RAVEN AND HER FIVE DEVILS

Five Shadows In My House

I woke up because I was too warm.

That has not happened to me in three years. Not since my mother was alive and paid the heating bill. My house on the edge of Ashwick is a cold house. In winter, frost grows on the inside of the windows. In summer, the stone walls sweat cold. I own three blankets and I sleep in thick socks and my father's old army sweater that is five sizes too big. I wake up shivering.

Always.

Today, I was burning.

There was a weight on me, heavy and alive. Not a blanket. An arm. A forearm the size of my thigh, covered in gold that was not jewelry but skin — tattoos that looked like melting chains, moving slightly even at rest, hot to the touch. A chest behind me, broad, breathing slow and deep. A hand, huge, splayed over my stomach, fingers spanning from hip to hip, holding me in place like I might try to run in my sleep.

I did try to run. Or at least, I tried to sit up.

The hand tightened.

"Sleep," a rough voice mumbled against the back of my neck, still half-asleep, possessive even in sleep. "Cold is gone. Sleep more."

Malrik.

The name came back along with everything else in a single, nauseating wave — the attic, the book that drank blood, the black fire that didn't burn, the five tears cut into the air, the five men who were not men stepping out of them.

I scrambled. I actually scrambled, kicking blankets, falling off the small bed and hitting the cold wooden floor of my bedroom with a thud that hurt my elbows.

The room was full.

My bedroom is small. I have a bed, a crooked dresser I found on the street, a tiny vanity with a cracked mirror, a closet that doesn't close properly. One person makes it feel crowded. Now there were five.

Malrik was in my bed, shirtless, his massive body taking up almost all of it. His dark brown hair was loose now, tangled from sleep, falling over his shoulders. His amber wolf-eyes were open and fixed on me on the floor. He didn't look surprised to see me there. He looked annoyed that I had moved.

Azrael stood by the window, the one that looks out onto the dead garden. He was fully dressed, black coat, black boots, black gloves, like he was going to war. Morning light cut across his face and made the moving tattoos on his neck and temples visible — words, I realized, in Latin, Greek, something older, swimming under his skin like black fish. His silver eyes were not on me. They were on the street outside, scanning, guarding.

Caelum was perched on my vanity stool. That was so absurd I almost laughed, even terrified. He is too beautiful for my house. White-blonde hair to his shoulder blades, skin like moonlight, lips red as blood, wearing a white silk shirt that was open to his chest where black veins pulsed faintly under his pale skin. He was holding my things one by one — my cheap lip balm, my cracked powder, my mother's silver hairpin — picking them up, sniffing them, putting them down with a look of delicate disgust. When he saw me on the floor, he smiled in the mirror.

"Good morning, little bird. You fell. How clumsy. You also talk in your sleep. And drool. It's endearing."

Silas was on the floor by my closet, legs stretched out, and leaning back on his hands. He was the only one who looked like he belonged in this century — dark auburn hair messy, leather jacket, jeans ripped at the knee, green eyes that glittered with constant amusement and filth. He had something in his hand. I squinted. It was my sock. The thick wool sock I wore yesterday. He was rolling it between his fingers, then he lifted it to his nose and inhaled, eyes closing.

"Silas," Azrael said from the window, without turning, voice like ice cracking, "put her clothing down. Now.

"Silas opened one green eye and grinned at me. "He's jealous. He wants to be the one smelling your socks. Wrath has always been a possessive bastard."

"I will cut your hands off, Lust," Azrael said calmly.

And Zade.

I hadn't seen him at first because he was standing in the darkest corner, where my closet casts a shadow even at noon. He was so tall his black wings, folded, brushed both the ceiling and the walls. He wore all black, a long coat that looked like it was made of shadow itself, boots, gloves with the fingers cut off to show black claws. His hair was black, his face was carved from cruelty and beauty at once, and his eyes — dark red, like drying blood, like my blood on that page — were locked on me.

"You slept nine hours, twelve minutes," he said. His voice was low, morning-rough, and it made the tiny hairs on my arms rise. "You cried twice. You called for your mother once. And you called for someone else once."

I was still on the floor, my heart hammering so loud I was sure they could hear it.

"This isn't real," I whispered. My voice was hoarse. "This isn't real. I hit my head. I fell in the attic. I'm concussed."

"Touch us," Caelum said softly from the vanity, tilting his head. "See if we are real, Raven."

"No," Zade said. One word. Caelum froze. "Don't touch her without asking. She is scared."

"I am not scared," I lied, and my voice broke. "I want you out. This is my house. Get out of my house."

Malrik finally moved. He rose from my bed in one smooth, massive motion, and my bed creaked in relief. He was wearing only low black pants, and I saw him properly for the first time — he was not just big, he was built like a statue made for war, every muscle defined, covered in scars that were silver and gold tattoos at the same time. Chains inked around his throat, his wrists, his ribs, as if he had been chained and the chains had melted into his skin.

He walked to me and crouched. He didn't touch me, but he was so close his heat washed over me.

"This is our house now," he said, simply, as if explaining to a child. "Where you are, we are. That is the binding. Your blood said so."

"What binding? I didn't agree to anything!"

Azrael turned from the window at last. His silver eyes met mine. There was something ancient in them, tired and furious.

"Your great-grandmother, Elara Cross, summoned us in November 1924. Her husband was dying of a disease no doctor could name. Her town was hunting her daughters. She was desperate. She opened the book. She offered blood. We came. We killed the men who hunted her. We burned the sickness out of her husband. In return, she bound us to her line. A protection contract. We must guard the last daughter of Cross until she dies. Then we are free. That is the deal she made."

"So guard me from far away!" I shouted, tears starting. "Guard me from another town! Don't... don't sleep in my bed!"

"We did," Silas said, and for once his grin faded. He looked almost... resentful. "For a hundred years we watched from far away, little Raven. From shadows, from mirrors, from the corners of your house. We watched your grandmother die at thirty-one. We watched your mother die at thirty-eight. We watched you grow up alone in this cold house with no one to hold you. We watched you cry on birthdays. We could not touch. We could not come closer than the street. That was the old binding."

He stood and walked toward my bedroom door. I flinched. He grabbed the handle — and instantly black smoke poured from his palm, the smell of burning flesh filling the room. He hissed, pulled back. On his palm was a raw, red burn in the shape of the five-pointed circle, blistering, then healing right before my eyes, skin knitting back.

"New binding," he said, showing me his healed hand. "You called us with true blood and true name last night. On your twenty-first. That woke the second layer of the contract. Now we cannot be more than one hundred feet from you. The spell itself is jealous. It burns us if we try to leave. So no, we cannot guard you from far away anymore, darling. We have to be here. In your house. In your room. In your bed."

I stared at his hand, then at Zade, who had not moved from his corner.

"Is that true?" I whispered to Zade. For some reason, I believed him more than the others. Maybe because he looked like he hated this as much as I did.

Zade's wings shifted, a rustle like knives. "It is true. The curse on your family is not a story, Raven. It is a living thing. A parasite. It attaches to Cross women. It feeds on the love around them, then it kills them. Your mother, your grandmother, your great-grandmother — all dead before forty. You have it already. I can smell it on your blood. Rotten. Without us, you will not see thirty."

"And with you?"

"With us, you will live," Azrael said. "Long. We will keep the curse from feeding. We will keep death from touching you. But — "

"But we keep you," Malrik finished, and his big hand finally touched me, cupping the back of my neck, thumb stroking the pulse that was hammering there. "You are ours now. Not one. All five. That is the price. You belong to us."

"I don't belong to anyone," I said, but it sounded weak even to me.

Caelum was suddenly there, kneeling on my other side, cold where Malrik was hot. He took my bandaged hand — the black cloth bandage, I realized, was his shirt, torn — and unwrapped it. My cut was closed, a thin pink line.

"We tasted you," he whispered, eyes on my palm, lips barely brushing it. "All five of us, last night, after you fainted. One taste each to seal the contract. Your blood... your blood is different, Raven. The others tasted like ash. You taste like hellflowers. Like something that grows in our world, not yours. You were made for us."

"Stop," Zade ordered, and Caelum's mouth stopped a centimeter from my skin. He obeyed, but his pale eyes stayed on me, hungry.

I pulled my hand away and scrambled to my feet, backing into the corner, my old sleep shirt riding up. Five pairs of eyes dropped at once — to my bare legs, my thighs, the hem of my shirt. The air in the room changed, got heavier, hotter, and darker.

"Don't look at me like that," I snapped, yanking my shirt down, my face burning.

"Then don't wear that in a house full of devils who haven't touched a woman in a hundred years," Silas said, his voice suddenly hoarse, green eyes dark.

"Enough," Zade said, and his wings snapped open, just an inch, and the whole room fell silent. He walked to me — each step making the floorboards groan — and he caged me against the wall, one clawed hand on either side of my head, wings blocking all light. It was just me and him in a cave of shadow and heat.

"Listen to me, little queen," he whispered, and his red eyes searched my face like he was memorizing me. "Rule one. You do not leave this house without one of us. The curse hunts when you are alone. Rule two. No male at Blackwood Academy touches you, looks at you too long, and speaks to you without our permission. Rule three. You eat. You sleep. You live. Because if you die, we go back to that box, to sleep in nothing for another hundred years. And we are done sleeping."

His thumb brushed my cheek, wiping away a tear I didn't know had fallen. His claw was warm.

"Do you understand?"

I was shaking. I should have said no. I should have screamed, run, called the police, though what would I say? There are five devils in my house who claim I own them?

But the truth was, for three years I had been alone. No family. No friends. The girls at Blackwood called me the weird house girl. I ate alone. I studied alone. I spent my birthday alone, every year, talking to a house that didn't answer.

Now my house was full. Too full. Terrifyingly full. But full.

I gave a tiny, miserable nod.

Zade's eyes flared.

"Good girl," he whispered, and the words did something awful and warm to my stomach. "Now come. Malrik will make breakfast. You are too thin. And then we will go to Blackwood. Together. Let's show them who you belong to."

Behind his wing, I heard Malrik growl, "Mine," and Silas laugh, and Caelum mutter, "Ours," and Azrael say nothing at all — but I felt his silver eyes on me still, like a brand.

My life as the lonely cursed girl was over.

Something much darker, much more possessive, had just begun.