The Raven Master. Diana Whitney
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by what she’d seen, Janine stared at the placid raven nestled in the crook of Quinn’s arm. “How in the world did you do that?”
She hadn’t really expected an explanation and wasn’t surprised when he ignored the question and nodded toward the kitchen door. “Would it be all right to take him inside and tend his wounds?” he asked.
“Of course.” She stepped aside and followed him into the kitchen. “Is there something I can do to help?”
When he glanced over his shoulder, a tingling sensation brushed her spine and she realized that the man’s Svengali effect was not limited to feathered creatures. “His wing is broken,” Quinn told her. “I’ll need something to bandage it.”
“I have some gauze and first-aid tape. Will that do?”
“That would be fine, thank you.”
As he turned away, Janine called out, “The hall carpet is wet. Watch out for the barrier.”
He acknowledged her warning with a nod, then carried the injured bird upstairs while Janine gathered the supplies.
Minutes later, she entered the open doorway of Quinn’s room and saw that he’d placed the raven beside a folded newspaper on top of the dresser. He glanced up and spoke to her reflection in the mirror. “Would you mind closing the door?”
Assuming he was concerned about keeping the bird confined, she complied without comment and laid the first-aid items on the bed. “I brought antiseptic, in case you found any open wounds.”
“Thank you.” As Quinn tossed the newspaper onto the bed, a small scratch pad-size square fluttered to the floor.
Janine started to mention the dropped item, but became completely intrigued watching Quinn’s expert examination of the injured bird. He carefully stretched the twisted wing to its full eighteen-inch span. The animal hissed a warning, parting its impressive beak to reveal a stumpy round tongue, which was as black as its feathers.
With its peculiar yellow eyes darting wildly, the raven tried to back away but Quinn laid a restraining palm on its back. “I know it hurts,” he murmured softly. “Just a few more minutes.” The raven cocked its head and, seeming somewhat mollified by the reassurance, displayed uncanny trust by docilely allowing Quinn to fold the feathered appendage back into place.
Janine rubbed her eyes. This was without a doubt the strangest thing she’d ever seen in her life.
“I could use those bandages now.”
“Hmm?” Janine blinked. “Oh. Sorry.”
He accepted the cloth roll she handed him, gently bound the injured wing to the creature’s body and secured the bandage with surgical tape. Duly impressed by his expertise, Janine peered over his shoulder. “Where did you learn how to do that?”
Quinn used a fingertip to stroke the shiny black head. “When I was a kid, my dad raised pigeons. He let me help.”
“But those were domestic birds.”
“They weren’t built any differently than Edgar.”
She backed away, feeling stupid. “Well, of course not, but I’ve never seen a wild bird that would tolerate human contact…Edgar?”
The raven responded with a shattering screech and flapped its good wing. It cocked its ebony head, fixed Janine with a jonquil stare and emitted an ominous hiss.
Eyeing the raven’s sharp beak, Janine retreated even farther. “Edgar is a fine name, just fine.”
Diverted by his new surroundings, Edgar hopped around the dresser, pecked at the mirror, then turned his attention to the goosenecked lamp a few feet away. With a hop and a flutter, he wrapped his claws around the comfortably curved stem and claimed his new perch with a raucous squawk.
Quinn slid Janine a furtive glance. “He shouldn’t be released until the wing has healed.”
“No, of course not.”
Leaning lazily against the dresser, Quinn regarded her thoughtfully. “Are guests allowed to keep pets?”
“I’ve never thought about it. Actually, the subject of pets has never come up.” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps if we could locate some kind of a cage—”
Edgar screeched a protest.
Frustrated, Janine folded her arms and glared at the bird. “Keep that up and you’ll be headquartered in the basement.”
With a shriek that seemed unnervingly responsive, Edgar pivoted on the perch and turned his back on her.
When she turned her stunned gaze on Quinn, he merely shrugged. “I think you’ve hurt his feelings.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” She shook her head and chuckled, willing to go along with the gag. “All right, Edgar. Forget the cage. You can stay in the room but only if you’re quiet, understand? One midnight screech, and you’re outta here.”
On cue, Edgar turned to face her and calmly settled himself on the flexible column.
Sighing, Janine turned to Quinn. “Could you at least spread newspapers under the lamp?”
His eyes crinkled. “Consider it done.”
She fidgeted for a moment. “I should get back to work.”
Straightening, he gathered the remaining first-aid supplies and handed them to her. “Thanks for the help.”
“You’re welcome.” She balanced the loose objects in the crook of her arm, shifted nervously and wondered why she was so hesitant to leave. “Do you need anything else? I mean, birdseed or something?”
He regarded her quizzically. “Do you have any bird-seed?”
She nearly groaned aloud. Of course she didn’t have any birdseed. What on earth was the matter with her, anyway? “Well, no, but I was planning to go to the market later…” The lie caught in her throat. She coughed it away and smiled brightly. “So I could pick some up and anything else you might need.”
After considering that for a moment, he gave her the tolerant smile usually reserved for fools and small children. “Actually I’m going into town myself this afternoon. If you tell me what you need, I’ll save you a trip.”
“That’s very nice of you.” Her cheeks ached. “I’ll make a list.”
She backed awkwardly out of the room, wondering what it was about this man that made her feel like a clumsy adolescent. He was an enigma, unsettling, almost frightening, yet his unique abilities contradicted her own sense of uneasiness. Animals and children instinctively recognized inner kindness. They trusted Quinn; why couldn’t she?
The answer was clear. Quinn Coulliard was a dichotomy—a cultured rebel with the tortured eyes of a person at war with himself. He was also the most fascinating man she’d ever met.
Balancing fresh linens on one arm, Janine used her master key to enter Quinn’s room. To avoid inconveniencing the guests, she tried to schedule routine cleaning while they were away. So after Quinn drove into town—ostensibly for birdseed—Janine took advantage of the perfect opportunity to complete her chores.
As she closed the door behind her, the raven sidled along the curved lamp stem, cocked his head and eyed her suspiciously. She tossed the key onto the dresser and put the linens on a nearby chair. “Hello, Edgar. Are you feeling better?”
Edgar said nothing.
She was oddly disappointed. In his master’s presence, the bird had seemed, well, almost human. That was silly, of course, but Quinn Coulliard had a knack for creating illusions of reality from the most implausible scenarios. Perhaps the man was a mystic. Or a magician.
Or a con artist.
Not that it really mattered. To Janine, he was simply another tenant. Yet as she absently stripped sheets