In the Land of Tea and Ravens Page 9

  Violet cawed, insulted. I did not!

  “I’ve heard the stories, Aunt Vi.”

  She’s right, Violet, a raven called down.

  Lyric believed it would have been different if the cup made the women in her family immortal and powerful, but there was no such thing as immortality. There was only the world and the spirits that made up the world. Those spirits could be manipulated, as with the cup, but not changed. It would have been heady to be immortal with the powers to truly drive men insane. Like modern day sirens. Instead, they were simply mortals who could have mortal illnesses and die mortal deaths but never truly die. They were forever tied to a tea cup. Men weren’t driven insane by their beauty or by some mysterious power. They were driven insane because living with someone who could die at any moment was like living with a terminally ill person.

  Dust choked Lyric as she lifted the trunk’s lid, the scrabbling sound of claws causing her to stumble backward.

  A raven screamed and dove before rising, a mouse dangling from its claws.

  Lyric fought back nausea.

  You’ll have to eat them one day, the raven pointed out.

  Revolted, Lyric shuddered before approaching the trunk more slowly, her lantern lifting. A yellowed wedding dress and stacks of photo albums stared back at her. Swaddling clothes, cloth diapers, and childhood crafts sat beneath the dress. They were Lyric’s.

  A raven cawed, and Lyric glanced up at her, her heart clenching.

  “Mine?” Lyric asked.

  She knew who the clothes and crafts belonged to, but she wanted so badly to hear the bird speak, so badly to hear the voice she hadn’t heard since she was seven. There was no reply.

  I see it, a bird cried.

  Lyric’s gaze left the raven and fell back to the trunk. There, beneath an old fractured tea set, sat a bound leather journal, the cover cracked and index cards falling out of the sides. Old Ma’am’s tea book.

  It’s been so long, a bird murmured. This raven seemed older somehow than the rest, even though she was the youngest in death. I couldn’t remember …

  “Ma’am,” Lyric whispered, “it’s okay.”

  Old Ma’am had passed, as they all had, into the guise of a raven in death. Sometimes in the transition, minor memories were lost. The tea book had been one of those memories.

  Lyric lifted it reverently from the trunk, her breath whooshing as she blew at the dust. Like a cloud of ash and death, the dust scattered. There wasn’t anything special about the book, nothing that an ordinary woman would find enthralling, but Lyric wasn’t ordinary.

  Pulling open the cover, Lyric let her fingers slide over the tea recipes, the old tea girl story, and the Raven’s Song that lay within. The tea book was their history. It was like a patchwork quilt with tea recipes dating back to the days of the original tea girl. Holding it, Lyric realized something … she wasn’t ashamed of her family’s history. It was a dark history, but it was also filled with good moments, with Southern nights and days sitting at her grandmother’s knee sipping tea.

  Every moment counts, Lyric thought. She glanced up at the silent raven, the one who never spoke to her. It was the one part of her life that had always haunted her, the one bird she was as afraid to hear speak as she was eager. Because if she was being honest with herself, she was afraid of the raven’s scorn.

  Lyric clutched the book to her chest, her heart somehow lighter. Days of searching, and she had them both, the tea book and the cup. Old Ma’am had left them for her. Lyric was their protector now, despite the fact that her mother had been the true tea girl. It has passed to Lyric when her mother vanished. She hadn’t been ready for it then, but she was now. She had to be.

  She glanced up at the ravens, her gaze scanning the house. The home had fallen into disrepair long before Old Ma’am was taken to a nursing home. There’d been no money when Lyric was a child for Old Ma’am to keep it up. There’d only been enough money to make the house payments. It seemed wrong that it was the way it was now, a dying house, a dying property, and a dying history. Lyric had made two mistakes in her life. The first had been killing her mother. The second had been running away. She’d chosen to go live with a distant aunt when she was thirteen, completely distancing herself from the house, her grandmother, and her own guilt.

  “Why?” Lyric asked suddenly. “Why me, Ma’am? I deserve it less than anyone else in this family.”

  A raven fluttered downward, its soot-colored wings eerie in the lantern light. It’s often the people who deserve it less who come to appreciate it the most.

  Lyric’s hand reached for the bird, but the raven shied away. That was the thing about the birds. They were her family, but their spirits were as much ravens as they were the women they’d been before. They were wild.

  Protect the cup, Lyric, Old Ma’am said. You’ll know when to pass it down.

  Lyric inhaled. She’d found the tea book, and she had the cup. There was no reason to remain in Hiccup.

  Somehow, her feet found the room’s window, her gaze flying to the Kramer house. There, opposite her, was his shadow, this hurting man looking for absolution. He’d never find it because life didn’t work that way.

  You can’t stay, a raven called.

  It was Aunt Violet. She was an obstinate woman who’d died in the Miller fields with Grayson’s Uncle Polie. The gun he’d used to shoot Violet and himself was lying in the trunk tucked within the yellowed wedding dress. Lyric had no doubt both Polie and Violet had been a little deranged. The family’s tie to the tea cup had been too much for both of them. They were a legend in Hiccup now, a Southern Romeo and Juliet. Violet’s love had driven Polie insane, and he’d taken both of their lives to save them. It was a bunch of crock. True love didn’t end in misery. True love survived it.

  Lyric stared at Grayson’s shadow, her gaze rising to a full moon hanging above the wilted corn fields. The light from the moon painted the pastures silver, casting them in an eerie glow that was as beautiful as it was terrifying. It was an analogy to life really. Taking a step forward or making a decision about something was often as scary as it was wonderful. The thrilling part was in the not knowing if it was the right choice or the wrong one. Paths should be trampled in laughter and tears. They shouldn’t be stared at it until they were overgrown from disuse.

  Lyric’s hand lifted, the lantern rising. Across from her, Grayson’s shadow straightened.

  You promised, Lyric thought.

  She turned, her feet carrying her from the dust-covered room to the fields below.

  In the window across the way, Grayson’s shadow disappeared.

  ~17~

  There is this thing about tea. There’s always more than one way to take it. You can drink it hot or cold, strong or weak, and for pleasure or for comfort. You can tell a lot about a person by the way they take their tea. You can tell a lot about a woman by the way she makes it. You can tell even more about a man by the way he accepts it.

  ~The Tea Girl~

  The wilted corn slapped against his jeans as Grayson sauntered through the field, the moon throwing light over everything. Rusted cars and old sheds peered at him through the darkness, a testament to days gone by. It was the story of the South. Here, people were often as reluctant to let go of the past as they were to move quickly forward through life.

  Where are you? Grayson thought.

  He’d been watching Lyric for days, his mind toiling over everything he’d learned about her and her family. If he was being honest, it had been toiling as much over what he’d learned about himself through her as it had her past.

  “Tell me something,” Grayson called out into the night. “Why is it I’m suddenly obsessed with tea?”

  There was laughter amongst the stalks and a flash of a tiered skirt. Everything was silver. Silver and darkness and strange secrets. There was life and no time to live it. There was heavy responsibility and guilt. There was shame and regret. There was need and passion. All painted silver.

  There was wind and du
st and death.

  “Because tea is intimate,” Lyric answered.

  He saw her skirt before he saw her face, the tiered fabric was an unknown color in the darkness, her hair black, skin pale, and eyes colorless.

  He froze, a row of stalks between them. “Intimate?”

  She stared at him, her gaze traveling worn jeans and a hastily thrown on white tank. He seemed taller somehow in the darkness, broader and more scarred.

  Her hand captured a corn stalk, her fingers moving over the fragile plant. “It takes time to make tea. There’s a process to it. It isn’t hard, but the way it tastes is all about the way you make it, about what you’re willing to put in it.”

  He was closer to her now, his hand finding the corn stalk she held, his fingers wrapping around hers on the plant. Lyric was beautiful, not because she was classically pretty, but because there was often beauty in struggle.

  She stared at his hand on hers, her chest rising and falling too quickly. He could almost see her pulse jumping in her neck. “There’s no way to take this slow is there?”

  He smiled. “Going slow means having time to think. Do you want to think?”

  Her gaze captured his. They were both so complicated, like a mix of tea and alcohol. Smooth, but with a bite. Like a forbidden entrance sign that tempted a person to enter. A red button no one should press, but that needed to be figured out.

  “How long have I known you? A week maybe?” Sighing, she whispered, “My head’s telling me to leave.”

  Grayson stared. “And the rest of you?” he asked. “What’s it telling you to do?”

  She was on the tips of her toes, her free hand on his face before she had time to think, her fingers brushing the stubble that he always seemed to have covering his jaw. It was sharp and uncomfortable; it suited Grayson.

  Their hands remained entwined on the cornstalk, the bite of the plant a stark reminder of where they were.

  Lyric’s mouth sat just below his, her lips full and glowing in the moonlight. Grayson stared down at them. Their panting breaths mingled in the warm night. She smelled like tea, like cinnamon and earth. He smelled like wood smoke and mouthwash.

  “There’s no taking this slow,” he growled.

  His lips captured hers, the pressure both pleasant and startling. Like fire on gas coated logs. It was more heat than either of them could handle. They were working on borrowed time. He knew it, and she knew it.

  Tea and fire; darkness and time.

  Somewhere behind them, ravens screamed.

  Together, they released the cornstalk, Grayson’s hands coming up to cradle Lyric’s face, his fingers pressing into her flesh. Her hands fell to his shirt, her fingers digging under the fabric to slide up his skin and her lips opening under his. Their tongues tangled, dancing a desperate, searching dance with no rhythm. Chests rose and fell.

  Lyric’s hands found Grayson’s scar, her fingers tracing it from his breast to his collarbone, leaving sparks in their wake.

  He pulled back, his gaze capturing hers. Her eyes were wide, wild, and completely unguarded.

  “Shit, Lyric,” he said.

  After ripping his tank off, Grayson gripped her suddenly by the waist, lifting her. Her skirt rode up as her legs slid around his hips, and his hands fell to her backside, his fingers bunching in her skirt. Her hands came up to grip his face, her gaze locked to his.

  They were surrounded by dying plants and a night sky full of cawing ravens, a decaying house in the background.

  “You’ve got one chance to tell me no,” Grayson said.

  He was walking with her to the edge of the field, to the softer grass below the old oak tree.

  “Tell me no, Lyric,” he insisted.

  She stared at him as he lowered her to the ground, her hands remaining on his face. “Yes,” she breathed.

  He laughed, his hand falling to the back of her head to cradle it, her wild hair tangling around his fingers. “Damn it. Do you ever do anything the way you’re supposed to?”

  Her eyes were solemn as they searched his. “I’m letting go,” she whispered.

  His smile vanished, his hand tightening on the back of her head, his other hand riding up her bare leg beneath her skirt. “What are you doing to me?” he asked.

  His fingers found her thighs, and she arched against him, her eyes never leaving his. There are a lot of different ways to have sex. There are fewer ways to have conversations with little more than hands, lips, and eyes.

  Grayson had had sex. This was something else.

  Lyric’s gaze was raw, her face an intricate, intense story. His fingers played softly over parts of her body he doubted she’d shared with anyone else. His gaze remained riveted to her face, to the way the moonlight played over her features.

  Her hands found the waistband of his jeans, her fingers struggling with the zipper. It was awkward, but it wasn’t.

  Breaths. Chests rising and falling. Lips parting. Touches full of fire. They were shadows in the night, dancing and moving, inhaling and exhaling.

  He didn’t enter her; he didn’t have to. Tonight wasn’t about sex, it was about touch. His touch against her. Her touch against him.

  His lips crushed hers, capturing her gasp and her fears. She was shaking, her body trembling, her cheeks suddenly wet with tears.

  His touch grew more insistent, and she whimpered. She didn’t have to ask him, but somehow he knew. Somehow he knew.

  “I promise,” he whispered against her ear.

  He’d catch her when she fell.

  And he did.

  ~18~

  Tea makes a person feel needed. Tea makes a person feel less alone. Because there is something beautiful about drinking tea, but something even more beautiful about sharing it.

  ~The Tea Girl~

  The next day brought rain, thunder, lightning, and lots of storm warnings. It should have been enough to keep Grayson at home, but his thoughts were too occupied, his mind too full of turmoil.

  Upon waking, he’d immediately thought of Lyric—the sight of her face bathed in moonlight, the way she exhaled, the way her cheeks flushed, and the way she watched him. Her eyes were full of things he wasn’t sure he could handle: trust and acceptance.

  She was driving him insane. Which meant something he was too afraid to admit.

  The moment he pushed open the door of Delilah’s bar in Hiccup, he knew he’d made a mistake coming there. The bar was full of people with too much time on their hands and not enough drama to discuss. He could feel their eyes on him as he sauntered to the bar.

  The woman behind the counter grinned, her grey hair twisted up into a bun, her crinkled eyes leaving web-like trails down the sides of her cheeks. She was the kind of person who’d spent much of her life laughing.

  “What can I get ya?” she asked.

  Grayson glanced over his shoulder at the bent heads and murmuring voices. Balls cracked against each other at the pool tables.

  “Something strong,” he answered.

  The woman winked. “Got plenty of that here, boy.” She pulled a bottle free of the shelf, slid a glass in front of him, and poured. “Don’t see you in here much,” she murmured, her curious eyes trailing his face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know you. I’ve known your folks my entire life.”

  Grayson nodded politely but didn’t answer.

  A decaying house, a moonlit field, cawing ravens, and the whispering moans of a woman he’d promised to catch if she fell …

  “You ever gonna drink that?” a voice asked. “Cause if you ain’t, I will.” Grayson’s head shot up, his gaze falling on Freddie Graham’s amused expression. Freddie gestured at the room. “This ain’t your sort of place.” He slid on to the bar stool next to Grayson and tapped the bar. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  Grayson barely spared him a glance. “How do you know this isn’t my type of place?”

  Freddie snorted. “Because you’re on probation, and these kinds of places invite violence.”

  “Not in
my joint,” the old woman groused. She slid another glass on the bar, filled it, and handed it to Freddie. “You’d do better to show up in here less.”

  Freddie laughed and winked, lifting his glass before saluting her with it. “To Aunt Juliet, who thinks she knows what’s best for me.”

  The old woman shook her head. “Smart ass,” she mumbled. “He sure as hell didn’t get it from his mama.”

  Freddie chuckled. “That’s too high a compliment.” He turned to Grayson, a knowing glint in his eyes. “You’ve been chased in here by demons.”

  Grayson pushed his drink away. “Depends on what you mean by demons.”

  Juliet watched them. “There’s only two kinds of demons, boy. The kind that tempt you and the kind that changes you.”

  Grayson glanced between them. “And if it’s both?”

  Freddie slapped him on the back. “Then it’s hopeless. Might as well count your losses and play a game of pool. I can’t soothe your soul, but I sure as hell can take your cash. There is often sweetness in sorrow,” Freddie quipped. “This loss will be enough to brighten your day.”

  Grayson snorted. “And you think I’ll lose?”

  Freddie picked up a cue stick, his gaze on the table. “Yeah, I do.” His eyes slid to Grayson’s. “Because if you spend too much time thinking about where the ball is going to go, the ball either won’t go anywhere or it’ll choose the wrong path.”

  Grayson grabbed a cue stick. “Never would have pegged you for a philosopher, Freddie.”

  The man leaned over the pool table and used the triangle to rack up the balls. “Life’s a keen teacher. It ain’t always age that counts. Sometimes it’s just the shit that happens to get you to the age you are now.” Using his cue stick, he pointed at Grayson. “You break.”

  Grayson didn’t move. This wasn’t about a game of pool, and they both knew it. “It was your four-wheeler I heard down at the Miller place yesterday afternoon.”

  Freddie leaned on his stick. “People was noticin’ you was missin’. I ain’t got no say what you do over there, but there’s a lot of people here with grudges against that family, includin’ your own. That house has long since gone to the county. No one’s touched it in years. They’ve just been lettin’ it rot. You bring attention to it, and people are goin’ to start considerin’ their options. It’d be a shame to see it gone. Even as hazardous as it is.”