Page 1 of Raven

ONE

Ever have that feeling where something is just 'off'?

I couldn't put my finger on it, but as I walked into Spy Glass—the bar where I worked—something just didn't feel right. It had every nerve ending on high alert, my mind screaming a high-pitched warning as I shoved open the doors and went inside.

Nothing out of place. Everything the same—the warm, worn-in décor I'd grown to love and the comforting smell of hops and oak. So why did my skin feel like it was trying to crawl off my bones?

I exhaled sharply, the sound harsh in the empty room. Max would be arriving soon, and I wanted to have everything in order. Not because she'd give me grief—Max was cool like that—but because I respected her and the bar.

Under the guise of my usual routine, I stashed my bag in the back and started the walk-through, picking up any leftover glasses from the night before, laying down fresh bar mats, and wiping down surfaces. I checked everywhere to appease my brain, even the bathrooms, including the assisted toilet that had been out of order for weeks.

My panther, usually content to doze, paced restlessly beneath my skin. He felt it too—the tang of danger, sharp asblood on my tongue. My body tingled—a thousand tiny claws skittering across my flesh.

What was it?

It wasn't a match day, ruling out the usual sports-related chaos. No events were scheduled, as far as I remembered. Events often spelt trouble—too much alcohol and reckless Humans never mixed well. Even the local radio station predicted a quiet weekend. It was just another Friday evening on the northwest coast, and my job was to serve drinks to the bar's patrons.

Technically, I shouldn't have been serving at all. At two months shy of eighteen, I was underage by Human standards. But Max—Vanessa Maxwell, my boss—had made an exception, and no one questioned it.

I knew the reason. Bars, clubs, and events often employed shifters like me for crowd control. Despite the Humans' general disdain, we were effective at keeping order.

Spy Glass had its fair share of trouble. Tucked away at the edge of town, overlooking the cliffs with farmlands and the main road beyond, it wasn't a prominent spot. This obscurity probably explained why Max got away with employing me; no one bothered to venture this far to check.

But our location was a double-edged sword. Strangers passing through town often dropped in, unconcerned about consequences since they could quickly hop on the motorway and vanish before any law enforcement—if they even cared—could intervene.

Max had once quipped, "What sane drunk is going to argue with a six-foot-five shifter?" Yet some tried. The occasional dented chair and the scarred bar bore testament to these confrontations.

Idiots.

Sometimes, I felt my height and nature were provocations to them, turning me into a target. "Act the hard man and take downthe big guy," seemed to be their mantra. Being a panther shifter didn't help; we were rare. In my life, I'd only met one other, and that was my mother.

An hour into the bar's opening, I'd already completed a day's worth of tasks. Arriving early at Spy Glass was my routine, enjoying the quiet and solitude. It was the perfect time to manage maintenance tasks like changing the casks, and flushing the lines or focus on my college work.

Home life was challenging. Just me and my mother in a single room, a step up from our past underground life, balancing on the thin line between Society shifters and strays. I was determined to lift us from poverty, to make something of ourselves. That was the dream. I wasn't sure if it meant as much to my mother, though. On paper, she juggled two jobs—one as a cleaner in a large hotel and another as a night carer. The truth; she worked in the underground, offering services best left unspoken. But she kept us afloat, and I worked at the bar to fund my education. We were a team, and had been for as long as I could remember.

I exhaled slowly, surveying the room with narrowed eyes.

"You picking up something, big guy?" Max asked. She preferred that nickname over my actual name, Raven. Clay, on the other hand, called me McCulloch, my last name.

"Maybe," I replied.

She stood beside me, scanning the room. "Looks pretty quiet to me. No hen parties, no stags. No big groups yet."

She was right. The crowd was mild, a few people dining and drinking. The largest group was a bunch of girls from my college, enjoying pitchers I'd served. They'd flirted, as some Humans do, inviting me to join them. I always refused. Flirting was common, but as a shifter, I kept my distance.

As the evening progressed, I made a conscious effort to dismiss that nagging sensation. But, I remained vigilant,scanning the room and observing everyone with an intensity that eventually caught Clay's attention. "You're giving me the heebie-jeebies," he said, handing me two plates loaded with burgers, chips, and a side of garlic bread.

"Sorry," I mumbled in response.

"You need to keep those eyes under control, too, or someone will notice and complain."

"Ah, shit." I leant back to catch my reflection in the mirror. "Sorry." My eyes had shifted, a common occurrence when I was on edge. Usually a light pale green, they had brightened, speckled with gold as my panther grew restless. I took a moment to internally coax him to calm down. Whatever I was sensing, he felt it too, but this wasn't the time to lose control.

The clock had just struck nine-thirty when she walked in, and the world seemed to shift on its axis. I'd never seen her before, but something about her sent my senses into overdrive. She paused at the doorway, her eyes scanning the room with a predator's precision before she glided inside. To my surprise, she made a beeline for the corner table—the one hugging the staff door and toilets. It was the table of last resort, the one most patrons avoided like a bad hangover. Anyone unlucky enough to land there usually bolted the moment another spot opened up.

But not her. She claimed that table like a queen ascending her throne, despite three perfectly good alternatives being available. It was a move that screamed 'different,' and my panther took notice.

Her beauty knocked the breath out of me—radiant, but in a way that defied convention. It wasn't just her willowy frame or the way her white sundress clung to her curves like morning mist on rolling hills. No, it was something deeper. A spark of determination glinted in her eyes, sharp enough to cut. When she settled into her chosen spot, her lips curved into a smile thatwas soft yet knowing, as if she was in on some joke the rest of us had missed.

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