The Rook and The Raven Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Rook and The Raven

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this Wild Rose Press publication.

  The Rook and The Raven

  by

  R. H. Burkett

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  The Rook and The Raven

  COPYRIGHT © 2012 by R. H. Weeks

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tamra Westberry

  The Wild Rose Press

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Faery Rose Edition, 2012

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To all who dare to dream and believe

  Prologue

  “The child dies this day.”

  Mist swirled and surrounded the two figures, one weathered and wise, the other tall and proud.

  “It is predestined. You must not interfere. To change another’s destiny is forbidden, for to do so binds one’s soul to the other. The girl is mortal. You are not. She will never understand the bond, the constant longing deep within for one impossible to hold. Do not save her.”

  A cynical laugh, almost cruel, bit the wind.

  “Strong words, old man, but not heeded today.” Lightning flashed from white-hot silver eyes and split the skies. “Am I not the Rook? The highest Sentinel?

  A slight turn of his chiseled profile caught the bearded man’s tired gaze.

  The Rook asked, “Did you not deem it so?”

  With a roar that broke the barriers of time, mighty wings unfurled and the portal opened.

  “She does not die this day.”

  ****

  The first time I felt his arms around me I was ten...and drowning.

  It was summer—golden sun, sand and shells, warm wind heavy with salt and seagull cries, white-capped waves.

  The riptide captured me—no air, no strength left, no hope.

  A dark arrow, razor-sharp, sliced through the water—reached, lifted, carried me to shore.

  One moment there.

  The next, gone.

  Mama said it was a shadow.

  “A ghost,” Papa teased.

  Many scoffed and claimed I had an overactive imagination. After all, I was only ten. Perhaps, it was just a dream.

  Yet a stirring deep in my belly told me otherwise.

  One day my black-winged hero would return.

  ****

  “Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.”

  Papa stood old and broken when they lowered Mama into the ground. With a weak, forced smile, he laid a hand, twisted and gnarled from years of arthritis, on my shoulder.

  “At least you have a good man by your side,” he whispered.

  Walt, my husband, was many things—a drunk, a cheat, a liar—but never a good man.

  One year later Papa lay next to Mama.

  Chapter One

  Walt dumped me for Barbie Doll, Stacy, and ran off to Mexico.

  The divorce was finalized in less than a year, my self-confidence shattered.

  I was alone. Lost. Scared.

  It was early springtime. Warm, spring rain washed away winter’s gloom and doom. The earth bloomed reborn. Everything gleamed bright, even hope.

  My shadowed savior returned.

  ****

  Twenty dollars away from being flat broke I walked New Orleans’ Bourbon Street in search of a job. In need of all the good karma I could get, I decided to buy a cup of coffee at the corner diner for the homeless man who sat hunched over on the park bench across the street.

  Hidden deep inside the folds of his tattered, black hoodie his features were shadowed yet an odd familiar feeling stirred deep inside of me when his hand, cool as frosted mist brushed my wrist.

  No words were spoken. I walked away then turned. One moment, there.

  The next, gone.

  “The Rook is like smoke.”

  Startled, I whirled and stared at the woman who had mysteriously appeared from out of nowhere. Short and round as a whiskey barrel she looked back at me with mischievous, leafy-brown eyes. A floppy, tomato-red hat covered with a panorama of glorious peacock feathers, jiggled and threatened to topple with every bob of her head. The gourd-green cotton dress hung on her frame like flabby arm skin and swayed from side to side with each step—the impression: a walking, talking Christmas tree with a black lace petticoat for its skirt.

  “You come,” she said and grabbed my wrist.

  I pulled away.

  Amused, she reached for my hand again. Her Jamaican accent slid over her tongue smooth as soft butter on warm toast.

  “You not fear Mama ChiChi. No more look for work. No worries. No problems.

  You belong to the Rook.”

  Two blocks down and around the corner a deep purple storefront read:

  Madame Katanga-Fortune Teller: Tarot Cards. Love Potions. Crystal Balls.

  Mama ChiChi waddled past the dreadlocked, bone-through-the-nose, zombie-looking guy slumped on an apple crate by the front door.

  “That Earl,” she grunted. “He harmless and good for business.”

  Stacked to the ceiling with everything from exotic plants to voodoo doll kits—complete with thin, sharp pins and an instruction book on where to stick them—the little shop was mystifying and creepy.

  A hairy tarantula the size of a small dinner plate watched me walk past its plastic cage. His beady red eyes stared at me. The hair on my arms prickled. I wanted to stab the furry monster with one of those voodoo pins or smash it to bits with Madame Katanga’s Book of Love Spells.

  A black crow the size of a small cat swooped past and yelled a loud squawk on its way to perch on zombie Earl’s shoulder.

  Mama ChiChi cackled and took my hand. “Madame Katanga come soon,” she said. “She throw the bones. Tell you all about the Rook. Have tea.”

  Not sure if the mug she handed me was a concoction of eye of newt and wing of bat, I smelled the brew before tasting it. Chamomile. I perched on the lip of a wrought iron chair like a frightened sparrow and tried to ignore the scratching sounds Harry the Tarantula made behind me.

  Ready to jump out of my skin at a moment’s notice, I peeked under the chair just to make sure no other insect, reptile, or rodent lay in wait ready to crawl up my leg.

  The soothing tea had just begun to unravel the knots in my stomach when the front door flew open and they tightened again.

  Black as midnight, mysterious as death, Madame Katanga blew into the room like a tangled, witchy-haired Louisiana hurricane. With a laugh that could shake mountains, she gathered Mama ChiChi in a giant bear hug.

  Large ebony eyes fixed on me. Thick full lips smothered in brilliant red lipstick broke into a wide grin. Elegant and surprisingly light on her feet for such a large woman, she glided toward me. Her silk onyx caftan slithered and shimmered around her beefy frame like th
e gold-threaded snakes that decorated the gown’s bell sleeves. She smelled of coconuts and fruit. Like a frosty Pina Colada on a hot summer day. Scary and fascinating all at the same time.

  “Come, child,” she said.

  In sharp contrast to her booming laugh, Madame Katanga’s voice was only a breath away from a husky whisper. Mesmerized, I followed her through a beaded curtain into a room alive with dancing candlelight. The sweet scent of sage, intoxicating and sultry, hung heavy in the air. My head swam.

  We sat across from one another at a square table covered with a scarlet cloth that displayed the planets and the signs of the zodiac. She plopped a leather pouch between Venus and Mercury and waved her hands over the frayed bag.

  Leery of what she might pull from the worn purse, I asked, “What’s in there?

  “Chicken bones.”

  The bleached-white pieces dazzled against the blackness of her hand. Like a Las Vegas crapshooter, she tossed them across the table and looked me dead in the eye.

  “You have something to ask Madame Katanga.”

  Not a question, but a statement of fact.

  I took a big gulp of air that tasted like grass and herbs and squirmed in my chair.

  “Who is this Rook?

  Bronze eye-shadowed lids closed, and she eased back into the chair’s fluffy cushions. A deep sigh shook her heavy bosom like jelly, and the bone-and-alligator tooth necklace resting on them rattled. She spoke a hypnotizing Jamaican melody. The room closed in around me, and I struggled for a deep breath.

  “In the higher realm there be an army of guardians called Sentinels who protect all life and keep the universe in balance. The highest of these guardians be the Rook. Him is hand-picked by the Keeper of all-that-is.”

  “You mean God?”

  “No child. The Keeper, he not the Creator. Him be more like...hmm...Secretary of Defense. Only the most cunning and wise Sentinel can be the Keeper’s captain, the Rook.”

  My back ached from sitting so stiff. I shifted in the straight back chair. “How many Rooks are there?”

  “Many throughout the ages, but only one rules at a time. To be the Rook is a most noble honor and many vie for the privilege, for if chosen, it means great power and eternal life. The Rook is most mysterious of all entities. Him many things to many peoples—a winged hero to the wronged, protector to the innocent, a guardian to the brave, a guide to the lost and confused. Him called many names. But...”

  Her eyes opened and she waved a jeweled finger back and forth in front of my face. “The Rook is most powerful, is most magical of all creations.”

  With fingernails long as bear claws and just as dark, she sorted the bones.

  “This Rook is different than the previous ones.” Heavily mascared eyelashes lifted, and her eyes captured my gaze. “Him in conflict.”

  “Why?” I asked, barely able to breathe.

  A smile played across her round face and her voice turned syrupy sweet. “Him in love.”

  “With who?”

  Her smile widened. “You cannot guess?”

  “Me?”

  My shrill cry broke the spell she wove.

  “This...this r-rook,” I stuttered, “or guardian angel or whatever he’s called, is in love with me?”

  “Sentinels not guardian angels. They be kissing cousins, but Sentinels are often uncaring and unforgiving.” A slight chuckle. “They be the bad boys of the universe.”

  “Whatever. This is impossible.”

  Pretending wide-eyed innocence, she spread her hands over the bones. “Is what Madame Katanga see,” she said. As if those little pieces of legs, thighs, and wings explained everything. “Nothing is impossible to the Rook no matter how complicated.”

  The way she pronounced “the” as “d” and spoke of herself in third person tickled me.

  “Really? What’s so difficult?” I asked.

  “You mortal. Him is not.”

  “But I’ve seen him.” I stuck my hand out and pointed at my wrist. “He touched me. Right here. Just this morning.”

  With great care, as if talking to a small child, she hid her impatience with a gentle smile.

  “Did not Mama ChiChi tell you, the Rook is like smoke? You see smoke. Taste smoke on tip of your tongue. Smell it. Even see its sooty fingerprints on your skin.” Slowly, one-by-one, she curled my fingers into a loose fist and covered it with her hand.

  “But, little Raven, smoke is impossible to hold.”

  With a gasp, I jerked away. “How do you know my name?”

  She eased back into the cushions with a smug look. “Madame Katanga know many things.”

  Anxiety filled my lungs as quickly as seawater did at the beach so long ago. Panic threatened to choke me, and I fought for control. It was a lucky guess. Nothing more. These mumbo-jumbo people knew all the tricks. What was I thinking? How stupid of me to go with Mama ChiChi.

  Just calm down.

  Think.

  There are vampires, werewolves, ghosts, and zombies, but a Rook?

  Never heard of one. He didn’t exist.

  Next, she’d be telling me for a price she’d light a candle and pray for my immortal soul. It was scam to get my money, nothing more. Which only proved what a fraud she was. I didn’t have any cash.

  “Madame Katanga does not need money.”

  Oh God, I’ve got to get out of here! The room spun. The sickly smell of sage clogged my nose. I was going to puke or faint—or both.

  My chair toppled over when I leaped from it and sprinted to the front door. I banged against a small altar with a sign that read, “Do Not Touch!”

  Candles, crystals, and amulets fell to the floor.

  Damn, I’d be cursed for life now.

  I reached the door.

  Christ! The freakin’ door knob wouldn’t turn. I was going to die. Zombie Earl would suck my brains out. I’d wander the streets of New Orleans neither dead nor alive with only Harry the Tarantula for a friend.

  On the verge of tears, I ignored the hand on my shoulder, certain it was Madame Katanga brandishing a bone handled machete ready to hack me into pieces, shrink my head, turn me into a frog, or—

  “Child?” Mama ChiChi spoke softly and came out from behind the counter.

  Madame Katanga stood at the beaded curtain, arms crossed.

  No way had she touched me. Lord, was I hallucinating now? What was in that tea?

  “You come,” Mama ChiChi demanded.

  She led me into a back room. Sunshine streaked through the windows, touched the crystals hanging there, and cast cheerful rainbows across the wood floor. I fumbled in my purse for my anxiety pills.

  Madame Katanga’s hand on my arm stopped me from flinging the bag across the room in frustration. “Breathe,” she said.

  Taking deep gulps of air, I looked into her eyes. “Panic attacks.” I panted. “Had them since I was ten. I have pills.” My shaky hands searched the belly of my purse. “Just can’t seem to find them right now.”

  Mama ChiChi handed me a mug. “No pills. Drink.”

  Oh hell, what now? More wing of bat? Hair of dog?

  I took a sip of the brown liquid that tasted like tree bark, lemons, and... What was that? Rum?

  The bittersweet potion slid down my throat and wrapped around my insides like a warm blanket. My racing heart slowed and a wonderful calmness flooded my whole being. Couldn’t remember when I’d felt so relaxed.

  “Better now?” Mama ChiChi asked.

  “Yes.” I ducked my head. “I’m so sorry.”

  Raising my gaze, I looked at Madame Katanga. “Sometimes I get...spooked.” Funny word to use, but under the circumstances it was more than fitting. “You just surprised me. Knowing my name and that I didn’t have money.”

  Another sip made me giggle. Okay, there had to be rum in this brew. “How do you know all that?”

  “Lucky guess,” she said.

  The glint in her eye made me suspect different.

  “I’m to blame,” she confessed. “I�
�m sorry. I did not know you are so sensitive.”

  Mama ChiChi pulled out a chair and plopped her wide butt on it. “It would seem sister does not know everything.”

  So, Mama ChiChi and Madame Katanga were sisters. Bet Earl was their brother.

  “He is a cousin.”

  Stunned, I looked at the bigger than life clairvoyant sitting in front of me and took another drink. She threw her head back and laughed. Dishes rattled.

  I put the cup down and scooted back from the table. “Thanks for everything, but I have to go now.”

  “Is that so?” Madame Katanga said and cocked an eyebrow.

  My heart began to sprint again. What did she mean by that? Was I a captive?

  “No, Raven, you free to leave anytime you wish.”

  This mind reading stuff had to stop.

  “But, I wonder. Where is it that you must go?”

  She was right. I had no place. No house. Apartment. Hotel room. My little pickup was out of gas, parked the wrong way on a one way street.

  Huh. Story of my life.

  Tears began to well up in my eyes. The old familiar feeling of panic started to march up my throat.

  Mama ChiChi refilled the cup and handed it to me. I downed the contents. What the hell? Might as well get drunk.

  Madame Katanga eased forward in her chair and cupped my chin in her fat hands. “No worries little Raven bird. You stay. Work in shop.”

  “I-I have no house or apartment.”

  Her fire-red lips split into a wide grin. “No problem. Live with Mama ChiChi and Madame Katanga.”

  What?

  The look on my face must have been priceless because she broke out into a huge belly laugh. Spoons bounced off the table.

  A hen cackle came from Mama ChiChi. “You come. Good company for old women.”

  “But, why? Why are you being so nice?” I looked at Madame Katanga. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Madame Katanga would be fool to turn away the Rook’s woman. I called many things, but foolish not one of them.”

  Oh hell, not this Rook crap again.

  “I thought you made him up.”

  A sharp intake of breath from the both of them told me I had said something really wrong, almost sacrilegious. Mama ChiChi’s eyes closed tight and she mouthed silent words as if in prayer. Madame Katanga fingered her bone necklace and stared a hole through my head.