Page 36 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
I crawl into the makeshift shelter, the blanket Onyx gave me warm and scratchy. Bran tucks it around me, his fingers lingering at my jaw.
“If you need anything, just call out,” he says.
I nod, my throat too tight for words.
I drift, half-dreaming, the crackle of the fire and the low murmur of their voices lulling me into something close to peace.
But I wake sometime later, the moon a white crescent overhead, to the sound of whispered voices and the unmistakable thud of boots on the forest floor.
I peek out from under the blanket.
Sable and Grim are on watch, crouched low behind a screen of brambles, their eyes shining like animals in the dark. Bran sits by the fire, polishing his glasses, but his attention is fixed on the woods. Shade stands at the edge of the camp, his silhouette carved from shadow.
I look around, shivering.
That’s when I see them.
Scattered near the men, half-buried in the moss, are a handful of black feathers. Some are glossy and new, others battered and broken, but all are the same deep, impossible black as the one I keep with me.
I stare, my suspicious growing so loud they’re a scream instead of a whisper.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
All those years in the garden, the birds that watched and waited, the way they seemed to understand me. The way they always appeared when I needed them most.
I look at the men again, really look, at the tilt of Shade’s head, the glint in Sable’s eyes, and the way Onyx moves with a silent certainty that’s not quite human.
Is it truly possibly that the rumors of men who aren’t quite men, of fierce, deadly monsters were more truth than fiction?
I clench the feather in my fist, letting it prick my palm.
I get up and walk to the fire, determined to ask my questions.
Bran looks up, his eyes soft behind the glass. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks.
For a second, I wonder if he’s caught me in the act of watching them. My cheeks go hot, but I force myself to meet his gaze.
“I could ask you the same,” I say.
He gestures for me to come closer, patting the moss beside him. “The night feels more like home to me than anything has. Sit?”
I do, folding myself cross-legged next to him. The fire throws strange shapes across the planes of his face—gentle, almost boyish, until the shadow catches his jaw and makes him a beautiful, dangerous predator again. He’s changed out of the fine shirt he wore yesterday, now in a simple black tunic and rough-hewn pants. Somehow, it makes him even less human. Or maybe that’s just what I want to see.
For a long minute, we watch the flames dance.
Eventually, I steal another glance at Bran. He’s rubbing the bridge of his nose, deep in thought. The firelight glances off his glasses, hiding his eyes.
“How are you?” he asks finally, his voice so soft it almost disappears.
I want to say fine, but my throat closes around the word.
He notices, and his hand finds my knee, solid and reassuring. “You’re safe here,” he says, and I almost believe him.
“Are you…?” I can’t bring myself to ask if they’re really the ravens I love so much.
His mouth twitches. “Am I okay?” He says it lightly, but I hear an old ache underneath. “Sometimes. When we have to be.”
I shiver, but not from the cold. “What about the rest of the time?”
