Ravensblood, p.1
Ravensblood, page 1
ravensblood
Shawna Reppert
Contents
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Also by Shawna Reppert
Excerpt from Raven’s Wing
Copyright Shawna Reppert 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Created with Vellum
To Julie and Mike Zamudio, with thanks for their support in making this book happen.
Acknowledgments
With much gratitude to all my Kickstarter backers, and most especially Julia Jean Murton, Seonaid Welch and GD Armstrong. This book would not have been possible without all of your support! Thanks also to writing mentor Eric M. Witchey and to editor Mary Rosenblum for applying the right combination of patience, encouragement and tough love. Also thanks to my writing critique group, who helped make this a better book, especially Dale Ivan Smith for pushing me on when I was ready to quit. Much gratitude to Alanna, whose enthusiasm for this book kept me going, and to Dale and Mary Jo Mosby for the occasional one-writer writer’s retreat. Finally a shout-out to Graeme Skinner, webmaster extraordinaire!
Author’s Note
Readers from the Pacific Northwest and in particular Portland will find the setting quite familiar. Some of the places mentioned are real. Others are inspired by real places, but have had names and other details altered. Hawthorne street and the Hawthorne district, in particular, are more magical versions of the Hawthorne district I knew when I lived in Portland in the late 1990s and early 2000s.
The Ravenscroft house in the Nob Hill district of Portland does not exist since the Ravenscroft family as I have written them do not exist. (There are other Ravenscrofts, certainly. One is a hatter in the UK, and one was a collector of folk ballads in the manner of Childe, though not as well known. To the best of the knowledge there is no relation.)
The Ravenscroft hunting lodge also does not exist, although the area surrounding the lodge bears a strong resemblance to Lake Quinault and the surrounding forest in Washington State.
Chapter One
Cass raised her glass defiantly to her absent mentor, the man who had taught her the difference between single-malt and blended whiskey, who had taught her to appreciate fine port, the same man who had taught her more dark magic than any Guardian should ever know.
The air was heavy with the warmth of too many people and the clashing scents of perfumes and colognes. She settled further back into the faux red leather of the booth, angling for a better view of the door.
Crossroads’ self-conscious trendiness tried to appeal to all three Communities— Art, Craft and Mundane. The décor was almost enough to distract her from the task at hand. The black-and-white harlequin diamond pattern on the wall border repeated on the dance floor to her right where college students and art-school drop-outs milled, waiting for the band to finish its break. The gilded sunburst mirror stood out dramatically against the deep red walls. Garish, but fun.
She sipped again at her neat scotch and welcomed the burn on her tongue. Raven had also taught her the little charm she’d used to limit her absorption of the alcohol. As a young apprentice fresh out of General Academy, she had been a lightweight in every sense of the word. The charm had helped her adapt to his elegant and alcohol-soaked world of cocktail parties, balls, and late dinners after evenings at the symphony. She used it now so that she could drink enough not to arouse attention and stay sober on the job.
With her history, she had to be twice as sharp and work twice as hard just to be given half a chance. Her eyes slipped over the crowd, taking in the scene. Picking up guys at bars wasn’t her thing, and there was more at stake than a night’s hook-up. Then again, she was here to pick up a guy. Just not in the normal sense of the phrase. Most of the crowd wore the short, economical jackets and jeans, durable, practical, inelegant denim, cotton and leather favored by Mundanes and by much of her generation in both Art and Craft. Here and there she spotted the sweep of more drapy, old-fashioned clothing and bits of velvet and lace.
Her own garb this night was a compromise chosen to blend in, a silky hip-length tunic bought in a store on the Art side of town, but batiked in purple-and-blue in a fashion that would have pleased a younger member of the Craft or even a more bohemian Mundane. Her snug denim jeans were pure Mundane, though, as were her kicky purple boots, low-heeled and comfortable for dancing.
The rain-streaked glass door swung open. She came alert. Four or five young people bounced through, jostling one another like a pack of tumbling puppies. More college students, by the Reed sweatshirt the short one wore. Not so much younger than her in years, maybe, but with an innocence she would never have again. Mundanes. She could tell even from this distance. No tell-tale thrum to resonate against her own power. Clearly not their target. Cass relaxed.
Probably the one in the school sweatshirt was a freshman, as an upperclass Reedie wouldn’t be rah-rah enough to wear a school shirt, but underage drinking was none of her concern.
The solitary young man who arrived moments later was not a Mundane. She focused, reading his energy, the feel of him. A warmer, softer feel, like sunwarmed earth. Not a mage. Wiccan or shamanic maybe, she couldn’t tell, but clearly Craft and not Art.
A strong male hand, tanned and slightly freckled, fell on her shoulder. Cass startled.
“Buy you a drink, luv?”
Cass relaxed at the unmistakably Aussie accent and turned to smile up at Zack, her fellow Guardian and assigned partner.
Zack slid into the seat across from hers and leaned across the table as though flirting. “Bet you a bottle of Glenfiddich that the tip is a dud and we’re wasting our time here.”
His voice was low enough not to be heard beyond their table.
Cass shook her head. “Why take a bet I’m sure to lose?”
Zack reached over and took her hands, playing the part of a barfly trying to get lucky. His normally sandy hair glowed with an odd red-and-blue miasma from the Mundane colored lights. The slowly changing patterns of lights were supposed to create a mood, though what mood she couldn’t say. She would have preferred the honest soft-white glow of charmed light globes.
Zack was the kind of handsome that the advertising agencies used to sell SUV’s and camping equipment. His accent was charming but she kept the admiration strictly to herself, along with any appreciation of the way his sandy-blond bangs swept his forehead or the way his hazel-green eyes squinted just a little when he laughed.
Guardian brass frowned on romantic relationships between partners, although they didn’t strictly forbid them the way Mundane law enforcement did. No sense risking her working relationship with the only partner she’d kept for more than a week in the three years she’d been a Guardian.
Zack knew her past, of course. But he hadn’t been in the country when the scandal had been all over the media. Maybe that was why he could accept her for what she was now.
“So, tell me why you think we’re pissing in the wind.” Zack’s voice was a sultry whisper.
“Probably the same reasons you do. Crossroads hardly seems the sort of place that William’s followers would frequent, for one. And we don’t exactly have a history of getting good information on anything William’s up to, not until the blood is spilt and the bodies are cold.”
Since the end of the Mage Wars, the Three Communities had lived with the same uneasy detente. William, with much of his power locked into a symbiotic link with his own wards, dared not leave them. But lately, William’s followers had been more active. Random, gruesome violence was meant to keep the Three Communities on edge, meant to destabilize the elected government that he abhorred.
Fear crept through the Northwest with the rumor that William had a plan to overturn the Joint Council in favor of a return to the old ways when the most powerful mage was ruler absolute, and the rest of the world watched with trepidation.
“The captain wouldn’t have assigned us to the mission if he thought there was any hope of success,” Zack said.
Diplomatic of him, that ‘us’. The captain didn’t have a problem with Zack.
Still there was a chance, always a chance they’d show here, and they couldn’t afford to ignore it. Their snitch hadn’t even told them which of William’s followers they were looking for. Please, let it not be Raven.
The perky red-headed waitress came by, put a hand on Zack’s shoulder, and cooed an offer to get him a drink. Zack asked for a Kaliber. The waitress ro lled her eyes a bit at the non-alcoholic beer.
“Love Guinness, you see.” He gave her a winning smile. “But I pulled a muscle playing rugby, and with the pain meds. . .”
Cass thought for a horrible moment the waitress was going to offer to kiss it and make it better, but she settled for a murmur of sympathy before leaving to get his pint.
A skirl of bagpipes and the answering whine of electric guitar drew her attention to the stage. Magical Blend, a loud, spirited celtic-folk/punk/pop fusion band held court on stage. They were like nothing she’d ever heard before. She kind of liked them.
The dance styles of Magical Blend’s fans were as varied as the band’s musical influences. There were a few scattered step-dancers, some quite talented, and about a dozen or so twenty-somethings flailing about in joyous and unstructured abandon. A good half-dozen danced a creative mix of the two styles.
Her first boyfriend, a Mundane she’d dated while she was in General Academy, had taught her how to get down to classic rock. Raven had taught her how to waltz, to foxtrot, even to tango (and she couldn’t quite suppress a small thrill at that memory). He’d taught her every ballroom dance she might need for any formal occasion. None of which would help her dance to what currently blasted from the Crossroads’ sound system. She’d give it a try, anyway. Someday. Maybe even tonight, if the band was still playing after their lieutenant had given up and called off the operation.
At the bar, Lieutenant Gray was trying to get the attention of the bartender, a slender blonde who looked barely legal. She seemed more interested in the scruffy, bohemian young man on the stool to his left. The lieutenant had his share of success with the ladies, Mundane or no, but Cass was betting on the bohemian tonight.
Gray really didn’t have his full attention on the blonde, anyway. From where he stood at the corner of the bar, he had a perfect view of the door, and he was watching each new arrival.
The waitress arrived with Zack’s pint and earnestly asked if she could get him anything else before sashaying on her way. Zack took a sip of his pint, and grimaced.
“I’d rather be drinking Bushmill’s.” He took another cautious sip. “But I’ve never been able to stomach olive oil.”
Olive oil did keep you from getting drunk, but it had certain unpleasant side effects even if you could keep it down. Cass hid a smile. She couldn’t share the sobriety charm without facing questions about its origin. But Zack had never thrown her past in her face. Perhaps she could someday teach the charm to him in private.
Two tables away, another of her colleagues sat with her own partner. Jackie looked a bit green under her expertly applied foundation. Using the olive oil technique, no doubt.
Jackie noticed her gaze, and gave her the plastic smile of a runway model. Her lips were painted the red of a fresh-fed vampire’s in a Mundane’s late-night horror flick. Jackie had been one of her first partners when Cass had joined the Guardians. The partnership had lasted less than a week.
Jackie leaned in to whisper something to her current partner. Cass caught the words “Raven’s whore.”
Cass did not feel the least bit guilty about not sharing Raven’s charm with her.
“You all right, luv?” Zack asked.
Cass shook her head to clear the dark thoughts, and smiled. “Fine.”
Once the mere thought of Raven would have been a knife twisting in her gut. Now it felt more like an old wound, poorly healed and still tender.
Zack nodded and leaned back in the chair to watch the band, but she caught him studying her out of the corner of his eye.
Over at the bar, the lieutenant was still trying his luck with the blonde bartender. Suddenly, he stiffened like a sight hound spotting a deer. She followed his gaze to two new arrivals standing by the door and caught her breath. Two mages, dressed almost identically, with long gray frock coats trimmed in velvet, gray slacks, white shirts with lace at the throat.
She recognized the older of the two men. Eric Blanchard, William’s cousin, wore his chestnut hair in long, loose curls down to his shoulders. He had a soft, full, sensual mouth, a poet’s mouth, but the hard, black ice of his eyes gave lie to that romantic promise.
Cass shifted in her seat, using Zack’s broad shoulders to block Eric’s line-of-sight. It had been three years at least, and probably more, since she had danced with the man in the ballroom of Raven’s manor. And it had been nearly that long since her face had graced the front pages of tabloids. He might not recognize her. She might not have known him, if she hadn’t seen his face on a recent wanted bulletin.
“Is that who I think it is?” Zack asked in an undertone.
“Yes,” Cass whispered. “And there’s a chance he could recognize me.”
“Bloody Eric?”
“I danced with him once,” she confessed.
Zack just raised an eyebrow. “That’s a story I’ve got to hear someday.”
If Eric did recognize her, he would be on alert. And if things went poorly they would have a bigger problem than just the missed opportunity to apprehend a dark mage.
Cass remembered that one dance she’d had with the man. She hadn’t known then what he truly was, any more than she had known Raven’s true agenda, and still something about him made her want to shudder at his touch. After she read his file, she felt the urge to scrub herself raw in a hot shower any time she thought of that waltz.
William was fond of mayhem and carnage. Raven would not shy from the same if it served his purposes. But for Eric, bloody violence was a religion and he was a most ecstatic celebrant.
If they tried to capture him here, in a public place, they risked a blood bath. If they did nothing, they missed a chance they might not get again. And everybody would know that Bloody Eric could walk boldly through the streets of Portland and the Guardians could do nothing to stop him.
Not to mention, whatever brought Eric to Crossroads, it was not likely a desire to take in the music or the atmosphere.
She caught the lieutenant’s eye. He nodded. The operation was still a go.
Eric and his protégé sauntered further into the room. Zack slipped out of their booth and headed toward the door. Cass followed, digging through her purse as though looking for cigarettes. The action gave a plausible reason for their movement toward the door, and an excuse for her to keep her head down.
They reached the exit just as Jackie cast an anti-teleportation ward over the room to keep the dark mages from escaping. Cass and Zack turned as one, and stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the door.
Gray stepped away from the bar, toward the dark mages. Eric smiled, raised his hand, and sent magefire streaking, not toward the lieutenant, but toward the unshielded Mundane bartender.
Civilians screamed, ran, ducked under tables as the lieutenant dived to protect the bartender, taking the hit on his personal shields. He landed hard, tangled in toppled barstools. The protégé’s magefire struck before he had time to recover and defend.
Confuse-misdirect, attack! Cass’ reaction was swift, instinctual, and effective. Something to draw him away from the lieutenant and from the Mundane bartender. Attack while he was still off-balance.
Zack’s magefire joined hers a half-second later, strengthening the attack. Eric staggered back, singed even through his powerful shields.
Magic and adrenaline twined in her soul, heady and exhilarating. She struck again, and Eric fell back against a table with the impact.
Jackie would be out of the fight— the anti-teleport ward was her specialty, but it was an exhausting magic. Her partner’s spell-lightning flashed against the protégé’s shields, once and twice. The lieutenant got to his feet and hit Eric with an impressive volley of magefire.
