Raven Chapter 13 Familiars and Forgotten Pain 148 #2
I pick it up, heft the weight. This, at least, feels completely new. I've "practiced" before, sort of—sparring sessions I creeped on, pretending I was there. Moving an incorporeal staff alongside Em, trying to feel connected while being disconnected from... well, everything.
That doesn't compare to this. Not even close.
Forrest instructs Dre to run me through a basic defensive sequence.
I'm awkward, feet tripping over themselves, the staff feeling more like a foreign object than an extension of me.
But when Dre lunges, something happens. My body reacts before my mind catches up—a flicker of something familiar, like watching a movie through fogged glass.
My wrist moves. The staff spins. Not perfectly—it's sloppy, off-balance, and I nearly smack myself in the face with the backswing—but somehow, it forces Dre to take a half-step back.
“Where did you learn that?” Em asks from beside us, having moved in closer the minute the staff was gripped in my hand.
I just blink, unable to string the words together that would explain how that happened, so I settle for a shrug. “It just felt… like the right thing to do?”
Forrest is now watching me like I've moved past security breach and straight into mysterious smell you can't locate but definitely shouldn't ignore territory. Like he knows something's wrong but just doesn’t know how wrong yet.
Anik also looks suspicious. I try to ignore how much that hurts.
“No.” Em’s voice cuts through the tension, his beautiful amber eyes locked on me with an intensity that is somehow equal parts academic and fiercely possessive.
“It didn’t just ‘feel right.’ That specific flourish is a personal adaptation.
One I developed to compensate for a lower center of gravity against larger opponents. ”
He takes another step closer, and the air between us crackles. I no longer feel like just a bug under a microscope. Nope. I feel like something he's just realized belongs to him.
Definitely not mad about this.
Honestly? If he handed me paperwork right now to make it official, I'd sign immediately. Then sell a kidney for the postage if I had to.
"You learned that by watching me." He says, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for me, but heard by everyone in the silent room. "You studied my forms while you were incorporeal."
The truth hangs there, thick and hard to breathe around. I can only nod, my throat tight.
Em's face does something I've never seen before. That usual blank mask? Cracks. Right down the middle as his face softens and the corner of his mouth tips up.
And the look in his eyes? Obsession. Pure, undiluted, and burning hot enough to melt steel.
That "not mad" energy I mentioned earlier? It's metastasized. I'm now aggressively, dangerously, pathologically not mad. Someone should study me for science.
Which, now that I think about it, is exactly the kind of thought that proves I need therapy. Along with everyone else in this room. Clearly, we're all unwell.
"So you weren't just watching us." He breathes, much closer than I remember him being. "You were learning." He reaches out, wraps a stray lock of hair around his finger. "An anomaly. A beautiful anomaly."
Then he smiles—full Emerson smile, the kind that should come with a warning label—and walks away, leaving my brain and body in complete shock.
The guys are all talking in a huddle a ways away from me, and the only thing I can tell from here is that Dre has his doctor face on, but before I can walk over and see what they’re doing, Kieran steps in front of me and smiles.
“I’m really hopin’ you had some trainin’ before losing that gorgeous body of yours, wisp.”
I just look up at him, confused. “Um, why?”
“If you didn’t, I’d have to start thinkin’ I’m total shite. You picked that up quickly.” He gives me a saucy little wink that causes the tingles to shoot down my spine again. “It was pure dead brilliant.”
Dre calls out to me, and I make my way over to him.
He hands me a water bottle, and when I bring it to my lips and start drinking, it feels as if a black hole has opened up inside of me and no amount of water will fill it.
I go practically feral as it drips off my chin, and I have a hard time breathing.
When I finally stop and suck in some air, both Dre and Kieran are just staring at me.
“Were you extremely thirsty?” Dre asks.
“What does being thirsty feel like?” I ask, my head cocked in confusion.
His expression grows alarmed as he looks to Kieran. When he looks back at me, it seems to morph into something softer.
“Explain to me how you felt before you drank the water.”
“My mouth and throat were scratchy and… sticky? My head feels sore too, but I figured that was just from the running.” I shrug. “Everything is sore.”
His eyes snap to Forrest, and he tenses before closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.
When he turns back to me, he’s in full doctor mode.
“The need to drink is one of your body’s most basic, important signals.
It is not a want but a need.” His eyes flick to my throat for a second before he tears his eyes away, a shame-filled expression filling his eyes and then disappearing just as quickly.
When I go to apologize, feeling like an idiot for not knowing one of the most basic signals coming from this damn foreign yet wonderful-feeling meat suit, he holds up his hand as if to say I’m not critiquing, just informing and I relax.
“Think of it as a gentle, then increasingly persistent, alarm.” He continues.
“First, the dryness of your mouth and throat. Then the dull headache. After that, your body will become weary and weak while the headache continues to worsen. This is your body telling you its water supply is running low and it needs more to function properly.”
He gestures to the bottle in my hand. “What you felt, that desperate urgency… that was your body screaming that the alarm had been ignored for too long.” He smiles again.
“I’m just happy you answered the call. Now, I’m going to have you rest and keep drinking water while the rest of us spar.
After that, we’ll get some food. Sound good? ”
I just nod, but in reality, I want to jump up and down while chanting "take it off! Take it off!"
Sadly, he keeps his shirt on. There’s no way those bastard gods aren’t laughing at me, popcorn in hand, right now.
As I continue to sip water on the sidelines, Leandre turns and waves to Forrest. His voice is calm, but there's a glint in his eyes that screams violence.
"Forrest." He says simply. "Would you spar with me? I need to assess my reaction times."
He strides over to the wall of weapons, grabs his usual harness, then slips his dual axes into the sheaths at his back.
There's a tension that isn't usually there and, as they stand at the ready, Dre looks over at me like he's assessing—or possibly checking for my approval?
I can't tell, but a few words are spoken between the two, then they launch into action.
This time, it's nothing like the technical drills I'm used to seeing between them.
Dre is a whirlwind—elegant, furious, and absolutely not holding back.
He doesn't just block Forrest's attacks; he counters them with enough force to make the gargoyle grunt loudly enough for even me to hear with my normal hearing abilities.
His axes blur. And every few seconds, he glances over at me.
Okay. That's... weird.
I have no idea what's happening right now, but every jarring impact, every step Forrest is forced back, feels like it means something.
Like Dre's saying something I can't hear. And from the grim set of Forrest's jaw? He’s hearing the message. Is he taking it to heart? No idea, this is Forrest we’re talking about.
It takes a while for Dre to really get out whatever he needs to, but once he has, he simply nods at Forrest before walking over to me and chugging his own water. Still fully clothed, the tease.
I can't help but watch his throat move as he swallows. A few droplets escape, trailing down his neck—and then disappear under his shirt.
My imagination, however, follows them. Down his chest. Over his abs. Mapping out everything I can't actually see.
A little flare of jealousy hits me that those water droplets are doing exactly what I want to be doing.
With my tongue, preferably.
“Where can a girl find some cloudberries?” I ask absentmindedly, still mentally following that drop like I’ve been in a desert without water for weeks. I need to know what they taste like.
A chuckle cuts through my fog—close. Too close.
I look up to find Kieran grinning like he just caught me with my hand in the cookie jar—and is absolutely here for it.
His gaze flicks between me and Leandre, who has gone suspiciously still, a faint flush creeping up his neck that he's definitely hoping no one notices.
So Kieran's been here the whole time. Witnessing me mentally undress his brother like some kind of hussy. Cool. Cool.
Too bad no apology's coming. I lived forty years as a ghost with zero regrets; I'm not about to start racking them up now.
I give myself a little shake. “What even is a cloudberry?” I ask him. “I’ve never heard of them before, and I’ve been haunting for quite some time.”
“It’s a berry native to where he’s from,” Kieran says, his eyes slightly glowing. Weird but also, predictably, still attractive.
I cock my head and raise a brow at Dre, and he obliges me.
"I'm from what is now known as Norway. Cloudberries grow in the bogs and marshes—wet, miserable ground that somehow produces something incredible.
" A small, almost wistful smile crosses his face.
"I'll have to find some for you to try. The flavor is more complex than anything else I've had here. "
Cloudberry.