Coven of the Raven: box set Read online

  “Thank you. For everything.” Without Mason and the coven he would’ve ended it sooner—he’d certainly thought about it when he was younger. Living with a death curse was a sentence on its own. Eighty-nine days. Plenty of time.

  Chapter 2

  The drive up to Buffalo was pretty easy once Oskar had gotten out of New York City. The van he’d purchased was a piece of crap with Ohio plates. However it fitted with his new persona of itinerant odd jobber. The kind of person who’d apply for a short-term gardening job that gave a small amount of cash along with lodgings and food.

  Walking into the house with magic crackling and laying down a challenge would only result in him getting his ass fried by Thomas. He knew that with one hundred percent certainty because that’s what had happened previously to the other witches that had gone after Thomas for glory or revenge.

  He’d known this job was going to be coming up as Thomas liked to get the estate gardens done every ten years. And every ten years someone went missing from the Buffalo area. Someone who was last seen in one of the nearby towns talking about going for a job at one of the many mansions that lined the lake, and yet nothing had ever been found to incriminate Thomas.

  Magic, like most things, was what the user made it. It didn’t guarantee wealth, status, or any other benefit. Like anything worth having, it took time and dedication to get right. Oskar had worked hard and done everything he could to shore up his own abilities without being let in on the greater secrets open to full initiates, because he’d known this day would come.

  Magically he wasn’t strong enough to go up against Thomas, but hopefully he was smarter and more resourceful. As long as Thomas didn’t realize who he was, he’d be fine.

  The coven’s last gift had been a set of fake IDs. Passport, driver’s license, social security number, the works. The van was registered under his new name of Oskar Clark—an unfunny joke of the Ravens. Still, at least it didn’t sound like he had an Irish background. With his mother’s dark blond hair he didn’t look like a Quigley, either. The last thing he needed was for Thomas to suspect he was part of the Coven of the Raven, or any coven for that matter.

  His father’s bracelet rattled as he shifted gears and slowed down, cruising through the town looking for a motel for the night. His mother had made the bracelet out of raven bones for his father. She’d known he was a witch, and when she’d found the dead raven she’d stripped the bones and given his father a gift of great significance—both personal and magical. After his death she’d put it away until she’d gotten sick, then she’d given it to him and told him everything. He’d been fifteen. He’d watched her die for two years and contemplated his own death. He’d been a morbid teen.

  If the Ravens hadn’t been there, he wouldn’t be here. He’d found strength in serving the Morrigu. Martial arts and magic had given him the self-discipline not to crumble, even as he looked his waiting death in the eye. He still hoped death would blink first and he’d get to live.

  Thomas would understand the importance of the bracelet and feel the magic. Before he arrived he’d have to take it off. It hadn’t left his wrist for half his life, and aside from a file of notes and newspaper clippings, it was his only connection to the man he barely remembered calling Dad.

  He took a room at a chain motel and emptied his bag onto the bed. He hadn’t brought much with him, having already left everything of value, magical or financial, at the coven—along with his will, thanks to Peyton. It was useful to have a lawyer as a member. Unfortunately there would be no last-minute hearing on his sentence, no stay of execution. He bit back the bitterness that wanted to suck him under. He wanted to hate the Morrigu but couldn’t. She was what She was, and the blame for all the deaths, both family and other, lay at Thomas’s feet. No matter how long his uncle lived there would eventually be a day of reckoning.

  Someone would eventually stop him. Oskar wanted to be that person.

  He placed his laptop and cell phone to one side. He’d already stripped anything magic or research related from them. The file and all his other notes on Thomas were with the coven. He’d wanted to bring them, but if Thomas found them the game would be over before it began, and he was playing for time.

  Time to work out how to unravel the dark magic and kill Thomas.

  His clothes were from an op shop to look worn in and fit in with the dinged-up van he was driving. Was he being overly careful?

  Probably.

  But paranoia went with the occasion rather well. Besides, it was only paranoia if it wasn’t true, and Thomas would kill him without hesitation if he thought a Raven was after him.

  That left the bracelet and a silver necklace of St. Christopher that had been his mother’s. Both of which he never took off. Both would be laced in magic simply because he wore them all the time, but he hadn’t been able to leave them behind. However, he also knew he couldn’t wear them.

  He picked up the small black silk drawstring bag and opened it. Then he carefully took off his mother’s necklace and placed it inside. The silk would cancel out magical vibrations. If Thomas opened the bag and looked at the items he would feel magic around them, but neither had spells woven into them. They were tangible memories of his parents, nothing more and nothing less, but they were bound with love and strength. He pulled off the bracelet and ran his fingers over the smooth bird bones, now brown with age and wear. What would his dad say?

  Oskar had no idea. He had no firm memories of his father, only what his mother had told him. He’d been too young. He used to wish that he’d never been born. Now he was glad he had a chance to finish his father’s work.

  He placed the bracelet in the bag and hoped he’d get the chance to wear them again. Carefully he slipped the little bag into the inside pocket of the duffle bag, where he hoped it would be safe. He refolded the clothes, except for the ones he would wear tomorrow, and repacked his bag; the clothes he’d worn today would go in the trash. The last things on the bed were a pack of red candles and a box of matches. Again, new and bought from a two dollar shop so there would be no magic on them.

  Then he grabbed the paper cup out of the bathroom and used it as a candle holder. He placed it on his closed laptop at the end of the bed, then sat cross-legged opposite it. He didn’t need the focus of the flame, but it helped silence the nerves that were beginning to haunt the edges of his thoughts and tighten his gut.

  He slowed his breathing and let his mind still. He didn’t often pray to the Morrigu, actions spoke louder to Her and he tried to live as a warrior should, but tonight it seemed right that he place Her in his thoughts and ask for help in the task he’d set himself—one She would surely be behind. After a while the flame became secondary and a scene began to form in his mind. He turned his attention inwards, knowing She would be waiting.

  A deserted battlefield spread around him. Ravens circled overhead, black against a red sky, searching for bodies, but there were none. Only blood and weapons littered the grass.

  “You come to me at last, Warrior.”

  Oskar lifted his gaze to the woman in armor. A sword was held in Her hand, but it wasn’t used for killing, only choosing who She would take. And She was fussy.

  He bowed low and respectful, aware he was now dressed in armor emblazoned with the raven on his chest.

  “I seek guidance, your aid, and your forgiveness if I fail.”

  “You ask a lot for one who has not given himself fully to my worship.”

  Oskar winced, but he’d expected that. She was right. The Goddess of battle, death and fertility. The Morrigu didn’t kill, but She chose the warriors She wanted. She helped those who served Her, granting favors while they lived—usually helping them win battles or wealth. She crossed the barrier between life and death, assisting souls moving in both directions. He’d fought, though not as men once had. Like the entire coven, he was well trained in martial arts. Death had been his companion for a very long time. But fertility, well, he’d skipped that one. He wouldn’t create a life.
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br />   “I won’t condemn another generation.”

  “You think that is your choice?”

  “Not even you can compel me to father a child I will never see.”

  She laughed. “It’s so sweet how you underestimate me.” Her voice hardened. “You are my servant, Oskar Quigley, never forget that.”

  He resisted the urge to step back from the push of power. His feet were sinking into the blood-soaked soil. Maybe this was the field where his ancestors had sworn their loyalty without realizing the depth of their vow: youngest son. But that had included the youngest son of all sons. However, not all who served the Morrigu were fully trained witches with a coven anymore.

  “I have been faithful in my service; even now I prepare to do your work.”

  “Do you? Or is it for your own benefit?” She tilted Her head, Her eyes black like a raven and never blinking.

  Cold seeped into his bones as if death were already wrapping its fingers tighter around him. “I seek to break the spell Thomas cast. I will kill him for you.”

  “I don’t care for him. But I do want you.” She curled one finger and he took a step closer, unable to resist Her pull. The ground sucked at his feet. “I will not help you kill.”

  “You would rather me die?”

  “You are mine, are you not? Do you not wish to ride in my army for all of eternity and feast at my table?”

  “Yes, Lady. But if I live, I can fulfill the last part of my promise.” Battle, death and fertility. Fight for Her, commit your spirit to Her, breed the next generation to worship Her. There were other ways to serve, but She expected children from those sworn to Her to keep the magical bloodlines going.

  “You will fill your promise to me before your thirtieth year is over.”

  Over his dead body. He would not be having sex for the next eighty-five days. It had already been nine very long months. He would quite happily have children if She let him live. Not that he could voice that to Her.

  “You cannot bargain with me, Oskar. Nor hide your thoughts while I am in them.”

  Damn it.

  She laughed again, this time Her fingers brushed his cheek. Her touch was as cold as a corpse. “You are like your father, and I like him. So I will give you this piece of advice: it is not death you fear but life. Conquer that fear and Thomas will be yours.”

  What the hell kind of advice was that?

  “Take it to heart, young warrior, so that you may grow old. I will be watching. Make alliances with other Gods or Goddesses, and I will not take you.”

  “So you will not help, and you prevent me from getting help. You want me to fail?” He couldn’t take the edge of frustration out of his voice; it echoed like a gunshot in the bleeding landscape. No matter how hard he tried to ignore the insidious thought in his heart, he was expecting to fail, and She was reinforcing that.

  She placed Her hand on his chest and threw him back. He landed several yards away, staring up at the heavy crimson sky, winded. But he struggled to his knees anyway. She was waiting, Her sword leveled at his neck.

  Her eyes turned red. “If you think you have lost before you have started, then why go into battle?”

  “Because I die either way.”

  “That is your reason? If that is all you fight for, maybe I have misjudged you.” She sheathed Her sword, the singing of metal on metal like a bell.

  He bowed his head and closed his eyes. “I want to live.” He just didn’t see how that was going to happen.

  “You fight for me. Fight with your duty to me in your heart. Be the man you can be, not a coward like Thomas.”

  When he opened his eyes he was alone in the motel room and the candle was little more than a stub at the bottom of a paper cup filled with wax. He pinched the flame out.

  What hope did he have when even his Goddess offered him nothing?

  It is not death you fear but life. The words echoed as if She were repeating them over and over again. How could he be afraid of living when it was something he did every day?

  The ad from the local newspaper fluttered on the front seat, pinned down by his cell phone. His duffle bag and swag were in the back of the van. As Oskar drove to Thomas’s house, he tried to put himself in the mindset that he was looking for a job to earn some cash before moving on for the summer.

  Working his way around the US. Planning a side trip over the border to Canada.

  The lies sat easily on his tongue, but his heart was beating too fast and the closer he got to the house the more he felt the wrongness around him. The warning tremor started at the top of his spine and raced all the way to the base, dragging rational thought with it and leaving his lizard brain with the urge to run. He guessed most people felt it as unease. That was probably why there were more than a couple abandoned houses and homes for sale along the street.

  Witches would know that magic was here and it wasn’t the sparkly, feel-good type that most new-age covens practiced. It was old and bloody and smelled of decay and death.

  Death magic. That and demon magic were the two things that should be avoided in life. Of all the magics out there and all the entities people could tap into, those were the ones that would suck a user in with shiny invincible power and spit the user out with nothing. There was only one person interested in a soul tainted with death and demons.

  Oskar shuddered, then was instantly glad there was no one to see him reacting so strongly to the magic. “Get it under control.”

  How was he going to breathe that in day-in day-out and not be contaminated? That was the other downside to dark magics: they tended to stick to all who came close and spread their evil spores wider.

  The edge of the estate came into view. It didn’t help its appearance that Buffalo had turned on a cold, overcast spring day that still held winter’s bite. The heavy grey clouds clustered around the roof. The whole building was grey stone, with a darker grey roof and looked like the kind of place one expected to find on an episode of The World’s Most Haunted Houses.

  It probably was haunted; death magic did tend to leave remnant impressions of the dead, also known as ghosts. The wrought-iron gates were open as he was expected. He’d phoned this morning and asked if the job was still open.

  Which it is was. Had the Morrigu made sure of that? Or was he just lucky?

  He wasn’t sure if he needed that kind of luck.

  His lips twitched but the smile never got going as he steered the van up the driveway and parked near the front. He picked up his phone and took a moment to center himself and dial back the skin-crawling distaste of the dark magic before getting out. If anyone was watching it just looked like he was fiddling with his phone.

  If he were Thomas, he’d be watching.

  As he got out, he shoved his wallet into the pocket of the old jeans, the cuffs well scuffed, and with a long-sleeved T and ex-military surplus jacket he looked less modern warrior witch and more scruffy drifter. Add in the lack of haircut for a year and…maybe he was pushing it too far.

  Ah, well. Too late now; he’d already fronted up to the battlefield so it was time to fight—or at least be invited in to fight. He didn’t bother locking the van. No one was going to get close enough to the house to steal anything.

  As he walked, he took slow calm breaths and tried to look impressed and not creeped out by the house. The house was huge: a big, old, grey-stone building that towered over him and cast an equally impressive shadow. Yet it was missing something, it was too still, too cold, and more than a little run down. It needed some loving attention, which it probably wasn’t ever going to get while Thomas was living here.

  He rang the doorbell and listened to it chime, then cast his gaze over the gardens. They were chronically overrun. Plants competed for space, tangling around each other. They tumbled out of the garden beds and onto the paths and driveway. Weeds poked through the gravel. But even they had a sickly look, as if there weren’t enough nutrients in the soil to support life. Everything was straggly and twisted. Unhealthy. He was actually g
oing to have to do some garden work while he was here. Most of the time he could pick a weed from a plant. Even if he started by just trimming everything back it would be an improvement. Though nothing would help the plants thrive except for the removal of the death magic that was wrapped around everything like a blanket intent on smothering all life.

  At least it was only death and not demons. He forced a smile, reminding himself it could be worse. Perched on the corner of the roof, a gargoyle watched silently. Its face forever pulled back in a snarl, wings folded against its body, claws gripping the edge of the roof. He turned his head and saw another on the opposite corner.

  Usually they were a good sign, the water burbling through them cleared bad energies; maybe they were blocked? Or were they grotesques for show? Probably not a good idea to start poking around on the first day, assuming he got the job. If he didn’t, he was going to need a new plan. Like destroy the house and his uncle with it.

  He glanced at the van—car bomb?

  Arson?

  C4?

  Nuclear strike?

  He was getting carried away; it wasn’t the house’s fault. The front door was opened by a woman in costume. He blinked and stepped back. She hadn’t been in the notes. Nor had the apparent time warp.

  Dressed in a long black dress and apron with her dark hair pulled neatly into a bun, she stood aside to let him in. As she did, her eyes widened for half a second and her head moved as if she were about to shake it. Or had he imagined it?

  How many other people were here and were they all dressed from last century?

  Had his uncle never caught up with the twenty-first century? Was he still stuck in World War One? Oskar glanced at the maid again. She couldn’t be much more than twenty.

  His stomach flip-flopped as she closed the door behind him. The urge to open it and run before he became trapped made his fingers curl and his breath catch for a second. How long had she been here locked in his uncle’s spell? He looked at her again, her pale skin and wide eyes. Her lips moved, but then she silently beckoned him forward, deeper into the house.