Raven's Cove

“And you don’t think there might have been a phoenix within the ashes of his organization ready to rise up and take over?”

“There’s always a phoenix, but Wainwright’s South American drug connection’s been severed, so all’s as well as it can be for the moment.”

A sudden urge to laugh tickled her throat. Had to be hysteria, she decided, and, tipping her head, regarded him through her lashes.

Rogan had eyes that could weave a spell with a look, great hands and an even better mouth. She’d let herself fall under his spell at the safe house and again after the funeral. So why, with two mistakes to her credit, couldn’t she walk away and be done with him?

“I can hear your mind working, Jasmine. You’re thinking a trip to Antarctica would be a good idea about now.”

Since a similar thought actually had drifted through the back of her mind, she smiled. “Any chance of that happening?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” She stared past him to the streaming window. “I can’t help feeling responsible for the officers who died. I should have gone to the safe house when Captain Ballard suggested it. Instead, a team of cops trailed after me day and night.”

“No one died tailing you.”

“Could have, though.”

“You’re feeling sorry for yourself.”

Warning eyes shot to his. “This isn’t about me, and you know it. The men who were killed had families. Call it what you like, I feel the weight of their deaths every day.”

“So if a lunatic came into Witch House and shot you, you’d expect your boss to bear the burden?”

“The only burden he’d bear is if the shooter missed me and hit one of the artifacts.”

“Sounds like you need a new employer.”

“It’s crossed my mind.” She would have moved out of range then if he hadn’t trapped her arm.

“We’re not done yet.”

She glanced first at his hand, then at his shadowed face. “We are, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not getting involved with you again.”

A trace of amusement appeared. “I’d say mutual attraction is the least of our problems.”

“My problems, Rogan.”

“Makes them mine by default. You’re connected to Daniel and through him to Wainwright’s trial. People far less directly involved are dead. Your power line was cut. …”

“And you’re in my home. The how and why of which you still haven’t explained. You can’t possibly have known Daniel would phone me tonight, or that my power would go out before the call ended.”

“Put my appearance down to fortunate timing. I actually planned to wait until tomorrow to show up.”

“Have I mentioned you’re a little scary sometimes?”

He drew her in so smoothly she didn’t even realize her feet were moving.

The word danger became a red glare in her head, but she made no effort to resist. Why bother? She wasn’t foolish enough to pretend there’d never been anything between them. She just wished she could identify it and make it go away.

With his eyes locked on hers, Rogan lowered his mouth to within an inch of hers. The fingers he slid under her hair wrapped around the back of her neck. Then a smile grazed his lips.

“What?” she asked when he held her there unmoving. “Please don’t tell me you hear something outside.”

“Not outside. In. Your cell phone’s ringing.”

“It’s probably Daniel.” She kept her tone calm and her expression neutral. “If you want me to answer, you’ll have to let me go.”

She breathed out when he released her and headed for the living room.

“Jasmine Ellis.”

She anticipated a burst of static. When it didn’t materialize, she regarded the screen. No number, no caller name. Switching to speaker, and aware that Rogan was behind her again, she tried for a different angle in case the storm was affecting the reception.

“Melvin, is that you?” The silence stretched out. She was about to disconnect, when an artificial male voice reached her.

“Hello, sweet Jasmine. This is your nemesis, your fate. Open your front door and see the feathery token I’ve left for you. A large bird told me it means death. But not yet. First, you’re going to suffer. As I suffered. Before I died. …”

Chapter Three

Rogan had spent too much of his adult life wading through the muddy back roads of the criminal psyche to dismiss any possibility, but no matter how he worked it, he couldn’t see Wainwright employing this kind of scare tactic. Not that he was prepared to view Jasmine as a victim, but obviously someone did. Unfortunately, the someone who best fit the caller profile was a should-be-dead drug lord with a weighty ax to grind.

Wainwright had been old school all the way. Murder for necessity, no problem. Murder for pleasure? About as probable as the odds that he’d survived that helicopter crash.

So what did that leave?

Pulling on a glove, Rogan picked up and examined the long black feather they’d found taped to Jasmine’s front door. Courtesy of a raven, he imagined.

According to local Maine legend, one feather warned, three equaled death. Or so Daniel’s contact had said.

Straddling a dining room chair, Rogan contemplated both token and tale. Then swore. Trust Daniel Corey to drag Jasmine not only back into his miserable life, but also into a witch’s brew of omens, legends and death.

Police protocol dictated that both the feather and the tape used to secure it to her door be checked for prints, but he knew there wouldn’t be any. Just as surely, the cell phone from which the threatening call had been placed would turn up in a trash can or not at all.

Anyone capable of committing seven murders—more than Daniel realized—in the month and a half since Gus Ballard’s funeral wasn’t going to be easily identified. Nor was he likely to hang around Jasmine’s condo.

After the call, Rogan had left Jasmine at Gunther’s place and conducted a thorough search of the neighborhood. He’d come up empty, but then he hadn’t expected to find the guy cowering in the bushes, waiting to be flushed out.

A sound from the bedroom where Jasmine was packing diverted him. His gaze moved past the upheld feather to the half-closed door.

It didn’t matter how much time went by, he could always bring her face to mind. She’d been haunting him for weeks. Longer, if he was honest with himself.

She was a beauty, no doubt about it, inside, outside and every other place. Long hair, as dark as the feather he held, green eyes just a shade deeper than emerald, sleek yet curvy body—the list went on. She was thoughtful, smart and kind. And if he’d been any of those things, he’d have sent someone else to Salem to check on her.

As if a breaker tripped in his head, he switched back to cop mode and visualized the seven corpses he’d viewed recently. Factor in Jasmine’s threat, and a sense of something more twisted than mere criminal vengeance began to snake through his belly.

The storm wind bore down hard on the roof. While Jasmine continued tossing God knew what into a case for the night, he zeroed in on her ex-husband’s location as it related to the message she’d received. … Rather, he would have if she hadn’t emerged from the bedroom pulling a large suitcase and carrying a second overstuffed bag.