In the Land of Tea and Ravens Read online

  If she was confessing to murder, she was confessing to the wrong person.

  He leaned close, his face near hers. “Then we’re both guilty of the same sin,” he whispered. “Maybe neither one of us is safe.”

  Surprise trapped her, tying her in place, her eyes glued to his. “I’ll suck your spirit dry,” she breathed.

  She was throwing Bridget’s words in his face.

  Grayson’s lips twisted. “What if I don’t have a soul?”

  Lyric frowned. “Oh, you have one.”

  “How would you know?”

  Her breath fanned his neck when she murmured, “Because only people with souls can hurt the way you do.”

  Taken aback, his arm fell. His gaze followed Lyric when she ducked past him, her skirt swaying. Its patchwork design clashed with the camouflage surrounding her and set her apart from the denim wearing customers milling around the store.

  Curious eyes met his and then slid away.

  Time stopped.

  Grayson was still standing next to the sleeping bags when Daniel found him later.

  “Staring at people isn’t going to help anything,” Daniel pointed out.

  Grayson scowled at the prying eyes and whispering gossips. “They need something better to do with their time.”

  Daniel laughed. “You’ve got to admit, it’s not every day there’s two people with so much suspicion surrounding them in the same town. Hell, it’s not every day those same two people are spied talkin’ like they’ve known each other for years.”

  Grayson’s gaze slid to Daniel’s face, to the hard glint of suspicion deep in the young man’s eyes.

  “I don’t know her,” Grayson murmured.

  Why he felt the need to defend himself, he didn’t know. The night before had changed him, the spontaneous tea party with the dead having tied him somehow to the girl from the old Miller house. The tea girl.

  He swallowed, his hand rubbing the faint claw mark on the back of his neck. “We need to get back.”

  Daniel shrugged and moved past him, leaving Grayson standing in the middle of the aisle surrounded by Lyric’s fading floral scent—honeysuckle and azalea combined with a hint of cinnamon.

  ~6~

  The day came when the merchant’s daughters were brought before the king. His eldest daughter, in her best white gown, enchanted the ruler with her voice, her singing like nothing he’d ever heard before. “Come,” the king commanded, “tell me your name.” The girl’s twinkling eyes met his. “Melody,” the girl replied …

  ~The Tea Girl~

  Death often leaves its mark on things, throwing shadows and pain and memories out into the world to settle like fallen leaves amidst the living. Each day, people walk amongst these leaves, stirring them up, and watching in wonder as they settle again. Each time they settle, they are different. More brittle. Thinner somehow.

  Old Ma’am’s house was like a brittle memory, having resettled again and again until there was nothing left but a leaf ready to turn to dust.

  Lyric Mason ambled through her grandmother’s home, her fingers trailing along old wood and decaying furniture. Everywhere there was death, its presence eating away at her spirit.

  Caw, caw, a bird called

  Her gaze swept up the living room wall to the ceiling. A row of ravens watched her.

  Caw, caw.

  More ravens perched in the trees beyond the house; their wings rustling and their angry chatter full of accusation as they fluttered from one branch to another. Still others nested in the empty bedrooms above, their movements loud in the tomb-like residence. So many ravens. So many years.

  Caw, caw.

  Trailing fingers ... lingering memories ...

  Lyric’s journey soon found her on the front porch, her gaze on the overgrown field separating the property from the Kramer residence. The blades of grass were swaying in the hot breeze. Blue skies stretched for miles, thin clouds touched by grey scurrying across the earth. Rain. There was rain on the air, the feel of it like thick hot water on the skin, leaving beads of condensation on the flesh before sinking into the bones.

  The rocking chair on the porch moved. Creak, the chair said. Creak.

  Lyric never spared it a glance.

  “You were never a subtle woman, Ma’am,” Lyric breathed.

  Creak, the chair answered. Creak.

  The spirits only spoke when offered tea. Otherwise, they simply hovered, their presence an eerie reminder of a time long forgotten.

  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

  A cup, a cup, a cup.

  A cup of tea, the raven called.

  A cup of tea, my maiden dear.

  A cup, a cup, a cup.

  A cup of tea. A cup of fear.

  Lyric sang, keeping her voice low, the tune dancing from her throat to the late afternoon sky. The ravens stilled.

  “Like a pied piper,” a voice hailed from the tree line. “Only you calm birds rather than entice mice.”

  Lyric froze, the song dying on her tongue. Grayson Kramer. The man was like an illness, an irritating tickle at the back of the throat that became a full-blown cough she couldn’t get rid of. She’d seen him just that morning, and yet here he was … again.

  “Come for more tea?” she asked. She didn’t have to see him to know he shuddered. A smile played with the corners of her lips.

  “Too hot for tea,” he answered.

  Ravens danced restlessly as he moved past them, his boots snapping over limbs and grass, their beady eyes trailing him to the bottom of the porch.

  He watched the birds, his eyes full of apprehension. “We can’t keep meeting this way, Ms. Mason,” Grayson teased.

  Her gaze fell to his. “Isn’t there work you need to be doing?” she prompted.

  He studied her, his blue eyes sharp and searching. They saw too much, those eyes.

  “Curiosity,” he said, “is like a disease, like leprosy. It eats away at the flesh until it leaves nothing but bone.”

  She snorted. “Funny, I was just thinking you were like a cold I don’t have a remedy for. Stubborn and put here to make me miserable.”

  His brows rose. “Well now, I’ve been described as a lot of things by women. Miserable ain’t one of them.”

  The chair on the porch creaked. Back and forth, it moved. Creak, the chair said. Creak. And then it stopped. The wind wasn’t strong enough to move it.

  Grayson eyed the wooden rocker. “Your ma’am?” he asked.

  Lyric’s gaze followed his. “Come now, don’t tell me you believe in ghosts?”

  The laugh that followed was low, his rumbling chuckle climbing up the back of Lyric’s spine to the hairs lining her neck. He had a nice laugh.

  “If you’d asked me that yesterday, I would have told you I didn’t.”

  “And now?” she queried.

  He didn’t answer her, his gaze traveling from her face to the house, his eyes finding the darkened interior and dancing birds.

  “You’ve got some strange pets ...” His words trailed off, the statement as much a question as it was a declaration.

  Lyric exhaled. “If I told you the ravens were family ...” Like his, her words trailed off.

  Again, the chair on the porch creaked.

  Grayson started, his hand finding the claw mark at the back of his neck. “Family?” His voice rang with disbelief, his gaze going to the ravens. “I’d say you have some strange relations.”

  She shrugged. “We all have our family skeletons.”

  Grayson’s gaze fell to hers. “They’re birds, Lyric.”

  Her lips twitched. “Yes, well … try telling them that.” Her smile grew, her finger lifting. “That one is Aunt Maude. Sh
e once had a thing for peanut butter. Ate a spoonful of it every night before she went to bed. Went straight to her hips. All of it. She still has a nasty obsession with it.”

  Grayson eyed the bird. “Peanut butter?”

  “Mmmm hmmm,” Lyric answered. Her finger drifted to another raven, a smaller one. “That one is Aunt Harriet. She has a flare for the dramatic, our Harriet. She was a vaudeville actress, beautiful and funny. Her act involved a boa, the feathered kind, and a broom, I think.”

  Grayson stared. “Vaudeville?” His gaze drifted to hers, his eyes full of sorrow. “Grief does strange things to people, Lyric,” he murmured.

  She laughed. “Ah, yes. Well, there’s a certain freedom to insanity. You should try it.”

  His eyes widened. “Do that again.”

  She froze. “What?”

  “Laugh.”

  Her gaze locked with his. “You think I’m insane, and you want me to laugh?”

  His eyes twinkled. “It didn’t stop you before.” He took a step toward her, his work boot landing heavily on the porch stairs. “I don’t think you’re insane. I think you’re a good storyteller with a raven problem. This house has been sitting empty too long.”

  Her brows arched. “A storyteller?” She shook her head. “Well, then, I have quite a lot of stories I could tell. They’re more outlandish when they’re true.”

  For a long moment he stared at her, his eyes searching hers. A shadow fell across his features, his gaze darting once more to the ravens.

  “You truly believe you’re related to birds?”

  She smiled sadly. “They’re not much to look at, true, but they have spirit.”

  The ravens’ wings fluttered, each of them cawing. The rocking chair creaked forward and back again, a lonely, low laugh traveling through the dilapidated house behind her.

  “Lyric—” Grayson began.

  She held her shoulders back, her eyes going cold. “I’m insane, remember?”

  The sun had begun to set, the clouds above gathering. The wind had picked up, the fading sun throwing beams of light in odd places.

  Grayson swallowed. “You can’t sleep here.”

  She stepped toward him. He should have backed away, but he didn’t.

  “I’m surrounded by family,” she whispered.

  His eyes rose to meet hers, the memory of the night before sweeping through him. A dark kitchen, slamming doors, and a surprisingly addictive tea. The ravens cawed.

  “I’m going crazy,” he mumbled.

  Lyric sighed. “We often have that effect on people.”

  He took another step up. “You’re not good for me, then.”

  She studied him. “You don’t know me well enough to know that. And you? Should I worry that you’ll murder me in the middle of the night?”

  The question was unfair, and she knew it.

  His eyes hardened. “I should go.”

  Her hands found her skirt, her fingers clenching the fabric. “Go then.”

  He didn’t leave.

  “I think,” he said after a moment, “I think I wouldn’t mind another cup of tea.”

  She stared. “You’re insane.”

  He finished climbing the stairs, his blue eyes peering down into hers. “That makes two of us, sweetheart.”

  The ravens screamed.

  “They don’t like you,” she whispered.

  His probing gaze sharpened. “I promised to come back.”

  It was as simple as that. A promise.

  “They don’t like you,” she repeated.

  He grinned. “It’s nothing compared to what I feel for them.”

  One of the ravens flew at him, but he didn’t move; its claws came dangerously close to his cheek before it ducked away. A black feather drifted downward, catching the sleeve of Grayson’s shirt before floating to the porch below.

  His eyes stayed locked on Lyric’s. “And that bird,” he asked, “who is he? Or she?”

  Lyric blinked. “She …” Her gaze flew to the darkening trees beyond. “She is my mother.”

  ~7~

  The merchant’s raven-haired middle daughter, attired in her best emerald gown, charmed the king with her ability to paint and draw. With swift strokes of her brush, she brought pictures to life, her images dancing off of the canvas. “Come,” the king commanded, as he had ordered her sister before her, “tell me your name.” The girl smiled demurely. “Charisma,” she answered.

  ~The Tea Girl~

  “This place is a tomb,” Grayson murmured, his gaze sliding over the walls of the living room, the twisted vines and broken glass. Old black and white photos hung lopsided on the walls, each one depicting a beautiful young woman with long, dark hair. She wasn’t smiling, but her eyes were happy, as if she’d felt something beautiful and was too afraid she’d lose it if she gave it life with her lips.

  Strangely, the house transformed each time Grayson saw it. From fear to desolation to sadness. Each step erased the terror he’d felt the night before and replaced it with an eerie acceptance that was just as frightening as the fear. If not more so.

  Lyric glanced at him. “No tomb,” she argued. “It’s … it’s a world.”

  She entered the house’s small kitchen, the same kitchen they’d shared tea in the night before. That moment seemed far away now, as if it had happened a week ago rather than a day.

  Grayson paused at the door, his gaze raking Lyric’s figure. There was something unique about her. Something loud and wild, unspoken but wordy.

  “No man’s land, then?” he asked.

  She threw him a look. “No man’s land?”

  He gestured at the house. “This world of yours … a no man’s land.”

  Her lips quirked. “A no man’s land,” she mumbled. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  The ravens from the yard followed them, their black eyes watching … waiting. Grayson stared back at them, his gaze searching theirs as they perched along the room. Doubt was an uncomfortable, queasy feeling.

  “You’re afraid,” Lyric accused.

  She was kneeling on the floor, hands submerged in a plain red backpack. It was a loud color for a dark room, like a splash of blood in the middle of a silent corpse.

  Grayson watched her. “I’m not afraid.”

  She pulled a tea kettle free of the bag before leaning over a portable butane one-burner stove she’d purchased at the sporting goods store earlier in the day.

  “Aren’t you?” she asked.

  Distracted, Grayson murmured, “What?”

  “Afraid,” Lyric said. Her gaze slid up to his, her eyes brown in the dim light. “There’s no fear in myth or lies, you know. But truth,” she inhaled, “there’s fear in truth because you can’t run away from it.”

  Grayson stared. “You’re trying to convince me you’re related to the birds, right?”

  She should have smiled then, but she didn’t. She met his stare with one of her own, a frankness about her gaze that startled him. She was talking as much about him as she was herself.

  “The scariest part,” she whispered, “is that you can’t control truth. Truth often controls you, and there’s nothing more terrifying than that.”

  Grayson’s chest throbbed, and he rubbed it. There was no real pain, of course, just the phantom memory of a pain that was far worse than any wound. Far worse than the lies he kept telling himself. Lyric was right. There was true terror in truth.

  Her gaze didn’t leave his. “It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, the wind whipping at your body. You look down, and you have two choices. Stand there and enjoy the beauty or take the plunge and jump. There’s no fear in the fall. The true fear is in knowing humans can’t fly. The true fear is in honesty.”

  Grayson swallowed, his heart rate climbing. “You are a witch!”

  Lyric laughed, the sound harsh, her chuckle met by cawing ravens. “No. There’s your myth again. Witches aren’t scary. I’m not a witch. I’m trapped. There’s my terrifying truth, Grayson Kramer.” Her gaze captur
ed his. “What’s yours?”

  He had no answer, the words stuck in places he dared not touch. He wanted to leave, but he couldn’t. There was nothing keeping him here, no spells or enchantments, nothing to keep him rooted to her tiny kitchen, to the decaying no man’s land. And yet, he couldn’t leave.

  She held up an empty tin cup. “Tea?” she asked, her brows arched.

  His gaze fell to the cup, to the slender fingers that held it. She wore a ring on her thumb, a simple ring, a plain silver band.

  The ravens in the room fluttered, throwing dust into the air.

  Grayson knelt across from her, his fingers touching hers as he accepted the mug. She started to release it, but he stopped her, his hand trapping hers.

  “I killed my brother,” he confessed. “I killed my sixteen-year-old brother.”

  She stared.

  “Try that for terrifying truth,” he added, his fingers tightening on hers.

  Lyric didn’t flinch, and she didn’t pull away. “There’s this thing about terrifying truth,” she said, her gaze searching his. “We often let it become too big. We often let it grow too much for us to bear. We can’t let it go because we’re afraid that if we release it, if we quit blaming ourselves, then we truly lose the ones we love.”

  Grayson’s heart pounded, his mouth growing dry. “Death would be easier,” he whispered.

  Lyric tugged her hand free, turning away from him long enough to drop a few strange-looking leaves into her kettle before twisting the top off of a sixteen ounce bottle of water. After pouring it into the tea pot, she turned the burner on and placed the kettle gently on the small stove.

  “Would it be?” she asked. The question startled him. “Death isn’t a release.” She settled across from him, her palms coming to rest on the floor, her legs out in front of her, and the skirt trapping her against the wood. “Death may stop things. It may freeze your time, but it doesn’t end anything. It just causes more pain, starts a whole new terrifying cycle of truth.”

  Grayson studied her, his brow furrowed. “What are you?”

  She gave him a half-smile. “A tea girl.”

  Her answer caused the ravens surrounding them to dance along their perches, throwing cawing accusations into the dark home. The light from outside was almost gone now, and Lyric reached for a kerosene lantern set off to the side of the door. Matches rested beside it. She struck one, and her face was lit by flame.