Raven Chapter 13 Familiars and Forgotten Pain 148
Raven
Remember when I said running was a worthwhile pursuit? That was ghost me. Ghost me, who actually thought "does this involve attractive people removing clothing?" was a valid metric for judging activities.
Past me can catch these hands. Metaphorically. Through time. I'll figure it out. Either way, she's the reason I'm in this hell.
And this hell is a treadmill, with Anik cosplaying as the demon in charge of my torture.
"Stop thinking. Just move.” He growls, jogging effortlessly beside me.
My body, unfortunately, only knows how to trip over its own feet, and his "advice" is about as helpful as a werewolf trying to meditate through the full moon. The intention is there, but the execution is a disaster.
I look over at Dre on my other side, attempting to take my mind off the current hellscape. Instead, I find him using the death machine at a speed that would be a full sprint for a human Olympian. He doesn't even look like he's sweating.
Assuming I can’t be the only individual actively dying, I look around and realize the pain has induced some sort of fugue state, temporarily deleting every training lesson I’ve ever spied on.
Granted, I usually skip this part because they all keep their shirts on until the fighting starts. Which is another reason life sucks right now. All this suffering, and there’s not a single scrap of eye candy to grant me the strength to get through it.
“This is actual torture,” I pant.
“Your speed is set to 4, which is technically only considered a fast walk,” Em not-so-helpfully supplies as he walks past me toward the rock climbing wall.
Then he takes off his shirt.
My mind, finally, has something better to do than obsess over my impending death.
I watch him move up the wall—spider-like, unnatural, somehow beautiful.
The enchanted surface shifts under his hands, and he just..
. adapts. Finds impossible holds. Plans three moves ahead like he's solving a puzzle that's actively trying to kill him. All silent. All focused.
And currently? My favorite. Solely because he's the only one without a shirt.
The glorious distraction of his incredibly defined torso costs me, though. My foot spasms—protesting its treatment—and I fall in a heap before being unceremoniously flung off the treadmill.
“Mercy,” I groan from the floor.
My borrowed clothes are in disarray, and my hair has gone from a high pony to a sad, floppy thing that seems to be utterly failing at its job, much like myself right now.
I really wish I could materialize some clothes for myself, but after a lot of effort and a possible hernia, I gave up.
The guys then went and dug out some clothes for me.
At first, I wanted to shank them for giving me clothes that probably belonged to some hook-up until Dre explained that some of the apartments on the floors below are meant for supes who are in need of sanctuary or are on the run.
Because of this, they have a supply of basic clothing items in a variety of sizes.
The charcoal-colored lounge set is much more comfortable than the jeans I was wearing last night but seriously lacks the comfort of Anik’s borrowed clothing items.
Items I may have hidden in my pillowcase to smell later.
When I finally tear my eyes away from my own chaos, I find Forrest in the middle of a deadlift session.
My muscles ache just watching him. Every single lift is identical.
Perfect. Rigid. Like a machine programmed for flawless exertion and absolutely nothing else.
The sheer, relentless perfection of it makes me want to start pressing random buttons just to see if I can finally make him crack.
I'd be lying if I said I’m not enjoying the view while I plot his destruction. I mean—I'm not blind. And that deadlift stance?
Chef's kiss.
“We should move to weight-lifting. It is obvious endurance is not one of your strengths,” Forrest suggests, having paused to judge me from a distance. He's not even breathing heavily, the bastard.
A weak, breathless laugh escapes me. "Sure, let's trade one form of torture for another. At least with weights, the floor is stationary. It's less personally offended when I introduce myself to it."
I try not to let his little comments get to me. I really do. I know he's not being cruel—he's just stating facts. Adding another item to the endless list of things wrong with me. Somehow, that makes it worse.
The words sit on my tongue, hot and sharp: I didn’t even have lungs yesterday, let alone muscles—forgive me for not having the stamina of a alpha male straight off the meat-suit assembly line.
But I swallow them. They saved me. They're housing me. Feeding me. What am I supposed to do, complain? That feels ungrateful. It also feels like handing him a knife and showing him exactly where to cut.
So I push myself up, muscles screaming in betrayal, and offer a wobbly smile.
“Lead the way. I promise to only cry a little.” I lie. I refuse to cry. What if I’m an ugly crier? I need to try to make myself cry in front of a mirror tonight and assess.
Kieran, ever my savior, bounds over then and complains loudly. "Your time's up, the lot of ye. She's with me now."
He grabs my hand and gives it a little squeeze and sends me a genuine smile that seems to relieve some of the ache in my muscles.
Before I know it, I’m standing in front of a rack of knives.
I hate to question my savior, but this seems like a very bad idea.
I can’t even do a fast walk yet, and he wants me to use a knife?
Before anyone else—or even I—can object, he grabs a few of the knives, the polished metal catching the light, and slips them into a sheath around his forearm that I didn't even see him put on. Then he's dragging me a few feet away to stand in front of some targets.
“Now, wisp, throwin’ knives is about precision, not brute strength.” He seems to almost caress a knife in his hand before gracefully flicking it at the target. When it sinks into the dead center of the board, he turns back to me. “Just try it, what’s the worst that could happen?”
I decided to leave out the obvious response that I could kill someone because the man just saved me from weight-lifting. He could stab me, and I’d grin and bear it. Plus, it would mean I wouldn’t have to run orweight-lift for a while as I recover.
I eye him and the knife he’s holding, considering it. How bad could getting stabbed really be, anyway?
Before I can blurt my insane request out loud, I grab the knife he offers.
My hands feel clumsy and alien at first, but as the cool, weighted balance of the blade settles into my palm, a strange familiarity washes over me.
A ghost of a sensation tingles up my arm.
.. I try not to overthink it, and throw.
It wobbles pathetically and clatters against the wall far from the target.
I look over to Kieran and realize everyone else has gathered a bit behind him to watch.
Dre just gives me a reassuring smile and looks ready to step in at a moment’s notice.
Anik is standing with his legs apart, arms crossed, per usual.
Forrest looks irritated that his assessment has been hijacked by, essentially, a puppy wanting to play with a new toy.
Em, as he has since I’ve materialized, is staring at me with the terrifying, unhinged joy of a conspiracy theorist who just found the motherlode of red string and a blank wall.
A flash of memory hits me from last night.
I had woken up for just a second and fluttered my eyes open before sleep took me again, and I could have sworn Emerson was sitting on the floor of my room with one of those notebooks in his lap, pencils strewn all around him.
Maybe it was a dream? I haven’t had one of those before, and him showing up in my room in the middle of the night is definitely on a wet dream level.
“Try again, wisp.” Kieran coaxes. “No one is goin’ to be perfect the first time ‘round.”
I take a deep breath, trying to quiet the noise in my own head and of the guys murmuring behind us. I throw a second knife. It’s better, but definitely still far from perfect.
I throw a few more, each one slightly better than the last. Then, on the sixth try, something clicks.
That ghost of a sensation I've been chasing?
Suddenly it's not a ghost anymore. It's real.
My wrist flicks out—smooth, easy, like it's been doing this for years instead of minutes.
My body just... moves. Shifts. Like breathing. Like I've always known how.
For the first time, the knife flies straight and true, embedding itself in the outer ring of the target with a satisfying thwack .
As silence falls, I look back at the guys and see Anik has uncrossed his arms, Em is absolutely enraptured, and Forrest’s face is as rigid as his stone gargoyle form.
“Again,” Forrest says, his voice carefully neutral.
I throw another. And another.
Each one is smoother. More precise. Hitting the target with an accuracy that makes zero sense given that I was face-planting into walls this morning.
It's not perfect. But it's also not possible for someone who's had a body for less than a day.
And yet.
Here I am. My fingers tingling with something I can't name—a memory my muscles have that my brain doesn't. Like they know a song I've never heard.
“I… don’t understand,” I murmur, staring at my hands. “Why did that feel so… right?”
Forrest's jaw is tight. "Your form is unorthodox but efficient. It suggests prior…" He trails off, eyes narrowing as if trying to visually confirm whether I'm full of shit or not. "Extensive training."
Before I can process this, Forrest moves on, taking over the assessment once again. “Let’s try something else. Leandre, the staff.”
Forrest catches it elegantly—effortlessly—then tosses it to me.
I fumble. It clatters to the floor.