Raven Chapter 4 Frittatas and Feelings 35 #2
Forrest's voice comes through the phone, slightly tinny due to the ancient speaker. "Emerson? The delivery guys just called and said you had an… episode." He sounds tired. "I'm assuming the fridge is, at the very least, adequate for those of us who don't regularly cook."
Emerson doesn't even bother to glance toward the phone. "It's an affront to engineering and a security risk. I am rectifying the situation."
There's a long pause on the line, and I can practically see Ro-ro pinching the bridge of his nose. "Explain."
"It has Wi-Fi. It is a smart device with the processing power of a small nation for the purpose of chilling butter."
Another pause, longer this time. When he returns, his voice is resigned. "Let me guess. It runs on proprietary software and planned obsolescence. And you're now procuring a vintage model as a result."
I leave Em to his fridge escapades, a smile still tugging at my non-existent lips, and drift toward the balcony edge. The joy from his "episode" is a nice distraction, but it doesn't last. The memory of that kid—her panic, the way my energy just emptied out—sits in my gut like a cold stone.
And just like that, the good mood's gone, replaced by the same old niggling melancholy. What was that? What did it mean?
I look up at the gods like I'm expecting a miracle. Which I'm not. Those bastards have never come through before. But old habits die hard. “Is it too much to ask for a corporeal finger? I’m not even asking for the whole body. Just a finger!”
But as always on this emotional rollercoaster, melancholy curdles into frustration. I can’t open a book. I can’t search the interwebs for answers. I’m so tired of being a passive spectator.
So I stop feeling sorry for myself. Instead, I simply step off the edge of the balcony and let my ghostly body plummet.
I can’t feel the wind in my hair or smacking my skin, so it’s probably not as thrilling as it could be.
But the act of letting go—of surrendering control, of not constantly monitoring every surface to avoid falling through—is a freedom all its own.
For a few seconds, I am not trapped. I am just… falling.
It doesn’t take me long to reach ground level. My control kicking in instinctively just before I would have plummeted through the sidewalk. I land with all the casual grace of someone who didn’t just free-fall twenty stories and begin making my way toward Leandre’s clinic.
He technically has two: the main one in the Shallows, pressed right up against the Divide where the humans who need him most can actually reach it—and this one, tucked into the eastern edge of the Merchant's Ring, maybe ten minutes from the penthouse.
The office clinic is quieter, more private.
This is where he sees his supernatural clients, stockpiles the sensitive supplies that would tempt every thief in the Shallows, and patches up Kieran when his "adrenaline hobby" gets a little too enthusiastic.
When I get there, my non-existent heart sinks.
I’ve just remembered he high tailed it out of the penthouse on foot and I won’t be able to hitch a ride with him like usual.
Just as I start to panic at the thought of a high-energy float across town, I spot a few vans being loaded around back.
Perfect. I slip into one through the back doors and get comfortable among the supplies, focusing a little extra energy to ensure I stay within the moving vehicle.
This skill isn’t quite subconscious yet—like phasing through walls—but at least it’s no longer draining.
Except for situations like this, of course. The whole energy suck from helping that soul cross has left me lower on reserves than I'd normally be comfortable with. Any other day, I'd just stay home. But Dre leaving right before it? That can't be a coincidence. The need to check on him is strong.
When we arrive, I float out and watch as nurses and community volunteers unload boxes and equipment, arranging them into distinct piles around the vacant lot next to Anik's gym. Not seeing the particular doctor I'm looking for, I drift inside and head straight for Anik's office.
As I float through the wall, the sounds of grunts and clanging weights from the gym floor disappear.
A sudden, heavy silence takes hold, broken only by dust floating in the slats of light.
Gods, even the dust looks tense. Then I look and see Dre in the office and decide, in comparison to him, the dust looks like it’s on vacation.
He's in the worn leather guest chair, pristine as usual, but everything about him is wrong.
He's not lounging, not talking to Anik. He's rigid, hands flat on his knees, staring at a scuff mark on the floor like it personally insulted him.
His sleeves are rolled up, revealing dark red stains on the cuffs. The skin beneath looks scrubbed raw.
When I finally drag my eyes from him, I find Anik.
He's leaning against the door, his massive frame blocking it almost entirely—a silent, immovable mountain of muscle and black tactical gear that sits between Dre and the world outside.
Occasionally I spot his shadows churning in response to Dre's distress—or maybe it's Anik's.
I can't ever really tell with all that implacable will in the way.
Currently he's just watching and waiting.
Not saying a thing, not offering platitudes.
Just doing the same thing I did for that young lost soul earlier. Offering his presence.
Minutes tick by on the large clock over the filing cabinet, the only sound in the room as they both wait in this limbo. Finally, Leandre’s voice cuts the silence, thin and strangely brittle, stripped of the melodic warmth that I’ve come to love so much.
"There were four of them," he says without looking up. "Mother, father, two daughters. The older one..." He trails off, jaw tightening.
Anik doesn't respond. Just waits.
"She was already too far gone by the time I got there." His breath hitches—a sharp, punched-out sound that isn't a sob. It's the sound of something breaking quietly, on the inside. “Her parents followed soon after.”
"Oh, Dre," I choke out, remembering the small soul I touched this morning, the sirens in the distance. The ones I now realize were heading in this direction.
"I did what I thought was right. I focused on the children first. The younger girl was hidden away behind a dumpster. She didn’t have a scratch on her.
But her sister…" He trails off. "I did everything.
Even when I didn't feel a pulse, I just kept holding on.
I couldn't let her be alone." His voice cracks on the last word before he shakes his head—a sharp, frustrated motion.
"All that time. Centuries of devotion. Of learning how to mend, how to comfort, how to be there for those who have no one.
And it just… it wasn't enough to give her what she needed. It wasn't enough to keep her here."
He looks up then, his eyes staring out through the gaps in the blinds.
"For all that time, all that learning how to care for others, it brought her nothing.
" His eyes shine with a raw, ancient exhaustion I've never seen before.
All that smooth charm is just… gone. Scorched off.
What's left looks like it hurts just to exist.
"What is the point of this… this ability to care?" He gestures at his heart, a motion filled with contempt. "If it fails at the only moment it truly matters?"
Anik holds his gaze for a long moment. Then he pushes off the door, walks to the small mini-fridge in the corner, pulls out an unlabeled bottle, uncaps it, and places it firmly in Dre's hand, closing his stiff fingers around it.
"The point," Anik says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, "is that you were there to try. When no one else was."
He doesn't offer empty comfort. He doesn't tell him it's going to be okay. He doesn't give a pretty lie. He gives the ugly, solid truth.
Dre looks down at the bottle in his hand, then back up at the shifter. He gives a single shaky nod before bringing the bottle to his lips and drinking deeply.
As he visibly builds himself back up, getting ready to go out into the world and put others' needs before his own once again, I reach out and hover my hand over his cheek. "You did beautifully, and she's in a better place now—at peace."
I let the grief for the nameless girl come back.
It feels unbearable, and I don't even have a body to fully process it.
Just a weight I can feel threatening to crush me without the actual feeling of crushing.
I can't imagine how Dre is feeling right now.
She deserves to be missed. The world lost something good today, and someone should fucking feel it. Or at least be willing to.
He sucks in a breath just as I pull back, letting the feelings in me dissipate, and rests a hand on his cheek—right over the spot I'd just been haunting.
"Ah, Nyx's tit!" I screech, reaching out again. Nothing happens. The strong wave of feeling is past its peak. "Why does this keep happening?" I groan, looking up to where, I assume, the gods are.
Pointing a finger, I growl, "I swear if this is just some prolonged torture session I’m going to break into that fancy realm of yours and junk punch all of you. Useless fucking gods."
Am I using the treats to ignore the fact that, twice in as many days, I've reached through without the help of rage? Definitely. But I'm not touching that life-changing revelation in this headspace.
By the time I'm done with my little melt-down, Dre has recentered himself. He stands, smooths his clothes with a few efficient tugs, and walks out. Just like that, his warm, attentive demeanor is back.