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Raven
Alison Paige


Raven
Alison Paige



www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk/)

CHAPTER ONE
“This body’s dying, Morrigan. Make haste.” A snarl curled Morrigan’s upper lip, mimicking her master’s orders. She shifted against the cool stone of the tenant building’s roof, high above New Orleans’ busy night streets.
The Leshii demon ordered up a soul like he was calling for Chinese takeout. Fifty-one years and his detached superior attitude still ruffled her feathers. Morrigan sighed and rolled her shoulders, loosening the knot heating through her muscles. She’d be at this all night if she let her ire fester.
Hunting required focus, a tranquil mind and a steady bow. She closed her eyes, reaching deep within her to that eternal stillness, the dark well of energy inherent to her kind and the source of their power. Her mind touched the black quiet inside her and a cool rush of magic gushed up through her veins.
Morrigan’s frustration melted away, left her arms loose, her mind clear. She opened her eyes, scanned the crowded sidewalks below. Herds of people spilled into the streets, bumping shoulders, pressing and pushing against one another like mindless cattle. The sounds of laughter, boisterous conversation, car horns and idling engines were all muffled beneath the thundering roll of music echoing off bodies and buildings alike. The stench of stale beer and bodily fluids, having stewed in the hot New Orleans sun, wafted up to her.
She refused the vile aroma, allowing its notice to pass through her mind without pause or reaction. She hunted, her natural prey so easy to spot. The husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Upper-class, escaping their uptight, pristine world in the sinful city, indulging fantasies unfit for polite company.
They wore their vulnerability like a second skin, an irresistible call to her nature, their wealth, their security, their belief in the greater good all ripe for the taking. She swallowed against the sweet taste of prey, like maple syrup on the back of her tongue, and licked her lips.
Morrigan reached over her shoulder to the quiver she wore on her back and drew out one of the long arrows. Without thought or sight, she readied her bow, shifting up to one knee, pulling the string taut. They turned a corner, taking the less crowded side street, darker, fewer witnesses. So easy. Her belly fluttered, lower regions warmed, excitement tingling through her body.
The bowstring creaked next to her ear. She held firm—waiting. One strike each, rapid fire, and they’d both stand stupefied as she took what she wanted. Or maybe she’d convince them to bring her back to their hotel room, let her rifle through their belongings, take it all. They would. Her magic arrows turned humans into muted dummies, like dolls she could manipulate and abuse. Perfect prey. So easy.
She spotted the other one out of the corner of her eye. Morrigan’s gaze shifted to the opposite end of the street. Exhilaration fizzled like a flickering light, then winked out completely. Here was the prey she’d been sent after. What the master made her hunt. The body and soul he needed to survive.
The couple strolled past the dirty man, Mrs. Upper-class hugging her shoulder bag, Mr. Upper-class tucking his wife close, his other hand gripping his bulging fanny pack. Their pace quickened, eyes darting, watching the staggering indigent without staring. Polite to a fault. Fools. Neither of them possessed an ounce of instinct, both ignorant of what danger looked like, smelled like, felt like.
The bum wasn’t danger, Morrigan was. She was loss. Death was her wake, but not for them, not tonight. Morrigan was here for him. After tonight he’d be nothing, vanishing like cotton candy in her mouth.
Mr. and Mrs. Upper-class turned the corner and Morrigan opened her two fingers. The arrow was set free. Her bowstring twanged. The air parted in a whoosh of wind, her arrow hitting its mark with a muted thunk into his chest. She stood, waiting as the man stumbled back, his greasy salt-and-pepper hair curtaining his face as he stared at the arrow he could feel, but not see.
He lifted the edge of his threadbare flannel shirt, brushed his stained T-shirt underneath. His hand passed through the protruding arrow unaffected. He couldn’t remove an arrow he didn’t know was there. A Raven’s magic, once struck, is inescapable.
Morrigan unfurled her wings, hooking her bow on her belt at her hip. She stepped to the edge of the building and then stepped off. For a moment the Louisiana night felt blissfully cool against her skin, the air rushing by, tugging her long black hair from her face, caressing through the feathers of her wings.
Her feet touched pavement, silent as a cat on the prowl. She strode across the empty street to her prey, meeting his wide, worried eyes.
“I…I think I been shot,” the yellow-toothed man said.
Damn, she hated it when they spoke, reaching them before the magic took hold. She didn’t want to talk to them, didn’t want to hear their voice, see their spirit shining through their eyes. She didn’t want to see them alive.
Morrigan fisted his shirt collar, swallowing back the knot of pity choking at the back of her throat. “Shut up. You’re dead.”
The man’s watery, bloodshot eyes stretched wide, his bushy brows shooting high, shifting wrinkles from his cheeks to his forehead. “Am not. I ain’t dead. I ain’t.”
“Close your hole. You will be soon enough.” A good yank on his collar and the man stumbled behind her into the empty street. The sudden move pushed a cloud of stink ahead of him, body odor, hard liquor and human waste. Lord, did he even bother looking for a toilet before he gave up and pissed himself?
She wrinkled her nose against the pungent assault. At least the master would rid him of the stench…and everything else that made him who he was. Pity irritated through her chest again, stung her eyes, but Morrigan shoved it deep, stomped it down inside her where it couldn’t toy with her resolve.
“Are you…are you the angel of death?” the man tripped out of his left shoe as he struggled to find his footing beside her. The magic was taking hold. Finally.
She allowed her gaze to land on him, see him for who he was, the spirit that lived within. As prey there was nothing about him that appealed to her. He wasn’t wealthy, or key to the treasure of others. He wasn’t blind to the harsh realities of life. He was a harsh reality.
His capture wouldn’t benefit her or her family, wouldn’t feed them or provide shelter. He wouldn’t even be good for sport. He was no prey of hers.
His eyes met hers, blue, like the bottom of a swimming pool. The thought, the color, stuck in her mind. His skin was withered and wrinkled beyond its years, alcohol and exposure shaving decades from his life. He’d be taller than she was if he stood straight, long legs and arms, a broad chest and shoulders. His nose was blunt at the end and looked like he’d probably broken it at least once.
Beard stubble hid a square chin and high cheekbones, the man might be remotely attractive if he didn’t look like he’d been dragged through life on the back of a manure wagon.
He blinked, her magic seeping down to his bone. “Death?” he asked with his last ounce of will.
Morrigan smiled, knowing how her Raven eyes gleamed red in the night. “Yes.”
No reaction. The grimy old man was asleep in his own mind. Her magic had him, dulled his brain, handed him helpless into her keeping. She turned his back to her and wrapped her arms around his chest under his arms. A quick glance to ensure they were alone and she took flight, carrying them both up and into the dark night sky.
Morrigan blinked against the sting of wind in her eyes, except it wasn’t wind that tightened her chest and made her chin quiver. They’d lied to her, tricked her into quiet acceptance. Her family, those who were supposed to protect her, love her. People she thought she could trust.
Nanna was wrong. She’d told Morrigan it was an honor to serve the demon. It wasn’t. The demon perverted Morrigan’s power, used it to take life. She wasn’t a murderer. At least she hadn’t been before he took her.
Morrigan and her kind separated fools from their money, as well as from their gullibility and ignorance. Thieves by most definitions, yes, but they took nothing that couldn’t be replaced—or should be.
Their victims learned a fast lesson in the penalties for complacency and carelessness. One could even say the Ravens provided a service. But the demon served only himself. And he made her help. For that she would be forever ashamed.
Fifty-one years she’d been in service of the demon. Like most shape-shifters she had a life span that was more than double that of a human, and once her kind hit puberty the aging process slowed dramatically. Still, time marched on for her and her kind as it did for everyone. Though the passage of time was never more acutely felt than by one who was forced to stand still as it slipped by. She’d grown older over the years, but little else about her life had changed.
The old mansion she and Akram called home for the past six and a half months peeked between the tall oaks below. Morrigan banished the threatening tears with a deep breath, landing silent as a ghost on the river-rock courtyard.
The century-old house wasn’t really theirs. It belonged to the defense lawyer whom Akram consumed last. The lawyer had made his fortune defending business moguls from their stockholders and suffering employees when the company books didn’t back up the profits claimed.
She’d have preferred Akram consume one of the lawyer’s clients, but time had been a factor and proximity a priority.
Morrigan steadied the bum on his feet. “Come,” she said and led the way up the wide stone steps of the back deck and through the double French doors that opened onto the sitting room. The human host stuck to her heel like toilet paper.
“Morrigan, you’ve kept me waiting,” Akram said, rounding the corner from the hallway. “Was there a problem? Were you seen?”
Morrigan shook her head, then realized he was already busy inspecting his new host. “No. No problem,” she said. “And I’m never seen.”
Akram paused, the man’s dirty head in his hands, his thumbs hiking up the man’s lips to show his teeth. He met her gaze. “Of course. You are a true talent, Morrigan. Thank you.”
His smile was little more than a flicker across his lips, but the rarity of it sent a flutter through her stomach and made her breath catch.
Akram wore the expensive trousers and tailored dress shirt that’d come with the body and house. His hair was neatly trimmed, his face clean-shaven, his shoes shined. Good grooming and fine dressing has its own appeal, but Akram’s outward appearance rarely caught her notice anymore.
Physically Akram looked nothing like he had all those years ago when she was a young girl just beginning her service to him. The demon had possessed ninety-eight bodies from that day to this, devoured ninety-eight souls. Every one of them was male, and no two were alike. The hosts were as different as thumbprints, but Akram made each his own.
How many times had she studied him, discerning the differences and the similarities? Those unique quirks, the cadence of his speech, the crooked tilt of his smile, the fluid gestures of his hands, elements of the demon that never changed regardless of the body that housed him. Too many hours, too many sleepless nights, spent pondering the spirit who’d been her only companion, her only concern for more than fifty years.
Too many times her study of him would shift and melt into something stranger, something shockingly more intimate than the clinical intentions she’d begun with, innocent observations bleeding into wicked fantasy. Hunger for sensation, for the touch of his hands in places she so ached to be touched would swell in her. Deep in her womb heat would stir, her blood surging with warmth throughout her body, turning her molten from the inside out, wanting him. Wanting him.
How could such thoughts, such need, be anything but proof of her soul’s corruption? Yet too often she couldn’t fight, couldn’t deny those thoughts. Vivid images of Akram’s hard, healthy male form behind her, molding to her back, his stiff sex a solid imprint against her ass would invade her mind.
Strong spirit hands wrap around her, exploring her body, pressing at the base of her throat, smoothing down her chest, kneading the heavy, supple weight of her breasts and lower, over her belly, cupping between her thighs. In her mind’s eye she’s helpless to stop him, trapped by her own magic used against her. She must allow what she most desires.
His other hand traces a counter pattern over her willing form, caressing over her hard, puckered nipple, teasing the sensitive nub between his fingers, making her gasp. His hot breaths moisten the skin over her shoulder, his soft lips teasing kisses down her neck, nibbling, biting, sending breath-deifying shudders rippling down to her toes. Muscles deep inside her clench, tugging desire from her core, tightening through the slick walls of her sex.
The host’s thick finger slips down to part her feminine lips, spreading her creamy readiness through her folds, finding the entrance to her body. He invades her, pushing as deep as his physical body will allow, stroking her from the inside. It’s not enough. It’s never enough.
He bends her over. Her naked bottom brushing against the hair-rough flesh of his groin, her wet gaping sex exposed to him. He centers himself, one hand guiding his thick, hard sex to her opening, his other hand clutching her hip. For one brief moment the achingly smooth round of his cock’s head warms against her. Then the demon rocks his hips, pushing his borrowed body into hers, driving deep and hard without a word of permission.
Her body resists, muscles clenching, forcing friction, heightening sensation so that Morrigan’s lungs fill with air turned to pure pleasure, and released in a low, rolling moan. A heartbeat, flesh to flesh, heat to heat, and Akram draws his long, hardened sex backward through her pussy.
Long, invisible tendrils pull sensation from every corner of her body down through her sex. She angles forward, aiding him until the fat head of his cock nearly slips free. Her chest squeezes, catching her breath a shuddering instant before they push together again, their bodies meeting with a hard, satisfying jolt. And then again.
The erotic ebb and flow of their forms, meeting and parting, driving deep and pulling shallow repeats, the rhythm growing faster, more frantic, sensation heightening, becoming achingly acute.
It’s too much. It’s not enough. A little more. She wants it all. Any longer and she’ll burst into a million tiny pieces. Just a little longer…
And then longer arrives and her release floods her body, making her shudder all the way down to the soles of her feet.
Morrigan squeezed her eyes shut, willing the dizzying spin of her mind to fade. A mental shake and she opened her eyes again focusing on the Akram before her, in the here and now. The demon was none the wiser of how he’d so deeply twisted her mind, body and soul. And for that she was both grateful…and frustrated.
He continued his inspection, lifting the man’s dirty hands, turning them over in his, checking beneath his threadbare shirt, determining the body’s potential.
Finally Akram took the host’s head in his hands again, tilting it slightly to the right, his own to the left and brought their lips together. No pomp, no warning or preparation, Akram’s mouth opened on the filthy lips of her indigent prey and the prey’s lips parted in welcome.
There was nothing sexual about the kiss, and though she’d seen the process countless times before, Morrigan couldn’t tear her eyes away. It took only moments before the kiss was broken. Both men stumbled back, as though they’d been fighting against the hold and were suddenly freed.
The weathered old man wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, staring at the neatly kempt lawyer across from him. The lawyer blinked back. His lips parted as though he’d speak. He looked to Morrigan. He blinked again. And then promptly turned to dust.
She swung her gaze to the old man. “That’s ninety-nine. One more and my contract’s fulfilled.”
Akram stripped out of the smelly flannel shirt, then tugged the filthy undershirt over his head. “Right. We’ve done well with this last one. I thought a trip overseas might be nice.”
Already the abused old body was rebounding, the flesh filling out across his broad chest, smoothing wrinkles on his face, thickening muscles in his arms. She was right. When he stood straight, the old body was a good two inches taller than she was, and Akram never slouched.
The body didn’t matter, it was the strength and potency of the soul Akram craved—what he fed on. Though to consume the soul destroys the body in the end, Akram had the power to sustain the host’s outward appearance until the very last drop of soul was gone. He’d cut it dangerously close more than once.
The transformation always amazed her. It wasn’t the first time she’d chosen a body so dilapidated that when the demon restored it to good health she scarcely recognized it. Though she would always recognize Akram, no matter what body he wore.
He flicked his gaze to her, his golden eyes gleaming through orbs born blue. The memory of eyes the color of a swimming pool flashed through her head. The demon’s eyes were always golden, always Akram. “Does that please you, my little Raven?”
Morrigan shrugged, ignoring the butterfly flutters in her belly when he called her his. “Europe, the States, Asia, doesn’t matter. Just tell me when it’s time for the next hunt, demon.”
“Fifty-one years together. Are you so eager to be free of me?”
Morrigan met his gaze, held it so there’d be no misunderstanding and replied coolly, “Yes.”
Akram looked away to hide his flinch. He was a fool to hope he could please her. He’d never be more to her than what he was, her demon master. Why did the prospect bother him so? He couldn’t be sure. These sorts of thoughts and longings had never arisen in him before.
He glanced at the pile of dust that was once his host and tossed the filthy shirts on top. He shoved out of the jeans, so ripe with stench they could almost stand on their own, and added them to the pile. A lone shoe was last to go. He didn’t ask about the other. It didn’t matter.
“Clean that up,” he said, catching her midnight eyes taking in his naked form. “We leave tonight.”
Akram strode from the room, refusing to give more weight to Morrigan’s passing physical interest than it deserved.
So she wished to be free of him. He should release her. Let her remember what it was like to be without the comforts he provided.
But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. And not just because he enjoyed the luxury of her skill at securing him hosts. He needed her, but he’d be damned if he’d play the sentimental fool.
“Sentimentality…pfftt,” he said to himself, taking the carpeted oak stairs two at a time. She’d take it as weakness, and to his mind it was.
Akram, ancient demon, survivor of torments and time’s unending march, would have none of it. He would not be torn asunder by a woman.
On the second floor of the mansion he slammed the bathroom door behind him, striding to the long double sink. His spirit had worked its magic on the new host, taking back years lost to abuse and neglect. He was still filthy and smelled like dung, but the flesh had tightened over hard muscle, once-rotting teeth were healthy again, and some of the gray hair had returned to its original ebony shade.
Akram turned his chin from side to side, eyeing his reflection. He needed a shave, but the silvery shoulder-length hair suited him. Or it would once he’d washed it.
He closed his eyes, his spirit warming as it pulled energy from the host’s soul. An exhale gushed from his lungs. Damn, it felt good to soak his spirit in a full, deep well again. Every day that well would grow shallower, every day there’d be less and less to sustain him. Akram pushed the unpleasant worry from his mind.
He opened his eyes and stared into the dead-gray eyes of his brother. No. Wait. Akram shook his head. Richard wasn’t his brother. He was the brother of Daniel, the host whose body Akram now possessed.
Akram clenched his jaw, braced his hands on the sink he knew was there but couldn’t see through the memory the host forced him to witness. Jeezus, he hated this part, the last fit-‘n’-fight of the host trying to oust him. It was always a wretched experience, some vile memory he was forced to endure, touching, smelling, feeling every nuance as though it was his own memory.
Akram’s gaze shifted to his hands, shocked for a moment to see them tight around his bother’s throat, his long fingers turning white from the squeeze. But they weren’t his hands, it wasn’t his brother; it was Daniel’s, his host. Not that it mattered. The emotions storming his brain were real enough.
Morrigan had a habit of choosing the worst dregs of society, those souls whose after-death trip would likely be short and at a downward tilt.
Pure, absolved souls use pity as a weapon in the battle for possession—heartfelt glimpses of loved ones to try to play on his guilt, try to break his heart, his determination. The wicked used their sins against him, trying to shock and disgust him into letting go. Neither worked, though both were a torment to endure.
This host’s last stand was no different. Richard, the brother, flailed at Akram’s shoulders and head in the vision, though the slaps that stung his cheeks and rattled his brain were as real as anything.
Akram ignored the pain, Daniel’s anger burning through him, tightening his hands, shifting his weight to press everything he had against his brother’s miserable neck. Why can’t Richard mind his own damn business? Just shut up, you stupid jerk. Shut up. Shut up.
The flesh around Richard’s lips shifted from red to blue, the color quickly spreading to his cheeks, around his bulging eyes, across his forehead.
Richard clawed at Akram’s hands and arms, desperate to break his grip. Blood beaded along the scratches, the wounds burning like acid, but he ignored it. The little jerk never could beat him in a fight.
Then suddenly his kid brother stopped. Stopped slapping, stopped scratching…stopped moving. It was over. Richard stared up at Akram, his blue eyes dulling. Shit

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