Raven Chapter 7 Councils and Cornmeal 75
Raven
I would like to formally apologize to my past self for asking how bad it could be. If the outside feels like rejection, the inside feels like... digestion. Not that I'd know what that feels like, but the metaphor tracks.
“Fuck, guys, this is so creepy. How are you not creeped out?” The five of them don’t falter, casually walking along as if they’re completely comfortable—not currently being psychically digested by a malevolent piece of architecture.
I can’t confirm either of those accusations, but if this thing doesn’t have a grudge against me, I’ll throw myself into a volcano. Will it kill me? No. Will I be so disoriented by an ocean of magma that I get lost for up to a week? Absolutely. Has this happened before? No comment.
Without a word, the guys head to the second level and file into a conference room. A giant table dominates the space, while the perimeter is dotted with various fake potted plants. On one end, a stone wall features water flowing steadily down its face—a feature I’m sure was meant to feel welcoming.
Spoiler alert: it’s not.
Instead, it makes the room feel like a dark, dank basement you’ve accidentally locked yourself in, with that wall serving as the ominous, endless drip echoing somewhere in the shadows.
“Seriously,” I ask the guys again, floating just above them. “How are you not screaming right now?”
They’ve all taken seats at the end farthest from the waterfall, sitting perfectly still and silent.
Well, all except Kieran.
He reaches into the breast pocket of his silk shirt and pulls out a small bag of Goldfish crackers. Leaning back in his chair, he props his feet up on the table and starts snacking.
“I strive to be this nonchalant,” I murmur, dropping upside down so my face aligns with his and my hair cascades straight through his torso. “Teach me, oh wise one.”
As the door on the far end of the room opens again, I do a slow, creepy turn—or at least, I hope it looks creepy—before righting myself and floating to the middle of the massive table, settling defiantly on its surface. If they want to get to my guys, they’re going to have to go through me first.
Eight figures file in—four witches and four warlocks, the full High Magic Council.
Six of the eight look as if they've just clawed their way out of their own graves.
Physically, they appear to be in their seventies, but it's their eyes that betray them—ancient, hollow, and sharp with the weight of centuries.
I can't feel magic. Can't see it. Can't sense it. But I've spent five years watching people react to my guys—the way backs go straight around Forrest, the way voices drop and eyes look away when Anik enters a room. Magic doesn't need to be seen to be felt by the people in its presence.
These elders? No one's relaxing. The aides flanking the door have gone statue-still.
Even Dre—easygoing, unshakable Dre—has his shoulders creeping toward his ears.
Whatever's coming off these fossils, it's not warmth or power.
It's pressure. The kind that makes people hold their breath without realizing it.
Witches and warlocks don't live this long. Two centuries, tops. So how are these fossils still standing?
The remaining two look to be in their late fifties, though I'd still place them well over a century. The room doesn't react to them the same way—less flinch, more wariness—but they're still part of this circus. Still carrying whatever rot runs through the rest of them.
In the past, I’ve heard others justify the Council’s authority by their age alone. Many believe Nyx herself permits their unnatural longevity because they’re the last truly potent magic wielders on the continent.
"Pegasus-shit!" I say very loudly. No need to mask it—that's for people who can actually be heard.
Reluctantly, I pull more of my core energy to the surface, closing my eyes as I try to tune into their auras.
My reserves are still dangerously low from the soul crossing yesterday—I won't have long once I open my eyes. An assumption that's confirmed the minute I feel the only thing I can in this form: the drain on my energy.
It feels like I'm scooping out the last dregs of myself as the world narrows to impressions of power, intention, and time. I just need a glimpse. Something real is buried under this polished turd.
I snap them open, getting a quick read on all of them, then let the energy go. The moment it's gone, I feel it — not a sensation, exactly, but a thinning. Like I've been watered down. Less here than I was a second ago.
I drift back toward the guys, closer and closer, until I'm practically tucked between them. And slowly — not all at once, but enough to notice — I thicken back up. More solid. More present
I don't know why they do that to me. But I'm not questioning it.
Dre is also right. There's something seriously wrong with these magic users.
I can't say for sure—once again, my distinct lack of fingers really hinders my research capabilities—but I try to trust what resonates as true on a core level.
The six older members have auras as black as the shadows Anik weaves around himself. Murky and consuming, like ink spilled into still water. There are faint strings of color threaded throughout—fleeting hints of surface-level feelings—but the black devours everything, deep and absolute.
The younger two… their auras are dark, too, but not all-consuming. More like a stormy twilight, shot through with noticeable flares of color. They aren't pure shadow. Not yet.
“We require an update,” one of the older warlocks demands.
His hair is a greasy black, pulled back tightly to the nape of his neck, with silver-gray patches visible throughout. His dull brown eyes hold no trace of warmth or compassion—only a cold, impatient authority.
“No major updates as of yet, Councilman Keyer,” Forrest replies, his voice even and diplomatic.
“How can you not have any updates?” one of the older women snaps. “You’ve been working on this for over a month, and supernaturals are still going missing.”
She has a set of wild white curls framing a face perpetually glistening with sweat. Right now, it’s pinched in anger, her dull, lifeless green eyes flicking accusingly between my guys.
“We are aware of that, Councilwoman Narah,” Forrest replies, his tone measured. “This is a heavily entrenched organization that has been establishing itself for decades. It will take time to properly dismantle their operations.”
“So—no news at all?” another of the older warlocks cuts in. “What good are you if you can’t find anything new in the month since we last met?”
This one has a sallow complexion that matches his dull, yellowed eyes—eyes that seem to squint whenever he speaks. He runs a hand through his thinning white hair as he waits for their answer.
“Councilman Pines,” Forrest says coolly, “as it states clearly in our contract, we are not required to provide updates until the investigation concludes. However, as an act of good faith, we are willing to share this: we are rapidly approaching a significant break in the case.”
Almost as one, the members of the Council lean forward, their collective attention sharpening like a blade.
“That’s all?” the last of the older warlocks guffaws. “That’s no news at all!”
This is the one who gives me the biggest heebie-jeebies.
He’s tall and lanky, with a hooked nose, sunken features, and a grayish scar running from his hairline down the side of his face, ending just below his ear.
His eyes are such a dark brown they’re nearly black.
His gray hair is slicked back with some kind of product, stiff and shiny like a helmet.
Anik leans forward as the anger in the room becomes palpable. “Councilman Rozar,” he states simply, his voice a low match for his fuck-with-me-I-dare-you wardrobe. “You know the terms under which we agreed to work.”
Emerson leans forward, catching Anik’s attention. "I can retrieve the contract. The relevant clauses are quite clear, should the Council require a refresher."
I choke back a laugh. Em never speaks in these meetings—most of them don’t, preferring to let Forrest take the lead—so his dry interjection is a welcome deviation from the norm.
“You are correct,” the younger witch says, shooting a sharp look at her fellow council members as though they’ve lost their minds. “We still hold to those terms.”
“We thank you, Councilwoman Jenore,” Forrest replies, inclining his head a fraction in acknowledgment.
I pull a little more energy now that I've thickened back up with my guys so close, and take another look at their auras. A subtle movement catches my eye, and I focus intently. As I watch, a small tendril of Rozar’s black aura arcs away from the main mass like a solar flare.
It wriggles and writhes its way toward Jenore’s murky—though not yet black—aura, and sinks in.
“It’s like they’re infecting the younger members,” I whisper. Then I promptly start to freak out, because—what if they can do that to the guys?
It would be really nice to be able to see their auras, but of course, I can’t. For whatever reason, it just doesn’t work on them. It’s annoying as hell, but it calms me somewhat not to see any shadowy tendrils making their way across the table toward us.
Unable to hold the energy needed to read auras any longer, I let the vision fade and point a threatening finger at the Council.
“If even one tiny little tendril infects my guys,” I vow, “I will find a way to haunt the fuck out of every last one of you.”
My attention snaps back to the guys as they begin to stand.
Godsdammit, Raven. How hard is it to pay attention?
I'd been so fixated on the aura weirdness that I completely zoned out of the rest of the meeting. I scramble after them as they file out the door and head back to their vehicle.
They all pile into the Suburban, and it isn't long before Kieran lets out a dramatic sigh from the back seat.