Derek's phone feels unnaturally heavy in my hand. It's just a normal smartphone in a cracked case, but right now it might as well be a live grenade with the pin halfway out.

  "Just leave a voicemail," Derek says, his bloodshot eyes avoiding mine. "He doesn't answer calls, but he listens to messages."

  "How do you know he listens?" Mom asks, hands on her hips, looming over me like a very short shadow.

  Derek shrugs. "Because sometimes things I mention in messages... things change afterward. Just little stuff. But enough to know."

  Mom hovers near my shoulder, close enough that I can smell her coffee breath. "You should write down what you're going to say first. So you don't ramble."

  "I know how to leave a voicemail," I mutter, but she's not exactly wrong. I do ramble. And this isn't exactly a normal "hey, call me back" situation.

  "Maybe we should script it together," she suggests, already reaching for a notepad.

  "Mom." I take a deep breath. "I've got this."

  She doesn't look convinced, but takes a half-step back. Progress.

  "I'm going to work on my Spanish homework while you figure this out," she says, gesturing to her laptop on the table. "Then I can look it over before you send it."

  Right. School. Somehow, Mom has decided that my education cannot pause for minor inconveniences like Nazi supervillains trying to murder our family. She called in her PTO - which, frankly, I didn't even know she had since she never uses it - but insisted I email all my teachers for assignments.

  I don't know. I guess I appreciate that she's trying to maintain her composure by retreating into normalcy. Is that admirable, or is it silly? I don't know if I'm a good judge of that given how bad my barometer of "normal" is.

  So here I am, trying to compose a message to several drug-dealing terrorists while simultaneously working on conjugating irregular verbs.

  I retreat to the kitchenette for some semblance of privacy. Derek follows, leaning against the counter while I stare at his phone. Elias's contact is still in there, photo and all - some grinning kid with a puffed up afro giving a thumbs-up. He looks about twelve in the picture, though he must have been fifteen or sixteen.

  "When was the last time you talked to him?" I ask, not looking up.

  Derek's voice is flat. "Last voicemail I left was two weeks ago. Told him about some Kingdom movement near Franklin Park. Figured he'd want to know."

  "Did he do anything about it?"

  "There was a fight there two days later." Derek shrugs. "Could've been coincidence. Nobody spotted any weird animal Frankensteins running around."

  I open a notes app on my own phone and start typing. What exactly do you say in this situation? "Hey, remember when your boss said my dad was under your protection? Well, funny story..."

  My mind keeps cycling through options, each sounding worse than the last. Too desperate. Too vague. Too incriminating.

  "Does he know you're a werewolf?" I ask suddenly.

  Derek stiffens. "Yeah. Why?"

  "Just wondering how much I have to explain versus how much he already knows."

  "He knows about me. Knows I work with you sometimes. Doesn't know details about the Auditors." Derek takes a sip from his coffee mug. "At least, not from me."

  Great. So I need to be careful about operational security while still being clear enough that he understands. No pressure.

  I type out a draft:

  Elias, this is Bloodhound. Using Derek's phone. Shrike escaped from Daedalus and is targeting me and my family. Rush Order publicly declared my father under Rogue Wave protection. Need to discuss if that's real or just talk. Urgent.

  No, too blunt. Too obviously criminal conspiracy if anyone gets hold of this. I delete it and try again:

  Hey Elias, it's Sam, Derek's friend. We're in a situation and need to talk to someone about an offer that was made public a while back. It's urgent.

  Too vague. He might not even know who I am. Maybe? I did chase him as Bloodhound, but does he know who 'Sam' is?

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath. My ear still stings from where Shrike's spike grazed it. The cut on my cheek throbs. Somewhere upstairs, my dad is making calls, trying to maintain the appearance of everything going on as normal while our lives implode.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  "What would make him actually care?" I ask Derek. "What would make him want to help?"

  Derek considers this. "Probably if I was involved."

  That's... something I didn't know. And possibly useful. I start typing again:

  Elias, it's Bloodhound, using Derek's phone. There's a Nazi after my family - Shrike, escaped from Daedalus. Rush Order publicly declared my father under protection. Need to know if that's real. Please get this message to whoever makes these decisions.

  Still not right. I need to give him enough information to act without creating a record that could be used against any of us. And I need to not sound like I'm begging for help from criminals.

  "What's taking so long?" Mom calls from the main room. "It's just a voicemail."

  "Working on it," I call back, rolling my eyes at Derek. He almost smiles.

  "Tell him I said hi," Derek says quietly. "Tell him I miss him."

  I glance up, surprised. "Really?"

  "No." He scowls. "Just... tell him what we need. That's it."

  Right. Not a social call.

  I stare at the phone again, then at my Spanish homework on the table. Irregular verbs in the preterite tense. Somehow conjugating estar seems a lot less pressing than it did this time yesterday.

  "Screw it," I mutter, hitting the call button before I can overthink it further.

  The phone rings once, twice, three times. Then voicemail.

  "You've reached Elias. Leave a message."

  His voice sounds different than I expected. Deeper, more mature. The Elias in Derek's photo looks like a kid, but the voice belongs to a man.

  Beep.

  "Elias, this is Bloodhound. I'm with Derek - this is his phone. I need to get a message to Rush Order or Monkey Business." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "You probably saw the news about Shrike escaping from Daedalus. He's in Philadelphia now, and he's after me because I was Liberty Belle's protégé. He's already attacked my family once."

  Another pause. How much should I say? How much do I need to say?

  "After what happened on South Street, Rush Order made a public statement. He said my father was under Rogue Wave's protection. I need to know if that was real or just for show. If it's real, we need to talk about what that means right now."

  I take a deep breath.

  "We can meet somewhere neutral. I'll have people with me, and I'm sure you will too. I just... we need to know where things stand. This isn't a trap, and I'm not working with any official agencies. This is just me trying to protect my family."

  I almost hang up, then add: "Derek says hi. Call this number or send a message if you're willing to talk. Thanks."

  I end the call and stare at the phone for a long moment before handing it back to Derek.

  "That was... fine," he says, which from Derek is practically a standing ovation.

  "Did I say too much?" I ask.

  "Probably. But not enough to matter."

  We return to the main room, where Mom is frowning at her laptop while aggressively highlighting an online textbook. She looks up as we enter.

  "All done? What did you say?"

  "Just the basics," I reply, sliding back into my seat at the table and pulling my own laptop closer. "Mentioned Shrike, asked about Rush Order's statement, suggested a meeting."

  She looks like she wants to ask more questions, but thankfully her phone buzzes with a text. She checks it and sighs.

  "Your father says the police found no evidence of spike 'embryos' in our house. They're still doing a full sweep, but so far nothing."

  "That doesn't mean they're not there," I point out. "Just that they haven't activated."

  "I know that," she snaps, then immediately looks apologetic. "Sorry. I'm just..."

  "It's fine." I focus on my screen, pretending to be absorbed in my Spanish assignment. Yo estuve. Tú estuviste. él/ella/usted estuvo. I have been. You have been. He/she/it has been. What's the conjugation for "I have been threatened by a Nazi"? Pretty sure that's not covered in the textbook.

  Mom clears her throat. "I've been thinking about what you said. About the world we live in."

  I look up, surprised. "Yeah?"

  "You're right. It's absurd. All of it." She gestures vaguely. "Supervillains. Nazis in 2025. The... militarism. But it's the world we have, and we have to deal with it." She smiles faintly. "I'm not saying I'm okay with any of this. I'm not. We talked with Mr. Davis and Clara about witness protection logistics, and... it would take weeks to set up properly. We don't have weeks."

  "Yeah?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

  "I'm not going to give you the satisfaction of an I-told-you-so," she teases, her smile wobbling at the edges like she's about to burst into tears at any moment. "But you were right about the timing. I'm... proud that we've... raised such a decisive child."

  She tries to smile, but I hear the question marks at the end of her sentence. Proud? Child?

  The next few hours pass in a strange limbo of forced normalcy. Mom insists I finish my Spanish assignments while she catches up on emails. Derek works out in another room, far away from everyone else, to burn off energy (what, exactly, does he do for a living?). Dad comes down from the second floor to consult twice - once to confirm the police found nothing in our house, no "spike embryos" (although given how superpowers work that doesn't fill me with glee), and once to say he's picking up essentials since we might be here for a while.

  I'm glad he's feeling good enough on his leg to drive. Derek goes with him, though.

  Lily stops by around noon with sandwiches and energy drinks. "Anything from your contact?" she asks, setting the food on the table.

  I shake my head. "Not yet."

  "They're probably vetting you," she says, glancing at Derek's phone on the table. "Making sure it's not a trap."

  "Or they're ignoring us completely," I reply.

  Mom looks up from her laptop. "Let's hope not."

  The afternoon drags on. I finish my Spanish and move on to Precalc, and then English, and I steadfastly refuse Social Studies because reading about current events right now is going to make me throw a fit. Amelia texts that she's running surveillance around the perimeter between classes. Derek and my Dad return with more essentials.

  At 4:37 PM, the security alert chimes.

  Derek emerges from the back room immediately, looking more alert and vaguely sweaty. "What is it?"

  I check the monitor. "Delivery guy."

  We exchange glances, and I feel a strange mix of relief and dread. They responded. Now we have to deal with what comes next.

  "Let me check the cameras first," I say, scanning the different angles. The guy looks ordinary enough - baseball cap, uniform shirt, holding what appears to be a pizza box. "Looks clean."

  "I'll still come with you," Derek says, already moving toward the door. "Better safe than sorry."

  Mom puts her hand on my arm. "I'm going with you, too."

  Derek's neck slowly turns towards her. "Lady. Leave this one to the professionals. If something happens, you're an immediate and extremely valuable hostage. Don't give them that opportunity."

  My Mom takes two steps back. Well, that was easier than I was anticipating.

  "Let's go," I say, trying to make myself feel less scared than I am.