The Magic of Shadows

Chapter 1

7 Years Later...

Raven's POV

The back door to the seedy bar we're stuck in swung open for at least the fifth time in the last five minutes, filling the bar with the stench of the overflowing, festering dumpsters, mingling with the embedded stench of sweat and stale beer. It is not even good beer. I had to choke down the first, watered down glass and the second one is already half empty.

At least I have determined that it does not latch correctly, watching them breeze in and out all night. That might be helpful if we ever have to sneak our way back in.

The main door opening gives me a good reason to glance over my shoulder. He is not one of our targets, so my attention quickly shifts to Corey, who is at a table by himself farther towards the back. He is pretending to pay attention to the game on the television, occasionally cheering or yelling when the men at the table next to him do. I think it is cute—I am not sure that Corey would know the difference between a football and a basketball if you caught him off guard and away from google.

That is fine with me. It is just as easy to distract him while he plays his computer games as it would be if he was watching a sports game at home.

I turn back to my beer, wiping a thumb down what little condensation is left on the glass. The only thing worse than bad beer is warm, bad beer. We should probably start leaving soon, anyway. Some of the men here are members of the Council of Salem but none of them are giving us anything to work with. Once Corey's game is over, he will not have a reason to stay, and I can only nurse beers for so long before I draw attention.

Down the bar, the female bartender who tried to shove her tits in my face earlier curses as she bumps into something on the shelf behind her, sending it crashing to the floor, liquid pooling on the already sticky floor. The guy next to me whistles lowly when she crouches down, her breasts nearly falling out of her shirt and her ass on display as she tries to clean up the mess. I cannot bring myself to be interested, though. Not when I know the tight, revealing clothes are to try for tips. No one should have to whore themselves out to make ends meet.

Even if she had actually been interested, not looking at me with empty eyes, she was not my type. My type was Corey. I am not blind, and he does not care that I look or touch, but over the years it has become harder to find women alluring. Pretty, yes. But not anything that I feel drawn towards fucking.

I am still attracted to people, genitals notwithstanding, but it is like my brain is searching for someone in particular.

The thought makes my dick twitch. It always does, like I'm trying to grasp onto a memory that slips through my fingers but still heats my blood. I know Corey feels the same. Our relationship going from open to almost exclusive was not by intent. Both of us just became particular and began only seeking each other out. But the thought of 'her,' whoever she may be and as tricky as it is to pin down what it even means, makes me want to drag Corey home and pound away that feeling of something missing.

I am already reaching for my wallet--thoughts on what I am going to do to my love when we get home--ready to close out my tab as soon as the bartender's done, when my fingers freeze. Rage skips the simmering stage and goes straight to threatening to rip from my chest in a fury that would rival a volcano when I see what is on the ground.

The bottle looks innocent enough, but I recognize the label on it. A flower growing out of a triangle with an etching of a curling, backward C and S inside. The drops coming off the flower petals could be confused for raindrops, but I know they are blood. The triangle emblem is a remnant of time best forgotten, a symbol of fear and hatred and a group I will be thrilled to watch burn to the ground.