My father roared something I couldn't make out over the chaos. He was moving already, shoving open his door even as the car was still skidding sideways, even as bullets punched through metal and glass like the universe was trying to tear us apart one hole at a time.Cold air and rain rushed in, bringing the smell of smoke and burning rubber.
Outside, shadows moved.
Men. Armed. Faces hidden behind masks and hoods, dark fabric slick with rain. They came out of the alleys like smoke, like they'd been waiting there all along, patient and hungry. How long had they been watching? How long had they known our route?
The convoy shattered. Cars screeched to a halt, spinning out on wet pavement. Doors flung open. Guards spilled out, weapons drawn, shouting orders that nobody could follow because there were too many attackers and not enough time and everything was happening at once.
My mother shoved me down beneath her, her body a shield I didn't ask for but couldn't refuse. Her heartbeat thundered against my ear, fast and fierce and alive. I smelled her perfume beneath the smoke and oil, lavender and something else I couldn't name. Something metallic crept in underneath, sharp and wrong, making my stomach twist.
“Stay down,” she whispered against my hair. “Don't move. Don't look.”
But I looked.
Through the gap between the seats, I saw my father drag a sidearm from a fallen guard's holster. Saw him brace against the car door and fire into the chaos, three shots in quick succession. Each muzzle flash lit his face in sharp, violent bursts. He looked like something carved from stone and fury, nothing soft left in him. Nothing that resembled the man who'd read me bedtime stories when I was small.
An assassin vaulted over the hood of our car, boots hitting metal with a hollow thud. He landed in a crouch, masked and drenched and screaming words I didn't understand. Foreign. Guttural. Promises or threats or prayers, I couldn't tell. His coat whipped around him, and something metallic glinted in his hand.
My father shot him twice. Center mass. The man went down hard, crumpling like his strings had been cut.
But there were more.
Always more.
They came from everywhere, pouring out of doorways and from behind overturned cars, and I realized with cold certainty that this wasn't random. This was planned. Coordinated. Someone had known exactly where we'd be.
My mother shifted above me, and I felt her flinch. Heard the small, sharp intake of breath. Something wet and warm dripped onto my shoulder, soaking through my shirt.
“Maman?” My voice cracked, too small, too young. The word felt childish in my mouth, but I couldn't stop it.
“I'm fine,” she lied. Her voice was steady, but I felt her body trembling. “Stay still, mon étoile. Don't move.”
She wasn't fine.
I could feel the blood now, hot against my skin, spreading across my shoulder blade. She pushed herself up despite it, one hand pressed to her shoulder where the fabric had darkened, wet and gleaming. Her face was pale, jaw set, eyes burning with something I'd never seen before. Not fear. Rage. Pure and incandescent.
She grabbed me by the collar with her good hand and shoved me toward the far door, away from the fighting. “Go. Now.”
“I'm not leaving you?—”
“Go, Sebastian.” She said my full name. She never said my full name unless she meant it. “You go, and you don't look back. You hear me? You don't look back.”
Another explosion rocked the street, the shockwave rattling my teeth. Fire bloomed somewhere behind us, orange and roaring, climbing into the night sky and swallowing the rain. Heat washed over us. Debris rained down, metal and glass and something that might've been a door panel, clattering against the pavement like hail.
Guards pulled at me, hands rough and desperate, dragging me away from my mother even as I twisted and kicked and screamed her name until my throat went raw. I clawed at their arms, trying to break free, but they were stronger and I was thirteen and small and useless.
She was already turning back toward the fight.
My father took a bolt to the ribs. I saw it happen. Saw him stagger, saw the arrow shaft jutting from his side just below his vest, dark wood slick with rain and blood. He roared, more animal than man, and tackled an attacker with his bare hands. They went down in a tangle of limbs and blades, rolling across the wet pavement. My father's fist connected with the man's jaw once, twice, and then a knife flashed and I couldn't see who was bleeding anymore.
I broke free from the guards. I don't know how. Adrenaline, maybe. Desperation. Terror so sharp it gave me strength I didn't know I had. I hit the ground hard, palms scraping asphalt, skin tearing, and crawled toward my mother through the smoke and chaos. Glass cut into my knees. I didn't care.
She was on her knees beside the wreckage, one hand braced against the twisted metal of the car door, the other clutching her shoulder. Blood streamed between her fingers, dark and endless. Her breathing was ragged, shallow. Her eyes found mine through the smoke.
“Sebastian.” Her voice was soft now. Too soft. Like she was already halfway gone, already slipping into someplace I couldn't follow. “Be brave, my star.”
She pulled something from around her neck with trembling fingers. A charm. Silver. Shaped like a crescent moon with a tiny star hanging from it, barely bigger than my thumbnail. She'd worn it every day since I was born. I'd asked her about it once, and she'd told me it was a promise. I never understood what she meant.
She pressed it into my palm, folding my fingers around it. Her hands were cold. Too cold. When had they gotten so cold?
