Raven Chapter 25 Menty Bs and Man-Scents 314
Raven
I have decided, with the absolute certainty of a woman staring her own demise in the face, that I do not like planes.
Do I like the idea of planes? Of course I do.
For decades, I watched them trace silver lines across the sky—little metal birds carrying people to places I could only haunt in my non-existent dreams. Sadly, they always moved too fast for me to keep up without draining myself. So I just watched from the ground.
Turns out, altitude is expensive. I can manage a float above the Bazaar for a little bit, especially from the penthouse balcony.
But past that? The energy cost is steep.
Like swimming to the surface with anchors tied to my ankles.
Planes are always too high, too fast, and too far.
So I watch from the ground and tell myself it's fine.
Before getting on this one, I was absolutely ecstatic. Like a human kid on Christmas. But that was before I understood the reality —and the reason we are now stuck using this mortal death trap in the first place.
Silas had grumbled something about my magic being a "volatile catalyst" and that using a travel Snapper would likely tear a hole in the fabric of reality. I’d mentioned the pretty, shiny mirror in his workshop, and he’d just looked at me, utterly horrified, and said one emotional spike from me would probably shatter a thousand years of delicate enchantment.
His verdict was final: we were going to have to do it the boring, horrifyingly corporeal way.
The "boring way" is this loud, pressurized sky sausage. The engines power up with a deafening whine that vibrates through my very bones. And the guys? They’re all just… sitting there. Forrest is reviewing a report, Anik is already looking half-asleep, Emerson’s tinkering with a vintage pocket watch, and Kieran is grinning like we’re about to board a rollercoaster.
I, on the other hand, am acutely and painfully being reminded of the mortality of this shiny new body.
My knuckles are white where I grip the armrests.
How does this thing work? What principle of physics keeps several tons of metal and rich asshole upholstery suspended in the air?
Did someone remember to check the fuel? This jet is so much smaller than the ones I’ve seen at normal airports—a mini sky sausage, just waiting to rupture.
I do not want to die less than a month into living.
Actually, knowing my luck, this is probably the punchline to some cosmic joke.
The gods finally give me a body, let me taste chocolate, let me interact with the physical embodiments of male perfection—and then splat.
Plane crash before we get to any of the good stuff.
There's no way I was given a chance at a real life for free. There's a price hovering somewhere. I just haven't seen it yet.
My fingers are doing a nervous tap-dance on my thigh, my eyes scanning every inch of the cabin for cracks. Then a cool hand lands on top of mine, and the frantic movement just... stops. I don't even realize I've been holding my breath until I breathe in, and suddenly I'm drowning.
Pine trees. Sunlight. Berries. My happy place. The place that reminds my chest how to be a chest instead of a collapsing building.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Find your happy place or some shit.
The panic doesn't vanish, but it pulls back, settling into something I can handle.
"I promise the jet is safe," he says, his voice all I'm busy saving a life calm. "It gets a full check before every flight. The pilots are the best."
Knowing it gets professionally poked and prodded before every flight seems to smooth out a majority of the panic. “Thanks,” I say, the word still a little shaky. “I’m just not used to flying in a contraption like this.”
His head tilts. “What kind of flying are you used to?”
“Oh, you know. The usual.” I shrug. “Bridges, cliffs, tall buildings. Before this,” I gesture to my very solid body, “I used to jump off them. It was the only time I felt… unburdened. Alive.”
The casual chatter in the cabin cuts off like a switch has been flicked. I look around in surprise to find a circle of stunned, blank faces. Anik is the first to find his voice, which would probably be best described as a growl. “You jumped off cliffs. For fun?”
“Well, yeah. It was fun.”
"You will not be doing that anymore," Forrest states, in that I am the law tone of his.
I roll my eyes so hard I’m sure I catch a glimpse of my own brain. “Well, duh. I’m corporeal now. Not trying to die after only a few weeks of life.”
My eyes flick to Forrest. The exhaustion is still there—etched into his face, hiding in the shadows under his eyes.
The same exhaustion I'd been carrying until spiked tea, Kieran's chaos, Anik's cooking, and Em's quiet sanctuary burned it out of me.
His is still there. Lingering. Like he doesn't know how to let it go.
Now that I’m not running on empty and melodrama, my heart hurts for him more than I’m pissed.
That brutal perfectionism he was shoving down my throat?
It’s so obviously a fucked-up form of projection.
The perfection he demands from himself just boiled over after he decided he’d failed to protect me.
Which is pegasus-shit. He took out three shifters single-handedly. I got a bruise. Big deal. But to someone who demands absolute perfection? I guess that counts as a failure.
It’s a shitty reality, and part of me wants to walk over and just hug the tension out of him. But it’s not my job to fix him. If he wants to be a miserable, self-flagellating bastard, he can do it over there. Until he’s ready to apologize for grinding me into dust, I’m keeping my distance.
Even if his bossy voice does things to me that should be reserved for the bedroom.
Everyone seems to have chilled out since I declared I wasn’t getting ready to jump out of the plane for shits and gigs.
The quiet conversations start back up, and I finally let myself relax into the sound.
When Dre starts to pull his hand away, my fingers tighten around his before he can let go.
Luckily, he gets the message and settles back, his cool hand a steady anchor in mine.
The plane’s engines scream as we’re shot down the runway. My stomach tries to climb out of my throat as we lift off, and I slam my eyes shut, death-gripping his hand.
Then, the world settles with a weird little wobble. The noise dials back from ‘apocalypse’ to ‘loud hum’. I pry an eye open. We’re still, blessedly, in one piece, cruising towards the clouds.
I'm still bouncing my leg, a nervous tremor the plane's vibrations can't disguise, when Kieran flashes me a brilliant grin and pops up from his seat. He beelines for the small kitchenette, rummages around, and returns to squat directly in front of me, presenting a small box like a holy offering.
My eyebrow lifts, but I take it. I pull off the lid and try not to burst into tears. Three perfect pieces of chocolate sit inside. I have no idea how he always has chocolate ready for me, but it does things to my heightened emotions that, in my current state, bring me to the brink of happy tears.
Then I take a bite, and suddenly, I'm not thinking about tears anymore.
My nervousness vanishes. I let go of Leandre's hand—a necessary sacrifice—and reach for the deliciousness that desperately needs to be in my mouth. I choose a darker piece speckled with white crystals and take a bite.
Something thick and sticky coats my mouth. Sweet, but deeper than sugar. Sharp on the outside, making it somehow richer. Another, louder moan vibrates in my throat.
When I finally open my eyes, I find every single one of the guys staring at me.
“What was that called?” I ask Kieran, my voice a little dazed.
“Dark chocolate and sea salt caramel,” he says, his smile widening.
So the sharp was salt. Interesting. I think I understand sweet and savory now.
“It was amazing. Thank you.” I peer at the remaining two pieces. “What are those?”
"That one with the brown powder is a truffle. The other's a turtle."
My eyes go wide and I scoot back in horror. “I don’t want to eat a turtle!”
Kieran chokes, covering his mouth as his shoulders shake. When I realize he’s hiding a laugh, I frown.
"Aren't turtles endangered? And chocolate and... turtle meat?" I pause, scrunching up my face. "I just decided sweet and savory can be friends. I'm not ready for sweet and reptile ."
Kieran is still incapable of forming words, so Emerson leans forward, his gaze intent. "They are not actual turtles, Mea," he clarifies. "It is a confectionery term. They are called 'turtles' due to their physical resemblance to the animal. It is caramel, pecans, and chocolate."
I don't know what Mea means. But the way he said it—like he just called dibs—makes my indignation fizzle out completely.
I melt a little instead.
Whatever it is, I'm keeping it.
"Oh! Well, good." I point a finger at all of them. "Just so we're clear, I do not want to eat a turtle. And while we're on the topic, I also refuse to eat any sort of cephalopod."
Em’s eyebrow arches with interest. "And why not?"
"They're crazy intelligent," I explain. "They, or at least one of them, along with cats and ravens, were the only things that could see me when I was a ghost. Speaking of which, I need to visit Jim soon."
"Jim?" Anik asks, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
"I used to go swimming with him," I say, baffled by the sudden tension thickening the cabin air.
A slow, dopey smile spreads across my face as I realize their mistake. They think Jim is a person. Or a bipedal man-person, I guess would be the better term for what they think he is, because he’s totally a person.