Liam Davis & The Raven Page 3

  It didn’t hurt his case that he was built like one of the superheroes in the pictures that lined the hospital halls. I mean, for tonight, while I was still a touch jumpy, having him between me and any possible Freddy visitation wouldn’t be a bad thing . . .

  “Nice place,” Quinn said, following me into my apartment, his shoes squeaking over the threshold. There came a ziiip, and he slung his leather jacket over the wooden coatrack in the corner.

  “Yeah. It’s all right.” I took off my jacket, removed my notebook, and kicked off my shoes. My socked feet skated over the floorboards but I caught myself before toppling over, and I continued the short house tour. “Living room and kitchen here. Bathroom just down the hall next to my room.”

  Quinn walked to the closed door in the living room and knocked. “And in here?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer; he twisted the handle and let himself in.

  I waited for him to finish taking a peek, but he didn’t turn around. I tucked my notebook under my arm and crossed over to him. “What is it?”

  “Okay, Liam,” Quinn said, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. “I’m officially jealous. I’d be happy with a room—you have a study?” He shook his head.

  “I don’t use it as much as I should. If you really need a room, you can use it.”

  Quinn snorted.

  “I mean, it’s a little draughty,” I said.

  “You’re serious?”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Quinn turned and leaned his back against the doorframe, staring. What was with that intense look? I folded my arms, dropped them, refolded them, and glanced at my darkened study, which was mostly an empty room with a wall of bookshelves and a dusty desk in the corner.

  “You don’t even know me,” he said. “What’s more, I don’t know you.”

  “You knew all your previous roommates?”

  “No.”

  I pushed up my glasses. “Then I don’t understand your issue.”

  He blinked and glanced back into the room. “How’d you score this place, anyway?”

  “It’s one of my father’s apartments. I can use it while I’m studying.”

  “Why do you talk like that?” Quinn asked. “Father instead of plain old dad? And ‘hoping this will not occur again’? That type of thing?”

  I unfolded my arms, catching my notebook as it dropped. “I haven’t really noticed I speak in any particular way. But I chose ‘father’ instead of ‘dad’ because this”—I gestured to the apartment—“we’re not close. I was the product of an affair he had, and we don’t really consider each other family.” If he considered me family, he’d have offered me the apprenticeship without any stipulations.

  “And yet,” Quinn said carefully, “he lets you use his place.”

  “He can afford it. That way he figures he’s square with my mom.”

  A frown etched its way between Quinn’s brows, and I sensed unnecessary sympathy.

  “We’re all fine about the situation. There are no hurt feelings hidden anywhere. It is what it is.”

  “Huh,” he said, his gaze dipping to the notebook in my hand. “Okay. What’s that?”

  I turned the notebook over in my hand and slipped it under my arm again. “My work. Which I’d really like to get started on.” I walked back into the living room, turning another slip into a large stride. If I weren’t careful, I’d end up with another concussion. “There are some blankets in the cupboard next to the bathroom. You can sleep on the couch. I’m going to work from my bed tonight.”

  Quinn’s steps came heavy behind me. “Right. Well, I guess I’ll come in on an annoyingly frequent basis to make sure you’re all good. But first”—he pinched the notebook from under my arm—

  I twisted sharply, lunging for my notebook. The half-head he had on me gave him an advantage. He whipped the book out of my reach. A dull ache throbbed in my ribs, stopping me from jumping for it.

  “Let’s see what your work is, shall we?” He leafed through the pages, scouring their contents. “You can sit down if your side is hurting.”

  “I’m fine. Or I will be when you give me back my notebook.”

  His long lashes lifted as he glanced at me over the notebook. “I saw you tonight at the party. You were watching my fight with Chris. You were writing something . . . what was it? Ah, here we go.” Clearing his throat, he read aloud, “Jock. Big-boned. Broad shoulders. Tall.” He chuckled. “Jesus, this reads like a catalogue. I’ll have one through four, please.”

  His chuckling stopped abruptly. “Wait a sec, you’re describing me, aren’t you? Runs fingers through hair as though he’s attractive and knows it?” Quinn’s voice faltered. “I’m not all that attractive. I’ve got weird ears . . .” He raised both brows and shook his head. “Which you haven’t failed to note here either. Ears look like they’ve had a serious clubbing. Ouch, Liam.”

  I shifted my weight onto my other foot. “Those are mere physical notations. To create a picture. I certainly wasn’t deriving any conclusion about you as a person from your looks.”

  Quinn looked up sharply from the notebook. “No, not based on my looks, but my actions. The details you use to describe my break-up scene says as much. And then his eyes clasp on a male making out in the foyer. Hurt flashes in his eyes, but he swallows it back as if he doesn’t care. Or isn’t entirely surprised this is happening at all. Wow. I don’t even know what to say to that.”

  I opened my mouth to assure him he would remain anonymous—that the notes were more for me than for the column. They were just to recreate the atmosphere in my mind, so I could analyze it and explore my theme. Sometimes I’d transpose the emotional elements onto a fictitious character to play out an example—but enough details were changed . . .

  No sooner had half a syllable passed my lips than Quinn spoke, “Actually, I do have something to say.”

  He tossed the notebook onto the couch and used his fingers to count. “First impressions of Liam. Moves with the grace of a giraffe in stilettos. Brown eyes behind thick, black oblong glasses—like you’re going for the Clark Kent look, which you might pull off if your dark hair weren’t such a tousled mess and your front tooth wasn’t chipped.”

  He took a step toward me, stirring air over my skin and sending an unfamiliar shiver down my spine. “Has glossy skin—almost elf-like, but with an uneven tan that, judging by the pastiness of your upper arms, you got by accident. Perhaps reading a book in the sun too long?” Another finger uncurled. “Has a sharp nose that’s reddened by the constant pushing up of glasses. Wears slacks and a short-sleeved shirt that was hurriedly put on. Fresh, but not ironed.”

  Quinn inched even closer, his eyelashes lowering as he raked a slow gaze up and down my body. “Fidgets with the pen in his pocket when he’s uncomfortable or nervous.”

  I immediately let go of my pen and dropped my arm to my side. “Keen observation skills.” I picked up my notebook from the couch. “And it was a newspaper, not a book.”

  “And I was born with ears like this.”

  I looked at him and nodded. “But I was right about the hair. Bleached.”

  Quinn closed his eyes and shrugged. “And everything else.”

  I slid backward toward the hall and my room. “Look, you provided a theme for my column. You’re my angle, that’s all.”

  “Yeah,” he murmured quietly, but my skilled ears heard. “Being someone’s angel would’ve been too good to be true.”

  “Liam? Wake up.”

  I jerked upright. “Huh?” I blinked, grabbing at the open laptop that had slipped off my lap.

  Quinn murmured something along the lines of “figures” and then passed me a glass of water.

  I took the water and drank it all. I swiped my arm over my mouth. “Must have drifted off.” Quinn plucked the empty glass from my grip, and I unlocked my computer screen. I’d only written three paragraphs? “Gah! Thanks for waking me! I didn’t get half my thoughts down.”

  And why is that su
rprising, considering you can only concentrate on the attack? Who jumped me, and why? And even more importantly—

  My gaze flickered from the bright computer screen to Quinn’s tired face, lined with shadows. It made me glance at my radio clock on the bedside table. 2:00 a.m.

  “Who was the hooded figure?” I asked.

  “Hooded who?” Quinn ran a hand through his hair but this time it didn’t seem so self-assured. He swallowed, his large Adam’s apple jutting out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I cocked my head and studied him. He held my gaze squarely but there was a slight twitch to his jaw. “There was a guy who came and tossed Freddy off me. He was wearing a hooded coat, I think. I didn’t see his face.”

  “I didn’t see any guy in a hood,” Quinn said, and spun on his heel, moving toward the door. “It was just you, lying unconscious on the grass. Thought you were passed out from too much alcohol. But you didn’t smell like it.” He paused, one large hand clutching at the doorframe, and looked over his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell the police someone else was there?”

  I rested my head against the cool wooden headboard. It stung a bit where I’d bruised it, so I lifted it off again. “I’m not sure, exactly. It didn’t feel right. I guess I wouldn’t want him to get in trouble. He might have given Freddy as much as I got.”

  He stilled, and then turned his head away. He disappeared around the corner, his steps thumping through the apartment.

  My opened document begged me to re-read it and get back in the zone—but by the beginning of the third paragraph, the hooded figure hijacked my concentration. Something about him nagged at me.

  The journalist in me just had to know who he was.

  CHAPTER 3

  I gripped the brown folder containing my three best articles from last year, and carried it into Chief Benedict’s cozy corner-office overlooking the street that lined the Cathedral of Learning.

  “I’d like to hand in my submission for the BCA competition,” I said, handing my folder to him over his desk.

  He lowered what he was reading, scrubbed his hand over his beard and snagged the folder from my grip, eyeing me carefully. “You’re calling it close to the deadline, I told you about this a week ago.” He glanced at his silver clock that matched the desk and chairs. His gaze fell to the folder and he thumbed it open. “I remember these.”

  I let out the breath I was holding. The chief remembered them. That was a good sign. A very good sign—

  “But don’t get your hopes up. I don’t think they’ll do.”

  “Sorry?”

  The chief pulled the plastic spine off the folder and took out one of my articles. “These are perfectly solid reports, Liam.”

  “Then what’s wrong with them?”

  “Nothing wrong. But they fail to hit ‘just right’.” He waved the article. “Do you trust me to replace this with what I think is your best work?”

  “I respect you, Chief Benedict, but I can’t lie. I’m not sure. What do you think is my best?” Which one had he removed? I leaned forward—

  Dump!

  Chief Benedict threw it into the large wastepaper basket beside the desk. He clapped his hands together once. “The Ghosts of College Past, Present, and Yet to Come. That’s your best. Such a creative defense of universities from capitalism.”

  I balked. Yes, the story had been fun to write and I enjoyed giving my politics page a Christmas flair—but it was so . . . so . . . light. “That’s my best work?” I shook my head.

  Chief Benedict pulled the hair at the tip of his beard. “It was wide-reaching, engaging, it hooked readers who rarely read the politics page. You were showing us the issue, not telling us—it’s one of the best I’ve read from any student in a long time. And if you’ll let me, I’d like to place that one in here.”

  “Fine,” I said slowly. “But I disagree. I think the other two will rank higher.”

  “Let’s see, shall we?”

  My hand found its way to the pen in my pocket, and it was clicking the top with erratic rhythm. I gave the chief a nod and stepped back toward the door.

  “Just a sec,” he said.

  I paused.

  “Do me a favor, would you?” He stood and lifted a stack of old Scribe magazines, then sauntered around the desk and handed them to me. “Take these back to the archives.”

  I took the stack and looked him in the eye. “I wanted the features editor position. I thought I’d worked hard enough for it.”

  “You work plenty hard, and it’s going to happen.”

  “When?”

  “Next year, perhaps.”

  I breathed in deeply. A whole year away? That would be too late. I’d never get the chance to hold the position for two consecutive years! “What about next semester?”

  “I’m not quite convinced you’ll be ready.”

  “I will be. Let me prove it to you.”

  Chief Benedict crossed his arms over his checkered shirt as he stared at me, calculating something. He lifted a hand to rub his beard again and then let out something between a sigh and a chuckle.

  “Okay, Liam, how about this: at the end of the semester you’ll write a feature piece for the magazine. You can write it on any topic. If it stuns me, if it shows me you’ve grown as a writer, I will promote you to features editor next semester. You have my word.”

  Resting the stack of old Scribe editions on his desk, I withdrew my notebook and pen. “When exactly?”

  The chief glanced at his calendar. “In my inbox by Friday at midnight, December fifth. Sound fair?”

  “Midnight?”

  “For any last-minute changes I know you’ll want to make.” He reached out a hand, and I didn’t hesitate to lock him into a warm shake. With a nod, the chief let go.

  I hugged the stack all the way down to the basement, to a room lined with filing cabinets sorted by year. A long table stretched down the middle, and I dropped the magazines onto it.

  A sneer behind me jerked me around, knocking half the pile to the floor.

  Jack and Jill stood in the doorway. Jill sauntered in and tossed a magazine at my face. I caught it and straightened my glasses. The most recent Scribe.

  “Are you serious? What am I saying—of course you are. You can’t be anything but. University of Party, Lectures in Life? I knew chief made a mistake. Knew it. Students are sniggering at that piece of shit all over campus. Just go to the cafeterias and listen.”

  I gripped this week’s Scribe, my fingers trembling. Why was I so jumpy? I’d never let the guy get to me before.

  Freddy, holding out his steel-gloved hand under the streetlight, flashed in my mind. I shivered. Jill was a prick, but he wasn’t Freddy.

  I straightened, and opened the magazine to my article. People were laughing at this? But this was quality.

  “Come on, Jill,” Jack said, shrugging my presence off like I didn’t matter, like there were better things to do with the day. “Maybe his next one will be better. Even I found switching to politics articles tough.”

  “Yours was actually pretty good,” I said. Jack and Jill might get off on making me feel like a failure, but I considered myself above that. A true journalist would look at Jack’s article objectively. And objectively, it was good. I liked how his article explored the corruption of the prison system. “The details you gave about life in prison were horrifying and gripping.”

  Jack grew quiet, and Jill glared at me.

  “Gripping?” Jill said. “Insensitive prick. His brother is in there!”

  I raised my hands. “I didn’t know. My comment was not meant to disregard—”

  “Just shut it, and make the next party page better,” Jill said evenly, as if it cost him a lot to control himself. “Don’t want to have lost all my readers when I take the page back.” He stalked out of the room, with Jack following him.

  I slumped against the table, pushing more old Scribe magazines to the floor.

  Jack’s voice tunneled down the hall. �
��Scribe’s not the place to get aggressive, man.”

  “Well . . . but . . . he shouldn’t have been so dismissive about—and anyway, the party page. It’s my thing. I worked my ass off for it. It’s hard for me to see anyone else with it. And it’s true. The guy doesn’t know what it means to cut loose . . .”

  Turning to my column in this week’s Scribe, I re-read it. It was a good column. It offered insight. Had depth.

  I shook my head. Jill was wrong.

  Dropping the magazine onto the desk, I bent over to clear up the floor. Tonight I’d attend another party and write my next piece. Something that would inspire more than cheap laughs, but conversation and—

  My hand stilled on a Scribe from two years back, which lay open to the middle. A picture of a hooded figure’s blurry silhouette stared back at me. I frowned, and my pulse pumped faster as I snatched the magazine closer.

  “The Raven Saves Again,” I read.

  I scanned the familiar article. I’ve read this before.

  Last weekend after partying with friends at Rigg House’s Swalloween party, Nick O’Connor did what he did after every party, and walked back across campus to his dorm. Only the short walk didn’t turn out like it usually did. A few blocks from Rigg House, he was hit from behind. “I was caught off guard . . . didn’t see him coming. I lost my balance and fell.” As the attacker went to strike again, a hooded figure leaped out from the shadows and dragged the attacker off, allowing O’Connor to run back to his dorm. . . . “This guy just came out of nowhere. It was like he appeared from the sky, dark like a raven . . . [He was] wearing this navy hood, like a jacket or something. Couldn’t see his face.”

  Same rescuer as mine. Large hood, vague outline, no face.

  Police arrested the suspect and have charged him with assault.

  I scanned further down.

  This was not the first report of a hooded man coming to a student’s aid. There are rumors the man is a campus vigilante, and he has been the reason for two prior arrests of students . . . He is mentioned on Scribe’s opinions page on more than a handful of occasions.

  I photocopied the article and searched through all the magazines of the past two years for more reports on The Raven. I found three more mentions of him, including one cartoon strip asking the same questions I was: Who was The Raven? And why did he care?