The Ravens (The Ravens #1) - Kass Morgan Page 0,85
sagging wooden porch up ahead.
The looming dusk only made the cabin look more forbidding. A bundle of thorns was nailed over the door. The windows were marred with dark streaks. Paint peeled from the wood siding in long furls. There was a stain on the porch that looked almost like blood. Are you in there, Tiff? The words were more like a prayer than a question. Scarlett closed her eyes, trying to pick up on a trace of magic, but the air felt dry and thin—the opposite of how it felt when Tiffany was nearby.
Scarlett realized just how far they were from help—or an escape route. They’d parked at a small turnoff about a ten-minute hike from the cabin. They hadn’t passed a single house on the way here. The trees were scrubby and gnarled, the grass long and untended. The only signs of life were the shards of broken beer bottles and cigarette butts underfoot. There was one area where a perfect circle had been burned into the grass. It was blackened and charred and devoid of vegetation, almost like the earth itself had been cursed.
The cabin appeared just as lifeless. There were no cars parked in the gravel driveway, no lights on inside.
“And say what?” Scarlett said. “‘Hello there, seen a strange girl around, possibly dragging a kidnapping victim?’” Nothing was going to stop her from finding Tiffany. She had to get inside. Now.
“Do you have a better plan?” Jackson asked. He cast another look at their surroundings. “Maybe we should just go. I have a bad feeling about this, Scarlett.”
So did she, and she had a whole lot more magical senses at her disposal. “If you don’t want to come with me, just wait here,” Scarlett said, and then she took off, striding toward the front door before she could rethink this.
Her scalp itched. Her feet pricked as though from a thousand pins and needles. She’d felt this before. It was a protection spell trying to make her turn around, flee. Shadows danced at the edges of her vision, like spiders skittering along the eaves, as she stood on the porch.
It’s not real, she told herself. Just a spell to drive away unwanted visitors. Nothing more. Nothing that could actually hurt her.
The floorboards of the cabin’s porch creaked behind her, and Scarlett gasped, whipping around. But it was only Jackson, climbing the steps. “I can’t let you face a haunted house alone,” he said.
“Trust me, I can take care of myself,” Scarlett replied as she scanned the front door. Simple key lock. Good.
“That’s not in doubt,” Jackson said, leaning against the wall of the cabin with his arms crossed. She pulled a pin from her hair and knelt before the door, careful to obstruct his view of what she was doing. She concentrated hard as she pretended to pick the lock. The lock made a soft click; she glanced up at him to catch the look of appreciation on his face, then tested the handle. It turned in her grasp. She hoped he assumed this was due to her lock-picking skills—skills she did not have. It was pure magic. And a little acting. She took a deep breath and pushed the door inward.
It took a moment for her eyes to adjust. All the windows had blackout curtains pulled tightly across them. The dim light filtering in through the door illuminated a rickety wood table with two chairs, the only furniture in the room. An unused, cobwebbed kitchen stood off to the side, a gap where presumably the stove used to be. She peeked into a tiny bedroom off the main room that had nothing in it but an overturned crate. There was a small den with a burnt-orange couch that looked like it’d lost some of its stuffing to mice.
Shoved in the corner, between the couch and the wall, was a cardboard box. It looked newer than the rest of the objects, less dusty and decrepit. Scarlett crossed the room quickly and peeked inside. Her heart sped up when she saw the contents: a cheap-looking black polyester robe and witch’s hat, just like the ones the burning scarecrows had been wearing. Nestled below them was a garish set of tarot cards. Scarlett quickly flipped through it. The Queens of Swords, Wands, Pentacles, and Cups were missing. So, ominously, was the Death card.
A whisper of triumph ran through her. She was right. It’d been Gwen all along. But her satisfaction drained away a moment later, replaced by the