.” Tremendous pain lurked behind her casual shrug. “But hey, at least now there was a responsible adult around when she was high, right?”

Rowan’s chest tightened. In contrast, his childhood had been damned near perfect.

“Meanwhile, my brother’s future was going superstar. Connor started his junior year of high school as a fantastic quarterback with an arm that wouldn’t quit, plus a near genius IQ. Dozens of colleges were throwing scholarships at him. But he promised no matter what college he chose, he’d find a way to take care of me and we’d always be together.”

Delaney set her unfinished coffee on the tray. “He and Saint Stan clashed constantly. Graves tried to make nice with me, buying stuff, taking me out for ice cream and movies, but neither Connor nor I warmed to him. We expected him to split any day. Why the hell would a successful doctor want to stay with a chronically depressed junkie?”

She flicked a glance at Rowan. “Connor started to figure it out. He inherited more from our father than his looks—he got Dad’s lightning reflexes and Triple-A cop instincts.”

“Assess. Analyze. Act.” He offered her a smile. “Enforcers are Special Ops warriors, lass.” And when the need arose, they became covert assassins.

“So you know the intuition that drove my brother to keep a sharp eye on Stepdaddy. I was twelve, almost thirteen, and completely naive. But there was a good reason Connor’s gut instincts had immediately hated Graves.” She dropped her gaze. “My brother saw him slipping pills into Mom’s food and…um…he saw good ole Stan growing a just a little too friendly toward me.”

Rowan tensed as Delaney methodically shredded her pastry. “I’d begun to trust Graves somewhat and thought he honestly cared. I didn’t see the blatant manipulation.”

Appetite gone, Rowan abandoned his plate. “Of course you didn’t. You were just a child.”

“Well, apparently Graves thought differently. On my thirteenth birthday, he checked me out of school mid-day. Said he wanted to treat me to a celebration lunch. We dressed up, went to a fancy restaurant. Where he slipped a drug into my food. By the time he took me home, I was aware of what was happening…but…but too far out of it to fight him when he started taking off my clothes.”

Jesus.
Sick fury soured in Rowan’s belly.

Delaney drew a shaky breath. “He acted like he was giving me a great honor. Announced he was going to ‘make a woman out of me. Teach me my true potential.’”

The empty mug shattered in his hands.
The fecking bastard
. No wonder the lass had panicked when she’d jolted awake disoriented and found Rowan in her bed. He dropped the crumbled shards, not feeling pain in his hand, not caring it was bleeding. He was gonna hunt down the child-raping perv and feed the sonofabitch his own bollocks.

“Delaney,” he said quietly. “You don’t have to tell me the rest, I ken what happened.”

“No, you should hear everything.”
Before I lose my nerve.
Her throat worked as she swallowed the thought, and he knew she hadn’t meant to broadcast it.

“Only if you’re ready, luv.”

She studied her ruined scones. “Connor was keeping close tabs on me. He discovered Graves had signed me out of afternoon classes and rushed home. He kicked down the door.” A slight hesitation. “And stopped Graves before he’d done any real damage.”

But the innocent child had suffered wounds sight couldn’t discern, hadn’t she?

 “Connor…exploded. Attacked Graves. I’d never seen him like that. Graves had a hundred pound advantage and Connor didn’t stand a chance. My brother was taking a horrible beating. I managed to stumble over and hit Graves with the fireplace poker, knock him away. Then Connor—God— he just went insane. He beat Graves to a bloody pulp.”

“Good on the lad.”
If we get you back, Connor, I’m buyin’ you a round of Glenlivet.

“I think Connor would’ve killed him if I hadn’t managed to finally break through his rage and make him stop. Not because I gave a damn about Graves, but I didn’t want my brother in prison. Connor wrapped me in a blanket and drove me to the hospital. When the police showed up, we were so relieved. Until they arrested my brother for assault.” Delaney pressed trembling lips together. “At that moment, I wished
I’d
killed Graves.”

He snarled. “Killing’s too good for the prick.”

“Saint Stan was a professional Machiavelli. Well-dressed, well-spoken, well-connected. He told the police he caught me sneaking into Mom’s tranqs—that’s what he’d dosed me with—so he’d locked them up. He claimed
I’d
come on to
him,
bargaining sex for drugs. Then when Graves refused to give them to me, I lied and said he’d tried to rape me.”

“The authorities believed that rubbish?”

Delaney gave full attention to setting aside her uneaten food. “Mother of the Year signed a statement corroborating Graves’ lies. Although she wasn’t lucid enough to know what she’d agreed to.” Turning away, she watched the rain streaming down the windowpane. “Probably.”

The ultimate betrayal. He longed to tug Delaney into his arms, but her stiff body language screamed
keep away.
“I’m so sorry.”

 “Connor got tossed into juvy. Thank heaven he was only sixteen, or he’d have gone to jail. Graves’s injuries were serious enough to hospitalize him, and Mom was ‘traumatized’ and not fit to care for a goldfish, so I was shuttled to a temporary foster home. They told me as soon as Graves recovered, I’d be sent back to live with him.” She hung her head. “I wanted to die. It seemed better than being helpless. Being a victim.”

His heart wrenched. “Delaney,” he said gently. “Look at me.” For a long moment, he thought she wouldn’t. Then she slowly raised her chin. Moisture glittered on long copper lashes, sheened wounded blue eyes.

He slid closer, embraced both small, chilled hands with his. “I’ve also been helpless, been at the mercy of someone who said they loved me, then betrayed and hurt me. And I could not stop them.” He gently squeezed her fingers. “I also wanted to die for a time. Like you, I chose to submit. To live.”

“Oh, Rowan! Did you…were you abused as a child?”

“No, lass.” That she would feel empathy for him in the midst of her pain sharpened the ache in his chest. “Mine is another account for another time. What we share is the fact we
didn’t
choose death. We endured what we had to in order to live.”

“Well, as it happens, I didn’t have to take any more abuse from Graves. We…fought back. Fought dirty.”

Rowan kept hold of her hands in one of his, using the other to cup her neck. He stroked her nape with his thumb. “Sweetheart, killing was too good for him. Whatever you did to defend yourself was justified.”

“Connor knew Graves would angle to get me back, especially with him in juvy and unable to protect me. But even suffering from cracked ribs and bruised kidneys, Connor broke out of custody. Then he snuck me out of the foster home in the middle of the night.” She leaned into Rowan, finally accepting the comfort he offered. “Graves kept some cash in the house for emergencies, and we stole it. We took Mom’s pill stash and sold it to stoners Connor knew from school. We shoplifted supplies from a drugstore, chopped off my hair and dyed it black, and I dressed like a boy. Connor bleached his hair and spiked it. Then we stole Graves’ car from the hospital parking garage. Nobody would miss it for a while, and Connor switched plates with a similar vehicle. We became drug dealers and thieves.”

“I’d call it gutsy and resourceful.”

“I’m not…I just—” Her mouth trembled. Then firmed. “For the next five days, we stuck to back roads, drove mostly at night, and made it to the Oregon Coast—as far from Iowa as possible. We stole camping gear from some hunters, wiped the prints from the car and pushed it off a bluff into the ocean, so there’d be no trace. Then we hiked back to Portland on foot.”

“Long walk, that.” His admiration grew. The bloodline that had given life to Erin and Eamon Byrne was warrior’s blood. “Nearly one hundred and thirteen kilometers, half of it mountainous.”

“We camped out, took our time. But it was November, cold and rainy. Connor contracted pneumonia, likely due to his injured ribs constricting his respiration. When we reached downtown Portland, we holed up in an abandoned building with other street kids. Within forty-eight hours, he was delirious with fever and wheezing for breath. I was so scared. He was
dying.”