Page 34 of Raven

I leant against the cold brick wall, pressing my forehead to its rough surface, trying to steady my breathing. My hands fisted at my sides, knuckles white, nails digging into my palms until I drew blood. The pain was a welcome distraction.

"Damn it, Tia. Why?"

My thoughts spiralled, and I couldn’t stop the torrent of emotions. Anger flared, hot and fierce, mingling with the sorrow that weighed me down. I punched the wall. I'm not proud of that,but I did. I punched it hard, sending shock waves of pain up along my arm, but it did nothing to ease the ache.

I closed my eyes and tried to force the images of her from my mind, but it was nearly impossible. Her face, those eyes—so bright, yet so full of pain—haunted me.

I had to find a way to fix this, to bring her back.

My panther paced restlessly, a caged beast craving release. He didn’t care for her reasons. He only knew that she was his, and she was leaving. The animalistic urge to hunt and claim was overwhelming.

Time. Maybe. I'd give her time.

I pushed off the wall and began to walk. Each step was so heavy, and my panther pushed. I clenched my fists. Sent a silent whisper to her.

"If you can feel what I feel, you know I’d tear the world apart for you."

Then I ran. I had to. It was the only way to gain control over the panther, to run, to let him shift as we moved. I tore at my clothes, shredding my shirt, yanking off the joggers. They didn’t matter—just tatty clothes I’d taken. But he needed this. I wasn’t so afraid that he’d take over and turn back. I think, I hoped, that I had enough control so he wouldn’t do that. But he had to run, to get everything out of his system, and then maybe he’d be willing to listen to reason. That was my hope, at least.

Sometimes, he and I were like one—two halves of a soul in one body. And other times, like this, when logic and instinct battled each other, I felt so separate.

I let him run through the shadows, guiding him the way we’d come through the human-only areas, keeping to the back alleys and the quiet roads. The places I knew they’d not catch us, but also, places I knew would be quiet. I might have had some semblance of control on him as regards to Tia, but he was a bomb ready to go off. It’d take one wrong person in front ofus. Part of me wished I’d come across those guys again. But then part of me was glad I didn’t.

We reached the building where I lived and snuck into the shed. I was panting. We’d pushed. Run faster than we ever thought we could. My panther had used it, fueled it. Determined not to feel what he was feeling either. As I shifted, my body ached, my head throbbed, and I had to catch my breath. I’m not even sure my eyes fully shifted back because as I stood, leaning against the shed wall for support, the colours of the world were still tinged, and I knew if I spoke, it’d not be my voice coming out.

"Easy," I thought.

We couldn’t go into the place through the main stairs. My mother wasn’t in, and I had no key. We didn’t have one hidden either. Not with my mother's ever-paranoid mind, so it was back to the balcony again. Which wasn’t as easy as it was leaving. I had to climb, but it was later. So, I had to not be spotted.

I got to my balcony, eased myself over, and dropped down. Opening the door, I slipped inside. The place was in darkness, but I didn’t need a light to see my mother sitting there.

I ground my jaw. “I thought you were working tonight,” I said.

“I got one of the girls to cover for me.”

I braced myself. I was ready for it. Whatever she had to say, whatever she wanted to do, but I said, “I don’t want to fight.” My panther was still teetering on the edge.

She rose from her seat, gestured to the empty chair. “No fighting. Can we talk?”

FIFTEEN

I knew my mother wanted to talk, though I wasn't exactly sure about what. But these talks usually ended up with fighting, reaching an impasse, and her not giving any leeway. I gripped the back of the chair, my fingers tentatively digging into the hardwood. What I really should have done—and it did cross my mind—was walk out of there. At least, that's what I thought right then.

In the past, when she said she wanted to talk, it was usually because she, too, was tired of fighting, and I think that was all we'd done leading up to that moment. I know I didn’t always help, but I was at that age. I guess it didn’t matter.

I let out a sigh. I also knew that if we talked, it was more about her trying to persuade me to come around to whatever she wanted. The bags on the sofa near her told me exactly what the topic was—moving. Not a talk as such, but more her reasoning for it.

"Please, sit," she said, offering the chair out to me.

I hesitated and watched her. Sometimes, there was this weird thing that happened. I'd see her, my mother—not the barrier she was in my life, or at least the barrier I thought she was, and notthe woman who told me what to do, but my mother, my mum. There was something in the way she was looking at me.

She looked young, vulnerable. I'm not actually sure if that’s how she looked, or if I was pulling emotions from her without meaning to. I was already fighting with everything from Tia, and then to come into this... Yeah, my panther and my head were all over the place.

But she did look different. Funny, though, I didn’t actually know how old she was. I guessed and figured. I was seventeen, so she had to be almost forty. It was hard with shifters anyway. We rarely looked our ages once we reached adulthood. It was like age slowed down, but I think that had something to do with our effective healing times. The few times in my life I’d asked how old she was, she’d told me,"Old enough to be your mother,"and that’s all I needed to know.

She liked to keep her life separate from me, but that never bothered me either. I guess kids are selfish, and a little on the narcissistic side of things. Life is about us. What we want, what we think. Sure, we have our parents, but as long as we're safe and out of harm, with food and shelter, the other stuff is just ... stuff.

"Are we moving again?" I asked when I finally did speak to her. "Is that what you're going to tell me? That we're moving." I'm sure she didn’t appreciate the tone I used, and it wasn’t actually on purpose. It was hard to keep the panther from my voice when he had his own shit going on.

---