Raven's Mark (The Raven Queen's Harem 1)

Chapter 1

“Morgan!” I hear my name called from a voice at the front desk the instant I walk in the dormitory. “You’ve got mail.”

I freeze and stare at my best friend, who’s on desk duty. There’s only one reason for her to stop me like this and for the barely contained smile she’s fighting. I’ve been harassing her for weeks, asking daily if a package had arrived. According to the wide grin on her face, it’s here.

“Hand it over.” I rush to the desk, drop my satchel, and grab it with both hands. My name is handwritten, as is the return address. New York University Graduate Department.

“It feels heavy,” she says. “That’s good right?”

A sudden queasiness rolls in my belly. “I don’t know.”

“Well, open it, silly.”

I nod, but just stare at the package. The contents determine the next two years of my life—no, it will determine the rest of my life. Where I live, my career, my associations….I take a deep breath.

“Do you want me to do it?” Shannon asks. While I consider that, two other residents walk up to the counter and she hurriedly assists them with their mail.

“No, I’ll do it.” I gather up my courage and tear the edge. A thick stack of papers slides out. On top is a letter. I read it aloud with shaking hands.

“Dear Ms. Hansen,

Congratulations! You’ve been accepted into the New York University Graduate Program for the Arts! In addition, we’re excited to announce that you are one of six winners of the prestigious Brannon Grant, awarded to an outstanding applicant in music, visual arts, theater, illustration and drawing, creative writing, and photography.

As a recipients of this grant you will receive a full scholarship and housing for the two years of the program…”

“Holy shit, Morgan! Full scholarship for creative writing? You didn’t tell me you applied for one!”

“I didn’t apply.”

“You must have killed it on your story submission.”

With my heart in my throat I scan the rest of the letter. “I’m to report next week to my new housing and meet with my advisor immediately. School starts the following week.”

“You’re moving to New York next week?”

“Guess this southern girl had to spread her wings someday, right?”

“I just didn’t know it would be so soon.” Shannon and I had been friends since freshman year at the huge state university. She’s pretty much my only family. Her sad face brightens. “Two good things are going to come from this adventure.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll get to visit you in New York and I’m giving you a going-away party!”

“A party?” I can’t pretend I’m not a little excited about it. I can invite Ryan and maybe we can finally cross that line we’ve been flirting with for the last month.

Shannon grabs my hand and squeezes. “I’m so proud of you, girl.”

I tighten my grip. I’m going to miss her. I’ll miss everything about my home state, but I’m ready to move on toward the future and the life I know is waiting for me.

*

It doesn’t take me long to pack and settle my affairs. Graduation occurred three weeks before, and with no family attending it hadn’t been a big deal. Otherwise, I’d been preparing myself to find a job or go to school. Thank God the school thing worked out, because I really didn’t want to go the nine-to-five route yet.

I arrived freshman year with nothing more than a trunk full of clothes and a backpack full of books. I’ll leave with a little more than that; photos, a laptop, and three pairs of shoes (and a pair of boots!) I also have a small circle of girlfriends—the only family I’ve had since my parents’ accident. Leaving them hurts the most.

I was sixteen when I lost my parents. I came home one day and they were both in the house—dead. At first they thought it was suicide. Or maybe a murder-suicide. But nothing was found in their systems except an unexplained super virus. The CDC, which happened to be located three miles away, quarantined me and the house, but nothing came from it. A freak occurrence.

The day I found them was so intense—so traumatic—that parts of my brain shut off. Most of the memories of my childhood are gone, and, according to the therapists, much of what I do remember isn’t real. Somehow, in an attempt to protect myself, my brain mixed up fiction and reality, which is why I started writing. The stories flowed naturally—as if they happened to me. The events were fantastical. Impossible, but so was both of my parents dying from an inexplicable sickness. My fairytales kept me sane, and now they’ve won me a coveted spot in the University creative writing department. And the Brannon Grant.

Shannon planned the party at her boyfriend Max’s house. She invited all the girls, Maggie, Tasha, and her girlfriend Brooke. Everyone paired off over the last year and after a couple of false starts I’d set my eyes on Ryan, the editor of the school paper.

“Tell me about your submission,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose. We’re sitting on the decades-old couches Max’s parents donated to their house. Ryan has a thick, reddish beard and green eyes that shine from behind the frames. He’s smart, and I met him when my writing professor suggested that the literary magazine should collaborate with the newspaper on a project.

I’ll be honest, me and guys have never been a great mix. I mean, I like guys—men—males. I’m attracted to them, but when things start to heat up something clicks in my brain and things go south. Quickly. It’s like a bomb inserted in my chest, right under my heart. I want a relationship. I crave it, but the slightest disinterest or even worse, rejection, sends me down a tailspin of insecurity and quite frankly, rage.

It’s not an attractive quality. I admit it. I’ve had therapy for it.

I wrinkle my nose at Ryan’s question. Although I love writing, I’m not that comfortable talking about it. And Ryan always seems to have a ’tone’ when asking about my work. “Eh, it’s just a weird story I’ve had in my head for years. I finally put it on paper and turned it in.”

“So a passion project,” he says, taking a sip of beer. “What’s it about?”

“It’s called Maverick’s Murder, about a girl that grows up surrounded by a group of ravens. They’re her best friends and she spends all her time talking to them while shutting out the rest of the world.”

“Ravens as friends,” Ryan says. He’s a newspaper guy. Facts and copywriting. Fiction is lost on him. “Does she talk to them?”

“Sure.”

“Do they talk back?”

I twist my hands in my lap, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. “In their own way.”