Raven Chapter 17 Hedonism and Household Appliances 200
Raven
My feet feel like they’ve been residing in the circle of hell reserved for the punishment of consumerism.
Each step feels like I'm walking on broken glass, which is apparently what happens when your shoes are too small.
I was given a pair of the extras they have and, at first, they were perfectly fine.
My feet felt like they were wrapped up in a cozy weighted blanket—which is, according to Anik's growly self, not what a shoe is supposed to feel like.
I attempted to rein in the spending as much as possible because, while they might have money, a part of me worried that any minute I'd snap back into the ghostly version of myself and they would have wasted all of this for nothing.
Clearly, I failed. The mountain of bags currently transforming Anik into a disgruntled pack mule is all the evidence I need.
As we walk in, the pack mule in question—still devastatingly handsome, still disgruntled—heads straight for my room to deposit the spoils of war. I follow him, my only goal to face-plant on the nearest horizontal surface and probably die.
When I get there, Anik is already making his way out. His hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists, and he offers only a guttural grunt before stalking down the hall and disappearing into his room.
A little pang of hurt ricochets around the thumping organ in my chest.
All day, he's been a live wire, coiled so tight I'm surprised he hasn't snapped. Every time I get close, he seems to vibrate with this restless energy—like he's trying to put as much distance between us as possible without actually leaving the room. It's confusing. And a little hurtful.
And yet, the same man spent the entire day acting like he'd personally declared war on anyone with eyeballs who happened to glance in my direction. When one guy got a little too close to me, Anik was there in an instant, a low growl rumbling in his chest, his look promising dismemberment.
He didn't just scare the guy away; he looked like he was savoring the idea of actually tearing him limb from limb.
So which is it? Does he find my presence unbearable? Or is he claiming me as his? I can't tell if he wants me to back off or if he's the one who's a breath away from pouncing.
So now I’m just sitting here, confused and aching in too many ways to count. Needing a distraction, I pull out all my new clothes, rip the tags off with a satisfying tear, and pile as many into my arms as I can carry before heading out in search of the washing machine.
I deeply regret not scouting this out during my five-year stint as an invisible stalker. I watched them do almost everything else, but once you've seen one human sort darks from lights, you've seen it all.
Now I'm walking down the hall, squinting at the walls like a secret door will magically appear. Where do you even hide a laundry room? I don't see any extra doors. They have to wash their clothes somewhere, unless they’re all using magic, which, now that I think about it, is entirely possible.
Finally, I stop at a door I'd always written off as a linen closet. The guys duck in for seconds, emerge with clothes, towels, or sheets.
It takes a full three seconds for my brain to catch up.
Laundry room. It's the laundry room. It's always been the laundry room.
Gods, I'm an idiot.
“Top-tier observation skills, Raven,” I mumble to myself as I clumsily shoulder the door open and unceremoniously dump the first pile of clothes onto the floor.
Two more trips, and every stitch of my new wardrobe is piled into a beautiful, colorful mountain.
Now for the hard part. I look up at two giant, sleek metal boxes.
They’re like human laundry machines if human machines were designed by a minimalist alien.
No buttons, no dials. Just hatch-like doors on the top and a shelf holding a collection of glowing, iridescent vials.
Determined to prove I’m not completely useless, I throw open the hatch on the right. A neatly folded pile of clean laundry stares back at me. Right. Not that one.
I move to the machine on the left. It’s empty and smells faintly of damp earth—promising. I start hurling my clothes inside. When it looks full, I climb on top and sit on the closed lid, cramming the last few items in. Perfect fit.
Now, for the main puzzle: the glowing tubes. I study them until my brain throbs. With a frustrated growl Anik would be proud of, I snatch the nearest vial from the shelf above what I desperately hope is the washing machine.
I figure, more is better, right? So I slide off, pry the lid up, dump the entire glowing vial in, and climb back on top.
For a while, nothing happens. I start to worry I missed a secret button or a magic word. Just as I'm about to give up, the machine shudders violently, groaning like a dying beast. I look down to see a trickle of sparkly, iridescent bubbles leaking from the edges of the lid.
Oh, shit.
I scramble off, frantically patting the smooth metal surface for an abort button, an off switch, anything.
A quiet, deliberate throat-clearing freezes me in place.
I turn slowly to find Forrest standing in the doorway, his expression the visual equivalent of a long-suffering sigh.
As a cascade of magical bubbles pours over the side of the machine, I paste on my most innocent smile, hoping to distract from the foamy catastrophe unfolding behind me.
“Hey, Ro-ro! Is there something I can help you with?”
He just stares at me before pinching the bridge of his nose. With a sigh, he drops his hand.
"What did you do?"
I give a shrug before gesturing wildly at the bubbles. “I put the clothes in, I dumped in some soap.” I point to the now-empty vial. “Or at least I think this is soap.”
“All of it?” He doesn’t even wait for me to answer, just continues on.
“That vial is concentrated. It contains enough magic for twenty loads.” His voice is dangerously calm.
He swings the door shut and points to a chart on the inside.
“The vials are color-coded. The measuring spoons,” he points again to a magnetic strip holding tiny, marked scoops, “are clearly marked for the load size.”
“Well, that’s a stupidly designed system,” I retort.
“Who puts the instructions on the inside of the door? You do know it’s not normal to lock yourself in a room with your laundry, right?
” I lean forward, peering at him. “Is this a gargoyle thing? Do you have some kind of sacred, solitary laundry ritual I should know about?”
In a move that should be surprising to no one, he ignores me entirely and instead moves with the grim efficiency of a bomb disposal expert. Or at least, the one I watched on the human side before it ended… poorly.
Fingers crossed this goes better.
He powers down the groaning unit with a sharp tap to a rune in the top corner—one I’d completely missed—then grabs a small crystal disk from a dispenser on the wall.
“These,” he says, snapping it, “are cleaning runes.”
I watch, fascinated, as the rune dissolves into ash that swirls through the sparkly bubbles. The foam vanishes in under a second. I blink, half-expecting it to be a trick. Spoiler alert: it isn’t. It’s just as real as the whiplash I’m now suffering from.
“First of all, how did the machine even start if I didn’t push the button?” I point to the cleaning rune dispenser. “Second, have those always been there? I could have sworn I would have seen you guys use one before now if they were.”
He gives me a look that screams testing my patience before explaining, “The button is mainly used for reset, once the liquid is in, it starts.” He motions to the room.
“As for the cleaning runes, before the kitchen incident and this, we have had very little use for them. Only Kieran uses them regularly, and it’s generally in his own quarters. ”
Knowing how anal retentive this man is about cleanliness, I believe it.
“Now, observe.” He orders and, because I don’t like his tone, I roll my eyes.
“I’m observing a man having a very intense, very quiet relationship with an appliance.” I snark.
He ignores me, and I pinch myself just to make sure I’m still corporeal. Letting out a sigh of relief, I watch as he removes the top layer of clothes in the washer and plops them into some sort of utility sink.
“Step one: Sort.” He continues, not even checking to see if I’m following. “Lights, darks, and delicates, which for our purposes includes anything enchanted, spelled, or likely to bite.”
“Emerson’s murder outfits should probably go in the ‘likely to bite’ pile.” I say offhandedly, remembering the number of weapons he stashes everywhere.
A muscle twitches in his cheek. It might almost be a smile but I refuse to get my hopes up.
He continues, “Since you’ve already started this with zero organization in mind I am just going to treat it as Kieran treats his clothes.
” I can practically see the shudder run through him.
He reaches up and grabs a vial that looks light pink.
“This one is for a standard cleanse. There’s also heavy soil, gentle weave, and sanitize.
The machine doesn’t have settings, the settings are the vials themselves. ”
He presses the button on the washing machine and I watch as the shimmery liquid stuff I poured in earlier pours out the bottom and into another little vial. He grabs it, sets it on the shelf, then makes his way over to the measuring spoons, taking the one he needs.
“Scoop size corresponds to load size.” He explains. “Small, medium, large, extra large.” He grabs the extra large scoop, pours the light pink shimmery liquid in, then dumps it over the clothing before closing the lid.