Chapter 301: No Warning.
"He didn’t come for the family. He came for Harmione. The rest of them were in the way." May’s voice stayed level, which took effort I could hear. The words arrived thin and precise through the comms. "I watched him kneel down in front of her and say something into her face, and I couldn’t come out from where I was hiding."
I listened and let the pieces fall.
Venna was calling me over from the window, which meant she’d seen something or decided something. The yellow of the street lights laid long stripes across the glass behind her.
"Go to the stray town," I said. "Find Sherry. She’s there with Daphne and Becky. Don’t tell her I asked you. Just be there."
"Okay."
She hung up. The line went dead with a soft finality.
I crossed the room with the shape of it fully assembled now.
One person inside these walls had a reason to kill a Redhead and leave the rest of that family as collateral. One person had knelt in front of a girl and said something that made her laugh and weep at the same time and tell him she was proud of what she’d done.
I knew what was inside Mute.
I knew who Brahim had been before he was Brahim.
The elevator. The borrowed face. The list he was working through one name at a time. The purple hair in the middle of a burning street. All of it locked into place with a clean, cold click.
"It’s time." I tapped Venna’s shoulder. The fabric of her top was warm under my fingers.
My comms vibrated again.
I looked down at my wrist.
Azure.
I answered before the second buzz. The metal was still warm from the last call.
"Bram." Her voice came through shaking. The tremor lived under every word. "He’s back."
"I know."
"You know?"
"I’ve seen him. Zoe, are you hurt?"
"I’m fine." A breath—short, controlled, the kind a person takes when the alternative is worse. "He didn’t touch me. He didn’t even raise his voice." Another one, shorter. "He told me to tell you that he wants to put a finger in your eye."
I stood very still.
Not a threat about killing me. Not a promise to come for me. Something small and specific and personal, chosen because it would sit in my head and stay there. The image arrived complete and refused to leave—the particular intimacy of the threat, the patience in it.
He said I did something worse than kill him, Whatever he’s planning, it’s the same shape.
"Okay," I said. "Thank you for calling me."
Venna had come up behind me and stopped. I could feel the heat of her standing close without looking.
"Please take care of yourself, Bram."
"You too."
She hung up.
I stood with the comms warm against my wrist and understood there was nothing I could say to her. No advice worth giving. Hide where? Behind what door? He’d walked into a Redhead estate with two centuries of security on it and left everyone in it on the floor. There was no room in this world with a lock strong enough.
And killing him wasn’t an option either. My father had stood at a window twenty years ago and told me so.
He comes back every time. And every time, he comes back stronger.
"You good?" Venna asked. Her voice was quiet, careful.
"I’m good. Thank you."
"The streets are clear all the way down." She’d been watching while I was on the call. "Should we take food?"
"A little. We can’t be carrying weight if we have to run."
"Okay."
She went back through to the stone room and came out a minute later with a bag over one shoulder.
***
I opened the front door and we stepped out into the evening.
The yard was empty. The dirt held the last of the day’s heat. The street lights burned down on nothing at all.
"Why are you locking it?" Venna asked as I worked the bolt behind us. The metal was cool under my fingers.
"Because we don’t know when this ends." I pulled the handle to test it. The lock held with a solid, final click. "Food, water, cold air, a door that holds. If we need somewhere to come back to, this is the best building in the capital and nobody knows about it."
She looked at the door for a moment. The blue of her hair caught the yellow light from the nearest street lamp.
"Right," she said.
I came down off the step. The dirt under my boots was uneven.
"Give me that." I took the bag off her shoulder and it dropped in my hand more than I expected. The weight was solid, deliberate. "What exactly have you packed?"
"Essentials."
"This is heavier than the stone."
"Essentials," she repeated, and started walking. The bag settled against my side. Whatever she’d decided counted as essential had the density of someone who expected to need it.
We crossed the yard toward the cars. The road beyond the wall was completely empty, the street lights burning down on nothing at all. Somewhere far off across the capital, men were shouting in unison and other voices were joining them from every direction, the sound rolling between buildings and coming back changed—thicker, more organised.
Bagins had his streets.
"We take my car," Venna said. "It’s faster than walking and it’s a wall between us and them."
"It’s safer. Agreed."
We got in. She took the wheel and pulled her seatbelt across. The interior still held the faint scent of lipstick and the heat of the day. The dashboard was cool under my palm when I braced against it.
"I almost never use those," I said, watching her.
"Use it."
I pulled mine on. The click was small and absolute.
She put the key in.
And something came out of the road with its lights off and hit us.
No warning. No sound before it, or none I heard over the shouting in the distance. Just the world detonating sideways—metal screaming, the window going in across my face in a sudden bright shatter of glass, the whole car leaving the ground with both of us inside it. The seatbelt locked hard across my chest. The air filled with the smell of hot plastic and lipstick and the particular sharp dust of broken safety glass.
We turned over.