Last of the Ravens

She was the one…

As soon as his flesh touched hers, Bren felt as if an electric current had been set loose within him.

No wonder he had been so strongly called to her. No wonder the very sight of her damn near made him crazy.

Miranda Lynch was the only woman in this world he could bond with, the only woman in existence who could save him from being the last of his kind. He’d thought this special woman his mother had always told him would come one day was a myth, and yet here she was, standing before him with her hand in his.

There was no place in this world for the Korbinians, not any more. Their time had passed. Logically he could dismiss Miranda Lynch; rationally he knew what she promised would never work. But a primitive instinct he could not deny now accepted this woman as his, and he wanted her so sharply that he could think of nothing else.

Last of the Ravens

Linda Winstead Jones

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LINDA WINSTEAD JONES is a New York Times bestselling author of more than fifty romance books in several subgenres – historical, fairy tale, paranormal and, of course, romantic suspense. She’s won a Colorado Romance Writers Award of Excellence twice. She is also a three-time RITA® Award finalist and (writing as Linda Fallon) winner of the 2004 RITA® Award for paranormal romance.

Linda lives in north Alabama with her husband of thirty-four years. She can be reached via www.eHarlequin.com or her own website, www.lindawinsteadjones.com.

Available in September 2010 from Mills & Boon® Nocturne™

Moon Kissed by Michele Hauf

Last of the Ravens by Linda Winstead Jones

Touch of Surrender by Rhyannon Byrd

With thanks to all my Heart of Dixie friends for the

laughter, the support and the camaraderie.

My life would not be the same without plotluck,

retreats and squeees.

Prologue

“Don’t you trust me?” Jessica asked.

“Behind the wheel of a car? Never.”

Miranda gripped the padded handle of the passenger door and held her breath as the car took a sharp curve too fast. The rolling north Georgia mountains were brilliant green with the coming of summer, and the rock formation just beyond the passenger window sped by much too close for safety or comfort. Miranda didn’t say anything about Jessica’s driving—she’d given up that futile task years ago—and still her older sister laughed at her reaction.

The setting sun dipped lower on the horizon, coloring the sky pink and yellow and orange on this beautiful April evening. Flowering plants on either side of the road screamed of life that fought to survive in an unfriendly environment, while hearty evergreens on the hills above seemed ancient and indestructible. Soon it would be dark, but this fleeting moment was breathtakingly beautiful.

Miranda’s design degree had been newly awarded. She and Jessica—her only family—had plans for a new and exciting interior design business in Atlanta, and even if they did have terrible luck with men—the Lynch love curse, Jessica called it—Miranda knew she should be happy. She should be content. This was a good time in her life.

But an inexplicable discontent gnawed at her, the way it sometimes did. For the past few days she’d occasionally caught herself holding her breath for no reason at all, and now and then she got the oddest feeling that someone was watching her. She’d even turned around a couple of times, thinking she’d catch someone spying on her. Not that anyone had reason to spy on an ordinary girl like her!

Miranda had had good instincts since she’d been a little girl, and she’d learned to trust her first impressions when it came to the people she met. Her initial reaction to a person was usually strong and unmistakable; at first sight, she liked or disliked those she met. On the few occasions she’d ignored those instincts she’d later regretted it.

There was something beyond ordinary instincts within her, something she tried very hard to dismiss. Jessica knew about her little sister’s uncanny intuition, but not even she knew about the other little oddity.

On rare occasions Miranda got butterflies and chills and knots, as well as a peculiar feeling that all was not well when outwardly it appeared that everything was fine. It had been years since she’d suffered a deep sensation of unidentifiable discontent like the one she was experiencing now; a week after that last troubling incident, her seemingly perfectly healthy mother had passed away suddenly, her kind heart failing without warning.

This time it was just nerves making her feel odd, Miranda told herself. Graduation. A new business. Life! Her future was bright, and nothing would get in the way of her plans.

Jessica took a corner too fast and again Miranda instinctively tightened her grip on the armrest. The bright lights of the truck that had crept into the wrong lane blinded her, much as the sun had not so long ago. The sisters barely had time to scream.

Bren awoke with a start. Something was wrong. Not just a little wrong, but very wrong. Disastrously wrong. In spite of the intense sensation of doom, the fire crackled in the fireplace, and the television played on at a low volume. All was as he’d left it in this half-finished mountaintop house he called home.

It had been a tiring day, as usual, and he’d fallen asleep on the couch shortly after grabbing a bite to eat. He was like the cobbler who had no shoes; he spent all day building vacation and retirement houses for other people, and he never had time to finish his own place. His mountainside house, which was finished and impressive on the outside, was habitable within, but still needed trim, paint, interior doors and a hundred finishing touches that would one day make this a home.

Unable to shake the feeling that something was wrong, he jumped off the couch and walked out onto the deck, running his fingers through black hair that was long past due for a trim. A burst of late-evening spring air woke him fully, filled his lungs, made him hungry for something he couldn’t name. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the world had shifted.

The life Bren had made for himself was simple, and to be honest there was little that could happen to shake it. His parents were gone, and he had no one else of importance in his life. No brothers. No cousins. Certainly no wife or children. Brennus Korbinian loved his life, made the best of every day, but he knew full well that he was the last of a dying breed. The time for his kind had passed, long ago. He accepted that fact, had accepted it years ago. What choice did he have but to accept?

In the shadows he stripped off his shirt and glanced beyond the deck, down the steep curve of the mountain. There was nothing to see but the tops of trees—and one structure with an annoying red rooftop. He scowled at the cabin that was situated farther down the mountain, a little ways down the winding road that led to the highway below. Bren had offered the owner twice as much as the place was worth, but the stubborn man refused to sell. Thank goodness the cabin was rarely used. Bren needed privacy; it was all he required of life.

All was dark at the intrusive cabin tonight. No lights shone from the windows, and Bren hadn’t seen a car in the drive as he’d made his way home hours earlier. Even if someone was there, they’d have to have binoculars or a telescope to see anything they shouldn’t.

And still, he wanted that cabin. Once he had it, this entire mountain would be his. Like his father before him, he’d spent years snatching up pieces of property in order to make it so. When he had that plot of land down the hill, the privacy he required would be his, finally and completely.

Bren stripped to his skin, then easily stepped up onto the railing that surrounded the large, deep deck. He glanced down into the vast space beneath, felt the sweep of evening air against his skin, held his breath as deep inside he acknowledged the certainty that yes, something in the world had shifted. He also accepted that he did not know what that something was—and did not need to know. His world was small. Everything he needed was right here.

He dropped, catching air against his bare skin for a moment and then erupting into freedom. If anyone had been watching, they would’ve seen a man one moment and a flock of black birds the next. They would watch as those birds swept down the mountainside, moving in concert, flying as one, until they convinced themselves that they could not have possibly seen what they thought they’d seen.

The last of the ravens flew into the darkness, and in this form, which was as natural to him as human flesh and bone, Bren knew that somewhere in the world all was not as it should be.

But that did not concern him. Not at all. He caught a fierce wind and a cacophony of caws echoed down the mountain he called his own.

Miranda awoke slowly, wondering where she was and how she’d gotten here. What day was it? Where the hell was she? It didn’t take her long to realize that she was in a hospital. The shocking memory of the accident came back to her in a flash. She didn’t remember the collision itself, but she recalled vividly the headlights on the semi that had crossed into the wrong lane, and she remembered screaming.

Jessica!

“You’re awake.”

Miranda’s head snapped to the side. Not a good move. Her head was wrapped in a thick bandage and she had a headache that made her skull pound furiously. Still, she was relieved to see Jessica standing there, untouched, wearing the same pink sweater and jeans she’d been wearing when she’d picked up Miranda.

The bright sunlight shining through the window behind Jessica made her look less than substantial. It had been just after sunset, last Miranda remembered, so the light meant she’d been unconscious all night…

“I love you,” Jessica said, not coming any closer.

She must feel horribly guilty to get so emotional. Jessica didn’t do emotion, not so blatantly. The love was there but it remained unspoken, except in the worst of times. “I love you, too,” Miranda said, and she lifted a hand, motioning with her fingers for her sister to come closer. Jessica didn’t budge; she stayed in the bright sunlight.

Miranda’s arm was bandaged, as well as her aching head, and she couldn’t help but wonder why she’d been hurt so badly while Jessica didn’t have a scratch on her. The light shifted and Miranda found herself blinking hard to clear her unsteady vision. The sounds of hospital activity continued in the hallway. Footsteps passed by quickly, as did squeaking carts and whispering voices. It all sounded so far away, so unimportant.

“Jessica?”

“You’re awake!”

Miranda moved her head more slowly this time, as she looked toward the door and the excited voice. Her friend and roommate, Autumn, rushed in, tears in her eyes…“Thank goodness. I was so worried!”

Miranda attempted a smile, which didn’t seem to work very well. “I’m fine, really. Just a bump on the head, I think.” She lifted the hand that didn’t have an IV connected to it and patted the thick bandage. “What are you doing here? Did Jessica call you?”

Autumn paled, and she bit her bottom lip. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh, honey.”

“What?” Miranda looked toward Jessica to ask what was going on, but there was no one standing in front of the sunny window. Miranda blinked hard, then craned her neck to see where Jessica might’ve gone.

“I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.” Autumn hiccupped and sniffled.

“Tell me what?” Miranda asked. There was a knot in her stomach. “Where’s Jessica?”

Autumn shook her head and wiped away a tear. “It was a truck…head-on, the state trooper said.” She took a deep breath and finally whispered, “Honey, I’m so sorry. Jessica didn’t make it. She died instantly, so there was no pain. She probably never even knew…” Autumn’s breath caught in her throat. She couldn’t go on.

Miranda tried to sit up but couldn’t. Every bone and muscle in her body ached. “What do you mean she didn’t make it? Jessica was just here. She was standing right over there!” She pointed at the window on the empty side of the stark hospital room. Autumn shook her head and more silent tears slipped from her eyes as a voice whispered in Miranda’s ear. I love you.

Chapter One

Four years later

There were those who could not be allowed to mingle with the innocent. Monsters, some would call them. Evil, the leaders of the Order of Cahir proclaimed. Or so she’d heard in her time in this dark, dank place.

Roxanna sat on a narrow cot, her knees drawn up, her chin down in an instinctively protective manner. She was hungry. The old man fed her now and then, biscuits and cookies and fried chicken, but she wasn’t hungry for food. In the past year she’d seduced a dozen men and taken their souls, strengthening herself, building an unimaginable power. But now she was hungry again. She was weaker than she’d been when they brought her here, which was likely just as they had planned. Even if she hadn’t been chained to the cot, she wouldn’t have been able to make it very far if she tried to run.

She’d be easier to kill now.

Roxanna lifted her head and looked at the redheaded one. At the moment they were alone, just one weakened sorceress and one guard. Even though he had taken part in her torture as they tried to discover if she was working alone or with a coven, there was a part of him that desired her. Another part was afraid of her and what she could do. If she could call him to her, if she could take his soul, she’d be strong enough to escape. This time she wouldn’t be so easily found.

“I could use some water,” she whispered.

“Later…” the redhead began.

“Please.”

He hesitated, scowled, then poured water from a jug into a paper cup and carried it to her. If their hands touched, if she could use all she had learned on him…

Their hands did touch; he did react, with a gasp and a widening of his eyes. She stared into those eyes and stroked with one finger. A moment more and he’d be hers.

“Kill her,” the old man said. She hadn’t heard him come down the stairs but he was there, behind the redhead. “She’s weakened enough now that it won’t be difficult.” The man before Roxanna didn’t immediately do as he was told; he was close to being hers. “Kill her now, or I kill you.”

At those words, the redhead reacted quickly. Water splashed over Roxanna’s dress, the same stained dress she’d been wearing for almost a month. He drew a knife from a leather sheath at his waist, and without hesitation he drove the blade into her chest. Once, and again, and then again.

Roxanna fell back on the cot, her chains rattling. She’d known she’d die a violent death, had dreamed of it, tried to heed the warnings. And yet now she was dead. With her last ragged breath, she decided that no matter what she’d done, no matter what they said, she was not a monster.

“I don’t need a vacation,” Miranda insisted stubbornly.

“You do,” three voices responded in concert.

She pursed her lips, but arguing with this bunch was a waste of time. Autumn and her husband of two years, Jared Sidwell, stood side by side and glared at her over sweet iced tea. Cheryl Talbot smiled and nodded.

FBI Agent Roger Talbot flipped a burger on the grill and belatedly he agreed with the other three. “This last job was a doozy. It drained me, and I didn’t have to do what you do. You’re pale and you’ve lost weight and there are dark circles under your eyes. Let’s be honest here. You look like crap.”

“Roger!” Cheryl chastised. “There’s no need to be so…so…”

“Honest?” he said, lifting his head to look at his wife with undeniable love.

Miranda had met Roger Talbot three years ago in the line of work she’d taken up a year after the accident that had killed her sister and in return given her what some called a “gift.” Some gift. No one wanted an interior decorator who saw ghosts in the rooms they wished to adorn. No one wanted to walk into a room and find the woman they had hired to bring together paintings and curtains and upholstery fabrics talking to Grandma—who’d been dead seven years. Miranda knew that to be true. She’d been there. She’d tried so hard to live a normal life—but the spirits she’d begun to see after the accident continued to haunt her. The only way she could find any peace was to help them.

When she’d first heard from a murder victim, she’d tried to ignore the bothersome specter. The man—the ghost of a man—had been annoyingly persistent and would not leave Miranda alone. After a few days she’d given up and gone to the police. Naturally they’d dismissed her as a nut and sent her on her way, but the ghost did not take the hint and get lost. Instead, the spirit of the murder victim had stuck to her like glue, an unrelenting stalker no one could see, a dead man insisting on a justice only Miranda could deliver.

The only way she could get rid of him was to hand him off to someone else. The man wanted his murderer caught and punished—naturally. It had taken a while, but eventually Miranda had found someone who would listen to her. That someone had been FBI Agent Roger Talbot. They’d been working together—more or less under the table, when it came to official business—for years. For the first couple of years she’d been able to keep her ability secret, but eventually word had gotten out. There were plenty of people who thought she was a nut, or worse, a con artist, but there were also more than enough people out there who wanted her services.

Jessica had been right. Less than five years after that fateful night Miranda had clients lined up out the door. She was very much in demand. In some circles she might even be called famous. Miranda Lynch, who’d discovered an uncanny ability to talk to ghosts after the horrific car accident that had taken the life of her sister, was a hot commodity.

These days when she felt like someone was watching her, she was probably right.

Roger and Cheryl were several years older than Miranda, but they had become like family to her. Roger was a big brother, protective and sometimes teasing, and Cheryl had become almost a surrogate mother, even though she was only ten years older than Miranda. Cheryl cooked healthy meals; she introduced her young friend to shoes that were comfortable and cute, insisting both qualities were essential; she made sure Miranda went to the doctor when she was sick. Their three kids felt like family, as well, especially fifteen-year-old Jackson, who looked so much like Roger he might as well be a younger, thinner clone. They were the center of Miranda’s personal life, pretty much the only personal life she had. The Lynch love curse seemed to be fully in effect, since every unattached man Miranda met was either repulsed by her ability or else wanted to make a profit from it.

Autumn and Jared had met the Talbots through Miranda, and in the past year or so there had been occasional cookouts and birthday parties like this one. Jared and Roger weren’t exactly close friends—they didn’t have much in common, since Roger was in law enforcement and Jared was in computers, and Roger liked to hunt and fish and Jared’s idea of fun involved computer games or paint-ball fights—but Autumn adored Cheryl as much as Miranda did. These four people had become the only family Miranda had left and at this rate they were the only family she would ever have. The last attempt at having a significant other in her life had ended so badly she’d sworn off men. She was twenty-six years old and a determined old maid who devoted more of her life to the dead than she did to the living.

Not exactly the life she’d planned for herself.

She really should listen to these people when they told her she needed time off, but she had clients waiting, meetings to make and obligations to fill. Sure, beyond law-enforcement consultations most of her clients just wanted to know that their loved ones still lived on, somehow and somewhere, or else they wanted to know where the will or the family jewelry had been hidden.

“I have a cabin in Tennessee,” Roger said.

“I know.” He’d been trying to get her to take advantage of the place for the past two years, but she was usually too busy to take an entire weekend off, much less go on a real vacation. There was always so much to do! People died every day. Most of them traveled directly to their place in the afterlife, but some of them reached out for her after they should’ve passed on.

“I don’t get to use it nearly often enough,” he continued, studying the burgers, instead of her. “Cheryl doesn’t like the cabin much.”

“I like the outlet malls, which are only forty-five minutes or so away,” Cheryl responded with a wide smile. “I don’t like the single bathroom that’s the size of the hall closet, and I hate that my cell phone doesn’t get a signal there. It’s medieval to be so out of touch. It doesn’t help that the man who owns the only other house on the mountain glares daggers at us every time we cross paths. I swear that psycho wants the damn mountain all to himself. I don’t know what he’s doing up there that he can’t stand the idea of neighbors, but there must be some kind of nefarious dealings going on. The man has to be hiding something.”

Miranda looked at Cheryl, hoping for support from that quarter. “There’s a psycho on the mountain and your husband wants to send me there for a vacation?”

“A psycho and outlet malls,” Cheryl said with a wide grin. “Sounds like a fair enough deal to me.”

“You don’t like it,” Miranda argued.

Cheryl shrugged. “Not all that much, but it is nice and quiet there, and Roger’s right. You look like you could use a little nice and quiet. A couple of weeks—”

“A couple of weeks?” Miranda interrupted shrilly. “I was thinking of maybe a long weekend.”

“So you were thinking of taking a few days off?” Autumn asked, a hint of hope in her gentle voice.

“I said maybe.” Did she look that bad? Could everyone around her see that the work of talking to ghosts was draining her, robbing her of sleep, making her feel much too old for her twenty-six years?

That was certainly possible. It was as though she didn’t only understand the emotions of the spirits she talked to, she experienced them. She didn’t only hear and see how they died, she felt their pain. She was tired all the time, and lately if she got four hours of sleep it was a good night. It wasn’t all that unusual that those closest to her might see the effects of the strain.

“Maybe is a start,” Roger said. He took the burgers off the grill and put them on a platter. “We should’ve done steaks,” he said beneath his breath.

Thank goodness, a change of topic. “It’s my birthday and I wanted your burgers,” Miranda said.

“And chocolate cake!” Jackson called, walking out of the kitchen door and into the backyard bearing a huge birthday cake complete with fudge icing and decorative yellow roses.

“What more could a girl ask for?” Miranda said, her eyes flitting from Autumn and Jared to Roger and Cheryl. Two couples, each so different, each so close—each a part of something intimate and special that Miranda had given up on ever knowing. She finally pinned her eyes on Roger and sighed. “Fine. A long weekend will be enough, though.”

“Two weeks would be better,” he countered. “Fresh air, complete quiet, outlet malls…”

“A psycho,” Miranda added.

“Korbinian’s not a psycho,” Roger argued with a sharp and slightly censuring glance to his wife. “He’s just odd as hell, and he’s pissed because I won’t sell him the cabin. You leave him alone, and he won’t bother you. I’ll run you up on Saturday.”