Raven Chapter 35 Cashmere and Questionable Life Choices 438 #3
Emerson might be a tad unhinged, but at least he's honest about it.
Sure, he hides his features behind that glamour—the purple skin, the slit pupils, the wild twilight beauty of what he actually is.
But he doesn't hide himself. The knives strapped to his thighs?
On display. The obsessive way he watches me, catalogs my every breath?
Right there in the open. The terrifying focus that could just as easily turn to destruction as devotion? He's never pretended otherwise.
He wears his sharp edges openly—not on his face, but in every single thing he does—and lets you decide if you can handle it.
This elf? He's a well-dressed warning label pretending to be art. All surface, no substance. At least when Em cuts you, you knew the blade was coming.
The smug, elf-shaped stain on existence smirks, satisfied he got even a tiny reaction, and gestures toward the arch.
“Try not to embarrass yourselves further.”
It takes both Dre and Anik to guide me through, their hands firm on my shoulders as the world melts and reforms.
My anger ebbs a little—replaced by the sheer, breathtaking otherness of the market. I’m still livid, but if I act on it now, I’ll either get us kicked out or level the place. And it’s only the twatwaffle at the gate I’m mad at. Seems unfair to everyone else just… hanging around.
The Fae Night Market spreads before us, vast and dreamlike—but quiet.
Stalls draped in silks and glowing lanterns stand half-stocked, their single inhabitants rushing to prepare.
Floating orbs of light drift lazily above cobblestone paths.
The air is thick with blossoms, unknown spices, and magic.
The buzz I was expecting from a large crowd is currently absent.
It feels like what I always imagined walking into a theater hours before the show feels like—all hushed potential and anticipation.
Too bad I'm too angry to really appreciate it.
I spin to face Em, finger already up. "Nothing he said was true. You're a gift. To me. To the universe. To existence itself. That guy on the other hand is totally going to get reincarnated as a public toilet in a goblin brothel."
I start pacing. "Un-fucking-believable. And I don’t have beliefs anymore. That’s how unbelievable it is. He had no right. None ."
The insults start flying before I can stop them. “He's the elf equivalent of a crusty sock buried under a teenage boys bed. A walking yeast infection with delusions of grandeur. He’s—”
Abruptly, I stop. Decision made.
“You know what? I can’t just let him get away with it. Take me back. Em, I need a knife.”
A blade lands in my palm. I grin, pick a direction, and start walking.
I make it maybe three steps before Kieran and Anik materialize in front of me—one grinning, one glowering.
I pause, caught off guard by the visual. Kieran's all playful fire and golden chaos while Anik is all rugged shadow and simmering grump. Together, they're basically a walking mood board of two fifths of everything I find attractive.
Annoying.
“Oi, Wisp, if you go murderin’ someone now, they’ll never let us stay.” He reaches for the knife. “Save the rammy for after the pudding.”
Godsdammit, he knows me too well. I look at Anik, wondering why he’s chosen this battle.
“After,” he says, agreeing. “I’ll help.”
Well, at least I’ve found out that when this duo pairs up, it’s damn near impossible to say no.
“Fine.” I slap the knife into Ki-ki’s hand. “After food.”
We walk around for a bit, trying to find stalls that are willing to accept early customers. When we’re making our way down the second row of stalls, Kieran beelines it towards a stall that doesn’t look quite ready to open. That doesn’t stop this particular Labrador given supernatural form.
Dre is immediately there doing damage control, but luckily, the shopkeeper doesn’t mind.
“Och, will you look at this!” Kieran says, holding up a glowing rock. “I should get these for the club. Folks are always wantin’ to bring in those human glow-sticks, but you know we run a plastic-free zone.” He shudders at the idea of plastic.
I make a mental note to ask him about the reasons behind his plastic hatred.
My mental list is getting ridiculous. I should probably write it down. Or, better yet, rope someone responsible into keeping me on task. Someone like Forrest. Though I feel like him keeping me on task would probably devolve into something very much not on tas k.
Or maybe that's the way into his squishy center?
“Ah, yes those are single-use enchanted glow-stones,” the shopkeeper says, “They last for about 8 hours before reverting to a simple rock.”
Kieran smiles widely, “So a supernatural glow-stick.”
Em leans in, inspecting it. “A profoundly wasteful application of luminal alchemy. Whatever happened to reusable cold-fire lanterns that lasted a century?” He asks.
I snort. “Let me guess, you had to hand crank them for an hour to get five minutes of light?”
He nods. “It built character.”
“Wheesht, Gramps, I’m on business here!” Kieran says before turning back to the slightly offended-looking shopkeeper. “How many cases d’ye have in stock?”
Her jaw drops. “You wish to buy… all of them?”
He nods. “Aye, and if ye’ve got a supplier on the supe side, I’d be keen to set up a regular delivery.”
The shopkeeper now looks like every Yule wish he's ever has just came true all at once. I leave them to talk business and turn around to find Dre standing a little ways down, motionless, in front of a stall draped in drying herbs.
The sign reads Herbs and Rare Botanical Curiosities. As I get closer, I realize he has something in his hand. It’s a small, carefully wrapped bundle of dried white flowers with dark, twisted roots.
I approach slowly. “What’s that one?”
He doesn’t startle like I thought he would. Instead, his gaze remains fixed on the blooms, but his voice is distant.
“Moly,” he says, the word quiet. “They say it grows where a god has wept. That it can shield a mortal soul from enchantment… or anchor one that’s fading.”
I have no idea who they are but I don’t care. I’m too busy watching his face. The slight tightening around his eyes, the way his thumb brushes gently over a petal.
“My sister, Sigrid,” he continues, still not looking at me. “She was born with a… fragility. Not of the body, but of the spirit. As if she were never fully tethered to this world. The healers called it sálaspillir—‘soul-wasting.’ They said only Moly could root her here.”
He falls silent for a long moment, the quiet bustling of shopkeepers around them filling in the silence.
“My brother Karl heard it could be plundered from temples in the south. So we took up axes and sails. I told myself every raid, every life taken… was a trade. Their blood for her cure.” His jaw tightens. “We never found it. Not in time.”
I have no idea what to do with that. What do you even say to someone carrying a lifetime of guilt? Sorry ? That feels pathetic. I understand ? I don't. So I just stand there, frozen, trying not to make it worse.
Then what he said actually registers.
“Holy god balls—are you actually a viking?” I ask. “I mean, I always thought you looked like one, but those guys were like… forever ago.” I blink dumbly, remembering the jazz-filled car ride. “You are actually medieval, aren’t you?”
He chuckles at that, placing the bundle back on the stall, then looks at me with relief in his eyes. Annoyingly, he doesn’t answer my question.
“She would have loved this place.” He nods out to the market. “All this color. The life that’s about to fill every corner.”
He doesn’t offer any more words, but I let it go. The story itself was a gift—a piece of his heart.
Once Kieran is done making that shopkeeper’s day, we continue, and within no time, the market starts to fill, just like Dre said it would.
Both him and Kieran bring me the supernatural version of whatever funnel cake is.
Seeing as I’ve never tried regular human funnel cake, the supernatural version is lost on me—but I choose to keep that to myself because it’s delicious.
I’m also introduced to fae sugar that glitters like pixie dust and bursts into flavors I don’t have names for, soft mooncakes that weigh nothing and taste like chilled night air, and sips of dewcup brew that stay cool even while steaming.
A dreamfruit tart shifts from strawberry to lavender mid-bite, mushroom puffs glow faintly and taste like earthy magic, crisp-wing chips crackle like static and dissolve on the tongue, and a single bite of laughter loaf has me giggling into my next mouthful while Kieran looks far too pleased with himself.
I get a glimpse of Selena at one point during the tasting spree, dressed in a beautiful red satin gown that makes her look like a rose, surrounded by Izzy’s team.
We move as a group through the market like a small, armed parade. Patrons part around us, but their eyes keep snagging on Em. I even see one fae woman whisper to her companion, lips curled in disdain, while another vendor actually takes a step back while Em’s gaze sweeps over his stall.
Apparently, it’s more than just the front entrance guy I need to stab on my way out.
Anik is my constant, silent shadow. Not leading, never crowding, just present. His hand rests on the small of my back as we navigate the crowd. It’s a warm, grounding weight that screams possession while reminding me constantly of the fun to come after this is all over with.
We pass a stall where a haggard-looking brownie is being berated by a sleek, well-dressed elf for a dropped tray of crystal trinkets. The brownie’s shoulders are slumped, his small body trembling.
Forrest, who is on the opposite side of Anik, goes still.
“One moment,” he says, his voice low.
I watch as he approaches, not with aggression, but with an authority that makes me appreciate his hard-assery in a way I haven’t since being corporeal. When he gets to them he doesn’t raise his voice, just speaks, his words too quiet for me to hear.