Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) (2 page)

“You’re too late!”
the old woman crowed, her victorious chant drowning out her grandson’s fusses. “He has been marked!
Darkness owns that boy now
!”

“Get the baby out of here!”
the Captain hollered. Stealing a musket from the nearest soldier, he crossed the cabin in three wide strides. Not granting her a pause or hesitation, he trained the barrel on her forehead and fired.

1

Ridley

“I’m just sayin’,
” Ireland murmured against Noah’s earlobe, her chin resting playfully on his shoulder. “We’re already here, and I’ve got that deep, yearning
itch
. Why don’t we just go for it?”

Strands of
hair, the hue of weathered sand kissed golden by the sun, fell across his forehead as Noah Van Tassel tipped his chin her way. One wandering hand snaked around her waist, tucking into the back pocket of her jeans as he tugged her body closer to his. “Your last tattoo acted as a written invitation for the Headless Horseman to invade your body. Hence our investigatory trip here. That said, as much as I appreciate
all
of your deep yearnings, I’m thinking we skip this particular one and nix further ink.”

Ireland’s lips screwed to the side
, her pert nose crinkling. “As rational points go, that one’s hard to argue with.”

Spastically f
litching at the incessant hum of the tattoo gun, Rip Van Winkle edged up beside them. His watery eyes flicked over the framed sample sheets hanging on the walls while he twirled the end of his beard around his index finger. “I do not care for this place. It feels like a den of debauchery,” a wide yawn cut off his sentence, “and not in the fun way. It is making my curse threaten.”

Ireland
begrudgingly pushed herself away from Noah to clap a hand on Rip’s waif-like shoulder. “If you fall asleep here you
will
wake up with a dolphin tramp stamp. I promise you that.”

Brow puckered in confusion, Rip looked to
Noah for clarification. “What is a ‘tramp stamp’?”

“It’s a badge of masculine honor,” Noah dead-panned.

“Then I have nothing to fear.” Rip’s narrow chest puffed with bravado. “I shall wear it proudly.”

Carrington Love
, appearing from the last station on the right, dried her hands on a paper towel she deposited in a stainless trashcan by the counter. Her glossy black locks were curled in a retro pin-up style, accented by a navy bandana. Full sleeve tattoos poked out from beneath the rolled cuffs of her red flannel shirt.

“Hey
!” she chirped with recognition the moment she saw Ireland. “How did it heal? Everything okay?”

Ireland bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste blood. Call it intuition, but she guessed the artist to be referring to possible healing issues and
not
a mystically force tied to the artwork causing her to kill two people and terrorize a town. Or, did she ..?

“No
problems at all.” Clearing her throat, Ireland forced a tight smile and turned her forearm skyward for her to see. “Healed great! Ignore the scars and stitches around it. I … uh…”

Countless words in the English
language and she couldn’t seem to string
any
of them together to form a believable lie.

“Got attacked by a badger!” Rip
interjected on her behalf.

“
A badger
?” Ireland mouthed to him over Carrington’s head as the artist encircled her hand around Ireland’s wrist to inspect her work.  

She turned Ireland’s arm first one way, then the other.
“Whoa! No shit? That’s insane! The ink didn’t even get scratched! You got so lucky.” 

“
As lucky as I can be, having been attacked by a creature indigenous to
prairie regions
.” Ireland pointedly jabbed the words at Rip as she pulled her arm away from Carrington’s intense scrutiny. “This is probably a weird question to ask
after
I have this marred forever into my flesh, but where did you come up with this specific design?”

“
I borrowed it from my runaway bride,” Carrington giggled, her lip fiddling with its silver post piercing.

“Runaway bride?”
Noah asked. Leaning in, his fingers traced circles over the small of Ireland’s back. A simple gesture that sent an electric current sparking through her.

“Yeah, this
Bear reserved a six hour slot on my day a while back. Came in, paid his reservation fee, and even showed me what he wanted.” Her pointy chin jerked towards Ireland’s arm. “That’s the image he brought. The day of the appointment he showed up sweating buckets. I legit thought he was going to pass out before he got to the chair. Dude even brought his own ink with him, a full collection of unopened bottles of Eternal Ink, which I did
not
turn down because that’s good shit. Anyway, while I was getting set up, he asked where the bathroom was. I waved him down the hall and never saw him again. Best I could figure he shimmied his hefty ass out the window and hit the ground running.”

Tendrils of venomous suspicio
n swirled in Ireland’s gut. “What made you pick that image for me? I mean, I know I pretty much gave you free creative rein, but why
this
one?”

“I had filed away his stencil,”
Carrington said, pushing her cat-framed glasses further up the bridge of her nose. “When you came in, you mentioned wanting something feminine, but badass. This was the first design that came to mind because the runner had described it in those
exact
words—I remember because it sounded insanely funny coming from him. I pulled his file and even found the unopened ink bottles. I’d completely forgotten about them. Kinda thought he’d have the balls to come back for them, but he never did. Long story short, you said you liked it, so it was a go. Why? Did someone else get the same image, or something?”

“No, it’s definitely—unique,” Ireland offered in
what felt like the understatement of the century. “What about that ink? Do you still have it?”

Shaking her head, her
red-painted lips fell into a frown. “No, sorry. Actually, when I used it on you, it kept clogging my gun. Maybe it thickened up from sitting too long. After that one use I threw it away.”

Ireland’s hands closed into fists at her sides, her nails digging half-moons into her palms. Her only
lead in the mystery of who exactly was behind channeling the Horseman into her, and it seemed to come to a screeching halt here. Focusing to keep her breathing calm and steady, she could feel Noah’s worried gaze boring into her skin. Fear that pity would be all he had to offer prevented her from meeting his stare. 

“What about the guy’s file?”
Noah’s hand steadied on her back, offering a steadfast support that granted her raging thoughts an iota of peace. “Does it have any contact information for him?”

“I tried to get a hold of him,” Carrington shrugged
, folding her arms over her chest. “
That was a six hour appointment, and I had people that wanted to get in
! Unfortunately, the only contact info he gave me was his business card from The Richmond Gallery on Fifth. I could never get that wuss to even pick up the phone.”

Rip, Noah, and Ireland exchanged
matching looks of intrigue.

“How far is that from here?”
Even Ireland heard the surge of hope that quaked through her tone, but found herself powerless to squelch it.

“Th
ree streets north, turn right. Then, it’s four blocks down.”

Without the courtesy of a goodbye, Ireland
seized Noah’s hand and spun for the door.

Rip, at least, was thoughtful enough to tag on a
quick “Thanks,” before falling into step behind them.

“
If it’s any consolation,” Carrington called after them, “that design is more your style. That skull was meant for you!”

“Yeah,” Ireland grumbled through her teeth
, shoving the door open and rousing the chime overhead. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

“I have heard things like
this happen in New York,” Rip yawned, visibly trembling through his onslaught of exhaustion. “I just never expected to find myself subjected to it.”

“We’ve been through way worse than this.” Ireland pressed her lips together
, her hand curling around Rip’s upper arm to keep him standing before his stress-induced narcolepsy stole him from her. “I need you to stay with me, buddy.”

“
I-I can’t!” Rip threw his hands in the air, his fingers coiling into frantic claws. “Look at the horror that surrounds around!
H-h-how could you, Ireland
?
How could you bring me here
?”

Heaving a deep and aggravated sigh,
Ireland let her hands fall to her sides with a burden-heavy slap. If for no other reason than to humor him, she spun in a slow circle. Her head cocked as she considered the full spectrum of the art gallery’s exhibit. Life-like mannequins were arranged in various situations to make them appear human: waiting for a bus, playing tag with their mini-mannequin kids, showering. Bile rose in her throat at the shocking realism of the bloody car accident, and labor and delivery scene. “I won’t be buying the annual pass, I’ll give you that.”

“This is
not
art!” Rip sniped. “This is a glorified game of dolls! What kind of society have I found myself in that would pass this off as—”

Just like that he hit his trigger. Ireland dove to catch him as
Rip’s sentence trailed off and eyes rolled back.

“I never knew you were
such an art snob,” Ireland grunted through her teeth as she hoisted up his dead weight. Hooking his gangly arm around her neck, she propped him up
Weekend at Bernie’s
style.

“Oh, dear! Is he okay?”
The apple-shaped man’s silver and black necktie blew to the side, flapping against the sleeve of his burgundy dress shirt in his dart to their quickly sagging side. “I saw him going down and tried to get here in time. You’re tougher than you look to have caught him.” Immediately taking Rip’s other arm, he helped to guide them to a nearby settee.

“
Almost to a fault,” Ireland mumbled, unceremoniously flopping Rip down on the sage green upholstery.

“Is-is he snoring?”
her helper asked, smoothing his tie back into place.

“Sadly,” her gaze flicked up to read his
Richmond Gallery nametag, “Herb Mallark, he is. In every friendship there are those annoying traits you have to tolerate to keep that person in your life.
This
would be his.”

The corners of Herb’s crystal blue eyes crinkled with his warm
, friendly grin. “Then he must be a cherished friend that you stick by him through it.”

“Yeah, he’s
a hoot,” Ireland stated dismissively, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing at his oddly familiar face. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

“Well, I’m not sure.” Herb pivoted to face her, his
sausage link index finger brushing over the strands of his thick mustache. Suddenly, his features brightened. “Broadway in the Park!” He snapped his fingers in recognition. “You understudied
Annie
, didn’t you? I worked set design!”