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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
 ELECTRIC NIGHT
RAVEN INVESTIGATIONS NOVEL BOOK 5
STACEY BRUTGER
AN INSIDIOUS EVIL ENDANGERS THE FRAGILE PEACE
BETWEEN THE HUMANS AND PARANORMALS. IF WAR
ERUPTS, NEITHER SIDE WILL EMERGE UNSCATHED.

Raven will go to any extreme to locate the missing member of her

pack, even confront her murky past that still has the power to haunt
her. A wild hunt leads her to an isolated mountaintop, where she and
her pack are taken captive, and she learns that her nightmares are
all-to real and more dangerous than ever. Every minute is a struggle
to stay alive against the humans who would use her kind as nothing
more than test subjects in their fanatical search to create the
ultimate weapon against paranormals.

EVERY MINUTE IS A STRUGGLE TO STAY ALIVE…

Determined no one else should suffer the tortures she endured as a

child, Raven risks everything to destroy the labs, even bringing her
pack to the brink of annihilation. If she can’t make peace with her
past, she will not only lose her pack, but incite an all-out war
between humans and paranormals.
This is a work of fiction. Names, character, places, and incidents are
either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,
and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced,

scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form in any
manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except
in the case of brief quotations for articles or reviews. Please do not
participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials.

Copyright © 2017 Stacey Brutger

Cover artist: Amanda Kelsey of Razzle Dazzle Design

(www.razzdazzdesign.com)

Editor: Faith Freewoman (www.demonfordetails.com)

All rights reserved.

 CHAPTER ONE

DAY ONE: THREE WEEKS AFTER RYLAN DISAPPEARED

Static nipped painfully along her skin while Raven stared
broodingly at the city glowing in the distance. Clouds brewed
overhead, moisture heavy in the air as she gathered up all the
delicious power and focused on the horizon.
Her black hair swirled in an invisible wind, the silver streaks
shimmering in the darkness. She concentrated on the energy coiling
around her, drawing the current inward, and the strands of her hair
gradually settled around her shoulders as she absorbed every ounce
of energy.
Closing her eyes, she unleashed everything she’d gathered in a
brutal wave of pure electricity.
The volatile charge rumbled through the clouds, growing,
spreading, until lightning forked through the air.
She followed the zap of energy when it hit the ground, followed
while the earth soaked up the power, then studied everything she
spotted in that one millisecond.
Humans.
Animals.
A few shifters.
A gaggle of witches.
But no vampires.
No sign of Rylan at all.
 Swallowing a frustrated growl, Raven opened her eyes,
determined to start over again if that was what it took to find him.
She gathered the seething current around her, ignoring the spikes of
pain that slammed into her skull while she struggled to hold onto the
burning strands in her grasp.
The power was willing to obey, but she was just too weak from
the continual abuse. She’d been at it for five hours, and the city was
at the edge of her limits. She had spent every night for the past
three weeks on the rooftop of her house, searching for Rylan.
Despite allowing the dragon to rise beneath her skin to boost her
abilities, she’d found exactly nothing.
As electricity whirled around her, she pulled it into her body
again, refusing to give up, the voltage making her brain feel like it
was being boiled in acid. Energy could go anywhere and
everywhere, allowing her to slip into houses, subway stations, and
even jump into airplanes flying overhead.
But no matter where she searched, she found no signs of Rylan.
He couldn’t have simply vanished.
Frustration bubbled over, and the current she struggled to
contain fizzled to nothing, leaving her battered body slightly singed.
Panting to catch her breath, she thought about the first time she
met Rylan, and the beginning of their unlikely friendship.
Though she was only a teenager when they met, she’d spent her
whole life as a prisoner. When her parents discovered she was more
than human, they sold her to a medical laboratory without a qualm,
not caring that she was only three years old at the time.
She’d been going through a rebellious stage when Rylan entered
the scene, and the doctors were getting frustrated at her defiance.
They locked him in a room with her, granting him permission to feed.
Becoming a chew toy was to be her punishment.
Rylan refused.
After a week of slow starvation, they’d became friends. Unable to
bear seeing him suffer, she freely offered him her blood, not
knowing the consequences would haunt them both for the rest of
their lives. Some element in her blood bound them together, but
worse, it gave Rylan, and any other vampire who tasted her blood,
the illusion of life.
Rylan quickly became addicted, which strained their friendship. If
the doctors discovered the truth, they would torture her relentlessly
in an effort to duplicate the effect. He vowed to never lay a hand on
her again, and swore to protect her from that day forward.
Even years later, he came whenever she asked for help. This
time, instead of being able to enjoy an easy week doing nothing
more strenuous than watching over her house, someone invaded her
territory, injured one of her people, and took Rylan captive for his
trouble.
Every piece of evidence led back to the labs. She and Rylan
barely escaped with their lives the first time. She wasn’t sure if she
could find a way to get him out again.
Though she could tell he was still alive, she had no clue where to
find him.
She’d searched everywhere, questioned everyone, but Rylan’s
whereabouts remained elusive.
At night, when her hope of finding him weakened, she’d swear
she could hear his voice calling her for help. She would jerk awake in
a heavy sweat, her breathing erratic, unable to distinguish whether
his plea was reality or a nightmare.
All she knew was that if she didn’t find him soon, Rylan would
eventually succumb to the insanity of bloodlust, turning him into the
very monster he feared most. She also knew he would hold out as
long as possible, trusting that she would never give up searching for
him.
Crouched on the edge of the rooftop, she gripped the cold stone
of the waist-high wall beneath her feet, and began the process all
over again. Pure energy began to pool inside her, the power searing
along her veins, her body too tired to control the burn anymore.
Her dragon stretched under her skin, claws piercing the aching
muscles along her spine, wanting to be free to hunt.
Rylan was theirs.
Only a few more grids remained to be search, but Raven was
afraid she already knew the answer.
 Rylan was beyond her reach.
If she wanted to find him, she would have to venture out beyond
the safe life she’d built for herself. Her stomach churned at the
thought of dangling herself out as bait. The brick beneath her hands
crumbled under her brutal grip, and the need for vengeance swelled
through her.
“Raven.”
She whirled, ready to leap at the intruder. It took her brain
precious seconds to recognize her visitor, and she blinked in
confusion. “Griffin?”
Raven fought the dragon’s instinctive urge to attack. When she
took a deep breath to calm her raging emotions, the smell of fresh-
cut cedar she associated with him seeped into her, easing the
compulsion to kill.
The man hadn’t changed since the first time she saw him, when
he was locked inside a cage by a serial killer they’d both been
tracking. Working together to escape had forged a reluctant bond
between them.
He was lean, his dark hair a mess, his eyes splintered a vivid
green that pierced her anger. Everything about him screamed rogue,
intense and fierce and ready for action, but he kept the wild energy
tightly leashed. Though he’d gained weight, he retained his scruffy
appearance—of an outlaw, which was funny, considering he worked
with the police as a consultant.
“What are you doing here?” Raven dropped from her perch,
watching him closely. She was disturbed that she’d been so lost in
her thoughts she hadn’t even noticed when he arrived.
“I was told I could find you up here.” He didn’t say anything
more, continuing to study her, as if deciding on how to approach her.
Or maybe he stared because she looked so horrible, since she’d
only been able to sleep in fits and starts for the past few weeks.
She’d been on the rooftop for hours, her clothes were damp from
the mist saturating the air, or maybe she looked different because he
hadn’t seen her since her dragon awakened.
Other shifters watched her with fear or awe.
Both reactions left her decidedly uncomfortable.
 All she ever wanted was to remain invisible, but since she was
one of the few female alphas in the paranormal world, it was no
longer an option.
Raven released the energy whirling around them, gritting her
teeth at the shock of pain. The dragon dragged its claws along the
insides of her ribs, not wanting to be tucked away.
When she had herself under control, she narrowed her eyes. “Tell
me.”
He smirked, his body relaxing, as if he’d come to a decision. “The
council sent me.”
She stalked forward, barely resisting the urge to growl. “You
came here to spy for your father.”
Instead of anger, Griffin grinned. “No, and it’s driving the old man
crazy that he no longer has the power to control me. One of the few
perks of being a rogue.” His amusement dropped away. “The council
is uneasy about the weather; the pack and clans are getting nervous
at the show of power.”
Raven snorted. “They sent you because of a tiny storm?”
Griffin moved for the first time since he stepped onto the roof,
slowly leaning against the waist-high wall, his dual-tone eyes a bit
unnerving while they studied her. “A massive storm that hasn’t let up
for three weeks. A storm that reeks of power.”
Raven squirmed a little at the accusation, then went on the
defensive. “I’m not challenging them. I’m just trying to find one of
my own.”
Griffin shook his head. “That’s not good enough. Lots of people
have gone missing over the years. It’s never a good thing when the
paranormals are on edge. It leads to fights, and eventually war.”
Unable to stand still, Raven began to pace, her movements short
and abrupt as she strode back and forth. “You can’t ask me to just
forget about Rylan. I won’t stop searching for him.”
Griffin shoved away from the wall, stepping right into her path.
“You’re not the only one with people missing. Grow up. You’re an
alpha now. You’re not allowed to do whatever you want without
consequences. Being a Region, working with the police to solve
paranormal cases, protected you from the repercussions of your rash
actions, but you’re retired.”
The words were like a slap in the face. “Then what do you
suggest I do? I won’t leave Rylan to rot.”
Tension eased from Griffin when she didn’t go for his throat.
“Treat it like a case. People will respect your need to fight for your
pack, but not at the cost of upsetting the delicate balance among
the paranormals in the process.”
Raven stilled at his words, sensing a hidden undercurrent. “What
do you know?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, lines of strain bracketing his
mouth. “There are a lot more missing paranormals than what’s
warranted. We always expect a few people to disappear or die, but
some of the missing shifters are pack members.”
Shifters never left their pack without notifying their alpha where
they were going. Position in the pack was too hard-won and
prestigious to simply walk away from, especially since it would
condemn them to become a rogue or worse, they would revert back
to slave status.
Dark suspicions began to brew at the back of her mind. “Only
shifters?”
Griffin shook his head. “Every paranormal sect has lost people.
They’ve just vanished.”
The situation sounded all too familiar…the labs. Humans had
grown fearful when the paranormals emerged from the shadows.
War erupted, and too many people died on both sides in a senseless
war. An unsteady truce between the races had been forged, held
together by nothing stronger than a gossamer web.
Humans wanted to possess their own monsters, and secretly
began to create an army of specially bred paranormals. She’d seen
the results of their experiments, the hybrids they created,
abominations who lived for the kill. She had destroyed the lab that
held her prisoner for most of her life, but not without cost. Many
people died, their deaths staining her soul so black no one would
consider her innocent.
Unfortunately, there were more labs out there.
 There were always more.
Her rebellion only forced them to become more secretive.
But one thing hadn’t changed—they had continued to take the
unwanted, those who wouldn’t be missed.
Until now.
They were becoming bolder.
Their torturous experiments demanded stronger paranormals to
create bigger and badder killers.
She feared that Rylan was now languishing in one of those hellish
prisons.
Griffin stared at her expectantly, and she shied away from his
too-intense gaze. He wanted something from her, but asking would
put him in her debt. “What do you want?”
He inhaled deeply, his chest expanding, her question giving him
permission to speak. “Go to the council with me and demand that
they allow us to investigate. I need help on this case. It’s too big for
the humans—too big for me to investigate on my own. Even retired,
you’re the best. If we want to find these people alive, you need to
stop wallowing in self-pity, step up and do something.”
Anger shimmered around her at his challenge, static rose
between them, and she twisted the blue strands of current between
her fingers. Energy snapped around her hands, and she allowed the
spark to grow into a sphere, lightning flashing almost continuously in
the small globe. It took an enormous amount of effort to keep her
power in check, but the practice helped keep her mind human,
preventing her from devolving into an animal with only the instinct
to hunt.
“Why has no one else done anything?” Raven demanded.
Griffin snorted, but didn’t look away from the crackling sphere in
her palm. “And admit a weakness? That they couldn’t protect their
own people? They’re too proud.”
She rolled her eyes. “So you come to me instead.”
He lifted his head, his green eyes glowing, his wolf staring boldly
back at her. “You care more about saving people than your pride.
And people respected you even before you became an alpha.”
 Raven closed her fingers over the sphere. Pain stung her hand
like a swarm of wasp until the globe finally cracked like glass, and
she allowed the energy to soak back into her skin. “You’re trying to
lure me out by dangling a case in front of me.”
He only shrugged.
Raven felt herself unbending. All her instincts told her Rylan was
no longer in the city. If she wanted to investigate, she needed
permission to search outside her territory. The easiest way would be
to gain council approval. “Who would be the lead?”
Griffin grinned, knowing he’d won. “I doubt the council will agree
to allow me to investigate unless someone with more power than I
hold makes the…request.”
She grimaced. He meant demand. “And without it, the police
won’t allow me access to any files, not in an official capacity.”
He nodded grimly, then held out his hand. “Partners?”
Raven hesitated, knowing her touch could be deadly. Shifters
could handle a lot of abuse, but she didn’t enjoy inflicting pain. Nor
did she relish the idea of touching him, since she could accidently
pull his wolf to the surface.
Lack of physical contact led to a lonely life, but her pack was
determined to pull her back into the land of the living, even if they
had to do it with her kicking and screaming the whole way. Taking a
deep breath, she held out her hand. “Agreed.”
Before they could touch, a deep growl rippled through the air.
Raven whirled, instantly spotting the large, blurred shape hurtling
toward them. Without thinking, she stepped in front of Griffin and
called up a sphere of energy. It was sloppy, the snap of current
biting along her flesh. The globe was barely formed when she
lobbed it at the dark shape.
A bright flash of light flared in the darkness when her grenade hit
its target, illuminating Taggert in his werewolf form. He was over
seven feet of pure muscle and determination. A roar of pain was
ripped from his throat, the sound reverberating in her chest, then he
somehow managed to pull that power into himself, quickly absorbing
it. Instead of slowing him down, he used the energy to make himself
even stronger and faster.
 Unstoppable.
“Halt. Friend.” Raven lifted her hand, keeping herself between
the two men when Taggert began circling them.
Taggert was the only one of his kind remaining, the true two-
legged werewolves having long since gone extinct more than a
thousand years ago. When she unknowingly brought him home from
a slave auction a few months earlier, her powers had infected him,
activating his dormant DNA, causing him to shift into this alternate
form. She was afraid she had destroyed him, but he considered it a
blessing, a way to keep her safe.
She was the last known dragon. She and Taggert were the only
two remaining true shifter royalty living, and he was determined to
keep her alive by any means necessary.
Those who knew the truth both feared and revered them. The
world was changing, and they were either going to save everyone,
or doom them to another devastating war where no one would
emerge unscathed. And until the council could figure out which, they
couldn’t afford to exterminate them.
An uneasy truce existed between them…for now.
Taggert sniffed the air, slowly drawn forward, as if unable to
resist her touch. He only stopped when her outstretched hand came
to rest against his chest. A soft rumble tingled against her palm, and
she found herself stroking him, the movement easing away the
tension in her spine. He melted down until only a human man stood
before her, his eyes glowing a vivid yellow.
“We’ll catch up later.” She absently brushed her fingers over him,
unable to resist temptation, marveling at his power, then hastily
yanked her hand away before she became any more distracted.
“We’ll finish our training in the morning.”
He gave a subtle nod, almost like a bow. Without a stitch of
clothing on, he should have looked ridiculous, but ridiculous was not
the word that came to her mind as she gazed at him. Though he’d
never been shy, the recent changes had given him a sexy confidence
that was eye-catching.
He calmly strode around her, then past Griffin with barely a
glance, his fangs flashing in warning. Griffin swiveled to keep him in
view, his normally tanned skin a few shades paler. Seconds later,
Taggert leapt over the side of the building without a moment’s
hesitation and disappeared.
He was trusting her to keep herself safe.
It was the only reason he left without a fight.
With his new abilities, he’d transformed from a sweet boy to a
man determined to keep her safe, constantly training, pushing
himself to his limits.
Griffin turned toward her, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he
swallowed hard. “So the rumors are true.”
His scent had turned slightly sour with fear. Something in his
expression gave her pause, and then the truth dawned on her…he
was terrified. Tendrils of dread worked its way under her skin, the
deadly vines wrapping around her heart and squeezing. “He has
phenomenal control. He’s not a berserker, a mindless killing machine
that the legends claim.”
Griffin shook his head, his eyes dilating until they appeared black.
“You misunderstand. He’s devoted to you. I have no doubt he will
obey you in all things. His mission is, and has always been, to keep
you safe. What worries me is the council. They can never know.
They’re already disturbed about the amount of power you wield.”
A hint of unease crawled over her skin. The dragon went still at
hearing the threat, then pushed forward until her skin ached, her
body feeling too small to hold the beast. Raven stood balanced on a
precarious edge between her old and new life. She came to the
startling realization that she was no longer afraid of her dragon. She
trusted the beast would do whatever possible to protect those she’d
claimed as theirs. “I won’t let them harm him.”
The dragon grumbled in agreement and a spill of energy swirled
around her, her skin hardening when tiny scales slotted together just
below the surface. She flexed her fingers, marveling at the strength.
To a human, she still looked normal, but with her enhanced senses,
she could see tiny lines etched along her skin, defining each scale.
Griffin noticed the change immediately, and lifted his hands in
surrender, his head slightly tilted in submission. “When anyone in the
paranormal community becomes too powerful and threatens the
council’s authority, they’ve been known to send assassins to take
care of the problem.”
That gave her pause, her mind flashing to Randolph, their most
renowned executioner. The man had been human at one time, but a
short stay in the labs turned him into one of the most effective,
efficient killers the world had ever known. Much to her chagrin, he
was fascinated by her unique abilities so similar to his own.
Nor would this be the first time that Randolph was sent after her.
Though he hinted about pitting himself against her, she didn’t
think he would go after her in an unfair fight simply because the
council ordered it.
He even implied that they were friends.
That meant they would send nameless, faceless killers instead.
“I have no interest in taking over the council.”
Griffin shrugged. “Rumors are already circulating. You’re already
changing the paranormal world, breaking laws that have remained in
place for hundreds of years. While a few people have protested what
they consider your abuse of power, more believe we need to change
in order to survive, or we’ll become extinct.”
“That was not my intent. All I’ve ever done was protect my pack.”
While Griffin had a very strict sense of duty to others, similar to her
own, she couldn’t forget that he was also a rogue with his own
agenda.
“You might not have a choice.” His voice softened. “Pack animals
follow the most dominant alpha.”
The implications slammed into her with the force of a
sledgehammer. “How do I stop it?”
Griffin shook his head. “I’m afraid it might be much too late. If it
comes to war, they will follow you…even the council. The last war
nearly destroyed us. You might be the only one who can save us.”
Raven rubbed her brow, trying to ease the gathering headache.
“No pressure.”
Griffin snorted. “Tomorrow night we’ll go to the council, where
you must convince them you’re their servant, willing to do their
bidding. The only way you’re going to get what you want is by
proving to them that they want the same thing.”
 CHAPTER TWO

DAY TWO: AN HOUR BEFORE SUNSET

Raven paused outside her office, able to hear the pack arguing,
even through the closed door. While they wanted to help find Rylan,
they weren’t willing to risk her life in order to do it. When she
opened the door, the din subsided.
She nodded at Dominick, who was seated behind the desk. He’d
held the pack together when they first escaped the labs, and she
never cared to take back the reins, since he was so much better
suited to the role.
Seven people stared at her expectantly, and she took a deep
breath. “I know we’re all thinking the same thing—the labs are
back.” Tension in the room swelled, a low growl filling the air from all
directions as their beasts threatened to take over. High emotions
could easily turn any situation deadly, since it might trigger them to
change into a deadly animal at any moment.
“I also know none of you like Rylan, but if the labs are truly back,
they won’t stop until they’ve recaptured as many of us as they can.”
Jackson narrowed his eyes at the threat, almost like he was
convinced she would vanish from under his very nose. She’d met
him at the lowest point in his life….after he had lost his ability to
shift, which put his position as a pack enforcer in jeopardy. He’d
been relegated to minor duties, and practically fell into her lap. His
fierce loyalty won a place in her heart, but when she healed his wolf,
his alpha demanded his return. She risked her life to win Jackson
back, firmly cementing his place in her pack.
When she tore her eyes away from him, her attention landed on
Taggert, where he leaned casually against the wall, his stare no less
intense than Jackson’s. Neither wolf was happy with her right now.
Thankfully, Durant was caught up in an emergency session at Talons,
so he couldn’t stop her from doing what needed to be done to
protect her pack.
London, an enormous Kodiak bear who was her security
specialist, stretched out his legs, his chair creaking in protest. “You
claimed Rylan as one of us. We won’t leave him behind.” His
shoulders were stiff, clearly still blaming himself for Rylan’s
disappearance, since the vampire was taken on his watch. Though
she didn’t blame him, he couldn’t let it go. “What would you have of
us?”
Raven exhaled in relief. “In the past, I’ve always clung to the
background, doing my best to avoid drawing attention. To keep us
together, I had to prove that I was mentally strong enough to
ground a pack and keep us alive. That decision is now going to put
every step we take under scrutiny.”
“You were always an alpha,” Dina protested. She was the
caretaker of the group, and one of the strongest women Raven had
ever met. Nothing got the chipper little fox down.
“Maybe, but ever since we made my position official, it put us
under the dominion of the council. The last place we want to be is
on their bad side.” Raven glanced down at her hands, remembering
the blood on them, the hundreds of people she killed to escape the
labs.
Worse, she feared the killing wasn’t over.
“What would you have of us?” Jenkins was a chameleon, his kind
extremely rare. Despite his slim build, hatred burned in his eyes. The
labs had nearly destroyed him trying to harvest his DNA, and he was
determined to do whatever it took to strike back at them.
She met the eyes of each person in the room. Her closest
friends. Her only family. “I’m going to petition the council to allow
me to open up an investigation, so we can discover what’s really
been happening to all the paranormals who have been
disappearing.”
London stood, his chest expanding as he inhaled deeply. “When
do we leave?”
They trusted her…just like that.
Raven should have been thrilled, but the thought of going back
to the labs scared her shitless. She swallowed hard, then nodded
once. “Tonight.”
The door was flung open, and she saw Nicholas standing on the
threshold. She discovered his corpse abandoned across her driveway
only three weeks ago, and his presence was a testament to his
ability to heal.
When they captured Rylan, they left Nicholas’s skinned remains
for her to find.
Vampires only died by beheading or the removal of the heart.
While skinning Nicholas wouldn’t have killed him, it was excruciating
for the victim, and took time and skill to accomplish.
Instead of giving him the normal blood baths, she’d given him
her blood. In a week, he was able to remain conscious without
screaming in pain from the tiniest touch of air. By week two, his skin
was beginning to grow back, appearing like melted wax, his features
gradually returning, so he resembled little more than a half-made
clay figurine. His once long hair had just begun to sprout.
And as of yet he could give them no information about who had
taken Rylan and tortured him.
He limped into the room and bowed to her. “Take me with you.”
Behind him, she could see a group of young shifters milling about
in the hall, trying to appear as innocent as possible, pretending they
hadn’t been caught eavesdropping. They were all orphaned and hers
to protect.
“No.” Jackson pushed away from the wall. “She’s only allowed
three people when going before the council. In case there’s trouble,
she needs everyone there to be at the top of their game.”
Nicholas narrowed his eyes, but the effect was ruined by his
nearly transparent eyelids, and the fact that his eyelashes had yet to
grow back. While her blood had accelerated his healing, it also gave
him an illusion of life he hadn’t felt in decades. Her blood was
addictive. An obsession. She didn’t like the way he hungrily watched
her, as if trying to decide what to nibble on first.
“Mistress—”
“Jackson’s right.” Dominick rose from behind the desk. “Durant is
at the club. His loyalty to you is unquestionable, but his club’s
affiliation with the council complicates things. I suggest you leave
him as neutral. Take Jackson and London with you. Might I also
suggest that you bring young Luca?”
Raven lifted her brow at his unusual choice. “Why?”
“Two reasons—he’s learned a lot about magic since he’s been
here, exposed to your own unique style of power, but I also think it
would give you an edge with the witches. He’s got talent, but people
will underestimate him.”
Luca snapped upright from his casual lounging position in the
hall, coming to stop in the doorway. He wisely said nothing. She
suspected he wasn’t even breathing, he was so still. Instinct warned
her that trouble was coming. If they wanted to survive, they needed
to work as a pack.
Ever since Luca joined her household, he’d been practicing his
magic. He was a wizard, unable to cast any spells on his own, since
he lacked the ability to collect the energy needed to power his
magic. However, her house practically teemed with power…energy
from her that had seeped in to the mansion over the years.
At first, she’d been worried the current would infect him as well,
but he seemed to have a natural repellent…she suspected his ability
to use the magic was what prevented it from contaminating his
blood. Not only could he cast whenever she was near, he also
managed to create charms that held a small spark to use whenever
he had no access to any power.
While it still scared her to see him use the current she’d
considered a curse for so long, he reveled in it. He was advancing
farther and faster than anyone could have anticipated. She’d seen
him in a fight, and she trusted him to give everything he had in
order to protect her.
 Raven nodded slowly, accepting Dominick’s counsel. “We leave in
one hour.”
Luca let out a whoop of excitement, jumping in the air with a fist
pump. A second later, still beaming, he disappeared with the rest of
the kids when they charged up the stairs.

Battling nerves, Raven reluctantly parked the car and turned off the
ignition. Like the first time she saw Talons, the nondescript
warehouse sat crouched in the shadows. Menace hovered around
the building, warning the unwary to back away.
The dragon used her eyes to peer out at their surroundings,
eager to come out and play.
And instantly noticed they were being watched.
The street where they parked was deserted, no traffic, no hint of
pedestrians or clubbers, as if they knew better than to venture down
monster alley.
Trespassers could get eaten.
Luca’s excited chatter gradually faded under the grim
atmosphere.
London and Jackson patiently waited for her to move first.
When no one attacked, Raven grabbed the door then paused.
“Stay alert. We’re no longer alone.”
Without waiting for a response, she exited and took the lead. The
temperature was cool, a hint of winter in the air. The night sky
remained overcast, ready for her to call down a storm.
As they neared the building, shadows shifted. Raven stopped and
tensed. The dragon pressed forward, and energy swirled around her.
Static crackled between her fingers, and she wove them into a
familiar pattern, a sphere of electricity beginning to take shape.
Griffin stepped forward, hands raised in surrender, his gazed
riveted on her hand. “You made it.”
His covert approach made sense, since rogues needed to be
sneaky and undetected if they wanted to survive.
 Raven closed her fingers, crushing the globe, sucking in a sharp
breath then shaking out her hand at the bite of pain. Energy didn’t
want to fall dormant, fighting her every step, before it gradually
faded away. “I’m surprised to see you. Rogues are not usually
invited to council meetings.”
He raised a brow, his eyes finally lifting to meet hers. “You don’t
know.”
Raven frowned, not liking surprises. “Know what?”
“Rogues have an alpha and territory thanks to you. We’ve earned
the right to attend the council meetings.” He lowered his hands,
shoving them into his pockets. “Jamie and I decided to show you our
support.”
Raven repressed a growl. “You’re putting them in danger.”
He snorted. “Rogues are always in danger. There is no getting
around that. You’ve protected them as much as you can. Now they
want to do the same for you.” He paused, turning to nod at the
building behind him. “They know what they have to lose, but they
also have the highest number of missing people. They can help
make our case.”
When she opened her mouth, Jackson placed a hand on her arm.
“Trust them.”
It went against everything in her to put others in danger, but
both men were right. There was more at stake than just them. With
a scowl, she shrugged off his hold and marched toward the door.
When she entered the club, she found the unnatural silence jarring.
The hallway was empty, a last reprieve before she faced the
council. There was no décor in the confining space, except for one
prominent word clawed into the heavy wooden panels. Drawn
forward, she lifted her hand, letting her fingers sink into the
grooves.
She shivered, swearing she could feel the presence of Durant’s
tiger where he so boldly marked his territory.
“Holy shit, that’s cool.” Luca stopped at her side and lifted his
hand to mimic her, but stopped short of touching, as if he sensed
the intent behind the word…mine.
The club had its own rules, and Durant ran it with an iron fist.
 This was his territory.
You messed with it, and you messed with him.
A slight pressure brushed against her shield, a polite knock, and
Raven recognized the signature. “Durant?”
“Please be careful. I don’t like the tone of the club. Something’s
wrong.”
Her senses sharpened. “A trap?”
“Uncertain.” He hesitated just a fraction of a second, the action
telling.
“Keep your distance until we know more.” She would not put him
in danger, or have him risk ownership of his club on her account.
His tiger gave a rumble of displeasure, but he didn’t protest.
“Agreed.”
As he severed the connection, his essence wrapped around her
like a giant hug, and his natural calmness seeped into her. She
pushed through the second door and entered the club with more
confidence than she had all evening.
The room was packed, with over three hundred people crowded
into the space, and all of them some sort of paranormal. Raven was
surprised they were waiting so passively, since their more primal side
was known for striking first and asking questions later.
Everyone was tense, and she could sense their curiosity pressing
against her shields. Raven had no doubt that they came because of
her. While some might be counted as friends, she didn’t recognize
the majority.
“Oh, shit.” Luca’s voice was only a breath of air, and echoed her
sentiments exactly.
She expected unease or awkwardness, but there was a
calculation in his expression when he surveyed the room. He took in
the exits, the biggest threats. The amulets subtly brightened under
his shirt when he began to invoke a spell, his magic splashing
against her like a brush of cobwebs.
The spell snapped into place around them.
A shield.
Those who wished them harm would not be able to pass without
receiving a nasty shock that would knock them on their asses, but
not enough to pull their beasts forward.
Griffin’s observation about the paranormal community being
uneasy was correct, but he had underestimated the strength of their
disquiet. They came tonight to judge her. She could almost see the
bloodthirstiness in a few of them, their fear urging them to rip her
apart.
Her gaze connected with Durant’s from across the room. He
leaned casually against the wall near his office, his pose deceptively
lazy, but his golden eyes gave away his agitation. He was big and
lean, everything about him polished and unruffled…until you noticed
the stiff way he held himself.
It took all his willpower to keep from coming to her.
The heat in his eyes kicked up a notch when he caught her
gawking at him, and she felt her face warm. A smirk kicked up the
corners of his mouth, and he relaxed at her telling reaction.
Movement at the other end of the room caught her attention,
and she reluctantly tore herself away from the distraction that was
Durant. Jamie and two of his pack members rose. They wove around
the tables and strode toward her, their attention locked solely on her.
Some people glanced away in disgust, others bared their fangs, but
not a one raised a hand against them.
Jamie stopped before her and gave a short bow, showing his
allegiance. His men followed suit. Then they swept around and stood
at her back. The men were big and vicious, their beasts close to the
surface, violence waiting to erupt.
She wasn’t sure how they were able to do it, but they kept their
calm.
The aggression level went through the roof. Murmurs ran
throughout the room, a few packs shifted uncomfortably, while a
number of others stood straighter, their claws slipping free from their
skin, their fangs flashing as their lips curled back.
Ignoring all of them, Raven focused on the biggest threat in the
room.
The four men and one woman seated on the dais at the back of
the room.
The infamous council.
 They were the strongest of the paranormals, purebreds of their
species, and had fought tooth and claw for their positions. They
studied her impassively, and a sudden suspicion left her chilled in its
wake.
“You summoned me.” Raven didn’t doubt it for a second, no
matter what Griffin believed. She needed to tread carefully, already
able to feel the steel jaws of a trap ready to snap around her neck.
“A few concerns about your recent behavior have been brought
to our attention.” Donaldson sat in the middle, the spokesperson and
leader of the group. Power was tightly leashed around him, and he
contained it with iron control. The imposing wolf reminded her of
Griffin…the father and son a matching pair in strength and power.
He gave nothing away while he watched their approach.
Raven cocked her head, hearing an undertone to his voice.
They’d worked well together in the past, but shifters always did
whatever was needed to protect their own. She understood his
unspoken warning to tread carefully.
“This is an official inquiry,” Donaldson continued.
The old wolf at the end of the table held up his hands. “Before
we begin, let’s clear the room of the unwanted.” Hatred burned in
his eyes as he stared at her group with disgust, as if they’d invaded
his territory and pissed on his shoes for good measure.
He was old school down to the bone, and clearly despised
rogues.
And he obviously blamed her for their presence.
“Actually, they have every right to be here. They have their own
alpha, they have territory, and they have the numbers. They pass
the stringent rules required to attend.” Raven refused to back down.
If she relented, any ground the rogues had gained in the past few
weeks would be for nothing, and the shifters’ kill first and ask
questions later rule for rogues would continue unabated. “What
happens tonight will impact them as well.”
The old wolf puffed up, affronted that she would challenge him.
He opened his mouth to retaliate, when the witch spoke. “I would
like to hear what they have to say.”
 Heloise was the only female, and the only witch. She looked
regal—a beautiful, cold queen. Her light coffee-colored skin gave her
an almost ageless appearance. Most would assume because she was
a woman, she would be the weakest link. They would be wrong.
Her spine was made of pure steel, ruthlessness second nature to
her. If anyone had any doubts about her intent, all they had to do
was peer into her spooky, deep brown eyes. They were so dark they
appeared almost black. Shadows moved in their depths, tortured
souls withering in torment, begging for mercy. Raven saw flashes of
the past in those eyes, when voodoo priestesses ruled the world.
Heloise gave her a slight nod, and Raven knew that she would
receive no more concessions from the board tonight. Raven had
risked her life to save Heloise’s coven, but it didn’t mean they were
friends—more like uneasy allies, and only if Raven stretched the
truth a bit.
“Agreed.” The vampire of the group resembled a teenager, but
there was a stillness to him that belied such innocence. She could
practically feel the blood of the dead he’d consumed throughout the
centuries saturating his body. There was something in his expression
when he looked at her that worried her more than anything…
curiosity.
The old wolf growled, and Raven smothered her smile of relief at
passing the first hurdle, resisting the urge to antagonize the wolf
further. From this point forward, things were going to become
progressively worse.
The large cat sighed dramatically, his leg lazily swinging where it
rested over the arm of his chair, almost like the annoyed twitch of a
tail. Raven didn’t mistake him for weak, knowing he could spring into
action at a moment’s notice. His gaze dropped from the ceiling to
sweep over her dismissively. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?
The council has concerns about your growth in power. Tell us, have
you gained the ability to shift forms?”
Shifters learned to change at puberty. If they couldn’t shift at
that time, they almost never mastered the skill. Those who couldn’t
shift were considered weak, and not worthy of notice. Raven lifted
her chin, not at all ashamed. She felt more comfortable in the
shadows. “No.”
An uneasy silence crawled through the room when no one spoke.
Then the cat snorted and turned toward the council, dismissing
her. “She’s not a true shifter. Problem solved.”
“I disagree.” Heloise shook her head, her eyes locking on Raven.
“We’ve heard rumors that you plan to challenge the council for rule.”
Raven went lightheaded at the thought—she’d rather be turned
over to the labs—and the true reason for her being summoned
became startlingly clear. “I have no interest in taking over anything.
My goal is to find my missing pack member.”
“But you don’t dispute that you have the power to take the
leadership if you wanted.” Heloise’s voice was silky smooth. “You
have nominal ability to use magic. You have some sway over the
shifters and vampires. Your association with the rogues is
troublesome to more than a few packs.”
Understanding dawned.
They were scared.
If she didn’t answer very carefully, she would find herself
challenged over and over again, until she was dead, and everything
she’d worked for…her pack…would be dismantled. “The council
works because there’s more than one person in charge. It offers
equality, a balance, so one person can’t destroy us from within. No
single ruler would work in these modern times.”
A full minute of silence fell. Durant pushed away from the wall,
and she shook her head just a fraction. He looked pissed, before
reluctantly subsiding, his arms crossed, as if to stop himself from
charging forward to pick her up and carry her to safety.
Her pack shifted, Luca standing next to her, while the others
spread out a bit more, as if preparing to fight their way free.
The tension in the room thickened, and her patience snapped.
“We have more pressing concerns. I want permission from the
council to investigate the reports of missing people.”
“Shifters travel in and out of different territories all the time.” The
old wolf shrugged away her concerns as unimportant.
 “I think that’s exactly what you’re supposed to believe, but what
about the others? The ones who aren’t shifters?” Raven refused to
give up.
“You mean your missing Rylan.” The vampire tilted his head in
inquiry.
“Him, yes, and hundreds of others who have gone missing in
recent years.” Her heart ached at the mention of Rylan’s name, and
she carefully adverted her eyes to avoid being mesmerized.
Something about this vampire’s nearly black eyes raised her hackles.
“You think I had something to do with his disappearance.”
“You’ve already been cleared.” The young vampire shook his
head, the intelligence in his gaze revealing his true age. “Rylan has
gone missing on and off throughout the years. Why is now any
different?”
He looked willing to be convinced. He didn’t believe Rylan simply
walked away any more than she did. “I think they were purposely
taken. Rylan would never have left the pack defenseless. He was in
charge while I was away.”
Donaldson spoke for the first time. “Taken by whom?”
Raven debated what to say, knowing they wouldn’t believe the
truth, but lying was out of the question when some shifters could
sense falsehoods. “I believe the humans have begun their
experiments again.”
A number of shifters in the room scoffed at the thought of
humans taking shifters against their will. Donaldson just sighed.
“Myths.”
Raven knew she’d lost them. No shifters would believe that a
human could overpower them. She couldn’t let it go that easily. “And
if it’s not?”
“Then they were weak and deserved to be taken.” The cat waved
a dismissive hand, losing interest and returned to studying the
ceiling.
She was appalled and pissed. “You’re underestimating humans.
War is coming. We might have strength and power on our side, but
they have the numbers. And if their experiments are successful, we
won’t stand a chance.”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
"No doubt my parents were wise to part us. Dear Jack came of a delicate
family. He could have had no strength of constitution, or a mere cold would not
have killed him. He left all his money to a girl who professed to be my friend,
but—"

And then Jeannie stopped, as if she could have told another tale of treachery,
but would not.

Later on in the day she listened with apparently artless surprise and pleasure
whilst the new admirer sang a quaint little song, in which were these words,
glancing the while at the Jeannie present—

"'Where's the way to Jeannie's heart?

That I canna answer;
Here about or there about,
Find it if you can, sir.'"

If the singer had known all!

Girl-readers of this story would doubtless be better pleased if Jeannie had

been punished a little, than mated with somebody else, or if she had died
instead of poor Jack, and Jack had lived to marry Norah, and be happy ever
after. But such an ending would have failed to teach a much-needed lesson,
and to show what cruel suffering is brought on true hearts by what girls are in
the habit of calling "a mere flirtation." Through such conduct many a man has
lost faith in the simplicity and innocence of girlhood and in womanly truth, and
has become hard and cynical. He has lived perhaps for many a year—for
such wounds do not always kill—but only half a life, since it has been
embittered and robbed of its best affections.

Does any girl ask, "Is it possible that one ever lived and acted like Jeannie
Bellew?"

I answer "Yes." The portrait is drawn from life, and is given in its natural
repulsiveness, that it may prove a warning against flirtation.
 BY A GIRL'S HAND

CHAPTER I.

LIKE FATHER UNLIKE SON.

"AND so you want to be a-setting up for a gentleman, do you? You

think you know better than anybody else, and that what has been
good enough for me—and my father and grandfather too, for that
matter—is not good enough for you. You are going to be dressed up
in broadcloth on week days, and work with your coat on, are you?
Grimblethorpe isn't big enough for a fine fellow like you to swagger
about in. You must have a market-town, must you? And I suppose
you'll be going up and down the streets o' nights, like plenty more of
the same sort that are 'shamed of the honest work that their fathers
took their coats off to do, and gloried in doing well. You'll be smoking
cigars next, and wearing a top hat, and going in for all the new-
fangled ways of spending money that young fellows practise
nowadays, because they have never known what went to the
earning of it. But you'll rue not having taken my advice, as sure as
your name is Mark Walthew."

The speaker, Daniel Walthew, and father of Mark, paused for a

minute, not because he had finished, or that he desired any reply
from his son; he was only out of breath, and was fain to recover it.

More than once Mark had tried to answer these hard words, which
pained him sorely; but all to no purpose. From his earliest childhood
he had been told to speak when he was spoken to. But, though he
was now long past childhood, he was rarely allowed to speak at all if
his father were holding forth, and especially if he were not in a very
happy frame of mind at the time.

Daniel Walthew had always prided himself on what he called

"keeping to his own rut." By this he meant holding to the same
opinions, keeping to the same habits, living on the same spot, doing
the same kind of work as he had done ever since he could
remember, and thus following in the steps of the father and
grandfather who had gone before him. Each of these had saved a
good bit of money, and handed it down to be added to by the next
generation. Daniel Walthew had been the only son of his father, and
though there had been three children born to himself, Mark was the
only survivor.

Everybody in Grimblethorpe knew that Daniel Walthew must be well-

off, but nobody, his wife and son included, could have told how well.
Daniel considered that to let a woman or a young man know the
length of his purse would be a great mistake, and only teach
idleness, pride, and extravagance. It was commonly reported that
even on his wedding-day he had half killed his bride by making her
walk some twelve miles, on a hot summer's afternoon, from her
native village, where they were married, to the cottage at
Grimblethorpe which was to be her new home.

"We'll send the boxes by carrier," said Daniel; "you and I can walk. I
mean to begin as we shall go on, Barbara."

So the newly-wedded couple walked the dozen miles, side by side

when they started, the young wife plodding on behind, and being
waited for at intervals when she could not keep up with the
bridegroom's steady stride. Daniel was thirty-five at the time, and he
had waited until after his mother's death before he made up his mind
to marry. He meant to live in the old home always, married or single,
and he did not believe in two mistresses under the same roof. He
surprised everybody by taking to wife Barbara Sharp, aged twenty-
two, and consequently thirteen years younger than himself.
A far-seeing man was Daniel, even in this matter. He had watched
the girl closely, for she was in service at Grimblethorpe, before he
popped the question. He knew how thrifty she was, and that, instead
of wearing feathers and finery, and aping those who could afford
such things, and whose position they became, she made her simple
garments last twice as long as most did, and put them together with
her own clever fingers. She liked saving almost as well as he did,
and had a "nice bit" in the bank already.

Of course he might have married somebody higher up than a mere

servant. But would one of the farmers' or tradesmens' daughters
have stepped beside him in his rut? By no means. They would have
wanted to drag him into a wider one, and to scatter to the winds
some of the dearly-loved savings that it had been the work of three
generations to bring together.

It would be different with Barbara Sharp. She would be lifted into a

higher part of the road, albeit the rut might be narrow, and be
mistress instead of maid, though in a much smaller dwelling than the
one in which she served.

Even in the matter of age Daniel had made his calculations. "A wife
should be a dozen years younger than her husband, so as to be able
to nurse him when he gets a good way on in life. A woman gets
looked after by other women folk; but for a man, his wife is the
natural nurse." (Daniel said "natteral.") "And it is very upsetting for
him to have anyone else about him in his latter days."

Self came first with Daniel, even in his way of looking right on to the
very end of life.

He was dreadfully upset on his wedding-day, for just when home

was reached, Barbara's face went white, and down she dropped in a
dead faint on the floor of the "house," as the apartment was called
which did everyday duty for sitting-room and kitchen. There was a
parlour, but it was kept sacred to Sundays and state occasions.
This fainting fit filled Daniel with misgivings. Not so much on account
of the hardships to which he had subjected his bride in making her
walk so many miles during the heat of the day, but lest after all he
had married a delicate woman, and might find her a burden instead
of a helpmeet.

Such, however, was not the case. Barbara, on coming to, seemed
properly ashamed of herself for having excited such a commotion;
said such a thing had never happened before, and she did not think
it would again. She had been mistimed, having worked early and late
to do everything in the way of preparation for her marriage, instead
of spending a needless shilling. On the top of all this, the walk had
been too much for her—that was all, so Daniel was comforted.

Into the rut stepped Barbara, and kept therein close beside her
husband. She had few relatives, and by degrees, as no visits were
paid on either side, she lost sight of these. She was not an inquisitive
woman, and was content to know that there was no fear of want
before their eyes, and to work, that additions might be made to
whatever savings already existed.

The few acres about the cottage belonged to Daniel, and furnished
him with occupation. Her household work, the dairy, poultry, and pigs
found enough for his wife to do. Too much when there was a baby as
well. But Barbara managed. She never dreamed of employing a
servant, and she was so habitually careful and orderly, that both
work and expenditure were reduced to the lowest possible amount.

The two first children, both boys, died just when the toils of nursing
were over, and each could patter unassisted over the red-tiled
house-floor.

It was a very silent place after that. Barbara grieved, and worked
more mechanically, and Daniel mourned after his fashion, thinking to
himself that there was to be no son to follow father and grandfather
in the old rut.
Yet the expenditure was not increased. Every apple in the orchard,
every cabbage in the garden, every scrap of produce that could be
turned into a penny or the half of one, was so turned to account.
Slowly and surely the money kept growing, for the little holding
furnished nearly all that the pair required, and clothes seemed, in
Barbara's careful hands, to grow little the worse for wear.

Daniel's hoards grew—Mr. Mitcheson, the chief lawyer at Claybury,

could have told how fast; for though Barbara did not know it, her
husband was adding field to field, and rents and interest were being
turned into principal, and let out on safe mortgages to increase the
income that was never to be spent, but to go on increasing still.

Daniel liked Mr. Mitcheson, chiefly because he kept in the same rut
as his father and grandfather had followed before him. It was as
natural for a Mitcheson to be the chief lawyer at Claybury, as for
Daniel Walthew to plough, sow, and reap the fields that his
forefathers had first earned, then owned.

Daniel was forty-one and Barbara twenty-eight when their second

child died. Five years later a third child was given them, and the gift
remained. That he had all the affection of which his father was
capable may well be imagined. In the depths of her heart, his mother
longed to do more and better for her boy, to make his young life
brighter and more childlike. But she had been trained to keep in one
rut, and felt that there was no stepping out of it. She had no will but
that of her husband, and she must teach little Mark to keep within the
same bounds.

The child was not stinted in one way. He was fed with food
convenient for him; his clothing was good and comfortable, and
shaped to promote freedom of limb and preserve health, by the
careful hands of his mother. She watched him, worked for him,
nursed him, as no hireling could have done; though, thank God!
There are many nurses not mothers who look for their reward less in
pounds, shillings, and pence than in the well-being of the little ones
committed to their charge.
But though little Mark's bodily wants were well supplied, his young
heart hungered for young companionship, and no small feet except
his own ever crossed the red-tiled floor. Father could not be troubled
with other people's children; they would be noisy, and sometimes
need asking to a meal. Mother had trained her own little man to the
tidiest, cleanest ways imaginable. She rubbed and scraped his boot
soles till his feet glowed again, and his tread left no mark of mud on
step or ruddy floor. Mrs. Walthew had no time to look after other
people's children, so, though a little schoolfellow might come with
Mark as far as the gate, he came no further. Father and mother knew
at what time to expect the boy, and, in their cut-to-pattern fashion,
rejoiced at his coming.

But if he were later than usual, the time had to be accounted for, and
he was ever admonished to come straight home, and not loiter or
play on the road.

No wonder the boy grew old too fast, and felt that he was doing so—
that in sheer desperation, he worked too hard at his books, and
distanced the motley group of boys and girls that together made up
the village school.

Fortunately, Mr. Mitcheson, after long striving, succeeded in

persuading Mark's father to send him to a high-class grammar
school at Claybury, the one at which he had been taught, and to
which his own sons were now going.

Daniel Walthew hardly thought it possible for Mr. Mitcheson to make

a mistake. All his investments, made by that gentleman's advice, had
been so satisfactory, and the interest was so regularly paid, that he
was delighted Mr. Mitcheson claimed no credit for this.

Daniel Walthew was too wise a man to ask for large percentages. He
always said, "High interest means great risk. I want nothing beyond
five per cent., and if that means risk, four and safety." So the lawyer
found it easy to place his client's money in good hands, and insure
the regular payments of interest in which Daniel delighted.
He alone knew what the sum total of these amounted to, but he was
also aware that a good deal of money went straight into Daniel's
hands every six months without passing through his own.

Mr. Mitcheson looked ahead, and in imagination saw the boy Mark
grown into the man, and heir to all this wealth.

"It would be too terrible," he said, "if that fine lad were to have his life
narrowed down to the limits which at present confine them. The old
man's one ambition is that the boy may keep to the same rut as he
walks in, but I will do my best to free him from such bondage."

Airs. Mitcheson agreed with her husband, and said, "If Mr. Walthew
will send his boy to Claybury as a weekly boarder, we can do
something to brighten the lad's life between Mondays and
Saturdays. He will listen to you if he will to anybody."

But Mr. Mitcheson would have failed in his efforts but for the help of
an unexpected ally, and an unforeseen trouble with regard to Mark
himself.

CHAPTER II.
A PEEP INTO AN EARTHLY PARADISE,

AND A MEETING WITH EVE.

"HE is top of the school, and knows more than any of the other
scholars, and all that I can teach him."
"That is good hearing," said Daniel Walthew, as the schoolmaster
told this of Mark, then aged thirteen; but he was not equally gratified
when he added, "The boy ought to go to a better place than this.
Give him a chance, and you will be proud of him."

"I'm proud of him now. Top boy of Grimblethorpe school is good

enough for me, and better than I could ever do."

Daniel Walthew went home rejoicing. His boy's education was

completed to his own satisfaction, and there would be no more
school fees to pay. Now he would take him in hand and guide his
steps in the old rut.

But Daniel had planned what he could not carry out.

Mark had tasted of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and hungered
for more. There were no books at home that he did not know by
heart. A weekly local newspaper was the only new literature that
came within the door of the cottage. He had not even the
companionship of his old schoolfellows; he was to share his father's
occupations by day, and to be content with what sufficed to fill up the
measure of his parents' days when working hours were over.

Mrs. Walthew doubted what the result would be, but did not say so.
Mark felt his monotonous life unbearable, but had been too well
trained to rebel. So he did as he was bid, and in a short time became
silent, listless, careless about his food, and spiritless in everything,
besides looking miserably ill.

His mother and father had little faith in doctors, except as persons
who were all of one mind in having long bills. So Mrs. Walthew made
herb tea of the kind drunk by three generations of Walthews, and the
fourth took it from her hand, but grew no better. Then a doctor was
called in. He knew the family history, and he said promptly enough,
"Your boy needs no medicine such as I can give, Mr. Walthew."

Daniel looked cheerful on hearing this, and decided that advice

without physic could not be very costly. He was grievously
undeceived when he found that the advice of this doctor would cost
a guinea, whereas the Grimblethorpe medical man only charged
half-a-crown for a visit, and a bottle of medicine into the bargain.

"What your son wants is something to think about, work for mind as
well as body, and young companions to work amongst. Give him
change of scene, plenty of books, good teachers, bright companions,
and you will save him. Here he will die, or lose his reason."

The doctor was a friend of Mr. Mitcheson's, and therefore to be

trusted, and as the result of the combined advice of lawyer and
doctor, Mark went to Claybury, and stayed there from Monday to
Saturday in each week, whilst his father trod the old rut with only his
wife to bear him company, and both sorely missing their boy's
presence.

At first, Daniel Walthew had many misgivings as to the wisdom of the

plan to which he had been brought to consent. Mark's feet had not
taken kindly to the path which sufficed for his father, though he had
never complained of it. But a new interest was created by the lad's
very absence. He was terribly missed during the week; but how
delightful it was to welcome him back on Saturdays, and to hear all
he had to tell! So thought the mother.

But whilst Daniel rejoiced to see the hue of health coming back to his
son's cheeks, and to hear the new glad ring in his voice, he was not
so ready to listen, because with every week's work the lad's store of
knowledge was increasing. He was getting new-fangled notions, and
Grimblethorpe, which had been and still was his father's world,
would never satisfy him when school days were over. "What next?"
Daniel asked himself. But he was afraid to suggest an answer to the
question.

Besides the wider school world, and world of books to which Mark
had access now, there was another charmed circle into which he
entered with bated breath. Mrs. Mitcheson did not forget the talk
between her husband and herself about brightening the life of the
solitary lad. She questioned her own sons about him. "How do you
like young Walthew?" she asked.

"Oh, mother, he is most amusing," said Allan. "I do not mean in his
talk, but he has such prim, quiet ways for a boy. He is going to be a
model good boy, and as such most objectionable. He never blots his
exercise-books, or leaves anything out of place, or tears a leaf, or
speaks at a wrong time. He is hatefully goody-goody."

"You are too hard on him, Allan," interposed Fred, who was sixteen,
and a couple of years his brother's senior. "You know how Mark has
been brought up, mother, in such old-fashioned un-boylike ways—
they are very good ways all the same. If I were half as careful and
methodical, I should save myself many a lecture. But Mark is very
clever, and his parents will be very proud of him one of these days.
He is a year and a half younger than I am, but I shall have to work
hard to hold my own against Mark."

"I wonder if Mr. Walthew really will be proud of the result of his son's
school work. It is certain to interfere with his pet plan of tying the lad
down to the same kind of life that he leads himself."

"Why, mother, Mr. Walthew could never expect Mark to go back to

the old life at Grimblethorpe. To dig and delve, to sow and reap on
that little holding, where two or three generations of miserly
Walthews have gone on scraping and hoarding farthings, until they
are as rich as —"

"Hush! Fred, your father would be displeased if he heard you talk in

such a manner."

"No one can hear me but yourself, mother, or you may be sure I
should not say a word."

"Tell me about Mark's manners, Fred. I have seen little of him. He is

very shy, is he not?"
"Yes, but he has really nice manners. Old Mr. Walthew, though
homely and countrified, had nothing coarse or uncouth about him."

"Then you think Mark will behave nicely if I ask him here?"

"No fear of that. Do ask him, mother. It will be a real kindness to him
to bring him amongst younger children. He is so much too old for
fourteen," said Fred.

Mark was accordingly invited to Mr. Mitcheson's, and there he

entered on a new and hitherto undreamed-of life. Mrs. Mitcheson did
the wisest and kindest thing possible by handing him over to the
tender mercies of her younger children; for she had a very populous
nursery, and Mark soon became an immense favourite with them all.

In the Walthews' home at Grimblethorpe there was hardly an article

of furniture that had not done duty for two or three generations. This
said much both for the makers and users thereof, but little for the
good taste of either. Everything was hard, bare, and
uncompromising, though exquisitely clean and orderly. Nothing ever
seemed to wear out or get broken in Barbara's careful hands.

After Mark became familiar with the handsome table appointments,

soft carpets, fine pictures, and furniture which combined beauty of
form with comfort in use, he became painfully sensible of the
bareness and ugliness of his home surroundings. How he longed to
break those impossible animals in brown and white pottery which
ornamented (?) the parlour mantelshelf—how he wished to remove
the china mugs, with "A present from Blackshore" in gilt letters on
their sides, from the rank of decorations to the crockery shelf in the
cupboard!

Mark compared the hard Windsor chairs with printed patchwork

covers, and the hearthrug made of scraps of cloth sewed on a
canvas foundation, with the velvet-seated furniture, of which, at first,
he had been almost afraid to make use at Mr. Mitcheson's. But there
all the beautiful things were in constant use, and in his own home,
the best, where all were ugly, might only be brought out on rare
occasions.

In a general way, the Walthews used thick delft cups and saucers
and two-pronged steel forks. The china tea service, really beautiful
and dainty, seldom graced the board, and three-pronged forks were
only seen on Sundays.

Yet Mark made no mistakes. He was too quietly observant for that,
and Mrs. Mitcheson was greatly delighted with the manners of her
young guest.

"He has been very nicely brought up," she said to her husband.
"Who would guess, to see him at our table, that the very sight of
many of its appliances was new to him but a month ago?"

"Poor fellow! I am not sure whether we are doing him a kindness,"

replied Mr. Mitcheson. "The father is bent on pinning his boy down to
the same dreary life that he leads, and every day's absence from
Grimblethorpe makes it less likely that he will submit to it."

The lawyer's children were boys with one exception. There were
three—Fred, Allan, and Maurice—then the only girl, Dorothy, who
was nearly twelve years old when Mark paid his first visit to the
house.

After her came four little masculine steps, the very youngest being
only a few months old.

Dorothy, or Dolly, was the darling of the household, alike the pet and
tyrant of the boys. The elder ones were continually contriving
pleasures for their sister, she as continually playing little mother to
the smaller people in the nursery, each of whom in turn learned to
trot after her as soon as they could trot independently, and to look for
her help in every difficulty.

It was twelve-year-old Dolly who took possession of fourteen-year-

old Mark, questioned him about his home, and pitied him with all her
heart when she found that he had neither brother, sister, nor even a
cousin within reach.

"You poor lonely boy!" she exclaimed. "You say there is only yourself
at home, and no one ever comes to play at your house. What do you
do with yourself on Saturday afternoons and Sundays?"

"I get lessons ready for Monday first of all. Sometimes I fetch things
from the shop for mother, or help father in the garden when there is
anything I can do. On Sundays I go to church once—there is only
one service."

"And then, I suppose, you have somebody to talk to."

"Not often, except my father and mother. I used to have very little
fresh to say to them, but now it is better, for we are not all seeing the
same things the week through, and I can speak about school, and all
that happens at Claybury between Monday and Saturday."

"Next time you are at home you will tell them about me," said Dolly,
with childish frankness, and a little sagacious nod of the head.

Mark assented.

"What else? About the little ones, and how nice it is to be one of a lot
of children—though they do bother you at times, you know," said
Dolly.

"Oh yes. And I shall say how kind your mamma has been to me, and
—"

But Mark checked himself, and his face flushed suddenly.

"And what?" persisted Dolly.

"You can guess what," replied Mark. "Think of all that I shall see
new; of any kind words said to me, and then you will know for
yourself."
"But if anyone says unkind words, what then?"

"I will keep them to myself. Repeating things helps me to remember

them, and I would rather forget unkind words if I can."

"Now, if anybody vexes me, I always go straight to mamma, and tell

her; or if she is not in, I tell Fred. I believe you were going to say
something to me, only you stopped all in a minute. I saw you go
quite red, too."

The observant little lady was right. Mark was going to say that he
should tell his mother how beautiful everything was at Mr.
Mitcheson's, and how different from his own home surroundings. But
he felt that silence on this point would be best. Somehow, he shrank
from drawing too exact a picture of the cottage at Grimblethorpe.

"Then have you no cousins at all?' persisted Dolly.

"No own cousins or near relatives."

"How horribly poor you must feel! Don't you want any?"

"I should be glad if I had brothers and sisters. There were two baby
boys before me, but they died. If I could choose, I would have a
brother and a sister."

"It's no good troubling now," said Dolly. "If any were to come, they
would be no good for companions, so you would be as well without.
Being a boy, you would not want to nurse a baby, like I always do.
They are such darlings—at least ours are," claiming proprietary right
in the nursery treasures. "Are not your father and mother sorry you
have no cousins or anybody?"

"They grieved when the other children died, but I do not think they
care about relatives. Father says the fewer people have the better;
for if they are richer, they look down on you, and if they are poorer,
they always want to borrow money from you."
Mark said this innocently enough, just repeating his father's words.
But these made Dolly thoughtful, and she remained silent, puzzling
over and trying to understand the difference between this boy's life
and parents and her own.

The Mitchesons were strong in family affection, never disowning

their kindred, but readily responding to all reasonable claims for help
and sympathy one amongst another.

There were no loose links in their family chain; through evil report
and good report, they clung together. They helped the weak,
cheered the troubled, and, if misfortune pursued one of their number,
the prosperous held out kind hands—not empty hands—and set him
on his legs again.

Even if there were a black sheep amongst them, love flung a mantle
over his faults, so that the world at large should not scoff at the sable
fleece, which, maybe, grew whiter in time, as grey hairs replace
black ones, with advancing years and better judgment.

Mark was a problem to Dolly which she could not solve.

She had heard people say that his father was rich; yet, she was sure
he worked in the fields, and wore a coat on week days, like the
cottagers round Claybury. There was no servant—Mark had
accidentally told so much—and therefore his mother must sweep,
scrub, and make fires, and cook, and wash up dishes; no wonder
she did not want company. And they did not care for aunts and
uncles and cousins! It must be all very horrid. But Mark was nice,
and so Dolly magnanimously resolved that she would not "bother"—
her favourite, though inelegant, expression—but would be as good
as ever she could to the lonely boy. So she sent her problem to the
winds, and said to Mark—

"I have seven brothers—three older, four younger than I am. One
more does not make much difference; so I will have you to go
amongst the big lot, and make it into four. Then I shall be exactly in
the middle, and you will have eight of us belonging to you. There!"
And Dolly, having settled this matter to her own satisfaction, gave
herself no further anxiety on the subject, but managed to give Mark
something to talk about by initiating him into the mysteries of tennis,
and laughing and making him laugh at his awkwardness.

CHAPTER III.
MR. WALTHEW IS FAR FROM EASY IN HIS MIND.

DANIEL WALTHEW'S mind was much exercised by the fact that his
son had been invited to Mr. Mitcheson's, and treated like one of his
own boys, for the solicitor was a very great man in his eyes. He was
not only a lawyer, but the lawyer to whom noblemen, the first in the
county, went for advice. He had property, too, which made him
independent of his profession, and Mrs. Mitcheson had not come to
him empty-handed. He entertained his aristocratic clients, and was
entertained by them, and, as Mr. Walthew put it, "He thinks no more
of a Member of Parliament coming to dinner, than I should of asking
my next-door neighbour to a cup of tea."

Doubtless he thought less—for it was only after much deliberation

that even such modest hospitality was dispensed at the cottage
board at Grimblethorpe, and such occasions were few and far
between.

Daniel Walthew was proud of the honour done to Mark, and yet it
troubled him for two reasons. The first was because he could not
understand that a lady like Mrs. Mitcheson had invited a simple
country lad to her house from sheer kindness of heart, and with the
single desire to brighten his young life.

Secondly, he felt that Mr. Mitcheson's life path lay on a much higher
level than his own, and if Mark got accustomed to mix with grand
people, how would he ever come down to that humble part of the
road on which was his own rut?

"What do you think about it, Barbara?" he asked his wife.

"That Mrs. Mitcheson is very kind to Mark, and I am very thankful to

her."

"But why should she ask him? That's what I want to know. I should
like to know what will be the outcome of it."

"Maybe because you are a customer of her husband, and your father
went and paid good money to his father. I reckon your custom has
been worth a good bit to them from first to last."

"What I am afraid of is that Mark will get stuck-up notions, and when
he has done with schooling, he will not want to settle down here
again. If I were to see him with a cigar in his mouth, swaggering up
and down like some of those empty-headed puppies that think
fathers were only meant to work and scrape money together for
them to waste, I should almost wish that he had followed the others
when he was little."

"There is no better boy than Mark; and what is the worth of the
money if neither I nor he is ever to be any the happier for it?" asked
Barbara, stung to speak as she had never done before during more
than twenty-five years of married life. "Why," she continued, "should
Mark be tied to Grimblethorpe? He will be fit for something better,
and I hope he will get it."

Very wroth was Daniel Walthew when these rebellious words met his
ear. He had not married Barbara to teach him what he ought to do,
or talk about money as if she brought him any.
"So you mean to encourage the lad in stuck-up ways, do you?" he
asked. "You want Mark to be a fine, do-nothing gentleman when he
leaves school? I wish I had never sent him, but I've promised him
three years, and I never broke my word yet. He shall have his time,
and then—"

There was comfort in the thought. Daniel Walthew never boasted of

his money. It was happiness enough to know of his hoards, and how
they grew—grew, day by day, as the grass grew, without being
watched. No need that others should share the knowledge with him.
But Daniel liked every one to regard him as a man of his word, and
he would keep a promise at any cost to himself. So Barbara knew
that Mark was safe up to seventeen, and by that time something
might happen.

However much Mr. Walthew might wish to keep the actual amount of
his property a secret, and perhaps most of all to his son, lest Mark
should thereon found a claim to live as a gentleman, other people
talked and calculated, unassisted by any hint from him. The talk
reached Mark's ears, and he tried to speak about it to his mother.

"Everybody says my father is a very rich man. If he is, why should

we not have a different house from this, and live like other people? It
seems a shame that you should do the cleaning and washing, and
that father should work just like a labouring man, when we might
have things as pretty as the Mitchesons have. It is so pleasant even
to look round one of their rooms, and to sit at a table where the silver
and glass glitter when the light falls on them, and the table-cloth
shines like satin. If we only had a few pretty vases to put flowers
here and there, they would brighten the table, and we have plenty in
the garden."

Mrs. Walthew looked terrified when Mark spoke of his father's

wealth.

"Hush, dear!" she said. "People talk of things they know nothing
about. How should they? Your father keeps his affairs to himself. As
to him and me dressing up like gentlefolks, and having servants to
wait on us in a big house, we should be fish out of water. We are
used to our work, we couldn't be idle, and if we had to change our
ways, we should be miserable. Let us alone, lad. We are best as we
are. As to sticking flowers about the place, why, you have only to
turn your head, and there they are all in sight, and the sweet smell
coming in at the open door, so that you cannot help knowing they are
there."

Mark had to be silent, for he could get no information from his

mother with regard to his father's wealth; only a hurried, frightened
whisper, for Mr. Walthew's step was heard on the gravel.

"Don't trouble yourself! There is only you for everything, but you will
have to humour father, for he can do as he likes with what belongs to
him."

"But, mother, he talks of my coming and living here in his way and
working as he works. I never shall. Do you think if a blind man's eyes
were suddenly opened, and he had the power either to keep his
sight or go back to his old state, he would shut them and choose
blindness? I have seen a better, brighter life, mother. I can never
settle down at Grimblethorpe again."

Mr. Walthew's entrance prevented more conversation, and Mark,

seeing that an allusion to money matters or his own future only
troubled his mother, said no more, but worked harder than ever, and
bided his time. He had, however, a confederate and devoted friend in
Dolly Mitcheson. Dolly was the very soul of honour, and to be
trusted. Her brothers, big and little, chose her as the repository of
their secrets, and the one girl of the family was never known to
"peach." It mattered not to her whether the smallest toddles in the
nursery, or Fred, who was growing tall and manly, chose to speak
confidentially, or whether the subject was trivial or important, she
was equally trustworthy in every case.

When Dolly adopted Mark as a brother, in order to make a double

fraternal quartet, she did him a vast service by giving him a friend on
whose truth and good sense he could rely at all times.