Welcome to Olympus, where the Muses of Greek Mythology are charged with the responsibility of discovering, inspiring, and guiding the young incarnations of legends past until they once again take the form of greatness.
Embark on an enchanting journey through Architects of Illusion (Echoes of Olympus, #1), a YA fantasy novel series inspired by my backyard neighbors, Biltmore Estate, in honor of George Vanderbilt‘s extraordinary legacy.
Ravens and Roses
THE BEATING of wings against my bedpost broke the grip of sleep. I bolted from the tangled web of blankets and stumbled onto the frigid floor.
I jumped out of my skin at the raucous sound, frantically searching the shadows hovering over my headboard, which was apparently under attack.
The piercing sound of metal meeting beak echoed off the walls. “Kraaah, kraaah,” cried the relentless creature from the corner, its beady eye catching the moonlight.
“I’magonnahmurderthahthing,” mumbled a testy Tari into her pillow.
Relief flooded through me, along with a heavy dose of irritation. “I closed the window, you squawking lil’ stinker, how in the he–ades did you bust in here?”
Tari moaned in protest. “Throwemouside.”
“Romeo,” I scolded, “no deliveries after dark . Now, shoo!” I flailed my arms at him–the universal sign for “get out”. By way of the dim light filtering through the open mouth of glass, I could see the shaggy feathers of his throat puff in amusement.
I lunged for him.
Misjudging my reach and underestimating obstacles, I gracefully stubbed my toe on the iron foot of my sanctuary, screaming like a banshee and quite possibly spraining my ankle.
Whether from my peals of pain or the palpable threat of violence emanating from a fully woken roommate, Romeo decided he’d overstayed his welcome.
Hopping over to the window ledge from whence he came, Romeo nudged his beak at a slender shape sitting on the sill, let out a shrill, “Prruk,” and flapped into the night sky. I hobbled over to the pane, watching as the moon glinted off his shiny, wicked wings until they were swallowed by darkness.
Resting on the window’s edge was a single, sweet-smelling rose–the third one this week. I plucked it from the stone, plopped it into a vase with the other two, and slammed the window shut with a very satisfying click.
© 2014 Samantha Redstreake Geary
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