Page 59 of Raisa's Cursed Ravens
We walk away from the camp, our footsteps careful, weaving between the trunks in a silent dance. The moon is a slit in the clouds, enough to silver the ferns and make the shadows softer. The cold bites at my ankles, but I don’t care. All I can feel is her hand in mine, warm and alive.
Behind us, our brothers sleep on, oblivious. Maybe they’ll wake in an hour, maybe not until dawn. I don’t care.
Tonight is for us.
She doesn’t ask where we’re going. Maybe she knows, or maybe she doesn’t care. We walk in silence, her hand still in mine.
The forest is different this far from civilization. The trees are older, their trunks gnarled and knotted, the branches stitched together in an endless tangle overhead. The ground is soft, thick with years of fallen needles. There’s no wind, only the hush of breathing things and the slow trickle of water somewhere ahead.
I lead her by memory, the way birds know north. Sable and I found this place while scouting earlier. The water in the spring was so clear we could see straight to the bottom. I knew immediately that she would love it.
I lead her up the ridge, the climb not as easy for her as it is for me. She stumbles once, and I catch her, steadying her with both hands at her waist. She doesn’t pull away, just lets me hold her for a second longer than necessary. Then we crest the rise, and the world opens out below us.
The spring is a deep wound in the earth, maybe twenty feet across, its surface glowing blue-green in the dark. Steam rises in ribbons, catching in the moonlight and curling through thebranches overhead. The rocks around it are slick and black, worn down by centuries of animal feet and rain. You can smell the minerals in the air—sharp and clean, like the inside of a stone.
Raisa lets go of my hand, walking to the edge. She looks down into the water, then back at me, her eyes wide. “It’s beautiful,” she says.
“It’s warmer than it looks.” I peel off my shirt, tossing it onto a flat stone.
She doesn’t blush or turn away. Instead, she watches with a kind of scientific curiosity, like she’s cataloguing every scar and tattoo and bite mark. She traces her own arms, as if wondering how the marks on me might look on her.
I toe off my pants, leaving them in a heap, and step into the water. It’s a shock at first—almost scalding—but I slide in up to my chest, letting the heat pull the ache out of my bones.
“Come on,” I say, holding out a hand for her.
She hesitates, glancing down at the oversized shirt she’s wearing. It clings to her body in the humidity, almost translucent, the dark shapes of her nipples and belly visible beneath. She looks at me, daring me to comment, but I just keep my hand out, patient.
She leaves the shirt on a rock, and wades in. The water comes up to her waist, then her ribs, and then she’s floating, her hair spreading around her. The moon turns her skin silver, every curve and scar illuminated.
She paddles over, finding me in the center, and lets me pull her in, her legs wrapping around my waist, her arms around my shoulders. Her weight is nothing. I could hold her like this forever.
For a while, we just float. The steam blurs the world, making us seem the only living things for miles. Her breath slows, hereyes half-lidded, and I wonder if she’s ever been this relaxed in her entire life.
I rest my chin on her head, her hair wet against my neck. “Are you okay?” I ask, the words almost swallowed by the water.
She shakes her head, a tiny motion. “I’m not,” she whispers. “Everything feels wrong. My body, my brain, the way you all look at me.” She pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “The magic feels like it’s alive, Rune.”
I nod. “It will. That’s how it works.”
She buries her face in my neck. “I’m scared.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “Or, be scared, but don’t let it own you. The fear isn’t the magic. It’s just the part of you that remembers what it was like before you knew it existed.”
She goes silent, her arms tight around my shoulders. I hold her as close as I can, letting the warmth seep in.
“My brothers don’t know this part,” I say, my voice low. “They see the power, not the price.”
She laughs, the sound bitter and beautiful. “I think I’d rather be powerless, if it meant being normal.”
I think about telling her there’s no such thing. “I felt the same way,” I say instead, “when I first discovered my magic.”
She pulls away, her eyes wide. “You have magic?”
I snort. “You think these are just for show?” I drag my wet fingers over the runes tattooed on my forearms, the marks that glow faintly in the dark when I’m angry or turned on or afraid. “I learned what I was when I was still shitting myself in the cradle.”
She blinks. “How?”
I consider lying, but she deserves better. “I was four, running a high fever, and set part of the house on fire. It was the first time I realized what I was. My parents—my real parents—didn’t want a monster. They tried to beat it out of me and then drown it out of me. When neither worked, they left me in the woods and hoped I’d become food for the crows.” I look at her, daring her topity me. “Shade and Grim found me, instead. They weren’t much older than I was, but they protected me, made me one of them. We were welcomed into our new family together.”
