Raven and the Dancing Tiger

by Cutter, Leah

  Despite the warm lights on stage, a cold chill went all across Peter's skin.

  Cai gave a loud caw of mourning.

  "Did you send Jesse to her, to issue this challenge?" asked one of the elders whom Peter didn't know.

  "No, sir. I did not. I told him to stay the hell away from her," Peter said grimly.

  "I have it recorded. His last words. His last little helpless, cawing screams."

  Peter couldn't help his shudder. "I did not tell him to go challenge her."

  "That's not what he said," Tamara replied.

  "The recording's a fake," Peter insisted, though he knew that Jesse might have lied.

  Prefect Becker spoke up. "I've heard parts of the tape. Only a raven warrior could have made some of those sounds."

  The edges of Peter's vision grew black. Suddenly, there wasn't enough air, and if there was, Peter would just use it to heave up his guts.

  Color drained out of the room as Cai pushed forward, holding Peter up as his knees grew weak.

  He knew those sounds, the heartbreaking caws that Jesse's raven made when it was in pain, when its wings had been clipped. The echoes sounded loudly in his head, drowning out everything else.

  Peter closed his eyes. For a moment, it felt as though he were just a tiny figure, no bigger than a doll, and a great mothering raven had tucked his head under her wing to comfort him.

  Then Peter opened his eyes.

  The noise struck him like a physical wave. The elders and prefects stood solidly in place, black stones rooted to the stage, yelling at the tiger warriors. They, in turn, paced dangerously around one another, slinking to the front to snarl and yell before drawing back again.

  The priest and priestess also yelled, but at their respective clans, trying to regain order.

  Tamara stood with her arms crossed over her chest, smiling smugly.

  Accusations from hundreds of years ago were thrown, of the ravens disclosing the tiger clans' secrets to the British, of the tigers hunting and killing all ravens on sight, even scouts sent to warn them.

  Peter couldn't believe the passion he heard from the querulous old birds.

  Cai cheered them on, adding his own raucous insults about flying upside down in the rain.

  Hope suddenly struck Peter.

  The old ravens would win. He could see it, see how they'd wear down the tigers. He watched the tide shift. The tiger warriors grew agitated, but they weren't getting anywhere, just repeating the same tired insults, while the ravens had managed to inch two steps closer to the center of the stage.

  Peter watched as the magic lines redrew themselves according to the ravens' passion. The tigers were stuck, but the raven warriors had taken another step closer to them.

  Soon the tigers would be overrun with bickering old birds. They'd have no choice but to go home.

  Tamara frowned, looking from one group to the next. "No," she said softly.

  Peter found himself grinning for the first time in days. He'd still have to get his revenge for Jesse, of course, but at least he wasn't going to have to fight for his life.

  Suddenly, Cai gave a warning caw.

  Something was different. Some scent teased Peter. Something that didn't belong.

  Tamara sensed it as well, her smile returning. She turned to face Peter. "I do have some extra incentive," she said smoothly. She gestured over to the side of the stage.

  Brin, the bartender from the dance hall, stood just off stage. Her hair was still shaved close to the skull, and dyed in a tight pattern of orange-and-black tiger stripes. All her piercings had been changed from shiny metal to muted black. She was dressed in all black: black vest and shirt, black jeans and Docs, like some kind of punk stage manager.

  She took a step to the side. Behind her stood Sally. She gazed out on the stage unseeing, as if in a trance.

  Peter could smell the magic on her, even from halfway across the stage.

  Without a word, Peter marched across the stage to where Sally stood, swaying slightly.

  Behind him, the elders of both clans continued their empty insults and millennia-long grudges.

  Peter walked over and took one of Sally's hands. It was cold and limp in his. "Let her go," he hissed.

  "Accept my challenge," Tamara replied.

  Peter glanced behind him. The ravens would win their fight, eventually, but that didn't mean Sally would be free. The tiger clan might let Tamara hold onto her out of spite.

  Peter glanced at Brin, who stood with her arms cross over her chest, like a bodyguard, though he wasn't sure what sort of protection she could actually provide. Hanging over her shoulder were three black feathers. Raven feathers.

  Jesse's feathers.

  "Enough," Peter said.

  Cai came forward as well. "Enough!" he croaked.

  Silence dropped over the stage.

  "If you free her, completely free her, right now, I will accept your challenge." Peter ignored the stifled sigh from the other raven warriors. He didn't care if maybe they could have negotiated something, or yelled their way into a partial peace.

  He needed Sally safe and clear. Right now.

  Brin took an ugly straw doll out from the inside of her vest.

  Sally's attention was suddenly riveted to it.

  Brin danced the doll to one side, then the other.

  Sally's gaze remained locked to it.

  "Now," Peter directed.

  "All right. Fine," Brin said. She drew the doll up, then snapped it in two.

  Peter caught Sally as she suddenly sagged, the strings cut.

  But only for a moment.

  Sally gathered herself together and pushed herself forward. Before Peter could stop her, Sally had stepped up to Brin and punched her in the mouth, making her stagger back.

  Peter found himself standing in front of Sally, both he and Cai ready to defend her, without even being aware that he'd moved.

  One of the tiger warriors braved the magic lines, growing pale and shivering as she walked across, putting an arm over Brin's shoulder and leading her away, off stage.

  "We have a deal?" Tamara's voice rang out across the stage and through the auditorium.

  Peter looked back at Sally. She seemed unhurt. She glared at the other tiger warriors, at Tamara, but her anger softened slightly when she glanced at Peter.

  He held his hand out to her.

  After a moment, Sally took it, squeezing hard, her fingers warm and alive.

  "Deal," Peter said.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cai poked at Peter where he rested, blissfully unaware at the back of Cai's mind after a long day of classes at Ravens' Hall. He wanted to ignore the ravens’ call, but he couldn't. He knew they were still in raven form, and he looked forward cautiously: The prefects had warned more than once about pushing forward too hard and transforming mid-air.

  He needn't have worried. They stood on the ground in the middle of a small, grass-filled meadow, circled by pines and oaks with new leaves. Something large and sweetly rotting lay on the edge, just under the trees. The sun was still up, though long shadows of the trees crossed all the way from one end to the other.

  A loud caw, challenging Cai, came from just behind him. After they turned, Cai showed Peter an image of Chris, superimposed over the raven before them.

  Peter understood. Cai didn't see anything wrong with the carrion now behind them. But Chris was already on such thin ground: Peter didn't know what would happen if he had another infraction of the rules.

  Cai gave a loud caw in return, his wings spread wide as if to stop the other raven, ready to fight.

  Chris, as a raven, was bigger than Cai, but Peter had no doubt that Cai was fiercer.

  However, Chris was insane. How crazy was his raven soul?

  Chris stormed at Cai, hopping and leaning forward to peck at him. It didn't matter how Cai pecked back, how Cai's wings beat at him. The raven wouldn't stop.

  Cai wasn't scared. He was rarely scared. But he was disturbed. The other raven sho
uld have gone away. He wasn't acting normal.

  Let me, Peter told him.

  Cai didn't want to let go. This was a rival. A rival who was doing the wrong thing, something that would hurt the clan, or at least that was what he understood. With great reluctance he let go, and Peter came forward, transforming into a naked, suddenly cold human in a field. The grass pricked against his bare feet, and the wind raised goose pimples all across his back and up and down his arms.

  "Chris," Peter said. "You can't. Let it go."

  The raven screamed loudly in frustration, darting forward as if intending to peck Peter's hands.

  "No!" Peter yelled. "No! Go back! Back to Ravens' Hall!" He took a few steps toward the raven, yelling and waving his arms.

  The raven shivered, and transformed back into Chris. He stayed crouching near the ground, snarling, his eyes not human.

  "Chris. Chris! Come back, man," Peter said, worried.

  With a croaking growl, Chris raced across the short distance between them, throwing his arms around Peter's thighs and tackling him to the ground.

  "Wait, what? Stop!" Peter said, pushing up at Chris.

  When Chris threw the first punch, cracking Peter's head back hard into the ground, Peter realized the time was here, now, and the fight was on.

  Peter punched Chris back, socking him in the ribs, getting Chris shifted off his legs so he could roll away, his mind calm as his training took over.

  Chris struck out with a blindingly fast punch that Peter dodged easily, landing his own on Chris' shoulder, spinning him. He followed up with a kick to Chris' ribs. Before he could close, Chris' fist came out of nowhere and drove him back with a blow to his own shoulder.

  Peter thought about raising the warrior glass armor, but quickly discarded it. This wasn't about a safe fight. This was rage and disappointment and finally hitting and hurting as much as they wanted.

  This was a brutal dance.

  After landing two more good strikes to Chris's chest and ribs, Peter took his own blows, quick and hard, one to his shin and another to his left arm. Just one inch to one side or the other and Chris would have taken out either his knee or his elbow.

  As quickly as it came up, Peter's fury drained away. He worked to be more careful, blocking more, not taking as many hits. He realized he was tired, suddenly. His bruises started to make themselves known, up his left side, across his feet. They both breathed harshly in the cool afternoon, panting curses and grunting when forced to. Blood dripped freely from Chris' nose, and the Peter’s cuts from landing on the rough ground stung as sweat crept across them.

  Peter held up his hand, intending to take a breather. There was no reason to keep going. They'd both beaten each other up good.

  But Chris wouldn't stop. He kept coming at Peter, even as he swayed.

  "Dude. Let it go," Peter told him, taking a swing and missing.

  "No. You…you," Chris said, growling again. His eyes had never grown fully human.

  "Come back with me," Peter said. The shadows had grown longer, darker, while they'd fought.

  "Never," Chris said, with another run at Peter.

  This time, Peter sidestepped the attack and brought his elbow down with precision on the small of Chris' back, a direct shot to the kidneys.

  Chris sprawled on the ground in front of Peter, his eyes closed, his breath even.

  Peter wondered if he'd just knocked Chris unconscious. Then decided he didn't care. He wanted to get back to Ravens' Hall, to tend to his wounds there. It was going to be hard enough to fly in this shape.

  He turned and hadn't taken a single step when Cai gave him a warning caw.

  Without thinking, Peter raised up the glass armor. He couldn't turn in time to defend himself.

  A hard branch from one of the nearby trees crashed down on Peter's spine.

  Peter turned in horror. Without the armor, Chris would have broken his back. He struck back, three blows that drove Chris the rest of the way across the meadow and left him collapsed in a heap, truly unconscious this time.

  When Peter straightened up, he realized the meadow was strangely quiet. He looked around, but he couldn't see anything different. Chris hadn't hit him in the head; his hearing was just fine—he still heard the wind in the trees and the distant sound of the interstate.

  Then he heard it. The far off, heartbreaking caw of a panicked raven.

  Cai wasn't with him, enclosed in the armor. He was on the outside.

  Peter was alone, miles from Ravens' Hall, trapped, and both vulnerable and invulnerable.

  * * *

  Peter sat on the cold ground, trying to breathe deeply, trying to calm both of them. The shadows in the meadow had grown darker and the wind smelled of rain.

  Cai couldn't hear him, though. Cai, on the other side of the glass armor that protected Peter (too safe, too well) was alone for the first time as well, and continued to make piteous cries, like his world had broken apart, shattered like an egg falling from a high branch and dashing onto the rocks below.

  Breathe, Peter said. Warm blankets piled up on their bed, spaghetti sauce over thick worm-like noodles, blue sky. But nothing Peter sent could get through to the panicked raven.

  And Peter—Peter couldn't lower the armor. Couldn't get it to drop off his skin. It clung, pricking like feathers, clinging like shadows. No matter what he tried, he couldn't get Cai to stop panicking, and that threat of danger, of loss, kept the armor raised.

  Cai, I'm here. I'm here. I'm here. But the glass was impenetrable. Peter couldn't get through, and neither could Cai.

  It took Peter a moment to realize that the raven caws he was hearing were now coming from outside. He opened his eyes and raised his head.

  A large old raven circled and floated down, white flecking the feathers around its neck, near its eyes. After landing, it shook itself all over like a wet dog, and Prefect Aaron rose in its place.

  Peter had never been so glad to see anyone. He stayed seated, though. The evidence of what had happened was obvious, and Peter let the prefect draw his own conclusions, from Chris still crumpled on the ground a few feet away, to the carrion still rotting sweetly, to Peter sitting and guarded.

  The prefect walked over to Chris and examined him briefly before coming back and standing over Peter. "He attacked you?"

  Peter nodded, but then added, "I fought him, though. At the start. I didn't fly away."

  The prefect grunted. "What happened, son?" he asked as he squatted down to face him.

  Peter trained his eyes on the prefect's broad chest. Though the prefect was old, his skin wrinkled and weathered, the slight hair on his chest white, his muscles still bunched and slid easily as he reached out.

  "I'd stopped Chris. Beat him down. I thought he was unconscious. I turned my back, and he attached again." Peter pushed all his emotions down, trying to remain calm, though he wanted to give in and cry as loudly as Cai was. "My raven soul warned me. It all happened so fast. The armor came up, and—"

  "And your raven soul is on the other side," the prefect ended, reaching out and squeezing Peter's shoulder.

  Peter barely felt it through the armor. Everything was remote, filtered through glass. "I can't bring it down," he confessed.

  The prefect nodded. "You have a choice," he said with a sigh. "You may be able to bring it down yourself, naturally, tomorrow or the next day, if you calm yourself and your raven soul enough. Or you may not be able to. I don't know for certain. Or, you could ask me to bring it down for you. Now—" he held up his hand. "If I bring it down, it will hurt. Much more than you can imagine."

  "If I wait, it will hurt more, won't it?" Peter asked through gritted teeth.

  "Yes. The longer you wait, the more it grows to be a part of you, melding itself with your bones. After a while, no one would be able to separate you and it. Your raven soul is what keeps it separate."

  "And if it's a part of me, my raven soul no longer would be," Peter said with certainty. He remembered Kitridge telling him about how his armor
was just another form for his feathers.

  "Yes. Your raven soul would die. And then so would you," the prefect said matter-of-factly.

  "Take if off me."

  "Peter, are you certain? I don't want to hurt you more than is necessary. If you wait until tomorrow morning—"

  "No. Do it. Do it now," Peter said. He couldn't stand to hear those piteous caws from Cai. He'd never survive the night.

  It would be as bad as if he'd been clipped, or maybe worse, because he should have done something about it.

  Peter pushed himself up. The prefect stood with him.

  "Are you certain?" the prefect asked.

  "Yes."

  Coming. Safe nest. Blue skies. Soon, Peter told Cai, trying one last time to reassure the crying raven.

  But Cai continued not to notice.

  "Do it."

  What was that smile on the prefect's face? Was he actually happy to do this to Peter and Cai? Glad to have a chance to hurt them?

  Then the pain struck. It forced Peter's breath from his chest, too fast and harsh for him to scream.

  The prefect didn't touch Peter, merely spread his hands out, then slowly moved down from Peter's shoulders and along the length of his arms.

  Sharp nails dragged their way along Peter's skin. He was surprised to find he wasn't bleeding, that his skin wasn't peeling off. But it felt like that, sharp, hot pain scouring every inch of his arms, his chest, his back. It got worse as it moved along, faster, harsher.

  The prefect stopped his movements around Peter's waist, but the armor continued to burn with pain, past his hips, through his groin, pain upon pain, leaving Peter gasping and trembling.

  Finally the fireball ended, sinking into the ground. Peter felt raw, exposed, shivering with exhaustion, every bruise and ache from his battle with Chris shining brightly, piercing his nerves.

  But Cai, Cai was there. Peter enveloped his raven soul tenderly, drawing it close.

  Cai didn't seem relieved, though. His feathers stayed ruffled and he pecked and scratched, agitated. He didn't understand how Peter could be so hurt, where he had gone, how he had come back.

  He didn't seem to believe that Peter wasn't about to leave again.