I kneel beside her, take her hands in mine. “Whatever comes,” I say, voice thick, “I fight for you. But I must finish what I started.”
She nods, lips trembling. “I know. And I’ll fight with you.”
We slide together. Hands entwine. Foreheads touch. Breath mingles.
I close my eyes.
A whisper through the trees. The wind’s warning.
Outside, the forest breathes. Leaves rustle. Something watches.
In that moment, I choose both paths: the mission and the love.
I will slay the Vorfaluka. And I will not let go of her.
CHAPTER 13
OLIVIA
It starts with Burnout trying to play "Sweet Home Alabama" on a guitar he probably bought with stolen lunch money.
“You’re off again,” Booger says, smacking the busted amp like it owes him rent. “That’s not even a chord. That’s a war crime.”
“It’s jazz,” Burnout argues, licking Cheeto dust off his fingers. “You just don’t get the nuance.”
I’m sitting on a milk crate near the door of the garage, sipping cold coffee and wondering how I ended up the babysitter for the world’s loudest apocalypse.
Kursk stands just behind me, arms crossed, looking equal parts confused and haunted by what passes for “music” in this timeline.
“I fear your younglings are cursed,” he mutters.
“Nope,” I say. “Just public school.”
Booger cranks the volume on the amp past sanity, and Burnout strums a sludgy, slow 12-bar blues riff so dirty it could peel paint. The amp shrieks in protest, hiccups once—then blasts the sound out like a war horn.
That’s when we hear it.
A roar.
From the woods behind the garage.
Low.
Wounded.
Wrong.
I’m on my feet before I even process it. Kursk already has the spear in hand, eyes narrowing. The Vorfaluka is out there. Close. Watching.
Burnout freezes, one hand still hovering over the strings.
“You heard that, right?” he whispers.
“Yeah,” I breathe. “We all did.”
Then it gets weirder.
The sound of rustling leaves. The groan of twisted limbs. And then—we see it.
