Callahan could barely make them out, their figures shadowed by the night. They were tall, and there were three of them. A horrid musk radiated off them, liquor and filth. With every step forward, the stench thickened.

  “That pouch of yours is clinkin’ real loud, friend. How ‘bout some alms for the poor?” one of them rasped. He kept low, hunched, almost limping, falling behind the other two as they closed in. Their forms became clearer in the dim light. Hairy folk, maned faces dark with tangled fur. Their eyes had a dim, eerie glow—not the kind that came with Sight Binding, but the reflective glint of a rat in the dark.

  “I like that thing you got there. Can I see it?” The leader in the middle stretched out an arm, reaching for Jubilee. His fingers twitched, eager to snatch it. “Promise I’ll give it back.” Callahan took a careful step back, keeping a slow, calm pace away from them.

  “Sorry, not much to take,” he lied. “No coin, just some scraps I picked up, hoping to sell ‘em. And this?” He gave a small shake of Jubilee in his grip. “It’s nothing. A toy for my little sister.” He hoped that would be enough to get out of this without a fight. Three against one wasn’t a battle he wanted.

  “Just scraps!?” The hunched one suddenly screeched, voice twisting into a shrill whine. “Those are our scraps! You can’t be takin’ our scraps! Grub, this guy is stealin’!”

  Stealing… Callahan almost scoffed at the accusation. As if these idiots aren’t planning to do the same thing. The biggest one, Grub, they called him—reached for something at his belt. Callahan couldn’t make it out at first, not until the moonlight caught the glint of jagged steel. A dagger, worn and neglected, its edge dulled by poor upkeep but still sharp enough to kill.

  “Look,” Grub muttered, twirling the knife effortlessly between his fingers. He was comfortable with the blade, it was a dance of steel and flesh. “Just drop what you got. Don’t care what’s in the pouch or if it’s a toy. We want it.”

  Callahan tightened his grip on Jubilee. “Back off,” he warned, his voice steadier than he felt. He tried to stand like Rowan would—confident, immovable. But he could tell they weren’t buying it.

  “Won’t ask again,” Grub growled. “Drop what ya got, or you’ll be bleedin’.”

  A second blade caught the light, gleaming in the hands of the thug beside Grub. Callahan could feel it in the air, the rising tension, the weight of an inevitable fight. If he didn’t move first, they would. For a moment, everything stilled. A brief, fragile silence. A standoff in the dark.

  Then—Grub lunged.

  His stance dropped low, and suddenly he was galloping along the ground like a beast. His dagger scraped against the half-paved street, sparks flickering in its wake. The other thug followed close behind, just as fast. They moved eerily fluid, faster on all fours than Callahan was on two legs. Shit—Callahan barely had time to think. He yanked his arm up, Jubilee’s barrel locking onto the charging figures, and pulled the trigger.

  “I told you—back off!”

  A pop rang out, and the blue orb shot forward, its sizzling tail cutting through the dark.

  “DOWN!” Grub barked, diving under it at the last second. His cohort wasn’t as lucky. The orb struck dead center on his forehead with a loud ping—

  “ARP—!”

  The man’s arms buckled; his gait interrupted. He crashed face-first into the road, tumbling into a graceless somersault before landing flat on his back. Jubilee’s shot ricocheted off his skull and zipped off into the night. Shit. Why didn’t it explode?

  Callahan had hoped for a blast on impact—something to end this quickly. Damn, It must have a timer, but how does it work?

  He didn’t wait to find out. He turned and ran.

  “Mol! You good?” Grub called out, barely sparing a glance.

  Mol groaned from the dirt, cursing under his breath. He was still breathing, it was good enough. Grub pushed forward, faster now. His prey would pay for this. Callahan had barely made it down the street before the delayed explosion erupted behind him. The alley lit up like daylight, the sky painted in fiery bursts of red, blue, and green. A thunderous crack shattered the silence, rumbling through the streets like a cannon blast. Callahan didn’t even take a glance back to see, he had hoped the noise and light would scare them off. But when the glow faded, when the echoes died, he still heard it. The frantic gallop of hands and feet on stone. He was still being chased.

  “A toy, eh!?” Grub’s words were accentuated by heavy breaths from his galloping. “Well, I’mma show you what my toy does to your insides when I get you.”

  Callahan loaded another orb. This one—red. He couldn’t tell what it did, but he hoped it exploded on contact. “You’ll regret this,” he muttered, running fast as he could as he loaded Jubilee with the crimson orb, “At least I hope you do…” he wished under his haggard running breath.

  He took aim haphazardly, trying to keep an eye on the dark road ahead while also lining up the shot. Grub was closing in—faster and faster. Callahan could hear his breathing, the pounding of his steps, the scraping of the dagger as it dragged against the ground. The sound needled into his mind, psyching him out. Panicked, he fired.

  The gun popped. The crimson orb sizzled through the air, trailing a burning red light as it spiraled forward. Grub reacted instinctively, though to say he dodged would be giving him too much credit. The shot bounced past him, ricocheting off a building and skipping along the road like a stone over water. It came to a stop just ahead—then, in an instant, erupted into a long-lasting red glow, bathing the street in eerie, flickering light.

  “Damn it… a flare?” Callahan’s breath came in ragged gasps, his heart hammering as his legs burned from the chase. Another shot, maybe the green one? Gas? He fumbled to grab it from his belt, but his shaky hands failed him. The orb slipped through his fingers, falling uselessly behind him and rolling into the darkness. Grub didn’t even notice. He zipped past it, his speed kicking up a gust that sent the orb spinning in his wake. Shit. Just blues left. A direct hit might stop him—I need a dir—

  Before he could finish the thought, Grub slammed into his back. Arms wrapped around his waist like a vice, and the force sent them both flying. They crashed to the ground in a violent tumble, rolling like a runaway wheel torn from its cart. When they finally stopped, Grub was on top. There was no hesitation. He gripped his knife in both hands and drove it down with everything he had. Callahan barely caught his wrists in time.

  Muscles screaming, he pushed back, straining against the blade as it hovered inches from his chest. “Should’ve just handed your shit over,” Grub growled through clenched teeth, his voice taut with effort. “Now you gotta die.” Callahan’s arms trembled. He was giving everything he had, but it wasn’t enough. “GET OFF ME! HELP!” he shouted, desperation cracking his voice. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold out.

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  The seconds felt like they stretched into hours. His whole body began to sweat—he was hot, he was freezing, he was panicked. He could see the horrid, murderous glow in Grub’s eyes. Even if he had given up all his things, Callahan began to think this was how it was always meant to play out. They would’ve chased him. They would’ve tried to kill him. He realized his mistake in coming here. His heart began to beat heavier, faster—it almost felt like it was shaking the ground itself. The tremors became more violent, coming quicker and heavier with every pulse. Grub had enough of the struggle. He pulled back on the knife, trying to make Callahan lose his grip.

  “Please don’t!” Callahan crossed his arms around himself, trying his best to block the vital parts of his body as the dagger rose to the arched peak of Grub’s grip.

  “CAL!”

  A voice broke through the darkness just as the knife began to fall—but it never hit Callahan. Because 300 pounds of Rowan came barreling into Grub like an enraged buffalo. Rowan now had his brother’s assailant at his mercy, his crushing grip wrapped tight around Grub’s daggered wrist as the thug lay flat on his back, gasping for air that had been forced out by Rowan’s bullish charge.

  “You best drop it before I break this wrist.”

  Grub couldn’t get his words out, but his grip loosened, and the dagger fell, stabbing itself into the dirt right by his head.

  “Good.”

  There was a grim anger in Rowan’s voice. He raised a fist into the air, his eyes locking onto Grub’s. A heavy hand came down upon his face—then another, each punch accentuated by a word.

  “Don’t. You. Ever. Touch. My. Family.”

  Callahan could hear the wet, mushy thuds growing louder with each strike. He collected himself as best he could, then called out to Rowan, “Stop! He’s out!” Rowan’s fist hovered in the air, his breath heavy. His knuckles stained red. Grub’s face was a broken mess—pummeled, swelling, his dark mane matted with blood.

  “Ey, you’re right, he looks out of it,” Rowan muttered, shaking the blood from his knuckles, trying to joke himself back into his usual demeanor. Callahan staggered beside him, half-dazed and exhausted. “Damn… Rowan, thanks for the save, but damn…” He grimaced at Grub’s face. The bastard would live, but he’d never look the same.

  “Grub! GRUB!”

  Mol and the lurching one finally caught up, just in time to see their leader bloodied and beaten in the dirt. “What did you do?! We’ll—”

  Rowan didn’t wait for the man to finish. Out came his hammer. The chain loosened from the shaft, the heavy flailhead thudding into the dirt.

  “We’ll…”

  The moment Mol spoke again, Rowan started to spin. Once. Twice. Faster and faster until the chain carved through the air with a sharp, whistling whoosh.

  “I’ll let you pick up your boy,” Rowan growled, his voice steady but carrying that barely contained, bestial edge. “But you might want to reconsider what you’re about to say.”

  Mol swallowed his words. Slowly, carefully, he stepped forward, keeping his eyes on the flail as he crouched down to drag Grub’s limp body into the dark where they belonged. The brothers stepped back, giving them space—but Rowan didn’t stop swinging. The chain kept whipping through the air, a promise, a warning, until Mol and his crony finally vanished into the night. Then, silence. Rowan let the flail crash into the dirt, twisting the shaft to recall the head with a sharp clink. He exhaled hard, rolling his shoulders, then turned his tired eyes onto Callahan.

  “Dumb play, Cal. Really dumb.”

  A heavy smack hit the back of Callahan’s head, nearly knocking him over.

  He couldn’t be angry—he deserved the smack. He definitely knew now that going out on his own in the dark, looking for clues or answers alone, was a dumb decision.

  “I know… I—”

  He paused for a moment, then looked around. “Nyve isn’t here, is she?”

  Rowan shook his head. “Nah, told her to keep quiet and stay in the room. But—” He pulled the Eye of Lughren from his shirt and handed it over to Callahan. “She was real pissed you just left this back at the loft.”

  Callahan didn’t want to look at it. There was something still prickly in his heart, a burning feeling of betrayal, but he was beginning to understand more and more how he truly felt.

  “I... don’t think I want to wear that yet. Do you think you can hold onto it for me?”

  “Eh? What’s wrong?”

  Callahan looked around, spotting Jubilee lying in the dirt. He bent down to pick it up—more to avoid Rowan’s question than anything else.

  “That what was setting off all those fireworks?” Rowan asked, watching him.

  Callahan nodded. “Yeah. Nyve told you what happened, right?”

  “Yeah, I heard. You really let her have it, didn’t ya?”

  “Yeah… I think I may have gone a bit far.”

  Rowan laughed, patting Callahan on the back as they started walking down the street.

  “Classic Cal, though, right? Explosive and vibrant. You’ve got the perfect weapon to match.”

  Callahan sighed. “I’m trying to be serious.”

  “Who said I was joking? You’ve got a short fuse, brother—I know it better than anyone.”

  Callahan scoffed. “You almost just beat that guy’s head inside out, and you’re telling me I’m the one with the anger problem?”

  Rowan elbowed him. “That’s different. You don’t mess with family. Plus, he was a dirt-eating thug.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  “Nah. Kiki cooks better things than dirt. Don’t be disrespectful.”

  Callahan huffed, shaking his head. “I just think… I understand now where Nyve was coming from. I wasn’t ready for that sort of situation… almost got myself killed again because I’m so damn weak.”

  “You’re not weak, Cal.” Rowan slapped a heavy hand against his chest. “You just don’t know how to play to your strengths. Being a big muscle head like me ain’t all that strength is, you know? When you aren’t going out all on your own and getting yourself into trouble, you’re real handy to have around.”

  Callahan wanted to believe his brother’s words, but it was a hard endeavor. All of his past failures began welling up in his mind—the missed shot on the Wailer, his brush with death in the amphitheater and bathhouse, and now almost getting stabbed by some thugs in the dark. He couldn’t help but notice the pattern. His decisions, his physical strength, they were always letting him down. And his words… they never seemed to change anything either. He hated it, but he knew Nyve had been right—he wouldn’t have been able to talk Ollie out of his decision. He would have died along with the rest.

  “Quiet all of a sudden. What’cha thinking about?” Rowan’s voice cut through his brother’s suffocating thoughts.

  “Just… I couldn’t save those people. Or Ollie.”

  Rowan sighed. “Come on, Cal, you really can’t—”

  “I know… I know.” Callahan cut him off, his voice steady. “But there’s more to it. More to all of it than just that one attack, Rowan. I think… there’s going to be more. And maybe we can help stop it.”

  He hesitated for a moment, making sure his words wouldn’t stumble. “I can’t blame Nyve for what happened. And if I just mope about my failure… I won’t be able to stop what comes next. But if it happens again, I’ll have more time to act. More time to help. Would you help me, Rowan?”

  “Are you stupid?” Rowan laughed. “Why would you ask such a dumb question, Cal? You think I’d let you do something like this alone?”

  “No… but it’s still a lot. And I found out some things. I think I know—”

  “Wherever you go, I go, Cal. And hey, we’ll probably make a pretty penny getting to the bottom of all this, too. Killing two birds with one stone, you know?”

  “Yeah… yeah, you’re right. And we actually still got—” Callahan patted himself down, then froze. His face twisted in realization.

  “Shit… no. No!”

  He looked around in a panic, but they had already walked too far. It was gone. Lost in the dark or worse.

  “That bastard… I think he stole my pouch when we tumbled. Or maybe… it fell?”

  “How much money did you have left?”

  “It was still half full…”

  Rowan clapped him on the shoulder, trying to reassure him. “Well, consider it the consequence of being a dumbass tonight.”

  Callahan almost looked anxious to run back down the street, to search through the endless dark for his money.

  “Cool it. I know what you’re thinking,” Rowan cut in, shaking his head. “We’re going home, Cal. It’s late, dangerous, and we’ve got plenty to talk about when we get back…”

  Callahan sighed, reluctantly agreeing. “Yeah… you’re not gonna let me forget this, are you?”

  “Absolutely not. Especially when I want to buy something you think is stupid.” Rowan laughed.

  A small voice tickled his ear—only Rowan’s. Nyve’s bind focused in, exuberant yet careful.

  “OH! DID YOU HEAR THAT, ROWAN? Oh, my sweet Callahan… I thought he’d hate me forever!”

  Rowan kept laughing, but it turned exaggerated, strained, as his fingers started scratching at his head.

  “Oi! You big oaf, why are you scratching at me?” Nyve squeaked as Rowan’s fingers poked and searched for her. Even as she dodged, he followed after her, making sure she took the hint.

  “All right, all right! I get it! More time… more time… even though he sounds so much better?!”

  Another poke.

  “OKAY! Oh… boys. And they say you’re the easy ones to raise?”

  “You good, Rowan?”

  “I’m great, Cal. I’m just happy you’re feeling better.”

  It would be a long walk home. And the day to come would be even longer.