“It’s going to be okay, Lochlan,” I crooned, then stripped off the other glove to run my warm hands along his soft coat. Lochlan turned frantic brown eyes my way, but he was too tired to lift his head. My cheeks flooded with anger that anyone would lay traps like this. This kind had to be illegal. And all for what? Fur? Whoever this poacher was, he’d encroached on the wrong man’s land. Lainey’s father was a Central Virginia police officer, and he would make it his personal mission to hunt the poacher down for his illegal trap setting.
Shoving the gloves into my jean jacket pockets, I glanced at Drystan with unshed tears burning my eyes. “Can you try to find a stick that’ll be strong enough to spring the trap? I’ll distract Lochlan when you’re ready.”
* * *
Lainey freaked the moment she saw Drystan carrying Lochlan. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she gathered his muscular body in her arms, saying in a soft voice, “Oh, Locky, what happened to you?” My heart ached to see her normally hyperactive dog in such a sad state. Blood coated his white fur and his left leg hung a little too loosely as Lainey scooped him even closer to her chest. I really hoped his leg was just bruised and not broken.
Matt drove Lainey and Lochlan in her car to the vet, and I called her father and asked him to meet her there.
After I hung up, Drystan gave a rueful smile. “Well, that was an adventure. I’m glad we found Lochlan. Jacks are usually pretty tough. He’ll make it through. Though he’ll probably avoid the creek if he ever gets loose again.” Pulling a set of keys from his coat pocket, he said, “Ready for me to take you home?”
I eyed the keys with doubt. “Which side of the road do you drive on in Wales?”
He gave a cocky grin. “The right one.”
I narrowed my gaze at his superior tone. “Maybe I should’ve asked a different question. Have you ever driven in the US before? I’d like to make it home in one piece.”
Drystan smirked and twirled the key ring around his finger, catching the keys in his palm. “Always keep your bum on the yellow line and you’re safe. Good enough for you?”
Laughing, I nodded. “Guess that’ll have to do.”
Chapter Four
Tok-tok-tok. Tok-tok-tok
.
I came wide awake with a wheezing gasp. Fear prickled my sweat-soaked skin as I glanced at my bedroom door, looking for the source of the creepy sound that had followed me from my dream.
Tok-tok-tok. Tok-tok-tok
.
The sound came from my right. Jerking my attention to my window, I let out a sigh of relief when I saw Patch pushing his thick black beak under the one-inch opening, trying his best to wedge it up.
“Why can’t you just stick with one sound?” I lifted the window for him to enter.
Patch hopped onto the back of the reading chair next to the window. Scrunching his neck, he fluffed his throat feathers and let out a rapid-fire
groak-groak-groak-groak,
which sounded suspiciously like laughter.
“Could you at least learn to say, ‘Good morning, Nara’?” I smirked and tossed him a piece of kibble from the glass cookie jar on my dresser. It had become our routine over the past couple of weeks. Ever since that day by the pond, the raven had shown up at my window each morning, tapping to be let in.
Had he followed me home from the pond? I really didn’t care. Having him there was strangely comforting. His presence reminded me of that special day with Ethan.
The first day he’d shown up at my window, I’d let Patch in and he’d trashed my room. Flying here and there, he’d picked up every shiny object he could fit in his beak. He shredded paper, broke pencils in half, got his beak caught in one of my spiral notebooks, then turned over a glass of water, but after that, we’d settled into a strange, if not comfortable, routine.
Once he’d snarfed down the kibble, I peeled off a sticky note from the paper cube on my nightstand, then handed it to him so he could fly over to settle on my desk.
While Patch shredded the paper into tiny bits, I normally worked on transferring notes or scraps of information to the expensive brown leather-bound journal I’d bought specifically for this project. Anything new or potentially useful about ravens, specialized tattoos, or swords with feather designs from the prior night’s Internet research made it into the book.
I usually did this before I left for school, but not this morning. I ran my hand over the soft leather, then opened it to the page I’d marked with the feather Ethan had left behind as an intimate reminder of his promise to return. For a little over a week, I’d kept the feather with me at all times, but I was worried I’d lose it, so the journal became its new home.
I’d stayed up late last night, doing my best to translate the Latin information on the website the message board owner had given me. I’d never run across this particular resource before, because I’d always run a search on “raven”. This website was entitled,
Corvus Corax
, which was the Latin term for raven.
The
Corvus Corax
site had some interesting information, particularly about the mythology and how each culture either held the raven in high esteem—a savior/creator of the world, a spirit and even as a divination source—or under dark scrutiny as an evil entity whose very presence signaled death and destruction. The views spanned the opposite ends of the spectrum, but they were never ambivalent.
The duality of different societies’ perception of ravens intrigued me, especially after I’d translated a story claiming that at one time all ravens were stark white like the dove. That is, until a raven committed an unforgivable crime against a god. As punishment, the angry god turned all ravens as black as a starless night.
The very last story of a raven being light, then turning dark made me think of the black and silver raven yin-yang symbol on Ethan’s sword tattoo. Yet I couldn’t find
any
reference to the symbol itself on the Internet, nor could I find any mention of a sword tattoo with that symbol and a raven’s feather etched along the blade.
Over the last two weeks, I’d hunted for anything remotely similar. I’d stalked the London Tower information page on ravens and superstition, New Age message boards, raven enthusiasts’ forums, and tattoo blogs and websites. Everywhere I could, I left cryptic messages with enough information to draw out someone who knew anything, without giving too much information away. Never once did I fully describe Ethan’s tattoo.
The more I looked, the more information I collected for Ethan, which helped muffle the ache in my heart from his absence. So long as I focused on the research, I felt like a small part of him was still with me. The journal would be my welcome home gift to Ethan when he came back.
Before I’d gone to bed, I’d clicked on another link on the
Corvus Corax
website that led me to a reference about an old newspaper article from thirty years ago: “Crows and ravens all over the world fall out of the sky: Biologists Speculate.” No other information was given, just the title. I’d written down the title, the newspaper name, and year and month of the article. I planned to head over to Central University Library’s microfiche archive as soon as school let out the next day.
But in my dream last night, I’d felt like I was being watched while I stood at the card case in the library looking up the microfiche call number associated with the article.
My fingers grip the index card tightly as I pull it from the card case, then slowly scan the quiet library, past the black-and-white checkerboard floor. Students are scattered among the long mahogany desks. Warm, glowing desk lamps halo their heads as they bend over open textbooks. No one is looking my way, so I shrug off the sensation and assume it’s my imagination.
Later, the creepy feeling follows me, trailing just beyond the dim light’s reach as I walk down the deserted hall at the back of the library toward the stack elevators. I force myself to keep moving forward, to not constantly glance over my shoulder. As I lift my finger to push the elevator button, my hand trembles. The last time I was in the stacks—where all archived resources are housed—Ethan and I were almost crushed by falling bookshelves. That had been Fate’s doing.
The air in the hall is still and warm, but not as stifling as the air in the elevator will be. I run my hand over my hair, feeling for flyaways that indicate static, which has been present whenever Fate was lurking in the past. My hair feels smooth
. You’re just being silly. Fate’s not here, Nara. He’s
not
here.
Yet I can’t bring myself to push the elevator button either
.
I only need to go to the fourth floor. My gaze locks on the glowing stairwell sign at the same time another creepy feeling slides up the back of my neck. I tense and look behind me. The hall isn’t lit all the way down. The shadows framing the hall send apprehension zipping along my spine. Anything could be lurking just beyond my line of sight.
I step toward the stairwell and open the door, then quickly slip inside.
I’d just jogged up the second set of stairs, when I think I hear the stairwell door open. I pause and grip the railing, my heart thumping against my chest.
Eerie silence
.
God, I’m imagining all kinds of things.
As soon as I set my foot on the next step, a slow shhhTok------shhhTok------shhhTok rings out, like the sound heavy shoes—boots?—make while climbing cement stairs.
Swallowing several times, I grip the metal railing as I lean over to peek through the open stairwell. My head rams against the railing while I peer down through the fluorescent-lit opening. I don’t see anything, but the tapping sound gets stronger and faster, as if the person is increasing their pace up the stairs.
I take off running, but instead of leaving the sound behind, the running noise grows louder and closer, changing pitch. I grab the fourth floor’s door handle, then yank open the door
…
And jerked awake to Patch’s morning window-tapping antics.
Glancing over at Patch, I smiled. He was trying to stand on my soccer ball. Again. If watching a huge black bird try to land on a round object, only to hiss at it because the object had the nerve to roll and scare him, weren’t so comical, I’d let him attempt this for hours.
I chuckled. “Trying to conquer your fears too?”
“Nara! You need to get going or you’ll be late for school,” Mom called from downstairs. “Am I going to have to come up and get you?”
“Shoo, Patch. You have to go now—” I herded the bird toward the window.
Patch flapped his wings, then landed on my nightstand, tilting his head with an expectant look. “I don’t have time—” I began, then realized he wasn’t going until he got what he’d come to expect.
“Be downstairs in a minute,” I called back and grabbed a nickel from my drawer to set it on the nightstand for him. Patch turned his head and eyed the coin up close, then looked at me with a flap of his wings.
Was that a “meh, I’m unimpressed” shrug?
I grunted and changed the nickel for a dime, swiftly sliding the coin across the smooth surface toward him. Patch backed up with my hurried movements, his obsidian gaze wary. When I moved my hand away, he quietly squawked, but didn’t attempt to touch the dime.
Mom’s footfalls had started up the stairs.
“You. Have. To. Go!” I quickly replaced the dime with a quarter, giving the bigger coin a swift spin.
The quarter had barely made three rotations when Patch snatched it up in his beak, then took off out the open window with two strong
whoops
of his powerful wings.
I shut the window after him, grumbling, “For a bird that doesn’t care what he eats, you sure have expensive taste,” just as my mom opened my bedroom door.
“Who were you just talking to?” she asked, looking confused.
“Myself.” I sighed for effect. “It happens close to exam time.”
“Okaaaayy.” Mom pushed her blonde bangs out of her eyes. “Since you’ll be running out the door to get to school, I didn’t want to miss telling you that I’ll be late tonight. David is taking me to dinner.”
I forced a smile past the sudden gulp in my throat. I’d encouraged Mom to take Business Spanish lessons from my Spanish teacher in hopes that another twelve years wouldn’t pass with her letting work absorb her life. It was time for her to move on from a husband who’d left without a word.
So why was it so hard to hear my mom talk about going out on a date with Mr. Dixon? Maybe because I knew my dad would be getting in touch with me soon, and a tiny part of me hoped his leaving us was just a giant mistake.
Then again, maybe this wasn’t a
date
date. “Is Mr. Dixon taking you to an authentic Mexican restaurant so you can work on your Spanish?”
“Of course not, silly.” Mom laughed as she fluffed the newly-cut angled ends of her chic bob. I’d noticed she’d been fiddling with her hair a lot more lately. She’d also been choosing salad instead of bread as a side during dinner. “We’re going to that lovely new Italian place downtown.”
She started to leave, then poked her head back into my room. “Oh, by the way, our new neighbor down the road, Mr. Wicklow, borrowed the leaf blower to clean up the leaves in his yard.”
Yay!
That meant I wouldn’t have to clean up the leaves any time soon. No blower, no leaf bagging.
Mom must’ve read the look on my face, because she grinned. “Don’t worry. He said he’ll return it right away.”
I gave her a “greeeeeaaaat thanks!” look. “I didn’t realize there was a house for sale on our street. When did he move in?”
Mom shook her head. “Mr. Wicklow is a visiting professor at Central. He’s just renting for a couple of months from the Goldsteins while they winter in Florida.” Mom waved as she backed out of my room. “Got to get to work. I won’t be home too late.”
“Better not be,” I mumbled under my breath.
As I drove to school, I chewed my lip and tried to figure out what to do about the library. I really wanted to find that article. What if I was just being paranoid in my dream? Maybe I’d imagined that I’d heard the door opening? Had the noise Patch was making entered my dream and my mind translated the auditory sound to fit my environment…like the sound of someone coming up the stairs?