Night of the Raven Read online

  She circled the scratches a third time and then let her hand fall away.

  Was it crazy that, for a single blind moment, he wanted to abandon all logic and have wild sex with her on the kitchen floor? His hormones said no. Fortunately for both of them, his brain retained control.

  “You should go upstairs,” he said before the badly frayed threads of his restraint snapped and he turned into the big bad wolf they’d been playing with all night.

  He started to step back. Then blew his good intentions to hell and covered her mouth with his.

  For the first time in memory the world around him dissolved, leaving him with nothing except the full-bodied taste of woman and the mildly unnerving sensation that some small part of her was seeping into his bloodstream like a drug. Whether good or bad, he couldn’t say. He only knew his control currently teetered on a very ragged edge. Drawing on the dregs of it, he gripped her arms and set her away from him.

  “Well, wow.” Amara fingered her lips. Her eyes had gone a fascinating shade of silver. “That was...amazing. I don’t normally kiss men I’ve just met like that. Not altogether sure I’ve kissed any man like that.” She bit lightly on her lower lip. “You?”

  “I try not to kiss men at all if I can avoid it.”

  She laughed, and that didn’t help a damn thing. “No Irish or Italian in your background, hmm?”

  He fixed his gaze on hers. “You want to go upstairs, Amara, now, before it occurs to me that self-restraint’s never been my best quality.”

  A sparkle lit her eyes. Tugging him forward by his shirt, she whispered a teasing “Mine, either.”

  He let her stroll away. This might be Grandma’s house, but he hadn’t regressed to a wild-animal state quite yet.

  Rifle shots, he reminded himself. Supersize knife. Twisted leer. Oh, yeah, that worked. Anticipation rose. Adrenaline ramped it up.

  He gave Amara sixty minutes to settle in—and his libido the same amount of time to settle down. Then he checked his guns, pulled on a dark jacket and made himself part of the night.

  Location presented no problem. He’d discovered several spent cartridges earlier in a section of the woods where three giant oak trees stood bent and tortured around a collection of boulders that resembled witches’ hats.

  A silent approach wasn’t necessary. The wind raged on—like a huffing, puffing wolf, if he wanted to keep the fairy tale alive a bit longer.

  He reached the clearing within fifteen minutes. Playing his flashlight over the tops of the stone hats, he let a wry smile form. Despite the whirling gusts, he clearly caught the sound of a rifle being primed.

  Sticking to the shadows, he called, “You want to shoot me, Westor, do it now. I don’t play mind games these days.”

  “Like hell.” The reply came from a patch of darkness some fifty feet to McVey’s left. “You’ve been playing with minds in two freaking—and I gotta say freaky—towns for more than a year. I did some sniffing around tonight, old friend. You’ve got these people believing you’re a man of honor, someone who’ll stand up for them should the need arise. But you and me, we know different, don’t we? You’d sell your granny, if you had one, for the gold fillings in her teeth. You’d sell me, if you could, for a whole lot less.”

  “Or I could just keep it simple and arrest you for shooting at my landlady’s granddaughter.”

  “In that case, I might as well kill her and let the chips fall. A little bird told me she’s got majorly big problems that’ll land her six feet under before long anyway.”

  “Raven.” McVey scanned the darkness. “It’s all about big black ravens around here.”

  “Ravens and witches is how I heard it.”

  “From your little bird?”

  Westor Hall gave his rifle another Jake-like pump. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand, McVey. You came to Los Angeles a few months back, and being a cop and a turncoat, decided my sister needed some jail time to straighten her out.”

  McVey wove a roundabout path through a crop of evergreens. “Why would I do that after fifteen years of silence?”

  “I don’t know.” For the moment Westor sounded uncertain. “I don’t, but it doesn’t matter.” Anger tightened his tone. “Dicks came for her six weeks ago. She rabbited and wound up wrapping her car around a power pole. Took three and a half hours to peel the wreck away so paramedics could pull her out. In the end, they covered her with a sheet and drove her to the morgue.”

  McVey hadn’t known that. But he’d known Westor’s sister, and an alcoholic haze had been her answer to most of life’s problems, big and small.

  “She was all I had, McVey.” Loss layered over loathing. “It’s not a coincidence. You came to Los Angeles and two days later the cops had a line on my sister.”

  “I’m sorry she’s dead, Westor, but I didn’t draw that line. And I sure as hell didn’t cross it.”

  “Well, I say you did, and I’ve come all the way here to say it to your face.”

  Lowering to a crouch, McVey sized up a tangle of brush that could hide a dozen large men. He considered drawing his gun, but when the leaves separated slightly and he spied the laser light on Westor’s rifle, he opted for hand-to-hand.

  “See how you feel when you lose someone who matters.” Westor jerked the rifle sideways. “That tasty lady I saw you with tonight, for example.”

  Although his stomach clenched, McVey saw his opportunity and took it.

  If Westor spotted the motion, he didn’t swing around fast enough to evade it. McVey’s forearm snaked across his throat, cutting off his oxygen and reducing his protest to a wet gurgle as he tried to shake his attacker off. Finally, with his eyes beginning to roll, Westor gave McVey’s wrist a limp slap.

  “Yeah, as if I’m gonna believe that. Kick the rifle away.” McVey tightened his grip when Westor hesitated. “Do it now.”

  The hesitation became a gagging cough. “Okay, you win.” The rifle spun off. “It’s gone, and now neither of us can see a frigging thing. Tree could fall and kill us both. Still, it might be worth dying to know I’d be taking you with me.”

  “Always a possibility,” McVey agreed. “But I think you missed your opportunity with the trees.”

  “Are you kid—?” In the process of tossing his head, Westor stopped struggling and let his gaze roll skyward. “What happened to the wind?”

  “It died.”

  “Just like that?” Westor made a scoffing sound. “Wind’s not alive. It can’t die as fast as a person. One of which your tasty lady is.”

  McVey set his mouth menacingly close to Westor’s ear. “I’m only going to say this once, old friend, so you want to listen. If anything—” he cinched Westor’s arm for emphasis “—I mean anything at all happens to Amara, I’ll find you and I’ll kill you.”

  Westor craned his neck for more air. “That’s not fair. Way I heard it, there’s a strong chance the lady has a truckload of heavy looking to squash her.”

  “Yeah? Who’s your little bird, Westor?”

  “Woman at the bar where the fight went down doesn’t like your lady much. Told someone on the phone a nasty dude named Sparks could be looking to do her.”

  “In that case, you might want to think seriously about leaving town.”

  “I’ll leave when I’m ready, and not before. I didn’t come all this way to tip my hat at you, McVey. I want to watch you squirm, knowing I’m here, knowing I know how it used to be, how you used to live and who you stepped on to get out.” His teeth gleamed in profile. “It’s not as if the tasty lady’s hard to look at.”

  With a warning squeeze, McVey released his prisoner and shoved him forward. “Did the woman in the bar happen to mention that my tasty lady’s got the blood of a three-hundred-year-old witch in her veins?”

  On his knees and coughing, Westor rubbed his throat. “Come on, man, you don’t believe that spooked-up crap, do you?”

  McVey slung the rifle over his shoulder. “I believe what I see. Amara wanted the wind gone and
, what do you know, it is. So here’s the really intriguing question.” His grin fell just short of evil. “What do you think would happen if she wanted you gone, too?”

  Chapter Seven

  Amara woke to find a raven staring at her from the ledge outside her window. Now, there was an interesting start to her first full day in Maine. On the upside, there’d been no spiders in her bed last night, and ravens, for all the local superstitions about them, had never frightened her.

  McVey was another matter. She’d dreamed about him—hot, vivid dreams that had culminated with the two of them having sex in a north woods clearing filled with pointy boulders. The location might have been questionable, but the sex had been spectacular.

  She replayed the highlights while she showered and dressed in a pair of faded jeans, black boots and a charcoal sweater the same color as her eyes. As far as Lieutenant Michaels’s death, Willy Sparks’s mission and the come-and-go man with the big knife and the creep-show leer went, she shut those thoughts away for examination later. That being after she’d poured at least two cups of coffee into her system.

  The raven watched while she tidied the room but flew off with a noisy caw when she turned for the door. Very odd.

  There was no sign of McVey on the second floor and no sound of him in the kitchen. At 8:15 a.m. on a misty Thursday morning, she imagined he was busy processing the handful of hungover brawlers who’d smashed up her uncle’s bar last night.

  Better for the brawlers that McVey should mete out the punishment than her uncle. She was chuckling at that thought as she pushed through the swinging door. Two steps in, the chuckle gave way to stunned silence.

  “Uncle Lazarus.” She made herself smile. “What a...nice surprise.” She raised her hands, palms out. “For the record, I didn’t throw a single punch at the Red Eye.”

  “Never crossed my mind you did, niece. Taught you to kick and jab and get your knee up whenever possible. But all punching’ll get you is a fistful of swollen knuckles.”

  “Right.” Why was she drawing a blank here? “Would you like some coffee?”

  “Coffee is the devil’s brew.”

  Strangely, his unyielding attitude relaxed her. “As I recall, you used to tell Nana I was the devil’s spawn. Maybe that’s why I can’t start my day without caffeine.”

  “Likely so.”

  He hadn’t taken his raven-black eyes off her, hadn’t moved in his seat or altered his expression since she’d come in. Although his stare was designed to intimidate, she held it for five long seconds before skirting the table and reaching for the pot of coffee McVey, bless him, must have brewed earlier.

  Lazarus Blume had always been a riveting man, and fifteen years had done nothing to diminish that quality. He might be a little leaner around the cheekbones, but he still made her think of a pilgrim, right down to his plain clothes, his gray-streaked beard and the hair that stuck up in windblown tufts.

  Determined to find whatever humor she could in the situation, Amara brought her mug back to where he sat. “There was a raven outside my window this morning, Uncle. He was watching me exactly the way you are now. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were him in human form.”

  “And I’d say you were spouting useless Bellam rhetoric to avoid an unpleasant conversation.”

  “Which would be an appropriate tactic since I’m a Bellam.”

  He thrust himself forward. “You’re a Blume as well, and don’t you forget it.”

  “My mother—”

  “Gave you the surname that was given to her by her mother. I know how the Bellam family works, Amara. I also know that three people with whom you had a courtroom affiliation in New Orleans are dead, and the man around whom the affiliation revolved likely engineered those deaths from his prison cell.”

  “Very likely. Unfortunately no one can prove it.”

  “Which is why you’ve come home to Raven’s Hollow.” He turned a thumping fist into an accusing finger when she opened her mouth. “Don’t you dare say this isn’t your home. Your mother grew up and married here, and you spent ten consecutive summers in this house with your grandmother. You’re connected, as we all are, to the first settlers who landed on these shores with the intention of forging better lives for themselves.”

  He’d start reciting the Blume family history if she didn’t stop him. So she sat back, let her lips curve and said simply, “I hear you got yourself arrested recently, Uncle. I believe drunk and disorderly was the charge.”

  He inhaled sharply through his nose. “I had my reasons.”

  Because it wasn’t in Amara’s nature to be cruel, she softened her tone. “I’m sure you did. And you of all people know I’ve done my share of wrong things.” Because it was in her nature, she let mischief bubble up. “Like spy on a friend’s sister’s hot date. Or try to.”

  Lazarus gave an approving nod. “Best damn mucking out of stables I ever saw. And now you’re a cosmetic surgeon.”

  “Reconstructive surgeon.” Cupping her mug in her palms, she said, “Why did you come here today, Uncle? I know you don’t like me.”

  “Don’t like you,” he bellowed, and pounded the table again. “Why, you were the only person, young or old, who ever made me laugh.”

  “I did? You did?” Amara frowned. “When?”

  “The summer of your fourteenth year, when I punished you for sneaking out of this house. Your grandmother said you put a spell on me.”

  Why did the morning suddenly feel completely surreal to her? “I didn’t—well, yes, I did. But I put the spell on your midnight snack, not you.”

  He nodded again. “Showed initiative. I appreciate that quality.”

  “I think it showed I had a temper, but in any case, the medical side of my brain says your stomach troubles didn’t come from me.”

  “It was still a feisty counterstrike.”

  Amara sipped her coffee. “Aunt Maureen believed in the Bellam legend. She encouraged me to memorize a number of rhyming spells from a book she and Nana found in one of the attics at Bellam Manor. We—all of us—wanted Yolanda’s brother, Larry, to stop sleepwalking, or at least to wear clothes when he did it. I failed miserably.”

  Her uncle flapped a hand. “My sister had a streak of ridiculous in her. Had an even bigger stubborn streak. She smoked herself into an early grave. Didn’t want a service or even a family gathering. That’s not right.”

  “It was for her. I know you would have preferred a funeral, Uncle, but Aunt Maureen hated sad faces.”

  “And naked sleepwalkers, it would seem.”

  Amara glanced up, but his saturnine expression remained intact.

  Pushing her chair back, she started to ask if he’d seen McVey, but a beep from her iPhone signaled an incoming message.

  “You immerse yourself in the technology craze, too, do you?”

  His stoic expression made her grin. “Let me guess. You think technology’s only a step below caffeine on the devil’s list of temptations.”

  “Can’t tell you that, as I own a similar device. But I set it to vibrate when I’m socializing face-to-face.”

  “It’s probably one of my colleagues in New Orleans. I had to reschedule several surgeries on the drive to...” Her voice trailed off. “Jackson.”

  She stared unbelieving, first at her phone, then at the counter next to her. If her uncle spoke, and she thought he probably did, she only heard a freakish buzz, and even that was drowned out by the roar of blood in her ears.

  She knew, vaguely knew, that the screen door slammed and someone else came into the kitchen.

  McVey. Had to be.

  He said something and crossed to the counter. Because she was already there, it was easy enough to catch his arm and stop him from reaching for a mug.

  “Probably not the best idea,” she said, showing him the message she’d just received.

  DID YOU DRINK THE COFFEE, AMARA?

  * * *

  WILLY SPARKS SWITCHED off the stolen phone and tossed it into the trees. T
ime to leave, but hmm...

  Uncle Jimmy was far more intrigued by small towns than he was by big cities. He claimed you could live in one your whole life, know everybody by name yet never know for sure who might be doing what to whom.

  Maybe he was right. While the quite lovely Amara Bellam was inside her grandmother’s edge-of-the-woods house, undoubtedly thinking she’d been poisoned—too bad about the police chief showing up, but not every circumstance could be foreseen—a truly fascinating situation was unfolding a mere fifty yards away.

  Perched in the branches of a leafy chestnut tree, Willy spied someone dressed in shades of brown and green. Someone with binoculars and a large hunting rifle, who appeared to be watching the people in the house.

  * * *

  “I’D BE ROYALLY pissed off if I could get my heart to beat normally again.” Amara checked the tips of her fingers for any discoloration. “You swear you made this coffee, McVey?”

  “Made it and drank two cups before I left.”

  Her uncle nodded. “I’ve been sitting here since he left, so I can tell you no one’s tampered with it. Unless the tampering was done to the beans themselves. Then you’d both be poisoned.”

  “More likely we’d be dead,” McVey remarked.

  “Could be we’re all dead,” her uncle postulated, “and having this conversation wherever we wound up.”

  McVey poured some of the brewed coffee into a jar and capped it. “That’d be hell for me.”

  “Me, as well,” Lazarus agreed. “Since I don’t drink coffee, though, I must have died some other way. Maybe my heart gave out.”

  Amara pressed lightly on her temples. “Excuse me, people, but am I the only one here who thinks this so-called conversation is almost as bent as the person who sent the message? Wait a second...” She narrowed accusing eyes at her uncle. “You were here before McVey left?”

  “I had business,” he said stiffly.

  “Business with a man who arrested you and whose butt you should have but didn’t put in a sling?” She aimed an I-told-you-so smile at McVey. “See? Males get preferential treatment over females.”