Watcher: A raven paranormal romance (Crookshollow ravens Book 1) (3 page)

I unfurled my wings and took off, heading along the path of my usual afternoon round patrolling the western edge of the Morchard estate, heading back in the direction of the city. As I flew, I thought of all the awful things Victor had done to me, all the crimes he’d forced me to commit in his name, and what he had done to my mother when she had most needed his help. I thought of the carefully laid plan Mikael and I had been working on for months, all the pieces nearly in place to ensure both our escapes from this life of servitude. I came to the spot where I was supposed to turn around and head south along the other boundary.

Instead, I just kept on flying.

At first I felt nothing but a euphoria. I had done it. I’d actually left. I’d gone rogue. After all these years of thinking and planning for it, it was as easy as flying in a straight line. I glided over the rolling countryside with a strange sense of power. My beak hurt from the un-ravenlike smile that pulled at it. I was a bird in the sky. What could Victor Morchard do to me up here? I was free.

I managed two miles off my usual flight plan before the pain kicked in. The ring tightened around my wing, making flying difficult, slowing my escape. As I flew further from the castle, waves of agony assailed my body, and within minutes I was panting, my feathers slick with sweat. I barely had the energy to move my wings.

I have to reach Mikael. He’s my only hope.

Mikael would still be at the pub. I was four miles from Crookshollow village, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it, but I had to try. My throat constricted, and I wheezed as I struggled for air. I dipped, my right wing collapsing under the tightening ring. I hurtled down, the road rising up toward me.

No!

I squeezed my eyes shut, and
pushed
with my mind, forcing my wings to respond to
my
commands, not the ring’s. Slowly, too slowly, I broke through the pain, forcing my own muscles to obey me, moving my wings apart, spreading them wide, feeling the wind ripple through my feathers.

I opened my eyes just in time to see the individual stones in the asphalt hurtle into focus. I jerked my neck back, and rolled over, flinging myself toward the heavens once more.

That was close.

I sucked in my air, opening my wings as wide as I could and straightening my neck and back, making myself as streamlined as possible. Ahead of me, I could see the houses on the outskirts of the village, and the gleaming glass facade of the Halt Institute on the northern end of the high street. The faster I could get to Mikael, the less chance—

I
sensed,
rather than heard, the other bird behind me. I didn’t have to turn my head to know who it was.

“Where do you think you’re going, Cole?” Pax hissed in caw-tongue, the language of Bran. His words bit the air like teeth.

“This is a very stupid thing you’re doing,” added Poe. Out of the edge of my eye I saw his sleek figure slide through the air beside me, moving closer, blocking my escape.

I couldn’t believe they’d found me this quickly. Byron must’ve reported me missing when I didn’t cross his path on his watch as I headed to Oxford. Probably he’d seen the smashed screen back at the roost, too. Byron was such a stickler for the rules. He couldn’t possibly know that I’d been sold to the Gillespies already, but he probably thought I was having it off with some girl – a fair assumption considering my past behaviour. My thoughts drifted briefly back to the black-haired beauty in the bakery. I wasn’t going to be getting it on with her any time soon.

Just this once, I wished Byron could have left me alone. I darted my head from side to side, searching for him, but I couldn’t see him nearby.

I’d known, of course, that Morchard would send the other Bran after me. It was one of the factors Mikael and I were trying to mitigate in our escape plan. Of course, I’d gone and shot the escape plan to shit, and now Pax and Poe flanked me, forcing me to fly lower and lower across the village.

Rows of brown-roofed terraces zoomed below me, growing closer and closer as Pax and Poe pushed me down, down … I tried to turn against the wind, hoping to give them the slip, but the ring tightened around my skin, collapsing my wing and sending me into an uncontrolled spin.

I struggled to regain my balance. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Pax dive for me, his talons pointing directly at my throat. I spun away, and his sharp talons snagged my leg. I cried out as he tore through my flesh.

My leg flared with pain. I heard something snap in my wing, and the whole side of my body went limp. The air around me changed, and suddenly I was no longer buoyed up by the hot currents.

I was falling.

Houses zoomed past me at odd angles, colours spun around me like some terrifying funhouse ride, but I knew it wasn’t the world spinning out of control. I was the one flailing through the air.

Then my body slammed against something hard, and everything went black.

U
sually
, I kept the bakery open until five thirty, or whenever I sold out. But on Tuesdays – my slowest day – I shut the shop at 4pm. This gave me an hour in the village before the other shops closed to get to the post office, do the grocery shopping, and make my deliveries.

The local authorities mandate that we’re not supposed to sell anything that’s freshly baked after a day, and no matter how carefully I planned, I usually had leftover food. Most of the other store owners in town dumped it in the rubbish, but I hated the wastefulness. So on Tuesdays I took a box of goodies over to the Crookshollow Rest Home, the women’s refuge, or the homeless shelter. It was nice to spend an hour a week brightening someone else’s day; it made for a pleasant break from staring down my own private tunnel of disaster.

This week had been relatively busy, so all I had left were a couple baguettes and three custard slices. Not enough to feed a horde of bored seniors or several mothers with excitable children. So I decided to go to the park. I knew some other creatures that would appreciate some free food.

Two blocks back from the Crookshollow high street was Fauntelroy Park, a large green space dotted with bright flower beds, towering oaks, a Tudor garden, some questionable sculpture installations, a beautiful Victorian gazebo, and a large pond filled with ducks. The land had been donated to the village during the eighteenth century by the Fauntelroy family – my friend Alex’s ancestors – who’d owned a significant tract of land in the area. Now, the park was owned by the council, who kept it in excellent condition, installed cycle lanes and picnic tables, and posted large signs warning people not to fall in the pond. The park hosted a series of events throughout the year, including sculpture trails, Easter-egg hunts, and a summer Shakespeare festival.

Since I spent most of my time holed up in the shop or my flat, I didn’t get out much. Crookshollow village was surrounded on two sides by dense woods, and the rest of the landscape was picturesque rural views. It was the perfect village from which to begin a ramble, but I couldn’t ramble while there were loaves to bake and Eccles cakes to ice.

But I could get to Fauntelroy Park. Walking through the park never failed to help me clear my head. Here I felt calmer, as though all the problems eating me up inside were really quite manageable after all. There was something so peaceful about sitting beside the water, listening to the gentle ripples lap against the concrete edging. The air smelled fresh and sweet with the scent of the flowers. Birds sang in the trees, and the ducks and pigeons hopped excitedly all around. The council liked to encourage other birds to frequent the park, and sometimes I even saw majestic ravens preening themselves beside the water.

It wasn’t yet five o’clock, so most people were still at work, and the park was practically deserted. I found a seat on a bench not far from one of the most impressive oaks. The bench was only a few feet from the edge of the pond.
Perfect.
I ripped the first stick of bread into tiny chunks and threw it out at the ducks. They all leapt and squabbled for the scraps. One tiny bird kept grabbing the largest chunks he could find, only to have his elder siblings rip them from his mouth. Finally, he got so sick of it he hopped up on the bench beside me and started pecking at the other loaf. I laughed at his antics.

When was the last time you laughed?
I asked myself, and a wave of sadness hit me. There hadn’t been much to laugh about lately. Ethan had taken my sense of humour when he took my bed linen and all of my Monty Python coffee mugs.

My body sagged with exhaustion. I was only twenty-three. I should have been backpacking through Cambodia, or following a death metal band around Germany, or getting my pilot’s license, or something equally frivolous and reckless. I thought again of my girlfriends, who were all pursuing their dreams with their dream men and having loads of fun. I had been working my arse off on my bakery dream of the last three years, and all I’d got for my efforts was a nightmare.

But what could I do? I still owed £15,000 on the credit card from Ethan’s spending, and at least double that to the HMRC. I couldn’t afford to hire anyone else. If I could somehow find the time to take on more catering jobs, I could replace some of the furniture Ethan stole. The shop was doing well, and as soon as I was out of debt, I could afford to ease up a little. But until then, I was trapped, and this tight, frightened feeling in my chest wasn’t going to go away.

I wished I didn’t feel so tired all the time, so stressed. Even when I collapsed into bed at night after twelve hours of non-stop work, I felt panicked, as though there were something more I should have done. I was too young to be tied to a job for 75 hours a week. But tied I was, thanks to my own stupid decisions.

My chest heaved, and I sucked in a couple of deep breaths, feeling a lump rise in my throat. I was dangerously close to bursting into tears.
Crying is pointless, Belinda. You’ve cried enough over Ethan already. It won’t get the bills paid and the debt wiped. All that will do that is hard work.

I buried my face in my hands, dragging my feet up to my knees as I desperately tried to get my emotions under control. As I did this, I knocked the second baguette off the bench. I peeked through my fingers, watching as it rolled across the grass, gaining momentum as it headed toward the lake. All my duck friends waddled after it, diving for the water as the roll fell in with a plop
.
The ducks swarmed around it, my presence instantly forgotten as they tore at the loaf.

So much for my company.

I pulled out the other paper bag, and took out a custard slice. I was getting sick of my own baking, and the habit of subsisting primarily on pastry was starting to show around my stomach. But today I was having a hard time coping, and the interaction with the biker in the shop this morning had left me feeling strange and sad. His handsome face flashed across my vision, that cheeky smile, those smouldering eyes that betrayed a hint of sadness and pain beyond their mischievous sparkle. How would it feel to be desired by a guy like that? What would it be like to kiss those lips, feel that stubble against my skin, the tendrils of his hair falling over my face?

And why did his attitude change so suddenly? Why was he flirty one moment, and intense and sad the next?

I shouldn’t even be thinking about him. He didn’t want me. Of course he didn’t. He’d made that perfectly clear. My cheeks burned at the memory of his remarks. He was probably still laughing about it as he drank Tennessee whiskey with his mates down at the pub. He could have any girl he wanted. Flirting was a game to him. And that wasn’t a game I wanted to play.

But that sadness in his eyes, the pain raw on his face ... it had flickered there for a moment, but I had seen it. He knew my pain, because he’d been hurt by someone, too.

What had he said? “You’ve been hurt badly.” Was it that obvious? Was Ethan’s betrayal written all over my face, the way the biker’s pain flickered over his?

I am not sweet, not even close.
Maybe I didn’t need someone sweet. Maybe what I needed was someone to fuck and forget, someone who could rid my head of all the painful memories of Ethan. Hot Biker could have done the trick, but he didn’t want someone like me, someone “sweet.” He probably wanted a succubus in leather.

The custard slice smelled so good.
What the hell. It’s not as if a little sugar can make things worse.

I took a big bite.

The creamy custard filled my mouth, exploding from the edges of the pastry and coating my hands. I’d forgotten how messy these things were. And how delicious. My custard was the proper homemade stuff, flavoured with real vanilla and a hint of lemon. It didn’t come from a Sainsbury’s packet mix, like other bakeries.

Croak, Croak!

Below me, I heard a strange squawk. At first I thought it must have been the ducks coming back to beg for a custardy dessert, but I could still hear them flapping about in the water as they tore apart the last of the baguette. Plus, this sounded nothing like a duck. It was more of a deep, throaty croak.

Croak! Croak! Crooooooak!

I heard it again, louder this time, more urgent. It sounded distressed. At first, I couldn’t see where the noise came from, but then I noticed a large black lump hiding between the twisted roots of the oak tree.

I set down my dinner and went over to investigate. As I leaned over the lump, its shape became clear. It was a raven. I’d never seen one of the huge black birds so close before, and it was even more beautiful than I imagined. It was huge, nearly the entire length of my arm, and covered in smooth feathers that appeared to be made of black silk. A frill of shaggy feathers around its throat and above its beak gave the bird a distinguished, regal air. There was a black ring around the top of its wing, almost like some kind of tag. Its long, curved black beak turned and it regarded me with a wide, watchful eye, then let out a tiny squeak, as if begging me to take pity on it.

“What’s wrong with you, beautiful?” I asked. The raven tried to lift its wing, but could only move it a tiny bit. It hung its head, squawking again as if to assure itself that I was a friend. It was then I noticed that the beautiful jet-black feathers around the wing were matted with blood.

“You poor thing,” I cooed, feeling foolish. As if the bird could hear me. But my voice seemed to calm it, for it hung its head again, and with a squawk of effort, lifted the edge of its wing to reveal its leg. I saw a nasty wound near the top of the thigh, a long gash that was oozing blood. Many feathers had fallen out, and those that hadn’t were snapped and coated with blood. It had clearly been attacked by something – a dog, perhaps? Sometimes people left their dogs off the leash in the park, even though the council signs prohibited it.

The bird blinked as its eyes followed my gaze, and it gave a sad
caw
. My heart broke to see such a beautiful creature in pain like that.
I can’t believe some bastard let his dog do this and then just walked away and left the raven to die.
Well, I wouldn’t leave the bird alone. I would do my good deed for the day, after all.

I glanced around me, but there was no one else in the park. Thinking quickly, I rushed back to the bench and grabbed the empty bread box. It would be a tight fit, but I might be able to get him (I was already thinking of the raven as a him, even though I knew nothing about raven anatomy) inside.

“Here you go, big guy.” The raven’s eyes followed me as I set the box down beside him. He didn’t try to move as I pushed my fists into the ends of my jumper, shoved my hands underneath his body, lifted him gingerly from the dirt and placed him in the box. His feathers felt soft and silky through my jumper. He looked up at me with pain-filled eyes, and let out a little squawk of thanks.

“C’mon, boy. Let’s get you out of here.” I ran back to the seat, picked up my bag and threw the rest of the custard square to the ducks, then hiked back across the grass with my bag under one arm, and a squawking raven under the other.

I wasn’t exactly sure what I was going to do with the raven, but I figured I’d get him back to my place first, and then figure out my next step. I should call the vet. Y
es, that’s a good idea. Vets know about all sorts of animals, including parrots and chickens. A raven should be similar to a chicken, right?

People gave me strange looks as I weaved through the streets with a large, croaking raven in a bread box. While I waited for the traffic light on Oxford Street to turn red so I could cross, I fumbled one-handed in my bag for my phone, and dialled the local vet.

He picked up on the second ring. I took a deep breath, not certain how I was going to explain. “Hi Barry, it’s Belinda Wu.”

“Oh, Belinda, hello! I haven’t seen you or Chairman Meow at the clinic for ages. I was meaning to tell you, those cat cupcakes you made for the RSPCA luncheon went down a treat. We’re sponsoring a dog show in a few weeks and I’d love to chat to you about—”

“Yes, yes, thank you. I can definitely work something out if you get Carol to call me with the details. Listen Barry, I’ve got a bit of an emergency, and it’s not the Chairman this time. I’m actually holding a raven.”

“A … raven?”

“Yeah, I’m on Oxford Street, and I’ve got a raven in a box.” My little black friend was becoming quite distressed with all the cars zooming past. His head whipped back and forth, and he started squawking loudly. A mother pushing a wailing baby in a pram glanced up at me with an odd look on her face. I gave her a shrug, as if we shared some kind of similar affliction, her with her baby and me with my corvid. The light turned red and I started walking slowly across the road, the phone pressed awkwardly between my ear and shoulder while I used both hands to steady the box. “I found him in Fauntelroy Park. Or her. I guess I don’t really know much about raven genders. His leg is quite badly damaged. Can I bring him in?”

“Sure.” Barry paused. “It’s after hours, so—”

My heart fell. I could barely afford a vet visit, let alone an after-hours visit. “Um, right. Well, could you maybe help me out just this once? This isn’t exactly my pet raven, you see—”

“Sorry, kid. I’m at home now, and Janice is pretty strict with the books these days, after everything that happened.” Barry used to be a client of AE Accountancy, the firm owned by Ethan’s friend Clive. So Barry had his own financial problems. “But I’ll tell you what, if you keep that bird alive until morning, I’ll come in twenty minutes early and see you first thing, and I won’t charge you for the full visit. How would that work?”

“That would be great, except I don’t know anything about nursing ravens.”

“Just clean up the wound and make the bird comfortable. And keep him away from Chairman Meow. Do you have any antiseptic—”

A car honked loudly. I jumped. The raven squawked in terror, and managed to free its second wing from the edge of the box. With a flap, it toppled over the side and landed on the road.

“That’s great, thanks Barry!” I yelped, and hung up. Heart pounding, I raced back across the road after the bird, dodging around the bonnet of a Fiat. I dived for the raven, but even with only one functioning wing, it was fast. Its silky feathers slipped through my fingers, and it hobbled back toward the park, heedless to the traffic trying to come around the corner.