Page 116 of White Raven
“Could I…bring her with me?” he asked, twitching an eye as he waited for the uncomfortable answer.
“I wish you would. She’s got some papers to sign.”
“Papers?”
“I’ll be here until eleven. See you soon.”
She hung up without another word, and he found himself equal parts intrigued, and confused…maybe even a bit nervous about what was about to happen when Wren met this woman for a second time. It could be civil…ordisastrous.
“Everything alright, Brent?” Dr. Lennox asked, unpacking her lunch at her desk.
“Yeah…yeah, everything’s good. See you next week.”
CHAPTER 22
UNLOADING
It had been a short flight, and thank God for it. Every second that ticked by while Athan was being held—yet again—against his will, seemed like a lifetime with the lack of answers and direction. Sarah had sworn that she faintly heard his voice in her mind during the flight. So sure, in fact, that she’d reached as far as she could down that bond between them, checking for any changes and finding little to none. It gave her more time to fertilize the hate growing for the man she refused to call father. For the woman that helped him steal Athan away…a woman that wasn’t Dahlia Van Hausen but would meet a similar end.
It was only a twenty-minute ride from the airport in Richmond, to the place she needed to go. Athan would definitely chew her ass over the app she’d installed on his phone to procure a ride, but Richmond was nothing like Boston. On the way over, she tucked her duffle into her lap and rested her elbows on it, reading over that text for what seemed like the thousandth time.
UNKNOWN: Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine…
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine.
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
If she was wrong, and this was a wasted trip—one she was takingwithouthim…ithadto be this place. The Poe Museum. One crafted after lines of some of his most famous works. A shrine built to immortalize the man behind the quill.It was when she looked out the window as the car came to a stop that Sarah felt that confirmation. In front of the museum, perched on the sign, much to the delight of enthusiasts everywhere…sat a large raven. Sarah’s breath caught, and her mouth went dry, as she thanked the driver, and stepped out of the car.
“Poe?”
The bird cocked its head and stared straight through her. Phones snapped photo after photo, but the commotion around her hollowed out as Poe ruffled his chest, and trilled before flittering to her shoulder and playfully nipping at her hair. A knot of emotion gathered in her throat. It was like a rush of relief, having a small piece of Athan back—and if a bird could only understand how much they’d missed him.
“You naughty little asshat,” she nearly wept, as awe-stricken onlookers started firing off their cameras. She reached a black-painted fingernail to his breast and scratched his favorite spot. “Where is he? Where have you been?”
Better question…how the hell did he know she’d be here?
Poe leapt from her shoulder through a curved archway around the back of the entrance, and over an iron gate. Sarah knew better than to assume it was a coincidence. He was here to let her know she was right where she needed to be, and he had something to show her. She paid the admission and started through the gate to follow him. He flew under a covered stone breezeway, sitting himself atop a large bust of Edgar Allan Poe, where many had left tribute in the way of flowers, poetry, and miscellaneous treasures. But it was the courtyard between where she stood, and where Poe waited, that had her frozen. A fountain…a shrine. A garden with carefully tended flowers, and bushes. A black cat roaming about the property, fitfully.
A fountain and a shrine.
Sarah took in the place, relishing in its beauty. An icy wind broke the incandescence of warm sunlight that speared through the rattling remains of manicured trees in the memorial garden. An old headstone with Poe’s name sat against a wall, and the cobbled sidewalk led to the indoor exhibits where donated artwork led the way.
Athan? I’m here. I’m here, where are you? Fucking talk to me…please!
There was nothing. Only a slight tug she could feel right through her middle. Like she was in the right place…but wasn’t. Poe watched her from where he rested. His strange eyes seemed to focus on the door in front of her, urging her inside. While the fowl seemed content to have his picture taken, she raced for the door and pushed past a couple reading the brass plate by a roped-off exhibit. There weren’t a lot of people inside, and she scanned every alcove for any sign of her mate. Half an hour later, after searching every inch of the permitted areas, she came up empty…pissed. Hopelessness started to settle in.
Where the fuck are you, Athan?
Sarah cursed under her breath and sat herself on a bench against the wall in one of the smaller rooms filled with Poe’s belongings. The wall adjacent to her featured a statue of Edgar Allan Poe, sitting in a chair, one of his arms missing. The feeling of being carefully watched was overwhelming—but not as overwhelming as the nagging feeling that came over her at the capitalized headline of the plaque on the wall next to the statue.
“BURIED ALIVE!”
