Raven
Alison Paige
CHAPTER ONE
“This body’s dying, Morrigan. Make haste.” A snarl curled Morrigan’s upper lip, mimicking her master’s orders. She shifted against the cool stone of the tenant building’s roof, high above New Orleans’ busy night streets.
The Leshii demon ordered up a soul like he was calling for Chinese takeout. Fifty-one years and his detached superior attitude still ruffled her feathers. Morrigan sighed and rolled her shoulders, loosening the knot heating through her muscles. She’d be at this all night if she let her ire fester.
Hunting required focus, a tranquil mind and a steady bow. She closed her eyes, reaching deep within her to that eternal stillness, the dark well of energy inherent to her kind and the source of their power. Her mind touched the black quiet inside her and a cool rush of magic gushed up through her veins.
Morrigan’s frustration melted away, left her arms loose, her mind clear. She opened her eyes, scanned the crowded sidewalks below. Herds of people spilled into the streets, bumping shoulders, pressing and pushing against one another like mindless cattle. The sounds of laughter, boisterous conversation, car horns and idling engines were all muffled beneath the thundering roll of music echoing off bodies and buildings alike. The stench of stale beer and bodily fluids, having stewed in the hot New Orleans sun, wafted up to her.
She refused the vile aroma, allowing its notice to pass through her mind without pause or reaction. She hunted, her natural prey so easy to spot. The husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Upper-class, escaping their uptight, pristine world in the sinful city, indulging fantasies unfit for polite company.
They wore their vulnerability like a second skin, an irresistible call to her nature, their wealth, their security, their belief in the greater good all ripe for the taking. She swallowed against the sweet taste of prey, like maple syrup on the back of her tongue, and licked her lips.
Morrigan reached over her shoulder to the quiver she wore on her back and drew out one of the long arrows. Without thought or sight, she readied her bow, shifting up to one knee, pulling the string taut. They turned a corner, taking the less crowded side street, darker, fewer witnesses. So easy. Her belly fluttered, lower regions warmed, excitement tingling through her body.
The bowstring creaked next to her ear. She held firm—waiting. One strike each, rapid fire, and they’d both stand stupefied as she took what she wanted. Or maybe she’d convince them to bring her back to their hotel room, let her rifle through their belongings, take it all. They would. Her magic arrows turned humans into muted dummies, like dolls she could manipulate and abuse. Perfect prey. So easy.
She spotted the other one out of the corner of her eye. Morrigan’s gaze shifted to the opposite end of the street. Exhilaration fizzled like a flickering light, then winked out completely. Here was the prey she’d been sent after. What the master made her hunt. The body and soul he needed to survive.
The couple strolled past the dirty man, Mrs. Upper-class hugging her shoulder bag, Mr. Upper-class tucking his wife close, his other hand gripping his bulging fanny pack. Their pace quickened, eyes darting, watching the staggering indigent without staring. Polite to a fault. Fools. Neither of them possessed an ounce of instinct, both ignorant of what danger looked like, smelled like, felt like.
The bum wasn’t danger, Morrigan was. She was loss. Death was her wake, but not for them, not tonight. Morrigan was here for him. After tonight he’d be nothing, vanishing like cotton candy in her mouth.
Mr. and Mrs. Upper-class turned the corner and Morrigan opened her two fingers. The arrow was set free. Her bowstring twanged. The air parted in a whoosh of wind, her arrow hitting its mark with a muted thunk into his chest. She stood, waiting as the man stumbled back, his greasy salt-and-pepper hair curtaining his face as he stared at the arrow he could feel, but not see.
He lifted the edge of his threadbare flannel shirt, brushed his stained T-shirt underneath. His hand passed through the protruding arrow unaffected. He couldn’t remove an arrow he didn’t know was there. A Raven’s magic, once struck, is inescapable.
Morrigan unfurled her wings, hooking her bow on her belt at her hip. She stepped to the edge of the building and then stepped off. For a moment the Louisiana night felt blissfully cool against her skin, the air rushing by, tugging her long black hair from her face, caressing through the feathers of her wings.
Her feet touched pavement, silent as a cat on the prowl. She strode across the empty street to her prey, meeting his wide, worried eyes.
“I…I think I been shot,” the yellow-toothed man said.
Damn, she hated it when they spoke, reaching them before the magic took hold. She didn’t want to talk to them, didn’t want to hear their voice, see their spirit shining through their eyes. She didn’t want to see them alive.
Morrigan fisted his shirt collar, swallowing back the knot of pity choking at the back of her throat. “Shut up. You’re dead.”
The man’s watery, bloodshot eyes stretched wide, his bushy brows shooting high, shifting wrinkles from his cheeks to his forehead. “Am not. I ain’t dead. I ain’t.”
“Close your hole. You will be soon enough.” A good yank on his collar and the man stumbled behind her into the empty street. The sudden move pushed a cloud of stink ahead of him, body odor, hard liquor and human waste. Lord, did he even bother looking for a toilet before he gave up and pissed himself?
She wrinkled her nose against the pungent assault. At least the master would rid him of the stench…and everything else that made him who he was. Pity irritated through her chest again, stung her eyes, but Morrigan shoved it deep, stomped it down inside her where it couldn’t toy with her resolve.
“Are you…are you the angel of death?” the man tripped out of his left shoe as he struggled to find his footing beside her. The magic was taking hold. Finally.
She allowed her gaze to land on him, see him for who he was, the spirit that lived within. As prey there was nothing about him that appealed to her. He wasn’t wealthy, or key to the treasure of others. He wasn’t blind to the harsh realities of life. He was a harsh reality.
His capture wouldn’t benefit her or her family, wouldn’t feed them or provide shelter. He wouldn’t even be good for sport. He was no prey of hers.
His eyes met hers, blue, like the bottom of a swimming pool. The thought, the color, stuck in her mind. His skin was withered and wrinkled beyond its years, alcohol and exposure shaving decades from his life. He’d be taller than she was if he stood straight, long legs and arms, a broad chest and shoulders. His nose was blunt at the end and looked like he’d probably broken it at least once.
Beard stubble hid a square chin and high cheekbones, the man might be remotely attractive if he didn’t look like he’d been dragged through life on the back of a manure wagon.
He blinked, her magic seeping down to his bone. “Death?” he asked with his last ounce of will.
Morrigan smiled, knowing
