In the Land of Tea and Ravens Page 3

  She was broken. He knew that feeling. He understood that feeling.

  Lyric’s head rose, her eyes meeting his. “Run,” she commanded.

  He didn’t move. He realized abruptly that he wasn’t afraid. Fear was for people who had something to lose.

  He released the door, stumbling as he moved back into the room. Lyric’s eyes widened when he knelt on the floor before her, his hands finding her shoulders, as much for support as for comfort.

  “I think …” he panted, his pulse beating wildly. “I think I’ll stay.”

  ~4~

  Out of desperation, the Messenger King invited all of the eligible women in the kingdom to his palace. Each was presented to him, their beauty and talents taken into account. The poor merchant was beside himself with glee because he knew, without a doubt, that his two eldest daughters would catch the king’s eye …

  ~The Tea Girl~

  “What?” Lyric asked.

  She stared at Grayson, her hands coming up to rest over his on her shoulders. He was shaking, the effects of her connection to the tea much stronger on him than they were on her.

  She exhaled. “You can’t stay!” She could hear the panic in her voice, but he didn’t seem fazed by it.

  His stoic gaze searched hers. “Now, who’s afraid?” he asked.

  Her heart raced. “You don’t know what I am,” she hissed.

  He glanced down at the broken tea cup next to them. “You’re a tea girl.”

  She laughed, the sound harsh. Ravens surrounded them, their caws growing louder with her panicked laughter. “You don’t even know what that means!”

  His gaze found hers. “Then tell me.”

  It was she who pushed him away. She’d accused him of being afraid, but it was really she who was terrified. Utterly terrified.

  “You’ve got to go!” she insisted.

  Lifting the candle from the counter, she moved back through the house, her feet picking gingerly through newly broken furniture. Doors slammed above their heads. Spirits. They were warning her.

  Grayson followed, stumbling, his eyes going to the staircase. He could pretend he wasn’t afraid, but he flinched every time a door banged shut. Ravens circled the ceiling.

  “You’ve got to go!” Lyric repeated.

  Grayson stopped her on the porch, his hand gripping her arm. This grip was harder than the grip he’d had on her earlier. This grip was unsteady and baffled.

  Lyric peered up at him. “It’s just a dream. All of this is a dream,” she whispered.

  He stared at her. Even as confused as he was, he knew she was being insincere. “You’re lying.”

  She flinched and tugged on her arm. “Go home,” she told him. “This is just a dream.”

  Grayson’s grip tightened. “Why?” he asked. “Why did you take me in there and do what you did if you wanted me to forget it?”

  She froze. Why had she taken him there? Why had she exposed him to her life, to the sorrow it held? He didn’t deserve it.

  The tear on her face hadn’t moved. It remained on her cheek, a drying wet pebble in the breeze. She’d let him in because she had been lonely. Loneliness was a deceitful being who tricked people into doing things they should never do.

  Her gaze met his. There was heartbreak in her stare, a look so chillingly sad it made Grayson inhale sharply.

  “Leave,” she commanded. “Don’t come back, do you understand? There is nothing but grief here.”

  His gaze went to the house across the field, to his grandparents’ home. Behind him, doors continued to slam, louder and more aggressively.

  “I’d rather stay,” he whispered.

  The house behind him shook violently, the sound of weeping audible within. There was screaming, gulping cries, and grief-stricken wails sailing through the night sky.

  Lyric’s gaze went to the suffering home behind his shoulder.

  She wrenched her arm free of his grip. “Leave!” she cried. “Leave now!”

  A strong wind blew, the sound of cawing ravens so loud it deafened him. The ravens swooped, one of them catching him across the neck with its claw. It was a shallow cut, a warning cut.

  “Leave!” Lyric screamed.

  An army of ravens gathered, but it was the drying tear on Lyric’s cheek that made Grayson falter.

  His gaze went to the ravens. “I’ll go, but I’m coming back, do you understand?” Climbing down off of the porch, he watched as the ravens began to regroup and dive. There was nothing left for him to do except run.

  “I’m coming back,” he called.

  The words echoed, carried off by the wind. Why he’d made the promise, he had no idea. Something odd had happened within that house, something he should be afraid of, something he should stay away from. The girl was a stranger, and she was trouble.

  Damn her tear.

  Damn her sadness.

  Damn the heart wrenching guilt he’d seen on her face.

  It was the same guilt he carried, the same guilt etched on his skin, a scar that throbbed even now.

  The ravens chased him, their caws loud and frightening. They followed him until his feet touched the edge of his family’s property, and then suddenly they vanished.

  The slamming doors had stopped. The wailing had stopped.

  Everything had stopped.

  Even the bugs in the forest made no sound.

  The door to his grandparents’ house flung open, his grandmother’s figure resting against the golden halo of light within. Strange that—no matter how grown he was—seeing his grandmother standing firm in a doorway made him feel like a child again. Twenty-five years had given him too much pain. His grandmother was right. He was hiding, but there was a girl standing in a decaying house across an overgrown field who was hiding as well.

  A girl with a tear on her cheek.

  A girl surrounded by ravens.

  A girl who drank tea with the dead.

  ~5~

  The poor merchant’s eldest daughter had hair like spun gold, eyes as blue as the sky, and the voice of an angel. His middle child had midnight hair, eyes the color of emeralds, and the hands of an artist. His youngest daughter, however, had wild brown hair the color of mud and undecided eyes that changed from brown to green to blue. Worst of all, she had no talent. “She can make amazing tea,” his eldest daughter pointed out. But what use was there for tea?

  ~The Tea Girl~

  The morning brought the silent sound of loneliness, fading vestiges of haunting dreams that ate away at Grayson’s memory.

  An empty room … tea with the dead.

  Sitting up in his bed, he dragged his hand down a stubble-covered face. “Lyric,” he breathed.

  His only answer was the caw of a raven.

  “There’s breakfast waiting,” his grandmother called.

  Chattering voices rose from the floor below, Daniel Stevens’ raucous laughter met by Freddie Graham’s exasperated exclamations. The men had made themselves at home in the Kramer house, and as much as Grayson appreciated their presence, it also intruded on the solitude he’d imprisoned himself in. His self-contained prison.

  A quick shower brought him to life, but it didn’t stop the darkness permeating his soul. Tugging a clean white T-shirt over his head, he glanced out his window, his gaze finding the brooding home across the field. Even with blue skies and fluffy clouds dancing over a sun glazed earth, the house mourned.

  Damn her tears.

  “We need to go into town for hog feed and extra seed,” Daniel mumbled around a mouthful of food as Grayson descended the stairs.

  Town was another version of hell—whispered words behind fluttering hands, accusing glares, and giggling debutantes looking for a good time with a bad boy.

  Grayson rubbed his chest.

  “Indigestion?” his grandfather asked.

  Grabbing a few slices of bacon, he shook his head and gestured at the door. “We’re wasting time.”

  Freddie threw him a look. “We ain’t the ones who slept late.�
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  Mildred Kramer watched her grandson, her eyes raking Grayson’s shadowed face and red-rimmed eyes. “Go on with you, boys,” she chided. “Ain’t got no time for arguing.”

  They filed out of the house, boots stomping through dew-covered grass.

  Mildred’s wrinkled hand caught Grayson’s sleeve. “You still have a heart … a soul.” She patted his arm. “Remember that.”

  Grayson glanced at her, his gaze searching hers. She hadn’t remarked on his stumbling, dusty appearance in the yard the night before. He was glad of it, but he didn’t miss the rebuke in her eyes, the fear she wasn’t willing to voice. She knew where he’d gone.

  She suspected he was damned.

  “Let’s go!” Daniel hollered.

  The pickup truck he climbed into was old, the outside of it more rust now than it was paint, but it was a sturdy work vehicle and had been in the Kramer family for as far back as Grayson could remember.

  “This thing smells,” Freddie grumbled.

  They pulled away from the house, the wheels throwing up dust outside of rolled down windows, the breeze carrying away the scent of old grease and industrial products.

  Grayson’s gaze went to the Miller house in the distance, to the hanging shutters and vine-filled flower boxes. Ravens sat perched along the edge of the roof, their black, beady eyes following him. There was something strange about the birds.

  “That place freaks me out,” Daniel muttered, his gaze following Grayson’s. “I swear I heard wailing over there last night.”

  Freddie spun the wheel, taking a turn that took the house out of view. “Probably did.” He spat outside the window, his cheek working a wad of chewing tobacco. “Strange things happen at the Miller’s. It got worse after they hauled Old Ma’am away to a nursing home.”

  Grayson stared at him. “There was no family to get her?”

  Freddie shrugged. “There was somethin’ about the family being afraid to come home. Seems the old woman had responsibilities none of her kin wanted to be left with. No telling what. House ain’t nothin’ but a heap o’ bugs.

  Grayson glanced out the back window. Dust kicked up behind them, leaving behind tan clouds that rolled into fields of grass and corn. Blue skies met with fields of green. It was a pretty sight, albeit lonely.

  An empty room … a tea party with the dead …

  “You got some kind o’ interest in the place?” Freddie asked, his words breaking into Grayson’s erratic thoughts.

  Grayson faced the road ahead, his gaze taking in the way the dirt road eventually turned to asphalt. Freddie was young, but he was hard, his life having been more work than leisure. In the South, everyone had an accent, but some had a deeper one than others, and Freddie’s was often so deep it was incoherent. He was also blunt, preferring brusque candidness to silence.

  “No more interested than most,” Grayson mumbled.

  Freddie snorted. “There’s a lot o’ fear surroundin’ the women in that family. It’s a bunch o’ nonsense in my opinion. They ain’t no scarier than most women. All of ‘‘em scare the shit out o’ me.”

  Daniel chuckled. “Ain’t that the truth!”

  Freddie’s quip stirred up an entire monologue about women that carried them all the way into town.

  The town, which was nicknamed Hiccup, Mississippi—if you hiccupped, you missed it—because of its small size, was nothing more than a strip of shops set along a blacktop road in need of repair. Beyond the main strip was a Super Wal-Mart, and a historical district that housed the local courthouse and tax offices. A church steeple rose above it all, the older design testament to a simpler time when the building had served as everything: school, meeting house, church, and courthouse.

  Freddie pulled the truck to a stop just outside of a long, log-style building with a swinging sign that read, Dixie Feed and Farm Supply.

  Throwing the truck door open, Daniel stretched and groaned. “I’m hitting the sporting goods store while there’s time.”

  August was the hottest month in Mississippi. It turned the grass brown, threw wavering heat waves across the road, and heralded the start of hurricane season. It also stirred hunters into action, filling the stores with people excited about the upcoming dove and deer seasons.

  Freddie waved him on, his attention on the list in his hand. Grayson fell into step next to Daniel, his head down, his hands stuffed into his pockets.

  Amused, Daniel slapped him on the back. “I’d eat up the attention if I was you.”

  Grayson flinched. Notoriety was a tricky thing, often seductive but more often unwanted. Eyes followed them to Robert’s Sporting Goods, whispers easing down the street the same way a breeze would, hurried and full of heat.

  The jingling door and a blast of cool air met them at the store, the clean smell of new products and polish overwhelming. Murmurs circulated, a child cried out, and two men stood with guns braced against their shoulders, their eyes and fingers testing the rifles.

  “Y’all are lettin’ the cold air out,” Bridget Smith teased.

  The owner’s twenty-two-year-old daughter was a beautiful young blonde, her French-tipped nails flashing as she crossed the room. Conversation slowed.

  Daniel smiled, his teeth flashing. “Came to look at your bows.”

  Bridget’s gaze barely touched his before sliding to Grayson’s. “It’s been a while,” she murmured.

  Daniel took his leave then, a flash of sympathy crossing his features as he slunk away.

  Grayson glanced at Bridget. “I was in town last week.”

  She shrugged. “You know what I mean, Gray.”

  The look he gave her was hard. “Grayson,” he corrected.

  She didn’t have the decency to look abashed.

  The door jingled behind them, and Bridget’s gaze rose. Her features tightened, her eyes dropping to Grayson’s before moving once more to the door. Sidling past him, she called out, “Can I help you with something?”

  Her tone was cold, holding a threatening undercurrent that brought Grayson’s attention to the newcomer. His gaze crashed with Lyric Mason’s startling hazel eyes. A layered, colorful cotton skirt resembling a patchwork quilt hugged her hips, the garment offset by a light green tank top. Her curly hair was twisted at the back of her head, a dozen messy tendrils crowding her face. Faint, shadowed smudges painted the bottom of her eyes, her weariness the only sign of their late night rendezvous.

  “I’m just looking,” Lyric mumbled. Flip-flops slapped against the wooden floor as she moved past. Her floral scent caught Grayson off guard, throwing him back in time to a dark, termite-infested kitchen surrounded by ravens.

  “Stare too long, and she’ll suck your spirit dry,” Bridget fumed, her gaze darting between them.

  Grayson stiffened. “What’s up with this town and the Miller family?”

  Bridget laughed. “You haven’t heard?” Her gaze followed Lyric. “They’re murderers.”

  Grayson froze, the same disabling feeling of mutual understanding from the night before choking him. “Murderers?”

  Bridget snorted. “None of it proven, of course, but there’s been a lot of disappearances in that family. A lot of suicides, too.” She pointed at Lyric. “That one murdered her mother.”

  The murmuring in the store grew, barbed glances following Lyric as she disappeared into the store’s camping section. She didn’t look like a murderer, but then again, people rarely did.

  “They’re all going to hell,” a middle-aged Sandra Calhoun accused from a display nearby. “Every last one of ’em.” Her husband grunted, his gaze on a row of shotgun shells.

  It was unfair how life worked. Here was an entire family shadowed by shame while Grayson constantly fought off inquisitive female advances, his heart overridden with guilt.

  “Those are some heavy allegations,” he murmured.

  Bridget’s gaze searched his face. “So quick to defend her, aren’t you? Do you condone killing?”

  Grayson’s lashes lowered, shadowing his eye
s. “You forget, Bridget, I’m a murderer, too.”

  Gasps greeted his words as he sauntered away, his feet thudding down an aisle full of lanterns and bug spray. Lyric stood at the end, her figure bent and her fingers hidden beneath a stack of sleeping bags.

  For a moment, Grayson simply watched her, voices chasing each other in his head: They’re murderers. They’re going to hell. They’ll suck your spirit dry.

  “You can’t possibly be thinking of staying out at that house,” he said finally.

  Lyric paused but didn’t flinch. Her gaze slid up to his, and his breath hitched. The despair in her eyes held him captive.

  “You suggesting I stay in town?” she asked. Her gaze moved down the aisle to the furtive glances and suspicious glares beyond. “I’m thinking it’s safer in the country,” she added.

  Grayson placed his back between her and the storefront. “I’m thinking the days of tarring and feathering are long gone.”

  She straightened, her lips quirked. “Tell that to the town. I’ve been told there’s no room at the hotel.” She nodded at the sleeping bags. “I’m not planning to stay long, and I’ve roughed it before.”

  Grayson studied her. “Why stay at all?”

  “There are things left undone here,” she answered carefully. Grabbing a red sleeping bag, she attempted to move past him.

  His arm blocked her, his hand resting suddenly between her and the aisle beyond. “Tell me about last night, Lyric,” he whispered.

  Her gaze flashed to his, the startling fear in them almost more than he could bear. Maybe she was a witch. This pity and curiosity he felt had to be unnatural.

  “There was no last night,” she hissed.

  His eyes narrowed. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  She inhaled, her gaze falling to the tribal tattoo on his bicep. “You don’t want to do this.”

  There was something incredibly lonely about her words, as if she were both warning him away and begging him to stay.

  “You’ve heard what they’re saying, haven’t you?” she asked, her eyes finding his. “They’re right, you know. They’re absolutely right.”