The Raven Curse Read online

  Table of Contents

  THE RAVEN CURSE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Thank you!

  THE RAVEN CURSE

  Emilia Hartley

  © Copyright 2018 by Blues Publishing. - All rights reserved.

  The contents of this book may not be reproduced, duplicated or transmitted without direct written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Legal Notice:

  This book is copyright protected. This is only for personal use. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s permission.

  NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Chapter One

  Howls cut through the night. His wings sliced at the air, desperate to get higher and higher. They were on his heels. The scent of sulfur washed over him just as fetid hot breath hit his talons. He ducked to the left.

  A branch appeared. He had to swerve through the nest of trees. The hellhounds still thundered across the earth like the wild hunt of legends. Branches and leaves became a blur as he shot for the sliver of moon glowing above.

  Arms of the trees seemed to creep toward him, reaching to grasp his outstretched wings. He didn’t know if the demon could command the forest, but he wasn’t about to let them near his feathers. He snapped his wings to his body, using the remaining force to soar through the small opening.

  Too close.

  Ciaran bolted into the open night skies. Wings spread wide, he caught an air current and let it propel him forward. Down below, the hellhounds still bayed. They hunted him.

  The demon would never stop. Not until he’d plucked every one of Ciaran’s feathers and opened a portal for his army to enter. The weight of stopping the demon sat on Ciaran’s shoulders. It was a part of the curse that bound him the enchantress had not foreseen. Her power, the last bits of it, hummed through his raven form.

  Ciaran was done with being trapped by this curse. It twisted his body from man to bird, it trapped his mind in a dreamscape that was as close to hell as he would ever come. For a hundred years, he’d suffered. Now that the demon had realized what his feathers could do, his existence became a threat to more than just himself.

  There was a way to end this curse. It’d always been there, but he’d chosen to suffer and bear it rather than crawl and beg. Ciaran would not prostrate himself before the line of witches that had doomed him to this existence.

  Now, he knew that no matter what kind of person he was, he couldn’t allow the demon to use him.

  ***

  Samantha Carver finished the last of her work and set the paring knife aside. Her hands were covered with viscera, caught in her rings and under her nails, and magic still hummed in her fingertips. It took a while for her stomach to settle after drawing the power forward, leaving her nauseous as she leaned against the counter.

  Chunks were scattered everywhere. She wondered why she couldn’t have been more careful. This was an awful mess to have to clean up. A sigh escaped her, and she moved to rub her face, stopping short when she realized the mess that still covered her hands.

  It was just pumpkin, she thought as she laughed at herself. Samantha scooped up the newspaper she’d laid out and kicked the foot-lever of the trashcan, cleaning up her mess in one fell swoop. After washing her hands of it all, she turned back to the pumpkins. She plucked small tea-lights from a nearby drawer, nestled them inside before checking the sigils carved on the pumpkin’s innards, and, once she was satisfied, replaced the cap.

  Outside, the air was crisp. Samantha paused, letting it wash over her exposed skin as she took a deep breath and savored it. The magic of her sigil hummed in her hands. It was soft and gentle but determined. This time of year was great for adding extra protection to her wards. The pumpkins hid the magic from prying eyes while standing guard with their gruesome countenances.

  She bent and placed one by the front door. The back of her neck prickled as she stood. The restlessness in her stomach shifted as she looked out at the world around her, scanning for trouble. The neighborhood was quiet save for Mrs. Buchanan’s yappy dog three houses down. Still, her skin crawled.

  The world was washed in shades of red and orange, leaves falling like embers to the ground. Victorian and Craftsman houses were covered in fake spider webs or hosted a Styrofoam cemetery in their front yard. Mrs. Buchanan’s fence was lined with grinning scarecrows because she vehemently hated Halloween, calling it the devil’s holiday.

  Samantha hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d enchanted the scarecrow nearest the front gate to wink whenever Mrs. Buchanan walked past it. Perhaps the yappy dog could see her spell and was barking at it. That still didn’t explain the unsettled feeling that gripped her.

  A voice in the corner of her mind screamed at her to run. Of course, she wasn’t smart enough to listen to it. Curiosity overwhelmed her. Samantha was never one to avoid looking her enemy in the eye.

  Yet, when she saw the massive raven perched in the tree just outside her fence, she yelped and darted inside. The door slammed shut behind her. She clamped her hand over her chest, both terrified and hating herself for running. Pushing a lock of curls from her face, she bent to peer out a nearby window.

  The raven still sat on the tree branch. Its eyes were beady, but she could see the red circle in them. Red glimmered across its wing when it moved along the branch, the black giving way to the unnatural magic that bound the creature. When she realized he sat on the part of the branch that didn’t cross into her yard, she was able to breathe again.

  The wards held against him.

  The thought emboldened her. She stepped back onto the front porch and pointed a finger heavy with rings and chipped black nail polish at him.

  “Get your filthy ass out of here. I banish you!” It was a weak banishment, but it had enough feeling behind it that she was confident it would get rid of the cursed man chilling outside her house.

  He ruffled his feathers, wings spreading. Her hopes lifted, then crashed when he settled back onto the branch. She pressed her lips together, annoyed as she put her hands on her hips.

  “Who are you talking to?” A creaky voice asked.

  Samantha squealed. She jumped to find Mrs. Buchanan standing to her left, just on the other side of her fence. The old woman scowled. Her gaze flicked between Samantha and the bird on the branch. Before Samantha could say more, the old woman crossed herself and scurried down the sidewalk with her yappy dog.

  Samantha, unable to stop herself, made devil horns with her fingers and stuck her tongue out at the old woman’s back. Honestly, Mrs. Buchanan was the only one who couldn’t stand the Carver family. Every infraction brought against Samantha since her mother’s passing had been at the hand of the old crone. Thankfully, a bit of spell work always made the infractio
ns disappear.

  “She’s quite annoying,” a low male voice rumbled beside her.

  Samantha’s heart squeezed as she slowly turned. The man that looked at her was dressed from head to toe in heavy leather. Buckles and studs covered his jacket, adding to the rough look of his unshaven face and scarred eyebrow.

  She jumped back, hand grasping for the doorknob behind her. All she found was flat door as her heart thumped.

  He grinned. It was a smile that spoke of an intense hunger. And she was nothing more than prey.

  He put a hand on the door, arm near her head and body blocking her escape. Samantha glanced out the corner of her eye. The raven was gone from the tree. He stood before her. His eyes were soft grey, slowly darkening like the clouds over a stormy sea. When he cocked his head, she caught the flash of red in his eyes and knew there was no mistaking him.

  “Away from me, demon,” she whispered.

  Why weren’t the sigils in her pumpkins warding against him? Hell, why weren’t any of the other protection spells, both ancient and new, doing anything to get rid of him?

  “Look here, witchling. You’re going to help me with something. I’m looking to do the world a favor and you’re the only one who can help me.”

  “You talk like a modern man for someone over a hundred years old,” she muttered under her breath. While she bantered with him, she tried to dredge up the old spell that would send him back to the inbetween. Her family passed it from witch to witch, always warning each other about the man who would destroy their line given the opportunity. Samantha never had to use it, and the spell had drifted to the recesses of her mind.

  “A man can learn to adapt to his situations if he wants to survive.”

  Her eyes dragged along the line of his jaw, covered by a thin layer of scruff. She found her fingers itching to feel it. The smell of him wafted toward her. It was spicy and warm, like cardamom and cinnamon. It made her want to curl up with a cup of hot chai.

  Samantha rebelled against herself. She found the door knob behind her and twisted. All at once, she fell into the house. Her ass hit the floor, the impact reverberating through her teeth. The man stepped forward until he slammed into an invisible wall. Samantha grinned as she kicked the door closed in his face.

  As she lay on the floor and steadied her breath, she ran her hands down her face. This was not what she’d expected. In all the years listening to her grandmother’s stories about the man her family had cursed, Samantha never thought she would have to deal with him.

  Run, they’d always told her. Run as far and as fast as you can before he gets his talons in you.

  Instead, Samantha found herself wanting to touch him. She’d wanted to curl up against him. Her survival instincts were seriously off if that was her reaction to danger.

  “I’m not giving up, Carver witch. You’re going to help me one way or another,” he shouted through the closed door between them.

  “Or what?” She couldn’t believe she was challenging him.

  Chapter Two

  Ciaran perched on the same branch he’d claimed earlier and waited. A woman in a thick, wool poncho scurried up the walkway and to the witch’s front door. He watched her knock. When the witch answered, her eyes found him and narrowed. To be fair, he’d warned her he was not going anywhere.

  She’d called him a demon, but he’d met demons and he was anything but one.

  Something about her fascinated him. It could have been the rings that weighed down her hands, each one perhaps a spell that she could aim at him. It could have been the burgundy ringlets she kept held back with a bandana neatly tied into a bow atop her head. She was a magpie to his raven.

  He should have hated her and everything her family name granted her, but he found himself drawn to her instead. It was an uncomfortable thought, yet the years he’d lived must have changed him more than he thought. Perhaps forgiveness was something he’d learned along the line.

  What he’d done to her ancestor was unforgivable; his anger at her retribution would never fade, but this Carver was not the same. She was young and alone in the world.

  He peered around, worry slithering into his mind. Had he brought trouble to this young witch’s doorstep? Could he lure it away again?

  No, he needed to stay. She needed to endure the danger her ancestor had wrought when she’d placed the curse on Ciaran’s head. The only way to stop the demon hunting him was to work together. Even if she didn’t like it.

  He watched the Carver witch invite the unfamiliar woman into her home, his eyes landing on a painted sign beside her door as it closed.

  Fortunes told and Healing sold.

  Carver, est. 1918.

  It had been repainted since the last time he visited. In truth, much had changed. There was an addition on the side of the house, a garage connected to the building after automobiles became a necessity for nearly everyone. The tower that rose along the front of the house had not changed, but he could see the silhouette of a computer through the topmost window, the old potions room transformed into a modern office.

  Ciaran settled in and waited. The buzz of the other world hummed in his ears. He didn’t know how long he had until it claimed him again. His mind would be trapped, his body left helpless, if he didn’t act soon.

  The only problem was that the house was still warded against him.

  Chapter Three

  Samantha smiled at the woman on the other side of the door. She invited her client inside and helped her from her coat. The run in with the raven-man had shaken Samantha. She’d forgotten about her daily appointments and hadn’t prepared as much as she would have liked for her one o’clock client.

  Martha was soft around the middle, years of toiling as a house wife and mother having worn away at her. If Samantha had any say in it, she would have told Martha it looked good on her. Knowing the housewife would not listen to her, she kept her words to herself. Perhaps she would slip it into the reading somehow.

  “Thank you again. I know we haven’t always been on the best of terms,” Martha began. She rambled, trying to fill the space with sound. Samantha could tell she was nervous. The woman’s hands reached for anything, settling for fiddling with her purse strap. “Oh, I meant to ask. Do you take checks?”

  Samantha pressed her lips together. She’d made sure, when she refurbished the sign outside, to add Cash Only to it. Why people couldn’t be bothered to read was beyond her. She stole a moment to debate Martha’s question, trying to gauge whether or not Martha would turn around if she denied her check.

  “I have cash if you don’t, but I thought I would save myself a trip to the bank.” Martha laughed nervously.

  Ah, Samantha realized, Martha was just being lazy.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s cash only.” Samantha smiled wide to soften the blow. She knew that smiling was the best magic to wield. People were far more likely to bend and give in when she smiled.

  Martha nodded as she dug through her wallet for a handful of bills. They were crisp, fresh from the bank. She placed them on the round table in the dining room before pausing to stare at the crystal ball placed in the center.

  Samantha knew it as the prop that it was. Reading crystals was difficult. Water in a dark bowl or an old silver mirror were far more reliable for scrying. Yet, everyone associated crystal balls with fortune tellers, so she’d yanked this old one from the attic and placed it on the table like a centerpiece.

  She gestured to an empty seat for Martha to sit in while she went about searching for a bundle of sage. The dried herbs from her own garden were great for clearing the room of negative energies and, well, Samantha was holding onto a lot of negative energy after dealing with the man lurking outside.

  The more she thought about it, the more her hands shook. The drawer of the hutch rattled as she searched for the bundle of sage and a lighter. She became aware of Martha’s gaze on the back of her head and struggled to center herself.

  Samantha couldn’t let this shake her. Just because a dan
gerous man cursed by one of her ancestors was lurking outside her front door didn’t mean she should be afraid. Right?

  Finally, she found both lighter and bundle, flicking the button to produce a flame. A tendril of smoke curled up and away. It searched for everything bad in the room, ready to entangle it and carry it away.

  Martha coughed and waved her hand dramatically. Samantha turned away to roll her eyes before she took the seat across from her client.

  “Apologies. Clearing the room is a necessary step if we are going to procure an accurate reading for you. Tell me again what it was you wanted to know.”

  Martha clutched her purse, knuckles going white. Her eyes were glued to the stack of cards near Samantha’s hand. The moment dragged on as Martha summoned the strength to speak the truth.

  “I need to know if Rosie loves me as much as she says she does. Before, you know, I leave my husband.”

  Samantha fought back the rise of her brows. That was not a question she saw coming. She tried to envision Rosie. She’d run into her at the local grocery store a few times. The woman in question was the single mother of a rather well-behaved teen. Samantha conjured the image of Rosie’s short pixie-cut hair, pink lips, and the tiny scatter of faded star tattoos across her shoulder.

  She reached for the cards, the vision of Rose and question in her mind as she shuffled and cut the stack into three piles. As directed, Martha reached across the table and tapped the stack of cards she wanted to be on top.

  Samantha began turning over cards. The spread took the shape of a heart. It was mostly for display, but the number of cards laid out gave more of a story for Samantha to weave. A smile rose to her lips when she uncovered the High Priestess, Empress, and Two of Cups. Things were looking good for Rosie and Martha.

  Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement. Lips parted, the story halted on her tongue. Smoke swirled inside the crystal ball. It danced this way and that, glimmering with threads of silver and gold, with veins of blood.