Raven Chapter 14 Fun New Traumas and Unicorn Farts 163 #3
Great. Dre is going to be so disappointed in me for not listening to him.
Which, somehow, makes the pain hurt less. Or at least gives me something else to focus on besides my skull trying to turn itself inside out.
A frantic, fluttering sensation buzzes just beneath the skin of my torso, and a harsh, silver light pulses erratically around the room. I’m shaking, disoriented, and my heart is hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
Emerson's room. I'm in Emerson's room. I'm safe.
The logical thought does nothing to calm the storm inside me. Em is next to me, his voice a distant, muffled sound my panic-fogged brain can’t decipher. I reach a hand out toward him, a silent plea for an anchor, and freeze.
Silver and violet arcs of raw, unstable magic twist around my arms, snapping and sizzling in the air. I mean, don't get me wrong—beautiful and terrifying is a vibe, but not right now. Not when it's mine and I can't control it and it feels like my skin is about to split open.
He reaches for me, his expression not of fear, but of unwavering focus.
"No!" I grit out, the word tearing from a throat tight with pain. My head is splitting, m skin feels two sizes too small, and black dots swarming my vision. "Don't. I'll hurt you."
The thought of it—of those violet arcs slicing into him for no other reason than to comfort me—hits harder than whatever my magic is doing to my body.
Hugin? Munin? I scream into the void that is my own mind. What do I do? Help me!
The fluttering under my skin erupts. A thick, velvety black smoke pours from the runes on my hands, enveloping the chaotic arcs. It doesn't fight; it smothers, absorbing the violent energy into its calming, primordial darkness.
The air finally hits my lungs, but what comes out isn't a breath—it’s a sob, raw and ugly. As the last of the crazy magic light show gets swallowed by the familiars' smoke, I feel Em's arm slide around my waist.
He pulls me into him, and I don't have the strength to do anything but collapse against his chest. No sappy words.
Just the wholesome scent of him, and the steady, solid pressure of his hand rubbing my back, pulling me piece by piece out of the hellscape in my head and back into this stupidly soft bed.
"What was that?" I whisper, my voice wrecked. I’m honestly not sure I want to know.
"I believe we just identified one of your innate abilities," he says, and I can hear the captivated, researcher-like awe in his voice. He isn't scared; he’s fascinated. Of course he was.
Meanwhile, I'm beginning to understand what an anxiety shit actually is. My body's apparently decided that the best response to stress is a bathroom emergency. Cool. Great. Love that for me. I push it aside and try to focus on whatever the hell Em just said.
"What? That was an ability?" The air whooshes out of me as the realization hits. "That means... it's going to happen again?"
He doesn't sugarcoat it. He just looks at me, his mind clearly already running through variables and probabilities. "Probably. The conditions for manifestation are unclear, but a precedent has been set."
A choked, slightly hysterical laugh bursts out of me.
He blinks, his head tilting in confusion. "Why are you laughing?"
"Because," I gasp, tears from the laughter or the panic—I can't tell which—still streaking down my face. "That was, strangely enough, exactly what I needed to hear."
Even though a large part of me wants to stay curled up in his arms, his shoulders go tight under my cheek. I stiffen too.
There. See? A pile of burden. Pull your weight, Raven, before they figure out you're not worth the trouble.
Shaking myself off a little, I pull away and begin to look for the hair tie that disappeared into the sheets at some point during my nap.
I successfully find it by the time Em has gotten off the bed and is making his way back to his desk to clean up his sketch supplies, strewn on the floor next to the bed.
He must have knocked them over when he reached for me.
As he cleans, I throw my hair into a low, messy bun and promise myself I’ll learn how to braid soon. Once I learn how to use public transportation and read a map. Jim should probably be a higher priority than learning to braid hair.
“How long was I asleep?” I ask, looking down at the lounge set I’ve been wearing for gods only know how long.
Curious, I lift my arm and sniff. Yep, regret that already. I need a shower and a change of clothes immediately.
“7 hours and 13 minutes.” He informs me. “Dinner will be ready shortly. He looks me over, then motions to the door. “Leandre and I lack private bathrooms, but you are welcome to use our shared bathroom in the hallway. It should be well equipped with everything you need.”
I follow him out the door, and he leads me to the closest door on the right-hand side of the hallway.
“The towels are here, soap and shower essentials are situated inside the shower, and just press the button in the shower for hot water,” he explains.
“You have a button?” I ask, pleasantly surprised because I thought I’d have to deal with asking for more help to do a basic thing like showering.
“It’s more efficient to simply have a button that is set to a predetermined temperature and water pressure.” He says, like it’s obvious. "It eliminates the guesswork and wasted resources of manual adjustment." With that, he leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.
I quickly strip off the lounge set, followed by the sports bra and underwear that are slightly too big on me.
When all that’s left is the deep blueish-green crystal that hangs on a delicate chain between my breasts, I find I can’t bring myself to take it off.
Figuring it’ll be fine in the shower, I leave it on.
The minute I press the button, I know this is the shower I'll be using from now on. So much simpler than the six levers and knobs in Forrest's shower. Now I won't have to ask one of the guys to teach me another basic normal-people skill.
I try to be as quick as possible and skip washing my hair, knowing dinner will be ready any minute.
The minute I’m out and dried off, I wrap the towel around myself and quickly make my way back down the hall to my own small room.
I grab the one other lounge wear set I’ve been given, this one rocking a tank-top and cardigan combo instead of the t-shirt from earlier.
I decide to skip the underwear and bra altogether.
The ones they had available didn’t fit me quite right, so I decide it isn’t worth the hassle of being slightly uncomfortable when I can just go without.
I can always just pull the cardigan tightly around me if I need to avoid giving the guys a free show.
I won’t because priorities, but this way, when Forrest gets all grumpy about it, I can deflect.
I think back to the good old days when I could just imagine myself in the clothes I wanted, and it would happen. Then I remember it was when I was a ghost and lonely. I'll take borrowed clothes over living a solitary existence any day.
Then I catch a whiff of whatever Anik is cooking, and suddenly I remember: this existence also has food. The kind that makes everything else worth it. The kind that could probably convince me to wear a burlap sack if it meant I got to keep eating it.
The smell draws me away from my thoughts, and like a moth to a flame, I go.
When I enter the main living space, I look across the room and see the guys dishing up in the kitchen and making their way over to the dining table.
I also see Forrest's jaw go tight. Anik's eyes go dark in that way that means he's noticed something he's trying very hard not to react to. Dre's gaze flicks down, then away, then down again, like his eyeballs have betrayed him.
Right. The no-bra thing.
I spot Kieran across the room and make a beeline. "Ki-ki. What does bergamot smell like?"
He freezes mid-reach for a bowl, then turns to me with a smirk. "That depends entirely on whether you’re askin' as a friend or as a distraction from whatever's got every man in this room suddenly fascinated with the ceiling."
"Both."
"Grand." He grabs an orange from the bowl on the counter—Anik's citrus bowl, the one he guards like a dragon—and rips it open with his thumbs.
Actually rips, like he was born to destroy this specific orange.
He shoves it under my nose. "Start here. Citrus. That sharp, bright thing that makes ye feel like you’ve done somethin' with your life. "
I inhale. It's aggressive. In a good way.
"Now bergamot's like that," he continues, "but sadder. More polite. Like if this orange went to finishin' school and came back wearin' fancy clothes and existential dread."
Behind him, Anik has gone still in that way that means murder is being calculated. Forrest's eye twitches as Kieran sets the orange down on the counter—just leaves it there, rind and all, half the pulp still exposed to the air.
I grab a plate and start loading it before either of them can speak. By the time I'm done, the plate looks like it's floating, but I have no regrets. There's too much to choose from, and if they didn't want me to take this much, they shouldn't put so many delicious varieties in front of me.
The only open seat is between Dre and Anik. I plop down and get to work on my likes and dislikes list.
First bite: sweet, a little charred, a slight zing. I point at it with my fork. "What's this?"
"Roasted carrots," Dre says. "With garlic."
Yes. File that under yes.
Next: tender, savory, falls apart on the tongue. I point again.
"Pot roast."
Yes. Obviously yes.
Next: crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, basically a carbohydrate miracle. I point.
"Roasties," Kieran calls from down the table. "Boil 'em, beat 'em up a bit, then roast 'em. Gets the outsides all craggly and crisp."
Absolutely yes. I need to learn this technique immediately.
Next: soft, orange, wrong. I point, mostly to confirm my betrayal.