Raven Chapter 32 Auras and Amalgams 402
Raven
Three hours later, I am wondering what exactly I signed up for. My forehead rests against the cool, open pages of an unreadable journal that I refuse to let bring me to tears.
Instead, I focus on the dull throb building behind my eyes. If this is what being a ‘central thesis’ feels like, I want a refund. My brain is a wrung-out sponge, and Izzy, her terrifyingly efficient team, and Professor Obsessive over there are the ones who squeezed it.
Two seats down the table, Emerson’s glamour is firmly back in place—porcelain skin, platinum hair, those sharp, cat-like model features making him look like a fallen angel who took up academia.
He’s absorbed in a text, utterly unaware of—or indifferent to—the wide berth and wary glances Izzy’s entire team is now giving him.
I have a feeling it was due to the whole "knife at the throat" incident.
Little do they know, every single one of the guys has had a knife pulled on them.
Hell, Dre once had a knife thrown at him because he tried to clean up the balcony greenhouse without permission.
The simple fact is, if Emerson cares, he shows it through violent affection.
If he doesn’t give a shit, he just ignores you.
I grab a pen, make a note to ask Izzy about family therapists ASAP, and tuck it into my bra to find when it falls out later as I’m changing.
The only saving grace through all of this was Miriam showing up with snacks. Apparently, that’s where Leandre and Kieran had snuck off to during my… intimate knife-play moment. A lightbulb goes off. I lift my head from the journal and, without hesitation, hurl it at Emerson.
Kieran, who is now between him and me, throws his body back as it sails a millimeter from his face. A moment later, the corner thuds against Em’s shoulder. An oomph escapes him before he’s glaring at me.
“What in the worlds was that for?” He asks, his voice dangerously flat
“The book was pissing me off,” I say, crossing my arms. “And I just realized you roped me into some kinky knife-play without my explicit consent. You can’t just introduce a girl to a wonderful new world of kinks without proper negotiation. It’s rude.”
“Agreed,” Forrest says from the end of the table, not looking up from his own pile of texts.
“You do?” I ask, actually astonished.
“Of course.” He waves a hand as if it’s obvious. “The bedrock of any functional dynamic is clear communication and enthusiastic consent. Without it, the structure is inherently unstable.”
I just blink at him, my brain buffering, when Kieran beats me to a reply.
"That's bold talk from the man who ran our wee Wisp intae the ground, Saint.” He’s teasing, but there’s also a serious note there.
Everything hangs in the air as Em doesn’t speak for a long moment. Kieran, who is sandwiched between us, is busy pushing a plate of pastries toward me with a hopeful grin.
Then, without a word, Emerson stands. The legs of his chair scrape loudly as he drags Kieran’s chair—pastry plate still clutched in his hand—out of the way, clearing a direct path to me.
He unceremoniously drops the journal on the table, then cages me in, his hands on either armrest. His head dips close, his voice dropping to a low, private tone meant just for me.
“You want a lesson, love?” he says, his breath stirring my hair. “The knife means your existence is the only variable I cannot, and will not, factor out. You get the steel the day you become essential. The day I stop caring if you live or die is the day you’ll never see it again.”
He holds my gaze, his amber eyes blazing with a sincerity that steals any response. I just nod. I knew that in my head, I just had that exact thought, but hearing it said out loud like that is something else entirely.
He pulls back, the corner of his mouth twitching, then straightens and walks back to his chair.
Picking up his pen, he adds, like an afterthought, “Also, the analogy is flawed. It wasn’t ‘play.’ It was a calibrated stimulus.
Consent, in this context, was established during our first study session, when you agreed to be my primary subject of magical observation.
The knife was a later, corrective application within that established framework. ”
I roll my eyes. “I agreed to being your study subject after the knife.”
“You actually agreed to it when you agreed to study sessions with Emerson,” Forrest informs me, his tone matter-of-fact. “The subject of the study was never just your magic. It was you. He was studying you from the first session.”
I look between the two of them, a cold hurt rising in my chest. Was I just being played the whole time?
Dre groans and runs a hand over his face. “I say we move on to something more constructive.” He eyes both Forrest and Em. “And I would suggest that next time she agrees to something unknowingly, you clue her in before she thinks you’re manipulating her.”
“I am willing to enforce that,” Anik says, his voice a low rumble. The glare he levels at both of them isn't just a warning; it's a promise.
Both Forrest and Emerson straighten, ready to retort, but Numbra stands up, clearly finished with the drama.
I take a deep breath and try to let the hurt go.
They probably didn’t mean to be manipulative—I don’t think either of them is physically capable of it in the traditional sense, and holding a grudge gets us nowhere.
Me sucking Dre off for, once again, validating my feelings though? That seems extremely productive. He must pick up on the thought, because as soon as it forms, his eyes snap to mine. For a moment, it feels like staring into the sun—his gaze is that heated.
“We need to work on the one skill we know you have,” the shadow mage says, shoving me back to reality just before I can figure out the logistics of getting across the table and into Dre's lap.
“Agreed,” Izzy says, standing and motioning for me to join her.
I shake my head. “No way. I’m staying right here. Last time I tried to look at auras, I was so exhausted I needed to physically—or, ghostly, I guess—drag myself closer to these guys to feel better.”
Numbra cocks her head. “Interesting. That indicates they are your tethers to this plane. It may also explain why you can’t read their auras.” She nods, as if agreeing with her own hypothesis. “Their auras would be an extension of your own. Practitioners can read others, but never themselves.”
“So… I’m not broken?” I ask. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a real fear.
“Of course not. Now, do what you need to from there. We need to see what we’re working with.”
I do as I’m told. Closing my eyes, I search for the faint, staticky hum that’s always lingered just past the edge of my awareness. When I find it, I pull it over me like a blanket and open my eyes.
The biggest difference between seeing auras as a ghost and seeing them now is the buzz. A low, constant vibration thrums through my bones, making me feel like I’m a bottle of coke someone just dropped a mentos into.
The second difference is the color. Before, I had to fight for wisps and faint tints. Now, the world is drenched in them—so vibrant I have to fight the instinct to squint.
“Let us know what you see,” Izzy instructs, then glances at the guys around me. “Can someone use the book to cross-reference?”
I turn to see Emerson already grabbing the tome, flipping to what looks like an index. The fact that none of them are surrounded by an insane light show is a welcome respite—a nice little eyeball break before staring into what I imagine a bad acid trip must look like.
I focus on Izzy first. “I see a deep, clear sapphire blue woven with strands of bright, metallic silver.” I glance between her and the others. “They’re all layered differently. Yours looks… orderly. Like the pages of a book.”
“Can you identify any movement or patterns within the aura?” Emerson asks without looking up.
“Um, I think so?” I chew my lip, nervous I’ll screw this up and be relegated back to ‘useless.’ “The silver strands are almost geometric. The whole thing… pulses.”
The soft scritch of his pen urges me on. I shift my gaze to Enra. "Okay, yours is like… quiet forest at dawn. Soft moss green and misty silver at the edges. But underneath that? There's this deep, smoldering ochre at the core. And thin threads of glittering gold running through it all."
"Flare, yours is weird. Intense but calm. Deep burnished copper at the core. Surrounding that is a soft sort of caramel color. It’s flickering but not restlessly, more like lazily. The outer edges are thin rose-gold, like sunset on rocks."
I can feel the familiar, rising rush of my magic intensify—the warning buzz climbing toward a shriek. I have about two minutes before I set something on fire. I skip analyzing movement and race through the last colors.
Numbra's is about what I expected before I even looked. "Yours is layered. Outer layer is pale blue-gray. Underneath, deep indigo. Core is warm pearl-white.."
“Miriam, yours is a warm amber with a strong, steady core of deep, earthy green.” My eyes finally land on Selena, and I blink. “And Selena… yours is a pastel rainbow. Like light through fog.”
I mentally snip the connection to my magic and slam the door shut, breathing heavily. Huginn and Muninn flutter at the edges of my awareness but don't fully wake. In my panic, I reach out for anything to stabilize me—my hand lands on something solid.
Kieran's thigh. Very high up on Kieran's thigh. Scandalously close to his... treasure chest? Trove? I feel like "trove" is more vagina-centric. And a chest goes into a trove, so it has to be a chest, right?
So not the time, Raven. I scold myself as I tear my eyes away from him, his rapidly growing treasure chest, and his way-too-attractive smirk to focus on Numbra.
"I see what you mean by 'all or nothing,'" Numbra says, her head tilted in clinical assessment.
"How do you know so much that they don't?" I ask, motioning to the guys, too exhausted for tact.