Raven Chapter 4 Frittatas and Feelings 35
Raven
Breakfast is the usual affair this morning.
Forrest sits at the table, dressed impeccably in a suit, sipping coffee while he reviews mission reports with a frown.
Meanwhile, Anik is in the kitchen, wearing one of the aprons that have become Kieran's regular gift to him at Yule.
This particular one is a favorite of mine.
It reads: Don't Talk To Me Until I've Fed You.
I watch as Anik finishes measuring his ingredients on his cute little scale and starts setting timers, as if the kitchen will burn down if he doesn't take the frittata out at exactly the right time.
Em emerges from the depths of his cave for tea, but before he can retreat again, Anik catches his attention.
Emerson nods—if a bit reluctantly—and Anik shoves a sandwich at him to stash in his mini fridge for when he inevitably forgets to eat lunch.
“I can’t wait for you to feed me,” I sigh longingly, licking my ghostly lips before admitting, “I’ve never really thought about food play before, but if you’re the one buttering me up, I’ll be happy to test the waters.”
My plan had been to follow Anik to the gym today, but now that I know Em will be here alone with strangers, I think I'll stay until they leave—just in case.
If I'm lucky, I can make it to Dre's clinic before he heads out for his pop-up event at the gym.
Forrest is no fun to follow; all he does is go to work and look angry at paperwork.
Kieran, per usual, is heading to the club during the day before family night so he can ensure an uninterrupted evening.
I nod, finalizing my plans: hang here with Em, then hit the town and do some light stalking of both Anik and Dre.
I watch as Em disappears just as Dre enters, looking as delicious as always in his fitted suit slacks and button-up shirt. His eyes land on the frittata fresh out of the oven, and he frowns a little.
"Here, let me take that so you can get the rest of breakfast sorted. You shouldn't have to do it all."
Anik simply stares at him, daring him to say something so asinine again while he's holding a massive kitchen knife. Like the smart—whatever the hell kind of supe Dre is—he snaps his mouth shut and raises his hands in surrender before grabbing a coffee and sitting down at the table.
Dre's barely settled when his phone buzzes. He glances at it, and something in his face goes still.
"I have to go." His voice is calm. Too calm. He's already moving, coffee abandoned, grabbing his coat.
Then he's gone. Anik looking grumpy that he didn’t even take a piece to-go.
I stare at the door he disappeared through, the warm breakfast energy curdling in my chest. When Dre leaves like that it can only mean one thing, and it’s never good.
When I see a flash of black on the balcony railing, I look out. Perched on the railing sit two of my favorite beings in all the worlds. But something's wrong. They're not here for a social call.
I float over to the wall of windows as Kieran runs in late, as usual, snagging a piece of bacon and teasing Forrest before disappearing out the door in a rush. The familiar breakfast shenanigans feel like they're happening in another dimension.
I phase through the glass to join my friends on the railing.
I know at once this is no ordinary visit. I've seen ravens guide souls across the Veil before—young ones, especially, the ones too scared or lost to find the way. In those moments, they are more than simply birds; they're anchors. But I've never seen Huginn and Muninn do the ferrying themselves.
Then I see why.
Between them, faint and slightly blurred, is a kid. A little girl. She can't be more than eight or nine, and she's pure panic, screaming for a home and a mom she can't get back to.
My gaze drops to her throat. Two small, precise punctures. Too neat for an animal. Too deliberate.
Baby vamp. Had to be. Someone's first kill, probably. Like others, they chose the Human District because it's easier. Because no one cares enough to stop them fast enough.
A distant part of me registers sirens wailing somewhere in the city. Dre's probably already there, that preternatural speed finally going to good use. He's trying right now, somewhere out there, to save a life that's already slipping through his fingers and into mine.
I don't have tears, but my whole existence feels like it's caving in.
"Oh, sweetheart." My voice cracks on nothing as my eyes take in her form again, more substantial than before. "Oh, baby. I'm so sorry."
I look to the ravens I’ve named Huginn and Muninn, asking without words what in the worlds I should do. This has never happened before. Do they want me to simply sit with her? If so, I am more than willing to bear witness to this girl’s pain. I’ll stay here all day if that’s what she needs.
But a part of me, deep down, knows that’s not it. The more I connect with that soul-deep knowledge, the more I feel compelled to reach out and touch her. Without thinking, I do just that. As my hand makes contact, she settles almost immediately and looks directly at me.
I don’t have time to freak out that she can see me. It feels as if a drain has opened inside of me, all my energy being pulled down into it. I’m terrified I’m fading, but I refuse to show it. This little girl doesn’t need my terror; she needs my calm so she can move on in peace.
“Thank you,” is all she says before her ghostly image transforms into a ball of warm light.
Huginn and Muninn shuffle, making strange, warbling sounds I assume are meant to be comforting. Then they fly off, leaving me drained and utterly confused.
I sit in a depleted haze as my energy slowly rebuilds. It must be an hour or two before I'm functional again, because the next thing I hear is men grunting and the sound of something massive and metallic being shoved across tile.
I lazily float back through the windows just in time to watch two men in appliance-store shirts wrestle a giant stainless-steel refrigerator into its final position.
I do a double-take, then groan. This thing has more screens and lights than the bridge of a spaceship.
How in the world did Anik think this was a job for Emerson?
One guy claps his hands together, beaming at Em.
"Alright, sir! This is the top-of-the-line model.
Wi-Fi enabled, voice controlled, built-in beverage center with a triple-filtered ice and water dispenser.
" He knocks proudly on the front. "You can check your calendar on the door, and it'll even suggest recipes based on what's inside. "
Em just stares. He's in his usual at-home attire: corduroy paperbag pants patched in a few places and a baggy, well-worn knit sweater that I'm pretty sure hides a graphic tee—no doubt another Yule gift from Kieran.
The ever-present ink stains still litter his fingers, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the delicate line of runes trailing up the center of his forearms. His outfit screams comfy academic, but his face looks like he's just been shown the devil's personal toaster.
"Wi-Fi," he parrots back, his voice flat. "In a refrigeration unit. Why?"
The other delivery guy chimes in. "Well, for convenience! You can preheat the oven or adjust the temperature from your phone—"
If possible, Em looks even more baffled. "My phone?" He pulls the indestructible Nokia brick from his pocket and holds it up. I laugh.
"Em, that thing looks like a prehistoric artifact next to that spaceship of a fridge." Honestly, if anything, I'm downplaying it. He has actual duct tape on the back, holding the fossil together.
He motions to it, visibly exasperated. "This phone is for making calls. And texts. It does not need to converse with my vegetable crisper."
At this point I'm laughing so hard no sound comes out. Oh, how I long for popcorn , I think as Em's glamoured ears turn pink with sheer, unadulterated rage.
The fridge chooses that moment to chime a cheerful little tune, its screen blinking to life with a welcome animation.
Emerson visibly flinches back from it, almost dropping his phone. "By the gods, it sings."
The delivery guys exchange a look. One shrugs. "It's just a startup sound. You can disable it in the settings."
"A machine that preserves food should hum. A low, respectful hum. It should not perform a Broadway number upon activation." He points a trembling finger at the water dispenser. "And what is that? A public water park? I require cold storage, not a municipal utility!"
If I had a body, I'd be pissing myself as the delivery duo practically run from the room, muttering about "eccentric rich guys."
As soon as the door clicks shut, Emerson glares at the singing refrigerator for one more long, simmering moment.
Then he pulls out his perfectly modern, high-powered laptop—the one he tolerates only because it's a necessary "tool of the trade" for interfacing with a world that insists on putting Wi-Fi in everything, including blenders.
His fingers fly across the keyboard like he has mere minutes to defuse a bomb.
"Wi-Fi enabled…" Emerson mutters, "a glaring security flaw. An open door for data mining and remote sabotage. Unacceptable."
I drift closer, peering over his shoulder. He's on eBay, furiously typing like a man convinced the entire penthouse will be swarmed by enemy combatants if he doesn't fix this immediately.
"Ah. There." I barely hear him say under his breath. "1955 General Electric." He nods. "A very pleasant blue. A color of true substance. Not this… sterile silver."
I watch, mesmerized, as he enters a bidding war with someone named 'CoolCollecter42.' His jaw is set as he types in a number that makes my eyes widen. His phone rings and, without even looking, he accepts the call and turns it to speakerphone.
He answers with a brusque, "Yes," while continuing to type bids.