Page 71 of White Raven (Nevermore Duet #2)

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 taking without him…

it had to 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!”

Sarah swallowed, and it felt like inhaling a cotton ball.

No matter where her eyes tried to roam, they kept coming right back to the mounted menace that might as well have been a flashing neon sign.

She slowly stood and made her way over to read it.

It mentioned the horrible history that people had sometimes been buried prematurely, and coffins were often fitted with bells so that the accidentally buried could cry for help.

It went on to say that Poe thought the idea “entirely too horrible for the purposes of legitimate fiction”, but featured the act in several of his works.

Maybe he didn’t find it so horrible after all.

Or maybe her deranged father literally took a page from Poe’s book and had buried Athan somewhere on the grounds. Adrenaline started to take her limbs.

“You fucking psycho…you fu—”

A rapping on the small window across the room got her attention, and Sarah darted her head towards it.

Poe watched her, tapping his beak lightly along the glass, and seemingly calling to her.

She apprehensively walked toward him, noticing the turn of his head at another large plaque on the wall.

It told a lot about Poe’s early life. She skimmed over a few lines; certain she already knew most of it—until she caught a name that nearly stopped her heart.

John fucking Allan.

A businessman living in Richmond, who fostered Poe as a child, after his father had abandoned him, and his mother had died.

John had raised him as his own and had taken him with the family back to Scotland for a while…

which meant that her father was much older than she initially thought. But…something wasn’t adding up.

“Miss Sarah?” a familiar voice said from behind her. She turned to see a set of bright blue eyes, under a tuft of ginger hair topped with his signature floppy cap.

“Tony!” Sarah choked, rushing him and throwing her arms around his neck. “What are you doing here? Are Decclan and Devin with you?”

They pulled apart, and he smiled sadly. “If Decclan ever gets back on an airplane, it’ll be the biggest shock of my long life. It’s just me. I had to come see for myself.”

“See…what?”

“I think you’re figuring it out. I went back to Scotland after we returned home. Did some digging of my own. I tried Athan’s number several times, but when it wasn’t off, there was never any answer.”

Sarah pulled his phone from her pocket and scrolled through the calls, turning the screen towards him. “Is one of these yours?”

“That one,” he pointed. “Just a cheap phone I picked up before my trip. He wouldn’t have recognized that number. Why do you have the phone? Where is he? I think we should all talk.”

Sarah shifted on her feet and hung her head. “Tony…Athan was taken. By John Allan. I’ve been turning every stone to find him and hanging onto every fucking clue. I thought he’d be here, but I haven’t seen a single sign of him.”

He was quiet for a moment, his jaw clenching as he stared up at the plaque. “What made you think he’d be here? ”

“This,” Sarah said, pulling up the text message. “It’s from a poem Poe wrote called ‘To One in Paradise’ . Parts of it are here, and I thought this was where he was trying to tell me to go. Now, I feel like the mouse taking the bait in his fucked up trap.”

“Do you remember the story I told you? About John? The night that Dahlia let him live?” Sarah nodded. “I went back and was able to get records of the school John said he attended. There was never a John Allan enrolled at Kailyard Grammar School.” His face turned grave…and his eyes sympathetic.

“So…who the hell was he then? What are you trying to tell me?”

Tony rubbed the back of his neck and glanced at the plaque. “It wasn’t the last time that lad used a fake name. He used another name to enlist in the military. Even said he was older than he was at the time. And this was never his house.”

It felt like a handful of spiders were crawling down her spine.

No…there was no fucking way. No. Absolutely not.

“But that’s—I don’t…” Sarah turned to look at the statue sitting back against the far wall. “You can’t actually believe…Tony you’re unloading some really heavy shit. Preposterous shit.”

“BURIED ALIVE!”

“John Allan would have been in Scotland at the time I met the lad. But it wouldn’t have been the boy I met that night at the pub.

He would have been an adult man. A terrified little boy would be justified in giving a fake name if he’d been faced with certain death.

I’m no detective, but I’ve tended a bar for…

centuries. I’m a very good listener. I’m extremely observant.

I’ve lived a long time, doll. I’m telling you… it’s him.”

“You’re observant.”