Angelos.

My dreams are long and dark, patchworked together of twisted images that make me twitch and cry in my sleep. Jaylin dead: a sword through her chest, her body slumped over a chair. Heaven curled against Poison, her face burned and her expression grim as he touches her. Empty.

The skies glaze purple, hissing and snapping. Owl stands in front of the capitol building, her armor glittering against the shining sky. Gats kneels at her side. In the crisp reels of my mind's eye, I see so perfectly the serene expression on his face. And when he opens his eyes, it melts into a painted smile. He lifts his head and chains rattle from around his neck and wrists.

When I wake up, my eyes stream with hot tears, my breath shuddering in my chest. I scrabble up against the seat belt and press my hands on the window, my wrists puffy from the cuffs.

I haven't had a vision since the dance. Thinking of Jaylin, I shudder and wipe away tears.

The gentle ebb of Gats' breathing fills the backseat. He's tucked in a ball, his head to the side and his arms crossed over his chest like a mummy's. The sword's squeezed between his knees, the tip just touching his nose.

Watching him stills the flood of after-images. The horror of seeing carnage like that, even imaginary, still gnaws my heart. It makes me sick. Even my thoughts aren't safe anymore.

I need therapy. That's what I'm asking for on my birthday. Not a puppy, not a new phone, therapy. And maybe Kepler, if I can find her. A life free from horror feels like a faraway fantasy.

Gats' fingers jerk, and I pull at the blade. Mom turns. The plates of her armor rub up against each other and click. "Well." She adjusts her earpiece. "He sleeps a lot."

"He's a cat, Mom. And he's mean." I jerk the sword out of his arms, the hilt so heavy my arms wilt. He wakes with a start, snatching the hilt back so roughly the blade slashes two-inch long tears in my hands. I yelp and wipe my hands on my shirt, growing spots of blood blotting the Polo red. He clenches the hilt so hard his arms tremble. He growls, low and primal. When he curls his lip, the blood in my face makes him look more animal than human. I back against the window. "Gats." I raise my chained hands coolly. "Stop it."

Mom whistles. More canary than Owl, really. The glow of her armor makes my eyes burn.

"We're almost there, boys. Don't kill each other."

"Well, tell Gats to stop going psycho on me! I just moved the stupid sword so he wouldn't stab his stupid self in his stupid sleep." I try to cross my arms, but with my wrists bound up all I can do is flap my elbows like a chicken. So, instead, I just huff and drop them in my lap. The smell of blood and sweat tells me I need a shower. Badly. Gats frowns at me, tossing a strand of hair out of his face as he lays the sword flat across his lap.

"Sorry," he mutters.

"You really need to stop saying that."

"Shut up, Angel."

"That too."

I smile to myself as he looks down at the sword again, all slow and deliberate. So what if he wants to kill me? Owl has him by his strings. I have to accept that, for now at least. As the car slows, the chill creeps back through me from my dreams.

There are thousands of possible futures, millions. But I have to live with knowing that in one of them, Jay dies, Poison takes Heaven by her strings, and Owl rules Starlight City with Gats as her pet.

I need to figure out a way to stop it. No biggie. Just alter the course of events somehow so everything goes so smoothly no one will notice the averted apocalypse. If I fail, my friends die and Starlight falls. Yep.

Not like there's any pressure in that. Not like the kid who can't even graph a stupid sin curve is the worst candidate for the gig. My heart aches. I just want to run into Juniper's arms and tell her I'm scared, I just want her to stroke my hair and tell me that it's okay. I'll do the right thing, she knows it. And would you like some hot chocolate, Angel?

But I'm getting too old for her to save me. I have to get my spit together, suture up my wounds, and map out a plan. Suck it up, buttercup.

The car stops. Gats glances at me, wisps of hair in his face. His eyes are puffy, his face streaked with tears. I grit my jaw. Jerkwad. He flips the sword, slapping the pommel hand to hand. If he doesn't ease up, he'll stab me in the throat.

I steal one last donut from the box, munching strawberry frosting and rainbow sprinkles for strength. I wish I had a mask, a costume, a way to stop being Angelos Dopey Middle Name Fibbs and become someone who knows what to do. Someone relaxed and confident and lady-killing gent-slaying swoon-worthy hot.

Maybe alter ego Luce, if Luce weren't a psychopath.

Mom stretches, flexing her arms behind her head with a sight. I have to look at the window to avoid the glare off her armor. She touches a thin cord around her ear and issues a short command. "Owl here. Be prepared."

And because I'm the man when it comes to singing from Disney musicals at the most inopportune times, I lunge over the seat and snatch the earpiece out of her ear. Owl shrieks. The mic snaps free and I sing into it. "I know it sounds sordid, but you'll be rewarded when at last I am given my dues—"

The door pops open and Gats hops out of it. "Angel!" he shouts. Mom lunges for me over the seat, snapping the leather headrest clean off the seat. I duck and the tumbling headrest bashes through the back window, the crunch of shattering glass revving my heart into overdrive. "—and injustice deliciously squaaaareed..." Gasping, I toss my head back and swing the mic to my face. My pulse roars in my ears and I bash the door free with my knee.

Owl cusses. I toss myself out onto the pavement, licking pink frosting off my upper lip. Gravel cuts my face and hands, but I scramble to my feet, the microphone still clenched in my grip. My wings flutter. The ropes squeeze them bloodless and limp. Confused voices ask for Owl. I deepen my voice, Scar-like, skipping to the parts I remember. "I'll be king undisputed. Respected, saluted!"

"Sir?" So maybe I'm not all that grown-up after all. I spin on my heel, and Mom makes a cry of rage, her arms raised above her head as if she's holding a sword. Gats whirls around as I kick up gravel. He sees me and he laughs. It's tiny and barely sounds, but it's something. I bow for him and bolt.

We're in a back alley, but it's easy to tell we're in central city. The red-brick walls gleam in the morning sun as spotless as the day they were mortared up. No downtown part of the city is nearly as clean. The road is empty. The day is silent. Too silent for a big city, and it hits me like a conk on the head that something is very, very wrong here. A click from above only tells me of a rooftop photographer's presence.

I wheeze out one last, gasping belt. "Be prepaaaaaared!"

Fun fact, kids: belting while running for your life is a pretty poor plan. Wastes air. Draws unwanted attention. And probably gets a guy captured. But you only live once, right?

A metallic reek carries on the breeze. My stomach roils. Deep breaths usually warrant smoke and engine exhaust, but today the air is thick with the smell of blood.

Uh-oh.

Telling by the wide road that so eerily empty, the capitol building is only a few blocks away, and after that, the super museum. We've gone on field trips here before. Heck, sometimes I walk here. Take a bus from the stop nearest home and weave through the glittering skyscrapers, watching the cars whoosh by and the people bound past. So many of them, so easy to blend into the people, even if you're a long-haired kid over six-feet-tall.

But now, empty, the city brings on the unsettling sensation of a ghost town. Even while running, I have to pinch myself, beat myself in the collarbone with the mic to make sure I'm not dreaming. Voices, shouting voices, cry out ahead. Gats whirls around, sword in hand. He slides his palm across it and the blade explodes in blue flames. It's beautiful, but Gats' expression flares with pain. He hefts it with two hands, fancy swordsmanship forgotten.

Owl pounces. Arms around my throat, legs around my waist. She kicks me up off the ground and I flail with long, jagged screams. We hit the ground on her back, the clang of her armor against the sidewalk throbbing between my ears. She sinks her fingers into the delicate part of my throat left unprotected by the collar. "Ow, Mom! Stop!" The mic crushes in my fist. I buck and flail, my throat achy from my attempts at breathing. But she has me. Stars shoot up into my vision, my hand falling limp around the mic. She snatches a wing and yanks me to my feet.

"Do that again and I'll break your jaw."

I huff. We don't speak as she drags me down the sidewalk, her seething, me trying to remember how to breathe. Buildings blur past. People in black cloaks bow as they slip out doorways, the smell of blood so thick on their clothes it makes me woozy.

In the distance, Gats screams.

Mom refuses to run. She takes short, brisk strides as I writhe and squirm against her. The sun falls heavily on my chest, the feeling I'm being crushed alive growing more and more vivid as her followers pool around us. Sunlight glints off the white sidewalk and burns my eyes as the capitol building comes into view.

I know I'm not dreaming, but I pinch myself anyway in a mad sort of hope. The capitol building rises in the darkness, a white silhouette cut out against the shadows of the city. Nebula's statue, the one kids rub the foot of for luck, is broken. The head and arms snapped off, like those of Old Rome. I avert my eye; seeing Nebula like that feels disrespectful. Amoral. The dome of the capitol gleams, but the stench of blood is so pungent my stomach turns. I squint. The stairs glisten with blood. It trickles down the edges, painting the sidewalk red. People in black squat on the marble, perched like buzzards.

But this I take in seconds. It's Juniper I see, unmistakable in her paint-splatter tee and dirty jeans. Vertigo hits. Her, curled up on the stairs, clutching her ribs. My mom.

"Jupes!" Gats reaches for her, waving the glowing sword at the people in black. I flail, the thin bones in my wing aching under Owl's grip. June reaches for him, rubbing blood out of her eyes.

"Mom!" I kick and twist, aware of both Owl and June looking at me. Owl with a smirk, June with an expression akin to terror. She struggles to her feet, reaching for Gats. Someone in black races to intercept, but Owl shakes her head.

"Let the woman near her child." They bow curtly and step back. June flings her arms around him, squeezes him so hard he gasps. Overhead, a flock of birds takes flight.

"Are you okay?" Her legs give out under her and she lets him go. He nods. She collapses in the puddle, her hands on his face, neck, arms, checking for breaks. He hugs her. Owl drags me with her, and June grips him so hard I see her white knuckles from here.

"Let go of my son." Blood leaks from the edge of her mouth, and I try not to writhe. I need to look cool and lax like I'm in control. "You're hurting him."

Owl looks down at the bloody walkway, her lip curled in disgust. She lifts her boots one after the other, splashing blood onto the hem of my jeans. In my socks, it squishes between my toes.

"Hey, June," I say with a quick wave, maybe too casual for the situation at hand. But it's all I got.

"Angelos," she says with a long, gasping wheeze. More blood splatters the ground. "I'm sorr—"

Owl holds up a free hand. "Let's talk about this inside, Juniper. Such a pleasure to see you again." She shakes my wing so hard I bite back a cry. "None of this would be possible without you."

Juniper squeezes Gats so hard he squeaks like a chew toy. With a swing of her hips, Owl strides up the steps. She sneers at Juniper, who only glares back. "I will be inside," she says. "Bring her and the boy to me—"

"You coward!" I shout, but it's useless. She digs her nails into my wings, pinching the tender feather-folds between her fingertips. That shuts me up. As she hops the last step, a childish gleam lights in her eye as she looks the door up and down.

"And June." She turns on her heel, June struggling to stand. I reach for her, but Owl pulls me back. Fresh pain explodes in my wing, making my vision flash white. With a half-hearted punch on her part, the door pops off the frame with a sickening crack. "I'd advise you and your son to live long enough to see my reign," she says.

My heart drops into my stomach. No amount of pinching will snap me out if this. No amount of silent pleading that this, my life, is just some Watt novel pouring from a tired teen's fingertips.

No, my evil mother is trying to take over the city, I have to stop it, and it's worse than a nightmare. In a nightmare, you wake up when things get sour. In real life, you only become aware of how awake you actually are.

And as Owl squeezes my wing, I ball my fists, waiting like a boxer waits for the perfect opening, waiting for the perfect moment to take back my life.