Liam Davis & The Raven (Love Inscribed 1)

Chapter 1

Freddy Krueger was the reason I was sitting in the back of some guy’s car, speeding to the University of Pittsburgh Medical Center.

I replayed the evening’s events over and over, but if I had really thought about it—difficult with the burgeoning concussion—the point of no return had passed that morning . . .

Man Dead a Week in Central Pittsburgh Apartment

I lingered at the newspaper stand with the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette—paid for and tucked tightly under my arm—nudging the strap of my messenger bag. The headline begged me to come closer and check out the lurid report.

A breeze folded the corner of the paper, hiding half the columns and making it impossible to read at my current intellectual-who-shouldn’t-care-for-sensationalist-reporting-but-no-one-has-to-know-I’m-actually-riveted distance.

Pushing up my glasses, I glanced to either side of the empty pavement. Empty, save the vendor, but he was tucked behind his stand scratching at his Sudoku. Quickly, I sidled closer to the rickety red rack. I lifted the flap of paper and scanned the first paragraph:

A man has been found dead in his apartment. Police say he appears to have been dead for close to a week. The body was discovered after neighbors complained about insistent whining from the deceased’s near-starved cat. . . .

“Ya gotta be kiddin’!” the vendor chimed in a heavy Pittsburgh accent, pushing in his racks under the safety of overhead balconies. I lurched away from the rack, from the cat that, despite being “near-starved,” hadn’t yet started chewing on his owner. . .

“Ya know it’s goin’ to rain,” he said, stretching a finger toward the thick gray clouds in the distance. As if to emphasize his point, a gust rolled down the street, rustling the papers and whistling through the gutter grates.

“Better be on my way, then.” If I hurried, I’d miss the downpour. The clouds appeared lighter around the city’s prominent Cathedral of Learning, close to where I was heading.

Maybe I’d be lucky.

Readjusting the strap of the messenger bag carrying my essentials—laptop, pens, notebook—I hurried toward campus while scouring the articles on the first pages of the Post-Gazette.

Some of the headlines lacked zest and catchiness, something that I wouldn’t let happen with Scribe this semester if I got promoted to features editor.

When I got promoted to features editor. If I wanted the apprenticeship at my father’s firm, I had to prove I could hold an editorial position—for two consecutive years.

I swallowed the lump of excited nerves that’d been bundling in my throat all week and hurried toward the large, concrete block of hideousness that housed the magical world of the student magazine.

Just a few pathways stretched between me and my reporting assignments for the semester. Maybe I’d be reassigned the student politics column I wrote last year. Or, since the final year of my undergraduate studies had finally accepted me into its embrace, maybe the chief would give me my promotion—

Clash! Thunk!

I hit metal and tumbled, landing with a smack against the pavement. The newspaper ripped. A tingle of pain burst through my wrists and everything blurred. An amused voice sounded from my left, and I shifted into a crouch, brushing the grit off my grazed palms.

A guy in a black-and-silver wheelchair sat with his arms folded. “If you wanted to catch my attention, you could’ve started with ‘hello’.”

“I didn’t see you,” I said, plucking up my glasses and getting to my feet. The frames were a little scratched, but not too bad. I slid the glasses back on.

The spiky-haired guy smiled. Tattoos of hummingbirds trailed up his arms, and his pierced brow was spectacularly arched.

“Sorry,” I said, collecting the paper and folding it. “Are you all right?”

“Better than you are.” He rolled his wheelchair back a few feet and then forward again. “Chair’s good too. Word of advice, watch where you’re going next time.”

Well . . . he had a point. I should be more observant, especially considering I prided myself on noticing details others tended to overlook.

Someone behind me caught his attention, and he waved. Sparing one more amused glance my way, he rolled around me and up the path.

A splash of rainwater hit my nose. The clocktower in the distance chimed the hour.

I jogged the remainder of the path just as the splashes snapped into a downpour.

Sopping, I scurried into the concrete block of hideousness.

Surely, the day could only get better.

With its flaky wallpaper and threadbare carpet, the Scribe boardroom provided a wonderful view of the proudly-towering neo-gothic Cathedral of Learning. Twelve clever minds seated at an oval table readied to make the room my favorite place in the world.

I slipped into the room, and a whiff of tension hit the back of my nose with a tickle. Editor-in-Chief, Harry Benedict, settled his steel gaze on me, flustering me at once. Yes, sir, I know exactly what you’re going to say—

“Nice of you to finally join us, Liam. Make it a goal this semester to pay as much attention to punctuality as to your impeccable reports.”