Raven Chapter 8 Krakens, Care, and Crystal Arches 84 #3
I soon learned that while the city is hidden, it isn't exclusively for supernaturals.
Humans find their way here, too. Some are brought up in supe families, others are bonded mates, and a few carry just a trace of magic in their blood that acts as a compass.
But sometimes, the magic of the place itself simply calls a human who is needed, and the ley lines guide them through the arches without them ever knowing why.
The giant crystal monoliths never cease to amaze me. Even in my deepest despair, I'd come just to sit and listen to them hum.
The wildest thing about the arches? They're not just pretty rocks.
Each one is a tuning fork for its ley line, crafted by dwarf subspecies called Stone-Singers.
They literally hum the ley line's frequency into the crystal while it's forming.
Then another team comes in and etches runes—dampeners, conductors, the works—to fine-tune the energy flow.
They're the only ones who can hear the ley lines well enough to maintain the Guild Line. When I figured that out, I spent a month haunting their guild. Just vibing. It's the only place besides with the guys I've ever lingered for more than a week since I gained consciousness.
I force myself away from the arch as the colors of the setting sun begin to fill the clear quartz. I'm running out of time if I want to reach Forrest before he settles into his weekly marathon sleep session.
I pick up the pace as I float back to their building, waving to all the ghosts on my way past as they gossip among themselves.
I've always been mystified by the fact that it's not just humans that hang around as ghosts, but supes as well. You would think, with their knowledge of otherworldly matters, that they'd be willing to move on right away. Instead, the exact opposite happens in the supernatural districts.
I think it's often the ghosts of those who tried to cheat fate. I've seen it happen, and it breaks my heart every time.
Supernatural meets human. Human starts aging. Supernatural panics. Does something stupid and beautiful—pours their life force into the human, sparks whatever is hidden in their blood, and gives them centuries they weren't supposed to have.
But Fate's a bitch with a great memory. She always collects.
When that human's original expiration date finally hits, the supernatural drops dead in their place. Life force gone. And instead of moving on, their spirit gets left behind. Trapped. Forever watching the one they loved keep living—without them.
Haunted by the price of their own gift.
Moral of the story? Don't try to outsmart Fate. She's been at this longer than you have. Just take what you're given and soak up every minute.
Doesn't mean I don't feel for the trapped ones, though. Maybe someday, when I'm corporeal, I'll figure out how to help them.
The humans that live out their short lifespans within this hidden city, on the other hand, always move on right away.
Maybe it's because they never expected they'd end up living out their wildest fantasies in real life, and when they come to pass over, they are more than happy to see what else the universe has in store for them. Or maybe they’re just tired because, once they’re here, they’re shoved into the corner and ignored for being a burden that never asked to be here.
One day I might be able to ask them. But for now, I could scream these questions into their faces, and just like the living, they'd ignore me.
Ignoring the two very angry souls that always seem to linger around the guys' building, I easily phase through the wall of windows and make quick work of getting to Forrest's room.
He's pacing nervously while Dre tries to reassure him.
"It will only get worse the more you put it off," Dre says in a reassuring tone. "Just focus on something positive going into it, and I'll make sure there's something fun for you to enjoy when you come out of it."
Forrest eyes him suspiciously. "My version of fun and your version of fun are vastly different."
Dre just holds up a finger, then pops out the door and returns with a few random things. "I have a brand new Sudoku book and a bunch of those logic grid puzzles you like."
He grabs a little wooden bench from against the wall—usually buried under stacks of books Forrest is in the process of reading, but apparently cleared off before his scheduled nap.
Anything to delay the inevitable forced vulnerability, I guess.
Dre sets the bench in front of Forrest's designated corner, lays out the books, and places a few pens neatly beside them.
"Plus," he adds, giving Forrest a knowing grin, "I put together something else." He pulls out three small bags. "All of your favorites. Dried pears, dried mango, and dried apricots."
I smile. "Dre, I cannot wait for you to take care of me one day if this is how you do it."
The man always knows exactly how to care for the people he loves.
In this case, it's giving someone who never allows himself to be anything less than perfect a way to indulge without guilt.
Puzzles are Forrest's idea of fun without feeling like he's wasting time, and dried fruit lets him savor something sweet without feeling like he's indulging.
"One day, Ro-ro, we're gonna watch a rom-com and eat cookies," I whisper, cackling softly at the threat. "You're going to be so uncomfortable, but I promise it'll be worth it."
Forrest gives a single, stiff nod. I decide it's because he's heard and agreed with my incredible ideas and is on board.
Then, with a sigh that sounds like he’s just been handed the entire internet’s terms and conditions with the expectation they will be read and reviewed by tomorrow morning, he steps into his designated corner.
His eyes stay locked on the boring puzzle books, but everything else… changes.
It’s not like a movie transformation. There’s no cracking, no roaring, no big flashy show.
This is a quiet, deeper sort of shift that starts in his shoulders.
They pull back, broaden, like the stone is pushing out from inside his bones.
He seems to almost swell in every direction— a few inches taller and wider.
Then the color seems to bleed out. Not all at once, but in a slow creep. His skin loses its warmth, fading into a cool, matte gray. It’s not the shiny, polished marble you see in fancy bathrooms. It’s rougher. Like the side of an old cathedral that has seen a few too many centuries.
The details of him sharpen and shift. His stupidly perfect suit doesn’t just wrinkle—it dissolves. Not in a puff of magic, but like it’s being absorbed, fading into the stone until all that’s left is a simple, rough loincloth-looking thing that’s just as gray and stony as the rest of him.
A soft snort escapes me. A glorified stone diaper. After all this time, the sight of Mr. Perfect-and-Pressed reduced to just wearing that never gets old.
His face also changes. Not a lot, but enough. His jaw seems heavier, more squared. And his teeth, or his canines more specifically, have lengthened, just enough to give his usual stern expression a distinctly pointed edge. Like he’s permanently thinking of biting someone. Probably me.
I’m down.
My gaze drops to his hands, which have curled slightly at his sides.
His fingernails are gone. In their place are thick, sharp, curved talons that look like they could shred steel.
His feet have widened too, becoming more solid to hold all the extra weight.
They’re also tipped with distinctively talon-like toenails.
He looks less like a man turned to stone and more like a statue of a warrior god’s slightly more feral cousin.
One second he’s Forrest, the world’s most exhausted CEO in a five-thousand-dollar suit. Next, he’s a monument to primal, grumpy vigilance.
Dre starts a timer with a soft click. “Ten hours,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone.
Then he gets to work, quietly setting up the intricate and undetectable alarms Em and Ro-ro designed for exactly this.
Because you don’t just leave a several-hundred-pound, clawed, pointy-toothed stone man in the corner without a security system.
That’s just asking for trouble. Or a very confusing burglary.
The quiet hum of electronics is the only sound now. It feels wrong. This isn't a rest. It's storage. They've put him in the corner like a piece of furniture no one knows what to do with. Or, more accurately, Forrest put himself in the corner. They just helped him lock the door.
Without the suit and the stoic act, all that's left is what he really is.
And it's unbearably sad. His mouth is turned down at the corners.
Not in a frown, just… defeated. His shoulders, while broader and larger than in his other form, still have the look that they're carrying an impossible weight.
The line between his eyebrows isn't from thinking hard. It's from hurting, and never stopping.
The others walk away, but I always try to stay. Because all I can see is a part of him that's been shut off, deemed too broken or too dangerous to be allowed out.
A part of him he's locked away and called a monster. I look at the stone face in front of me and I don't see a monster. I see someone who's been alone for a very, very long time.
My hand lifts, hovering just above his jaw—literally chiseled from stone this time. I don't know why this version of him looks so abandoned, but I'm going to find out. And I'm going to fix it.
Everyone needs someone to fight their battles sometimes—even Forrest. And I'll be damned if I'm not that someone.
I pat his stone jaw softly, whispering, "I'll be right back. Don't move." Then I turn, leaving the quiet hum of his glorified storage unit, and float through the door.