Watcher: A raven paranormal romance (Crookshollow ravens Book 1) (21 page)

“Oh yeah?” I grinned. “Then let me see you fly.”

Cole stepped away from me, and jumped up on the edge of the fountain, his body moving like a graceful dancer. He turned to me, planting his weight on his good leg, and started to shift.

Cole’s body shrunk down into itself, his arms pulling back into the sleeves of his shirt, his legs crumpling beneath him. His nose grew out from his face, becoming long and hooked and hard, while his chin reached up to meet it. From his skin sprouted the dark bristles, which fanned out and became jet feathers, folding over themselves in a graceful pattern. His whole body seemed to disappear into the darkened forest beyond.

“You look ridiculous,” I told him, grinning again. In reality, I found his shift fascinating, and kind of a turn-on. It was amazing to think that a body could perform such a remarkable feat. I would think it some kind of magic, and I guess in a way it was. But it wasn’t the kind of magic I saw on TV shows, with smoke and explosions. This was something much more ancient, much more primal. And it was part of Cole.

From his elbows extended long bones that grew more skin and bristles, and these great black feathers that became his beautiful wings. As Cole shrank down, he disappeared inside of his clothes, which crumpled into a pile on the edge of the fountain.

For a few moments, there was complete silence, and then the lump inside the clothes moved, and I heard a faint
squawk.

“Oh, you’re all tangled up.” I reached over to lift off the shirt. With a much louder squawk, Cole bounced out from beneath his clothes, flapped his wings, and took to the air. He swooped and dived, performing elaborate rolls and flips in the air, his streamlined body appearing more like a plane than a bird.

“OK, I get the idea!” I laughed. “You can change back now. You’re clearly just fine.”

Cole zoomed past at high speed. I nodded in appreciation, watching him hurtle his body toward the dark trees.

Suddenly, another black blur emerged from the forest and crashed into him, knocking him from the sky. “Cole!” I yelled, running across the lawn toward them. In the darkness I couldn’t see what was happening, but I heard Cole’s frantic screech. Behind me, I heard footsteps pound across the cobbles as Ryan tore toward us.

The only reply I heard was a loud squawk, cut abruptly short by a high-pitched, inhuman screech.

It was Byron. It had to be. That bastard had sweet-talked Cole into getting him behind the protective spells, and then attacked him when his guard was down.
I knew it. I’d had such a bad feeling about him, and now he’s hurting Cole. Where are they?

“Cole!” I cried out, darting across the lawn. I scanned the ground in front of me. Where were they? The screeching grew louder, but it seemed to have more than one voice. It came from all around me.

Then I heard the flapping.

My heart pounded against my chest. I whirled around, searching the forest for the source of the sound. The screeching grew louder. I saw what at first appeared to be a black cloud rising over the tops of the trees. As the whirring, flapping noise grew louder I realised to my horror that it was no cloud, it was a massive flock of ravens. Hundreds of them descended upon Ryan’s garden, their dark, beady eyes trained on me.

As one unit, they launched themselves at me. I turned and ran toward the house. I could just make out the shape of Ryan, now in his fox form, as he launched himself across the lawn. I tried to yell at him to get to Cole, but my words were lost as the black cloud swirled around me.

The birds flew so close together that they completely blocked out my view of the house. I stumbled forward, completely blind, my arms stretched out in front of me.
Where are the steps? Where’s the edge of the fountain?
All I could feel as I moved slowly across the lawn was the beating of their wings against my skin.

“Cole!” I cried out, helpless as the birds swarmed around me, their wings slicing over my skin, their claws digging into my clothing. My shirt tore, and tears sprang to my eyes.
Where’s Cole? What’s happening? What are they doing to me?
I pictured myself pecked to death, covered with tiny wounds like poor Mikael. I stumbled forward in the darkness, flailing my hands around, trying to beat them off, but the birds only tightened their circle,

“What’s happening?”

Panic seized me as my feet left the ground, and soon I was dangling in the air above the graves of the Witches’ Cemetery, my vision a blur of black feathers and cruel, beady eyes. I opened my mouth to scream, only to find myself choking on feathers. The ravens dragged me higher still… calling to each other with excited croaks as they carried me off.

Their bodies pressed tighter against me, and everything went black.

* * *

W
hen Elinor Baxter
arrives at the dilapidated Marshell House to settle the estate of her law firm's oldest client, she can't help but feel a little spooked. The creaking gothic mansion is a far cry from her life as an adventurous party girl back in London.

Then she meets Eric Marshell, a man dressed entirely in black with a wicked smile and the ability to float through walls. Eric was the violinist in popular rock band Ghost Symphony until a hit-and-run accident claimed his life. Now he's trapped inside his mother's house for all eternity, and the only one who can see or hear him is Elinor.

Eric and Elinor fight their attraction for each other as they dig into the mystery of Eric's death. But when they uncover a dark and sinister plot that threatens Elinor's life, their bond draws them into a world neither of them understands. Can their love transcend the boundary between life and death?

The Man in Black
is a steamy gothic romance by USA Today bestselling author Steffanie Holmes, Set in the English village of Crookshollow, it's a standalone novel of love, redemption, and second chances. If you love clever BBW heroines, crumbling gothic mansions, and brooding rockstars who know what they want, then this book will have you shivering all over.

* * *

E
linor moved her hand
, so her palm lay flat against mine. It was so odd to see her fingers nestled right inside my body, and even odder to
feel
them there, not as fingers usually feel, but as a hot ball of energy, emanating heat to a steady rhythm.

It took me a few moments to realise the rhythm was Elinor’s heartbeat.

I stepped forward, my hand shifting against hers, her fingers dancing inside mine. I pressed my other hand against her back, my palm sinking into her flesh. If I were alive at this moment, I would push Elinor against my body, and relish the warmth of her, the shape of her, against me. But I couldn’t do that, so instead I folded myself in closer to her. The front of my jacket brushed against her chest, sending waves of pulsing heat through my whole torso.

“This is amazing,” Elinor breathed, her bow-shaped lips parting slightly. I didn’t trust myself to reply, so I smiled back at her. I started to sway, pushing my right hip forward, moving the warmth through her leg. Elinor sensed the movement through her skin, and she moved backward, turning her body with me. I stepped again, and again we slid across the floor, our bodies sweeping and dipping with the music.

With my next step, I pushed myself closer, bowing my head slightly, so that my face hovered inches above hers. My eyes locked on those bow lips, ripe and delicious like the first berries of spring.
God, I want this woman—

“I like the music,” Elinor said. Her voice wavered. She sounded nervous. I wondered if she was speaking because she sensed what I wanted to do, and she was trying to fill the space between us, to stop me from doing something I couldn’t take back.

“Mmmm,” I shifted my fingers in her hand. The heat flickered, thrumming through my body with a quickened pace. She
was
nervous.
Interesting.

“I love the … distortion. The way it crackles right through my whole body.” Elinor breathed. “It’s almost as if the music is mirroring the sensation when we touch.”

“This piece is originally written by the composer Niccolò Paganini, a Greek violinist in the early nineteenth century.” I murmured. If she wanted to talk, I could at least impress her. “He was known for making liberal use of the
diabolus en musica,
the devil’s tritone, which creates that haunting dissonance you hear in the piece. Of course, Paganini’s composition has been sped up and updated, and accompanied by the electric guitar, bass guitar, double bass, and drums, it’s quite the feat of modern gothic rock.”

“Who is playing the violin in this piece?” Elinor asked, her lips barely moving, struggling to form the words.

“I am, on Isolde. Ghost Symphony is my band.”

“Eric …” Elinor’s face turned up to me.

I leaned closer, I could practically taste the sweetness of those berry-red lips, feel the warmth of her mouth against mine. The air between us crackled with electricity. Elinor shifted her weight against mine, falling into me as she leaned forward, her lips pursed, waiting.

I brushed my lips against hers. It was like no other kiss I’d ever experienced before. The heat leapt through my body, twisting from my mouth right through my core. I felt as though I’d swallowed a hot coal, and though it burned me deeply, it was the most delicious thing I’d ever tasted. I leaned forward, my weightless body pressed against hers, my lips parting to devour her heat as our bodies hummed with pulsing energy.

Y
ou can support
Steffanie’s writing via her Patreon page – it’s like an ongoing crowdfunding campaign where you get free books, deleted scenes, random fun stuff, and the chance to name characters and decide plots.

Check out Steffanie’s patron page at:
www.patreon.com/steffmetal
.

S
teffanie Holmes is
the author of steamy historical and paranormal romance. Her books feature clever, witty heroines, wild shifters, cunning witches and alpha males who
always
get what they want.

Before becoming a writer, Steffanie worked as an archaeologist and museum curator. She loves to explore historical settings and ancient conceptions of love and possession. From Dark Age Europe to crumbling gothic estates, Steffanie is fascinated with how love can blossom between the most unlikely characters.

Steffanie lives in New Zealand with her husband and a horde of cantankerous cats.

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