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Burn my Shadow	By : Khaleesi-Of-Dragons Category: M through R > Raven, The (2012) > Raven, The (2012) Views: 918 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the Raven and I make no profit from this story

Chapter List
- 1-1
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-12
- 7
- 8
- 9
I set a course for winds of fortune,/But I hear the voices say/Carry on my wayward son/There'll be peace when you are done/Lay your weary head to rest/Don't you cry no more
I lean against the doorway of a classroom as the others inspect the latest victim. "She could be a prostitute, the way she's painted up," Cantrell points out, looking down at the body that's lying on a metal examination table. I roll my eyes at his observation, not taking in offense to it, but annoyed that it was the first thing that popped into his head.
"Contrary to popular belief, Cantrell," I say in a bored tone," not all of us whores like to wear makeup." The man blushes, eyes dropping from my face back to the body. He is a good man, one of the few who do not judge me, though I think he's afraid to have a real conversation with me because he believes his wife would somehow find out and beat him with a broom. I join the men around the table, looking down at the woman's corpse; her eyelids had dark blue shadow on them and her lips were a dark red, almost matching the blood splattered all over her face and hands. "She doesn't work in Reagan's tavern."
Fields nods at me, examining the padlock that had been keeping the casket closed. "Did you open this?" The professor that called in the crime nods his head. "Were your hands clean?"
"Yes," the old man nods again. "I didn't leave that smudge, inspector."
"She must have fought him or scratched him," Cantrell says. Fields shakes his head, putting the padlock down and moving closer to the body. "I mean, the blood can't be hers since there is no blood on her wrists." Fields moves the woman's head to the side, revealing some rope.
"He came at her from behind." I look over at my brother,

noticing the fearful gleam that has taken resident in his dark eyes since Emily was taken a couple of nights ago. Since then, he'd kept me even closer, sitting in a chair beside my bed at night with a bottle of brandy and a loaded pistol. "Another one of your stories?" Edgar doesn't answer him, looking to me instead.
"The Mystery of Marie Roget," I answer for him. Fields nods, returning his gaze to the body and cuts the rope that is tied around her neck.
"A bowline knot," my brother informs them," just as it was in the story. Fields looks up, nodding his head for Edgar to continue explaining. "She was a girl..." he trails off, trying not to break down."...who worked near the stores in Paris, near the quay; she drowned, but there was no mention of blood on her hands...that detail was added." Fields looks down at his pocket watch.
"You must write down every detail, we have no time to lose."

Fields approaches the Poe's home, about to knock when a woman's muffled screams reaches his ears. He opens the door and rushes in the direction they're coming from, fearing the worst. He knew they belonged to Sarah and he hoped to God that the killer hadn't broken in and attacked her. He kicks in a door, finding Sarah lying in bed, her face ashen as she lets out cries of pain. He wastes no time in shaking the young woman awake, catching her wrist in time to keep her from striking him. "Sarah," he whispers, brushing some of her dark hair off her face. "Sarah, it's me, it's Emmett." Slowly she calms down, letting him pull her closer to him; her head rested on his chest, her breathing coming out in short gasps as the fear dissipates. "Calm down, you're safe now."
She looks up at Fields, tears still in her eyes. "His name was Theodore," she tells him softly, shaking a little and snuggling closer to him. "We were engaged and he wanted to take me to see a play. On the way back this...this man dressed in all black came out of nowhere and slit h-his throat; there was blood everywhere." She lets out a strangled sob, gripping his vest tightly in her small fists. "The man pushed me against a brick wall and held me there by my throat until I passed out; when I woke up I was in the hospital and Theodore was dead." Fields looks down at her with sorrow-filled eyes. "Hand me my laudanum, it'll help me sleep without seeing the images." He does as she asks, staying with her until she's sound asleep. When he reaches the doorway he looks back at her one last time, noticing the way all the worries disappear, her face taking on a more peaceful expression.
Edgar doesn't notice Fields knocking on his open office door, becoming lost in the world of fiction as he does as the killer wants; anything to keep Emily alive and his little sister safe from that monster. He jumps as Fields voice echoes in the room, placing his pen on his desk and looking up at the other man—the first man to catch his sister's eye since Theodore's murder. "I'm sorry to disturb you," Fields begins as Edgar stands up," I was a little concerned about your..."
"My progress?"
"Yes." Edgar looks down at the paper he had been writing on, flexing his hand to make the cramps vanish before he had to start again.
"I feel as though I've gone from author to character in one of my tales," he admits, meeting Fields worried, but understanding gaze. "I'm as trapped and bedeviled as any of the hapless bastards I ever created." Fields nods, walking over to look at a painting hanging on the wall as Edgar sits back down in the uncomfortable office chair his sister had scrounged up for him last year on Christmas. "Regardless of what you think of me, Fields, I am a master of my art...and I will not fail, ever." To be honest, Edgar just needed to hear confirmation of that statement from someone other than Sarah, whom had endless faith in her elder brother's abilities as a writer.
"I know that," Fields nods, sensing the other man's doubts. There's a short pause in which the only things heard is the ticking of the clock and the rustling of paper. "Look, I, uh, I think I was overly harsh with you the other day and, for that, I would like to apologize." Edgar gives him a long look, trying to find any dishonesty in the statement, but finding none. It comforted him that not everyone was a liar in this cruel world.
"My wife was singing at the piano when she first coughed up blood." It seems that tonight, the Poe siblings simply needed to get terrible memories off their chests, fields muses silently to himself as he listens to Edgar's heart wrenching tale. "I prepared myself for the worst, but Virginia seemed to recover; and, foolishly, I succumbed to hope. But by year's end, the blood came again and again—great effusions of blood, raging fevers, her sheets spattered with crimson, drenched with sweat. I made sure Sarah was nowhere near this house while it happened. I often though I could hear the sound of darkness as it stole across the horizon, rushing towards me. But here I..." He pauses for a moment, blinking back a few tears. "I was overwhelmed by a sorrow so poignant; when she finally died, I felt a great release, but it was soon replaced with that dark and morbid melancholy that has followed my sister and I like a black dog all our lives. Until I met Emily and Sarah met you." Fields looks down at the ground before meeting Edgar's dark eyes once more. "do you think Emily's still alive?"
"I'm sure of it," he nods.
+-+-+-+-+-The Next Morning -+-+-+-+-+
I groan, attempting to ignore the person who's foolish enough to wake me up. "Sarah, we have to go; we might know where the killer is going to be."
"Keep shaking that shoulder and I'll show you a killer, Emmett," I threaten, opening one eye to glare at the tall man. "Then again, we could always send your men to wherever you think the killer will be and you could join me in bed." I smile coyly up at him, well aware of the fact that one sleeve of my chemise is hanging off my shoulder. I can't help teasing Fields; he made it so easy even this early in the damn morning! Emmett ignores me, throwing me my robe and picking me up over his shoulder, carrying me down the stairs and to the carriage where my brother was waiting for us. "Would it be too much trouble for someone to tell me where we're going?"
"To the theater," Fields informs me," Cantrell is already there so the exits are secured." The theater? I instantly pale at the thought, having stayed away from them after what happened to Theodore. "The victim was still in her costume, which suggests she was abducted directly from the theater." Fields gives Edgar a pistol. "We'll find her."
"I would gladly give my life for hers, Mister Fields, just as I would for Sarah."
"I know you would." I notice that Edgar's eyes flick from the Detective to me several times as if urging the man to say more. "I'd happily do the same."
"What play is it," I ask breathlessly, pulling my robe on and tying the sash at my waist.
"Macbeth." Okay, I could handle Macbeth. The carriage comes to a halt and Emmett, Edgar, and I rush out and into the theater—adrenaline running through our systems. I follow closely behind my brother as we barge into the theater, up onto the stage and to the back where the riggings were. A man walks over to us, demanding to know why we were interrupting the play. "By order of the police department, I have a warrant to search these premises."
"Why, there's a show going on." Growing impatient, I grab the front of the man's shirt and press him against the wall.
"You'll let them do as they please, you flea-bitten mongrel, or angry patrons will not be the ones you have to worry about," I threaten in a low voice that had the man's eyes widening in sheer terror. "Believe me when I say that I've had a pretty bad week and would just love to take it out on a piece of trash like yourself; now, get all your stagehands out here this fuckin' instant." Breathing heavily, I let go and watch as the man scrambles to do what I asked. I turn to look at the others; all but Edgar have shocked looks on their faces. "What, we needed to get things moving and obviously the 'I'm a cop, do what I say' routine wasn't working."
"Have I told you how much I loved your temper today," Edgar asks with a wry smile.

A sailor spits in the space between him and Fields, a glare on his not too pleasant face. "Oh yes," I sneer," that's classy; I'm so shocked you're not yet married." He shoots me a look that usually means shut up and I send him one of my own. Emmett simply shrugs it off.
"Put out your hands." The old guy holds out both hands for inspection, looking smug when Emmett continues down the line. While Emmett's doing his interrogation, Edgar turns towards the stage manager—the guy I threatened earlier.
"Is this your entire crew," my brother inquires in a low voice. The man nods, looking uncertainly at me. "Are you sure?" Another nod. My brother pushes him towards the line of men. "Well, count them again."
"What are you doing," a beefy man with a thick accent asks Emmett. "You know, we got less than seven minutes before the act change." Emmett turns to face the man who spoke.
"Where are you from?"
"Liverpool," he answers proudly," got three days shore leave to make some extra scratch, so if you don't mind, please—" Emmett holds up the summery of Macbeth, cutting the man off and demanding he read it aloud. He grabs the paper and throws it to the ground. "It's Macbeth, I know the play."
"Someone's missing," the manager says once he's reached the end of the line, beginning to sweat when he sees my glare.
"Who?" We all face the nervous man.
"Maurice."
"Where is he?" The manager shakes his head.
"I don't know, but nobody's allowed to leave until the show is over." Heaving a sigh, I follow after Emmett. The two of us head beneath the stage, he holding a pistol and I a lit candle. We walking through the crowded area carefully, listening for any sound that was out of the ordinary, ignoring the sound of the play continuing upstairs. A clattering sound makes Emmett and I turn sharply, seeing a flash of clothing and following after it as silently as we can.
"Come out," Emmett demands in a whisper," show yourself." He hears another small noise and walks forward a few steps before turning again and pointing his pistol into a dark crevice that most grown men would find difficult to fit in. "I have a pistol aimed on you, come out now and put your hands where I can see them or I will fire." If what Emmett said was true, then the man we were looking for couldn't possibly fit in such a small space; hell, only a child—
"Emmett, no," I shout right as gunfire and panicked screams fill my ears. I wince, expecting to see blood coming from the small crevice but instead I hear the frightened voice of a child.
"Don't shoot me, I'm in the play." I drop to my knees, holding out my arms.
"Come here, sweetheart, nobody is going to hurt you." The small boy hurtles himself into my arms, letting out a terrified whimper as he looks up at Emmett. "If you didn't fire your gun, then who the hell did?"
"Stay here with him until I come back."
"The hell I will!" I wrap a dusty blanket around the child's shoulders, promising him that he was safe now before rushing after Emmett. I swear, the man has longer legs than I thought humanly possible! God, please let Edgar be okay!
Thankfully Edgar's just fine and our little trio makes out way to where the crew keep their things, looking for the locker that has an M on it. "Poe," Emmett calls, opening what I hope is the right one. on the top shelf of the locker is a small, wooden box, which Fields places on a table; opening it slowly, almost hesitantly. Inside it is what looks to be a piece of fish with a quill stuck in it.
"What is that? It looks like a piece of fish." Fields leans in closer, swallowing thickly.
"That...is a human tongue." I close my eyes for a moment. Of course it's a human tongue, why wouldn't it be? This day just keeps getting worse and worse. "What does it mean?" Edgar looks away, thinking for a moment before the answer seems to smack him in the face.
"The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar—a man suspended between life and death by mesmerism. He's a living, conscious corpse who can only speak via the vibrations of his tongue. It's a bit of burlesque." Oh yes, I remember that one; it was one of my favorites actually. Cantrell runs up to us, looking slightly out of breath and in a hurry.
"Mister Poe, sir, there's been an accident."
The lyrics are from the song Carry On My Wayward Son by Kansas.
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Burn my Shadow