Raven Chapter 9 Cages and Confrontations 100
Raven
This is my fourth time floating down this hallway, and I've just reached the end of my patience reserves. The last time I stepped foot in Hell’s Bend was five years ago—the night I met these guys.
Sure, they'll hit upscale places with waiting lists longer than Santa's naughty list for missions occasionally, but nothing like Hell's Bend.
It’s less club, more hole-in-the-wall with dance music and a bar. Kieran's club, The Lorelai, is what I think of when I think club : mirrors and lights on the main floor, sex-starved supernaturals on the upper levels, an illegal gambling den and fighting ring in the basement.
According to the guys, there are also two doors down there that are off-limits to almost everyone topside.
One leads to Anik's gym. The other leads directly to the Catacombs—which, apparently, is where most of the den's business comes from.
Topside money meeting underbelly clientele.
Some day my lady balls will be big enough to see it for myself.
The Lorelai is where the guys go for fun but I never join.
I stay home with Em in his tinkering cave, because apparently enjoying blaring music around strangers is a fate worse than death.
I'm not complaining, though. It means I have company instead of imagining, in vivid and heartbreaking detail, the part of the evening that involves finding a woman for the night.
I want no part in that. Unless, of course, I am that woman.
I suppose I could go to a club by myself anytime I wanted. But then who’d keep an eye on these lovable idiots? No one. And someone’s gotta hold down the fort. If not me, who?
I’ve panicked enough times on their missions to know at least one of them would be dead by now if I hadn’t nudged a firearm just enough to throw off a shot, or accidentally kicked a pebble into the path of an explosive device.
Okay, fine—Forrest does most of the heavy lifting.
Let’s be real. But I like to think I pick up whatever slack he drops.
Not that I’d ever mention it. It would cripple him—physically and emotionally—to think he couldn’t provide solutions to everyone’s problems at all times.
But even he’s allowed to be a little imperfect. All the best things are.
“Come on, guys!” I yell down the massive hallway that leads to all their rooms and the communal bathroom. “Get your handsome asses out here! We need to admire each other’s outfits before we leave!”
I glance down at what I like to call my default outfit—a weird, shift-like dress that falls to mid-thigh.
It’s what I end up in when I’m not actively thinking about clothing.
I can’t even tell what color it is, just some light shade.
Way too plain for my taste, but luckily, I don’t have to settle for long.
Closing my eyes, I visualize what I want to wear.
I don’t know what fabric feels like, so I just go with what looks good on others: high-waisted black skinny jeans, a plum-colored wrap crop top that makes my ghostly boobs look downright lickable, and my always-present crystal pendant.
Final touch? A pair of soft-looking leather boots that hit mid-calf.
My hair and face… well, they’ll just have to look however they look. Mirrors and I have a complicated relationship. They exist. I kind of don’t. Under those circumstances, things were always going to be messy.
Forrest is the first to arrive in the living room, followed shortly by Anik. They wait about five minutes before Forrest lets out a single, sharp clap and calls down the hall.
“Five minutes! We need to move!”
I roll my eyes. “I already said that, but by all means, listen to the one with the physical vocal cords.”
Once they’re all gathered, I can’t help but ravenously run my eyes over every inch of them.
Forrest is dressed for the exact role he’s playing.
He’s in his usual suit, but I know once he’s settled at the bar, the jacket and tie will come off, his sleeves will be rolled up, and the top buttons undone.
He needs to look like he’s just finished a long day at the office—which works perfectly, since he’d wear the full suit anyway. The man is nothing if not consistent.
Emerson stands beside him, looking like he’s been dropped straight off the set of Peaky Blinders . His go-to “murder outfit” is a three-piece suit—not just for hiding gadgets and weapons in the lining, but, according to him, style as well.
Kieran grins at everyone. “Right, how do I look? Let’s just say I’m ready to paint the town very, very red.
” He gestures unnecessarily at his ruby silk shirt, embroidered with a floral pattern in berry and rosy pinks.
He doesn’t even mention how his slacks make his ass look downright edible. A crime, really.
Emerson’s gaze sweeps over him. “Your shirt is a sartorial air raid siren. It preemptively announces our presence with a complete lack of subtlety.”
Kieran just grins wider. "Is that not the point? I'm the distraction. If they're looking at me, they're not looking at you lurking in the shadows with that severe librarian vibe."
“The ‘vibe’ is a calculated outcome. Observe.” Emerson taps his charcoal-grey waistcoat. “Six discrete compartments. A silhouette that suggests a mid-level functionary, not a threat. I am a neutral entity. A ghost.”
I can’t help but snort. “I can guarantee you, Em, you are not a ghost. If that suit doesn’t scream ‘fuckable,’ I don’t know what does.”
He gestures dismissively toward Kieran’s outfit. “You, by contrast, are a flashing neon sign that reads, ‘Interrogate me first.’ The jacquard weave on your shoes alone creates a unique, identifiable pattern detectable in security footage from up to twenty meters away.”
"So?" Kieran scoffs. "Let them remember me! I'm unforgettable."
Emerson pinches the bridge of his nose as if channeling Forrest’s patience.
"Being 'unforgettable' in our line of work is statistically synonymous with being a case file. Apprehended. Deceased. Eliminated. Your function is to be noticed—not cataloged with ease. A marginally less chromatic palette would reduce identifiable markers by sixty percent while achieving the same objective.”
Kieran sighs dramatically. “You take all the fun out of being fabulous.”
Emerson turns back to the matte-black clamshell device in his palm. “Fun is an illogical variable. Survival is a binary equation. Your shirt is a compromising factor. Try not to get blood on it. Silk is notoriously difficult to clean.”
He says it with a faint hint of genuine, practical concern. For Emerson, that’s basically a declaration of brotherly love—and I can’t help but smile.
I watch as his thumb glides over silent mechanical keys, pulling up a grid of security feeds on the strange little screen.
Any sane person would use a tablet for on-the-go tech.
He uses whatever this thing is. He calls it a MORDRED Core—or a portable piece of his giant, possibly-sentient computer best friend.
I hover up and peer over his shoulder at the monochrome display, not shocked to see he's flicking through camera angles I didn't even know existed.
Hallways, stairwells, the service elevator, street cameras, even angles that look like storefront security feeds from blocks away.
Em's got eyes everywhere, and they all report directly to that little brick of paranoia in his hands before getting uploaded back into the behemoth behind the secret bookshelf door.
Dre clears his throat. “I, personally, like the shirt,” he tells Kieran, and I take the chance to look him over, too.
His hair is woven into one thick braid interlaced with smaller ones and dotted with gold beads. His beard is neatly trimmed, accentuating his jawline, while dark-wash jeans hug his legs, and a simple white V-neck lets his tattoos stand out against his pale skin.
My eyes skim over Anik—the man only wears what he’s comfortable in on missions: black jeans, a black T-shirt that hugs his bulk in a way I aspire to, and black combat boots.
“Never change, Ani-Bear,” I tell him, trying to distract myself from the devastating fact that I can’t climb him like the sexy tree he is.
It doesn’t work.
“Ugh, I really need to be corporeal already.” I point a ghostly finger at each of them in turn. “The second I have a real body, I’m coming for every single one of you.”
I chuckle. Only a little bothered they can't hear me. I accepted long ago that I'm my own target audience.
It doesn't take long for everyone to pile into the elevator, board the Suburban, and head deeper into the city toward Hell's Bend.
I watch the streets blur past—the clean lines of the Spire fading behind us, the Merchant's Ring's endless carnival swallowing us whole, then the slow slide into grime as we hit the western edge near the seawall—and force every negative thought from my mind.
They won't get hurt tonight.
“They do this all the time. No need to worry, Raven,” I mumble under my breath. “Besides, you’re a badass extraordinaire, right? If they get into trouble, you’ve got their backs.”
Forrest's voice cuts through the quiet. "You know the drill. Emerson, Anik—eyes outside. Leandre, Kieran—work the room. I've got the bar."
A round of nods. No questions. They've done this before.
Soon, we reach the club and I float casually out of the vehicle, keeping a watchful eye on all my guys.
Forrest steps past the line, gives a single, silent nod to the bouncer, and they’re ushered inside without a word.
I follow, deciding to stick with Forrest until the team is fully deployed.
Once everyone’s in position, I’ll head to the dance floor—get my “pretend I’m a real girl” time out of the way while they gather intel.