Raven Chapter 22 Theories and Harmonies 287 #2
I have to take a few deep breaths, reminding myself I need to pace myself. Attaching myself to him like a koala on a eucalyptus binge is probably classified as assault, and I sincerely doubt I would do well in a supernatural prison. So I pivot to the least sexy thing I can think of.
“So, what are we learning about today?” I ask.
He slips the cardigan back on, his glamour settling over him like a second skin as he does. The sharp edges soften. The purple tint fades. By the time he reaches the desk, he looks like himself again. Or, more accurately, the version of himself he wants the world to see.
With one smooth motion, he sweeps everything—wires, spare parts, unidentifiable metal bits—into a large tote at the end and thumps the giant tome down in the newly cleared desk, stepping into his comfort zone.
I drag another chair over and settle beside him, watching as he flips through the pages, his eyes scanning at a speed that shouldn’t be possible.
“How are you taking any of that in?” I ask. “Also, why do you hide your ears at home? It seems a little… extra.”
He doesn’t even look up from his reading, his voice distant.
“My mind processes data at a speed that would make most people’s brains seize.
It’s a form of photographic memory, classified as a Rare ‘information analysis’ ability.
The enhanced logic is just an Uncommon one by overall supernatural standards.
” A dry, almost imperceptible note enters his tone.
“Humans are oddly fascinated by the concept of eidetic memory, despite never having proven a true case.” I watch his shoulders stiffen just a little before he continues.
“Also, I hide my true appearance out of habit. Not because I’m required to. ”
I just nod and decide to shut up and let the man work.
It doesn’t take him long to lay out the foundational principles of magic.
He uses words like “focused intent,” “visualization,” and “energy channels” with cool, logical precision.
It makes absolutely zero practical sense to me, but I’m sure it’ll click once I actually do something.
I ask a few questions when I’m genuinely lost, trying to soak it all in.
I’m determined to master this, to stop being the liability.
When my brain feels like a waterlogged sponge, he gets up and retrieves a single candle from a drawer, placing it on the table between us.
“Our first attempt will be small,” he states. “Simply light the candle.”
I try not to roll my eyes. Of course, just simply light the candle. Like it’s child’s play. Feels more like walking out into a field of landmines and hoping for the best.
I focus like my life—and the life of everyone in this city—depends on it. I visualize a spark and try to push it into being with my will. The result? Absolutely nothing. Not even a flicker. There’s a frustrating block, like a switch that just won’t flip.
Come on. One tiny flame. I’ve seen magical toddlers do this. Why does my brain-to-magic connection need to be made out of wet cardboard?
Emerson, so helpfully, observes, “The initial energy expenditure must overcome the inertial resistance.”
“Is that your way of telling me to try harder?” I grumble. Fueled by frustration, I put my entire will behind it, no longer imagining a spark but a goddamn inferno.
Shockingly, a tiny, controlled flame does not appear on the wick. Instead, the heavy velvet curtain in the corner whoomphs into a sheet of hungry, purple-tinged fire.
I realize then that I didn't just flick a switch.
I broke the lock. There's no relief, only a terrifying, exhilarating rush as my magic rips through me.
It isn't satisfied. The curtain fire is just the beginning; I can feel a torrent of raw power building in my chest, a floodgate cracking open and begging to drown the entire room.
I clench my jaw as panic seizes me, clawing desperately at the magical gate I just smashed through like the Kool-Aid Man.
Before I can sound the evacuation alarms, two familiar presences manifest—cool shadows that wrap around me.
The sensation of a drain plug being yanked open blooms in my chest, and I sag with relief as the destructive magic is violently siphoned away.
The purple fire vanishes, leaving not even a scorch mark on the velvet.
I, on the other hand, am a wreck. Gasping, weak-kneed, and shaky, the phantom sensation of that dizzying torrent still echoes in my veins.
The room is safe, but I have never felt more dangerous.
My familiars feel thin, stretched to their limit; our connection hums with a soul-deep weariness.
One that tells me I need to stay far away from magic until they can recover.
When I turn to Emerson to apologize for nearly burning his sanctuary down, he's too busy being his usual self to even notice he should be mad. He's already jotting notes in a leather-bound journal, mumbling about "a binary output" and "no observable gradient."
When his gaze finally lifts to meet mine, he's not disappointed. He's hungry . The way he gets when something new and complicated lands in his lap.
"Control, in the conventional sense, appears to be structurally impossible for you." He flips through the book before nodding. "It seems the governing principles of your magic are fundamentally different."
"Fundamentally different," I echo, the words crushing the last flicker of hope in my chest.
It’s the confirmation I've been dreading. I am, in fact, broken. A magical bomb that can't be disarmed. I'll never be anything but a fascinating, unstable liability to them. A problem to be solved, not a person to be loved.
Right. Well, wallowing in this particular pile of pegasus-shit isn't going to change my magical abilities or lack thereof. Time to shelve the existential crisis and focus on what I can actually control.
"So what does this mean for our magic lessons?" I ask, my voice surprisingly steady.
"Lots of theory for now. We will learn the runes, their meanings, and their history. But until I can formulate a new hypothesis, we must hold off on the practical applications."
I nod because that works perfectly for me.
After that display, I’m in no hurry to kick that door open again, and I know for damn sure my familiars aren’t prepared to manage yet another uncontrolled power surge.
If I can't master my magic, I'll just have to work my ass off to become a weapon in training.
He turns to the heavy tome and starts to flip through furiously, making notes as he goes. The silence that follows is suffocating. Needing air that isn't thick with the stench of my own inadequacy, I slip out. I have another issue to address: the weird, tense way things ended with Kieran.
I find the living area and kitchen empty. A faint thump-thump-thump reverberates under my feet as I head back down the hall—a bass line I can feel in my bones. Which is new. Music used to be just sound. Now it's physical.
Since the guys have never thrown a rager in the gym, I follow the sound to Kieran's closed door.
I press my ear to the wood. The beat is there, a steady pulse through the door, but the song itself is muffled—the magic that keeps his room soundproofed doing its job, keeping his chaos contained.
My mind flashes to all the times I watched him, invisible, belting out songs when he thought he was utterly alone. I'd sworn then that one day I'd share that joy with him. The thought of him in there now, pouring his heart out in solitude, is a physical ache.
Unwilling to let him be alone, I crack the door and slip inside.
The music hits me full-force—ABBA, "Voulez-Vous," the exact song I used to watch him lose himself in.
His voice is just as beautiful as it was when I was his ghostly stalker.
He stands in the middle of the room, one hand clutched to his heart, the other gripping a hairbrush-microphone, as he belts out the opening lyrics.
For a second, I hesitate. This is a private moment. But I know he'd rather hide this part of himself behind a joke, never admitting to the pain lurking beneath. The pain that will one day catch up to him and swallow him whole. I won't let that happen. Besides, I want all of him, pain included.
Stepping forward, I pick up the lyric right beside him, matching his energy note for note.
His eyes snap open. He freezes, the note dying in his throat, his expression one of pure, unadulterated horror. I keep going, undeterred.
The horror melts into bewildered confusion, his eyes scanning me like I’d just changed the rules of his favorite game mid-play, and he can't figure out if he's losing or if we're playing something better. It's the same all-consuming intensity Emerson gets when his data doesn't add up.
Okay, so impromptu duets aren’t his thing. Noted. But I’m in it now, so I just keep singing, grabbing a pen to use as an imaginary microphone of my own, and giving him a lighten up shrug.
The confusion in his eyes softens, transforming into something else entirely—a weird, intense sort of awe. He looks at me like I've just spontaneously translated ancient Sanskrit instead of singing ABBA.
The last notes of the song fade, and for a second I think he's going to crack a joke, pivot to something else, escape. But he just... looks at me. Really looks at me, like he's deciding something. Then the next song starts and something solidifies in his gaze.
He’s come to some sort of decision and I’m proud of him for whatever it is. I’m just here for the vibes.
We move through song after song—sea shanties, folk songs, things I didn't know I knew the words to. His voice changes somewhere along the way. The performance peels away, layer by layer, until what's left is just him. Raw. Unguarded. Singing like he forgot anyone else could hear.
Then he starts something new, and the air changes.
His voice drops lower, intimate—which is absurd, because he's singing into a hairbrush and I'm singing into a pen and we should look ridiculous.
We probably do. But his eyes haven't left mine, soft and fierce all at once, and I realize with a jolt that this isn't a performance anymore. It hasn't been for a while.
He's singing about graves. About crawling home. About something that sounds a lot like forever.
Home . The word echoes in my chest. He's looking at me like I'm home. I don't know what he survived. I don't know what he’s running from. But watching him now, hairbrush forgotten, looking at me like I'm the first safe place he's ever found—I know it's led here. To me. To this.
My throat tightens. This is Kieran, who jokes about everything, who never stays still, who has these moments—just flickers, really—where the smile drops and something raw and exhausted surfaces before he catches himself and pastes the sunshine back on.
I've seen it a dozen times. In the kitchen at 3 a.m. when he thinks no one's watching. In the hallway after a bad mission. In the split second between a laugh and a breath.
He buries it so deep I think even he forgets it’s there. But it’s there. And right now, sitting cross-legged on his bed, hairbrush mic still in hand, singing about crawling home like—
Oh.
Oh, holy shit.
He's singing this to me.
He's not singing about home. He's singing about me being home.
The realization hits like a wave. This isn't just a song. It's a confession. A promise. A map of everything he's too afraid to say out loud, delivered via hairbrush because of course that's how this happens.
Why is this so intense? Why does it feel like he's handing me something he's never given anyone, in the most ridiculous way possible, and it only makes it more real?
His voice trembles on the last note, just slightly, and I realize he's not performing. He's vulnerable. Right here, in front of me, with no shield and no exit strategy, holding a hairbrush like a lifeline.
I don't know what to do with the weight of it. I don't know what to do with him.
But I also don't look away.
Then Forrest has to ruin it by pounding on the door. I know it's him because even his knocking has a distinct "stick-up-its-ass" flavor. The music cuts off, and he wastes no time in barging in, staring at us with deep suspicion.
“What were you two doing in here?”
“An extremely graphic and life-changing orgy, obviously.” I say, motioning to our fully clothed forms.
I toss the pen I'd been using as a microphone onto his messy desk and give Kieran a little wave. Then I walk out, my mind already locking onto the resolution I made after the disaster with Emerson.
Right. New plan time.
If I'm a magical failure, I'll become a physical weapon.
I'll make myself as sharp and dangerous as they are.
I will shut up, I will not complain, and I will work until my muscles scream.
Because the only thing worse than this physical torture is the thought of them finally seeing the fucked-up mess I am and kicking me to the curb.
A broken body I can handle. A broken heart would be the end of me.