Page 1 of Secrets of the Highwayman (Immortal Warriors #2)

T he Sorceress made her way through the stone halls of the great cathedral. The shadows were cool and deep, and the air held a tantalizing memory of flowers and incense. There was no sound but the swish of her cloak—deep red and bright as the flame of her hair—and the soft breathing of the warriors who rested here.

Each awaiting his turn.

With a smile of anticipation, the Sorceress turned through an archway decorated with twining stone vines and carvings of odd little creatures. This was just one of many chapels, each one occupied by a warrior. A beam of sunlight shone through the tiny round window high above, illuminating the face of the sleeping man who lay like an effigy on top of his own tomb.

For a moment the Sorceress studied him.

Brown hair with a touch of gold, long and falling un-tidily across his forehead. A strong masculine face with the mouth now relaxed rather than curved in its usual cynical curl. Hazel eyes hidden beneath closed eyelids and almost feminine lashes. Handsome, yes. In his day the Raven was renowned for capturing the hearts of the women who crossed his path.

The Sorceress recalled the words spoken of him by his friends: dashing and reckless, brave and true. They were words any man would be proud to own. And yet on his headstone were a very different set of words:

NATHANIEL RAVEN

Here lies the infamous Raven

who put fear into the hearts

of all who traveled

the highways of cornwall,

and who was shot dead,

in the year of our lord 1814

S o what had gone wrong ?

How had Nathaniel Raven, gentleman, ended so ignominiously, shot down in the act of highway robbery, dying on a lonely stretch of road in Cornwall without anyone to mourn his passing?

Briefly, she touched his cheek, her fingers light, but even that soft touch made him stir. As if he felt the power in her fingers, as if he knew his time had come. He would need help, but the Sorceress had found a suitable mortal. It might be tricky, and they all might fail, but that was not up to her.

“It is time, sweet Raven,” the Sorceress whispered.

She lifted her arms and began to chant the ancient incantation of waking, her words growing and growing, until the sound of her voice echoed like thunder in the silence of the chapel, and the very air crackled and sparked.

The Raven opened his eyes.