Ebony Rising (The Raven Queen's Harem 2)

Before she can react, she feels the pinprick of both her nipples pebbling in pleasure and looks to her right.

Damien uses his own brush to coat her flesh. The crystal chandelier makes the smooth dome of his head gleam. His violet eyes focus intently on his work. His hands are quick and worshipful. A tremor coasts down her body.

Near her belly she feels the cool smear of paint followed by a sharp hunger in her loins. Morgan lifts her head to get a better view of Clinton placing kisses with gold-coated lips past her belly button. She smiles when she sees him, pleased. Another set of hands, strong and capable, push her legs apart. She searches in the hazy light, expecting to find Bunny but instead it’s Dylan between her thighs. A surge of warmth destabilizes her.

The lights flicker and in the dark she realizes the paintbrushes have become hands, mouths, and the velvet tips of hidden skin. Morgan blinks again and she’s on all fours. She can’t see her guardians but she feels them. Lord, she wants them. From the mouth suckling on her breast to the whisper of kisses on her neck. There’s the delicious feel of a tongue lathing against her most sensitive part, sending shockwaves up her body. There’s the heavy feel of a man behind her, his cock sliding between her cheeks.

A dim light fills the room and Morgan is astonished to find it coming from herself—from the runes glinting with life.

She turns her head to see which guardian is behind her, beg him to do it, take her virginity. She’s ready for the next step. With any of them. All of them…

A loud horn blares and I lurch forward, jostling against the seat.

“Sorry,” I say to the woman next to me, shifting back over to my seat.

“Are you okay?” she eyes my face. It’s heated. My armpits are drenched under my thin summer sweater. My panties are drenched and I’m thankful my skirt is black.

“I just don’t like small places. It makes me feel claustrophobic.” I stand and pull the cord. I need to get off the bus. Get some fresh air. What kind of dream was that—on the bus of all places?

The bus doors open with a whoosh. I stumble off, taking a gulp of the warm but fresh air. My feet touch the pavement and I’m grounded, the confusion of my dream—or was it just a fantasy?—dissipating.

The university office is only a few blocks away and my heart rate settles as I get closer. A shadow passes overhead and the ruffle of feathers draws my attention upward. A sleek, blue-black raven roosts above the office building. It ducks his head and blinks at me with one eye.

I feel a sense of familiarity and also a spark of anger. Are they following me? I know they’re technically my guardians, but I’ve never been told they would do this. I also didn’t know they could still shift.

Leaving the raven and the muggy air, I duck inside the building and head to Professor Christensen’s office.

The secretary waves me in. I have a standing weekly appointment to discuss my novel, Maverick’s Murder. I started writing this novel in my head many years ago, and then in college submitted a section to my creative writing teacher. She suggested I use it to apply to graduate school.

In my head, Maverick’s Murder was nothing but a story—a story I was deeply invested in. I thought about it. Dreamed about it. Frankly, I obsessed over it. Now I understand why. Maverick’s Murder isn’t about a girl and her birds. It’s about me, the Raven Queen and my murder of crows. My raven guardians.

The first passages in the book are memories. Slightly altered retellings of how, as a child, I had five guardian ravens that followed me around. They’d been assigned to me by the gods to monitor the Morrigan’s Darkness that resided inside. Agents of evil, in my book a cat and a prince, lured me into the woods behind my house to open a gate that flows between this world and another. On the other side is something I can only describe in the book as death; a vengeance wanting to consume the lives and souls on Earth.

It’s not pretend. It’s real, and if the Darkness lures me back again and that portal opens, the apocalypse will begin.

Professor Christensen’s door is open and I’m surprised to hear another voice in the room. The professor is incredibly punctual—always waiting for my arrival and dismissing me when it’s over. I stop just before entering, recognizing the voice. It’s Anita Cross. My critique partner.

I tap on the door and peek inside. They both smile when they see me.

“Morgan, come in.”

I greet them both and add to Anita, “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

“My fault,” Professor Christensen says, leaning back in his seat. He’s distinguished as always, with his gray hair and expensive suit. “I had the crazy idea to get you both in here together. I wanted to hear how things are going.”

I’d read the first five chapters of Anita’s book. Her writing is spectacular—to the point it makes me feel a little inadequate. Interestingly, her book is a dystopian theme, focusing on an America in the distant future. Plague has taken the country and the survivors create a new breed of royalty.

I take the seat next to Anita. She’s poised and perfect-looking, of course. Not a hot mess of sex fantasies and sweat. “I’ve truly enjoyed reading Anita’s work. She’s an amazing author.”

“She says the same about you,” he replies. “Which is why I decided to give you both a little assignment. You’re almost too flattering of the other’s work. Like you’re afraid to help the other push a bit deeper. I’d like you to come up with three questions for the other author’s main characters, trade, and then answer truthfully. Dig into the meat of these creations, their true motives and desires.”

“That’s a great idea,” Anita says, scribbling the instructions on a note pad in her lap. I reach into my bag and rummage around for my own, dropping my pen three times in the process.

Today is not my day.

“I’d like you to get on this immediately,” Professor Christensen says. “Text one another the questions in the next twenty-four hours. Meet up again on Thursday to exchange ideas.” His blue eyes move between us. “Sound good?”

I’m mentally going over my schedule. Besides writing, I have my lessons back at The Nead. I’ll just have to rearrange some things. “Yes, that sounds great.”