Raven (Legends Saga Book 2) (30 page)

Ridley

Spiraling
in an endless free fall, cast there by Young Rip’s hypnotic gaze. The earth itself swallowed Ireland whole, with the impending threat to belch her out at Lucifer’s door. Tortured wails trumpeted her arrival, welcoming her to the tavern of the damned. The monster within her squirmed and writhed, recognizing each and every howling voice as belonging to one of his victims. It was in that moment that Ireland fully comprehended the bitter truth; she was slotted to burn for
his
sins.

The space around her tapered in, like an enormous rabbit hole. The soil itself
expanded and contracted in eager pants at the infamous, long awaited arrival. Tufts of dirt exploded from the walls, stone and debris raining down from all sides, pushed out by clawed hands that punched their way through. Ashen, decayed flesh—cracked and oozing at the knuckles—grappled for her, hungry to tear off a pound of flesh in retribution for the lives the Horseman stole from them. Fighting back or fending them off never crossed Ireland’s mind. While most of the crimes that claimed their lives had
not
been hers, it was a just punishment for the fault she
did
own. Hoping for penance through martyrdom, Ireland spread her arms wide and leaned back into her free fall. Handfuls of hair, scraps of fabric, layers of skin: anything those talon-like hands could catch hold of was viciously ripped away. Raw thirst for vengeance tore away her mundane disguise, revealing the blue-lipped, veiny-faced monster beneath. She once thought herself tragically beautifully in the throes of her transformation—an intricate sugar skull come to life. The naivety of that was tragically laughable. There was no loveliness here. Only pretty petals meant to lure prey to a venomous flower.

Was it that
realization, or merely a coincidence of timing, that the ground picked that moment to swell and cradle her? The shrieking abruptly stopped. The hands dissipated into nothingness, leaving behind only the memory of their volatile touch. Ireland huddled in a heap on the floor. Her trembling, blood-streaked hands rubbed the length of her shivering arms. Twitching at the faint touch of her own hair tickling across the back of her neck, she flipped her head up, her gaze traveling one direction then the other.

Blackness
—as far as the eye could see. An all-consuming abyss where hope itself could not venture.

“H-hello?”
she called to no one. Fear cracked her words, advertising the vulnerability she could no longer hide behind a wry smile and quippy comment.

H
ot breath sizzled over her bare shoulder where her shirt had been torn away, a gruff voice whispering her name, “
Ireland
.”

Forcing herself up on wavering legs, she spun
at the sound to find … no one. Yet icy fingertips of dread, tapping up and down her spine, assured her she wasn’t alone. Covering her exposed chest with the remnant fabric of her shirt, Ireland turned in a slow circle. Her steps pulled up short at the unmistakable flutter of movement in the distance. An awkward stuttering beat seized her heart before launching the palpitating muscle into a jackhammer rhythm that pounded against her ribs. Self-preservation inched her back, her weary and battered muscles tensing to bolt.

“Ireland, don’t run,”
a familiar voice softly urged. Ireland’s breath caught as her father stepped from the shadows dressed in a three piece suit she thought he’d long since burned.

“Daddy?” Instinctively she
stepped closer, and paused. Her mouth opening and shutting, searching for the right question through the sea of them plaguing her. “W-where are we?”

Tipping his head,
Warren Crane fixed his handsome face into the stern mask he wore only when truly disappointed. “You
know
where we are, and what we have to do.” With no further explanation, he offered her his hand.

He was strength.

He was security.

He was her salvation from this dismal fate.

Believing those all to be stark facts, Ireland didn’t hesitate to curl her fingers around his. Gradually, he pulled her to him, his hand tightening around hers to the point of bone crushing pain.

Wincing
and recoiling, Ireland’s parched lips parted in a complaint she couldn’t force from her tongue. That hunk of pink, wriggly meat was rendered useless by one glance into her father’s eyes. The love that had always been there—no matter what juvenile atrocity she’d committed—was gone, replaced by frosty indifference.

Noticing her
hesitation, Warren closed the distance between them. His free hand grasped her upper arm, giving it a slight rub of comfort with his thumb. “My girl, once so sweet and loving.
What have you become
?” Wrenching both her arms behind her back, hatred morphed his face unrecognizable.

“Don’t talk to it,” a voice she would know anywhere snapped in here ear
. Ireland’s mother clasped her only daughter’s wrists and forced her back against a tall stake.

“Mommy, please!” Tears welled behind Ireland’s eyes, spilling down her cheeks and dripping from her chin. “It’s me!
It’s still me
!”

“My
daughter
,” Diana Crane explained, tying a thick rope around Ireland’s wrist and yanking it tight enough to dig valleys into her injured flesh, “died the very second that
thing
infected her.”

Task
complete, Diana joined her husband in front of the brush pile pedestal that slithered from the ground beneath Ireland’s bare and bleeding feet. The couple clasped hands, staring up at her like a lowly insect that must be squashed. The darkness churned behind them, taking the shape of more bodies: Noah, Ridley, Rip, and her assistant Amber. All people she cared for deeply, all peering up at her with open distain.

Noah stepped to the front of the crowd, sliding a stainless steel lighter from his front pocket. Holding it beneath hi
s chin, he sparked it to life, the orange glow casting eerie shadows over the sharp angles of his face. “Now, it’s time for
you
to die along with her.”

Ireland fought against the rope, rubbing her skin raw
. Noah casually flicked his wrist and cast the lighter onto the brush pile. The dry wood instantly ignited. Its fervent blaze snapping and crackling, ravenous for their offering. Flames licked up her legs, shooting flares of sparking delight high into the inky darkness. Ireland’s head fell back, a guttural scream of absolute agony tearing from her chest. Smoke burned down her esophagus, scorching her lungs. Through tearing eyes she watched the faces of those she loved disappear behind a wall of smoke and flame, her flesh blistering and bubbling from her bones while they watched. Thrashing. Struggling. Begging for the mercy of the end. For peace to finally descend.

Then, her eyes
snapped opened … to a fresh hell.

Heavy drops
drip, drip, dripping down in a steady stream. Their unforgiving splotch of gore pooled on Ireland’s shirt, soaking through the fabric to dampen her skin beneath. The second her eyes fluttered open a shocked yelp lodged in her throat. Blinking hard, she tried to change the truth staring back at her. It was no longer Young Rip that hovered over her, but Rip himself. Her guide. Her mentor.
Her friend
. With her sword buried to the hilt in his gut, its blood covered blade protruded from his back. The hand responsible for wielding such a strike? If circumstance was true … her own.

“
No! Rip, no!” Ireland pushed herself up to sitting, catching Rip’s head with her forearm as it lulled to the side. A trickle of blood escaped his parted lip, staining a pink stripe through his grey beard. Her sword bearing hand flitted like a nervous butterfly in desperate indecision over whether or not to attempt to pull out the blade.

“Leave it in,” Noah rasped,
dropping to his knee beside her. Light from the subway exit up ahead filtered in to reveal his complexion drained chalky white. “If you pull it out he’ll bleed to death in seconds.”

Ireland gather
ed Rip in the cradle of her arms, loosening her grip when he cringed at the jostling. “What happened? How did I—?”

“It wasn’t you,” Rip gurgled, blood s
plattering from his lips.

“Whatever that other Rip was doing to you, wherever he took you in your mind, it was killing you.” Noah raked a hand through his hair, his tone
rising and falling with audible self-loathing. “You were screaming … choking. I-I had no choice. Before it could get any worse, I tossed the cloak over you ...”

Ireland’s pulse thumped in her temples, misery squeezing her heart
and puncturing it with talons of truth.  “And invited the Hessian in,” she finished for him, rogue tears zigzagging down her cheeks.

“Your sword slid into your hand in that way it does.” Noah
’s brow pinched tight, his head shaking side to side as he struggled to make sense of any of this. “You moved so fast. One blink and it was buried in him.”

“
Why
? Why would I
ever
stab Rip?” Ireland posed the question more to the beast within her with blood soaked hands than anyone in the room.

Rip’s head twitched in
a meager attempt to deny her statement. “You … didn’t.”

A spark of hope flared in her chest, hungry for the right bite of air
to feed it into a flame. “I-I didn’t?”

“No.” A
bothersome lock of hair fell into Noah’s eyes that he moved with a flick of his head. “You stabbed the younger Rip. But, the very second the blade slipped in,” swallowing hard, he forced himself to spit the bitter words out, “they merged.”

And just like that Fate licked its thumb and pinched out Ireland’s
flickering match of hope.

“Then, this
is
on me.” Grinding her teeth to the point of pain, Ireland’s tear-blurred gaze wandered to the crimson soaked fabric that surrounded the base of the sword. A sudden idea snapped her head up. Pivoting her head one way then the other, she searched darkness. “Ridley! Where’s Ridley? If the worst happens—”

“No!” Rip snapped with
as stern a resolution as he could muster. “If it is my time, you have to let me go.”

“He sent him away,” Noah explained in a barely audible whisper. “Told him to go find help.
All we can do now is wait.”

“Like hell i
t is.” Shifting Rip off of her left arm, Ireland reached behind her to grasp her cloak that had slipped off when she sat up. “Help me throw this around my shoulders.”

“I know this is about more than a sudden chill.
You don’t call on
him
lightly.” Scooting closer to meet her request, the thick tread of Noah’s work boots scuffed across the floor. “So, what’s your plan?”

“I’
ll go Hessian, and Regen will come,” Ireland explained, adjusting the fabric as Noah swept it around her shoulders. “Then, you’re going to help me get Rip onto his back. We will gallop at proverbial balls-to-the-wall speed and get him help.”

“I’ve hung around you long enough to know there’s nothing proverbial about your balls
.” Noah’s head turned at the incoming thunder of hoofbeats. “You have a gigantic titanium set, but in this situation I don’t think it’s going to be enough.”

Un
raveling her arms from around him, Ireland examined Rip with a critical eye. “The most important element is going to be keeping his core steady.”

Rip’s pale lips parted to murmur, “Ireland.”

If she heard him, her mind was clicking away at too many decibels per minute for it to register. “If the blade jostles too much it’ll do more damage. Maybe you could take his head and shoulders, and I’ll take his legs? We’ll have to practically lift him over our heads to get him on Regen’s back, but it could—”

“Child,
stop
. Be still.” Rip’s attempt at a commanding tone was chased off by a powerful coughing fit that shook his slight frame and left him grimacing in pain.

Gently, Ireland rolled him to the side to help clear his airway
. Bloody phlegm bubbled from his lips, which he spat onto the ground. “I’ll be still once you’re up and around and weirding me out with your old guy antics.”