After the last two missions, I thought we could use a break. A group vacation to Earth, to be more precise.

  Caz had insisted on going alone on his own trip, and honestly, after the other day, I thought he needed some space, so I let him.

  As for the rest of us, we were in Italy—somewhere coastal and sun-kissed, where the buildings looked like they were painted with antique sunlight and every street corner tried to outdo the last one with flower boxes and cobblestone smugness.

  The second thing I noticed was how quiet everyone had gotten.

  Even Scarlet had gone temporarily silent, which was frankly suspicious. She stood on the train platform we had been unceremoniously dumped on wearing sunglasses that had no right to exist outside a Bond villain’s wardrobe, sipping something with foam, and tilting her head like she was judging the breeze for having the audacity to touch her.

  I stepped off the platform last.

  “Alright,” I said. “Nobody summon anything. Nobody threaten anything. Nobody burn anything.”

  Scarlet pouted instantly. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

  “Eat gelato,” I said. “Judge tourists. Work on your crossword.”

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a small, leatherbound planner.

  The front was embossed in gold script:

  “People Who Have Slighted Me”

  “I brought this,” she said sweetly.

  I blinked. “That’s... that’s fine.”

  Lawson coughed discreetly and took a step forward, nodding toward the square ahead of us. “Before anyone asks—yes, the locals can see us, so don’t do anything stupid. And the reason they’re not screaming is because those of us who look like nightmare beasts are under glamours.”

  He shot a look at Ben, who had politely tucked himself into the form of a very tall man in a scarf, with only one or two suspiciously serpentine features.

  Sagittarius—currently disguised as a sleek, long-legged Great Dane with too many teeth—clicked his feet in a pattern that was probably amusement.

  Lawson continued, hands clasped behind his back like a tour guide at a funeral. “Estate standard protocol applies. With that being said, please keep said glamorous stabilized, language localized, and your metaphysical presence under the acceptable ambient interference threshold.”

  Tobe raised a hand. “Translation?”

  “Don’t glow in public,” Lawson said. “Don’t hiss in tongues. And for the love of whatever omnipotent being you so choose to believe in, do not let Charcoal order for anyone.”

  “I’m fluent in five dialects of regional Italian,” Charcoal said from somewhere behind me.

  “You’re barely fluent in English,” Harper muttered, adjusting her glasses and turning on her tablet like she could Google herself out of this mess.

  Maroon, who had already wandered over to a food stand and was currently attempting to trade an enchanted bullet casing for biscotti, called back, “How long we get to stay, boss?”

  “Forty-eight hours,” I said. “Two days of vacation. Or at least something that approximates it. No missions. No leads. No ominous threats from mysterious sources wrapped in baked goods.”

  Gale, thankfully, wasn’t here to protest.

  Tobe spun in a slow circle, arms out. “So you’re telling me we get two whole days of not dying horribly?”

  “I make no promises about the ‘dying horribly’ part,” I said. “But yes. Go eat. Enjoy the beach. Maybe flirt with a local and get rejected in a language you can’t fully translate.”

  Ben slithered into a chair and sighed. “I’ll have espresso and silence, please.”

  The team dispersed.

  Harper drifted off toward a vintage tech stall, muttering about how the routers were “so old it’s like they’re powered by spite.” Maroon dragged Charcoal toward a music shop arguing about vinyl integrity. Liz tucked herself into a corner with a sketchpad. Sagittarius immediately climbed the side of a cafe and began surveying the square.

  And Tobe?

  He lingered.

  He looked... jumpy.

  His shoulders were tight, eyes darting—trying not to look like he was scanning every alley, every rooftop, every windowpane reflection.

  I stepped closer.

  “You good?”

  He flinched. Smiled too fast. “Yeah. Yeah. Just taking it all in. You know. Vitamin D. Terrifying sunshine. The usual.”

  I narrowed my eyes.

  “You see something?”

  He hesitated.

  Then: “Nope. Just shadows.”

  Which was exactly the kind of thing people say when they’re definitely seeing not just shadows.

  So I decided to tail him for a bit.

  I waited until the others were distracted. Until Scarlet had declared war on a flavorless cannoli and Charcoal was deep into a debate with a passing nun about the moral ramifications of autotune.

  Tobe had wandered off just far enough to think no one would follow.

  But I did.

  Quiet. Careful.

  He ducked into a narrow side alley between two weather-worn buildings. The walls sweated sun-warmed stucco. The air was heavier here. Less friendly.

  He stood at the far end of the alley, shoulders hunched, staring up at a blank brick wall like he expected it to blink.

  Yeah, something weird was definitely going on here. Time to peek inside his head.

  I didn’t say anything.

  I didn’t need to.

  I reached.

  Not physically.

  I let my power slip just past my fingertips, a thread of red running into the space between us. It curled through the air like smoke.

  I’d done this a few times before. Usually with Sibilants who were being particularly uncooperative during interrogation. Once or twice with Liz when she was too shaken to speak.

  Tobe twitched.

  He felt it.

  I expected resistance.

  Instead, I got...

  Doors.

  Dozens of them.

  Mental memory-locks, organized like a cluttered archive. Most were just labeled “NOT FOR DAGGER” in big red font.

  I ignored those.

  I followed the weight.

  The one memory glowing like a warning flare, bleeding at the edges like it had never healed properly.

  And I stepped inside.

  It wasn’t a vision.

  It was a full dive.

  And suddenly—

  I was a kid.

  Tobe’s age. Tobe’s eyes.

  Standing in a backyard.

  Somewhere normal. Somewhere unremarkable. Faded playset. Garden hose. A mother calling from inside the house, her voice distorted like it couldn’t reach me.

  And in front of me?

  A Guardian.

  And not just a shimmer.

  A being.

  Seven feet tall. Luminous skin that flickered between alabaster and starlight. Hair made of something that moved like fire and breathed like silk. No face—just eyes. So many of them. Arranged in a pattern that looked beautiful until it blinked.

  Tobe—me—spoke.

  “Do I have to be good?”

  The Guardian tilted its head.

  “You already are,” it said. Its voice was echo and gravity. “You were chosen.”

  “Chosen for what?”

  “To reflect,” it said.

  And then it touched my forehead.

  Pain. Light. Something else.

  A gift.

  The scene changed.

  School.

  Tobe again. A little older now. Sitting alone in a classroom while a teacher argued with his mother outside the glass.

  “He says he sees angels.”

  “He does.”

  “No one else can.”

  “He says they’re talking to him. Giving him rules.”

  I turned. Behind the chalkboard, a Guardian floated. Watching. Judging.

  Tobe sat still. Too still. Like he thought if he moved, the others would hear the voice again.

  Another shift.

  A church basement.

  Tobe, hiding in a storage closet, knees pulled to his chest, whispering.

  “They said I’m theirs.”

  Another Guardian—different this time. Wings that weren’t wings. Just fractal patterns of truth. It leaned in.

  “You are chosen. Your suffering is part of your refinement.”

  “Why does it hurt?”

  “Because pain is proof.”

  Another shift.

  A fever dream.

  Tobe on the street. Teenager now. Bleeding from the mouth. A ring of people surrounding him, all yelling things that didn’t match their mouths. And above them all, floating just out of reach—

  A Guardian.

  Looking proud.

  Like it was watching a lamb become a sword.

  ---

  I pulled out.

  Too fast.

  The connection snapped like a rubber band—snarled back into me with a jolt that left my head buzzing and my hands shaking.

  Tobe turned toward me.

  His eyes were wild.

  He’d felt it.

  “Did you… Look inside my head?” he asked nervously.

  I couldn’t lie.

  “You’re seeing Guardians,” I said.

  His breath caught.

  “I always have.”

  “And you never said anything?”

  “No one ever believed me.”

  His voice cracked on the last word.

  I felt sick.

  Because I saw them now, too. Lingering just at the edge of town—on rooftops, in church windows, carved into fountain stones. Beautiful. Impossible. Wrong. They shouldn’t be visible here on Earth.

  Tobe didn’t say anything else.

  And I didn’t press him.

  We walked out of the alley together, quiet, not touching, not looking at each other. Just... breathing.

  The square hadn’t changed.

  It was still pretty.

  Still quaint.

  But now it felt wrong.

  Maybe it was just paranoia, but now it seemed like the light was too golden. The birdsong felt a little too choreographed. The people smiled a second too long. Everything was polished to a shine that felt like it was trying to hide something.

  And now that I’d seen them I couldn’t unsee them.

  The Guardians.

  They were everywhere.

  Not speaking. But watching.

  Like celestial paparazzi with a divine NDA.

  One hovered above the church spire. Wings like shattered glass fanned into a halo. One sat on a bench beside an elderly woman, hands folded neatly in its lap like a priest waiting for confession. Another clung to the side of a bakery sign, upside-down, its face buried in a book made of flame and blank pages.

  No one else saw them except for me and Tobe.

  Tobe sat down hard on a bench near the fountain, head in his hands.

  “I’ve never seen this many at once before,” he muttered. “Usually it’s just one or two. Somethings going on.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know.”

  I looked around.

  And that’s when I noticed.

  Quiet reverence in every eye. People moving in sync. A language of obedience that didn’t need to be spoken.

  I caught Lawson’s eye across the plaza. He’d just stepped out of a bookstore, sunglasses pushed up into his hair. He gave me a look—tilted head, one raised brow. The Lawson Special for something’s wrong, do we punch it?

  I nodded once.

  Yeah.

  Something’s wrong.

  A bell rang from the church tower.

  Not a normal bell.

  A harmonic chime, tuned too precisely. It reverberated through my chest like a tuning fork. Even the pigeons stopped flying.

  And then he appeared.

  White robes. Bare feet. Bald head. And eyes that glowed faintly gold—not magic, not illusion, but something deeper.

  He walked through the center of the square like a god returning from vacation. People parted for him without being told. Not worshipping. Just... assuming.

  He stepped up onto the old stone stage near the basilica and raised both hands.

  The crowd went silent.

  “Brothers,” he said, his voice soft and slow, “and sisters. Our time draws near.”

  They murmured like a choir. In sync.

  Tobe shrank back slightly on the bench. “That’s why they’re here.”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “You know him?”

  “No. But... Just watch.”

  The Prophet smiled. “Soon, we will be seen as we truly are—not by outsiders, but by the Source itself. And when that day comes, all things unclean will burn away.”

  Scarlet reappeared beside me, sipping from a blood-orange gelato like nothing was wrong. “So,” she said, “are we enjoying our nice, nonviolent vacation?”

  “Do you see them too?” I asked.

  “I see a bald man, if that’s what you’re referring to, but I have a feeling you’re referring to whatever is watching us that I can’t see.”

  “That would be Guardians,” I said. “This town is under Guardian influence. Heavy.”

  She licked her spoon. “So we burn it down?”

  “No.”

  I turned to Lawson.

  He’d moved closer, hand on the grip of his sidearm.

  “Do they know what’s happening?” he asked.

  I looked at the crowd. The blank eyes. The soft smiles. The perfect harmony.

  “No,” I said. “They’re just... faithful.”

  Tobe stood slowly.

  “I think he’s like me,” he said, voice flat.

  Lawson raised an eyebrow.

  “Power?”

  “He was given some sort of gift by the Guardians,” Tobe said. “Probably flaunted it off in public to make the people think he’s divine.”

  “He might think that he’s divine too,” I muttered.

  The Prophet turned then.

  He looked directly at us.

  Not the crowd.

  Not the town.

  Us.

  And his eyes—gold, too bright, too deep—lingered on Tobe.

  Just for a second.

  Just long enough.

  And then he looked away.

  Kept speaking.

  Like nothing had happened.

  But I saw it.

  He recognized him.

  And he was keeping it quiet.

  Tobe was shaking slightly. Just a tremor.

  “He knows,” Tobe said. “He knows what I am.”

  I nodded.

  “So do we,” I said. “Let’s show him he’s not the only prophet in town.”

  The Prophet didn’t speak for much longer.

  Just a few more words about cleansing. About preparation. About something called “the Trial of Reflection,” which sounded exactly like the kind of thing you’d name a death-by-holy-light punishment ritual for people with opinions.

  The crowd drank it in.

  Not enthusiastically. Not fanatically.

  Calmly.

  Which made it worse.

  People who scream and shake signs you can handle. People who smile while loading the bonfire? Terrifying.

  When the Prophet finished, he turned and vanished into the basilica like a magician exiting stage left. The crowd broke apart naturally—like waves returning to the sea. No discussion. No confusion.

  Just acceptance.

  And underneath it all, the Guardians—hovering above the rooftops, perching on balconies, watching. No interference. Not yet.

  I turned to Tobe.

  He wasn’t trembling anymore.

  He was pale. Stone-still. Eyes fixed on the basilica like it might breathe fire if he looked away.

  “Tobe,” I said softly.

  No response.

  “Hey,” I said, firmer now. “Snap out of it.”

  Still nothing.

  So I sat beside him.

  “You ever talk to someone who scared you after they told you they loved you?”

  He blinked.

  “Because that’s what that looked like,” I said. “Like he reminded you of something you didn’t want to remember.”

  Tobe’s throat worked once.

  Then he said, “His voice is the same.”

  I waited.

  “When I was a kid,” he said, staring straight ahead, “there was this Guardian. Or I thought it was one. It told me I was chosen. Said I was built to reflect the world. That I could show people who they really were. Make evil collapse in on itself.”

  His jaw clenched.

  “So I believed it.”

  Of course he did.

  “I got jumped once,” he went on. “At school. Just... dumb kids. Cornered me after class. Pushed me around. And I thought, ‘It’s fine. They’ll see who they are. They’ll feel it.’”

  He was quiet for a long second.

  “One of them broke his arm. Just from punching me. It snapped. Like glass. I didn’t touch him. I didn’t do anything.”

  His hands had curled into fists on his knees.

  “They screamed. Called me cursed. Freak. The school said I’d set a trap. The Guardian just... watched. Didn’t protect me. Didn’t help. Just smiled.”

  My throat went dry.

  “After that,” Tobe whispered, “I stopped trying to be good. It didn’t matter. Either I was cursed, or I was being tested, or I was supposed to be alone.”

  He looked at me.

  Finally.

  And his voice cracked again.

  “And I’m really, really tired of being alone.”

  I didn’t have a smartass answer for that.

  Didn’t have a pep talk either.

  Just placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  Not comfort.

  Not absolution.

  Just there.

  Then Harper came jogging up, tablet in hand, glasses fogged slightly.

  “I just ran a grid scan of the town,” she said breathlessly. “There are energy patterns converging around the basilica. And not Sibilant, Guardian, all around bald cult man.”

  “Yeah,” I said, “We kinda figured that out.”

  “W-”

  “We also already have a plan.” I said, cutting her off, “Tobe has the same weird connection to Guardians that the prophet dude has. If we just flaunt Tobe’s power, the people should hopefully realize that their “Chosen One” isn’t just one person, and stop following him.”

  Or at least that was the plan—

  Until the bell rang again.

  Only once.

  But loud.

  The streetlights flickered on, even though it was still daylight.

  And every person in the square turned to look at us.

  Not one by one.

  All at once.

  Perfectly synchronized.

  Harper muttered, “Okay. Nope. I hate that.”

  A voice rang out from across the plaza.

  Sharp.

  Triumphant.

  Clear.

  “You stand among the Chosen and have been chosen to be judged!”

  The Prophet.

  Back on the basilica steps. Arms raised. Eyes blazing gold.

  “These are heretics!” he declared, pointing. “They carry false light. They twist the Gift! They must be tried!”

  People didn’t run.

  Didn’t scream.

  They just stepped forward.

  Quiet. Sure.

  Like this wasn’t anger.

  It was procedure.

  Tobe stood.

  I drew my blade.

  Then I noticed the people just… stopped. They turned back to the Prophet.

  The Prophet descended slowly, his robes fluttering without wind, golden eyes gleaming like someone had turned sunrise into a smirk. The people around him didn’t chant. Didn’t cheer.

  They just... moved aside.

  Made a circle.

  Like they knew what was coming.

  Like they’d seen it before.

  Tobe stepped forward to meet him.

  No banter.

  No swagger.

  Just steady steps.

  I stayed behind him. Sword drawn. But I didn’t interfere.

  Not yet.

  I could feel it—the connection between them. Like magnets circling a mutual rejection of physics. They were the same force in different directions.

  And when they stopped, face to face, the Prophet smiled like he’d already won.

  “You see it, don’t you?” he said, soft and smug. “You know it.”

  “I know what you are,” Tobe said.

  “You are me,” the Prophet replied. “You are just me who went down the wrong path.”

  “No,” Tobe said. “I’m you after I survived.”

  Then he swung.

  Fast. No ceremony.

  His fist cracked across the Prophet’s jaw with a noise that echoed off the plaza stones like the town itself gasped.

  The Prophet staggered.

  Straightened.

  Touched his mouth—and his hand came away with blood.

  Then he smiled.

  And swung back.

  Tobe took it on the chin.

  Didn’t move.

  Didn’t flinch.

  But when the Prophet pulled his hand away again—

  His knuckles were bleeding.

  He looked down at them.

  Then looked at Tobe.

  And realized.

  The loop had started.

  It began slow.

  Hairline bruises. Echoes of pain. A bruise in the ribs that wasn’t there before. A lip swelling too fast for a single hit.

  Tobe stepped back.

  The Prophet advanced.

  They traded another blow.

  This time—both of them staggered.

  Not just from the impact.

  From the return.

  Tobe gasped.

  So did the Prophet.

  Harper, standing behind me now, whispered, “Oh no. They’re stuck.”

  “What do you mean stuck?” I asked without looking away.

  “They’re not just reflecting damage,” she said. “They’re reflecting each other’s reflections. Every new hit is just adding to the passive damage per second they’re already experiencing from the reflection loop.”

  “Which means?”

  “Which means if they keep going... they’ll both be dead in about a minute and a half.”

  Great.

  Another swing.

  More blood.

  It wasn’t just one cut—it was layers. The injury repeating itself, like a photocopy re-copying the last copy until the edges tore.

  Tobe spit blood, wiped it from his chin, and laughed.

  “Your god sucks.”

  The Prophet sneered.

  “You are unworthy.”

  “No argument there,” Tobe said. “But I’m still standing.”

  Another strike.

  Their arms shattered.

  At the same time.

  Bones snapped like matchsticks. Their shoulders dropped, pain surging through both chests.

  But they continued anyway.

  It wasn’t rage that kept Tobe going.

  It was proof.

  Every hit said I’m not crazy.

  Every bruise screamed I wasn’t alone.

  He wanted it to hurt.

  Because that meant it was real.

  And the Prophet?

  He didn’t want to win.

  He wanted to be confirmed.

  To have his faith returned to him with blood.

  Tobe stumbled.

  So did the Prophet.

  Both dropped to one knee.

  Breathing hard.

  Crimson blooming on concrete.

  Scarlet appeared at my side, voice low. “If this keeps going, they’ll tear themselves apart.”

  “They’re not even fighting each other anymore,” I said. “They’re fighting certainty.”

  She leaned close. “Fix it, Little Blade. Before one of them becomes a martyr.”

  I clenched my jaw.

  And stepped forward.

  Scarlet didn’t try to stop me.

  Neither did the crowd.

  Because they knew—same way animals know storms are coming—that something was about to happen they didn’t have a word for.

  Tobe and the Prophet were both on the ground now. Knees scraped raw, hands shattered, eyes locked in mutual pain.

  Every second that passed, the bruises darkened, the cuts deepened. There was no fight left—just feedback.

  And it was about to kill them.

  I moved to the center. Between them. My boots hit the bloodstained cobblestone with a crack that echoed.

  Then I raised my hand.

  And opened the gate.

  A correction.

  I don’t use my full power often. Not because I can’t.

  But because it tends to break things.

  Reality, mostly.

  Narrative structure. Physics. The polite lie that things have to make sense.

  And there was always that possibility that it could break something I like.

  That was why I didn’t risk it.

  But this?

  This called for intervention.

  If it broke something?

  Well, that’s tomorrow’s problem.

  First, I slowed the moment.

  Tobe’s next breath froze mid-exhale.

  The Prophet’s pulse paused like a held note.

  Even the sun dimmed. Slightly. Like it didn’t want to watch.

  Then I rewound the echo.

  Not time. Just consequence.

  I slid my blade into the space between effect and cause.

  And broke the chain.

  The recursive loop—the endless feedback of pain and proof and faith and fear—shuddered. Buckled.

  I gripped it.

  Not with my hands. With will.

  And cut.

  The snap was silent.

  Not quiet.

  Silent.

  Like God hit mute.

  Then sound returned all at once.

  The Prophet collapsed with a scream, clutching his head, blood streaming from his ears.

  Tobe dropped, too—but his eyes were clear now. His body was shaking, but the loop was gone. The pain was his. Singular.

  I stood over both of them.

  Not glowing.

  Not shouting.

  Just present.

  And everyone felt it.

  The Guardians overhead froze.

  The people around us dropped to their knees—not out of worship.

  Out of sheer instinct.

  Like prey flattening under pressure.

  Scarlet let out a long, slow whistle behind me. “Well. There goes subtlety.”

  I didn’t move.

  Didn’t say anything.

  Just let the air realign itself.

  The Prophet groaned, half-conscious.

  And Tobe?

  He looked up at me.

  And whispered, “You did it.”

  I nodded.

  “You’re not alone,” I said.

  Then I turned to the crowd.

  And said the worst possible thing:

  “We’re leaving.”

  And they followed us.

  Not because we ordered it.

  Not because we threatened.

  But because the people had seen something they didn’t understand—and decided it was divine.

  That’s the problem with pulling reality apart in front of a crowd.

  Someone always thinks it’s for them.

  There were no conversations on the way to the van. Tobe limped beside me with a blank stare that said his brain hadn’t quite caught up with his body yet. Harper hovered nearby, mumbling diagnostics to herself and sending increasingly panicked messages through her tablet, all of which were being ignored by the Estate. Ben slithered through the alley shadows like a bodyguard with a soul patch. Scarlet hummed a funeral march in a minor key and offered Tobe a juice box she definitely did not get from a store.

  The crowd was still following us.

  Silent. Wide-eyed. Respectful in the way statues are respectful. They didn’t call out. Didn’t reach for us. They just walked. Behind us. Every step like it had been ordained.

  Right to the edge of the town.

  Right to the van.

  I turned once. Met the eyes of the woman in front—a baker, I think. She had flour on her sleeve and something unreadable on her face. Awe, maybe. Or terror.

  Tobe saw it too.

  His breath hitched.

  I reached for the door handle of the van, yanked it open, and shoved him inside before he could get any ideas about giving a speech.

  “You drive. I don’t feel like it.” I told Lawson, who was already in the front seat looking very much like someone trying not to make eye contact with destiny.

  He started the engine.

  The van groaned like a dragon being woken from a nap.

  We pulled away.

  And the townspeople just… stood there.

  Watching.

  No waving.

  No crying.

  Just silence.

  Like a congregation who’d just seen their messiah walk out the back door without finishing the sermon.

  The inside of the van was quiet for exactly ten seconds.

  Then Charcoal leaned forward from the back seat and said, “Okay, real talk, how many cults do we have now?”

  Harper groaned. “Just the one. We hope.”

  “Pretty sure I saw that woman from the espresso cart write ‘reflective blood prince’ in her notebook,” Maroon added helpfully.

  I spun around in the passenger seat to glare at Tobe with a look that said “This is all your fault.”

  Even though it was probably more my fault than his, if we’re being honest.

  He was pressed into the corner, looking like a guilty raccoon who’d just got caught stealing food out of a trash can.

  Scarlet, lounging in the third row with her legs crossed over Ben’s tail, gave a long, theatrical sigh. “Darling, you reflected a holy man into a bloodstained crater and stood up glowing like you were in a perfume ad. Of course they followed you.”

  “I wasn’t glowing!”

  “You were trauma-glowing,” she said. “Very in this season.”

  “Can we not?” Tobe buried his face in his hands. “I’m not a messiah. I don’t even like organized religion. I got suspended once for calling the youth pastor ‘budget God’s hype man.’”

  Ben muttered, “You were glowing.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  Sagittarius made a sound like a chittering shrug from the roof rack.

  Harper tilted her head at Tobe. “Are you going to start a spiritual movement?”

  “No!”

  “Because I already made a logo,” she said, flicking her tablet around to reveal a rough sketch labeled ‘Church of the Reflective Flame’ with Tobe’s face photoshopped onto a saint’s body and inexplicably holding a spatula.

  Tobe groaned. “I want to crawl into the glove box and die.”

  I sat back in my seat and stared out the window.

  The Guardians were gone now.

  Faded back into wherever it was they came from—some place too bright, too heavy. But I could still feel their attention like a finger tapping against my skull.

  “You think they’re gonna keep following us?” I muttered.

  “Only if we come back,” Lawson said. “Which we won’t.”

  Tobe slumped lower in his seat. “This is the worst vacation I’ve ever had.”

  “You survived,” I said. “That’s better than most of our field trips.”

  “I didn’t ask to be seen.”

  I turned to look at him again.

  He wasn’t joking anymore.

  His eyes weren’t scared—they were sad.

  Raw.

  “I never wanted people to believe in me,” he said. “I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

  We were quiet.

  Scarlet, for once, didn’t say anything.

  Neither did I.

  Then I reached across the seat.

  And flicked him in the forehead.

  “Ow!”

  “You’re not alone, idiot,” I said. “You’ve got a nightmare snake, a vampire with a vengeance planner, two discount cowboys, Superman's edgy cousin with a prosthetic limb, a walking firewall, a former angel, an eight-legged introvert, a gunslinging British law professor, and me.”

  He blinked. “You?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’ve got me. For whatever that’s worth.”

  He smiled.

  Small.

  Real.

  “Thanks.”

  “Now shut up,” I added. “I’m drafting our response to the Vatican’s thank-you note for getting rid of the false prophet in their backyard.”

  “They sent a thank-you note?”

  “They better.”