Page 36 of Raven

"You were two children living on the streets?"

"For a little while, maybe. We managed to come across this group. There were six of them. Like strays, I think. They found us, took us in with them and we travelled. Moved around a lot and kept our heads low."

I did sit down then. I wasn’t sure when I’d actually done it, other than I was listening to her, feeling what she felt and trying to imagine it all.

My mother finished her drink and she didn’t refill it. She put the bottle away, put her glass in the sink and came over to me. "I'm telling you this so you know things, but also so you know, I understand. I know how hard it is to move from place to place, to leave your things and never feel like you have a home or roots. There are few panthers as it is, without us taking ourselves away."

"If you know how it feels, then let us stay. Don’t move us again."

Her eyes were so bright as she looked at me. I swear, I could see her panther roaming behind those eyes. "I've been running my whole life," she said. "I'm not sure I know how to do anything else."

I kept myself quiet for a moment. Part of me felt like this was walking on a tightrope. Maybe it was just me. I wasn’t getting anything off her that’d suggest that, but I had seen my mother get mad, seen her flip out. But what I was getting off her wasso different. It threw me, I guess. "You’re running from the men who killed your father? Is that why we move so much?"

She put her head down. She was then sitting on the chair opposite me, but we’d twisted so we were facing each other and there wasn't a table between us. She had her hands clasped. It took her a minute to raise her gaze back to mine. "I'm running from my brother," she said. "From Christian."

"Why?"

"You know, I always knew one day I’d have to tell you all these things. It was great when you were little. I didn’t have to worry. You were quite happy when you asked where you came from, and I told you that you were hatched—you accepted that. I miss those days." She sucked in a long, deep breath and pushed back. "Because he thinks things should be one way, and I want them another."

"Does he know about me?"

She laughed and got up. I thought she was going back for her drink, but she didn't. Instead, she grabbed the bag off the sofa and plunked it onto the table. But she didn’t do anything with it, just sort of held onto it. "Aye. He knows about you. I was only a kid and he was the one who was there for me."

"Not my father?"

"No, your father was there too, but he ... he was much older than me and it was hard for him."

"How old?"

She smiled at that and blew out a breath. "He was thirty. You get your height and dark hair from him. He had it styled like you do, too. Sometimes, when I look at you, or when I see you, I think it’s him." She paused again. "Can we talk about him another time? It has been a lot, and I've talked. I want to ask you something and I don’t want you to lie to me. Would that be okay?"

It was my turn to pause and to take a breath because she was asking that, I was sure it was maybe something I didn’t want to answer. "Okay," I said, cautiously.

"How much trouble are you in with the humans?"

SIXTEEN

I stared at my mother for maybe a little too long, but to her credit, she didn’t say anything or push me. She didn’t demand I answer or slam her hands down in frustration, which was strange.

We hadn’t always fought. She was right about that when she’d asked me to talk—I understood what she meant when she said she was tired of it. It didn’t feel good to be at each other’s throats all the time, to feel like she was always angry at me. But it had become a thing in recent years. Was it because of my age and me pushing boundaries? Probably. I was a teenager with wants, needs, and a voice, and I’d reached a place where I wasn’t afraid to use both. I’d also reached a place where I wasn’t afraid to do what I wanted, even if it went against my mother’s wishes or made her angry. I think maybe that was a good thing, though. I once read that a healthy child will push boundaries and get into trouble—not becoming a delinquent, but pushing because they feel safe. I wasn’t afraid of my mother; I respected her, and there was a difference.

Maybe that’s where our arguments came from, where we clashed. I was growing up and wanted things she didn’t agree with for reasons I didn’t understand. When I was just in therhythm of going to college and work, everything fit into place. She went to work, I went to work, and it was fine. In fact, we had many good times. My mother loved watching old movies, and sometimes we’d sit and watch them if she managed to rent one, or we’d play board games. We had an old Monopoly set that was so well-used it had missing pieces that we had to make ourselves, but those were great evenings. I kind of missed that version of us, but I also didn’t want to live in that version for the rest of my life because I had a life to lead.

“You can tell me anything. I just want to help you.”

I didn’t feel anything coming off my mother. Usually, she was full of angst, anger, and so many other things. She was always brimming with emotions that would reach out to me, thick and viscous in the air, but none of that was there as she stared at me.

“Whatever is going on in your life, I’m still your mother, Raven,” she said.

I knew that. I pressed my lips together in a firm line, as if I couldn’t voice the words. They were there in my mouth, but how did I get them out? So I went around the topic and nodded. “Malcolm said I can join his Sentinels. I could sign up when I’m eighteen and train and fight for him.”

My mother studied me for a moment. “Do you want to?”

I didn’t. Or I hadn’t when he first said it, but maybe that was just a knee-jerk reaction. “I have college and my job at Spy Glass.”

“Spy Glass is just a bar, and you can do your studies afterward, when you come back.”

I frowned at her. “You want me to sign up?”

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