Raven Chapter 7 Councils and Cornmeal 75 #2
"Well, that was definitely the dullest part of my day." He whines. "Cannae we stop somewhere for a round of laser tag? That meeting practically put me to sleep."
Dre laughs, "No shit." His slight accent makes the swear word sound like shie-t . "It was so riveting, though. We only had to restate our contract multiple times while they complained like toddlers."
"Well, at least we're all on the same page," I say, floating contentedly among them. Honestly, I'm glad I came. I actually learned something. Who would've thought?
"I have no idea how you do it, Forrest," Dre says.
"Aye, I know what you mean. No idea how you do it either, Saint," Kieran adds. I watch as he uses his favorite nickname for their fearless leader, causing Forrest's eye to twitch. "I was having a hard enough time not laughing at that tragic excuse for hair Rozar was sportin'. Looked like a helmet."
I sigh dreamily toward Kieran. "You’re so my favorite right now." Even when he has no idea I exist, he's still making me feel seen.
"Thank the gods they don't ever direct questions at us," Dre says, then shoots a smirk at Em. "That comment from you had me ready to break character."
I swear I see Em's cheeks tint red at the compliment. "One just needs to apply the principle of aesthetic reductionism. Isolate the core components—the who, what, when, and where. The emotional resonance is an emergent property of the facts. Your role is to assemble the components, not feel them."
Kieran, Anik, and Leandre all roll their eyes as if on cue, mumbling "Elf" simultaneously.
The corner of Em's lip twitches, his eyes softening just a fraction.
My heart practically melts. He doesn't show emotion often, but when he does, it radiates a genuineness I can almost feel—a crack in his usual reserve, either from elven nature or old scars.
Not that I'd know for sure; their pasts are a vault of inside jokes and vague references.
It's annoying. Half the things they say make no sense to me.
But it's fine. I'll figure it out eventually. When I become corporeal. Which is definitely happening.
"And I found out the weird, creepy Council is infecting people with their aura tentacles," I announce, smiling widely before giving myself a congratulatory pat on the back. Someone has to acknowledge what a big help I am, and since no one else is going to do it… "Go team!"
"Leandre," Forrest says, pulling his attention from the road for a second, "were you able to pick anything up from them?"
Dre sighs softly. "Not much outside of the usual hostilities they've always held toward us. Jenore and Ravitz still feel… clearer than the others. But all their minds are so heavily guarded, I can never get a clear enough read to base anything concrete on."
"Are those the younger ones?" I ask, replaying the meeting in my mind, trying to match names to faces. "Oh yeah, that's right—Councilwoman Jenore was the one who backed you up. She's fine. You don't have to kill her. Or him, the Ravitz guy, I guess. But you should definitely off the rest of them."
They keep talking for a while, reiterating how the Council can't be trusted and how deeply off they feel.
But I'm not really listening anymore—my focus narrows to Forrest in the passenger seat as I float up to face him fully.
I can tell by the tension in his shoulders and the way his jaw keeps flexing that he's doing that thing where he blames himself for not predicting the impossible.
Good thing Anik's the one driving, I think, because hovering in front of the steering wheel seems like the kind of thing that causes accidents.
"If I had real lips, I'd be kissing your face right now," I tell him, hovering a finger near the back of his head, wishing I could smooth away whatever spiral he's building.
"You're doing the best you can, and I appreciate you for that.
" My gaze sweeps over the rest of them. "I appreciate all of you for doing your best while the odds are stacked against you. "
By the time we get home, Miriam is waiting with a warm smile.
She greets each of the men with a kiss on the cheek before they scatter in five different directions: Forrest heads off to change for his second gym session; Emerson slips outside to the rooftop garden; Anik gives his mother a quick hug before leaving to teach a class at the gym; Dre checks his phone, mutters something about a clinic emergency, and rushes out.
That just leaves Miriam and Kieran standing in the quiet of the penthouse.
He smiles widely at her. "So, since I probably willnae see you again before you leave, I suppose we'll have to do this now." He rubs the back of his neck nervously. "Can ye teach me how to make somethin'? Anythin'? Niko has a birthday comin' up, and I dinnae think he should have to cook for it."
She beams, taking his hand and bustling him into the kitchen. She starts to reach for ingredients, but he holds up a hand and disappears into the pantry, returning with an apron.
"I think you might actually be the Saint you accuse Forrest of being, Ki-ki.” I tell him as a grin splits my ghostly face.
She puts it on and grins down at the bold words printed across the front: Kiss The Cook – Or Else.
We both chuckle at the same time. Kieran spins toward the corner of the kitchen where an antique-looking radio sits.
Pulling out his phone, he connects it somehow, and soon Take A Chance On Me by ABBA fills the room.
As they set up, I float up onto the kitchen island and start singing along, "If you change your mind, I'm the first in line…" Say what you will about ABBA, this shit is catchy.
When I glance down, Miriam is looking almost directly where I'm perched—and smiling.
"What is it, mami?" Kieran asks.
She just keeps smiling. "The spirit likes your choice in music. Apparently, she needs something more than empanadas and sage."
Yet another unladylike screech escapes me. "Dammit, woman, I was just forgetting you could sense me," I mutter, shivering. "It's a little unsettling." But I force myself to let it go and start dancing again.
Kieran cocks his head. "'Tis a lass?"
She nods. "The energy is decidedly feminine. And playful."
Still dancing, I point at Kieran. "Any time you want to play, I'm game." I make an effort to swallow my panic and simply enjoy this tiny sliver of recognition.
"Aye, if ye insist," Kieran says with an indulgent smile, and together, they turn to face the monumental task before them.
It doesn't take long before the kitchen blossoms into a beautiful, chaotic warzone. From my perch on top of the refrigerator, I try to imagine the scent of cornmeal, beef, and the herbs they're using. I fail spectacularly but it's the effort that counts.
ABBA is back in the rotation as "Dancing Queen" plays, and both of their hips sway playfully as she shows Kieran how to shape a mound of corn dough.
"The secret is in the chipá so'o filling!" she leans in and tells him conspiratorially. "You must season it until it sings—but not so much it screams."
Kieran pauses his dough-shaping, grabs a spoon, and spins toward the stovetop. With more enthusiasm than skill, he begins stirring the mixture of beef, onions, and peppers.
"It's whisperin', Mami, I swear! I think it's sayin'… more cumin," he declares before shaking a generous amount into the pot.
She laughs, spinning around and gently taking his arm before he empties the entire container. "Let's taste it first," she suggests, dipping her spoon into the simmering filling. She doesn't scold him—just pats his cheek warmly. "A for effort! We will call it… enthusiastic."
"I like it!" He grins. "'Tis how I'm gonna describe my culinary style from now on."
I snort. "Perfect descriptor, honestly."
Right at that moment, Emerson walks in from the terrace, making a beeline for the sink to wash the dirt from his hands.
His attention is so fixed on his task that he doesn't notice Miriam's eyes lock onto him.
For a second, he's like a black-and-white photograph inserted into a riot of color.
Then, in her usual style, she yanks him effortlessly into their world.
"Perfect! Emerson, michi, you have the steadiest hands. You can help us fill the mbujape."
"I… what?" he says, looking up from settling his sweater sleeves back around his wrists.
"The corn dough," she clarifies, already guiding him gently toward the counter. "Kieran's enthusiasm is magnificent, but his precision needs help. Can you not help?"
"That's diabolical. I respect it." It really is a masterful manipulation, appealing directly to his pride as a precision-based life form.
Em looks from the bowl of dough to the simmering filling. I can almost see his mind whirring, already assessing the most efficient filling and folding technique. With a long-suffering sigh, he simply nods and rolls his sleeves up once more.
"The dough-to-filling ratio is currently set up to be glaringly inconsistent," he states, his voice taking on its familiar clinical tone. "This guarantees structural failure. We need a standardized vessel. A two-inch melon baller. It's the only way to maintain integrity."
I can't help but watch, mesmerized. This is love. Not the grand, dramatic, world-saving kind—but this. This messy, imperfect, everyday kind. The kind that can ensnare even a reclusive genius in its net.
Kieran, now gleefully relegated to taste-tester, offers Em a spoonful of filling. He eyes the spoon skeptically, then looks up at Kieran's hopeful face. With the air of a man conducting a risky experiment, he leans forward and takes a taste.
He pauses visibly, then nods slowly. "…Adequate. Though the cumin is slightly excessive."
Miriam beams at the faint praise, and Kieran cheers as if he's just won a Michelin star.
As "Roxanne" by The Police comes on, they fall into a bizarre but efficient assembly line: Miriam shapes the cornbread, Emerson fills each with robotic precision, and Kieran shimmies toward the oven with the baking tray.
Wrapping my arms around my knees, I draw them to my chest, trying to ease the longing that has stirred once again. One day , I promise myself. One day, I'll be there. Not watching. Not waiting. I'll be the one covered in food, laughing, dancing—living.