He’s shaken but shrugs in an attempt to hide it. “Sorry.”

  As he backs away, I hear Phoebe shout, “Orion, you idiot! That guy just killed someone! I’ve called the cops! Stop acting white and get your ass away from his car!”

  At least one of them has some sense. I put the car in reverse and notice a dark silhouette in the alley. It looks so clear in my periphery, but as soon as I turn to see it straight on, it vanishes. I look back at the steering wheel, shake my head, and drive away.

  * * *

  There are four leads I’ve been sent to investigate—four families connected to someone who knows of the chains and what they can do. Bachman, Leon, Helton, and Scott. Leon and Scott are good candidates, but the Bachman’s are even better. They’re likely listed because of my father’s involvement with them. I assume Orion took his mother’s name at our father’s insistence, but there’s no hiding from the House.

  The Heltons, on the other hand, are a relatively harmless middle-class family with no criminal records. There’s every chance the House of David never found the chains because they only looked in the obvious places. I hope that’s the case.

  My 2:00 p.m. drive through the Heltons’ neighborhood is painfully uneventful. It’s a suburb of mostly identical houses—black roofs, red bricks, and mailboxes close to the curb. The Heltons’ house is number 432. I’ve decided to begin my search with them, not because they’re the most likely candidates, but because the most likely candidates are the Bachmans, and I really, really want to be wrong about them.

  I park a couple of blocks away and walk down the road past pollen-covered vehicles and perfectly cut lawns. It’s a beautiful day. The sky is clear, the air fresh. When I arrive at the Heltons’ place, I ring their doorbell. A few moments later, a female voice from behind the door asks, “Who is it?”

  Ready, set, lie. “My name is Micah Smith. I’m with the Department of Public Works. I’m here to ask if you’ve seen any changes in your water. There’ve been reports that sewage is leaking into the public supply.” The door opens, and Mr. and Mrs. Helton look exactly like their file photos. He’s a fifty-year-old man with a short salt-and-pepper beard. She has a bright smile and eyebrows so blonde you can barely see them. They have a seventeen-year-old son named Kyle, but I don’t see him around.

  “That’s very concerning,” Mr. Helton says.

  “Yessir! I’m going door-to-door to ask questions and check water quality.”

  “Of course,” Mrs. Helton says with a warm smile. “We’ll do whatever we can to help you fix this mess. Come in.” She steps aside to let me in.

  “There’s no need for me to come in just yet, ma’am. But could you answer a few questions?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Helton says.

  “How long have you lived in Mobile, and when did you first move to this neighborhood? Have you seen changes in your water’s color or smell? Do you have any children or relatives here? Have you heard anything from your neighbors about their water?” I know my line of questioning is ridiculous, but I also know social pressure is a powerful tool, and people are more likely to answer than admit confusion.

  Mr. Helton’s eyebrows raise as he exchanges glances with his wife. I’m almost worried he’ll be one of the few who doubts me. But then he answers, “Well, if you must know, I’m from Mobile, born and raised. My wife is from Ringgold, Georgia. I have one son and no relatives in the area. We haven’t had any problems with our water lately and haven’t heard anything from our neighbors either. Why do you want to know about my family?”

  I wave a hand to dismiss his concerns. “Oh, I know some Heltons in the area, so I was just curious if you were related to them. I apologize, sir. It’s none of my business.” Maybe this was a dumb idea. There’s no sign of deception in his answers, but I’ve got to be sure. “Would you mind if I check your backyard and outdoor plumbing first?”

  “Sure,” Mr. Helton says. “The sooner you get this fixed, the better.” He leads me to a six-foot-high wooden fence, lifts the latch on the gate, and yanks it open to reveal his backyard. It’s a typical backyard with one pine tree and a big shed in the corner. “Knock yourself out. When you’re done, just holler at the back door.”

  “Will do,” I say, surveying the area.

  The grass is well-trimmed. I search the yard for ground that looks uneven or disturbed. Anyone who knows what the chains can do would hide them somewhere safe, away from loved ones. Burial seems likely, but nothing on the property seems out of place, and I don’t have a metal detector to search further. Upon further inspection, I find no visible markings or damage on the tree either.

  The only thing left to check is the shed. I turn the doorknob, surprised it’s unlocked. Inside, I pull a white string, and a dusty lightbulb flickers to life. On the left are heavy-duty extension cords, a leaf blower, two rakes, and hedge clippers hanging on a mounted rack. On the right, Christmas lights are stored in rubber bins and labeled in perfect handwriting. If this family were a color, they’d definitely be beige.

  On my way out, I shut the shed door behind me and catch a glimpse of Mrs. Helton cooking in the kitchen window. Mr. Helton appears at the back door with a tentative expression. “Hey, sir, there are two men out front asking for you,” he says.

  “What do they look like?”

  “They’re wearing weird masks and black suits.”

  Seditio. There’s no time to explain. “Go inside and lock the doors. Hide. Now!” Mr. Helton must be used to taking orders because he immediately obeys. I run to the shed, grab the rake, and break it across my knee. I didn’t bring True Winter with me this time. It might’ve blown my cover. Anyway, I don’t need it.

  I approach the gate and open it to find two hulking men waiting for me. The one to my left is wearing an Okame mask with red, smiling lips, slits for eyes, and pulp-red cheeks. The man to my right is wearing a brown wolf mask. I grip the rake handle and prepare for a fight.

  The man with the Okame mask raises both hands. “Hang on! We’re only here to talk. My name is Drone, and my partner here is Fall.”

  My left eye involuntarily twitches as I lower my weapon a little. “Those are some dumbass code names, if you ask me.”

  Drone shrugs. “Whatever you say, Eden. By the way, did you prefer Mr. Eden, or should I just call you Garden Of?” He thinks he’s so clever. “Anyway, you’re looking for the Chains of Peter, right? So are we. We thought we might negotiate a temporary truce.”

  “Why would anyone negotiate a truce with terrorists like you?”

  Fall jerks forward. “You know nothing. You’re just a demon in the field of lost souls.”

  I glare at him. “Looks like you’ve gone and volunteered to die first. How brave.”

  Drone grabs Fall by the shoulder. “Calm yourself, brother. We didn’t come to spill blood.” Then he turns to me. “Our organization is in turmoil, in case you couldn’t tell. Our new leader has appointed Whiteface to an unusually high station. He’s uncontrollable, a complete psychopath.”

  “Noticed, did you?” I sneer.

  “We don’t like the direction Seditio’s moving in,” Drone says.

  “And you want the House of David to save you? Are you hearing yourself?”

  “Not the House of David.” Drone shrugs. “Just you. Take out Whiteface. We’ll give you intelligence on him—all the intelligence you’ll ever need. Kill him, and we can all go back to the way things were.”

  I balance the rake handle on my shoulder. “Why would I want to go back to the way things were? They were bullshit then, and they’re bullshit now. I’ve seen firsthand the sort of behavior your ‘organization’ encourages, and I say the best thing for you people is total collapse. Implode for all I care.”

  “If Seditio implodes, it’ll take the House of David with it.”

  “Then let them both implode. Look, I think you might be mistaking my excellent work ethic for loyalty. I do what I’m paid to do. And right now, I’m paid to kill members of Seditio. I really don’t care how high up the ladder they are. A couple of loose cannons at the bottom of the food chain won’t give me a second thought.”

  Fall thrusts his hand in my face, his forefinger and thumb about an inch from touching each other. “You’re this close to getting your head shot off, demon. Be grateful we didn’t come to kill you or you’d be long dead.”

  “Interesting.” I smirk at them. “A member of your organization did try to shoot me yesterday. He’s dead now. Still want to give it a whirl?”

  That’s the last straw for Fall, who comes at me with a left-hand swing. I duck, catch his arm, and pull it straight down. Then I drive my hand up into his chin with an open palm. He stumbles back. I grab his shirt, yank him in, and strike him in the liver. He collapses to the ground, gasping.

  Drone pulls out a gun. “You House of David bastards are so fucking violent.”

  “No, that’s just me.” I kick Fall hard in the back of the head.

  Drone fires at my chest three times. Hot blood flows from my wounds, but they start to heal immediately. “I thought they were exaggerating when they said you people couldn’t die,” Drone says, panting.

  I step over Fall’s unconscious body and advance on him.

  Drone drops to his knees and clasps his hands together. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. Please!” At first, I suspect he’s putting on a show. Then I see him shaking.

  I tip his mask back. He’s an odd-looking man with two protruding ears and a large, pierced nose. He’s crying like a kid on a playground, his face painted with tears and snot. “Why are you crying?” I ask. “You’re the one who shot me.”

  “I’ve got kids,” he says. “You wouldn’t kill a man with kids, would you?”

  I hold his head between my hands and lean in close. “I wouldn’t kill a man with kids.” He looks relieved for a moment, and then he doesn’t look like anything anymore. “But there’s no man here, is there? Just a pretty red-and-white calla lily.” The neighborhood is so silent I swear the sound of his neck breaking echoes for several seconds as his lifeless body drops to the grass.

  Before I turn to leave, I pause. I should probably kill the other guy too, but the strangest sensation stops me. I feel like Orion is still watching me, and suddenly, I don’t want to kill anyone else today.

  I shout to the Heltons to call the cops. They peek through the side window and answer, “We already did!”

  Sirens blare in the distance as I calmly walk back to my car. Cain is going to kill me. He doesn’t like media coverage. I need to lie low now. No more dead bodies, Eden.

  * * *

  On my way back to my hotel, I spot a little place called Café Joe Cain. I can’t resist a coincidence. Inside, yellow and purple beads hang from green walls, and the smell of king cake floods my nostrils. The barista, a brunette with ombre highlights and multiple piercings on one ear, looks at me like she hasn’t seen anyone come in all day. “Welcome to Café Joe Cain!” Her voice is cheery and her smile big. “Would you like to try our cinnamon mocha?”

  I sigh. “Coffee. Black.”

  “Okay, that’ll be a dollar fifty.”

  I dig in my pocket for some cash and give all of it to the barista. “Keep the change.”

  An abandoned book sits on the counter. On the cover is a picture of a reclining woman who looks just like a classical Greek statue. It’s exactly the sort of book I imagine a student might read, and I mean a real student—someone who studied the arts and literature, not just combat and history. Someone like Orion. The title is familiar, so I pick it up. It’s The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway. What do people get out of reading this sort of thing anyway? “Does this belong to anyone?”

  The barista glances at the book in my hand and shrugs. “I don’t know how long that’s been sitting there. I think someone left it. You can claim it if you want.”

  “Thank you.”

  I make myself comfortable at a table near the door and sip my coffee. Small drops of rain roll down the window, growing fatter and faster as I watch. Soon the sky threatens to storm. I wonder why I feel so calm right now. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in quite some time. I crack open the book and begin to read.

  It’s a kind of bliss, losing track of the world around me and discovering another on the streets of Paris, neatly folded into the pages of a book. Minutes into my reading session, the sound of the downpour gets louder, and I know someone has just entered the café. Phoebe drifts through my line of sight, wearing an oversized blue raincoat. Our eyes meet; she rolls hers. I do my best to ignore her, but if I’ve learned anything about this woman in the short time I’ve known her, it’s that she will not be ignored.

  “Don’t you have any manners?” she says. “You’re not even going to say hello?”

  “Hello,” I groan. She should not be talking to me. Doesn’t she know that? Doesn’t she have any self-preservation instinct?

  She sits across from me and pushes the top of my book down so she can see my face. “Are you always this grumpy?”

  I want to answer, only after I’ve killed a man or two, but somehow, I don’t think it would have the desired effect. So, I try my hand at casual banter. “Is it considered good manners to interrupt a person reading where you come from?”

  She leans back and crosses her arms. “Nope. Not taking the bait.”

  I sigh, close the book, and set it on the table. “What do you want from me?”

  “Well, I usually come here to get coffee, so unless you’re a barista, nothing.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m not interested in”—I gesture back and forth between us—“whatever this is. I just want to sit here and enjoy my book.”

  But she doesn’t move. “What do you want from Orion?”

  “Not a damn thing. How about you?”

  She smiles and looks out the window at the pouring rain. “I’ve known the kid for years. He has lots of friends who aren’t really friends. They use him because he’s smart and his family’s wealthy, but he never suspects a thing. He could go anywhere in the world, but he stays in Mobile to help his mother and grandfather. He’s such an innocent thing for his age.” Her tone is almost wistful.

  I massage my forehead. “What are you getting at?”

  She leans in, placing both forearms on the table. “Yesterday, after he saw what you did, he couldn’t stop talking about it. I’ve never seen him so intrigued. It’s almost like he was curious about what it’s like to kill. So, I’m gonna need you to stay away from him, even if he contacts you—especially if he contacts you. You’re a bad influence, and he’s too impressionable.” She laughs like it’s a joke, but I don’t think she means it that way. “Listen. That kid’s an angel. Keep your grubby paws off him.”

  “I have no intention of putting my ‘grubby paws’ anywhere near him. He’s the one who followed me. Have you even considered the alternative? Maybe the Orion you think you know isn’t who he really is.”

  She rests her chin on her hand. “Yeah, but you think you’d know a guy after screwing him a few times.”

  Why would she tell me this? Not to mention it’s an obvious lie. The way Orion blushed when she flirted with him, I highly doubt they’re regularly intimate. I groan and pick up my book again. “I’m done playing therapist now, if you don’t mind.”

  She frowns and stands with a dramatic huff. “Okay, fine. I know when I’m not wanted. I can take a hint. Jeez!” Humid air hits my face as she pushes open the café door. She pulls her hood over her head and turns back to me. Out of nowhere, her tone is deadly serious. “I’ll see you again, Eden.”

  I can’t help but wonder why she never bothered to order coffee. This is getting out of hand. Two civilians are involved and shouldn’t be. I should never have taken this mission. But I wasn’t the one who got Orion’s people involved, was I? No, it was our father. Orion’s been involved his whole damn life. He just hasn’t known it—or has he?

  My head aches. I don’t want to think about the mission anymore. How do normal people manage to lose themselves in books when life refuses to just leave them alone for five minutes? I glance down at the page and read one line that infects me to my core: I can’t stand to think my life is going so fast and I’m not really living it. I read it over and over again, and my hands start to shake. It isn’t fear I’m feeling now; it’s anger. Because suddenly, for no reason at all, I feel as though something irreplaceable has been stolen from me.

  2: accept

  Orion

  Sleep never did come easily for me. Every night, I lie on my king-sized bed and fight for unconsciousness. I’ve done everything possible to create the least stimulating environment I can imagine. No art hangs on my walls. No color other than a smooth, glossy gray is allowed in my space. All items of interest have been banished to other parts of my home. Tonight, the rain hammers against my windows, adding an almost meditative air to the room. Everything is working in my favor, but it doesn’t matter. My brain won’t shut up.

  Eden is all I can think about. How can anyone be that nonchalant about killing another person? And how was he able to survive being beaten like that? He was shot multiple times, and those head wounds… He just didn’t seem to care. He is mortal, isn’t he? He is human—he has to be—but he moved and behaved as though the men attacking him were a mere inconvenience. I wonder what it’s like to just shrug everything off like that, to not have the weight of the whole world on your shoulders while everyone else cheers you on for carrying it.

  I roll out of bed and make my way to my desk where my homebuilt computer is waiting, asleep, unlike some of us. I log in and search for information about the terrorist known as Whiteface. The first result is a link to his FBI most wanted profile. Apparently, his real name is Caldwell Phillip. To the FBI, his capture is worth $400,000. Interesting. There’s nothing of note about any organization he might be involved with. And when I search Eden Dowler, nothing comes up at all. “That can’t be right,” I mumble at the screen.