Ink Raven (Ink Blossom 2)

By Lynn Robin

After saving Gwyn’s life and managing to fight off the feral season of his land, Rafe flees to the Land of Summer with the girl who has captured the one part of his heart he has managed to keep.
Yet as soon as he finds himself in the other land, Rafe realizes that what he has believed for a century isn’t true—and that the truth of the seasonal gods is far more complicated than he ever thought possible, a web of lies and betrayal.
As revelations threaten to shatter Gwyn’s dream of finding the Land of Spring, she has to choose once more whether she’ll help her beautiful, soft-spoken, fragile yet powerful Autumn god in unraveling the secrets of the seasons, the risk of losing her heart to him more real than ever, or to protect herself and leave his side.
But Autumn is watching both Rafe and Gwyn—the god they turned into a devil and the girl who freed him from his prison—, and it soon seems that making choices of their own is a freedom which neither of them can afford.
The Ink Raven will have to rise once more.
And the mortal girl he loves is the only one who can help him fly as high as the world needs him to.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lynn Robin
• Release date: Nov 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005108410

Lynn Robin

Lynn Robin (1992) is an author of Paranormal Romance novels.Born and raised in the historical city of Leiden in the Netherlands, she has felt the urge to write stories ever since she was little— preferably ones with ghosts and other spooky things (probably because her parents let her watch Stephen King film adaptions when she was nine).Next to that, she likes to add a healthy dose of romance to her books; star-crossed lovers and forbidden romances, preferably about monsters hiding in the bodies of young men, and girls blessed with angelic powers—or at least humans touched by magical abilities.She made her debut in 2017 with her Dutch series entitled the Schimmenwereld Serie (the Phantom World series), containing six books about ghosts, angels, demons, music, dance, art, and—of course—love. She won the Best Book of 2018 award with the fourth installment, Schimmendroom (Phantom Dream), chosen by the jury of The Dutch Indie Awards.In 2020 she debuted internationally in English with the highly romantic Kissing Monsters series which concluded with 8 volumes in 2021. Her latest release is The Sea of Her, a still ongoing paranormal romance series in a tropical setting about the Weeper of Pearls, a Wild Stranger from the Sea and a long-lost King of the Ocean.Besides being passionate about writing, she’s also a rather dedicated running/fitness/yoga/martial arts enthusiast, and likes to spend time with her family, play videogames, or freak herself out watching documentaries about haunted houses (for research, she claims).

Book preview

don’t ask any questions

I can’t, he told Autumn mere minutes ago as he found them awaiting him in his home, their hollow eye sockets threatening to swallow his tattered soul.

Tattered, frayed, broken from every mistake he has ever made.

"The girl," they hissed, the single voice slithering from between their needle-teeth reedy and shivering, the whistle of a brittle breeze, the flutter of dry leaves, means something to you, does she not?

The girl.

Gwyn.

Oh, Gwyn.

His heart—tattered, frayed and broken just like his soul—had twisted with warmth and guilt.

"She has committed sins, yes, but only because the devil was whispering in her ear," they went on, their branches for fingers scraping across the floor. And now the devil has taken the girl, out of this land and into another. We cannot cross the border. But you can, human. Find them for us, bring them back… and we promise to release the girl.

And, despite his guilt, his tattered, frayed, broken soul and heart had leapt at their words. Despite knowing better, despite every single mistake that clings to him every single day, he wasn’t able to help himself as he breathed: You promise? You promise to let her go?

"If you bring us the devil… yes," whispered Autumn, we promise.

His pulse had pounded, a rhythm born from hope flourishing to life from the dirt of sin and shame that fills every inch of him.

"Help us set things right." The sweet, rotten stench of Autumn slipped into his nose as they spoke. Help us bring an end to this tale of a devil and a girl—this tale that should never have started, and should be brought to conclusion before the world is no more. And in return… we will set you free.

You’ve promised me that before, he said.

"And this time, we will keep this promise. You’ve nearly done enough for us. Nearly," they repeated, hissing.

He could barely move. Hardly breathe.

Very well, he rasped. I’ll do it.

He could sense Autumn’s wicked smile.

Could taste their victory in the air.

Wondered whether he had made yet another mistake.

But how can it be a mistake, if it’ll save her?

He has to. He can’t let anything happen to her. Not to her.

Just then, as he watched Autumn slink back into the shadows of his home, he waited for the weight of their presence to grow lighter—and it did.

Yet not entirely.

Only now, he becomes aware of another presence, near the window, outside, listening in secret.

Swallowing a curse, he squeezes his eyes shut and smacks his palms flat down onto a table, rounding his spine, lowering his head, counting his heavy breaths as he waits, waits, waits for the inevitable knock on his door.

It’s more than a knock, however.

It is knuckles slamming against the wood, spurred on by confusion, anger, betrayal.

Somehow, he already knows who it is, and so not a sliver of surprise enters his chest as he pulls open the door and finds his best friend staring at him, his eyes wide and searching his face.

He feels no surprise, no, but perhaps he does feel a little tremor of shock.

A brush of regret.

But he swipes all emotions to the side as he turns around and walks back into his living room. There, he comes to a halt, facing the furniture rather than his friend who shuts the door and whose footsteps cause the floorboards to groan and sigh.

I’ve heard everything, his friend says, his voice rough.

I know you have, he replies evenly, keeping his back to him.

His friend falters. You knew I was there?

Yes. Slowly, he turns around to hold the other man’s gaze.

Then…— His friend rakes a hand through his hair. Then what the hell was that all about? Did they mean that Gwyn has escaped from the Ink Lake? And why are you promising the forest guards to get her for them? When I saw them dragging her off into the Ink Lake, I…— Goddammit, I didn’t know what to think! He shakes his head, opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again: "Why? Honestly, why would you help them? You know what they do to girls like her—"

He struggles not to close his eyes.

Not to shut out his friend’s words, however—even though he wants nothing more as guilt stirs and lifts its head, slamming its claws into his tainted heart and soul.

No, he wants to shut his eyes in weariness. He’s so tired.

Answer me—

I’m trying to protect her, you fool.

His friend moves back, faltering at the silent rage dripping from his words.

"And if you listened, really listened," he goes on, holding his ignorant friend’s eyes who knows nothing, nothing at all, you know that I have made a deal with Autumn. They won’t hurt her as long as I find her—and give them the devil.

At that, his friend pauses, blinking once. And in exchange, they’ll let you go to your season. That’s what they meant by setting you free, right?

He doesn’t reply, merely watches his friend, his anger retreating, making way for bone-deep exhaustion instead.

His friend furrows his brow. They spoke of a former deal. That you have nearly done enough to earn this. What was that about? Come on, talk to me, he urges, what is going on?

It’s better for you not to know. Not to ask any questions, he replies quietly.

A flicker of fear shivers in his chest.

For he suddenly realizes that they’re not alone, between these walls. Eyes are watching. Ears are listening.

Something sweet and rotten tickles his nostrils.

But his friend doesn’t notice, stepping closer. "We’ve been friends for years. And if this is about Gwyn, I deserve to know what the hell’s going on…—"

A dry rustle cuts him off, shuddering into their ears from all directions.

As his friend’s gaze darts left to right, finding the shadows in the room having come to life—willowy figures crowding closer, a wordless whisper leaking from their throats—, all he can do is release a silent sigh, his shoulders slumping under the weight of exhaustion and guilt and defeat.

You shouldn’t have come here.

Shouldn’t have listened to a conversation not meant for your ears.

Should never have confronted me.

He wants to say all these things, but his friend curses out loud and recoils—only for his breath to catch when he finds more forest guards behind him, blocking his path to the front door.

Jerking his chin up, wide-eyed, his friend looks back to him.

And he, Autumn’s little helper, merely gazes back evenly.

Don’t, he whispers, ask any questions.

CHAPTER ONE

bleeding paint

His strength is fading.

After all, only a sliver of his heart still remains in his chest.

Beating stubbornly for the girl in his arms.

Rafe, the devil of stories, the fallen god of Autumn, looks down at her as he forces himself to take another step and another, needing himself to keep moving for this girl who is entirely covered in ink, looking like the wondrous creature who found him in his prison only mere days ago.

Her eyes are closed, so he can’t see the meadow-green shade of them. Nor can he see the fiery red which is her hair, or the paleness of her skin.

But he can feel the life coursing through her limp body, the life Autumn tried to steal by violently punching a hole in her stomach—the life Rafe saved by filling that hole with maple leaves and replacing the lost blood for the ink of his soul.

It’s why his strength is fading. It’s what has weakened him.

Yet he’d do it all over again.

For her, he would without a doubt.

His savior. His guardian angel.

The girl with a heart of fire, who reawakened the raven inside of him. The girl who pushed him away at first, yet fell under his spell whenever he caressed her cherry blossom. The girl who held him to fend off his nightmares that were trapping him in his sleep. The girl who covered his eyes back in his prison, so he didn’t have to see the source of his wicked dreams.

The girl who makes his Autumn heart sprout flowers of Spring.

The girl whose lips set him aflame and make him long for things he’s never dreamed of before.

He used to be a feral thing. A creature of freedom who belonged to no one but Autumn. A man who saw beauty in everyone and everything, yet never longed to possess or claim.

Until now.

Now, he wants. He longs. He craves.

Wants, longs for, craves Gwyneth.

Which is what keeps him going as he leaves the border of Autumn further and further behind with each step forward, crossing the nameless space between this season and the next in twilight shadows tinged blue and purple and pink.

The border of Summer is getting closer.

Coming closer with each step forward.

The animal walking by his side, a Crow Fox with green eyes instead of golden ones, occasionally nudges his leg. As though worried. Or perhaps encouraging him to keep going.

It’s all right, Bone, he whispers faintly, tightening his hold on Gwyneth’s body and gathering her even closer to his chest. We’re almost there.

Not that it’ll mean that he can then find the rest he needs.

No.

Crossing Summer’s border will be a challenge, a mountain to climb, another enemy to conquer.

A sliver of fear shivers through him.

Of worry.

But he pushes the thoughts that doubt his dwindling strength aside, and keeps on walking, the brown grass underneath his boots turning green, the scent in the air shifting from sweet rot to spicy liveliness, the temperature breathing on his skin slipping from moist coolness into dry warmth, the song of the birds changing from a goodbye to a hello, the canopies of trees losing their vibrant, red color and painted green instead.

Like the grass.

Like the season of Summer.

He has arrived.

Next to him, Bone draws to a halt, his clawed paws whisper-soft in the lush grass. Rafe stops as well, his breaths labored, his shoulders heaving slightly, his arms clinging to Gwyneth’s body, his chin brushing her hair, not silky as it should be but growing stiff with drying ink.

Summer’s guards are here.

But they’re not awaiting him in a row like soldiers standing to attention as he expected them to, refusing him entrance, blocking his path, loathing him for the simple reason that he does not belong in this land.

No, they…

Rafe’s lips part as he gazes at them, his exhaustion briefly forgotten.

They haven’t even seen him yet. Haven’t noticed him, for they weren’t waiting in the first place.

They resemble Autumn—tall and willowy, their bodies moving as though they barely weigh a thing. Yet, that is where the similarities come to an end, for Rafe has never seen Autumn, the rulers of his prison, act this way: the guards of Summer are at ease, wandering the edge of the forest, drifting from tree to tree in a glowing haze of fireflies drifting around them. Their bodies made from tangled branches sprout green leaves, and are half-hidden in a cloak of even more leaves and the petals of colorful flowers. Twigs poke out of their heads, forming a crown adorned with yellow blossoms, white ones, red ones, purple, pink, blue.

One of the guards halts mid-motion.

It turns its head.

Colored paint bleeds from its eye sockets, as well as from its mouth, dribbling down its face made from tree bark and leaving shivering trails like vibrant tears. Its needle-teeth are stained purple and blue, and a dry sigh slithers out from between them.

The sigh doesn’t carry a word.

Yet its companions instantly turn around, their empty eye sockets coming to a weighty rest on Rafe, Gwyneth in his arms, and Bone at his side. The animal curves his spine, the fur in his neck rises, his flightless, black wings flutter restlessly, and a low growl leaks from his throat.

Rafe braces himself as well, widening his stance, mentally reaching for the piece of his heart pulsing wildly in his chest, willing it to give him a final rush of strength before he can allow himself to stagger into the Land of Summer, find a place to rest, and close his eyes.

A final rush of strength, to defend the three of them against Summer.

A final rush of strength, to fight—

The guards are drawing closer, without making the slightest sound—until they stop.

Like puppets brought to a halt by their master.

Like soldiers receiving orders whispered into their mind.

Rafe stares at them, breathless, his heart faltering in confusion.

In utter confusion, as the guards pull back—and allow him to enter the Land of Summer.

CHAPTER TWO

snow

He doesn’t linger to wonder.

He doesn’t have the time.

Doesn’t have the luxury to ask himself questions.

Rafe walks on. Past the guards who have moved aside and watch him motionlessly, through the border separating Summer from Autumn, past trees and trees that go on endlessly in this green forest, bathed in the blue shadows of nighttime.

Fireflies shimmer in the corner of his vision, float above the aimless path on which his legs are taking him, disappear behind trees only to emerge again from the other side, weightless and unconcerned.

Apart from them, all his eyes find are shadows, no matter how long he walks, no matter in which direction he looks—

Bone releases a soft, yet high-pitched noise.

Rafe glances to his right, in which the animal is moving.

Toward a source of flickering light.

Fire?

Exhaling a ragged sigh, Rafe follows in Bone’s wake, squinting against the sudden brightness that comes flooding toward them, leaking around the silhouettes of the trees, as though a white material of sorts is covering the earth and sparkling softly in whatever the source of light may be.

There’s a crunching noise when he takes another step, the softness of grass and soil replaced by another texture entirely, every single move he makes followed by the sound of tiny branches breaking up by the thousands.

Rafe stills. He hasn’t heard this sound once in a century.

Never thought he’d hear it again.

Did not expect to find it here, in Summer.

Snow. Faltering, he stares down at the ground, then glances over his shoulder to find his own footprints in the whiteness trailing behind him. He steps around a tree, before drawing to a reluctant halt.

The fire he saw belongs to several hip-high stone lanterns, placed next to a frozen river and lining a small bridge crossing the water. Each and every lantern is covered in a thick layer of snow, as well as the trees surrounding the place, embracing the river, the bridge, the shrubs and frozen summer flowers as though it is a tiny, secret forest all on its own.

Winter…? Rafe breathes, staring at the clouds that briefly escape his lips, only to be swallowed by the air almost instantly.

It looks like Winter, yes, and indeed, there is a touch of coldness all around him—yet he can sense Summer’s warmth is still lingering, making him wonder how the snow isn’t melting before his eyes.

Only briefly, though.

His knees threaten to buckle now that he has stopped walking. He makes himself move forward again, but the weight of exhaustion is too heavy, too much of a burden to carry.

Perhaps this isn’t the wisest place to stop and rest.

But he has no choice.

His half-godly body is refusing to travel any further tonight.

He staggers over to one of the lanterns, sensing the warmth of the fire burning pleasantly through the layers of his black clothes, and he lowers himself down onto his knees next to a shrub that will shield them from watchful eyes. Leaning his spine against the stone lantern, he gathers Gwyneth on his lap and leans his chin on the crown of her head, his eyes heavy-lidded as he peers into the shadows of the forest, focusing on her warm, even breaths tickling the skin of his throat.

Bone curls up against them both, sharing body heat, and Rafe manages a faint smile.

Thank you, he means to murmur.

But unconsciousness steals his voice and the words from his tongue.

CHAPTER THREE

visitors

"Iris."

A whisper-voice