Lady Raven & The Day of Wrath ~Book One~

Prologue

Inessa Way was still alive, which was, of course, completely unacceptable. Both her parents were now dead, and it was high time she followed in their footsteps. How well she knew the thinness of the veil that separates living Terra from the halls of the departed dead. Well indeed did she know how, with a single brush of her hand, she might lift that filmy chiffon and pass from death into life.  

Or was it from life unto death?

Inessa cast another furtive glance at the window as she arranged herself in the padded chair reserved for the diseased. Sí, eso pensaba, That big raven-bird is still watching me… A large raven the colour of glittering onyx was perched on the sill, observing the psychologist’s office with an inscrutable eye. Tilting its midnight head, the observant raven tapped its beak once against the glass and ruffled its feathers in displeasure. As Inessa perched upon the liar’s chair, she watched the raven and saw the bird look coldly at the psychologist seated beside her. Inessa imagined the bird hoped an agreeably horrific accident would befall the older woman—anything to keep the doctor away from Inessa’s precious bones. Inessa believed she could see disappointment pass over the bird’s midnight features. Then the raven raised ragged wings and screamed unkindness as it whirled away into the dark grey sky. 

For her part, Dr. Julia Nocturn did not think much of this portent. Dr. Nocturn was Inessa’s long-term psychologist, and she was focused entirely on the strange mannerisms that her most challenging patient was showing today. Inessa was clearly distracted—nervous even—and the good doctor wanted to know why.

“Hello? Inessa? Did you hear me?”

Inessa tore her eyes from the disappearing raven and faced the doctor. “Sí. Yes. I was at school today. No, no, bien, everything was fine.” 

One truth and a lie. Inessa refused to squirm in her chair and managed to look through Dr. Nocturn instead of at her. The psychologist made a note on the pad she always held during their sessions and tried again.

“This is a difficult time for you, I know.”

Inessa held herself very still. You most certainly do NOT know. Aloud, she said, “Yes. It’s been difficult, but I’m ok.” Another truth—and the lie.

Dr. Nocturn nodded her careful bun at her bone-white patient and smiled sympathetically. “How are your grades at Mersus?” she asked. 

“The pigpen?” Inessa laughed aloud. It was a terrible, ferocious sound. Then she bared her teeth and started to chant—as the walls turned to blood. 

Little pig, little pig

How long will you dig?

Come out, come out!

Lift your greedy snout.

Go to school, go to school!

And slurp up all the rules!

A flood of slobbering pigs burst through the door. In a mass of squealing fat, they rushed to the walls to lick up the blood. Dr. Nocturn screeched in horror as the floor became a mass of writhing flesh. At the sound, several pigs opened their grasping, slavering snouts and latched fiercely onto her hands. Then they began to suck. Dr. Nocturn tried to scream again, tried to tear her hands away, but found she could not crack open her jaw to do so nor remove her hands from the greedy, slurping pigs. The muscles in her face and body shrivelled to nothing in seconds. In mere moments, she would be left with naught but skin scraped over sagging bone. Desperate, the skeletal doctor…!

…adjusted herself in her seat and coughed. The walls were once more a simple, cheery yellow, and Dr. Julia Nocturn was holding her notepad at the ready, smiling a firm, fleshy smile. The pigs had not reduced her to little more than a bag of collapsing bones. No, she was hale, and her patient was firmly holding herself still in her chair—and looking through the doctor’s eyes instead of at them.

“My grades aren’t as high as I would like, but es difícil concentrarse… it’s hard to concentrate… right now. You were right when you said I would probably experience a few months of reduced attention span. Emotions have a way of clouding the intellect.” Inessa gave Dr. Nocturn a pained smile and tilted her head in imitation of emotional openness. 

Dr. Nocturn barely heard her. A vision of slavering, slobbering swine seemed to obscure every notion of reality. Did I nod off? I don’t feel tired…? What was that!? But there were no answers. Forcing herself to recall her patient’s words, Hard to concentrate… yes… you were right… emotions, clouded mind…

Gulping, Dr. Nocturn cleared her throat, and timidly asked, “Speaking of school, how is the piano situation coming? Has the principal replaced your piano yet?”

At first, Inessa did not respond. This question brought many thoughts to her mind. Many painful memories bubbled to the surface that she would much rather remain safely hidden. Everything is different now, she thought. Uncle Ronnie took my music away, and now the piano at school is gone, too. No one understands. Not Isaac, and not her. But I know what it means… I know… It is my penalty. I must be punished for this breath I steal!

Russell Way was dead. He had left his twin children—Isaac and Inessa—fatherless and bereaved. Russell had been killed in an act of senseless violence whilst in Mexico for a work trip. One of the cartels operating in the area had gotten into a fight with the police, and Russell had been caught in the crossfire. Directly following this tragedy, María Way, the twin’s mother, had become suicidal. 

Inessa, unable to cope with her own grief, and much less capable of coping with her family’s pain, had killed her mother. She had sung a song of sleep, not knowing then, the power in her music. It was an accident, but her mother had slipped away into the dreamless slumber from which men do not wake. Isaac blamed himself entirely for María’s death, believing he was at fault for spending too much time standing watch by his equally suicidal sister and forgetting to watch his mother. But Inessa knew. She knew the appalling truth, knew and hated herself. 

Directly following the second funeral, the twins were taken in by their father’s best friend, a man they knew as Uncle Ronnie. Uncle Ronnie had been a constant feature in the Way family since before they were born, though he was not related to them. He had been Russell’s best friend since they were teenagers together. Everything the Ways owned had either been sold or repossessed to repay their parent’s debt, including Inessa’s beloved grand piano—the gift of a doting father on his precious musical savant.

Inessa Way had first been formally recognized as a musical savant when she won a competition two years ago. Since then, she had alternated between bouts of crippling anxiety and manic excitement at the possibility of performing new recitals. Black and pale, the mesmerizingly contrasted young woman might have grown into a fine and famous artist, flourishing into a mature flower, had she channelled her grief into art. But that… No, that would have required practice. Practice and focus, focus and calm… 

No… it was impossible.

Inessa needed to play like the raven needed to fly, but she had no piano! No piano, no home, and no mother… Clearing her throat even as she clouded her mind, Inessa smiled graciously at her physician and asked a question of her own. 

“Shall I sing you a song, Médica?”

Though still a little shaken, Dr. Nocturn was pleased at this turn of events. Nodding enthusiastically, she said, “Yes! Definitely! I would like that very much!”

Inessa folded her hands before her in the precise posture of the operatic diva and opened her throat, but instead of music, a single, repeated note brayed and clashed out over and over again.

All ye

That be

Walk with me.

This icy hand is me.

Come, for you cannot see.

In my steps, place your feet.

One hundred times we repeat

This tramping trammelled beat.

To light our feet a lamp we meet

In the eyes of the burning dead.

For to Hell, I have thee led

And by burning bread 

Shall you be fed

By the dead.

The dead.

Dead.

The result was a terrible, anti-melodic chant that assaulted instead of assuaging the ear. Inessa never changed her facial expression during this recital nor ceased to hold her operatic posture until the psychologist found the words to reply.

“Th-thank you, Inessa. I… really appreciate you opening up like that and… singing… for me.” Dr. Nocturn made a tremendous effort to sound enthusiastic and managed to look convincing. That song had been quite a shock. The wretched grating noise (for it was no music) astonished the poor doctor. Julia Nocturn knew firsthand what soaring notes that raven-haired musician was known to pour out of her pale white throat, for the doctor had previously attended a concert by the young prodigy and had felt the tears stream unabated as she listened. Now the music was broken. It was as though the singer sang with a ruined tongue. To Dr. Nocturn’s attentive ear, the message instantly sounded alarm bells. Something was wrong, and it was deadly serious. 

Inessa, satisfied with the reaction, lowered her hands. It had not escaped her that Dr. Nocturn was trying to hide her real feelings. Then, to hammer the point home, she said, “It has been difícil to train my ear without the piano at Mersus, but I’m glad to hear that you enjoyed the pretty tune anyway.”

If the fool doesn’t understand now, then I will scream, which will be the end of us both.

Dr. Nocturn did indeed understand, and a look of suspicion crept into the corners of her earl-grey eyes. She did not mention the music—or the lack thereof—but took an entirely new tack, “Maybe we should try a new medication.”

Inessa screamed. 

Dr. Nocturn jumped in her skin as Inessa Way leapt off her chair and slammed into the ground with her knees, clutching at her head.

“Kill the mind! Kill the mind! She wants my mind! I feel her in my head! Her fingers are in my brain!!! Clawing, scratching, digging…! Kill! Kill! Kill!!!” 

The words failed, dissolving into a guttural scream. Dr. Nocturn threw her hands to her ears to stop the sound—and felt that her palms were wet. Putting her hands before her eyes, she saw that they were covered in blood. Slowly, she lowered them to her lap… I’m bleeding… Now will the pigs come? They will lick the blood from my palms… Wait, Pigs…!? What am I saying!?

…and saw Inessa slowly shake her head as she sat on her chair. She was otherwise perfectly still and silent. 

Then her patient said, “Oh no, Julia. The meds I’m on now are helping. I’m making great improvements. All the scary Halloween costumes the students wore at school today hardly even frightened me!”

Dr. Julia stared blankly. With slow, unthinking movements, she pulled her hands before her eyes and stared at them with disbelief. I’m hallucinating. What is wrong with me? I feel fine! I’m a little tired, but nothing abnormal… Why on earth would I be hallucinating right now?

Suddenly remembering her patient, Dr. Nocturn looked up and tried to pull herself back to reality—to banish firmly these inexplicable visions. Where were we? What did she say? Halloween, was it? Yes. That’s right. No pigs. Just a scary Halloween. Inessa does not do well during Halloween. Talk about Halloween…

Frowning, Dr. Nocturn took her shaking, sweaty palms and used them to brush back little wisps of silvery hair on the sides of her head. Feeling like she was being pulled in two directions simultaneously, she found it challenging to string together a coherent reply.

Eventually, she said, “I’m surprised you decided to go to school at all, Inessa. Normally, Halloween is a difficult time for you! Wasn’t it just last year…”

Inessa cut her off, “I’m a completely different person now, Julia. This new treatment plan we started is working better than I ever thought. Honestamente, I think I’m nearly cured!”

You craven fool. I know you know better, and yet you still pretend…

“I’m glad to hear it…” Dr. Nocturn smiled absently in the general direction of her patient. She very much disliked being so distracted during a session. But it is hard to pay attention when walls are suddenly turning to blood! Did I eat something? Did somebody spike my food? Psychedelics? But I haven’t eaten out in a week… Then she had a thought, Is this what Inessa’s mind is like all the time? 

She shuddered.

Aloud, she said, “Try not to get too excited, Inessa. Neither Early Onset Schizophrenia nor Post Traumatic Stress Disorder disappear overnight. These things take time. In most cases, trouble may be brewing underneath the surface even when symptoms disappear for a little while. I am here for you throughout your whole healing process, ok?”

You’re not my Mama.

Aloud, Inessa replied, “I don’t know what I would do without you.” 

I would be free. How I long to be free!

Dr. Nocturn smiled and scribbled something in her notepad. Then she seemed to collect herself and asked, “How is Isaac taking the loss?”

She could not pretend. This question she could not withstand. 

They, children of grief, were cast out of their home with nothing but a few meagre belongings to accompany them. They were destitute. Their late father had recently purchased a home, several new vehicles, and had a sizeable loan on her lavish grand piano. This, combined with Inessa’s old medical debt and the loss of his employer-sponsored health insurance plan now that Russell was no longer with his old company, meant the Way family was completely underwater. María Way had been devastated by this destitution, and Inessa knew she was to blame for everything. If it wasn’t for her broken brain they wouldn’t have been in so much trouble. Guilt, horrible and unforgiving, was why she had sung her mother to sleep, but in her naivety, she had not known death—real and irreversible—would be the result. Childish naivety was no excuse now, because Inessa was a murderer. It was because of her that María, her precious mother, was dead. Inessa was death to all that knew her, and it was only a matter of time before she accidentally killed Isaac too. This knowledge was buried like a landmine in her heart. 

Since the staccato of one parent passing after the other, the days had streamed by in a seamless blur. Inessa began to skip school, and for the first time in his life, Isaac followed suite. With nothing to do, they had aimlessly walked around the neighbourhood without a goal or direction, watching as the leaves died on the trees. Every time they walked together, the same thought surfaced until the sea of her mind was so choked with this one concern that all other life began to die. 

Isaac doesn’t understand. No one understands. Isaac is strong, oh yes, like the pillars of heaven, but he does not know. I am the quaking earth, the shattering of towers. Ruin. And I am the sand which scours his stones. How long until he is no more? I cannot change. Am I not death to all that love me? Grief! Oh yes, sorrow, but if you stay, sister, there will be no tomorrow.

But where can I go?

Invisible demons coiled knots around and around her, then pulled them cruelly taut, squeezing until she could barely breathe. So completely was she trapped in this one obsession that she began to feel dizzy. Dr. Nocturn watched as Inessa’s throat constricted, her eyes dilated, and her still, death-like grip on her knees tightened like a vice. 

Nervously crooning, Dr. Nocturn said, “It’s ok, Inessa. You don’t have to answer. I understand.” 

Julia Nocturn had been treating Inessa for many years, and throughout that time, she had learned to read her warning signs. She knew from experience that if she pressed Inessa too hard, a psychotic breakdown often followed, and it would be months before she could make contact again. Besides this, an unreasonable fear had crept into the back of the doctor’s mind: if Inessa was to lose herself here and now, some dreadful, terrible, incomprehensible calamity would come upon them both. 

Inessa stilled herself. Consciously relaxing the grip on her knees, she nodded to the doctor in the opposite chair. Then she spoke, and at these words, the doctor’s blood ran cold, “Darkness shall cover the earth, and deep darkness, the people.” 

Dread, like unto the feeling of the coming of a hurricane, had built up a cloud of oppressive black in the doctor’s mind. She could almost see the storm building behind Inessa’s chair. As though the blood had frozen in her veins, Julia could do nothing. She could not move. She could not speak. 

Something was about to happen…

Turning lazily to the nervous doctor, Inessa said, “¡Lo siento! Is the session over already? Is it time for me to go?”

Julia’s face felt like a mask of ice. Panic replaced the fear of the unknown. I’m about to die…! she thought. With immense will, she forced herself to move, breaking the invisible ice that coated her features. She could hear the ice shattering on the floor, but she did not look down. Control… I must get control…!

“We are going to try a new medication,” she gulped out.

Inessa nodded gravely. If she noticed the other’s titanic struggle, she did not show it. “If you say so, Julia. You’re the psicóloga. Nevertheless, Uncle Ronnie is waiting for me in the next room, and my hour has come.” 

Julia lurched to her feet, her mind a confusion of conflicting thoughts. She placed her hand on Inessa’s bony wrist, then sucked in a deep breath. That hand was cold as ice! It was past time. Dr. Nocturn realized she must—immediately—take drastic action. She decided to prescribe something much more potent than she had ever dared use before. It was either that or risk her reputation by appealing to the supernatural...! 

She had no time to decide on a course of action because Inessa had already stood. Shaking hair the colour of ravens’ feathers, Inessa stretched herself forth. A noise like thunder sounded outside the door, though it was much more rapid and prolonged than any stormy peal. It was almost like the sound of thousands of tiny drums. Julia staggered away from that noise and, in so doing, away from Inessa. 

At this, Inessa gave her a wounded, mournful look and turned to go. Words failed the doctor, and the beating at the door grew louder. Each white footfall took Inessa further away and closer to that terrible door. With every pressing step of the other’s inexorable tread, Julia cringed further away, clutching her desk for support. Gently, slowly, as if she had not a care in the world, Inessa closed her hand around the doorknob and opened a hole into another realm.

To the poor doctor, it looked as though Inessa had opened a portal straight to Hell, for thousands upon thousands of grotesque black shapes flew into the room. On her knees, Julia believed them first to be demons and then bats, but she did not know that they were the brothers and sisters of the raven outside the window. Up they came, sweeping and screaming into the room, flashing and slashing until the air was thick with their sable wings. Then, as though a vacuum pulled them away, they disappeared out the door. Inessa was gone.

Chapter 1: All In Good Time

Ten minutes. 

Six months of negotiations, countless miles traversed pounding the pavement, and agonising hours of research and spying on his mark, and in the end, it had all come down to ten minutes. In just ten minutes, his future as a businessman in Detroit’s most corrupt era had been assured. Now that he had this final council member in his pocket, the last of the competition would crumble. 

“My boy Chac is gonna have to pay double for his girls now.”

Dakarius Leto blew a cloud of acrid smoke out of the crack in his window—and smiled. It was not a very nice smile. Rows of perfectly white teeth stood out like bleached bones in an elephant graveyard. Dakarius was proud of his smile, as he was of many things, for with that smile, he successfully played the role of ‘contributing businessman’ to the local politicians, and with remarkable ease, that smile withered the most stalwart opponent. It was almost as though rivals saw their names etched on those beautiful tombstones. 

“There ain’t no accountin’ fo’ imagination.” 

Dakarius laughed aloud, bemused, and surveyed the city as he drove down its pockmarked lanes. My city, he thought. And what a crumbling kingdom it was. The cracks in the concrete were filled with blood and coke. Let Mayor Kilborne play wit’ d’downtown. Dat ain’t d’real Detroit. He don’ know d’real city. MY city. 

Throned on high in the symbol of his office, the white Escalade, Dakarius looked down upon his miserable subjects. The few women who were out waited at the bus stops to get to work, and the many men who trawled up and down the streets fishing for trouble sneered or smiled at them even as they shouted and laughed with each other. Most of the buildings along the street had either been torn down or boarded up. In contrast, the roads had been cheerfully painted—painted right over the potholes—to indicate bike lanes that no one would ever use and turning lanes that were as often ignored as obeyed. Like the bladed chariot wheels of the ancient Scythians, Dakarius’ spinners cut down his fellow man as he passed, for it was men of his cut and cloth that gave the name of ‘downtrodden’ to the poor. 

Turning from the more populous thoroughfare with its flaking paint and the shaking shoulders of the drug-destroyed lying in filthy bedding on street corners, Dakarius pulled down a residential street. In a space once filled with thirty-eight homes and thus thirty-eight families, now a mere six houses remained, and not one of those six contained a family, whole and complete. All of them, however, contained misery and some… secrets that would curdle the blood. 

Yes. This was home. 

With these cheery thoughts, Dakarius ambled easily through the neighbourhood. This was a good day for him. He was a businessman, of sorts, but his traffic was in human collateral. Some men found passing pills their calling, and Dakarius left them to it. He was not concerned with that market, unless it was addicting men to his illegal brothel rings. No, the slinging of ice and spice, of smack and snow and the thousand-and-one drugs on the streets today were of little concern to him, for with today’s meeting, he had cornered the only market he had any passion for. 

“Got two new bit-bags already, an’ Chac jest waitin’ fo’ me t’send him a bill! He gon’ thrill’. Two new blondes in a row.”

Dakarius smiled again. Then, with a lazy gesture, he reached for the joint lying in wait in the cupholder. When he looked up, a woman was standing directly in front of his car. 

Slamming on the brakes, Dakarius cursed and dropped the sceptre of mental opacity onto the floormat. Tyres screeching, Dakarius managed to bring the Escalade to a halt just before smashing into the figure who stood still as a statue, as three large black birds flashed upwards from her feet so quickly they might have been mere imagination. The woman’s face was contorted into a strange pattern of determination and terror. The sound of squealing rubber and the onrush of three tons of plastic and steel made an awful impression on her. As he skidded to a halt, she flinched and froze every muscle in her body as if to solid ice, but she did not try to evade. 

The mysterious statue had hair so long and so black it seemed to stream like the sable Styx. She was dressed in a white t-shirt so long he mistook it for a dress, with shorts that barely peeked out from underneath. Her immobile arms were fair in the fading light. She wore no shoes at all. 

Smoke wafted from the burnt rubber, creating an acrid smell in the air that well-befit the sight of the trash littering the streets and the rows of charred houses hunching like rotten teeth. The woman staggered back, releasing a breath that seemed to exhale frost crystals into the air, which was impossible for that time of the year. Still, the woman did not open her eyes, only panting and grabbing at her bare knees for support. 

Dakarius stared for a moment, then, in a burst of anger, he swept up the marijuana from the floorboard and considered running over the woman.

“Kit Junkies. Ain’t worth d’air dey breathe,” he muttered around the paper in his mouth. 

Just as he was about to release the brakes, the woman turned and staggered away, veering from the middle of the road towards the cracked sidewalk and back again, as though she was drunk or in shock. Dakarius watched her go for a moment, more bemused by this surprising behaviour than angry. Things had gone too well today for him to consider a wandering junkie with anything more than dispassionate annoyance. He let her get some fifty feet away before a flight of fancy took him. Revving the engine, he began to follow her. 

Dakarius noticed that the woman began to pick her way to the sidewalk more gingerly than at first, carefully avoiding trash and the razor-sharp glass from decades of discarded liquor bottles. As he watched, he grew increasingly curious, keeping pace with her at two or three miles per hour. Suddenly, she turned her head and looked at him. 

She saw him. Directly through the thick layer of tint that covered all his windows, she looked dead into his eyes. Dakarius felt as though she had seen straight into his black soul. What he saw in return was not the muddled suppression of a drug-deadened mind but a wild, lacerated look. Then the feeling passed, and all that remained was a young woman, not quite Caucasian as he had previously supposed, but a Latina mix, though she was as white as snow. Young… very young, and pretty, too. Pretty, and all alone. Dakarius rolled the window down. 

“Trip, baby!” he called in a smooth drawl. “Whach’ ya doin’ ou’ here all alone?”

Dakarius knew from experience that two things were likely to happen next. Either the young woman felt secure in the protection of family and would make all haste to escape this encounter to gain her safety with them, or she would respond to his catcall. If she responded at all, she was vulnerable. How he loved to discover a pretty, young, vulnerable woman. 

At the sound of his call, the young woman slowed to a halt. She seemed to be thinking. Her brows knit in a sign of strenuous mental effort. She raised her hands to her head and clutched it. Dakarius was about to speak again when a change came over her. The fair white arms fell to her sides, and a vacant expression replaced that of concentration. 

Slowly, she spoke, “I… Ran away.”

Dakarius raised an eyebrow and blew out a cloud of noxious green smoke that mingled evilly with the lingering smell of burnt rubber. “You was inna mid’ of d’road. Whacha do dat fo’? I nearly flat line’ ya. Girl like you got’s t’be mo’ careful. Whips out here, dey don’ be so straight. You coulda got real’ hurt.” His voice was deep, grating, and slow, like a metal shredder at a junkyard.

She made no response, but her lips moved as if she were repeating a word he said. 

“Where you gon’ go? You all slippin’ outta d’house? You ain’t got no place t’stay, do ya?” Dakarius nodded at her knowingly, then gave her a sympathetic smile. 

“They sold my piano.”

Without breaking stride, Dakarius smoothly sallied past this odd reply, “Dat’s wrong.” He shook his head. “No house, no p…”

She interrupted him, “Isaac can live there. I won’t. No more. No more! Idiots, fools! No…” A scowl wrapped around her pale white face.

Dakarius nodded knowingly, then said, “You kinda funny. You ain’t all right upstairs, is you?” He tapped a finger against his temple.

“She says I have schizophrenia.”

Dakarius ‘tsked’ and shook his head. Then he said, “You need someplace t’stay, doncha?”

She screwed up her eyes and stared into space. For a long moment, she was silent, but eventually, she sagged and nodded her weary head. 

“Come around. Come on, pretty lil’ pony. Come around an’ I’ll pet you an’ feed you sugar.”

Inessa Way stared at Dakarius Leto. She gazed at him so blankly that even that king of the underworld, that lord of crime and depravity, began to feel uncomfortable. Some new and inexplicable thing was happening, but Dakarius could not yet begin to understand what.

Hers was a gift titanic, though it was not, as yet, fully trained. The child of Beethoven and Bono, of Metallica and Mozart, the offspring of Williams and Wonder, this juvenile genius was born for the ivory key. Inessa’s talent had only recently begun to be displayed in the public forum, with her debut at a regional competition. Ten of the greatest pianists in the Midwest had competed together. Still, with her unique combination of vocals, keys, and an ability to sing in two separate octaves simultaneously, Inessa had swept them all away. She had been merely twelve years old. That display had astounded the audience, who had never expected such a moving performance. The standing ovation lasted for over nine minutes. Unfortunately, a debilitating bout of pneumonia had kept her from Nationals, and from then on, fear fought with her desire to play in new concerts. 

Dr. Julia Nocturn had done everything in her power to restore the fragile, fearful soul. Together, they had worked towards a slow reintroduction of musician to concert hall. Then, a diagnosis of Early Onset Schizophrenia turned Inessa’s world upside down. Once more, Inessa and the doctor worked to rebuild inside a totally new framework, and talent burst forth from the young woman as from the rock. By then, however, music had become a desperate pursuit, a last chance for normalcy through the form of self-expression. But before Inessa could capitalise on her growing success, the great tragedies that had overcome the Way family dashed her dream to pieces before she even knew it was hers. 

It was her fault. Mamá was dead because of her own daughter. She had not been able to control the music, and it had taken a life. She had taken a life. Tormented by guilt, Inessa had been driven like the falling snow through funerals, moving to new places, and the loss of everything she had once loved. She was responsible for everything, and for everything, she knew that she must die. 

It was fair, was it not? A life for a life? Blood must be repaid. She had known she was going to die when she sang for Dr. Nocturn. In a way, going to that last session had been her final hope, a desperate cry for help before the end. She had left the last of Inessa Way in that office and had gone to die like a dog in the street. Of course, she did not have the courage to do the deed outright. She needed an accomplice. 

Detroit was ever near to her. Since she was a child, she could smell the sin of that place. She could hear gunshots from fifty miles away, though no one had believed her, and she could feel the bodies of addicts burning away from their drug of choice like their skin was her own. She knew of the monsters that stalked those streets in the flesh of men, and when it came time for her own life to end, she had sought out the very worst man in that whole city. She could hear his evil laughter in her very soul and had followed it as a raven might the glinting of glitter from a mile in the sky. A thousand hurts he had inflicted, and more men had died at his hands than at any other’s in the state. He would destroy her as soon as look at her. Seeking the end, and the atonement of her sins, Inessa had thrown herself in front of that bad, bad man, waiting for the crunch of her flesh, and the escape from a guilty life.

But she wasn’t dead.

For reasons she simply could not understand, the car had stopped. He had decided not to kill her. Her mind was a whirl of confusion and doubt. 

Why does he call me a pony? I am not horsies, I am black… I am wings… I… Why did he not kill me? I thought all bad men would kill me. But I must die! Can it be that he wants me to live? O, what shall I do?!  

The moment passed. She moved. Slowly shuffling, head held at an angle, like a bird might do when near a cat, the young woman moved towards the passenger door. Carefully, gingerly, she opened it and began to fuss with the seat. Dakarius kept his ride much cleaner than most men in his line of work, but still, she refused to get in until every speck of dust had been removed from the leather.

“Whach you name, baby?” he smiled, bemused at her fastidious cleaning efforts.

Freezing with her hand in mid-air, Inessa thought for a moment, then she snarled in a most unexpected growl, “The lady of Ravenwood Tower… Sí. I am the Lady Raven and no other!” With an angry brush of her hand, she swept the rest of the invisible crumbs off the leather seat and flung herself into the vampire’s carriage. 

Pleased with how easily he had accomplished this kidnapping, Dakarius threw the vehicle into drive. Pulling the roll out of his mouth, he was about to speak when Inessa turned her angry, ebony eyes to stare up into Dakarius’ dark brown ones. 

“You’re a Bad-man.”

Not expecting such an honest assessment, Dakarius did not know how to reply. Deciding to brush it off, he laughed. It was a scornful, derisive laugh meant to scald its audience. 

“Bird spittin’ clown! Bird never seen villain befo’! Befo’ you judge, bet. I’m a simple businessman…”

She cut him off, “You are a Bad-man.” She said this with a firmness that would not be denied. 

“You t’ink so?” he drawled.

“Sí.”

“Den why you get inna car wi’ me?” He spoke slowly and threateningly, a new face appearing underneath the mask. This face was ugly, brutal, and immeasurably calculating.

“Because you are a Bad-man,” Inessa responded simply and without the faintest trace of affectation.

“You’ brain mus’ be jinxed afta all.” Dakarius lifted an eyebrow and stared down at her. He struggled to maintain the façade of a smooth-talking gangster as it became clear that this encounter would not play out as he had expected.

“I’m bad,” she said. “That is why I came to you. I’m bad, so the Bad-man must kill me, but the Bad-man did not kill me. Why does the Bad-man not kill? Why?”

“You must be killed?” Dakarius mulled this over. “Whach’ lil’ girl like you do dat is so bad you gon’ come lookin’ fo’ a ‘Bad-man’ like me? Wha’did you do, Raven girl?”

“What did I do? What did I do!? It’s who I am!!!” Inessa slammed her little white fists into the dashboard, screaming in frustration. Then she screwed herself up into a little ball on the seat and threw her hands up to her head, wailing the same phrase over and over again.

“Millstone! I killed her! Murderer! Millstone! Millstone! Millstone!”

Dakarius felt a tug at his neck, and then he was yanked down. A weight like a small car was tied to his collar. Straight through the Escalade floor, he fell. 

Splash!

Headfirst, body trailing wildly behind him, Dakarius hit the water—dark, murky water. A rope was tied around his throat, and a terrible, heavy weight was bound at the other end of it. He had not had time to take a breath before the desperate plunge. Straight down. Dragged deeper, to interminable depths, Dakarius felt the weight haul against his flailing, straining body, and, with terrible speed, it dragged him into the dark. 

Down.

Fingers tore at the rope, but to no avail. The cord was thick. The knots were impossible to untie. His lungs burned like the fires of Hell had already begun to lick his body. He could not clearly see the weight that, with every second, stole away his precious life, but it looked like a massive, round stone was sinking at a tremendous pace some way before him. He was now so far below the surface that even were he to wriggle out of the noose, he would never be able to make it back up…

She was crying. He was gasping for breath. The Escalade had swerved up onto the curb. His eyes swam. With a wrench, he twisted the steering wheel just in time to avoid a collision with a tree. Punching the brakes, he fought for air. He tried to remember what had just happened either before or during the blackout. 

Water… was that real? he thought.

“Don’t! Don’t!” she cried. 

“What…” he tried, but the words were stuck in a constricted throat. 

“Never again! Never! Never! Crawling! Spiders in my brain! Get out! Get out!” In a desperate flailing jerk, Inessa tore a small chunk of her hair out of her head, leaving a bloody patch in her hand.

Dakarius gasped and wheezed, trying to equalise his blood oxygen level, and whispered, “…was dat…?” 

Putting his hands around his neck, he felt a raised welt that ran in a semi-circular orbit. Directly where d’rope had been tied…

“Dat weren’t real, were it?” he said through gasps of air. His wide eyes narrowed as he noticed the bloody chunk Inessa had thrown into his cupholder. 

“Real!?” Inessa turned her tear-streaked eyes to him, screaming angrily. “¿Hablas de lo real? I don’t want it! I hate it! Real is here! Oh yes! But the dead don’t climb out of the coffin, do they? DO THEY!?”

Dakarius stared into those infinite eyes, still trying to catch his breath. That he had just suffered a schizophrenic episode was obvious, but a psychotic break with reality did not at all explain the very real welt on his neck nor the pain in his lungs. Something strange was happening, something with a menacing fate tied to it. Something… 

Delightful. 

“Do d’dead tie stones roun’ people’ necks an’ drown dem inna ocean?” he asked softly, carefully watching her eyes for any sign of recognition. The guilt that flashed over those midnight orbs confirmed all his suspicions. Smoothly, he continued, “You is wrong, you know. The Bad-man would never hurt you. We was meant to meet each other. You don’ have no home t’go to, now that you run away. But I have a home, and it’s a big one, too.”

Inessa wiped her bleary eyes with the back of her hand and mumbled, “I’m sorry, Bad-man. This is why I had to leave Isaac also… Why is the Bad-man merciful to the Lady? No entiendo…”

Isaac? Who that? An’ why she be saying, sorry? She can’ mean…?

Though she alternated between English and Spanish, Dakarius understood her perfectly. To solidify his market, it had been required early on that he learn Spanish, for it was primarily in Mexico that he peddled his trade. 

Easily replying in Spanish, he said, “I’ll take you home if no more weights are tied around my neck.”

Inessa was quiet for a moment, whispering, “Home? Am I allowed to have a home?” Then she shuddered, took a deep breath, and said, “You must never ask me about my bads, and I will not scream at you... Nor kill you with stones anymore.”

There, car cockeyed on the overgrown turf of an abandoned lot and half-drowned in the open air, Dakarius did something that would change the life of the Way twins forever. He allied himself with an insane little girl who had appeared in the middle of a deserted street like a bat out of Hell. He promised to take her to his home. Not to be trafficked, oh no. This one was different. He need not probe into her past, for it was her future that mattered to him now. If she could do… that… to him with her mind, what else could she do? 

Only one thing remained to bother and tickle in the murky dark of his subconscious. A murderess was fine, but who was this Isaac she had mentioned at the height of her passion? Someone she had killed? That didn’t seem right. She had said she had killed a woman. Someone dangerous she was running from, perhaps? A beloved friend whose affection he could exploit? He would have to be wary of that name. 

Isaac… 

Isaac and Lady Raven…

Chapter 2: And He Searched in Vain

Uncle Ronnie was a handsome man in his late forties, handsome, that is, in a homeless sort of way. His long mane and scruffy beard were streaked with grey, and the lines around his eyes—most having been furrowed out in the past ten months—added to his weatherbeaten charm. When Russel and María Way passed, he had stepped up to take in the children of his best friend. Though he wasn’t related to the Ways, he had been there their whole lives. He had rocked the twins to sleep when they were babies, and they had grown up calling him ‘uncle,’ or ‘tio.’ When the time came and they had nowhere else to go, it wasn’t even a question. He couldn’t stand the thought of the government grinding up the twins in the gigantic maw of the foster care system. Today, Uncle Ronnie found himself gnashing his shiny white molars in frustration. Isaac was being so unreasonable! 

“This is your fault!” Isaac was yelling. “If you had just watched her like you were supposed to, she wouldn’t be missing right now!”

They had been over this. Over and over and over this… But Isaac couldn’t let it go. 

All out of time. It was impossible.

“I told you, Isaac!” Uncle Ronnie yelled in return. “There was no way she slipped out of Julia’s office! There is literally only one door between the waiting room and Julia’s counselling chamber-place! There isn’t even a bathroom in that office! Not even a janitor’s closet! I’m telling you, that door never moved! I was in the waiting room the whole time! Ugh! Why are we even talking about this? You never listen!”

“I can’t believe you, Tio!” Isaac shouted. “You have to help me look for her!”

Uncle Ronnie growled in anger and shook his clenched fists. Then he said in a carefully controlled voice rimmed in frustration, “I. Am. All. Out. Of. Time! I used up all my vacation days! All my sick days, for that matter, too. I got no more time left! I gotta go back to work! I didn’t say I wouldn’t look for Inessa anymore; I said we gotta switch to nights and weekends! But we need some time off, too! God! I got no more money left! It’s all gone, Isaac! No more rewards, no more private detectives; it’s all gone! She’s gone, too, and we…”

Isaac didn’t let him finish. No way was he going to listen to this. “I’m going to find her! She’s not gone! I just haven’t looked in all the right places yet! I’m supposed to meet a guy today, Tio! I told you about this! This guy is supposed to know somebody…!”

Uncle Ronnie cut him off. “He doesn’t know anybody! You know he doesn’t! It’s always the same! I can’t pay any more bribes, even if these sleazebags had information, which you know they don’t! Agent Martes hasn’t called back in months! It’s time for you to go back to school, and it’s time for me to go back to work.” Throwing up a hand to counter Isaac’s blustering retort, Uncle Ronnie continued, “I’m not saying give up! I would never give up on her; it’s you I’m worried about. If you keep this up, the underworld is gonna suck you dry and leave you for dead. School is starting in five days, and I know you don’t wanna hear it! But you’ve got to listen! You gotta graduate, man; it’s important. You wanna know what happens to guys that don’t graduate high school? They get run over their whole lives. G.E.D.s look mighty trashy on a resume, dude. I would know cause I gotta hire guys for my work. I see a G.E.D., and I just toss the paper in the trash. Though God knows how I’m going to afford to keep sending you to Mersus.”

Isaac couldn’t believe his ears. Inessa had only been gone ten months, and Uncle Ronnie was giving up!? All his respect for the man evaporated.

“I would rather live under a bridge with Manuel-the-drug-addict than stop looking for her. SHE’S MY SISTER!” he shouted. “She’s out there, right now, scared and alone, and thinking of doing… who knows what!” he gulped at his own words, terror gripping his stomach. 

“Isaac! Listen to me!” 

“No! You listen! I’m not listening to you! I thought you loved her!” Hot tears began to stream down Isaac’s face. In rage and embarrassment, he turned from the man who had rescued him as an orphan. Throwing open the front door, he fled the house in a frenzy of competing passions. 

Isaac Way was a tall, handsome boy rapidly turning into a man. Already six-foot-one, Isaac was poised to be head-and-shoulders above the common crowd in adulthood. A closely cropped head of curly brown hair crowned a face that was angled and fierce. Right now, that face was a thunderstorm. 

How am I supposed to talk to contacts now!? he thought angrily. I don’t have any money for the bus. How am I supposed to get there if Uncle Ronnie won’t drive me anymore?

Lashing out with his toe against a green garbage can, Isaac caused the plastic tower to tumble over, spilling trash all over the street. The kick was poorly executed, and Isaac felt his toe separate. Refusing to cry out, Isaac hobbled away from the scene of the crime and tried to make sense of his life. 

Nobody understood. To be a twin is to be born into a mysterious—supernatural even—connection. Isaac had a bond with Inessa, a connection deeper—and stranger—than the fathomless ocean. It was like half his mind was gone. How was he to carry on like this? He refused to confess to himself that Uncle Ronnie was right. So what if all the money was gone? Wasn’t that why God invented credit cards?

This thought finally sobered him. He had applied for a card himself and had been denied. Maybe it wasn’t that easy. Was it time to go back to school after all? After Inessa disappeared, there was no question about finishing the school year. A year behind. A dropout. A failure. No school, no job, no money. Things were looking bleak. 

Still…

There was a guy he wanted to meet—needed to meet. A guy who maybe had some information about Detroit’s criminal scene. Uncle Ronnie had called it the ‘underworld.’ The name was too perfect not to use. Across every metropolis in America, the same depressing trend was more or less well developed: Like cancer, a thriving bubble of decay rises to the surface, eating away at the social structure of each city, slowly stealing the agency of the people within, and often robbing them of their very humanity. Detroit is unique even in this cycle, as it always seems to rise to the top of the insidious cauldron with some new award: ‘Most homicides per capita,’ ‘Most corrupt city in America,’ or even the worst title of all for Isaac, ‘The child trafficking capital of North America.’ Detroit was exceptional, and Uncle Ronnie was a little leery of that unique honour. But Isaac had a lead, however insignificant. He had had many leads before, of course, but who could tell if this piece of information could be turned into something useful? From trash into treasure? 

Maybe the guy knew something, maybe he didn’t, but Isaac couldn’t let a lead go, no matter how cold or old. But how was he to get there? Uncle Ronnie’s house was in Farmington Hills, but he had tracked the guy to an address in Harper Woods. That was a long way. 

Turning back the way he had come, Isaac limped past the overturned garbage and returned to the house. Slipping past Uncle Ronnie’s sedan, which was perpetually parked on the driveway instead of safely tucked in the garage, Isaac punched in the keycode, and the rolling door began to open. Packed from front to back with wheelbarrows, fertiliser, and thousands of reused planter pots, the space resembled more a greenhouse storage unit than a garage. At the back of the disordered mess, Isaac saw what he was looking for: the protruding handle of an old bicycle. 

Buried underneath a minor mountain of lawn-refuse bags, garden rakes, and mouldy mulch, Isaac found the bike. Getting it out would be a challenge. Caring nothing for Uncle Ronnie’s gardening obsession, he simply flung everything aside to dislodge the rusty old bike from its place. 

The tyres were a little low, but he had a few quarters to fill them up at a nearby gas station. The frame and gears were rusted from being in contact with the mildewy mulch for too long, but when Isaac tested them, they spun and held together, though they were a little stiff. Isaac looked at his new mode of transportation with a certain sense of satisfaction. 

The honeymoon was short. The distance to the gas station felt interminable, and his soft thighs were on fire by the time he reached it. While the firming of the tyres helped tremendously, the house he wanted to reach was still miles away, and he had only just begun his journey. Gritting his teeth in determination, he pushed past the pain, almost welcoming the feeling of lancing fire in his legs and lungs. 

It was his fault that his mama was dead. He should have been there. It was his fault Inessa was gone; he never should have let her go alone! It was all his fault, and this burning strain was the proper punishment for his failure.