Raven Chapter 18 Stolen Shirts and Shipping Manifests 216 #6
Putting it that way, the loss of time makes total sense. At one point, there was even a moment where he took off his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves to expose his forearms. I realized at that moment that even forearms can be a turn on if wielded by the right person.
My stomach makes a noise, and I start to panic. I only make noises like that when I’m distressed. Is this the thing I’ve been waiting for? Did the gods do something to my stomach? Am I going to go off like a grenade?
I launch my body off the chair and try to curl up. If I’m going to blow up, then I’m going to make sure I minimize the damage as much as possible.
“What’s wrong?” Forrest asks, voice tight.
“Stay away!” I warn him. “My stomach made a sound, and I’m almost positive the gods put some sort of explosive device in me for shits and giggles.”
He just looks at me as if I’m actively shitting live dodo birds. He’s also looking at me like a problem again.
Great, one little super-justified panic session regarding sadistic gods, and he’s back to being suspicious.
He continues to stare for what feels like minutes before the tension leaves his shoulders in a quiet sigh. “Raven.”
“What?” I snap, trying not to focus on how wonderful my name sounds coming from his lips, all gravel and reluctant concern.
“You’re hungry.”
I freeze. “I’m… what?”
“Hungry,” he repeats, but he might as well be explaining the sun to a cave dweller. “Your body is telling you it requires fuel. You need to eat.”
“Oh.” I slowly uncurl, the cool floorboards a pleasant sensation against my cheek. The panic recedes, leaving behind a hollow, aching feeling in my gut. So this is hunger and, apparently, she’s an absolute bitch. “Well… that’s anticlimactic.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, not sounding sorry at all. “Would you have preferred an actual bomb?”
I have to blink a few times. I think Forrest Hatcher. Grumpy Extraordinaire himself is actually joking with me right now. The realization feels like a tiny, stolen victory.
Before I can properly savor the earth-shattering phenomenon of a Ro-ro joke, the door opens.
A man stands there, clad in practical, rugged attire—cargo pants stained with dirt and a jacket that has earned its scars, not bought pre-distressed from some boutique.
He has the build of a shifter, all solid muscle, but his energy is calm and grounded, like a well-dressed ancient tree.
A definite magical buzz hums around him, not as volatile as the guys', but a low, steady thrum of competence.
"Hatch." The man's voice is a low, steady rumble—the kind that starts deep in the chest and rolls out slowly, like river stones turning over in a current. The kind of voice that doesn't ask questions because it's already sure of the answers.
And the accent catches me off guard. Not Kieran's Scottish roll, not Emerson's clipped halfway-to-British thing. This is different. Softer in some places, harder in others. The vowels go somewhere I can’t follow.
Irish? I turn the sound over in my head. Has to be. Like the movies the humans played on St. Patrick's Day, back when I was still watching from the other side.
Forrest’s posture changes, the tension dissolving into respect. “Eamon. I wasn’t expecting you.”
He just gives a little nod. “The usual channels felt too slow for this.”
I realize this is the last meeting of the day.
I straighten up, trying to look like someone who hasn't just been fearing a god-designed stomach detonation.
Eamon's gaze flickers to me—brief, assessing, holding no threat—just a deep, bone-level weariness I can almost feel in my own joints. Then he focuses back on Forrest.
"The survivors from the Hell's Bend raid are stable. They're talkin' now." He pauses. "It's worse than we thought."
Forrest goes perfectly still. “How?”
"It wasn't just traffickin'." Eamon's voice drops, making the room feel smaller.
"Asag was their collector. He wasn't just takin' them to sell—he was drainin' them.
Siphoning their magic until their well ran dry, lettin' them build it back up, then siphoning again.
" A beat of silence. "He repeated the cycle until their magic was broken beyond repair.
Then they'd sell the husks to the highest bidder. "
The air leaves the room. My own runes feel suddenly cold against my skin.
"For what purpose?" Forrest's voice is dangerously soft.
"This is bigger than one demon." Eamon's jaw tightens.
"Asag was takin' orders. For months—maybe years—they've been targetin' the vulnerable.
Low-level magic users. The ones the system barely notices are gone.
They're grindin' the disposable into dust to fuel somethin'.
" He meets Forrest's eyes. "The only reason you and your team were brought in to investigate this ring now is that they got bold.
Started snatchin' mid-level supes. People who were missed. "
Forrest seems to absorb that little horrific tidbit of information with ease, his expression as immovable as granite.
After a moment of heavy silence, he pulls a sealed envelope from his desk drawer and walks it to Eamon. “For the new safe house. For the ones we’re hoping to still save.”
Eamon takes it, tucking it into his worn jacket with a nod. “Thank you. As always, the work continues.”
Forrest sighs, and for the first time today, I hear the true weight he carries in that single, weary exhalation. “It always does.”
He turns to me, and the look in his eyes is different.
The constant, calculating suspicion is gone, replaced by the grim certainty of a man staring into a coming storm.
And all I can think, with a clarity that terrifies me, is that whoever had me before probably wants me back, and they’re looking to use me as a battery.