by Cutter, Leah
"Hey, Petie-Peter." Jesse called him from halfway up.
Petie gave a wave, then grinned when Jesse indicated the empty seat next to him.
"Hey, how y'all?"
Petie sighed. "Okay, I guess." He still wasn't sure about the charms. Cai felt unsettled and uneasy, too.
"Whole lot to learn, ain't it?" Jesse said, nodding in sympathy.
"And now, there's more," Petie muttered as Prefect Brynach came in. He was a tall, thin man, with round glasses and thinning, sandy-colored hair. He wore a white shirt with a thin, standing collar and black pants, like musicians Petie had seen at a concert. He carried a small black bag, which he set down on the podium with a loud thump.
The bag continued to wiggle.
Cai stirred restlessly.
All noise in the classroom abruptly cut off. More than one kid shifted in their seat, a shushing noise of rustling cloth.
"You and you," the prefect said, pointing to two boys sitting at the end of their row. "You are the class monitors. It is your job to make sure the end of every row has paper and pens from the closet. And then to collect them at the end of the class, every one of them."
The boys sat there, nodding.
"That means today as well."
Petie bit his lip, glad he was safe here in the middle of the row with Jesse.
"Now."
The boys slowly got out of their desks and opened the beige metal cabinets to the right of the door. Stacks of notebooks lay piled high on every shelf. Black mesh cups filled with identical black pens obscured the notebooks on one shelf.
Petie glanced at Jesse, who merely shrugged.
More writing. He contained a sigh. He hoped Prefect Brynach at least talked slowly.
As the notebooks and pens were handed out, the prefect started. "Welcome to your recitations. You will write down every word I say, then hand in your books at the end of class. I will do spot checks during class—yes, even on the last row—to make sure of your accuracy. You will hear these recitations many, many times. You will memorize every word. They will come to you as easy as breathing. Trust the recitations. They will keep you safe."
Petie nodded. He'd heard that speech before. Dad had told him that, over and over again. Petie glanced at Jesse, who sat with his mouth open and his eyes wide. "They aren't too bad," Petie whispered as he passed along the notebooks and pens. At least not the ones he'd learned so far.
"I will keep my raven soul safe," Prefect Brynach said.
That was easy. Petie would do anything for Cai. He quickly printed the words, black letters marching across the white paper.
"I will never show my raven soul to an outsider."
"I will hide my true nature."
"I will keep safe."
Petie nodded as he wrote. He'd heard all this before.
So had some of the other boys, and they shifted in their seats. It appeared to be new to Jesse, though, and he carefully wrote down everything, staring at the page.
"My human and raven souls will remain aligned."
That was new. Petie wrote it down, wondering.
The bag on the podium suddenly rustled.
Everyone in the room grew still again.
"I will not eat insects," Brynach continued.
Insects? Eww. Petie still wrote down the phrase.
"I will not eat the dead rats in the yard."
Jesse shifted in his seat.
Petie grew very still, suddenly fearful of the next words the prefect would say.
"I will not eat the rotting bodies—called carrion—in the woods."
Petie shivered, writing furiously. He wouldn't do such a thing, not ever.
Cai poked at him, unhappy.
"I will not visit the battlefields and eat the bodies fallen there."
Petie shook himself. People did that? It didn't make sense.
"Eating carrion makes you a half-breed."
Half-breed—even in the short amount of time Petie had been at Ravens' Hall, he knew that was the worse insult ever. Worse even than calling your mom ugly, or wishing your dad dead.
"I will not suffer the half-breed."
Brynach opened the bag and drew out a small chickadee. He got the bird to perch on his finger, then he waved his other hand over it, as if gently petting it.
Magic, Petie told Cai as the bird settled down.
Cai shivered, then sent the image of blue skies, and them flying far, far away, as fast as they could.
Petie wanted to run away with Cai. But he couldn't. He wasn't even sure why Cai was so afraid.
"This is a half-breed," Brynach accused. He raised the head of the strangely passive bird with his finger.
Orange feathers marred the perfect brown circle around its neck. More colored feathers—orange and black—speckled its white chest. It gave a bleary chirp, its voice not soft like a bird's, or powerful like a human's, but something in between.
Petie stared in horror at it.
Fly. Fly! Cai insisted.
"This bird is a half-breed," Prefect Brynach repeated.
Petie looked around. That didn't seem like a recitation. Was he supposed to write it down? The other boys seemed to be edgy and restless as well.
The prefect grabbed the bird's head with one hand, its body with the other. The wings fluttered between his fingers. A small peep echoed through the room. He raised his hands above his head so everyone could see.
"My human and raven souls will always be aligned."
He twisted his hands.
The agitated fluttering of the bird stopped.
"I will not suffer the half-breed."
Chapter Seven
Peter hurried down the darkened hallways of Ravens' Hall, sweating through his T-shirt and jeans. Every door he tried was locked. The rooms weren't in the right place: Normally the Charms Room was downstairs, and the chemistry lab was upstairs, but right now, they were on the same floor.
It didn't matter. The floor was high enough off the ground that Peter knew the only way out was through a window.
The staircase going down was open, but the stairs up were blocked with a sickening blackness that choked all the air out of Peter's lungs the three times he'd tried it.
Peter didn't want to go down. He needed to go up, out, away.
Down was bad. Down was torture and danger.
Floating up those stairs came the high-pitched squawks of a raven in pain, mingled with the tearful cries of a child who didn't understand what he was being punished for.
There was nowhere else to go.
Peter tried all the doors again before he finally took one, then two steps down. Before he could take a third step, a raven flew up at him.
A raven with a broken left wing.
Jesse.
Even with the broken wing, Jesse could still fly.
Now, the pair of them had to escape.
Peter rushed down the even darker hallway, bruising his fists and shoulders, trying to break open the locked doors.
When they reached the Charms Room, the window in the door was suddenly clear. Without hesitation, Peter punched through the glass. Bleeding and cut, he managed to reach down, turn the handle, and open the door.
Spells blackened out the windows in the room, holding them locked shut.
Peter threw books at the front window, trying to break the glass. He picked up one of the heavy wooden chairs, blood from his cut knuckles dripping down the slats, and flung it with all his strength.
It bounced off.
When Peter looked behind him for something else to throw, he saw that the darkness he'd been trying to get away from now pooled in the doorway, creeping into the room.
Jesse squawked, flying up to the windowsill.
Peter knew that if he threw Jesse at the window it would break, and he could be free. Instead, he rushed to the window and banged his own head against it.
Cai tried to stop him, but the blackness had chained Cai's wings.
Peter hit his head against the cold hard glass, again and again—u
ntil he woke up in his own bed, forehead pressed hard against the mattress, his hands like claws and every muscle tense.
With a huge sigh, Peter pushed himself onto his back. His covers were kicked to the bottom of the bed and his pillow had been knocked to the floor. He closed his mouth and swallowed. His throat hurt. Had he been screaming?
Cai was curled up in a ball of misery. The fear, danger, and hurt confused him.
Ravens didn't dream. Not like humans.
Peter stumbled out of bed, heading for the kitchen. He never needed lights at night; even without Cai's vision, he always saw well in the dark.
Plus, while the lights would have brought some comfort, the need to hide still rode strong.
After rinsing his mouth out with cool, clear water, Peter took himself back to bed. Not to sleep, though; the fear was still too close and real.
But at Ravens' Hall, Prefect Becker had taught Peter how to meditate. Being calm would help Cai, as well as him.
Peter remade the bed, then tucked the blankets in close, making a cocoon, someplace he felt safe. He focused on his breathing, not letting the darkness of his nightmare flood him or the fear of tomorrow's deeds overtake him.
Because tomorrow night, after work, he was going to have to find Jesse.
And warn him away.
* * *
Peter stood in his living room looking at his phone; then, with regret, he slipped it back into his pocket. Not only did he not know Jesse's number, he doubted Jesse had a phone. He shook his head at the irony: It wasn't going to be as easy as calling a girl for a date.
The warm spring weather had come and gone. Overnight, it had turned cold and rainy again. In addition to his heaviest boots and jeans, Peter put on a T-shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, a sweater, a hoodie, and a vest.
He missed his leather jacket, particularly on nights like this. He was going to have to save up and buy another one. He didn't want to think about how Jesse had survived the night.
Cai sent the image of a raven resting on a wire, head tucked firmly under his wing as the night closed in and the rain pelted down.
Peter shivered and zipped his jacket up, pulling the hood up as he stepped into the gray evening, thankful that he had a place to stay, a job that let him live on his own, warm food, and friends.
Jesse still stood outside the grocery store, still begging for change from the people coming out. He still wore the faded Army jacket, dirty jeans, and no socks. He kept a smile on his face, as if that would keep him warm.
"Awww, no Mrs. Petie-Peter tonight?" Jesse teased.
"What are you doing here?" Peter asked, uncomfortable.
Cai remained silent; not withdrawn, but watching.
"I came to see you," Jesse exclaimed. He brought his hand up over his heart. "What, don't y'all believe me?"
Peter grabbed Jesse by the arm. The rough khaki cloth was cold and wet. Peter didn't let go. He pulled Jesse to the side, away from his curious buddies.
"Listen," Peter hissed. "It isn't safe for you here."
"You gonna turn me in?" Jesse asked, his chin raised defiantly.
"I'd never do that," Peter said, stung. "I'd never tell Ravens' Hall you're here." Was Jesse hiding from Ravens' Hall?
"'Cause you did once."
"No. I never did."
Jesse stared at him, hard.
The rain started again, a soft mist with barely any drops, just the air grown too heavy with water.
Peter refused to turn away, to wipe his face, to stand down. He bore Jesse's stare calmly, more calmly than he'd ever known he could.
"You didn't," Jesse said finally.
"I did try to warn you," Peter said.
Cai cawed softly in agreement.
"That you did," Jesse said, nodding. "But I ain't one for doing what I'm told," he added with a grin.
"It's not safe here," Peter repeated. "My dad's here."
Which was only a slight exaggeration—his mom and dad no longer lived in the city. But there was no telling when Dad might pop by, particularly since he was worried about Peter.
"And…others."
Peter didn't want to tell Jesse about Tamara. Or his dream, which, in the morning, after the fear had faded, still felt prophetic: that it was either Jesse or him.
Again, Jesse gave Peter that long stare. "What's got you scared?" Jesse asked.
Peter held himself still, surprised that Jesse had seen so much.
"I mean, besides life, 'cause you've always been afraid to live."
Cat, Cai hissed.
Peter whipped his head from side to side, trying to spy Tamara. The night and the rain obscured the faces of the people hurrying past them. He didn't see her, or her red hair.
Cai didn't stay unsettled, though; instead, he tucked up closer after issuing his warning. Maybe he'd just been answering Jesse's question?
"Something's got you scared but good," Jesse commented.
"You have to get out of here. Now."
"What, and leave my good friend Petie-Peter in the shit? I wouldn't do that. Oh, wait, that was you."
"There was nothing I could do," Peter hissed. His hand suddenly pinged with ghost pains—things never done to him in real life, visited on him only in dreams.
"I know," Jesse said after another long moment. He looked away, up the street, toward his buddies who'd just been successful, someone leaving the shop handing them a couple bills. "There's nothing I can do now, is there?" he asked softly.
"Nothing," Peter said, relieved. "Please. Go. Stay safe." Fly free.
Jesse nodded thoughtfully. "Tell you what. Why don't you go into that store and buy me dinner? That way I'll be strong enough to fly home."
"Home?" Peter asked suspicious. Did Jesse have someplace he called home?
Jesse waved his hand expansively toward the street. "You know. The road."
"I see," Peter said, though he didn't. "What do you want?"
"You know those rotisserie chickens? I want one of them."
"Really?" Peter asked. They made him uncomfortable. When he ate chicken, or any type of bird, he preferred it cut up, unrecognizable.
The shape of what they ate never bothered Cai. Only Peter.
"Yup," Jesse said with a sly grin. "I love tearing the wings off those. Don't you?"
"Anything else?" Peter asked, determined not to show any more weakness. "Anything at all?" He'd buy Jesse a six-course meal with wine and dessert if it would get him to leave.
"Naw, that'll do."
Peter turned to go into the store.
Jesse reached out and touched his arm, stopping him. "I'm glad to know it wasn't you who turned me in."
Peter nodded, knowing that it was as close to an apology as he'd ever get.
As Peter walked away, Jesse called after him, "But you should have stopped whoever did."
Peter paused, then nodded. He hadn't been able to stop Tisha, partly because of his own condition at the time. Still, it wasn't a good excuse. He should have tried harder.
The checkout line for snaked back into the aisles of canned goods and sauces. Peter shifted from one foot to the other, the glistening, obscene bird in his hands. The bottom was too hot to touch so he held it by its sides, as if presenting it as a dish. It smelled delicious.
Every time Peter looked at it, all he saw was a dead bird.
By the time Peter got back outside, of course, Jesse and his friends were long gone.
Peter found he wasn't surprised. For a moment he'd had the quiet hope that Jesse had stayed to help him with Tamara. The recitations were clear on leaving one of your own behind or in danger. But Peter quickly squashed that.
Jesse wanted revenge. Against Peter, and no one else.
Peter handed the still-warm chicken to the next panhandler he saw, then trudged home.
Cai shuffled, nervous, when they turned the corner of his block.
Peter looked all around, but no one was there, either on the sidewalk or close to the edge of the park. After looking and waiting, Peter
finally climbed the stairs to his apartment building.
A brown heap next to the door caught his eye.
Cai cawed a soft warning.
Peter's hand was steady as he picked it up. It was his leather jacket. Huge claws had shredded it like paper. Strips of leather and lining hung from the ribbed collar. One arm had fang marks in it. The points spread out as wide as his palm.
At first, Peter wanted to fling the jacket, throw it as far away from himself as he could. Then he grew calm and drew it closer to his chest, the implications clear.
Tamara knew where he lived.
And was planning the same destruction for him.
* * *
"Thank you again for dinner," Peter said, holding open the door of the restaurant for Sally. It wasn't fully dark yet, the spring twilight making the edges of the nearby buildings soft and casting halos around the lights. Hipsters in skinny jeans, oversized pea jackets, and artsy glasses passed them, going on their way up and down the hill.
"My pleasure," Sally said, grinning at him as she stepped out onto the sidewalk. "I can't believe you've never been there before."
Peter shrugged. "It said French food. How was I to realize French food meant these really great crepes?" He didn't tell Sally that the food had to be incredible for him to pay attention to it, and not to her in a silky red blouse that showed off her shoulders and broad collarbones, while still demure enough to leave everything else to his imagination.
Sally giggled at him and Peter shrugged again.
Cai murmured peacefully, happy and full.
As they started walking up the hill, toward the dance hall, Peter bumped shoulders with Sally. Even through her thick wool coat, she still felt warm to him. He really needed to replace his leather jacket.
Sally smiled at him and bumped back.
Feeling bold, Peter reached down and took Sally's hand. It was smooth and strong in his, warm and soft.
She nodded and squeezed his in return.
Peter felt like crowing his victory to the world. He wanted to stop the heavily pierced Goth chick with pink hair coming toward them and tell her, "See? She's holding my hand!"
He contented himself with a grin, while Cai gave a raucous caw.
"What got you interested in dancing?" Peter asked, instead of asking if she'd be his girlfriend. It was too soon for that, and he didn't want to press his luck.
