Raven Chapter 15 Divine Software and Faulty Hardware 180
Raven
"So, this warlock, Silas," I whisper to Kieran, desperate to distract myself from how truly terrifying elevators are in the flesh.
"Is he the 'eccentric but harmless' type, or the 'might-turn-us-into-newts-for-fun' type? Based on the little I’ve spied on, it feels like you guys probably should have institutionalized him instead of letting him live a few floors below you. "
Kieran grins. "Aye, but all the best warlocks are a wee bit aff their heid."
I raise a brow, not believing him for a second. I saw plenty of the dwarves' pet warlocks at The Consortium. They were not nearly as... insane.
"’Tis true, while most warlocks are the scholarly type, it's the nutters who can do more than all the others combined." He shrugs, and I huff, turning to Em. Kieran gives me pieces. Em gives me the whole puzzle. I won't understand half of it, but at least I'll have all the pieces.
“Most warlocks were cut off from a good deal of their power when the physical plane was cut off from the others during the Severance. Silas attempted a dangerous ritual that rebounded and caused resonance psychosis. He hears things that don’t exist and is tapped into a level of reality no one else can perceive.
This makes him unstable, but his intellectual abilities rival my own. ”
So the resident warlock is a brilliant, magical looney-tune who successfully microwaved a metal spoon and now hears the universe's screamo album on a constant loop. Got it.
“He is also the only known warlock that can spoof the Guild Line and allow us to travel without record.” Forrest adds, ever the pragmatist.
The elevator dings. As we step onto Silas's floor, the smell hits me first. I knew he smoked a pipe, but I never understood the scale. The sweet, cloying scent thickens the air, becoming almost suffocating as we approach his residence.
We bypass his living space and enter his workshop.
His workshop is a miniature, chaotic galaxy.
Crystals of every hue pulse with inner light, scattered among intricate brass astrolabes and half-finished charms. Silas himself is a whirlwind of frayed silk and nervous energy, his eyes magnified to comical sizes by a complex contraption of multi-lensed spectacles.
A long-stem pipe seems surgically attached to his lips.
“Ah! The gang's all here! To what do I owe the—“ His reedy, chatty stream of words cuts off abruptly. The pipe freezes halfway to his lips.
His comically large gaze locks on me. A strangled gasp escapes him. He stumbles back, his free hand flailing in a complex gesture.
Is this like when humans stick up their middle finger? Am I being insulted via sign language? Rude.
Before I can return fire, a shard of clear crystal on his workbench flares. Something shifts in the air. I don't have time to process what—because Anik is there.
He wasn’t in front of me a second ago but now he stands directly between me and Silas. His body is a wall. Solid. Unmoving. He doesn't look at me. Just stands there like he’s ready to take a hit I didn’t even see coming.
I blink. Look around. That's when I notice the shimmer. The faint, honey-colored glow surrounding me like a second skin. A bubble. I'm in a bubble.
Through it, I hear shouting—muffled, distant. Forrest's voice. Kieran's. Dre's. Anik doesn't move. He's still there, planted between me and whatever danger I wasn't prepared for.
And all I can think is: His body just moved. Like it wasn't a choice. Like it was instinct.
Like I matter that much.
Gods, that's either the hottest or the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. Maybe both.
I can’t think of anything useful to do and, not wanting to sit with the crushing weight of hope, I stick my tongue out and cycle through every rude gesture I’ve ever seen humans do. Sadly, that’s not a lot. And it does nothing to stem the rising panic.
Apparently, solitary confinement is a hard limit.
Good to know.
My magic doesn’t appreciate the joke. It flickers to life, wild and dangerous. Before it can build into something that shatters this fishbowl, the two runes on my palms glow. Smoke pours from them, coalescing into my two besties, one on each shoulder.
I watch in awe as their presence immediately soothes the wild magic, absorbing it back into their inky feathers. A soft pop sounds from the bubble, and it vanishes. Silas must have dropped it.
“How do you guys keep doing that?” I ask with a massive dose of jealousy. “I can’t even clothe myself, and you’re wrangling magic that feels like it could level a city if I let it.”
“Your feelings are correct,” Huginn says into my mind, the little chip on his beak letting me know who is who.
“Ah, for fuck’s sake.” I groan. “You’re telling me I could actually level a city?”
Not helping in the slightest, a picture of a post-apocalyptic world flashes through my brain.
“What Muninn is trying to say is that it has happened before. We are here to make sure it doesn’t happen again,” Huginn clarifies, and my legs turn to jelly.
“Wait, why couldn’t he have just said it?” I ask, grasping onto anything that isn’t the apparent atomic bomb inside of me.
“I am thought, he is memory.” I just nod along to Huginn’s explanation because what else am I going to do? Demand a refund?
My panic spiral is cut short when I notice everyone is staring, the bubble gone.
I give a little awkward wave before reaching up to scratch Muninn’s head.
“Don’t mind me, guys, just having a conversation with my besties.
We’ll be done shortly.” I stiffly turn back to the ravens.
“Wait, aren’t you guys supposed to be a myth?
This feels straight out of a Norse mythology book. ”
“We are a gift from Odin, given at the request of your mother,” Huginn says.
Images flash through my brain: a large, golden man with an eye patch, a beautiful black-haired woman, a rune-glowing dagger passing from her hands into his, a tiny crack in the wall between planes. My brain can’t keep up.
“Wait, my mother ?” I say, dazed.
They both give a little trill of affirmation before a single image appears in my mind. The woman has long black hair, pale skin, eyes so dark they look black, and a beauty that seems unattainable. My breath hitches when I realize this image is in answer to my question.
This is my mother.
I soak up every detail I can and can definitely see our similarities, but there’s a refined grace to her that I don’t think I could ever manage.
Her hair is a silky sheet that falls perfectly to her mid-back whereas mine is somewhere between a wave and a curl with a rebellious streak I haven’t managed to tame as of yet. Granted, I haven’t exactly tried.
“Wait, hold up,” I say, bringing my hands to my temples, attempting to rub away the building ache. I'm also realizing I’m mad that this I can rub out, but I couldn't earlier when it would have actually been enjoyable.
The gods truly are cruel, and apparently, one of them is my mother.
In order to avoid the dawning realization that I’m a freaking demi-god, not just demi-god adjacent, I ask another question.
“If you guys are a gift from Odin and the planes are cut off from each other, that has to mean my mom is a goddess. Does that mean Norse mythology is real? Like, out of all the mythologies, that’s the one?
” I shrug a little and hear the shifting of wings as I admit, “Seems anticlimactic.”
Huginn cocks his head as I stare at him. “All gods are real. Every story stems from a grain of truth.”
“And how do I fit into this story?”
“You are the missing link,” he says simply. "We must get back to tending your vital energies."
Tending my vital energies.
My brain, surrounded by five very solid, very warm, very present men, takes that phrase and runs with it. Straight into the gutter. Full sprint. Conjuring images I absolutely do not need to be having right now, in front of an audience, while my familiars are still mid-dissolve into smoke.
I lock eyes with Huginn for a second. Innocent. Pure. Definitely not thinking about whatever my hindbrain is currently rendering in high definition.
Then they turn completely back to smoke. I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
My eyes take in the stunned faces of the guys before landing on the trembling, wide-eyed warlock. He takes a long, shaky drag from his pipe.
“Were you… speaking to your familiars?” he asks, but continues, baffled.
“They don’t… they don’t speak. They comfort.
They store power. They are beasts! Pets!
” His trembling finger points at me. “You... you were holding counsel.” The words tremble with terror and reverence. “They were advising you.”
He swats at the air by his head, scowling at something only he can see, before his magnified gaze snaps back to me. “Who… what are you?”
“Apparently a demi-god high priestess.” I shrug, refusing to believe any of it until I can have a proper mental breakdown in private.
“I prefer No Longer Ghost Girl.” I shake my head.
“No, that doesn’t sound right. Phantom Menace?
No, that one’s taken.” My eyes land on Em, and I smile. “You can just call me an anomaly.”
As Emerson’s gaze locks onto me, I can see that he’s absolutely captivated. I’m no longer just a specimen to him; I’m a riddle he’s desperate to solve with a kind of terrifying, single-minded devotion.
And you know what? Sign me up. Let's see what he figures out.
My eyes dart to the rest of the guys as they stand in dazed silence.
I let them have their moment. It’s not every day your resident ghost-turned-disaster-magnet casually drops the "demi-god" bomb and sets your entire understanding of reality on fire. Frankly, their shock is the most normal reaction I’d witnessed all day.
"Right," I say, my voice unnaturally bright in the stunned quiet. "I'm just... gonna go look at the shiny things. Give you all a minute to... you know. Recalibrate your view of the known universe or whatever."