In the Land of Tea and Ravens Page 2

  He was about to turn away from the window when a sudden light winked at him.

  Gripping the casement frame, he leaned forward with his eyes narrowed.

  Again, the light winked at him, a flickering brightness that floated through the Miller house across the way.

  He froze.

  Ghosts, he thought. Surely not.

  The light climbed to the house’s second story, its radiance jumping from window to window until it paused directly across from him. In its luminosity, he caught a glimpse of a figure.

  Grayson Kramer didn’t believe in ghosts.

  Grabbing a pistol he kept tucked in the bedroom closet, he shoved it into the waistband of his jeans and made his way down the stairs. His grandparents were talking quietly in the kitchen beyond, the sound of dice falling to the table loud in the stillness. The distant droning of Wheel of Fortune played from a small television set they kept on the kitchen counter, the sound of the wheel spinning followed by wild clapping. Mildred and John Kramer had been playing Yahtzee and watching the game show every night for as long as he could remember.

  Sneaking out the front, Grayson stood on the porch, doubt beginning to crowd him. He was often too impulsive, making rash decisions that frequently ended in disaster.

  Like a moth to a flame, the light beyond the field drew him forward.

  Curiosity belongs to the damned.

  His booted feet found the grass beyond the porch, fireflies and mosquitoes circling him as he clomped across a worn path through the trees to the side of the field. It was even darker in the woods than it had been in the open, but Grayson wasn’t afraid of the dark. He was afraid of dreaming.

  Like a moth to a flame, the light beyond the field drew him ever forward.

  He was standing before the old Miller house before he’d even had time to consider the consequences.

  In the darkness, he heard singing, a smooth second soprano that wrapped him in warmth.

  Sing to me, called the maid.

  Smile for me, replied the raven.

  But I cannot smile, the maid wept.

  Then I cannot sing, the raven replied.

  To the sky, to the mountain, to the sea.

  The bird flew.

  To the planes, to the future, to the past.

  The maid withdrew …

  Grayson’s foot touched the first porch step, and the singing ground to a halt. Through the broken windows, a light bounced frantically, throwing shadows against fabric-covered furniture and decaying vegetation.

  It was a candle. The light was a candle.

  “Who are you?” Grayson called.

  There was no response.

  Grayson Kramer didn’t believe in ghosts.

  He climbed another step. Something within the house shattered.

  “I’m armed!” Grayson cried. He pulled the pistol clear of his jeans, his thumb going to the safety.

  The light within the house froze, and then extinguished.

  Grayson clicked off the safety. “Show yourself and I won’t hurt you.”

  For a long moment, there was nothing except silence … silence and crickets and frogs.

  The light returned, glowing suddenly only a few feet in front of him, the flickering flame highlighting a face within the house’s open front door.

  It was disconcerting, the swift illumination, and Grayson stumbled backward, his gun rising with his finger hovering just above the trigger.

  Hazel eyes stared at him. Hazel, familiar eyes. Doe-like, soulful eyes.

  The gun lowered. “What are you doing?” Grayson breathed.

  His voice was no more than a whisper, his gaze crashing with hers. Her hair was curly tonight, dark and alive around her visage, making her face appear so much smaller than it had earlier in the day. Her eyes made up most of her countenance. They were large, bottomless eyes.

  She stared. “This is my family’s home,” she answered, also in a whisper.

  Grayson clicked the safety on his pistol before stuffing it back into the waistband of his jeans. “It’s dark,” he said, his voice rising, “and this house isn’t safe.”

  Lyric Mason stepped from the shadows, her shaking hand lowering the candle she carried before setting it on the table beside the rocking chair on the porch. Other than the small flickering flame from the wick, there was nothing except darkness. It cloaked them.

  “Safe or no, I have every right to be here,” Lyric said firmly. She swallowed hard, her fist clenching.

  Grayson studied her. The shadows hid too much, but it didn’t hide the sadness that lined her forehead, the grief that pulled at her lips. It tugged at him. There was something familiar about the way she carried herself.

  Lyric’s gaze rose, her eyes finding Grayson’s. “You’re trespassing,” she muttered.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the lit up house across the field before turning back to her, his gaze raking her flame-hued figure. The light from the candle seemed to dance in her pupils.

  “I’m beginning to think you are a ghost,” he said, his gaze flicking to the candle. “No one carries those anymore.” He gestured at the house behind her. “Wouldn’t a flashlight work better?”

  Her lips tightened. “It might.”

  It was all she said. Maybe it was the location that made the girl more intriguing, a decaying home in the middle of the night cloaked in candlelight. Maybe it was her silence, this reluctance to explain herself. Or maybe it was simply the girl herself, her wild hair, sad, stubborn eyes, and enchanting voice, but he was intrigued.

  “You’re trespassing,” she repeated.

  Grayson flung his arms wide. “Then make me leave.”

  The challenge hung heavy between them.

  Lyric gripped the top of the peeling rocking chair, her hands curled around the wood and her jaw clenched.

  The man really was handsome, in a misguided, ruffled kind of way. He had the kind of solid, broad build that came from labor, his skin darkened by lengthy exposure to the sun. But it was his eyes that captured her attention. There was a story there, one she couldn’t risk getting involved in.

  Bending low to blow out the candle, she whispered, “I was just going.”

  A hand stopped her, a strong hand with long fingers that fell between her and the burning wick. His other hand gripped her wrist.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “A girl carrying a candle through a house in the middle of the night isn’t here because her family owns the place. This house was foreclosed a long time ago. I’m not the only one trespassing.”

  There was nothing dangerous about his grip. It wasn’t bruising or hard, but it was full of a curiosity she wasn’t willing to assuage.

  Straightening, her gaze flicked from his face to the house. “It looks better in the dark,” she admitted. “Less …” She inhaled. “Less deadly … less full of death.”

  His gaze followed hers. “I take it you aren’t afraid of the dark. For most, it would make it more intimidating. Not less.”

  Her lips twitched. “Only because they don’t know what it looked like before.”

  He wasn’t sure why he asked the next question. Maybe it was the way her eyes lit up, the way the lines of her face softened at the memory. “What did it look like?” he whispered. “Before?”

  Her face was like an open window with the shutters suddenly pulled closed. It shut down, barring him entry. It shouldn’t bother him. He didn’t know this woman.

  “I’d really prefer if you left now,” she demanded.

  Grayson glanced into the fields beyond the house. “I can’t do that.” He nodded at the night. “Call it chivalry if you’d like, but it truly isn’t a good idea for a girl to be out here alone.”

  She laughed. “It’s curiosity, you mean.” Her gaze slammed into his. “I’m safer here than you know. There isn’t a soul who’d dare come here.”

  His grandmother’s words came back to haunt him. You stay away. They’ll strip your soul bare and leave you to the devil, she’d said.
Lyric Mason didn’t look like a minion of hell. If anything, she looked like a scared child in a woman’s body pretending to be braver than the world.

  “Humor me,” Grayson said, leaning closer, “and call it chivalry.”

  There was a sharpness to his gaze that made Lyric reel backward. Again, it wasn’t danger she felt from him. It was something a lot more stirring than danger; it was understanding.

  “You don’t want to be here,” she warned, moving so that the rocking chair separated them.

  His gaze was unflinching when it met hers. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  She sighed, defeat loud in her exhale. “Then there’s nothing to do about it except ask you to join me.”

  Grayson laughed. “Join you?” He glanced once more at the house. “For what?”

  The answer she gave him didn’t just startle him, it chilled him.

  “For tea,” she murmured.

  The invitation floated from her mouth to the breeze. Tea, it echoed.

  Tea, the dark repeated.

  ~3~

  The kingdom was in trouble. As a province without a direct heir, the realm was promised to a distant cousin who ruled a kingdom of his own. This cousin’s kingdom was in chaos, its people hungry and afraid. The king, or the Messenger King as he was often referred, wasn’t willing to subject his people to his despotic cousin. He needed an heir, and in order to get an heir, he needed a wife …

  ~The Tea Girl~

  “Tea?” Grayson asked incredulously. “Here? Now?”

  He was beginning to rethink more than just his ghost theory. She may be real, but the girl was clearly insane.

  Lyric stiffened. “You can always leave,” she answered.

  He stared, a long, loud moment full of too many questions passing between them.

  “No,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t even think of going now.”

  There was a hint of hilarity to his tone, an implication of amusement that poked fun at the girl.

  She lifted the candle, and wax slid from the top down the sides, leaving trails of hardened tears in its wake. “Curiosity …” she murmured.

  Turning, she led him into the house.

  “Chivalry,” he corrected, his gaze searching as he followed her.

  The house was something out of a horror movie, a shadowed mass of white cloaked figures, peeling paint, and too many dark corners. Dirt-crusted mirrors stared at him, and a winding staircase with a gaping hole in the railing sneered. Dry leaves and pine straw cracked beneath his feet, and tiny claws scurried along the walls.

  Lyric wore another skirt, this one a deep red and ruffled, like blood in the middle of a dying structure.

  Grayson’s fingers played with the gun at his waist.

  Lyric glanced behind her, her eyes falling to his hand. “Guns can’t kill ghosts, Mr. Kramer.”

  He snorted. “I think we’ve established you’re as much flesh and blood as I am, Lyric. This isn’t some historical fiction. I’m Grayson, not Mr. Kramer.”

  “Hmmm …” she mused. “Do you like tea, Grayson?”

  He glared at her back. “When it’s served cold in a glass, in something other than a house from a Stephen King novel. In a place that’s not full of dirt and possible disease.”

  Again she glanced at him. “Afraid?”

  They left the white-cloaked living room behind, their loud, crackling steps moving to a small room at the back of the house. This room was completely bare, the floor swept clean, the cupboards dusted and dirt-free. Gleaming porcelain mugs filled it. There was an empty space where a stove must have sat once, the floor scarred by the appliance, but now an iron fire pot rested in its place, a metal tea kettle hanging above it. A box of matches rested on the counter next to it.

  Grayson’s gaze moved between the fire pot and Lyric. “Are you serious?”

  A small smile touched her lips. “There’s no better way to speak to the dead than to share a cup of tea with the deceased.”

  He should have been filled with horror, but instead a sick fascination with the woman next to him filled his blood. Her words were too sane, too unhurried, and too confident, as if tea with the dead wasn’t unusual or terrifying.

  Placing the candle on the counter, she picked up the matchbox. The sound of a match scratching the striking surface was eerie and loud, the smell of sulfur tickling Grayson’s nose as the red phosphorus quickly turned into white phosphorus and burst into flame, highlighting Lyric’s face briefly before she threw it into the pot. The wood caught fire immediately, the room filling with smoke before exiting out of gaping windows and an open doorway not far from where they stood.

  There was no doubt she’d prepped the wood ahead of time.

  “You could catch the house on fire,” Grayson warned.

  Lyric glanced at him. “There’s isn’t enough wood in the pit, and it won’t burn long enough for that.” Her gaze moved to a bucket of water near the pot. “I just need it long enough to heat the tea. I boiled it before I came here, and it’s been steeping a while, but it’s better taken warm.”

  Smoke continued to filter through the room, its pungent odor almost drowning out the woodsy scent that floated on the breeze. Cinnamon and wood.

  Using a long iron hook, Lyric lifted the tea kettle and lowered it over the fire. Perspiration caused the hair at her temple to curl in on itself. The dark strands were distracting, like tiny snakes seeking comfort in her hairline.

  “My grandmother had this hook made,” she said softly.

  Grayson watched her for several minutes, his hands pulling at his T-shirt, the fire making the already warm night even warmer.

  She lifted the kettle from the flames and nodded at the bucket of water. “Can you pour that into the pit?”

  Grayson obeyed simply because he was too fascinated not to, his curiosity more than piqued.

  “Is this like a séance? Tea with your dead grandmother?” he asked.

  The loud hiss of the fire extinguishing was followed by more smoke and perceptive silence.

  Lyric lowered the kettle to the floor before leaning the hook against the wall. Grabbing two teacups from the cupboard, she dropped to her knees near the kettle.

  She waved at the space across from her. “It’s just tea,” she murmured.

  Grayson sat across from her, one leg out, the other bent so that his arm rested across his knee. “Why do I feel damned by those words?” he asked.

  Lyric watched him from beneath lowered lashes. She’d expected him to run, but he hadn’t. She wasn’t sure if that was comforting or foreboding.

  Lifting one of the cups, she filled it halfway and handed it to him.

  “It’s an acquired taste,” Lyric warned.

  She filled her own cup, her gaze moving over his face as she rested the porcelain against her lips. Her nostrils filled with the woodsy, cinnamon scent.

  Grayson’s eyes narrowed, his gaze staying locked to hers as he lifted the cup.

  They drank the tea together.

  Grayson coughed. “What is this?”

  Lyric smiled. It was a pretty smile, and it transformed her, marking her with a beauty he’d overlooked before. Her skin was a yellow-orange in the candlelight, but it didn’t take away from the smile.

  “White willow bark with cinnamon,” Lyric answered. “It’s a healing tea. For pain mostly, but it’s also known to make it easier for people like me to see things.”

  Grayson stared, her words sinking in. “People like you?”

  She shrugged. “A tea girl.”

  Another long swallow of the woodsy liquid and he placed the cup on the floor. “A tea girl?” He leaned forward. “Are you a witch?”

  She laughed, the sound as beautiful as her singing.

  The room felt wrong all of a sudden, as if it were no longer level, the floor pitched at an odd angle.

  “No witch,” she said. “There are witches, I’m sure, but my family descends from a line much older than that. Do you believe in sorcery?”

  The ro
om was definitely uneven, the air thick and close.

  Grayson clawed at his throat. “There was something in that tea,” he accused.

  Lyric reached for him. “No,” she said. “What you are experiencing is normal for people associated with women like me. If you’d drunk the tea alone, you would feel nothing but comfort, but you drank it with me, and tea speaks to me.”

  Somewhere in the house, a rusty-hinged door slammed shut. Dust rained down on them. Along empty hallways, running footsteps sounded. Outside, birds screamed, an awful cawing that went on and on. Wings rustled, a group of black ravens suddenly flying through the windows to perch along the room.

  Slamming doors, footsteps, and the screaming caw of birds.

  Grayson crawled backwards, his fingers kneading his forehead, his eyes wide with horror. His gaze found Lyric’s, but she was staring at something behind his head. A low female voice floated on the night breeze, the sound almost musical amongst the cawing ravens.

  “Protect the cup. Protect it …”

  As the voice faded, Lyric’s shoulders slumped.

  A dejected kind of forlorn grief settled along her face. “Protect the cup,” she murmured.

  Doors continued to slam, dust falling. Termites flew.

  Lyric’s head lifted. “You can run now,” she said.

  Grayson stood, his blood filled with fear, the ravens’ eyes tracking him as he backed toward the doorway.

  It was the tear on Lyric’s cheek that stopped him. It was a single tear, the liquid having left a track in the dust from her eye to her cheekbone. There, it froze, as if someone had taken a remote control and punched “pause”. A single tear, and a pair of thin, slumped shoulders.

  Grayson’s hand gripped the kitchen’s door frame, the forest beyond calling to him. He knew those woods. Those woods were safer than this house.

  He didn’t move. The scar on his chest throbbed.

  In his haste to escape, he’d stepped on the porcelain cup Lyric had offered him. It sat in two large pieces on the floor, and his gaze fell to it.

  In that moment, Grayson suddenly realized why he was drawn to her, why he was captivated, not by Lyric’s beauty, but by her eyes.