Night of the Raven Page 8

  McVey shoved their backpacks in from the driver’s side. “He did.”

  “Did what?”

  “Become a raven during an electrical storm.... And how the hell would I know that?”

  “Maybe you’re possessed. Don’t crush the candy bars, McVey. We’ll need the sugar buzz by the time we reach the manor.”

  “We’ll need more than a sugar buzz, and I’ve got a bottle of it safely stowed.” Disinclined to pursue his earlier remark, he climbed in and motioned for Amara to buckle up. “Believe me when I tell you the potholes on the Hollow Road can swallow a large truck if you hit them straight on.”

  She pulled the shoulder harness across. “You’re just full of optimism today, aren’t you?”

  “My goal is to get us up the mountain and back in one piece.”

  “I applaud the sentiment, McVey, but I have to tell you, too much secrecy makes me twitchy.”

  He felt her eyes on his face.

  “You know the guy with the Texas-size knife, don’t you? Know him personally, I mean.”

  He could lie, but why bother? So he forced his muscles to relax and draped a hand over the steering wheel. “You’re observant, Red, I’ll give you that. Jake hasn’t figured it out yet.”

  “Jake wasn’t with us last night when you made your one-man foray into the woods. We both know that rifles are more powerful than handguns, and I’m betting the one we heard came equipped with an infrared scope. If the shooter wanted you dead, we’d be digging your grave right now.”

  Answer or evade? McVey opted for middle ground with a leading edge of truth.

  “I recognized the shot pattern, Amara. Three times three. It’s a signal we used to use. It also had the benefit of making enough noise that anyone in the vicinity who shouldn’t be there got the hell out fast.”

  “Where exactly were they getting the hell out of?”

  “A potentially dangerous situation.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “Yes, it is. Or it’s as much of one as I’m going to give you right now. Let’s leave it at...I wasn’t always a cop, and even after I became one, not every cop I met lived by the same code.”

  He felt more than saw her exasperation.

  “Are you ever not cryptic—” She broke off to swing around in her seat. “I saw a light. Did you see a light?”

  “Three streaking overhead and a more substantial one behind us. The one behind could be a local heading for the north woods. I’m told there are a number of pocket communities scattered around. I’ve also heard about, but haven’t crossed paths with yet, a group of nomads who live off the grid in a collection of campers, trailers and caravans.”

  “The raven tamers.” She strained to see farther back. “Mostly Blumes. They teach ravens to do tricks and create mechanical ones that can do what the real ravens won’t. The tamers are bound to come into the Hollow for the Night. They’ll put on shows, sell their amazing raven crafts, then disappear back into the woods with tons of orders for what they do best.”

  “Which is?”

  “Brewing and bottling raven’s blood—wine, not actual blood—and their signature ‘gonna knock you out for two whole days if you’re not extremely careful’ whiskey.”

  He knew he shouldn’t be amused, but his lips quirked even so. “Why haven’t I heard about these people?”

  Her grin was a punch of lust straight to his groin. “You’re joking, right—Police Chief McVey?”

  “Amara, in the past fourteen months, I’ve unearthed half a dozen stills. Unless I see some kind of trouble directly related to one of them, I’m willing to turn a blind eye.”

  “Ty isn’t.”

  “I’m not Ty.”

  “I got that right off, but gaining the raven tamers’ trust will take a bit longer.”

  “Have you met any of them?”

  “Only Brigham, and only because I bumped into him on the single occasion I visited Bellam Manor. It was a family thing. A funeral. A really old Bellam uncle wanted to be buried in the really old cemetery behind the house. It was the spookiest experience I’ve ever...” She pivoted in her seat. “I saw another beam. I’m sure it was a headlight.”

  He nodded, glanced in the mirror. The road, such as it was, had already become a serpentine river of rain and mud. And, as he recalled, there was worse to come.

  Thunder began to rumble overhead as the grade increased. Amara kept her gaze fixed behind them. “Do you think it’s the knife guy or Willy Sparks?”

  “I’d go with Willy.”

  “I knew you’d say that.” She craned her neck for a better view. “So when was the last time you had a report on the bridge? Obviously it was passable when Sadie and Molly lived at the manor, but it’s been a few years since Sadie got married and moved to New York and Molly left to live with Ty.”

  McVey ground his teeth as his left rear tire slammed through a pothole. “Road’s a lot worse than it was last fall. As for the bridge, we’ll see when we get there.”

  If they got there. An extended peal of thunder shuddered through the mountainside and up into his truck. The only positive he could see here was that whoever was behind them would need to navigate the same minefield to reach the manor.

  Assuming the goal was to reach the manor and not run them over the edge.

  “You’re looking in that rearview mirror entirely too much, McVey. Do you think he’s going to ram your truck?”

  “Odds are. This road’s got death trap written all over it. We shoot off and go for a roll, there’ll be no way to prove it was a deliberate act.” He glanced at her, his expression mildly humorous. “Wishing you’d said no to your uncle yet?”

  More tiny lightning bolts zapped from cloud to cloud. “Maybe. A little. But the truth is, Hannah’s ten years up on Uncle Lazarus, and he’s old. She used to babysit him when he was a kid.”

  “Lazarus was a kid? Not sure I can picture that.”

  “I’ll admit it’s a stretch imagination-wise. Jake told me people in both towns call her Mother Goose.” Amara held up both hands. “Hey, I never met the woman. I’m only repeating.” She grabbed the dash when McVey swerved around a jagged cluster of ruts. “Whatever she’s called, I think it’s time for her to swap the seclusion of Bellam Manor for a more accessible north woods’ cabin.”

  McVey swore as a thin beam of light streaked across the rear windshield at the precise moment the rain, already pounding down, became a veritable waterfall. Where was the damn bridge?

  “Half a mile ahead.” Amara sent him a quick smile. “Read it in your face, Chief. I don’t think he’s gaining on us.”

  “He’s not.”

  “So you see—” She broke off to stare. “My God, those dips in the road look like duck ponds.”

  “Hang on” was all McVey said.

  It took him fifteen long minutes to maneuver through the damaged sections. A dozen potholes and three hairpin turns later, he spotted the bridge.

  Amara studied the sagging structure. “I don’t see getting across any other way except on foot, do you?”

  He reached for his gun on the dash. “On foot and preferably naked. Clothes have weight,” he added, then grinned. “Plus the visual gave me a wicked sexual rush.”

  “I’m flattered, but I’d prefer an assessment from the part of your brain that lives above the waist.”

  “The bridge is crap, Red. We’ll need our rain gear.” He opened the glove box. “Can you hit a moving target?”

  “If we’re lucky, we’ll never find out.”

  Unfortunately, judging by the next slash of light, their pursuer was less than half a mile behind them.

  Because he’d dealt with hysteria before, McVey set his hands on her shoulders and checked her eyes. They were dark, determined and striking enough that his train of thought almost slipped away. Did slip away for a moment. And he knew he wouldn’t be getting it back in a hurry when the corners of her mouth curved into a teasing smile.

  “On the subject of wicked sexual rus
hes...” she began.

  Lightning forked overhead. As it did, her eyes sparkled silver. A second later McVey’s hand was in her hair and his mouth was on hers. And somewhere on the hazy fringes of his mind, it occurred to him that the danger in his truck might be much greater than the danger behind them.

  Chapter Nine

  The taste of him plunged Amara’s senses into a whirlpool of desire. A thousand electric volts sparked in her head. She wanted to touch every inch of him with her mouth and with her hands.

  She felt his fingers on her face and heard the moan that emerged from her throat. While his tongue explored, she ran her palms over his chest and absorbed the feel of him. Sleek, hard muscles; smooth, firm skin...and heat everywhere she touched.

  She nipped his lower lip, bit the corners of his mouth, then moved to the button of his jeans and prepared to enjoy herself.

  Miniature lightning bolts snapped the air like whips. Two of them seemed to race along her arms while a third sizzled down her spine. She wished she could block reality and go back to savoring, but something shifted in her brain and she pulled back. She needed to breathe quite badly, needed to think even more.

  “McVey, we can’t... This is crazy. We’re crazy.” She struggled to reorient and settle herself. “There’s a homicidal nutball on the road behind us and we’re playing Spin the Bottle in your truck.”

  “More like Russian roulette.” He kissed her again and made her head swim, before pulling away to stare straight into her eyes. “Okay, here’s the deal. You go first. Carefully. We hear shots, you hit the ground. Got it?”

  “Shots, ground, got it.”

  Lunacy, she thought as they tugged on rain gear and loaded up with packs. What rational woman let herself be sidetracked by the prospect of sex—okay, potentially amazing sex—when she knew there was someone who probably wanted her dead close behind?

  Since the question had no answer and a premature darkness had begun to steal across the mountain, she let it go. For now.

  Bellam Bridge was a blend of deteriorating wood planks and badly rusted iron framework. With regular maintenance, it might have lasted another two decades. Without it, Amara’s body weight appeared to tax the entire support system.

  McVey followed her onto the shrieking planks, close enough to grab her but with a wide enough gap between them that they were never on the same piece of wood at the same time.

  Amara inched forward and told herself that any sponginess she felt was her imagination working overtime. Neither of them was going to plunge to death on the rocks below.

  Razor-thin shafts of lightning continued to electrify the sky. If there was another form of light behind them, she could no longer see it.

  One step, two, three... Every muscle in her body threatened to seize. She took another step, heard a loud crack and willed the nightmare to end. How long was this stupid bridge anyway?

  Her nerves had long since passed the breaking point when she spotted solid ground. Put her foot on solid ground. Considered dropping to her knees and kissing that ground.

  Instead she released a shivery breath and shouted, “The manor’s a mile away by road, but there’s a stone path—really steep—or there used to be, that can get us there much faster.”

  “Go for it,” he shouted back and gave her a nudge. “Eyes forward,” he said when she turned to peer past his arm. “I saw headlights behind my truck a few seconds ago.”

  Being a doctor had definite moments of sucking, Amara reflected.

  She was able to locate the old path without the aid of a flashlight. In another ten minutes, however, they’d be relying entirely on the storm and whatever other light sources McVey had thought to bring along.

  In areas where the stone steps had crumbled, she was forced to claw her way up. In others, McVey gripped her waist and gave her a boost.

  It felt as if they climbed for hours, but it was probably only twenty minutes. Did a thin beam of light bob directly behind them? Did she care when breathing had become an exercise in pain, her knees and elbows were bruised and her palms had been scraped raw?

  Drawing on the last of her strength, Amara hauled herself up and over the edge.

  Bellam Manor stood like a brooding black fortress against the stormy sky. Rain blurred the peaks and towers, but as she recalled, even on a good day, nothing about the place said welcome.

  “The central core of the house splits the wings where my cousins used to live,” she shouted when McVey pulled himself up beside her. “We could search all night and not find Hannah. So...” Lowering her pack, she unzipped the top flap and removed her iPhone. “Uncle Lazarus gave me her number. For some weird and wonderful reason, wireless tech works up here.”

  “Put it down to residual Bellam magic and the fortunate placement of a cell tower.” McVey crouched near the edge of the precipice and looked down. “If you get through, tell her to leave the house dark.”

  Booming thunder caused the rocks under Amara’s feet to vibrate. She tried Hannah’s number three times with no luck.

  “Guess we’ll have to search after all.” Slipping the phone into her pocket, she peered over McVey’s shoulder. “Any sign of pursuit?”

  “Not so far.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  She sighed. “You’d think I’d learn not to ask.” Turning, she regarded the manor. “East or west wing?”

  “Anything coming to you?”

  “Other than a strong desire to run, no.” But she turned her mind as well as her eyes to the house, because...well, why not?

  Sensing nothing, she pointed at the ruined central core.

  A giant raven’s-head knocker on the double front doors echoed louder than the storm. Now, there was an inviting sound, Amara reflected, and twisted the brass entry ring. The right door swung inward on eerily silent hinges.

  “How is it possible that hinges not creaking is a thousand times creepier than the other way around?” She set her pack on a floor littered with plaster, glass, dust and wood. “Hannah?”

  McVey produced two powerful flashlights and shone his up the once-grand staircase to the remnants of a cobwebbed chandelier.

  “It’s shaped like a pentagram.” Pulling out her phone, Amara tried Hannah’s number again. “Do you hear a ring?”

  “Are you serious?”

  But they listened for several seconds.

  After turning a circle in place, Amara ended the call and shook her head. “She’s not here, McVey.”

  He crossed to a narrow window. “Pick a wing, then, Red.”

  “At the risk of sounding like Sarah, I don’t think she’s anywhere in the house. No vibes,” she added when he glanced at her.

  McVey returned to his scan of the ceiling. “That probably shouldn’t make me feel better, but it does. She might be in one of the outbuildings. Or the cave.”

  “There’s a cave?”

  “In the woods behind the manor.”

  Exasperation mixed with uncertainty. “You’re not on some kind of medication I should know about, are you, McVey? Who told you—?”

  With so many dense shadows enfolding them, she didn’t see him move, didn’t realize he was behind her until his hand covered her mouth and his lips moved against her ear.

  “Your uncle told me about it. There’s someone outside. He’s circling the manor.”

  Amara’s heart shot into her throat. Unable to speak around it, she let him slip his backup gun between her fingers.

  Jimmy Sparks’s face darted through her head. Teeth gleamed, and Jimmy morphed into the man with the big knife. Not Willy Sparks, her blipping mind recalled. Not if McVey was to be believed.

  A little unsure, she flattened herself against the wall while he watched through the window.

  “Whoever it is moves quickly and well,” he remarked.

  “I imagine most assassins would.”

  “He’s heading for the west wing.” McVey pushed an extra ammo clip into her free hand. “Don�
�t shoot unless you’re certain of your target.”

  “No, wait, McVey, you can’t...”

  But he could and did. And left her wishing she really had inherited some of Sarah’s power, enough at least to put a binding spell on him.

  Lowering to her knees, she braced her wrists on the sill and ordered herself to listen for sounds within the storm.

  She spied an arc of light to her right. It slashed across the clearing and for less than a heartbeat of time revealed a figure dressed in shiny black. The person was bent low and appeared to be running away from the manor.

  Amara eased up for a clearer look. But the lightning winked out, the person vanished and only the thunder and pelting rain remained.

  Two seconds later a gunshot exploded outside.

  * * *

  THE BULLET WAS a rogue, McVey suspected. And it came from a handgun, not a rifle, which tended to be Westor’s weapon of choice. So...probably not him.

  Lightning raced through the sky in long, skinny bolts. McVey moved between flashes and kept an eye peeled for any motion that didn’t involve rain, flying objects or swaying trees.

  Fifty feet ahead, a leg disappeared around the west side of the manor. Fixing his mind on the spot and keeping to the shadows as much as possible, he ran.

  They’d called it foot pursuit back at the academy. Bad guys bolted; cops gave chase. Sometimes the bad guys got cornered and attacked, but in vast, open areas they didn’t tend to launch themselves out of the darkness like human projectiles, roaring and, in the case of this particular projectile, packing upward of two hundred and fifty hairy pounds.

  McVey glimpsed the human mass, but not quickly enough to avoid it. The best he could do was duck low to prevent an all-out tackle that would have landed him on a jagged clump of rocks.

  As it was, the blow knocked him sideways and slammed his shoulder into the stump of a tree.

  Aware that he’d only half struck his target, the man went from his knees to a feral crouch to another roaring attack in a New York second.