Chapter 9 #4
"Not anymore," I whisper to my reflection. The man in the mirror looks hollow. Haunted. Like he's trying to convince himself of a lie he knows won't hold. But the words sound hollow, too. Empty promises made to an empty room.
I pull my shirt back on, grab my cut, and head for my room. Exhaustion drags at my bones, but I know sleep won't come easily. It never does when the ghosts start circling.
I don't mean to fall asleep. I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute. Rest them. Let the adrenaline drain out of my system. But exhaustion is a predator, and I'm wounded prey. Sleep drags me under like drowning. And when I dream, I'm back there.
The desert is on fire. Not literal fire, though there's that too, licking up the sides of the old Hellhound clubhouse, turning wood and metal into ash and memory. But everything is burning.
I'm standing in the middle of it, and I'm wearing my old cut. The one with the wolf skull on the back. Black leather. Red stitching. The weight of it is familiar and wrong at the same time. It’s the one I burned six years ago.
But here it is, solid and real, and when I try to take it off, my hands won't work. They're frozen. Locked.
Creed walks out of the flames. Not burned. Not even singed. He looks exactly like he did eight years ago. Scarred face, bright eyes, that grin that made you feel like you were in on the joke even when the joke was you.
"Knew you'd come back," he says. His voice is warm, almost affectionate. Like greeting an old friend who's been gone too long.
"I'm not here," I say. "This isn't real."
"Yeah, you are." He steps closer, boots crunching on sand that's turning to glass from the heat. "You've always been here. You just pretended you weren't. Played dress-up in someone else's colors. But underneath?" He taps his chest, right where the patch would be. "Still a Hound. Always will be."
I try to move, but my boots are stuck. The asphalt beneath me has melted, trapping me in place like I'm sinking into tar.
"That's not true," I say, but my voice sounds wrong. Young, like I’m seventeen again.
Creed reaches out, and I flinch. But he doesn't hit me. Just touches the phoenix tattoo on my shoulder, gentle as a lover. His finger burns through fabric, through ink, through skin, straight to the skull underneath.
"You can cover it," he murmurs, almost tender. "You can paint over it, tell yourself pretty stories about redemption and new beginnings. But it's still there. Still ours. You're still marked. Still bound."
The fire roars higher, closer. I can feel it on my face, in my lungs, turning air to ash.
Figures move through the flames. Shapes I recognize. Capone. Blayze. Trigger. Torch. Dagger. All the brothers.
And Syvannah. They're screaming, but I can't hear them. The fire swallows sound. Swallows everything.
"They're gonna burn," Creed says conversationally, like he's commenting on the weather. "Because you didn't tell them. Because you thought you could run from what you are. Thought you could protect them by lying."
"I'm protecting them by not telling them," I argue. "If they know, they'll."
"They'll what? Prepare? Fight back? Or are you just afraid they'll look at you differently once they know the truth?
" Creed leans in close, breath hot against my ear.
"You're not protecting them, Tiny. You're protecting yourself.
And when Lattimer's done with them, when the fire's burned through everything you love, you'll have no one left but us. "
"I'm not a Hound anymore."
"Once a Hound, always a Hound." His voice drops to a whisper. "You can't outrun blood. Can't outrun family. And we're your family. The first one. The real one. The one you chose."
Syvannah is the last to burn. She looks at me through the fire, and there’s no fear in her eyes. Just disappointment.
You were supposed to protect us, she doesn't say. But you were too busy protecting yourself. Then she's gone, and I'm alone in the flames with Creed and the ghost of who I used to be.
"Welcome home," Creed says, and smiles.
I wake up choking on air that isn't filled with smoke. Bolting upright, my heart hammering. Chest heaving like I just ran ten miles. Sweat soaks through my shirt, cold and clammy against overheated skin.
It's three a.m. The compound is silent except for the distant hum of Red's equipment and the creak of someone's boots on the porch outside. Probably Trigger, pulling late watch.
I sit up fully, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. Pressure. Pain. Anything to ground me in the real.
The scar on my palm throbs in time with my heartbeat. Marked and bound.
Across the room, Peanut lifts her head from where she's curled on the chair. She chirps once, questioning, concerned. Her yellow eyes catch the moonlight through the window, glowing like embers.
"I'm good, princess," I whisper. My voice cracks on the words.
She studies me for a long moment, then stands, stretches, and pads across the room. Jumps onto the bed and curls against my leg, purring. The vibration is steady. Rhythmic. Real. For a second, it helps, but I'm not good.
Creed's right, in the dream and in waking life.
I can run. I can lie. I can cover every visible scar, paint over every mark, tell myself I'm a different man in different colors.
But the past doesn't stay buried when you build your new life on its grave.
It seeps through. Bleeds up. Poisons the foundation, and sooner or later, the dead rise.
When they do, everyone I love will burn.
I stare at the ceiling, at the cracks that look like roads or scars or both, and make a promise I'm not sure I can keep.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell Capone. Bring it to Church. Stop protecting myself and start protecting them.
Even as I think it, I know it's another lie. Tomorrow always becomes next week, next month, or after this crisis, when the timing's better. By the time I finally find the courage to speak, it'll be too late. The fire will already be burning, and all I'll be able to do is watch.
Peanut's purr vibrates against my leg. Steady. Innocent. Trusting. I stroke her head and whisper into the dark, "I'm sorry."
For the lies I've told. For the lies I'm going to keep telling. For the moment when those lies catch fire and burn everything I love to ash.
Marked and bound, the ghost of Creed whispers. Forever.
"Forever," I whisper, and this time it doesn’t feel like a dream.