Page 44 of Tiny's Testament
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.
10
TINY
“Church in ten.”
Capone's voice still echoes off the hallway walls as I enter the common room. The air smells like smoke, sweat, and steel. The usual before bad news.
Blayze leans against the wall near the window, arms crossed, quiet but watchful. Torch and Trigger file in behind me, road weary and silent. Bones drums restless fingers on the table, the sound sharp as a ticking clock. Dagger drops into the seat beside me, rolling his shoulders like he’s still shaking off the ride.
Derange and Aftermath share the far end of the table, trading looks that say they’ve already guessed what’s coming. Red’s laptop throws a ghost-blue glow across his tired face.
