Reaper: A raven paranormal romance (Crookshollow ravens Book 2)

T
his is a work of fiction
. Any resemblances to real persons, living or dead, found within are purely coincidental. All characters are consenting adults above the age of 18.

A
ll Rights Reserved
. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

C
opyright 2016 Steffanie
Holmes

http://steffanieholmes.com

W
ant
to be informed when the next Steffanie Holmes paranormal romance story goes live?
Sign up for the mailing list.

I
bolted upright
, my hand reaching for my heart. I gasped for air, my chest heavy, as though something had been crushing it. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. Light streamed in the window from the moon outside, but there was no ethereal white light coming from the hallway. There was no beautiful man in my bed. I was all alone.

I touched my lips, still feeling the warmth of his mouth lingering there.

Cole had been
here.
I’d felt him. But how? He didn’t have the power to do that kind of thing, did he? That was some kind of … astral projection? It couldn’t be. Cole was still tethered to Libby, he couldn’t use that kind of power to do something like this without her willing him.

Knowing I would never be able to go back to sleep, I turned on the bedside lamp. Two black feathers rested on the duvet in front of me.

Cole.

I
opened my eyes
. A violent onslaught of light assailed me. My head throbbed.
Where am I? What happened?

I blinked once, twice, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the brightness. Slowly, the room came into view. I was lying on a bed, the duvet soft as silk beneath me. I faced a window, through which bright sunlight streamed – the cause of the intense glare. I turned away from it, and as I did, a sharp jolt of pain tore through my skull.

I sat up and gripped the sides of my head, my vision swimming. My hands scraped a lump on the right side of my skull, and fresh pain flared up. I’d hit my head somehow. That explained the pain. But it didn’t explain where I was or how I’d got there.

I gripped the carved frame of the bed and pulled myself upright, swinging my feet down until they sank into buttery soft carpet. I gazed around the bedroom with a mixture of awe and apprehension. It was an enormous room – a suite of rooms, actually. I could see a bathroom through an open door to the left of the bed, its marble tiled walls decorated with accents of gold. In front of the bed was a large alcove containing an opulent French-style lounge suite that probably cost more than every piece of furniture I’d ever owned, or could ever hope to own. My flat could have fit into the space three times, with room to spare.

Why was I here in this room? I didn’t recognise it. At first, I assumed I was in a bedroom at Raynard Hall, but as I studied the decor more closely, that seemed unlikely. The heavy drapes and ostentatious French furniture were not to Ryan and Alex’s taste – they’d redecorated the drab hall with bright, modern designs. So if I wasn’t at Raynard Hall, where was I? And how long had I been here?

As I slid off the bed and paced the length of the room, it all came flooding back to me. I’d been walking with Cole on the grounds of Raynard Hall, when something had attacked him. I’d ran to help him, only to be attacked by a flock of ravens. They’d surrounded me, their dark bodies blinding me as they pulled me off the ground. At some point during that terrifying flight, I had passed out.

So how had I ended up in this room?

I tried all the doors. One led to a large dressing room, containing several ball gowns in dry-cleaning bags, and an armchair and footstool in a garish bubblegum colour. The only other door in the room was locked. So I was a prisoner. But whose prisoner?

Still clutching my throbbing head, I wandered over to the window and looked out, trying to get a sense of where I was. I was at least three storeys above the ground. There were no convenient trees with thick branches reaching up to the windowsill, so I wouldn’t be escaping that way, and my hair wasn’t nearly long enough to form a rope.

Below me, I could see a large, Tudor-style walled garden spreading out in all directions. Rows of neat flower beds interspersed with beautiful box hedges sculpted into a variety of designs. A large trebuchet stood in the middle of a tiled walkway, pointing out towards the driveway that curved its way through the gardens like a grey snake.

I recognised that siege weapon. I’d admired it from the ground on a trip I’d taken with my ex-boyfriend, Ethan. We’d once joked that the owner must have had some powerful enemies. If only I’d known how true that was.

I knew where I was. I was inside Morchard Castle.

I turned back to the room, and noticed a tray on the coffee table, containing three dishes covered with silver lids, and a pitcher of what looked like orange juice. My stomach rumbled. I didn’t know how long it had been since I’d last eaten.

I sat down on the sofa and lifted the lids one by one. The first dish held a small bowl of spicy gazpacho, the tangy tomato aroma making my mouth water. Another held some kind of savoury muffin – I noticed sundried tomatoes, feta, and herbs. As I opened the third to reveal a chocolate eclair, the edges just starting to go stale, I gasped. It wasn’t fresh like the other foods, but that wasn’t what made the knot of fear in my stomach tighten.

The eclair was from my bakery.

I was
certain
of it. I know to most people an eclair is an eclair is an eclair, but I was a baker. That’s what I did. I could tell an eclair I’d baked, and I was 100% certain I had baked this eclair.

My stomach churned with fear. Suddenly, I wasn’t hungry any more.

Beside the eclair was a small folded note. Gingerly, I picked it up, half expecting my fingers to be attacked by acid. I unfolded the paper and smoothed it against the table. My heart pounded as I read what it said:

Dearest Belinda

Welcome to Morchard Castle. I sincerely hope you enjoy your time here. My wife Susan and I will do everything in our power to ensure your stay is comfortable. Currently, as we’re hosting a National Trust open day, we need to confine you to your rooms. But when the tour is over, we’ll happily offer you the run of the east wing of the castle. We do not see why a diplomatic prisoner such as yourself should be treated with unkindness.

I regret that we had to become acquainted in this way, but Cole Erikson has to be stopped at all costs. It is clear he has formed an attachment to you, and if holding you hostage is the only way to force him to see reason and accept his new master, then that is what we must do.

Please have no fear. You are in no danger here, as long as you obey our rules and don’t try to contact Cole. Enjoy the food!

Sincerely

Victor Morchard

When I finished reading, my whole body was rigid with fear. I was a “diplomatic prisoner”? They were “holding me hostage”? This was insane.

At least I knew one thing from the letter. Cole was OK. If he was dead, they wouldn’t have any reason to hold me. I hugged myself, wishing he was here right now. He’d have some kind of plan, even if it was completely ridiculous.

I didn’t even know what day it was. I could have been unconscious in this room for hours, or days. And so much about the night I’d been kidnapped didn’t add up. If the Morchards had taken me, then where did all those ravens come from? Cole had told me the family owned four Bran, and that was a lot for a single family. How did the birds get past the protective charms that surrounded Raynard Hall? And what had happened to Cole? Was he injured? What about Ryan and my girlfriends? Were they all right? I had so many questions.

I reread the letter, hoping to discern some kind of clue from its contents. I didn’t find anything, but I did come up with an idea.

It was a public day at the castle. There were tours going on. People would be walking through the garden and admiring the trebuchet.

Right under my window.

I raced across the room and pushed up the sash. I was in luck; I could see a woman emerging from the edge of the topiary maze, a red clipboard clasped in her hands, and a line of tourists in Bermuda shorts and white socks trailing after her. She pointed up at the castle walls, relating some story about the architectural styles of the various construction stages, while the group snapped away with their cameras. She finished her spiel and started to walk the group towards the trebuchet. Now was my chance.

“Hey, somebody help me!” I yelled down at the group, waving my arms. “They’ve trapped me up here! I’m being held prisoner!”

“Oh, how quaint. They’re putting on historical re-enactments,” The National Trust woman croaked, as the tourists turned their cameras towards me and started snapping. “As I mentioned when we were touring the dungeon, the castle was often used to house political prisoners during the reformation, and some of those prisoners would be kept in the upper rooms of the castle, so they could be—”

“I’m not an actor. I’m seriously in trouble. I’ve been kidnapped. Please call the police! Call Ryan Raynard! My name is Belinda Wu and I’m being held here against my will—”

Snap snap snap.
The tourists exclaimed eagerly over my performance and asked me if I was going to be beheaded. I tried to yell over their enthusiasm, but the more I said, the more they seemed to believe I was acting.

BANG.

The door behind me slammed open. I jumped at the sound, banging my head against the sash.

“Step away from the window, Belinda,” a deep voice boomed.

I turned around, and came face to face with a tall, dark-haired man, his features thin and drawn. His beady green eyes took in the open window, and he drew his thin lips back into a disapproving scowl. He wore a white lab coat, its pockets stuffed with pens and syringes and other items.

I took a step back from the window, raising my hands in front of me. I didn’t want to argue with a man carrying syringes. Outside, one of the tourists called up to me. “Come back, I didn’t get a good picture!”

“W-w-who are you?”

“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man stalked across the room and sat primly in one of the French armchairs. He patted the sofa beside him, indicating that I should sit. “Victor Morchard.”

He was not the person I expected to see. When Cole spoke of his master, I’d always pictured an overweight, balding man with beautifully tailored clothing and one of those petulant posh accents. What I saw instead was a man who looked like a high-school chemistry teacher. I couldn’t imagine this reedy man bossing Cole and Byron around. They could snap him in half without even breaking a sweat.

“Nice to meet—” I snapped my mouth shut. It was such an ingrained response, but this was my kidnapper. He shouldn’t expect politeness.

“Please, have a seat.” Morchard patted the arm of the chair next to him again. ”These things are always less awkward when everyone is sitting.”

“I’d rather stand.” My eyes flicked towards the door, which he had left open. Outside I could see a hallway with a marble floor and large paintings adorning the walls. My leg muscles tensed, ready to make a run for it at the best opportunity.

“That is your choice. Move away from the window, or I’ll be forced to be
very
impolite.”

I couldn’t see what that man could possibly do to me. I started to retort, but noticed a coldness flash in his eyes, a flicker of mLibby so startling and so deep that it stopped me midsentence. Frightened now, I stepped away from the window and perched myself on the edge of the bed, a few feet closer to the door.

“Why am I here?” I kept my eyes locked on his, hoping he wouldn’t realise I was planning on making a run for the door.

“I thought I answered that perfectly adequately in my letter.” Victor picked up the note I’d discarded between his two thin fingers and waved it lazily in front of his face.

“This is so ridiculous,” I said. “You can’t just keep me here. Cole’s not an idiot. This is the first place he’s going to look for me.”

“What makes you so certain Cole is still alive?”

My heart thundered against my chest. Blood rushed in my ears.
Is Cole dead? He can’t be. It can’t be true. But all those ravens attacked him, they could’ve torn him to pieces—

Victor laughed, his little face curling up like the edges of an ancient book. “Oh, if you could see your face. You will never be any good at subterfuge if you wear all your feelings for anyone to see. No, Belinda, you needn’t worry. He is still alive. I’m not interested in killing him, at least not yet. That will not get me what I want.”

“And what do you want?”

“Revenge.” Victor whispered, his eyes narrowed, his features tightened. I guessed he was thinking of his son’s death. He blamed Cole, of course he did.

“If anyone is after revenge, it should be Cole, for what you did to him.” I spat back at him. I leaned a little more towards the door, planting my foot on the ground ready to use as a spring. “You’re keeping a man as a slave. It’s barbaric.”

Victor gave a high-pitched laugh. “Barbaric? No, Belinda, if you want to see barbaric, then you should gaze upon the body of my son, brutally murdered at the hands of your precious raven.”

“What are you talking about? Cole hasn’t murdered anyone. Your son was murdered by Sir Thomas Gillespie.”

“Oh, Sir Thomas did the actual act, of that I am certain. But do not think that Cole is blameless.” Victor gazed at me with those curious eyes. “He was supposed to be protecting my son. Cole’s neglect killed Harry as surely as if he bled him out himself. And I have reason to believe Cole encouraged the murder.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Does it not seem odd to you that a man in the upper echelons of society, who is keen to keep his true nature secret from the world, would kill in cold blood over a business transaction? It is far more logical to suspect the unstable, hot-headed Bran who – desperate for his own revenge for perceived slights – went to Sir Thomas to incite his attack?”

“Cole’s been with me the whole time.” I shot back, not wanting to show him that what he said unsettled me. I knew how much Cole hated his master. It would make perfect sense that he would want to hurt Victor, and what better way to hurt someone than kill their son? But I couldn’t believe Cole was capable of that. And besides, when would he have snuck off to see Sir Thomas?

“Did you watch your precious Cole every minute of the day? What about at night? Ravens are nocturnal.”

I thought of the night before last, when Cole admitted he’d gone to the Morchard’s castle to see Harry’s private burial. I only had it on Cole’s word that’s where he’d gone, and he’d only told me because I’d figured out that he’d gone away. And the night before that, he’d gone out as well. I thought of the open window and the feathers I’d seen on the edge of the bed at Ryan’s house. Cole had explained how the feathers had got there. And he’d probably opened the window because he’d got hot. It didn’t mean he was sneaking out to help Sir Thomas commit horrible acts of violence. Besides, it didn’t make sense – Cole had got the note saying Victor was dead from Mikael, hours before he’d snuck away.

Unless the note was a fake, and Cole knew I’d read it.

I shook my head. I didn’t want to doubt Cole, and yet, Victor’s words twisted in my gut.

Clearly, Victor could see something of my doubt written on my face, for the edges of his mouth curled upward. “See? You are not so certain your precious Cole did not commit this crime.”