MISTAKES AND CONSEQUENCES
Late 1985 — El Paso, Texas
The tour had been brutal.
Not the shows themselves, those were fine. Good, even. The crowds were electric, the venues packed, the energy high. But the weather had been a nightmare. Ice storms in the Southwest had forced them to cancel dates they'd already promoted. New Mexico. Little Rock. Tulsa. El Paso. They'd had to reschedule the entire leg, which meant backtracking through states they'd already left, playing makeup shows to crowds that had been waiting weeks longer than they should have.
It was exhausting.
But tonight was El Paso, and the venue was solid, and the fans had been patient.
They owed them a good show.
* * *
The dressing room at the El Paso venue smelled like old carpet and someone's forgotten burrito.
Nathan sat in a folding chair near the corner, turning something over in his hands. A lump of coal. Black. Unremarkable. About the size of a golf ball.
Samantha glanced at him as she organized Jace's spare drumsticks into their cases.
"What are you doing?"
Nathan didn't look up.
"Thinking."
"About?"
He held the coal up to the light, squinting at it.
"A fan gave this to me. Two shows ago. He works in the mines. Coal mines."
"Okay..."
"And I'm wondering," Nathan said slowly, "if I tried hard enough, if I really concentrated and worked the molecular structure, what I could create."
Samantha straightened, interested.
"Like what?"
Nathan's blue eyes flicked to her.
"I don't know. That's the question."
"Well," Samantha said, smiling slightly. "Why don't you give it a try and see?"
Nathan looked at the coal again. Then he closed his hand around it and went still.
* * *
Sound check had been at three.
Now it was nearly five, and Nathan hadn't moved.
Jace sat nearby, methodically cleaning his cymbals with a cloth. Samantha had asked him about the hi-hat earlier, something about the tension, and they'd spent ten minutes making minor adjustments while carefully not looking at each other for too long.
Connor and Ricky were sprawled on the ratty couch near the back wall, locked in what appeared to be a serious debate.
"Pretzels," Connor said firmly. "They're the superior snack food. Crunchy. Salty. They don't leave grease on your hands."
Ricky stared at him.
"You're insane. Potato chips are objectively better."
"How are they objectively better?"
"More variety. More flavor. Actual satisfaction when you eat them."
"Pretzels have variety! You've got your traditional, your honey mustard, your..."
"Those aren't real pretzels, those are lies."
Erik walked in, bass slung over his shoulder, and stopped.
"What are you two arguing about?"
"Snack foods," Connor said.
"Pretzels versus chips," Ricky added.
Erik blinked.
"Why?"
"Because Connor is wrong," Ricky said.
"I'm not wrong..."
Erik shook his head and plugged in his bass, letting the low thrum of notes fill the room as he warmed up. Ricky grabbed his guitar a moment later and started noodling through a riff, adjusting the tuning as he went.
Nathan sat in the corner, eyes closed, hands wrapped around a lump of coal.
Samantha watched him, then went back to her work.
* * *
By seven o'clock, the opening act was on stage and the energy in the building was starting to build.
Nathan was still sitting. Still holding the coal. Still perfectly motionless.
Jace glanced at him.
"You okay, man?"
Nathan didn't answer.
Sidney leaned against the wall near the door, arms folded, watching Nathan with quiet interest. Mongo stood beside him, holding a bottle of water and frowning slightly.
"How long's he been like that?" Mongo asked.
"Hours," Sidney said.
"Is that... normal?"
"For Nathan? Yes."
Connor stretched and stood, walking over to peer at Nathan's hands.
"Anything happening?"
"Not yet," Sidney said.
Ricky joined them, still holding his guitar.
"What's he trying to do?"
"Make something," Sidney said simply.
"Out of coal?"
"Yes."
"Like... what?"
Sidney smiled faintly.
"We'll see."
* * *
Twenty minutes before they were supposed to take the stage, it happened.
Nathan's hands lit up.
Not a flicker. Not a spark.
Full ignition.
Red light blazed from his palms, and his garnet amulet flared to life at his throat, glowing like an ember pulled fresh from a forge. His eyes snapped open, not blue anymore but burning red-gold, the color of molten metal.
Everyone stopped.
Jace set down his drumstick.
Connor straightened.
Erik's bass went silent.
Ricky's mouth fell open.
Samantha took a step forward, eyes wide.
The light grew brighter.
Nathan's whole body began to glow, a corona of red-gold fire spreading from his hands up his arms and across his chest. The air around him shimmered with heat. The temperature in the room spiked.
"Nathan..." Jace started.
Sidney held up a hand.
"Don't interrupt."
The light intensified. Brighter. Hotter. So bright they had to squint, had to shield their eyes against the glare.
And then, just as quick, it began to recede.
The glow pulled back into Nathan's hands like water swirling down a drain. His eyes faded back to blue. His amulet dimmed to its usual deep red.
He opened his hands.
Black dust covered his palms. Fine. Powdery. Like ash.
Nathan blew gently.
The dust scattered.
And underneath it, sitting in the center of his palm, was something white.
Small. Clear. Catching the light.
Samantha leaned in.
"What is that?"
Sidney stepped forward, his pale blue eyes sharp with recognition.
He picked it up, held it to the light, turned it.
Then he smiled.
"That," Sidney said, "is a raw diamond."
Silence.
Connor blinked.
"A what?"
"A raw diamond," Sidney repeated. He handed it to Nathan.
"A real diamond. Uncut. You just transmuted carbon into crystalline form."
Nathan stared at it in his hand. It was small, might cut to two carats, maybe less, but it was real and raw.
"Holy shit," Ricky breathed.
Erik laughed, a startled, delighted sound.
"You made a diamond."
"I made a diamond," Nathan echoed, sounding slightly stunned.
Jace stood and crossed to him, looking down at the stone.
"That's incredible, Nate."
Nathan looked up at him. Then, slowly, he held it out.
The room went very quiet.
Jace froze.
Samantha's breath caught.
Nathan's expression was calm. Certain.
"For the future."
Jace took the diamond. It was warm from Nathan's hands. He stared at it, feeling the weight of it, not the physical weight but the weight of what it meant. What it represented.
Everyone was watching him.
Connor. Erik. Ricky. Samantha. Sidney. Mongo.
All of them knowing. All of them seeing.
Jace closed his hand around the diamond.
Then he held it back out to Nathan. Nathan frowned.
"Keep it," Jace said. "It's safer with you, and I tend to lose things. You know how I am on the road, man."
Nathan searched his face. Then he nodded and took the diamond back, tucking it into his pocket.
The moment broke.
Ricky whooped and clapped Nathan on the shoulder.
"That was the coolest thing I've ever seen."
"We're going to destroy that stage tonight," Connor said, grinning.
Erik nodded, still smiling.
"Absolutely."
Sidney straightened.
"You've got fifteen minutes. Get ready."
They moved with purpose now, the energy in the room transformed. Electric. Alive.
Nathan had turned coal into diamond.
And they were about to remind El Paso why Battle Cry was worth the wait.
Jace caught Samantha's eye across the room.
She was looking at him the way she had in the attic. The way she had on the floor under that banner.
Like she knew.
Like she was waiting.
He looked away first.
The show in El Paso was one of the best they'd played all tour.
The crowd was wild. The band was on fire. Every note landed perfectly, every transition seamless, every moment charged with the kind of energy that made the three-hour drive through the desert worth every mile.
Backstage afterward, Nathan sat quietly with his eyes closed, still buzzing from what he'd done.
In his pocket, a diamond waited.
* * *
Later That Night — El Paso Hotel
It was close to midnight when Jace got back to the hotel.
The post-show high had faded hours ago, replaced by the familiar restlessness that had been his constant companion for months. The constant, gnawing awareness of Samantha: always there, always close, always just out of reach.
He'd gone to the hotel bar with Nathan and Erik, ordered whiskey, and tried very hard not to think about the way her hair caught the light or the sound of her laugh or the memory of her sitting on top of him in that attic, tickling him until he couldn't breathe.
Three drinks became four.
Four became five.
Nathan had raised an eyebrow at him.
"You okay?"
"Fine," Jace had said.
He was not fine.
By the time he reached his floor, the hotel hallway was tilting slightly, and his empathy, usually so carefully controlled, was slipping at the edges like water through cupped hands.
He didn't notice the two women until they were already moving toward him.
Young. Early twenties, maybe. Dressed for the show they'd just attended. Battle Cry shirts. Too much perfume. Eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline.
"Oh my God," one of them said, grabbing his arm. "You're Jace."
"Hi," he said automatically, trying to smile, trying to keep walking.
"We saw you tonight," the other one said, stepping into his path. "You were amazing."
"Thanks," Jace said. "I appreciate that. I need to..."
The elevator dinged.
The doors opened.
And before he could process what was happening, they had him by both arms and were pulling him inside.
"Wait..." he started.
One of them hit every button on the panel. All of them. Every floor.
The doors closed.
Jace went cold.
"Ladies, I really need to get to my room..."
"We just want to talk," one of them said, and her hand was on his chest now, sliding up toward his neck.
"I don't think..."
The elevator lurched to a stop.
Between floors.
One of them had hit the emergency stop.
"There," she said, grinning. "Now we have time."
Jace's chest went tight, but not with fear. With something worse. Resignation. The slow, sick understanding that he'd made a mistake, several mistakes, and now he was trapped in a small metal box with two very drunk women who had no intention of letting him leave.
Their emotions crashed against his empathy like waves. Desire. Excitement. Desperation. The kind that came from too much alcohol and not enough sense.
His own empathy was bleeding out. He knew it. The alcohol had loosened his control, and now they were feeding off what he was putting out: longing and frustration and months of unspent want that had nothing to do with them and everything to do with a woman with auburn hair who wouldn't even let him explain why he kept looking at her like that.
"You don't want this," Jace said, trying to step back. There was nowhere to go.
"You're drunk. I'm drunk. This is a bad idea."
"You're so hot," one of them breathed, and her hands were on his shirt now, pulling.
Buttons scattered.
"Stop..." Jace said, but his voice came out wrong. Unsteady. His empathy was a mess, pouring out want and need in waves he couldn't pull back, and they were responding to it like he'd asked for this.
He hadn't.
But he'd been careless. He'd drunk too much. Let his guard down. Let his control slip.
And now it was too late to stop it without hurting them.
Because the thing about empathy was that it worked both ways. He could feel what they felt. And what they felt right now was so tangled up with what he'd accidentally projected that untangling it would cause pain. Confusion. The emotional equivalent of ripping a hook out of soft tissue.
So he closed his eyes and let it happen.
Hands on his skin. Mouths on his neck. His shirt was gone. His belt was coming undone. Someone was kissing him and he wasn't kissing back but it didn't seem to matter because they weren't really seeing him anyway. They were seeing whatever his empathy had made them see.
Samantha, he thought desperately. I'm sorry.
It was fast and messy and graceless. Fumbling hands. Too many bodies in too small a space. His jeans were pulled down and he tried to think of anything else, tried to pull his empathy back in, tried to stop broadcasting, tried to make this stop, but it had gone too far.
One of them had her hands on him and the other was pressed against his back and he couldn't get away and his body was responding even though his mind was screaming that this was wrong, this wasn't what he wanted, this wasn't...
It built like a wave he couldn't stop.
And when it crashed, the Guardian power came with it.
Both women collapsed.
Just... dropped.
Unconscious before they hit the elevator floor.
Jace stood there, breathing hard, jeans around his thighs, covered in lipstick and shame.
"Fuck," he whispered.
He pulled his jeans up with shaking hands. The zipper was broken. Torn. He had to hold them up with one hand to keep them from falling. His shirt was somewhere on the floor in pieces. Shirtless, half-dressed, two unconscious women crumpled at his feet.
He hit the button to restart the elevator.
It lurched into motion.
He watched the numbers climb.
Please don't stop, he thought. Please don't let anyone else get on.
The elevator didn't stop.
It climbed.
Fifth floor. Sixth. Seventh.
The women didn't wake.
Eighth floor.
Ninth.
His floor.
The doors opened.
Jace stepped over them and out into the hallway, holding his jeans up with one hand, and didn't look back.
The doors closed behind him.
He watched the elevator descend.
Down. Down. Down.
Back to the lobby.
Where Sidney would find them.
Where someone would ask questions.
Where this would become a problem he couldn't undo.
Nausea rolled through him.
He reached for his room key.
It wasn't there.
His pockets were empty.
"No," he said aloud. "No, no, no..."
He tried his door anyway.
Locked.
Of course it was locked.
He'd left the key in the elevator.
Panic set in.
He looked down the hall. Empty. For now. But if anyone came out of their room and saw him like this: shirtless, jeans torn, covered in lipstick, holding his pants up like some kind of...
He spotted the plant.
A huge potted palm at the end of the hall, near the corner where the hallway turned toward the other wing.
Near Connor's room.
Jace moved.
Fast.
He ducked behind the palm, crouched down, and tried to make himself as small as possible.
Adrenaline roared in his ears.
His empathy was still a mess, spilling out guilt and shame and self-loathing in waves.
Which meant Connor would feel it.
Which meant...
The door to Connor's room opened.
Footsteps.
Jace closed his eyes.
"Jace?"
Connor's voice. Calm. Curious.
Jace didn't answer.
"I know you're behind the plant."
Silence.
"Are we playing a game of hide-and-seek no one told me about?"
Jace exhaled slowly and stood up, still holding his jeans.
"I lost my key."
Connor looked at him.
Really looked.
Took in the missing shirt. The torn jeans. The lipstick smeared across his neck and chest and mouth.
Connor's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his green eyes. Understanding. Sympathy. And just the faintest hint of amusement that he kept firmly in check.
"Elevator?" Connor asked.
Jace closed his eyes.
"You already know."
"I do," Connor admitted. "Your thoughts are... screaming right now."
"I fucked up."
"Yes."
"I was drunk."
"I know."
"I let my empathy slip."
"I know that too."
Jace opened his eyes.
"Are you going to tell me I'm an idiot?"
"Do I need to?"
"No."
Connor's mouth twitched.
"Then I won't."
Footsteps echoed from the elevator bay.
Both of them turned.
Sidney Greene appeared around the corner, moving with the calm, deliberate pace of someone who had seen everything twice and been surprised by none of it.
He was holding a room key.
Jace's room key.
"Found this in the elevator," Sidney said, stopping in front of them. His eyes flicked over Jace, the torn clothes, the lipstick, the barely-held-together jeans, and his expression didn't change.
"Along with two unconscious young women who won't remember the last hour of their lives."
Jace's throat tightened.
"You wiped their memories."
"I did." Sidney held out the key. "They'll wake up in the lobby with headaches and no idea how they got there. Hotel security will assume they drank too much. Which they did."
Jace took the key. His hand was shaking.
"Thank you."
Sidney's pale blue eyes were steady. Unreadable.
"You've been drinking."
"Yes."
"And your empathic control suffered for it."
"Yes."
"This is what happens when you let alcohol loosen your grip on your power, Jace. You broadcast. And people respond. And situations spiral out of your control."
Jace looked down.
"Point taken."
"Now?" Sidney's tone sharpened. "Or three drinks ago?"
Jace met his eyes.
"Now."
Sidney held his gaze. Then he nodded once.
"Go clean up. Get some sleep. We leave for Albuquerque in the morning."
He walked back down the hall without another word.
Jace stood there, clutching his key, holding his pants up with one hand, and feeling approximately three inches tall.
Connor cleared his throat.
"For what it's worth..."
"Don't," Jace said.
"I was just going to say you should probably shower before those lipstick stains set."
Jace looked at him.
Connor's expression was carefully neutral, but his eyes were kind.
"Thanks," Jace muttered.
"And maybe," Connor added, "talk to Samantha. Before this eats you alive."
Jace's throat tightened.
"I can't."
"You can't, or you won't?"
"Both."
Connor sighed.
"Okay. But Jace?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever you're carrying right now? It's not going to get lighter by keeping it to yourself."
Jace didn't answer.
He unlocked his door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him.
The jeans fell immediately.
He left them on the floor, tossed the key on the bed, and walked straight to the bathroom.
The shower was scalding.
He stood under the spray until the water ran cold, scrubbing at the lipstick that wouldn't quite come off, trying not to think about what he'd tell Samantha.
Trying not to think about how he'd let himself get here.
Trying not to think about how badly he'd just messed everything up.
* * *
The Next Morning
Jace woke with a headache that felt like divine punishment.
The room was too bright. His mouth tasted like regret and hotel bar whiskey. And when he sat up, the events of the previous night came flooding back with perfect, merciless clarity.
The diamond.
Nathan's offering.
The weight of what he'd handed back.
The elevator.
The women.
The loss of control.
Sidney's disappointed eyes.
Connor's quiet sympathy.
The lipstick he'd scrubbed at until his skin was raw.
"Shit," Jace said to the empty room.
He got up slowly, moving like an old man, and caught sight of himself in the bathroom mirror.
There were still faint pink smudges on his neck. He'd missed some.
Of course he had.
He scrubbed at them again with a washcloth until they were gone, then brushed his teeth three times and still felt dirty.
* * *
The hotel lobby was too loud.
Voices. Luggage wheels on tile. The tour bus idling outside, diesel fumes mixing with morning coffee and the staleness that came from sleeping in hotels for weeks at a time.
Jace came down with his bag slung over his shoulder, sunglasses on even though the light wasn't that bright. Just bright enough to hurt.
Nathan was already there, sitting on one of the lobby couches with a cup of coffee and a book. He looked up when Jace approached.
"Morning," Nathan said.
"Morning," Jace muttered.
Nathan's eyes scanned him briefly.
"You look like hell."
"Feel like it too."
"Connor told me what happened."
Jace's jaw tightened.
"Of course he did."
"Don't be mad at him. I asked."
Jace dropped onto the couch beside him.
"And?"
"And nothing," Nathan said. "You made a mistake. You're dealing with it. Sidney handled the fallout. It's done."
"It doesn't feel done."
"It won't," Nathan agreed. "Not for a while. But beating yourself up won't change it."
Jace closed his eyes behind his sunglasses.
"I don't know how to tell Samantha."
"Do you have to?"
"I don't know." Jace opened his eyes. "Do I?"
Nathan was quiet.
"That depends. Do you think she needs to know? Or do you need her to know?"
Jace didn't have an answer.
Erik appeared from the direction of the hotel restaurant, carrying a takeout bag. He stopped when he saw them.
"Bus leaves in ten."
"We know," Nathan said.
Erik looked at Jace, then nodded once. No questions. No judgment. Just acknowledgment.
"See you out there," Erik said, and headed for the exit.
Connor came down the stairs a moment later, Ricky trailing behind him mid-sentence.
"...and I'm just saying, if we're stopping for food, we should stop somewhere good, not another gas station with suspicious burritos..."
"The burritos were fine," Connor said.
"You have a Persian stomach made of cast iron. The rest of us are mortal."
Connor spotted Jace and Nathan on the couch. His eyes met Jace's briefly, a flash of concern, of solidarity, and then he kept walking.
"Come on," he said to Ricky. "Bus is loading."
Ricky followed, still complaining about gas station food.
Nathan stood and offered Jace a hand.
"Ready?"
Jace took it and let Nathan pull him to his feet.
"As I'll ever be."
They grabbed their bags and headed for the exit.
Outside, the morning sun was harsh and unforgiving. The tour bus sat waiting, engine rumbling, Samantha visible through one of the windows organizing something in the equipment bay.
Shame washed through him.
Nathan clapped him on the shoulder.
"Jace?"
"Yeah?"
"Whatever's going on with you and Sam? Figure it out. Before it breaks something you can't fix."
He walked toward the bus.
Jace stood watching Samantha through the window. She looked up, saw him, and smiled.
A real smile. Warm. Open. Unaware of what he'd done. What he was carrying.
He forced himself to smile back.
Then he boarded the bus.
* * *
The drive to New Mexico wasn't a long one, but it was an oddly quiet one.
Jace sat near the back, headphones on, staring out the window at miles of flat desert landscape. Connor sat across from him, reading. Nathan was up front with Erik, going over something in a notebook. Ricky was sprawled across two seats, asleep within the first hour.
Samantha moved through the bus periodically, checking equipment, making sure nothing had shifted during transit. Each time she passed Jace, he felt the pull: the magnetic awareness of her presence, the way his whole body oriented toward her without him even thinking about it.
And each time, he looked away.
She noticed.
Around noon, she stopped beside his seat.
"You okay?"
Jace pulled one headphone off.
"Yeah. Just tired."
"You sure? You've been quiet."
"Late night."
"The show was incredible," she said, smiling. "That energy. What Nathan did before we went on... it charged everyone up."
Jace thought about the diamond. About Nathan holding it out to him. About handing it back because he wasn't ready.
About what happened after.
"Yeah," he said. "It was something."
Samantha studied him, then squeezed his shoulder.
"Get some rest. Albuquerque tonight."
She moved on.
Jace put his headphone back on and closed his eyes.
Across from him, Connor turned a page in his book and didn't say anything.
But Jace could feel it. The weight of Connor's awareness. The Visionary knowing things he didn't ask about out loud.
The bus rolled on.
Desert stretched in every direction.
And somewhere ahead, in a venue in New Mexico, everything was about to change.
* * *
New Mexico
The desert night should have belonged to them.
Open-air amphitheater carved into the sand, stars overhead, dry heat wrapping everything in a shimmer. The crowd was a living thing: twenty thousand people pressed up the slope, fists and lighters and hairspray catching the stage lights. It smelled like beer, dust, perfume, and adrenaline.
Battle Cry were closing with "Generation of Destiny."
Connor was front and center, one boot on a monitor, hair flying, violin and bow working through the Celtic riff. Nathan was at the keys, mic angled perfectly, running the crowd like a revival preacher. Ricky and Erik prowled the thrust, trading licks, whipping the front rows into a frenzy.
Back behind them, in her little world of hardware and spare snares, Samantha stood just off Jace's right shoulder. Headset half-on, stick bag clipped to her belt, drum key riding in her back pocket. She could have played half the show blindfolded by now: every hit, every cue, every emergency swap.
Jace was in the zone: head down, shoulders relaxed, laying it down with that effortless, muscular groove that made everything feel tight and dangerous and alive.
The third chorus hit.
Lights dropped to blood-red.
The crowd detonated, screaming the chorus back at them. It rolled up the amphitheater like a battle chant.
Samantha grinned, pulse pounding.
That's when she saw him.
Front row. Dead center. Right at the break in the barricade where security usually hauled people out if they fainted.
He didn't move.
Everyone else down there was a blur of motion: shouting, jumping, shoving. He stood perfectly still. Long dark coat in the heat, black hair, sharp features lit intermittently by strobe and pyro. Hands loose at his sides. Face tilted up toward the stage.
Eyes locked on Jace.
Even from where she stood, something about him felt wrong. The air around him looked normal but wasn't: a little thinner, a little colder, like sound bent differently around his shoulders.
On the next fill, Jace looked up and saw him.
His right hand stuttered.
It was tiny: a ghosted stroke on the hi-hat, a crash that landed a hair late. No one in the stands noticed. Samantha did. So did Connor; his head flicked back, eyes prowling the pit for half a heartbeat before he plastered on another grin and hit the next vocal.
The man in the front row smiled.
Slow. Knowing. Like somebody who'd waited a long time to see this exact moment.
Jace's amulet flared at his chest.
To the crowd, it was just a gleam off the silver setting. To Samantha, it was a pinprick of heat in the air, a pulse of power that crawled over her skin.
Her blood went cold.
It's him.
The Conqueror. The one who'd sent horrors at them and the people of Aelin for years. The shadow they'd fought around, never at.
Aldus.
The last chorus surged. Nathan hit his mark, Connor's harmony line shaved the sky, pyro popped along the edges of the stage. Jace never stopped playing. But he was playing on instinct now, eyes locked on the man in the front row.
They hit the final crash: cymbals exploding in a wall of sound, Connor grinding out a last ugly chord, Nathan throwing both arms high.
"GOOD NIGHT, ALBUQUERQUE!" Connor shouted. "YOU'VE BEEN OUR DESTINY!"
The crowd roared.
Jace stood.
He should have bowed. Tossed sticks. Grinned like hell and soaked it in.
Instead, Jace grabbed the Macalla from the stick bag and stepped off the riser like a man walking into a fight, the Aelinian sticks glowing to life as he came down the steps.
"Jace?" Samantha said into her headset line, patched straight to his in-ears. "What are you doing?"
He didn't answer.
He walked to the very front of the stage, right to the lip, and looked straight down at the man in the front row.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to a line between them.
The fans surging against the barricade might as well not have existed. Erik and Ricky's usual post-show antics faded. Connor half-turned at his mic, breathing hard, expression flickering from elation to unease as he tracked Jace's line of sight.
Nathan's fingers hovered over the keys, letting the final chord hang.
The stranger never looked away from Jace.
Jace raised one of the glowing sticks, slow and deliberate, and pointed it at his chest.
The man smiled wider.
He lifted his hand, palm up, fingers curling in as if beckoning.
Show me, the gesture said.
Above them, the desert sky had been clear and star-bright all night.
Clouds formed out of nowhere.
At first it was just a strange shadow, a darker band across the stars. Then Samantha felt it: a pressure behind her eyes, the metallic tang of ozone at the back of her tongue. A wind kicked across the amphitheater, hot and sharp, snapping banners and loose fabric.
Paper cups skittered across the concrete.
Some fans whooped.
Others felt it, something more, though they couldn't have named it.
"Hell yeah, special effects!" someone yelled near the front.
"No, dude, that's real!" another called back.
Lightning forked across the sky.
It didn't hit anything, Jace wasn't insane, but it carved a jagged line overhead, so close the truss rattled. Thunder rolled a beat later, low and heavy. The whole amphitheater seemed to flinch. Some fans were already moving toward the exits. A few near the front had backed away from the man in the dark coat, sensing the wrongness coming off him. One pointed at him directly.
"The Conqueror is here! Aldus the Conqueror is here! Go now, everyone! GO NOW!!"
Some fans listened. Others stood frozen: curiosity, confusion, shock rooting them in place.
"Jace," Samantha hissed into the mic. "You're freaking people out."
Connor snapped back into gear, turning to the mic.
"Looks like the weather says we're outta time, folks, you've been incredible, get to your cars and get home safe!"
Another lightning bolt slashed across the clouds, closer.
The cheer in the crowd broke. Excitement tipped toward panic. People started shoving toward the aisles, half laughing, half not.
Down front, Aldus was still smiling. Cold. Calculating. Daring Jace to act, to embrace the chaos completely and lose control.
Samantha could feel it now: two forces pressing against each other in the open air. Jace's raw storm-calling humming over their heads. Aldus's presence pushing back, cold and sharp, like a hand pressed to the back of her neck.
"Jace." She kept her voice low. "Not here. Don't drop anything on twenty thousand people."
His jaw clenched.
He took one more step until his boots were at the lip of the stage, raised one stick at Aldus, and said, "Buailfimid le chéile arís, a Aldus. An bhfuil tú tagtha chun an Bráithreachas a thástáil arís?" (We meet again, Aldus. Have you come to test The Brotherhood again?)
Aldus regarded him with contempt, offering only a thin smile as he answered, "Tháinig mé chun mo chuid fiacla a nochtadh ort, a Chaomhnóir, agus chun a chruthú nach bhfuil tú chomh láidir agus a chreideann tú atá tú. Is páistí iad an Bráithreachas atá i mbun cogaidh leo féin níos mó ná liomsa." (I've come to bare my teeth at you, Guardian, and to prove you are not as strong as you believe you are. The Brotherhood are children at war with themselves more than with me.)
Jace's eyes lit in tandem with the amulet, a sight seen by nearly everyone watching the confrontation from the crowd. There was no time to waste and Jace knew it. He raised his head and looked out at the audience.
No one knew how, but Jace's voice carried out to them with authority, and when he spoke, he didn't use English.
"Tá an Conqueror tagtha! Caithfidh sibh go léir imeacht anois!" (The Conqueror has arrived. You must all leave now.)
Samantha felt the Aelinian go through her like a chord struck on a wire inside her bones. The fans understood, not with their minds but with something deeper, and began moving quickly and carefully, as though they'd always known the command.
For the first time, Aldus's eyes narrowed. He nodded at Jace, his gaze cold.
"Dúirt mé leat, a Chaomhnóir," Aldus called up to him. "Ba é d'Físeach eochair an dorais chuig do bhua. Ní féidir leat rith ar shiúl. Gheobhaidh mé thú i gcónaí."
(I told you, Guardian. Your Visionary was the key to opening the door to your defeat. You cannot run away. I will always find you.)
Then he was gone. No smoke, no swirl. One heartbeat there; the next, the space he'd occupied was filled with confused fans looking around uneasily.
Jace sucked in a sharp breath.
Connor lunged over, grabbing his arm, keeping his voice low but urgent.
"He's gone now. But he's found us. You said it. We move."
Jace spun toward the rest of the band, snapped into Aelinian, words firing like commands over the in-ear system:
"That wasn't a test. Leave the big gear. Take only what we can't replace. We're gone in two minutes."
"On it," Connor said immediately, yanking his guitar strap over his head and thrusting the instrument into a tech's hands.
"Fleeces and racks can die," Ricky muttered. "I'm leaving the cabs."
Samantha grabbed her stick bag and the small hard case with Jace's custom snare. Everything else could burn.
"Back gate," Sidney's voice snapped over the comm. Nobody had seen him step onstage, but there he was at the wing.
"Bus leaves in under two. Anyone not on it, you can't protect."
Lightning rumbled overhead again as they ran.
* * *
They hit the wings at a dead sprint.
Cables, crates, half-rolled backdrops: Samantha hurdled over and around all of it. Crew scattered and converged, some because they felt the wrongness in the air, others just reacting to the look on Sidney's face.
"Leave the stands!" she shouted at a tech reaching for hardware. "Mics and packs only!"
Dave's voice boomed over the backstage PA.
"Y'ALL GOT NINETY SECONDS OR I'M LEAVIN' YOUR ASSES HERE!" he bellowed. "BUS IS ROLLIN' WHETHER YOU'RE ON IT OR NOT!"
"Love that guy," Erik panted as they tore down the corridor.
The loading gate loomed ahead, neon EXIT sign buzzing faintly over the roll-up door. The night air beyond was already wrong: less hot than it should have been, wind whipping grit across the concrete.
They exploded out into the parking area.
The bus sat by the exit lane, engine idling in a low growl, headlights blazing. White-and-blue, a little battered, utterly beautiful.
Dave leaned out the driver's window, cap backward, eyes wild.
"MOVE, YOU BEAUTIFUL IDIOTS!" he yelled. "THIS AIN'T A SOUVENIR STOP!"
They piled on.
Samantha stumbled up the steps, dragging her case. Jace's hand braced at her back, steadying her into the aisle. Connor, Nathan, Ricky, Erik, and Sidney last, always last, turning to scan the loading lot one final time before he slammed the door.
"GO," Sidney snapped.
"DON'T HAVE TO TELL ME TWICE!" Dave jammed the bus into gear.
The old rig leapt forward like it had something to prove.
The amphitheater dropped away behind them, lights flickering in the storm Jace had dragged over it. Inside the bus, nobody took their usual road positions. No one joked, no one cracked beers. They all stayed half-standing, gripping seatbacks, breathing hard.
"What're the odds he just… lets us leave?" Ricky asked, voice flat.
"Zero," Connor and Nathan said in unison.
"I appreciate an honest workplace," Dave muttered, spinning the wheel onto the on-ramp. "Everybody hold onto somethin' that's bolted down."
For a minute, it almost felt like a normal rollout. Sodium lamps swept past. The bus's engine settled into a heavy, determined rumble.
Then the world went wrong again.
Samantha felt it first as a pressure behind her eyes, like an oncoming storm front. Connor flinched, hand flying to his temple.
"Overpass ahead," he gasped. "Left. Three... no, four... things waiting. And something bigger behind them."
"Duck," Dave snapped. "HANG ON!"
A bolt of sickly black and violet light scythed down from the overpass, exactly where the bus's windshield had been half a second earlier.
Instead it sheared through a lamppost. The top half exploded in sparks and twisted metal.
"THAT'S A NICE WELCOME," Erik yelled, clinging to a headrest.
"That wasn't a welcome, that was a warning shot," Jace said through his teeth. He lurched down the aisle and slammed his palms against the sidewall.
A thin shimmer bloomed along the driver's side. To human eyes it was barely there; to Samantha, it felt like the air had thickened, a bubble tightening around them.
Another bolt smashed into it a moment later.
The impact scraped along the barrier with an awful shrieking vibration and bounced off into the median, exploding in a burst of dirt and fire.
"YOU MISSED, YOU FANCY GOTH FLAMETHROWER!" Dave screamed out the cracked window. "YOU'VE GOT THE AIM OF A DRUNK POSSUM!"
"Maybe don't taunt the dark sorcerer," Erik suggested.
"HE STARTED IT!"
The bus hit a rough patch and bucked. Everyone grabbed whatever they could reach.
Rain started.
Huge, fat drops smacked the windshield, dotting the asphalt. Wipers squealed to life.
"We're in the desert," Dave snapped. "Who the hell ordered rain?"
"I did," Jace said, hauling himself over to brace one hand on the overhead rail. He closed his eyes and reached up, past the metal roof, into the churning underside of the storm he'd called.
The thin drizzle became a sheet.
Visibility dropped. Headlights smeared into ghostly streaks. Shadows moved along the shoulder: minions, lean and too fast, sprinting alongside the roadway, some with warped weapons balanced on their shoulders.
"Right shoulder, low... three, maybe five," Connor barked, eyes distant, hand pressed to his temple.
"Got them," Jace murmured.
Lightning slammed down between the bus and the shoulder in a controlled strike. The thunderclap punched through Samantha's chest. Minions tumbled and scattered.
The bus hit the wet patch and fishtailed.
"WHOOOAAA, EASY GIRL!" Dave wrestled the wheel. The back end swung, threatened to slip; he coaxed it back, knuckles white.
"I KNOW YOU HATE RAIN, BUT THIS IS WHAT WE GOT!"
A telekinetic shove clipped the rear bumper. The bus jerked forward.
"Rear!" Sidney barked.
Nathan staggered to the back, slapped his hand to the rear wall, and conjured a crimson barrier that stretched along the back half of the bus. The next blow slammed into it and shuddered along the frame, but held.
"How long?" Ricky shouted.
"As long as I must," Nathan gritted. "Or until my brain leaks out my nose."
"Tell him not to do that on my upholstery," Dave said. "I just had her cleaned."
Hit after hit, mile after mile, they clawed their way toward the outskirts.
Connor called out threats before they fully formed. Jace turned stretches of highway into sudden maelstroms of rain and thunder, making it hell for anything trying to get close. Nathan and Jace constantly patched the bus with shields, sweating harder with every impact. Sidney stood braced behind Dave, silver cross clutched in one fist, the handset to the plane's operative pressed to his ear with the other.
At last, runway lights glimmered ahead.
"Strip in sight," Sidney panted. "Tower contact says the jet is fueled, engines spinning. They'll take us the second we're on board."
"I TOLD YOU I'D GET YOU THERE," Dave yelled, more to himself than anyone.
The bus roared through an already-opening gate, tires squealing. A lone security guard flattened himself against a fence as the bus blasted past.
The jet waited at the far end of the tarmac, engines whining, door open, stairs in place.
Dave stood on the brakes.
The bus shuddered to a halt. Everyone lurched.
"MOVE!" he yelled, flipping on the interior lights. "THIS IS NOT A DRILL, THIS IS A 'GET YOUR ASSES OFF MY BUS' SITUATION!"
Sidney spun to face the aisle.
"Only what you can't live without," he ordered. "Humans first."
They surged toward the door.
Samantha grabbed her stick bag and the hard case with Jace's crucial drum parts. Jace reached for a second case; she swatted his hand.
"Trust me," she said. "We've got the parts of you we can't replace."
He nodded once, jaw tight.
They barreled down the steps.
The tarmac was a wash of jet blast, heat, and the sharp tang of fuel. Floodlights lit the scene in harsh white pools. The night beyond was just black and suggestion.
Halfway to the plane, Samantha glanced back.
Dave was still in the driver's seat.
"DAVE!" Ricky shouted, twisting around. "COME ON!"
Dave leaned out the window, cap pushed back, face lit in the bus's interior glow.
"I AIN'T DONE YET!" he roared. "YOU GET ON THAT PLANE!"
"Dave, you have to come with us," Sidney shouted, voice cracking for the first time. "He'll be here. It's not safe."
"IT AIN'T SAFE ANYWHERE," Dave shot back. "BUT OUT HERE, I GOT A GAS PEDAL. GET UP THOSE STAIRS!"
Ricky took a step toward the bus. Nathan grabbed his arm, eyes wet.
"Let him do his job," Nathan said. "You know how he is. You know what this means to him."
"ATTENTION ALL PASSENGERS OF FLIGHT 'SCREW-THE-CONQUEROR,'" Dave's voice boomed from outside.
The bus's external PA had crackled to life.
"This is DAVE GIPSEN, your one and only REDNECK AIR DEFENSE SYSTEM!" his voice thundered from the mounted speakers, echoing across the strip. "I GOT YOUR RUNWAY, YOU HEAR ME?"
Samantha stumbled mid-stride.
"Sam-girl!" Dave yelled, singling her out like they were back in some parking lot between shows. "YOU GET YOUR DRUM BOY ON THAT BIRD AND KEEP 'IM HITTIN' ON THE ONE AND THREE! YOU ALL MAKE THIS WORTH IT, Y'HEAR?"
Tears blurred her vision.
"Dave, please!" she shouted, throat raw. "Don't..."
He grinned at her, wild and bright.
"HEY, I WAS BORN TO DRIVE INTO STUPID SITUATIONS," he yelled. "THIS ONE JUST HAPPENS TO COUNT!"
The jet crew were waving frantically, shouting that they had to board.
Sidney's face closed down, grief and fury shoved behind command.
"On the plane," he said, hoarse but firm. "Now. That's an order."
They went.
Up the stairs, into the narrow cabin, breath burning, legs shaking. Belts clicked as they dropped into seats almost at random.
Through the oval window, Samantha saw Dave slam the bus door and yank it into gear.
The jet began to roll.
For a few seconds, bus and plane moved side by side.
Then Samantha saw what Dave had seen.
Shapes on the runway ahead: low, wrong silhouettes, too many legs bending the wrong way. Aldus's creations, spilling onto the tarmac from the shadows at the far end. Beyond them, a shimmer in the air. A ripple of power.
He was here.
"Everybody strap in and stay there," Captain Morales said over the cabin speakers. "We've got movement on the runway. We are committed to this takeoff. Do NOT unbuckle. We are getting you in the air."
On the tarmac, Dave hit the PA again.
"Y'ALL IN THAT FLYIN' TUNA CAN LISTEN UP!" his voice boomed, faint but clear even through the glass. "THIS RUNWAY'S UNDER DAVE GIPSEN PROTECTION TONIGHT!"
The bus surged ahead of the jet.
"AIN'T NO UGLY SONSABITCHES TOUCHIN' MY BAND ON MY WATCH!" he howled. "YOU WANT 'EM, YOU COME THROUGH ME!"
The bus's engine screamed as he floored it, barreling straight toward the minions.
Samantha's fingers dug into the armrest.
"Dave," she whispered. "No…"
The bus plowed into the first rank of creatures, flinging them aside. Something darker flickered ahead.
The air at the center of the runway tore open.
Aldus stepped out of nothing into the high beams.
Long coat flaring, power gathering around him like a cloak. He lifted one hand, palm glowing with wrong-bright light.
The world beyond the windows went white-gold.
The jet lurched sideways, slammed down again, tires squealing, overhead bins rattling. The engines jumped into a tortured howl. Samantha's scream shredded out of her as the belt bit into her ribs.
"DAVE!" Samantha screamed.
Connor's scream hit at the same time.
It wasn't a scream of fear. It was higher, rawer: something tearing out of his chest. He arched in his seat, hands flying to his sternum, eyes going wide and glassy.
"CONNOR!" Nathan shouted, grabbing his shoulder as the plane roared down the runway. "Brother, breathe..."
Connor's scream cut off like someone had flipped a switch.
He folded forward over his hands, still fisted in his shirt, breath coming in ragged, ripped puffs.
"Everybody stay strapped," Morales said over the PA, voice strained but controlled. "We've taken a shockwave, but the engines are responding. We are committed to this takeoff. WE ARE NOT ABORTING. Do not unbuckle."
The nose lifted.
The runway dropped away.
"Come on, baby," the co-pilot muttered, forgetting to switch off the intercom. "Hold together, hold together…"
The plane wobbled, then clawed its way higher, engines howling.
Samantha twisted in her seat, Jace's arms locking around her waist to keep her from pitching forward. She pressed her face to the glass.
There was no bus.
Just a smear of fire and twisted metal on the runway, already shrinking.
Her heart cracked.
"No," she whispered. "No. No. DAVE!"
Across the aisle, Ricky shoved out of his seatbelt and half-stood, straining toward the window.
"DAVE!" he choked. "DAVE, C'MON, MAN..."
Erik grabbed him and pulled him back down, wrapping both arms around him as Ricky fought for half a second and then collapsed, sobbing.
Samantha barely heard them. Her gaze snapped to Connor.
He sat hunched, hands still pressed over his chest, shoulders shaking.
"Connor?" she whispered.
He dragged in a breath that sounded like broken glass.
"He's gone," Connor rasped.
Not hurt. Not hit. Gone.
Nathan's hand stayed clamped on his shoulder.
"You saw...?"
"I didn't see," Connor cut in, voice shredded. "I felt him."
He squeezed his eyes shut, tears spilling over.
"It was like… like this big, ridiculous, loud presence in my head just..." he snapped his fingers weakly "...got torched. Not fading, not slipping away. Just incinerated."
His fists dug into his sternum.
"It hurt," he whispered. "In my mind, in my spirit. Like somebody set fire to part of me."
Nathan's thumb moved in slow circles at the base of Connor's neck.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice breaking.
"I never want to feel that again," Connor said.
They all knew he would.
The blast's echo slowly bled out of the air. The fire on the runway shrank into a distant glimmer and vanished.
The plane climbed.
* * *
Time on the jet stopped meaning much.
Samantha cried until her throat gave out. After that, tears came and went on their own, like her body hadn't got the message that the sobbing was done.
Jace held her through all of it. One arm clamped around her, the other hand occasionally moving in slow circles on her back. Through the bond she felt the storm still raging in him: grief, rage, guilt, all kept clamped down so hard it made her own chest ache.
Across the aisle, Ricky sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands dangling. Every so often he lifted them to scrub hard at his face, as though he could wipe the last ten minutes out of existence. Erik sat pressed right up against him, shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing.
Connor sat bolt upright now, hands clasped so tightly in his lap his knuckles had gone white. Nathan hadn't moved his arm from along the back of Connor's seat, fingers lightly anchored at his neck.
Up front, Sidney sat by the half-open cockpit door, eyes on the dark beyond the forward windows. His jacket lay over the empty seat beside him: the seat that had become Dave's simply by being left empty. His hand wrapped around the small silver cross at his throat, thumb rubbing over the five stones set in it. His lips moved silently in prayers older than this plane.
The intercom crackled.
"Folks," Morales said, voice calmer but still taut, "we're at cruising altitude. We've run a full systems check. The airframe took a hell of a shock, but she's sound. No structural compromise detected. We're routing wide to stay well away from Albuquerque airspace and… anything that might be looking for you."
He paused, then added more softly, "My co-pilot is in contact with our man in the Albuquerque tower. He's already passed word to Mr. Geoffrey Oksana. Mr. Oksana has acknowledged and is waiting for further updates."
From the back, Ricky's voice came out small and rough.
"Can you… can you ask them to have Leilani there?" He cleared his throat. "His daughter. Leilani Oksana. Please."
The co-pilot's voice came on.
"Tower says message received, Sentinel. Mr. Oksana and Ms. Leilani will be at the strip when we land."
Ricky's shoulders shook once, hard. He nodded even though they couldn't see him.
Hours stretched.
Samantha tried to wash her face in the tiny lav; the reflection had red eyes, a streak of eyeliner nearly down to her jaw, and a haunted look she didn't recognize.
When she came back, Jace pulled her down beside him again, tucking her under his arm.
At some point, the cabin lights dimmed, then brightened again.
"Lady and gentlemen," Morales said, "we're about forty minutes out from the Oksana Plantation strip. We'll be descending soon. It's a short field and this old girl's had a rough night, so the landing may be bumpy, but we are green across the board. Seat backs up, belts on."
They obeyed.
Outside the window, black slowly gave way to a faint line of horizon. The first hint of gray crept into the sky. Far below, the ocean glimmered under thin moonlight: dark, endless, flecked with silver.
Then the island appeared as a shadow, low and long, ringed with faint white where waves hit the shore.
As they descended, more details emerged: a short strip of asphalt, runway lights like a string of beads in the pre-dawn, the darker mass of trees beyond. Off in the distance, a cluster of warm yellow lights, the plantation house and its outbuildings.
"Final approach," the co-pilot announced. "Winds are a little frisky, but we've handled worse. Hang tight."
The plane dropped through a layer of rough air. The landing was every bit as ugly as promised: tires slamming down, a bounce, then a slam again, brakes howling, the runway racing past too fast and then slowing too hard.
But they stayed on it.
The engines wound down to a taxi hum. The island lights swam closer.
"Welcome to Oksana Plantation," Morales said. "Local time is 4:47 a.m. We have visual confirmation of Mr. Oksana and his people on the tarmac. It's been an honor flying you. We're… so sorry for your loss."
The seatbelt sign pinged off.
No one moved for a heartbeat.
Then Ricky was on his feet.
He nearly ripped the belt latch open, stumbling into the aisle.
"Ricky..." Sidney began.
Jace's voice cut in quietly.
"Let him."
Ricky pushed forward, ignoring everything but the open door ahead as the cabin crew cracked it and the external stairs clanged into place.
Samantha rose more slowly, legs trembling. Jace stayed close behind her, palm at the small of her back. Erik fell in on their other side. Connor and Nathan brought up the rear.
Humid air hit like a curtain at the top of the stairs: warm, thick, smelling of salt, damp earth, and something green.
Floodlights washed the tarmac. At the base of the stairs stood a small group.
A tall man in a pale shirt and dark slacks, silver threading his hair, posture straight and steady.
Beside him, a young woman in a bright flowered sundress, dark hair braided over one shoulder, hands clenched together at her chest.
Behind them, a few figures with the alert, deliberate stance of trained security.
Ricky barely saw any of it.
He hit the last step and almost missed it.
The young woman moved first.
She broke from Geoffrey's side at a run, her sandals slapping the concrete, dress flaring.
"Ricky!" she called, voice cracking.
He didn't make it three full strides toward her. His knees gave. She caught him as he fell into her, arms wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him in.
He clung to her like a lifeline, hands twisting in the back of her dress.
The sobs hit then: violent, ugly, torn straight from his chest.
"He... he was..." Ricky gasped against her neck. "He was on the damn P.A., Lani, he... he said..."
"I know," Leilani whispered, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other firm between his shoulder blades. Her own tears slipped free, tracking down her cheeks.
"We heard. Papa played the message from the tower three times. We heard every word."
"He... he's gone," Ricky choked.
"I know," she said. "I'm here, Ricky. I've got you, honey."
Geoffrey watched them for a heartbeat, jaw tight, eyes bright. Then he looked up the stairs.
Sidney stepped out into the floodlights.
"Sidney," Geoffrey said, voice low and thick. "You stubborn old bastard."
Sidney's mouth tugged up in something that wasn't quite a smile.
"You were prettier the last time I saw you," he managed.
"You were drunk the last time you saw me," Geoffrey answered, and then the banter dropped away.
He stepped forward and pulled Sidney into a hard, unembarrassed hug.
Sidney went rigid, old habits, old armor. Then his shoulders dropped a fraction and he returned it, one hand gripping the back of Geoffrey's shirt.
"We got the call from Albuquerque," Geoffrey murmured. "About David. I am so sorry, brother."
Sidney's breath trembled once. His fingers brushed his cross, then clenched.
"He bought us thirty seconds. It was enough. It shouldn't have had to be."
"We'll honor him properly," Geoffrey said. "I swear it."
Nathan and Erik came down next, Connor just behind them.
Geoffrey released Sidney and turned to Nathan.
"Nathan," he said simply, arms opening.
Nathan stepped into the embrace. Geoffrey held on, then looked him square in the face.
"You got them into the air," Geoffrey said. "You did what you had to."
"Not all of us," Nathan murmured.
Geoffrey didn't bother with platitudes. He just nodded, squeezed his shoulder, and pulled Erik in as well.
Erik collapsed into the hug harder than he meant to. Geoffrey braced, taking the weight without comment.
Connor hovered half a step back. Geoffrey reached out, curled his hand gently around the back of Connor's neck, and brought their foreheads together in the old Aelinian gesture.
"You felt him go," Geoffrey said softly.
Connor swallowed.
"Like being burned from the inside," he whispered. "I don't ever want to feel that again."
"I know," Geoffrey answered. "But you will. That's the burden of your gift. You must remember: you won't face it alone."
He gave Connor's neck a final squeeze and let him go.
By then, Samantha and Jace were at the bottom of the stairs.
Samantha felt like she was made of glass. Every step felt precarious, like the wrong jolt would shatter her. Jace hovered close, hand at her back, his own face drawn and pale, eyes rimmed red.
Geoffrey turned to her, expression softening.
"You must be Samantha Wallace," he said. "I'm Geoffrey Oksana. I wish we were meeting for the first time under happier circumstances."
She fumbled his offered hand, fingers cold and clumsy.
"I... I'm sorry," she blurted. "About your island, about Dave, about... about all of it. If we hadn't... if I'd..."
"No," Geoffrey said firmly, closing his other hand over hers. "No 'if I had.' That man made a choice. A good one. You honor him by living with it, not by strangling yourself with it."
Her eyes filled again.
Before she could drown in apology, Leilani glanced up from where Ricky still clung to her and met Samantha's gaze.
Recognition passed between them, deeper than just the hide-and-seek game on Aelin. Samantha felt it like a faint echo of the hum she sometimes felt on the island: this one is ours.
Leilani shifted, keeping one arm firmly around Ricky, but extending her free hand toward Samantha.
"Hi," she said. "I'm Leilani. You remember me? You're Samantha, yeah?"
Samantha nodded, throat too tight to trust speech.
Leilani didn't wait. She stepped in and wrapped Samantha in as much of a hug as she could manage with one arm, pulling her against her side. Coconut and salt and something floral wrapped around Samantha like the memory of a place she'd never been.
For a second, Samantha went rigid.
Then the dam broke again.
She sobbed into Leilani's shoulder, fingers clutching at the back of her sundress.
"I'm sorry," she choked. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't... I couldn't..."
"Hush," Leilani murmured, cradling the back of her head. "You showed up. You ran. He chose. You're allowed to hurt without turning it into punishment."
"You… knew him?" Samantha managed.
Leilani nodded, tears spilling over.
"Once. Papa took me to a show in Honolulu. He snuck me onto the bus and introduced me as 'the future boss of all this damn sugar cane.' Dave spent half an hour telling me the best pie within fifty miles of every interstate from here to Florida." Her mouth curved. "He tried to feed me three desserts in one night. Told me I was too skinny."
A wet laugh burst out of Samantha, hiccuping and raw.
"That sounds exactly like him."
"He loved you all," Leilani said. "That was all over him. He died like he lived: loud, stubborn, and on the job. Don't you dare take that away from him by making his choice your failure."
Samantha sagged against her, then back into Jace as his arm curled around her again. She held onto Leilani's hand like a tether.
Around them, the rest of the group moved toward the vehicles parked just beyond the floodlights: a pair of Jeeps and a battered station wagon. Plantation staff moved quietly, grabbing luggage, murmuring condolences, not staring.
Ricky stayed glued to Leilani's other side, his hand brushing her back every few steps, making sure she stayed real.
Sidney walked with Geoffrey, heads tilted together in low conversation. Nathan and Connor fell in behind, Erik close to Samantha's other shoulder.
The humid air wrapped them, thick with the chorus of early morning insects and the distant sound of waves hitting shore. Palm trees leaned over the narrow road beyond the strip, shadows against the lightening sky.
"Come," Geoffrey said. "We've rooms made ready. Bathrooms, food, beds. You'll rest. You'll mourn. Then we talk about what comes next."
As Samantha climbed into the Jeep between Jace and Leilani, she glanced back once toward the faint line of the horizon where the night sky met the unseen ocean.
Somewhere back there, far behind that line, lay a runway in Albuquerque and a smear of burnt metal that had once been a bus. And the last echo of a voice booming through a cheap PA:
THIS RUNWAY'S UNDER DAVE GIPSEN PROTECTION, YOU HEAR ME? Y'ALL MAKE THIS WORTH IT!
"I promise," she whispered.
Jace's hand squeezed hers. Leilani's fingers tightened too.
"For Dave," Ricky said hoarsely behind her.
"For Dave," Samantha murmured.
The Jeep rolled forward, carrying them up the narrow plantation road into the dark embrace of palms and the waiting light of the house.
They had made it.
They were not all there.
But they had Dave's sacrifice burned into their bones, Connor's scream etched into their memory, and Geoffrey and Leilani's arms open on the far side of hell.
And someday, no matter how far down the road it lay, that would all come back around to Aldus.