Raven Chapter 15 Divine Software and Faulty Hardware 180 #3
A choked cough—suspiciously like a stifled laugh—sounds behind me, breaking the spell.
Then, the epiphany hits. What if the point isn't to avoid his glare, but to earn it?
What if all he needs is someone to keep poking until that mask cracks? Find the right buttons, push them, and maybe—just maybe—he'd actually let me in.
Worth a try.
I give him a giant, incandescent smile. “What can I do for you, boss man?”
His gaze sharpens, if that were even possible, before he holds up the little crystal pendant I gave Widget.
The traitor.
“Silas informs us this is a key.” He takes a slow, measured breath, his control visibly fraying.
Not exactly what I had in mind but results are results.
Then, in that accusatory tone he does so well: "What else have you been keeping from us?"
I scrub my hands over my face with a groan.
“Literally nothing. I forgot that thing even existed. It’s been with me since the moment I came into being.
” He doesn’t look convinced. “Look, would you bother telling someone you happened to have a left foot? It’s just a part of me that’s always been there. ”
His expression shifts from accusatory to analytical. I've seen this before—the moment a crisis gets re-categorized as a problem with a solution.
Now, if only he’d look at me like a person.
He turns on his heel. “A key is useless without a lock. We need to identify what it opens.”
Back in the heart of the lab, he addresses Silas. “We require a full analysis of her runes. Both they and the crystal must be linked.”
Silas scowls, lunging at nothing, before asking, “What runes? No one said anything about runes.” He swats the air, giving up on the threatening stance, before turning in a full circle and focusing back on me. “Well, get on with it. Show me.”
I stiffen up because he makes it sound like I’m supposed to just start stripping. In front of the guys, that’s one thing. In front of Silas? No, thank you.
I look at the guys, who are all glaring at Silas, ready to ask them if they can take pictures of them instead or something but another furtive wave of Silas’s arm cuts me off.
Before he can snap again, Emerson moves forward to stand in front of me, his posture rigid. “Unnecessary. I have documented everything of note regarding my anomaly.”
I peek around him and up at his face that matches the cool possessive tone of his voice. Also, he just called me his anomaly , and that fact does something complicated and fizzy to my insides, a sensation I have no name for, but one I immediately decide I need to experience again.
“I can provide you with a precise schematic,” he continues, his voice cool, “including the specific sequence and anatomical placement of all one hundred and twenty primary sigils and the two nascent familiar-bond runes.”
Silas just blinks, his goggled gaze flicking between Em and my own form still standing behind him. Or, as I just realize now, up against him. I seem to have plastered myself against his side while attempting to catch a glimpse of his face.
“Right. Well. That should be plenty.” He scurries to a different workbench, returning with a delicate, braided leather cord woven with a single, milky-white stone.
“A basic obscurement charm. It won’t hold up to a direct test from an Elder, but it’ll make her magic read as low-level to anyone else.
It also should add a slight… blurriness to her features on camera and to casual observation. ”
Forrest takes it before handing it to me. “Put it on. We need to get you a functional wardrobe.”
I just look at it like it’s a bomb I somehow have to learn how to disarm on the fly. Before I can panic too much, though, Dre steps in, easily taking it from my hands before standing behind me and settling the charm in place so it lies just below the hollow of my throat.
Taking my hair in his hand, he gently moves it out of the way to secure the clasp. I can’t help but smile in appreciation of his care for me. Without thinking about it, I spin around and hug him, mumbling a “thank you” into his shirt.
Silas clears his throat, and I take my arms from around Dre to turn and face the nutty warlock.
“This, however…” He says, holding up my crystal pendant.
“May I keep it? A key is one thing, but the alloy, the resonance…
It's an artifact. I have some theories, but I need to run a full diagnostic suite.”
I look at the little crystal, a part of me reluctant to let it go, but a larger part of me knowing it’s the only way I’ll get the answers I’ve wanted for decades. “Fine,” I sigh. “But if Widget tries to wear it, I want pictures.”
I shift my weight, and Emerson shifts with me, a seamless, protective shadow. His gaze remains locked on Silas with a look that promises evisceration if the warlock so much as breathes on his prized specimen.
Which, let the record show, is me.
Has anyone mentioned how stupidly, phenomenally lucky I am?
As we file out, I fall into step beside Kieran. The disguise charm feels cool and light, a stark contrast to the warm, heavy weight of the crystal I left behind.
I grab his arm just above the elbow, pulling him back. "Quick question," I whisper.
"Aye, wisp?" He asks, placing his warm hand over mine.
"Um—" I try to remember what I was going to say, but his skin feels so good. Warm and soft, and it fills me with the urge to peel him open and nestle inside of him so I can feel this everywhere.
His chuckle draws me out of my morbidly cuddly thoughts and back into reality.
"Um, yeah, right. So, Em told me he smells like 'vanilla-infused parchment with top notes of bergamot.
'" I say, and it comes out exactly like someone reading a language they don't speak.
"What in all the realms does that mean? In real-people words. "
Kieran's face splits into a wide, knowing grin.
"Och, that's why you were wonderin' about bergamot, is it?
" He tugs me closer, turning me so we're both looking down the hall at Emerson's retreating form—all sharp lines and intense focus, even in the way he walks. He's quiet for a moment, considering.
"It means, lass," he says, his voice a conspiratorial rumble, "that our broody genius smells like a fancy, expensive bookstore that also serves a damn good cup of Earl Grey." He gives me a knowing smirk. "He smells like the one place you'd never want to leave."
I look ahead at Emerson's retreating back and the image clicks into place—a quiet, warm space full of old books and the scent of tea, where everything makes sense and the world can't touch you.
"Huh," I say, a slow smile spreading across my face.
Now that I can understand.