#five things fic

With the pasta water to thicken and bind it, the sauce comes together in the end, making up for the shocking paucity of ingredients in their meager storeroom, and he tries not to flinch as the others file in beside him to fill their plates, murmuring in hushed tones like the kitchen is a place of worship or mourning. He leans against a counter with arms crossed, attempting to conceal with his casual mien the heaviness in his limbs, in his eyelids.

“It smells really good,” Bellara says, the first to address him directly since he’d bustled in and started cooking. She seems inclined to fill every silence like it’s a personal affront.

“It’s a simple thing,” he says. “Warm and filling.”

“Wasn’t expecting you to cook,” Neve says, and the gentle teasing in her voice is an invitation, an outstretched hand.

The craven thing he’s become doesn’t know what to do with that, so he shrugs and drawls, “It’s a hobby.”

“An assassin who cooks,” murmurs Harding. The others avoid his eyes, but she stares him down every chance she gets. He likes that honesty, appreciates the reassuring guarantee of her arrows in his back. “Why do I feel like this is a bad idea?”

“I think a little light poisoning and a slow death might just be a fair trade-off for fresh pasta, personally,” says Rook. She flashes him a smile that effortlessly floods her eyes with warmth. “We’ll get a little cheese next time we’re out.”

His smile in return feels like a creaking stair underfoot, an unwanted and unwelcome exposure. “Trust me, I’ll have a list.”

“Then grab a plate and come sit down,” she says, and it’s easier to tell himself it’s an order.

He sits. His stomach is still adjusting to food that isn’t an assault, so he mostly moves the pasta around on his plate, trying to convince himself not to flinch with every bite. It gets easier as the conversation meanders, cautiously, into a comfortable patter: Neve tells stories about a truly bizarre mystery on the streets of Minrathous, and Bellara slips into the role of wide-eyed devotee, prodding the detective with questions until they’re all following her lead.

“But how,” Lucanis says, gesturing at her with a fork wound tight with pasta, “did the Venatori know about the trained nug?”

Neve grins, her eyes sparkling, and rests the palms of her hands on the table with perfect dramatic timing. “He didn’t! There was never a nug at all!”

Bellara gasps audibly and Harding actually jumps to her feet in excitement, pointing. “I said it! You all heard me! I called it!”

“But who could it have been?” Bellara murmurs, taking three bites of her food in rapid succession as though the extra fuel will lend her insight. “The librarian? No, no, that’s no good. He had an alibi.”

The surge of Spite in his consciousness is like the wave of adrenaline in the moment before a sudden drop. “It was. The urchin,” Spite says, and then the eyes are on him again, demanding, vultures picking over his carcass, and the food turns in his stomach. “Sorry,” Lucanis says, staring down at his plate. “Spite has opinions, sometimes.”

“No, no,” Bellara says. “It’s fine. It’s fine, right?”

“Well, it was the urchin, as it happens,” Neve says slowly. “Good eye, Spite.”

Something strange and new shivers through his bones: a quiet, borrowed contentment that recoils from itself, curious and disgusted and fascinated by turns. He tears his gaze from his plate to see Rook staring at him outright, her brow wrinkled with confused contemplation. He drags one corner of his mouth up in an expression that’s more of a shrug, and the conversation creaks and groans away from him and back to safer topics.

He lets himself slip, just a little, and the warm haze of the room blurs and shifts until the shadows in the corners of his eyes feel more real than he does. But his body remembers the flow of conversation, and the soft, satisfied clatter of cutlery on empty plates is a signal that bypasses his conscious mind. He smiles and says goodnight, waves Rook away when she makes to start cleaning the dishes, and eventually the others leave. 

Then he stands for a long time in an empty room—but not alone—staring at the remains of a thoroughly pleasant meal, concrete evidence of having bettered this small room and the people in it.

Spite says, without malice, “They see you. They see us.”

Lucanis feels his mouth settle, against all odds, into a fond smile.

---

ii. Residuum

After Weisshaupt, they stagger through the eluvian into the echoing bowels of the Lighthouse, their ragged breathing becoming something profane in the wake of so much death.

“Failed your contract,” Spite snarls, glee and terror ratcheting his heartbeat into his ears. “What use are you? What. Is. Left?”

Lucanis feels Rook’s hand on his arm, her touch obscene in its gentleness, and tears himself away, puts all of them at his back. As he strides up the stairs, out the door and across the courtyard, he feels the muscles in his shoulders twitching with the desperate expectation of a blade, an arrow. The part of Spite that remembers Determination tangles in his mind, casting that guilty yearning as the betrayal it is.

Caterina’s cooks would make huevos rotos when he asked, as a child, and would even let him peel and slice the potatoes when they realized the speed with which his clever fingers could work. He’d never let the knife slip, and they’d praised him for it, showering compliments on his thin shoulders that had leached through to muscle and bone.

Today, the Wardens died badly, he thinks, skimming the thin potato slices into a large skillet. Run through, torn from inside by Blight. And for nothing. An old commander’s stubbornness. His wrist aches and tingles with the remembered impacts of blade on bone; he stares at the thin scars on his forearms, older memories buried beneath the skin. Then he offers up parsley and peppers and garlic to the skillet and watches the potatoes slowly brown. More oil. More heat.

A face in the sky, impossibly large. An Archdemon snapping at him, the hot reality of its breath. Divinity splitting under his knife, appallingly and mercifully tangible. The mere Demon he’d once been couldn’t aspire to such nightmares.

He breaks eggs over the potatoes, watches them cook and fry. Tears a few strips of jamón to cover only half the dish. “My thanks,” Emmrich says, looming over him, absently turning his hands over and over as though trying to grasp something streaming away between his fingers. “Lucanis, this looks exceptionally good. We could all use a warm meal.”

Neve, so recently returned to them, nudges his shoulder with hers and says, “Thanks for taking care of us.”

He backs away wordlessly, lets them carve into the meal, then takes his own plate and sits. Spite is resonating with his inward-directed fury, a burr rolling and catching in his pulse and his breathing, so it takes him a moment to realize one seat stands empty.

Davrin meets his eyes across the table, an uncomfortable mirror. “Rook wasn’t feeling well.”

“Threw up in the eluvian room and went to bed,” Taash adds, softening their tone with a worried glance around the table.

They eat, exhaustion smearing out all attempts at conversation, but the empty chair is a restless ember in the base of his spine. Lucanis turns over blurred, frantic glimpses of the fight in his mind. “Was she hurt?”

“Rook... hasn’t always been a fighter,” Harding says. There’s a smear of blood on her forehead. “Sometimes she takes things hard.”

“She should still eat something,” Bellara says.

“I’ll bring her some,” Lucanis says, rising to fill a second plate. The lack of objections feels like another half-desired arrow missing its mark.

He strides across the courtyard, the magic of the place tearing itself a space behind his eyes, and mounts the steps in the library to her room. But he hesitates on the threshold and strains his hearing, always exceptional, to its limits. Quick breathing. Boiled leather creaking. Awake, then. He clears his throat, staring down at the two plates in his hands, and says, “Rook?”

He hears her sharp inhale, counts heartbeats in her hesitation. “I heard you were feeling unwell. I brought you some dinner,” he adds. “I can leave it at the door, if you’d like.”

Now she exhales, slowly, and he listens to the slow tread of her footfalls. When the door opens, he sees his mistake in the puffiness around her eyes, the fresh streaks of tears down her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have intruded, Rook.”

“It’s fine,” she says, and he hates the steel his presence has put in her spine. Her eyes flick down to the plate, lingering on the second one, and she sighs. “That does look amazing. Come in.”

She’s still wearing her leathers from the fight, and Spite murmurs, “Blood. And flowers.” Lucanis glances down, following the unnerving scent, and frowns at the small spatters of red on the fine flooring.

When he looks up, Rook is watching him, chin raised, the muscles in her jaw jumping. Defiant. Daring him to break down one more wall.

He is singularly unintimidated. “You’re hurt.”

She blows out an exasperated breath, sinking onto her chaise lounge. He drags the coffee table closer, laying out the plates, then hesitates. She has a hand splayed across her face, and she watches him from between her fingers like he’s some sort of wild animal. A halla. A wolf.

Spite’s sneer pushes him to sit, finally, at the very edge of the chaise beside her.

As though his movement is a signal, she lowers her hand from her face to gesture to a bloodied slice along her side, its presence easily concealed by the reds of her armor. “It’s not serious,” she says. “Caught a claw across the ribs from a hurlock. Potion took care of it already. It’s done bleeding and I’m not blighted.” She presses the heel of a hand to her forehead. “Damn elfroot always gives me a headache, though. Makes me queasy.”

Lucanis nudges the coffee table with the toe of his boot. “Then may I suggest potatoes?”

That drags a laugh from Rook; she hunches over to dig in to her plate. “You absolutely may.”

He follows suit, carving into his own plate with an enthusiasm driven half by his own hunger and half by his desperate desire not to dig his way out of a pleasant silence by having to think about—

“Lucanis,” Rook says. “About Ghilan’nain.”

He clenches a hand around his fork, force and potential transforming it from tool to weapon. Twisting its purpose. “Rook, I can’t—I can’t talk about it yet. Can we—” He closes his eyes. “Can we pretend for a moment we’re just—”

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

They sit a while longer in a god’s stronghold in the Fade, and eat the meal his grandmother’s cooks taught him, and don’t talk about anything at all.

---

iii. Unity

Joy is a taut string finally plucked, vibration and resonance in every muscle and sinew. He’s light, weightless, reckless with the knowledge that the task set before him is one to which he is equal.

Caterina. Alive.

“We save her,” Spite rumbles, amplifying and redoubling his exhilaration. In his wavering voice is the relief of a barrier, once thought impenetrable, finally giving way. “Together.”

“You look happy,” Rook says, a laugh in her own voice. At some point in the stroll across the courtyard, he’d scooped up her hand in his, and he can’t bring himself to worry about the ease with which he’d done it. Not now. 

“We have a way forward,” Lucanis says. “We have a deal.” 

Spite adds, “Rook. Opens. Doors,” and Lucanis chooses to indulge, lets himself appreciate the way her cheeks redden in a blush, the way the Fade’s not-sunlight reflects in her shining eyes.

“All right,” she says, and raises their joined hands in a playful shake. “So where are you taking me now?”

“I have to bake something sweet for the team,” he says, drawing her onward to the kitchen. The imperative is a thrumming in his veins, a desperate need that Spite sings along like a current. He shoulders open the door and only releases her hand to start digging for a cooking tray. “Have you ever tried polvorones?”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” Rook says, helplessly, and sinks into a chair behind him.

“Good,” he says. “Because I think I remember the recipe but I’m not entirely certain. If anyone asks, I’ve done this exactly right. They’re little almond cookies.” He pauses, staring into space, then sighs and lights the oven. “Viago hates them because he says it’s too easy to hide poisons in them.”

“That’s tragic,” Rook says. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: poison is a risk I’m willing to take for good food.”

“Remind me never to take you to a Crow dinner party. At least not one where we don’t have antidotes on hand.” He digs through the pantry for the almonds he’d toasted earlier, then lets Spite inhale the scent of them and pick at the memory that wavers to the surface: reclining on the roof of the villa with an espresso in one hand and a cookie in another, the sun warming his face even as the cool tile beneath his back threatens to draw him back and back and back. “Another cage,” Spite muses, and Lucanis swats that thought aside as unworthy of his current good mood, focusing instead on crushing the toasted almonds with mortar and pestle.

“There you are,” says Davrin, striding in. The surge of defensiveness in Spite crumbles and collapses beneath Lucanis’s ebullience; he smiles at Davrin, and the Warden gives him a nervous look. “What was it Teia and Viago wanted to talk about?”

“Caterina’s alive,” Lucanis says, going back to pulverizing the almonds. “We can save her. We will save her.” His voice doubles, just a little.

“Lucanis and Spite worked some things out,” Rook offers.

“Uh-huh,” Davrin says, and adds, sotto voce, “I have never seen that smile on him before. It’s... kind of terrifying.” At that, Spite encourages Lucanis to bare his teeth a little more.

“Aw,” Rook says. “I think it’s sweet.”

Davrin snorts, but his smile is warm and teasing. “You would.”

“Be nice,” Rook says. “He’s making cookies, and as your fearless leader I reserve the right to eat everyone else’s share.”

“Wow. You really did take a shortcut to tyranny.”

“I’m just highly motivated by treats.”

“No wonder you and Assan get along so well.”

Letting their banter wash over him, Lucanis moves to mix the fat and sugar, adding in a sprinkle of the cinnamon that Neve had managed to negotiate in exchange for a favor in Dock Town—the complexities of that smell send Spite into a reverie of mostly incoherent thoughts about a prisoner’s nightmare—then starts mixing the dough. “They’ll take some time to bake,” he says.

“I’ve got nowhere to be,” says Davrin.

Rook makes a show of cracking her knuckles, then taps her fingers on the table. “The game—”

“No,” Davrin says.

“Absolutely not,” adds Lucanis. “We said last time was the last time. It’s getting cruel.”

“The game!” Rook says, her voice cutting over both of them with the practice born of many shouts across a battlefield. “The game, gentlemen, is Wicked Grace. The bet is a week of washing dishes.”

“You only have that bet to offer up because you’re responsible for the next three months of dishes,” Davrin says.

“It’s uncanny, Rook. I have never seen someone lose twelve games in a row.” Cookies safely in the oven, Lucanis settles into a chair across from them, dusting off the almond residue on his trousers.

“That’s because you’re all filthy cheaters.” Rook produces, as though from thin air, a deck that she shuffles rapidly and proficiently. “I play a clean game.”

“You can’t play a clean game of Wicked Grace,” Davrin says. “The whole point of it is to get away with cheating!”

“There are rules,” Rook says, glaring over the cards at them both. “Cheating is the last resort of someone who doesn’t have the skills to back up their bragging.”

“So catch us,” Lucanis says, folding his arms and smirking at her. “If you’re so convinced our cheating is the product of incompetence, prove it.” Spite skims along his words, delighted, and his spectral form leans in across the table.

Rook wrinkles her nose at Lucanis, and Davrin goes over to crack a bottle of wine, and for a time the only things that matter are the soft laughter, the gentle gibes, and the warm smell of toasted almonds slowly permeating the room.

---

iv. Void

“I’m not hungry,” Taash says, when he comes to their door with a plate of cold meats and cheeses.

“You’re lying,” Lucanis says, but the heat in his voice flickers and breaks like a fever under another wave of Spite’s confusion, anger, distress, and he slumps against the wall for balance. “She’s not here,” he whispers under his breath. He’d dreamed about Rook again, last night. “She’s gone, Spite.”

“That’s vashedan,” Taash says, and he jumps; for such a tall person, Taash’s ability to move silently when it suits them is downright unnerving. Rather than invite him in, Taash sighs and leans into the wall beside him like a fallen tree propped up only temporarily by the rest of the forest. “We’ll get her back. You know we will.”

“It’s been two weeks,” Lucanis says, and forces the words out. “She is dead. Or gone forever. Outside our reach.” If nothing else, Caterina always taught him how to wield the difficult truth to crush the tempting lies. But when he looks up at Taash, their eyes weigh him down with shame, twin millstones around his neck. “I’m sorry. I know I should hold out hope, but—”

They groan, slumping down to sit on the floor, and after a moment’s hesitation, Lucanis joins them, balancing the plate of meats and cheeses on his lap. “We can’t just give up. First my mother, then Lace, and now—” They snarl, a sound that echoes through the empty spaces of the library. “Not Rook, too. We can’t lose them all.”

“It happens all the time,” Lucanis says. The words come out reedy, thinning and diluting emotion to plain facts. Spite shudders at the lack of depth, of contrast. “People dying. It can happen all at once like that.”

“You lost your family,” Taash says, reaching across to loop a slice of ham around a chunk of hard cheese. “Right? Long time ago, but that messes you up forever.”

Lucanis exhales. “Long time ago,” he echoes, and more echoes pick up within him, Spite sifting through nightmare and desperation to replay the cold, quiet certainty settling around him.

“So how do you go on after something like that?” Taash’s voice breaks, and he glances up to see them staring at their clenched fists. “How do you lose that many people all at once and just... keep going?”

“You don’t,” Lucanis says, and starts mechanically shredding a large piece of jambón. “You make a list of all the people who are gone that you must take the time to mourn, and then you realize that the last name on the list is your own. And when you have finished mourning yourself, you accept that you will never be that person again. And you hope that whatever you become next is strong enough to survive the change.”

Taash blows out their breath. “And are you? Strong enough?”

“For this? I hope I’m not,” he says, and feels Spite snarl and thrash denial along his nerves. “But I fear that I am.”

“Yeah,” Taash says. “I get that.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words choke in his throat, catching around the wound that hadn’t killed Ghilan’nain, back at Weisshaupt. The missed shot without which none of this—

Spite tears a headache through his skull; he snaps out of it, setting the remains of the platter in front of Taash. “I’m sorry about Lace.”

“Me too,” says Taash. “Thanks for the food.” They grab his arm as he starts to stand. “We’re going to find Rook, though. We really are.”

Lucanis stares down at them and knows he should agree, but he’s never had a stomach for the easy lie.

“Don’t give up on her,” Taash says. Pleads, in a tone that Spite echoes and amplifies until it rings in his ears and threatens to shatter him.

He yanks his arm free and stalks off to Rook’s room to sit and wait for the next job. To mourn and, against all hope, survive.

---

v. Closure

When Elgar’nan finally falls, they feast.

Lucanis has always loved breading and frying food. It’s one of the few warm memories he has from early childhood: his mother and father standing with him in a line at the kitchen counter, each responsible for their station, pressing the meat or the eggplant or the ball of rice into a plate of flour, then passing it to the next person to coat it in a bath of egg, then to the third to cover it in crumbs of stale bread and lower it slowly into the oil. Done properly, it can be an oddly profound experience, the simple joy of watching a series of small acts compound into something warm and delicious and filling.

This team, of course, has to make things a little more complicated.

“I thought I was on flour-dredging duty,” Rook grumbles, staring with some dismay at a slice of eggplant covered with unappetizing bubbles of half-congealed flour and egg. “Someone got to this one before me.”

“Your role,” Emmrich says, “is to dredge the chicken in flour.”

“I thought I was doing chicken,” Taash says, squinting at the lump of food in their hand. “What even is this?”

“You’re doing breadcrumbs for chicken,” Bellara says. “I’m dredging the eggplant in rice. Um. No, wait.”

“It really isn’t that complicated,” Lucanis says, pressing fingers to the bridge of his nose to try to stave off a headache. Spite’s glee drags up the corners of his mouth despite himself.

“Ow,” Neve says. “Damn oil spattered me.”

“You have to make sure the breadcrumbs are evenly distributed so they provide enough barrier against the liquid,” Lucanis says. “And make sure the flour keeps any water off, especially from the eggplant. And anyway, the worst it might do is sting for a moment. How are you all so frightened of a little hot oil?”

“I’ve seen it poured over battlements to stop attacks on a tower,” Davrin offers, and they all pause for a moment, wincing.

“All right,” Lucanis says. “I think we have enough of a start to call this teamwork. Now get out of here and let me salvage what I can.”

“You heard the man,” Rook says. “And in the meantime—”

“No, Rook,” Bellara says. “You have no money left, and I think you’re still going to be doing chores for our children’s children at this rate.”

Neve chuckles. “Sorry, Rook. Mercy rules come into play.”

Rook gestures grandly; Lucanis, distracted by the way she moves with grace even in this absurd moment, nearly drops the bowl of egg directly into the hot oil. “In the meantime, we will play Wicked Grace, and the totality of my cunning stratagem will be made clear to you all.”

“Oh, a new strategy?” Emmrich asks, sitting at the table and steepling his hands. “Do tell, Rook.”

“It’s a good one. You won’t see it coming. Watch this.” She sits at the table, shuffling the cards, and Lucanis glances over his shoulder at her in time to see her face fall into a wide-eyed pout that she directs at each person around the table in turn. “Please let me win? Please? Just this once?”

The oil sizzles as the laughter grows, sparking like a forest fire in the quiet room, and Lucanis, laughing with his family, feels the blaze inside him growing, growing, until it reaches far beyond what any prison could ever hope to contain.

---

(Threshold, Redux)

He comes to the Lighthouse for the first time with a hastily thrown-together bag over his shoulder, a combination of the essentials Viago had scrounged up and what he’d managed to forage during a brief and confusing detour to the villa. Weapons, poisons, antidotes, potions, armor. Some clothes, likely too large on his half-starved frame. Soaps.

He steps through a mirror and leaves Antiva behind. The demon coiled around his throat unwinds to sniff the air with fresh curiosity, but Lucanis’s head is throbbing, his eyes itching with the wrongness of the place. People stand ready to escort him, saviors and jailers and victims, through the Crossroads. They sit on a boat steered by something spectral and impossible, and Lucanis drifts into nightmares, into vivid memories of abominations tearing themselves apart, into job after job after job killing mages who’d saddled themselves with demons, made themselves conduits for evil.

The demon curls around his heart, tightening, and he gasps awake with a start as the boat docks. Averts his eyes from a worried look. He can do this. The work is carved into every one of his oft-broken bones.

Another mirror. Another impossible place, beyond.

“—a cot set up in the pantry,” Rook is saying. “Temporary for now, but it seems like the Lighthouse provides when people need somewhere to stay.”

He stares at the little room. One way out. Childishly simple to trap someone inside. “Thank you,” he hears himself say, and then he is alone.

Not alone.

“They all seem nice,” Spite sneers. “Easy marks. Targets.”

“Not targets,” he says, sitting on the cot, feeling the muscles in his legs twitch and shake under the strain of movement. “They hold our contract.”

“Ugh. Employers,” Spite says.

“Don’t hurt them,” Lucanis says, and is surprised when the words come out pleading, uncertain.

“Weak,” Spite says. “They’ll hurt you. They’ll find out and they’ll kill you. Kill us.”

“I intend to tell them everything,” Lucanis says. “All of them. They deserve to know.”

“Stupid Crow,” Spite grumbles. “Tells the truth except. To. Me.”

He drops back onto the cot, lying flat on something that isn’t a hard surface for the first time in a year, and feels Spite’s glee growing even as his consciousness starts to fade. “No,” Lucanis says, and pushes back up to sit with his head in his hands. “No.”

The knock at the door to the pantry is such an alien sound—no need for knocking in a prison—that he stares at the door in mute horror, trying desperately to unearth the correct response from the memories spilling away from him as though caught in a landslide. “Come in,” he says, finally, with the feeling of a long-tensed muscle relaxing.

The four women who live here are huddled in the doorway, staring at him. The one in front—Rook—holds up a bowl. “We brought you something to eat.”

“Oh,” he says, revulsion a stone in his gut. But he must eat to work. And he must work. “Thank you.”

He takes the bowl from her, staring down into it.

“We, um, have a rotation,” Bellara says. “For cooking. You could be on it, if you, um. If you want.”

“Of course,” Lucanis says, still staring at his bowl. “Ah. What exactly is—”

“A Harding special,” Neve says, and Spite hooks on something ironic in her tone that Lucanis doesn’t understand.

The archer who’d eyed him with such distrust now cracks a smile. “Apple cheesy butter noodles.”

“Apple—”

“Apple cheesy butter noodles,” she says, again. He stares at her and thinks, in a day of murdering blood mages, escaping an underwater prison, learning of the First Talon’s death, and stepping into the land of dreams, that these four words might be what undo him.

They’re all watching. He takes a bite and sees nervous smiles flit across their faces. “Ah,” he says. “Thank you. I am happy to cook tomorrow.”

“No rush,” Rook says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Over her shoulder, Bellara points to the bowl and mouths, Some rush.

“Anyway,” Rook says. “Welcome to the team, Lucanis.”

Then they leave him to his silent vigil, standing guard against the demon inside him. “Apple cheesy butter noodles,” Spite murmurs, as though the words are some ancient incantation.

This, Lucanis thinks, is a job he can do. A contract he can fulfill. Let the rest fall where it may.

“Prongs!”

At some point, I’d cried myself to sleep, but Frankie’s frantic hiss, edged with tears, jolted me awake. “Minifog?”

“Oh thank heaven,” he breathed. “I thought you were dead!”

We still seemed to be in the van, but it wasn’t moving anymore. “I fell asleep. Are we still in the van?”

“Yeah. Those two guys got out.”

I’d been able to see light through the sack before, but now my eyes found nothing. I squirmed around until I sat up. I could barely hear anything other than Frankie breathing through his mouth. “You okay?”

“My nose hurts. I think it’s broken. You?”

“Headache.” Slowly, I began to realize that I could tell we were the only two people in the van. I closed my eyes and thought carefully. “We’re in some kind of garage.”

“How do you know?”

“The lights. Can’t you hear them?”

“You can’t hear lights. You got super hearing now?”

I frowned. It wasn’t hearing, exactly. But I could tell that the van was still and turned off, and that there were fluorescent lights above us, and something else… not lights. It was moving. Suddenly it came very close and the van door opened. “Right. You two get the big one. And be careful. They're spicy.”

Hands gripped my ankles and dragged me out of the van. I screamed, but then suddenly I was in the air, suspended between two guys who were holding my ankles and my shoulders. I heard Frankie snarling and struggling behind me as the two thugs carried me away from the van. I didn’t dare struggle, because wherever we were sounded like it had cement floors, and I didn’t want to know what it would feel like to be dropped on them.

A few minutes later, my captors shoved me roughly into a chair. They tugged at the tape surrounding me and then yanked the sack off me. Frankie was in a chair next to me, his face bloody and his hair messed up. Beanie Guy said, “Here they are, boss. They’re pretty spunky.”

We were in some kind of office in front of a desk. The man sitting behind the desk had a big bald spot on the top of his head, a huge, shiny watch on his wrist, and an expensive-looking suit. He glanced at me and Frankie. “Good-lookin’. They’ll get a good price. What’s on her head?”

The bag had pulled my stocking cap off my head. The man next to me, Tracksuit, ran his hand across my antlers roughly. I cringed back, “Ow!”

“Seem t’be growin’ there. Mutie.”

“Yeah?” Bossman said. “I know someone who pays extra for muties.” He glanced around. “Where’s the rest of your team?”

“The kids had this bodyguard. We thought he was just a babysitter, but he fought like a ninja or something. Took the other guys out. We had to hit him with the blaster.”

Bossman squinted at them. “How’d it work?”

“Like expected.” He made a gesture like an explosion with his fingers.

“Hm.” Bossman turned back to his laptop and pointed with his thumb. “Go toss ‘em in the cell.”

“You got it.” Beanie grabbed me by my upper arm and pulled me to my feet. Tracksuit did the same to Frankie. They dragged us out of the room. The cheap shag carpet in the office ended at the door. Outside was a vast building with cement floors, metal beams and chains all around. An old factory. They dragged us across to a big metal box that looked like the office room from the outside. The difference was that this one had a metal door and no windows.

They opened the door and shoved us inside. “You be good,” Beanie growled. “We’ll bring you food sooner.” Then the door slammed and left us there in the dark.

I stood still for a moment, rubbing my arms where the tape had dug into them. Then Frankie burst into tears and threw his arms around me. “I want Mommy and Daddy!” I hugged him. I wanted to cry too, but I didn’t. My little brother needed me.

Nobody tells you how totally boring it is to be held prisoner! Our cell was devoid of anything soft or comfortable, so we sat on the cold floor and snuggled up. After a while, Frankie dozed off and dropped his head into my lap. I held him and silently vowed to send some crossword puzzles or something to Riker’s Island when we got out of there.

I had to believe we were going to get out. I didn’t know what had happened to Danny, but Mom and Dad and Mr. Marc and Jessica and Uncle Foggy and Aunt Karen were still out there. What had Danny said? “You don’t know the hornet’s nest you’re trying to kick.” My family would turn the city upside down looking for us.

I don’t know how long we sat there. It felt like hours. It must have been night time, but I couldn’t sleep. I started thinking about how I’d known those guys were approaching the van. I reached out again to sense the fluorescent lights outside our cell, like a distant vibration. I could sense more vibrations in a specific spot outside the door of our cell: a guy was standing watch. If I closed my eyes, I could sense the same vibes from Frankie beside me. If I cast my awareness farther away, I could sense a dozen or so other guys moving around outside. One was alone, relatively still, in a different direction; that must have been the Bossman.

As I considered different sources of vibes, I felt my antlers twitch. Well, the bony part doesn’t move, of course, but the fleshy part at the top, which is soft but firm like my earlobes, did. I’d figured out how to wiggle them a little a long time ago, but now I realized that they were feeding me information about the vibes around me. I could sense different vibes if I turned them different directions. But what exactly was I sensing?

I focused on the guy outside our door. I could make out sort of a cloud of vibes, but they were stronger in one spot, somewhere near his middle. Was I sensing his belt? I examined the bossman too. He also had a stronger spot near his middle, and another one, a little lighter, higher up. As I observed him, that spot moved across his body. I could also sense a big spot in front of him, where his laptop would be.

So what did human bodies, laptops and fluorescent lights have in common? It finally made sense. Electricity! I could sense electricity! The smaller spots on the men I was observing were their cellphones. The quickly-moving spot on the Bossman was his watch. I considered that for a while. I thought about how I always knew when someone was at the front door of our house and who it was. I could also tell if all the electronics were off in the living room from my own room. I had gotten into a big argument with some of my friends at school about whether or not they could hear the lights.

I sent my awareness further out. I could sense pigeons on a windowsill across the building from me. I wished I could communicate with them. Suddenly, the pigeons bolted from the windowsill and scattered. For a split second, I thought they had somehow detected my attention, but then the thing that had frightened them landed heavily in their former place.

It was much bigger than a pigeon, and its vibes were much stronger. It practically crackled with energy. It sprang off the windowsill after only a moment, and I followed its path as it hunted around the outside of the building. Then, somehow, it was inside. It circled around the big factory floor outside our cell, coming closer and closer. I gasped and shook Frankie awake. “Wake up! Something’s coming!”

He sat up, rubbing his face, and I could see him remembering where we were. He looked around. Just then, whatever I had sensed out there landed on the top of our cell with a light thump. In unison, Frankie and I looked up. Then he grinned. “Harbinger!”

Frankie can sense people’s and animals’ feelings, even if they’re some distance away or out of his sight. Mom can do it a lot better. But at this distance, I totally believed him. Hope bubbled up in my chest. “Harbinger? Really?”

From above us, a new sound rang out. Two light knocks. That was as good as hearing Harbinger’s voice – any time you asked him a question, two clicks of his beak meant “yes.” I jumped up and rapped my knuckle on the metal wall of our cell. Knock-knock.

“Harbinger!” Frankie said quietly. “It’s us! Help us get out!”

We listened as Harbinger hopped back and forth around our cage, trying to find a way in. There was light coming from somewhere, but he didn’t seem to be finding anything. I got an idea. “Harbinger, that guy by the door probably has a key. I’m going to make a distraction.” I pushed Frankie gently toward the edge of the door. When we were both pressed against the wall next to the door, I gestured for him to cover his ears. Then I drew a deep breath, and screamed as loud as I could.

I hadn’t even run out of breath before I could hear the guy on the other side of the door, shouting at us to shut up while he jammed the key into the lock. The door opened far enough to see Tracksuit Guy’s scowling mug, and then a black shape flopped onto his back, biting his ears and battering his head with its wings. The guy snarled a profanity and backed away from the door. Frankie lunged forward and caught the door before it could shut. We watched through the cracked-open door as Harbinger squawked, hopping on the guy’s shoulders and head, while Tracksuit staggered around, trying to shield his face and bat Harbinger away at the same time.

When the thug was far enough back from the door, I grabbed Frankie’s wrist and we slipped out of the cell. I yanked the key out of the lock and let the door shut behind us. We couldn’t tear our eyes away from the sight of our household pet mauling a 250-pound man, but I managed to back both of us away towards the outer corner of the cell. As soon as we stepped out of sight, Harbinger shot up into the air, and the area fell silent, except for the thug’s ragged breathing. I sensed him turn on his heel, muttering more swear words, and stride off in the opposite direction from where we were hiding.

We breathed a sigh of relief, and I started looking around, wondering what we should do next. Then, above us, a loud drumbeat started up against one of the metal beams of the ceiling. Bang-bang. Bang-bang. Bang-bang. It sounded like a heartbeat. “He’s gonna give us away!” I breathed.

Then the fluorescent lights above us went out. Off to our left, a bunch of voices rose in confusion. The drumbeat stopped. Somewhere near the voices, a hollow thud was followed by a man’s scream. Then more thuds, and more screams. Harbinger swooped into our field of vision, though we could barely see him in the darkness, and urged us closer to the fight.

We followed him to a pallet full of boxes and ducked behind it. Beyond the pallet, an emergency exit sign illuminated an arrangement of tables with mechanical tools on them, chemistry equipment and electronic stuff. At one station was a stack of partially-assembled weapons like the one they'd used on Danny. Men were jumping up from their stations, running and fighting. One figure was in the middle of it all.

“Daddy!” Frankie gasped. “Daddy’s here!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I whispered. One of the thugs bolted from the fight, running towards us. I didn’t think he’d spare any attention for us, but I pulled Frankie back into the shadows with me, just in case. Before the guy got more than ten feet past us, a bright red rod about as long as my thigh shot into the back of the guy’s head and retracted along a wire. The thug fell down and lay still. Frankie and I surged back to our vantage point. The figure who’d been in the middle of the fight was running toward us. “Look! It’s Daredevil!”

Everyone in Hell’s Kitchen knew who Daredevil was. Teachers and cops hated him, but every kid I knew thought he was super cool. Of course he’d be here! We needed rescuing so he was here to rescue us! Harbinger must have found him and brought him here. Or maybe Mom and Dad got ahold of him, somehow. In any case, he skidded to a stop right in front of us. “Kids! Are you okay?”

We nodded mutely. I barely registered that his voice sounded familiar.

“The door is that way.” He pointed. “Get out, I’ll follow.” Then he turned to meet a thug who was running up behind him, roaring and holding a crowbar over his head. Daredevil blocked the crowbar with one of his clubs. With his other hand, he punched the guy in the gut so hard that he staggered back. Daredevil whirled his club in his other hand and brought it down on the other guy’s shoulder with a crunch of breaking bone. “Let’s go!” Daredevil commanded.

Frankie took off running in the direction Daredevil had pointed. The vigilante started after him, and I followed. I had longer legs than Frankie, which was the only reason I had even a chance of catching up, but in this case I was lagging behind. Daredevil reached a hand back. I took it and used him as leverage to pull myself forward. His hand fit over mine perfectly.

And that’s how I found out my dad was Daredevil.

“Daddy!” I gasped. “How?”

“Later,” he growled.

Frankie spun and shouted, “Toldja!” Then, still dancing backwards, his eyes widened. “Daddy, behind you!”

“I know,” Dad said. “Keep running!”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Daddy, that’s their boss.”

“Good to know.”

“And that’s the weapon they used on Danny!”

Behind us, the weapon started charging.

“Fuck!” Dad turned, wrapped his arms around me, and spun back toward Frankie, shielding me from the weapon with his broad back. And then that blinding yellow light hit us.

Daddy grunted and fell forward, still clutching me in his arms. We hit the cement floor hard and slid, but he had a gloved hand behind my head, so I mostly felt the impact in my butt and heels. Then Dad’s weight pressed down on me, driving the air from my lungs and making my stomach feel like it was going to burst. “Dad–get off–!” I rasped.

Dad didn’t move. The weapon was charging again. Frankie appeared above me, trying to drag Daddy off me. I pushed and squirmed. “No– Frankie, run!”

I heard an impact behind me, and wings flapping, and Harbinger hissed like a cobra. I got far enough out from under Dad to sit up, and I saw the Bossman waving that horrible weapon around, swearing and staggering under Harbinger’s onslaught. The weapon turned toward me for a second, and I made a terrified squeak, scrambling to get free enough to run. Harbinger gave Bossman a final peck on his bald spot and flapped away upwards. Bossman snarled and fired the weapon at Harbinger. With a roar of twisting metal, part of the ceiling collapsed and dropped to the cement floor nearby. Harbinger’s mocking laughter filtered down from above.

“Come on!” Frankie grabbed my arm and tried to pull me up. Then Beanie Guy ran in and hit Frankie in the head with the barrel of a gun. Frankie dropped to the ground.

I realized I was crying. “Nooo!” The thug turned to me. Our eyes met. “I’ll kill you!l” I shouted.

Remember when you found out about Santa Claus? Did you feel betrayed, realizing that every adult you’d ever met was part of this huge conspiracy to keep the truth from you? Let me tell you about my life.

When I was eleven, my family lived in an old brownstone building in Hell’s Kitchen, Manhattan, up near Harlem. We bought it during the Blip, when real estate prices were really low. It was a four-plex but we combined two apartments to make room for all five of us, and rent out the other two. We were never super rich, but there was plenty of love in our house. Mom was an orphanage administrator and Dad was a pro-bono lawyer. They had big hearts, but not much family of their own, so they sort of made a big, tight family out of whoever was available. As a result, there were always adults in and out of our house, and even when Mom and Dad were busy, we never felt like we were being babysat, just visiting family.

There were three of us kids–forever kids, at least; there were foster kids and homeless teenagers who stayed for a while and moved on when they could. But the forever kids were me – I’m Dulce – , my little brother Frankie, and our baby sister Lauren, who everyone called Lolo. When Lolo was three, she had cute little pigtails and never stopped smiling. She and Mom were best friends and she never had to walk anywhere if Daddy was available to carry her.

Frankie was a sturdy little eight-year-old with dark curls that fell into his eyes. He never walked if he could run and he never whispered if he could shout, and if there was something that looked like you might be able to climb it, you’d get to the top and find him already there. He had Mom’s big heart, though, and Dad’s dimple.

I was born with two little lumps on my head that looked enough like devil horns to make my birth parents think I was the spawn of Satan. They walked away and Mom took me in. I remember piles of flowers and lots of sparkles at Mom and Dad’s wedding, smiles and big hugs later that day when Dad signed the papers to adopt me, and the loft we lived in before Frankie was born. Mom made me wear hats in public until I was old enough to understand a little about how mean people could be. By the time I was in fifth grade, those little knobs on my head had grown to about the length of my index fingers and each of them had a fleshy little fork at the end. The effect is kind of like a pronghorn antelope, so I’ve sort of adopted antelopes and reindeer as my spirit animals. Mom says that’s okay as long as I remember that I’m not anyone’s prey.

So one afternoon, Frankie and I got off the school bus and Dad was casually leaning against the bus stop shelter with both hands on his mobility cane. “Hi Daddy!” I called. Mom taught us to do that when we saw him, because he’s blind and that way he’d know where we were. Frankie came out a step behind me, shouted, “Hi Daddy!” and hurtled into Dad’s chest almost before Dad could brace himself. Dad laughed and straightened his red glasses while he tossed Frankie over his shoulder. At the time, I didn’t think this was weird – I thought everyone’s dad could casually carry a fifty-pound second grader on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Did you guys have a good day at school?”

“Yeah,” I said. “How was court?” I could tell he’d been to court because he was wearing a suit.

“Court went well,” Dad said, shuffling his cane into the hand wrapped around Frankie so he could offer me his free arm. “The judge accepted our motions.”

I took his arm above the elbow, like you’re supposed to when you guide a blind person. I knew Dad could find his way around the sidewalks of Hell’s Kitchen just fine without any help, but he liked the contact, and although I’d have died before I admitted it, so did I.

We only got a few yards down the sidewalk when Dad’s phone vibrated. He paused, taking his arm back so he could pull it out. “Sweetheart?” he answered. Then he said, “Yes, they just got off the bus. Yes, of course. I told you, it’s probably just a bluff. Everything will be okay.” He waited another moment, a smile growing on his face. “Well, it’s about time you had a turn being the anxious one. We’ll see you at home, Sweetheart.”

He put his phone away and Frankie took the opportunity to swing down from Dad’s shoulder. Dad skipped ahead to catch up with him, thrusting a hand out behind him, towards me. I took it and pulled myself up beside him. “What was that about?” I asked.

“Nothing to worry about,” Dad said casually. “How do you feel about Thai food for dinner?”

“You don’t usually meet us here,” I continued. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. I meet you at the bus all the time. Do you want me to stop?”

“No.”

“Good. I need a couple more years before I turn into your cringey old man.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re already cringey. I just don’t mind it that much.”

He barked a laugh.

It was only a five-minute walk to the brownstone, where we found Mom working on her laptop on the folding table in a corner of the living room while Lolo assaulted a coloring book on the coffee table with her crayons. When we came in, Mom got up and hugged each of us as we were trying to get our shoes off. “I love you,” she whispered in my ear when it was my turn. Dad kissed her and they went into the kitchen together while Frankie and I dropped our things off in our rooms.

An hour later, Uncle Foggy knocked on the door, and after him was Dad’s friend Mr. Marc, who drives us around when we need a car, and then Aunt Karen, Miss Jess and Sensei Danny, who teaches Kung Fu to me and Frankie. A few minutes later, two guys showed up with a ton of Thai food and we all sat down around the dining room table and had dinner. After we ate, Danny helped Mom clean up while Dad played dominoes with Uncle Foggy and Mr. Marc. Karen and Jess went out to the balcony for a while and when they came back they smelled like alcohol – real alcohol, not the beer the other adults had been drinking. Frankie chased Lolo all over the ground floor of the house while my mom’s pet raven, Harbinger, swooped and dove between them. I just sat and listened to all the grownups talking about politics and their various jobs and sports.

Later, Frankie sat down at the table and Aunt Karen pulled out a deck of cards. She was teaching us to play poker, but we weren’t supposed to tell Mom, so we called it Vermont Rummy when she was around. I was pretty sure she wasn’t fooled. No one ever fooled Mom. Harbinger perched on the back of Frankie’s chair and hissed when he started to put the wrong card down.

I have no idea how a raven learned to play Vermont Rummy.

Eventually, I realized that all the other adults were in the living room with Lolo. “You said he was just bluffing,” Dad growled quietly.

“That was before I realized he had a history of trafficking,” Uncle Foggy stage whispered. “The prosecution never mentioned it.”

I returned my attention to the game for a few moments. Then I heard Mr. Marc say, “Relax, Matt. Those kids might as well belong to all of us. We won’t let anything happen.”

“Is that what Khonshu thinks?” Jessica said, with a sneer in her voice.

“I’m not sure Khonshu understands the concept of children,” Marc replied lightly. “But he understands justice.”

“I don’t know if justice is what’s called for here,” Mom said coldly. That was pretty shocking. Mom and Dad were all about justice. What could possibly have made her that angry?

“Let’s talk about the facts.” Uncle Foggy sounded uncomfortable. For some reason, everyone acted scared when Mom was mad. I heard papers rustling, like he was bringing out a file. “Here’s what Karen turned up. Jess?”

“Dulce? It’s your turn.”

I jumped at Karen’s voice. “What are they doing in there?”

Her eyes widened, but she put on a fake, friendly smile. “Oh, you know. Grownup stuff.”

I started to stand up. “They’re talking about us.”

Karen stood up too. “It’s nothing to worry about. Let’s go upstairs. Frankie, do you want to show me your new video game?”

“Yeah!” Frankie shouted, jumping up. “It’s so cool! It’s like Pokemon and Fortnite at the same time, and there’s this really cool…” His voice trailed off into the distance as he pounded up the stairs.

I hesitated, glancing over my shoulder at the living room.

Karen came over and put an arm around my shoulders. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. You’re still a kid, let the grownups do the grownup stuff.”

I frowned, but I let her pull me up the stairs to Frankie’s room.

The next day, Dad took us to school on a city bus instead of just walking us to the school bus stop. When we arrived, he kissed us and wished us a good day, and then we headed in to our classrooms. When I glanced over my shoulder at him, he was talking to the police officer who always stood watch at the front door when school started.

At the end of the day, my teacher told me not to get in line for the bus because Dad was going to pick us up. Sure enough, he was outside the door when we stepped out into the late afternoon sunlight. Dad buzzed with tension as we walked to the bus stop. When the bus arrived, he hesitated for half a second, holding Frankie back from boarding. Then he ushered us aboard and climbed up behind us, paying our fares with his pass.

When we settled into our seats, I said, “What’s going on, Dad?”

“What do you mean?” His I’m-just-an-innocent-blind-guy routine infuriated Mom every time, and now I understood why.

“Yesterday you met us at the bus. Then you had some kind of power conference with our friends, and Aunt Karen said it was grownup stuff and I should leave it to the grownups, but I know you were talking about us. And today you’re all playing guard dog. What’s going on?”

He smiled ruefully, shaking his head. “Karen was right. And you are too smart for your own good.”

I folded my arms. “Obfuscation.”

His smile got bigger, more genuine. He liked it when I used lawyer words. “Look, Uncle Foggy and I tried to help someone, but it turned out that he was really a bad guy, and he got mad when we wouldn't help him do bad stuff. So we’re just trying to make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

I pondered that for a moment. “He threatened us. Me and Frankie and Lolo.”

“He threatened all of us. Your mom and Lolo and Uncle Foggy are taking special precautions too. But it’s probably nothing to worry about.”

I would have believed him, if he weren’t fidgeting with the handle of his cane.

When we got home, Mr. Marc and Harbinger were tossing a toy mouse between them across our living room, while Mom cleaned the dining room. I was pretty sure she only did that when she was nervous. She had the furniture polish out and everything.

A couple of hours later, Uncle Foggy turned up with Miss Jess and some pizzas. We all ate together, and the messy, raucous, jovial conversation did a pretty good job of covering up the undercurrent of anxiety. But I noticed every time someone glanced over their shoulder at a strange noise, every time they looked at each other like they could read each others’ minds, every scramble to fill in the silence.

After dinner there was a little whispering, but no conference like the night before. Uncle Foggy played with Frankie, whom he called Mini-me, while Mom and Jess watched the latest episode of whatever silly romcom series they liked to watch and make fun of. Mr. Marc slipped out quietly. Dad called me over, sat Lolo on his lap and we read some books together. Reading with Dad wasn’t like reading with Mom, since Dad couldn’t actually read the pages. He had a device that converted text to a little Braille display, but it was slow, so a lot of the time I’d read the words and Lolo and I would describe the pictures to Dad.

Later, after bedtime, the door of my room creaked open and Frankie stuck his head in. “Prongs? You awake?” he whispered.

“Yeah, Mini-fog.”

He slipped in and shut the door behind him. He came over and climbed into my bed. “What’s with the grownups? Everyone’s all… buzzy and…” He patted his belly. “Tense.”

He could read emotions like Mom could, although he wasn’t very good at it yet. “A bad guy threatened our family,” I told him. “They’re worried that we’re not safe.”

In the dim light of my reindeer fairy lights, I saw him furrow his brow as he considered that. “Do you think we’re safe?” he said.

“Mom and Dad are pretty tough,” I said, yawning.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“And Mr. Marc is a…” I hesitated. I’d always assumed he was some kind of police officer, but he definitely wasn’t a New York City cop. “...FBI agent. Or something. He probably has a gun.”

Frankie snuggled in under the covers.

“There are lots of people looking out for us,” I continued. “And you got me, too.”

“I thought you hated me,” he sighed into my pillow.

“Well, sure,” I said, rolling over to wrap an arm around him. “But no one else is allowed to.”

**********

The next day, Dad walked us to school again, but after school, our sensei, Danny, was waiting for us.

“Your parents were busy,” he said, with a tight, fake smile. “So they asked me to take you home.”

I frowned. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Danny said. “Everyone’s going to be okay.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, but I let it go.

“Are we going to have our lessons tomorrow like usual?” Frankie asked him.

“I don’t know,” Danny said. “Probably.”

“We can't skip a day! The competition is coming up,” I protested.

“You’ll do fine,” he said. “You guys are way ahead of most kids your age. You definitely have your dad’s talent.”

He meant Frankie did, of course. I’m adopted so it was impossible for me to have Dad’s anything, and that was really obvious in our Kung Fu lessons. I was still a little salty that Frankie was better than me, even though I was older and taller and had three whole years’ more training than he did.

“Was Daddy your student too?” Frankie asked.

“No, of course not,” Danny said, half-smiling. “He’s, like, ten years older than me.”

“I bet he could kick your butt!”

“Frankie!” I chided.

But Sensei Danny just laughed. “He did, once. Then we decided to be friends.”

When we got on the bus, Frankie kept getting out of his seat to show Danny his favorite moves. He was still punching and kicking air when we got off the bus on our block and started up the sidewalk. Danny was watching him with an approving smile, which was why I was the first to notice the white van parked illegally in front of our building.

“Hey, Danny…?” I said, stopping in my tracks.

Danny’s head swiveled toward the van as three big guys got out of it. He put a hand on Frankie’s chest to stop him. “Kids,” he said, “Go find a police officer.”

The men focused on us. One of them pulled out a knife with a complicated flipping movement.

“You guys are making a really big mistake,” Danny said to them as he dropped into wide-horse-stance with his hands raised in front of him. “You have no idea the nest of hornets you’re trying to kick.” He snapped at us, “Go!”

Frankie and I spun and bolted – right into the arms of two more big, scary guys behind us. The guy I ran into, an ugly guy with a black beanie over his bald head, tried to force a giant sack over me, but I screamed and threw my arms over my face to stop him. From the corner of my eye, I saw Frankie hop back from his attacker, a skinny guy in a green satin tracksuit, before the guy could bring the sack down on him. Quick as lightning, Frankie set his feet and punched Tracksuit Guy in the nuts, just like Danny taught us to.

Beanie guy had really long arms, though, and I couldn't get far enough out of his reach to copy Frankie. I was dodging back and forth, avoiding the sack, when suddenly Danny flew past me, foot-first, and kicked the guy in the middle of his chest. The thug tumbled backwards and Danny landed lightly on his feet. “Get your brother and go!” he gasped, turning back to the three guys running towards us.

I ducked past him and grabbed Frankie’s wrist. Tracksuit Guy stuck a leg out and swept our feet out from under us. We went down hard, scraping up our hands and knees, and then the guy jumped on Frankie, punching him (!!!) and shouting, “You little shit! You’re done!”

I got up about halfway, took two crouching steps, and hurled my entire body into the guy from the side. I punched him a good one in the jaw, which hurt all the way up to my wrist. He rolled under me and got his hands on my shoulders, but before he could push me away, I stuck my thumbs in his eyes. Tracksuit screamed and tossed me away from him.

Frankie was still on the ground, sobbing hard, bleeding from his nose. I scrambled over to him and tried to pull him up, but Tracksuit grabbed me by my hair and hauled me backwards. I screamed again and pulled away, feeling a lot of my hair rip out, and then one of the knife-wielding thugs flew backwards into Tracksuit. We all went down, but I was suddenly free, and I immediately bounced back to my feet.

I caught a glimpse of Danny fighting two guys at once, a ball of fists and feet, and then a sack fell over my face and Beanie Guy grabbed me around my elbows and lifted me off my feet. I screamed and kicked. Beanie Guy staggered, but the arm around me squeezed tighter, and he didn’t lose his grip. I threw my head back, trying to club him with my skull, but I couldn’t find him. I could hear Frankie nearby, screaming and crying, and he seemed to be moving along with me.

Somewhere behind us, I heard Danny shout, “No!” A van door slid open. The sounds of fighting stopped, except for Frankie struggling beside me, and footsteps running toward us. Beanie dumped me onto the scratchy carpet of the van, and I immediately wiggled around until I got the sack off my head, just as he tossed Frankie on top of me. Something mechanical clicked and clunked and loaded up like a jet engine. I finally got Frankie’s hair out of my eyes just in time to see Beanie pointing an impossibly huge and complicated silver gun at Danny.

A flash of yellow light centering on the gun blotted out my vision for a split second. I threw myself forward, but I couldn’t see anything and something flat and metallic crashed into my head. I fell back and my vision came back to show me the ceiling of the van. Beanie was sliding the gun back into the front seat of the car. Frankie snarled something like, “That's my sister, bitch!” and threw himself at the guy. I rolled over and pushed myself up, my ears ringing. Beanie caught Frankie and pinned his arms against his ribs, like he’d done with me, and used his other hand to drag the sack toward him.

I kicked at his hand, but missed. Where was Danny? We just had to fight until Danny got here and kicked this guy in the head and then we’d go home and be safe. Tracksuit Guy ran up to the van and helped Beanie get the sack open and stuff it over Frankie’s head. I tried to get to my feet, but the van spun and I couldn't find my balance.

They ripped open some duck tape and wrapped it around Frankie, securing his arms and the sack over him. I kept trying to get up. Danny would be here. I couldn’t let them hurt my brother. Danny would get here and rescue us.

Then Beanie growled to Tracksuit, “The blond guy dead?”

“Dunno,” Tracksuit shrugged. “Neutralized. Who cares?”

My stomach sank. I thought I was going to throw up.