The Ghost's POV
I watched him from the corner of the room. The great Raven—the king of the underworld—reduced to this: a man tied to a chair, blood on his face, fear in his eyes. Twenty years I'd waited for this moment. Twenty years of planning, watching, becoming someone—something—else.
The basement light swung gently overhead, casting moving shadows across Michael's face. My face still felt strange to me, even after all these years. The surgeries had been necessary—a dead boy couldn't exactly walk around with the same features. But sometimes I still searched for traces of that twelve-year-old in the mirror. He was gone, of course. Drowned in that river.
"What are you looking at?" Michael asked, his voice hoarse.
I stepped from the shadows. "Just admiring my handiwork. The mighty Rave
