Raven Chapter 6 Sex, Sage, and Spectral Problems 60 #3
For a while, I just hover there, marinating in the warmth of their family dynamic.
Miriam fusses over everyone. Anik fusses over her.
Kieran keeps the mood light and playful.
Dre makes sure no cup goes empty. And Forrest moves through it all, his calm presence weaving in and out of the conversation like a steady thread.
A little before lunch, Miriam announces she has to leave if she wants to make it to lunch with Mabel on time. The guys begin to disperse, each drifting toward their own tasks, already mentally preparing for the meeting ahead.
While they're getting ready, I weigh whether to go with them. I really should visit Jim soon—it's been almost a week, and I'm sure he's getting restless with me gone.
Decisions, decisions.
When they're all gathered in the main living area, I give them the once-over.
Forrest is on default setting: crisp, commanding, and ready to file a report.
Anik is a mountain of "fuck-off" black tactical gear.
Em has on dress pants and suspenders—belts are for peasants, apparently.
Kieran's rocking a seafoam silk shirt that probably costs more than my future rent.
And Dre looks like he stepped out of a cozy, stylish Norwegian catalog in corduroy and a sweater the color of a foggy forest.
"You guys are fucking hot," I tell them with zero shame.
Even if they could hear me, there'd be no shame involved—because it's true.
They're hot as hell. I'm pretty sure even a blind person could feel how attractive they are.
Men this good-looking probably throw off heat like furnaces in the middle of winter.
"How much do we want to divulge?" Anik asks.
Forrest turns to Emerson. "Anything else you've found out? Do you believe we should keep anything specific quiet?"
A crinkle forms between Em's eyes as he considers the question.
"I'm getting closer to identifying some of the higher-tier members.
I've mapped most of the lower network based on chatter, but they keep critical intel off the airwaves.
" A slight, chilling smile touches his lips.
He's enjoying the hunt. "Their carelessness has given me new entry points, though. It won't be long."
Forrest nods. "We'll keep that to ourselves just in case our suspicions are correct."
Oh.
That's why they're talking about withholding information. That's why Forrest said "if our suspicions are correct."
They've been slowly getting on board with Em and me but I've been playing hooky for every HMC meeting like a coward.
Dammit, Raven. Woman up.
I'm going with them.
"Same spiel as usual?" Dre asks.
Forrest nods. "We'll hint at a big break in the case and see if that shakes anything loose.
No details—not when, not where. Not until we know whether they're more involved than they're letting on.
" He pauses, his gaze lingering on each of them.
"Remember, we still don't know why they'd bring us in to investigate if they had something to hide. "
Em cocks his head. "I suspect it's to deflect attention. They can't ignore the pressure forever—not when every racial council is demanding answers about their missing people."
Forrest gives a slow, measured nod. "Could be. But let's not assume anything until we have proof."
Emerson nods in agreement before they pile into the elevator, descending toward the basement garage.
Instead of taking separate vehicles, they all pile into a giant Suburban—and I slip in right along with them.
Emerson settles into his seat, pulls out a leather journal from nowhere, and flips to a page already half-filled with something that makes my brain itch.
Or I’m sure it would if I had a real one.
They’re equations of some sort. But not normal math—this stuff loops in on itself, symbols I've never seen, variables that look more like runes than numbers.
It's the kind of thing that would give a normal person a headache.
Me? I just feel vaguely insulted that he can think at that level while also existing in a moving vehicle.
I settle next to Em, right between the two pairs, and lean forward to eavesdrop on the hushed conversation.
"Any updates on the mystery woman?" Forrest asks Anik.
Anik shakes his head. "Not yet. This job took priority. She didn't seem like a threat."
I wince, remembering the last away mission—and my own carelessness. I'd completely forgotten that cats can see me. I got too close while Anik was in his shifted form, and now…
If I had a body, I'm pretty sure my heart would be doing that clenching thing right now. Because they're talking about me. Me . Forrest is actively looking for little ghost me.
That should feel amazing. It does feel amazing. More than chocolate, more than orgasms, more than literally everything on my list—I just want to be wanted. To matter enough that someone actually misses me when I'm gone.
But then the fear crashes in, cold and familiar.
I refuse to look up at the ceiling. If there are gods up there, popcorn in hand, they won’t catch me begging.
Here's the thing I don't say out loud: I've spent years writing the script for this moment. The big reveal. The tears. The "we always felt you" speech. In my head, being known finally makes me whole.
But what if that's all it is? A screenplay. A fantasy.
What if the hollow spot is just... me? What if I'm not secretly deep and unique—just weird in a way that doesn't fit anywhere? What if "different" actually means "wrong"?
Being invisible sucks. Being seen and rejected? That's the kind of thing you don't come back from.
I rip myself out of that hole and mime slapping myself. It lacks catharsis when you can't actually feel it. On the other hand, it does allow me to realize these family therapy sessions are going to be extensive.
And expensive .
Forrest's grip tightens on the steering wheel. "I don't like loose ends. We should be working harder to figure out who she is."
Anik shoots him a sharp scowl. "She's a ghost." I panic for a seemingly endless second—does he know?—but settle just as quickly as he continues. "There's no footage, and I'm not pulling Em in. We need to focus on this mission. You know why."
My head cocks in confusion. Godsdammit, what else have I missed? "I am once again suggesting the whole carrying me around in your pocket idea. It's rude, leaving people out of their own existential crises, you know."
Forrest nods, reluctantly letting it go—for now. Then Anik takes up the questioning again, his voice lowering. "Have you made any progress with your gargoyle side?"
The gargoyle in question clenches the steering wheel hard enough that I think it's going to snap.
"No. I don't know how to explain it, but he's restless.
It's like he's filled with a tension—aware of something I'm not.
It doesn't help that my kind has apparently gone completely underground.
" He grits his teeth, the perceived failure weighing heavily on him.
"I refuse to believe I'm the only one left. "
For as long as I've known these five, Forrest has been searching for other gargoyles.
I don't know much about his childhood or where he came from—those conversations happened long before I inserted myself into their lives—but I can only assume his parents are gone.
From what I've gathered, gargoyles are either deep underground, completely off the radar… or simply very, very rare.
His struggle is one of the biggest reasons I feel so connected to him—to all of them, really.
I don't know what I am, either. I have no idea what I can do, what I'm capable of, or what to even expect in the future.
I just deal with things as they happen—which, granted, isn't much, considering I'm stuck in this weird, weightless limbo.
But I understand his frustration. Not having anyone to guide you, to help you make sense of the strange and unexplainable… It's lonely.
Case in point: the aura thing.
Shortly after I started following them around, I began deciphering auras.
It freaked me out at first—I thought I was hallucinating.
But no, auras are apparently a thing. They're like a wavelength each person gives off.
It takes me a minute—and a decent amount of energy—to tune in, but once I do, I can get a pretty good read on someone.
Or, as good a read as I can get without any sort of book or cipher, anyway.
The weirdest part? I've been around for like forty years. Give or take. The first chunk's a blur—flickering in and out, barely holding on to awareness. But in all that time? Not once did I see an aura. Not a single one.
Then I find these five adonises, and suddenly the world goes technicolor.
Doesn't feel like a coincidence.
The tragedy of it all? I hate using the ability.
Not knowing—not being able to figure out the answers—depresses me more than it pisses me off.
And anger? Anger's the most useful tool in this existence.
It keeps me moving, keeps me watching, keeps me from fading into the static. Depression just makes me want to stop.
So I keep the auras shut down. Ignorance isn’t only bliss. It’s also fuel.
"I don't like not knowing," Forrest says into the comfortable silence that had settled between the two men. His voice is low, controlled, but I can hear the frustration simmering beneath—not the hot kind, but the cold, rigid kind that comes from a system failing to be orderly, predictable, right.
I snort. "Maybe stop repressing all that righteous gargoyle angst, and you might actually figure it out."
Anik offers a low grunt of agreement. "We'll figure it out." It isn't empty reassurance; it's a statement of fact. A problem exists, and therefore, it will be solved.
I smile, loving how they support each other while craving that very same thing for myself.
They fall into a silence that throws me.
It's not avoidance; I'm a professional at spotting that.
I think this is what people call comfortable silence.
I wouldn't know, personally. The only beings I can converse with can't actually talk to me.
That group includes Huginn, Muninn, and Jim.
Silence on their end is a given, but it's non-existent on mine.
They are the only three beings that can actually hear me, so I can never make myself shut up.
It's like if I don't speak every thought out loud, I would have wasted my time completely.
Maybe next time I'll try out this comfortable silence thing.
I'm pulled out of my musings as the car pulls to a stop.
To me, it looks like a severe traditional courthouse with a jutting roofline supported by eight massive columns.
Which is, apparently, a good thing. It means I'm magical enough to see past the magic that makes any non-magical being see nothing but an abandoned warehouse.
I say "apparently" because I'm not positive I want to be able to see it.
Just looking at it makes my ghostly skin prickle with a deep, instinctual unease. Or at least I think it would if I had the ability to physically feel. This place isn't just powerful; it feels wrong—a structure built on a foundation that's somehow out of alignment.
Okay, Raven. Time to grow a pair of ovaries and get your ghostly ass in there.
The guys are hiding things for a reason, and I need to figure out why.
The urge to bolt hits me the second the car door opens.
But standing here, looking at the entrance?
That's a whole new level of nope. It's not a chill on my skin—it's a wrongness in the air, a pressure pushing back against my very essence.
The building itself doesn't want me here.
"Great, just what I needed—a building with a personal grudge." I mumble nervously. "I mean, how bad could it really be?"