Raven Chapter 35 Cashmere and Questionable Life Choices 438 #4
The fae puffs up, then deflates under Forrest’s glare. A moment later, Forrest is handing the brownie a few coins, sending the sleek elf another glare, before making his way back to us.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say softly.
“Yes,” he replies, not looking at me. “I did.”
“You know,” I continue, bumping his arm with my shoulder as we walk. “You’ve got a whole family of walking, talking, sometimes-stabby weapons at your back. You don’t have to be the sole dispenser of justice in the universe.”
He’s silent for a few paces. “Someone has to be.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t always have to be you,” I counter. “Sometimes you can just be the guy who tries to win me that stuffed boggin.” I point to a nearby stall where you toss rings onto wriggling, grumpy-looking roots.
He follows my gaze, the tension in his jaw loosens a fraction. “Its ugliness seems to detract from the thing as a whole, does it not?”
“It’s glorious,” I tell him matter-of-factly. “Go on, Ro-ro. Show me your perfect, structurally sound ring-tossing form.”
To everyone's surprise, I win. In spite of his perfect form. I grab my prize—a stone paperweight carved into a gargoyle. Not the scary kind. The protective kind. Wings curved, like it's shielding something.
When I hand it to him, he just frowns and says, “You shouldn’t have. You wanted the boggin.”
I just smile and poke him in the side. “We have all evening. Right now I just want you to have something that reminds me of you.”
He says nothing, but his fingers tighten around the stone, and he pockets it.
I count it as a win and make my way over to Em, once again making sure he’s doing okay. He drifts over to a stall labeled Relics and Rarities: Risen Civilizations . His eyes are locked on a rod that looks like it’s made out of obsidian with little mother-of-pearl details.
I stick to his side because the man has great taste. Absolutely no idea what it is, only that it’s gorgeous. Then I look around, trying to figure out what this stall is supposed to be.
Em sees me staring and quickly explains, “This is the supernatural version of an antique shop. The sign leads you to believe that all of this comes from long dead civilizations, but most of it is just obscure trash, except this,” he says, voice dropping.
He holds up the rod to the light, completely absorbed.
Nearby, a cluster of market-goers stops to watch him.
One of them—a willowy elf in silver robes—mutters something to her friend.
Her friend’s eyes widen, and she actually pulls her companions back a step.
Like Em is something contagious or something.
When he’s done examining it, he holds it out to me, explaining that it’s something called a Soul-Ink Blade and it comes from a civilization long gone.
“It comes across as junk, but it’s actually a blade that will bond with its wielder. Either killing them if unworthy, or protecting them if worthy,” he explains.
“That thing is a knife?” It sure doesn’t look like a knife. It looks more like a fancy hair stick.
He nods. “It is not bonded and therefore in a neutral form.” He hands it to me. “Do you want to try?”
“You said it might kill me?” I ask, reaching for it anyway.
I mean, there’s no way I’m not trying it out. It’s like the ultimate danger knife, and if Em is handing it to me there's no chance it’ll actually kill me.
When my hand closes around it the obsidian liquefies into a shimmering, cool ink and sinks into my skin. I don’t even have time to freak out as, for a moment, I’m suspended in another dark, vast sea that feels eerily like the dream I woke from this morning.
As quickly as it came on, it’s over, a new delicate, dagger-shaped mark now resting on my inner wrist.
“Did we just steal this?” I ask, too giddy to really care.
His answering grin is small, sharp, and radiant, “Technically, yes, but given the quality of everything else he is selling, the price of all of it, and the cut of his clothes...” His eyes quickly flit to the well-dressed shopkeeper who is currently talking animatedly with two other customers who look a lot rougher than him and are down on their luck.
“He’s currently trying to tell that couple that the piece of trash he’s holding could be the cure to their son’s illness based on its origin.” His hand comes to rest on the hilt resting at his thigh. “They don’t know it’s a fancy paperweight—and he’s betting they never will.”
Em steps forward then, his voice low, cold, and precise.
“The inscription you claim promises healing is a merchant’s inventory list from the Third Dynasty of Krator.
It reads, ‘Twelve clay bowls, chipped. One bronze ladle, handle loose.’” He pauses, letting the translation hang in the air like a verdict.
“Selling false hope to the desperate isn’t commerce. It’s predation.”
Emerson leads me away from the sputtering shopkeeper, his hand a steady press at the small of my back.
We find the others sprawled on a cluster of carved stone benches at the edge of the market square, a little island of calm in the swirling color and magic.
Anik is inspecting something that looks suspiciously like brass knuckles, his eyes flicking over to me occasionally.
Dre is watching the crowd with a quiet alertness.
Kieran is laughing at something Forrest just said—or didn’t say, more likely.
Forrest is just… sitting, his new gargoyle paperweight held loosely in one hand, his gaze distant but not tense.
I settle into a spot where I can see them all.
And it hits me, not like a lightning bolt, but like a slow, warm tide.
This is my life now.
Not the magic, not the danger, not the divine drama nipping at my heels.
This.
The chaos gremlin who makes me laugh and always has chocolate on hand.
The closeted martyr who shares thousand-year-old grief like it’s nothing but refuses to just take a day off.
The paranoid grandpa who prefers gadgets and knives to human company.
The silent, broody panther who feeds me without a word, always taking care of me.
The hard-ass who’s trying to do better, learning to pocket a gift without a lecture.
They’re mine. I’m theirs. And for the first time since I appeared in that basement, I’m not just surviving.
I’m thriving.
I’m about to say something sappy—or, more likely, something sarcastic to cover the sappy—when movement catches my eye.
Selena.
She’s not strolling. She’s running, her beautiful rose colored dress whipping around her legs, her face pale and twisted with panic. She glances over her shoulder like something’s chasing her.
My body moves before my brain catches up.
“Selena!” I shout, already launching off the bench.
I don’t think.
I just run.
I hear Forrest behind me barking orders, but all I can hear is Selena’s warning in my head like a bad omen.
The market is beautiful, but it’s not safe.
I watch as someone jumps out from between two buildings and drags Selena down a narrow alley. I pick up speed, using my small stature to weave through the crowd. The guys fall behind, their big bodies at a disadvantage.
When I hit the alley, I launch myself into it, thinking only of Selena.
At the end of the dark passage, Selena’s nowhere in sight.
Instead, a very familiar face smiles at me.
“Well hello there, doll.” Asag’s tone is slimy enough to lubricate a garbage chute.
“Well if it isn’t the physical manifestation of a kidney stone. Where’s Selena?”
He laughs. “You would think after all these weeks you would have learned something of note.”
I open my mouth to ask what the fuck that’s supposed to mean when the guys finally reach the alley entrance.
My head turns—and I watch in horror as about twenty men clad in gray tactical gear that seems very familiar.
Well, shit. Maybe Forrest did have the right to be a dick. How did I not notice all of them?
Out of the corner of my eye, Asag moves.
I pivot, using the footwork Enra drilled into me, and use his momentum to swap our positions. Now his back is to the fight.
He just smiles like he’s won.
Arms lock around me from behind. Cold metal cuffs snap onto my wrists. I start to panic as, all at once my magic—all that wonderful yet terrifying power—is suddenly gone. Not minimized, not just out of reach, but gone .
“Give her to me,” Asag says to whoever is holding me. “Deal with them.”
Behind him, the guys are a whirlwind of violence. Still, there are at least ten bodies between them and me.
I just need to hold out.
I slam my head back. A satisfying crunch.
“Fuck!” The grip loosens.
I spin around, driving my knee up hard between his legs. A high-pitched squeal. He drops.
Before I can celebrate, a needle slides into my neck.
I twist once the needle slides from my skin and see Asag’s face, smiling down at me. He pulls out a coin—shiny, etched—and grabs me roughly, an arm hooking around my throat. He drags me backward.
Through blurring vision, I see Anik roaring, shadows erupting like liquid night. Forrest takes a hit meant for Kieran. Emerson has a knife in each hand, eyes blazing. And Dre—closest—reaches for me, his face a mask of pure anguish.
My vision tunnels.
The sounds of the fight—snarls, shouts, steel on steel—muffle, distant, like I’m hearing them through water.
Anik’s raw, shattered roar is the last thing I hear before the darkness takes me.