Raven Chapter 30 Hangovers and Histories 370 #4
She hands me the book, and as I take it, her eyebrows raise, and hope fills her eyes.
“Expecting something else?” I ask her.
“Most of the time, there’s lots of screaming and bubbling skin,” she smiles. “This is a nice change from that.”
I open my mouth to ask why she omitted that delightful detail when a sharp prick stabs my hand.
I yelp, jumping back. The guys are around me in an instant.
Dre pulls my hands—and the book—toward him.
Lifting my palm, he reveals a single drop of blood welling up where a tiny needle has sprung from the lock.
It takes a second for the stolen drop to travel down the needle and onto the crystal mechanism. The lock sparkles, gives a soft pop , and clicks open.
“Well,” the woman says. “Now that we’ve confirmed who you are, I can tell you what you want to know.”
As she says that the guys close ranks around me, and I roll my eyes. The journal just opened with my blood, you’d think they’d take that as a sign we were in the right place.
“Gods, can you guys move? I can’t have a conversation like this.”
They move so I’m standing in front of them, their heat a reassuring wall at my back.
I take a moment to really look at the woman before me.
Tall, willowy, with pale skin and a long blonde plait over one shoulder.
Her eyes are a crystal blue that seems to shine even in the church’s low light.
She’s also backed by a few dozen intimidating women, all clad in fighting leathers and weapons.
“Priestess,” they all say in unison, bowing their heads.
Ew. I do not like that. The title isn't bad, but the weird worship vibe is not my style. Emerson’s unhinged obsession is far more tolerable.
“Please, call me Raven.” I tell them.
The blonde leader tilts her head. “Our records indicate you went by Iris.”
I shrug. "No idea who that is. I go by Raven now, but that might have been my name back when I had memories and whatnot." I wave it off, trying to avoid any more mental pain from an unwilling trip down memory lane. "Anyway, what's your name? And why are you all here?"
“I am Isabella. Named for my great-great-grandmother. My peers call me Izzy.” Her tone is pure, polished librarian.
“And I somehow knew her? How?”
“She was the human assigned to your cell during your captivity,” Izzy says simply.
Behind me, Anik lets out a low, deep growl. It’s not a threat—it’s pure, reverberating displeasure.
I reach back and pat his chest, hoping it’ll help ease whatever is happening.
“Wow. That explains everything, ” I say, biting back the urge to snap.
She gives me a look I can’t read before continuing. “What we have from my ancestors is limited. Bare bones. We know you were taken as a child and held in captivity for an extended period. We also know you successfully performed a dangerous, complicated blood magic ritual.”
As she talks, I crack open the journal and flip through the pages. I already know this morbid part of the story. Might as well do something with this anxious, useless energy.
It doesn’t help. My anxiety climbs as I stare at the nonsense in front of me. The few legible words aren’t in any language I know. Over eighty percent of the text is just… hazy. Smudged into oblivion. I snap the book shut and force myself back to Izzy’s lecture. That, at least, I can process.
“The ritual only worked because the price was paid. You lost everything from your old life to buy your new one. It wasn’t a guarantee.
There was no way to know if you’d wake in the Ethereal Realm or just…
fade into thought, as most do. The necklace was supposed to help guide you, but…
” She gestures vaguely at me. “It took a long time for you to find your way back so I’m not sure it did. ”
Yep. Tuning back in helped exactly zero percent.
My hands shake. I need to eat my feelings—it works one hundred percent of the time, and I haven’t exactly mastered the whole disassociating-on-command thing yet. I pat my pockets, then my waist, panic bubbling until Kieran materializes beside me.
He holds out Selena’s little snack bag with a wink. “Lookin’ for this, wisp?”
I snatch it from him with a grateful grunt. The crinkle of the bag is the most comforting sound I’ve heard all day. I shove a handful of something crunchy and salty into my mouth and let the world fade into a pleasant, muffled buzz.
Forrest and Emerson step forward, their voices layering over one another in low, serious tones.
They’re asking the questions I should be asking—about the ritual, the safeguards, the records Izzy mentioned.
I let the words wash over me, chewing steadily, anchored only by the taste of salt and the weight of Anik’s solid presence somewhere behind my left shoulder.
Izzy answers them in that calm, librarian cadence. Plans are being made. Decisions about which books to take, which to leave. It all sounds very reasonable and very, very far away.
For now, the snack bag is full, my mouth is busy, and someone else is in charge.
That’s enough.