Angelos.

My name is Angelos Monsoon Fibbs. I'm sixteen-and-a-half-years old and a psychotic entity is trying to take over my body. I also cook vegetarian dishes on my free time and I like the color white the best because it's easiest to clean. 

This is who I am. The real me, anyway, without Dark Side and Luce and my insane powers. I've wormed free, escaped his prison for me. The pain, excruciating. The strain, crushing. But I've done it. White tears into my vision, feeling back into my limbs. Control, too. Luce pushes at me, but I've forced him back. Nine times nine is eighty-one. Six times seven is forty-two.

I'm stronger than him. Without my aura, he's only a voice. And a teeny one, too. When the sky comes crashing down, I'm in control again. But I'm too numb to punch my fists up and squeal out my happiness. Too shocked.

I drop to my hands and knees, weak like pudding, dragging myself toward Owl.

She's dead. For good dead, I think.

She hasn't moved in minutes. Bled out and died, crumpled on Gats' sword.

I wish I could say more, though the entire time I was gridlocked with Luce and My Aura, which, consequently, could make a passable band name if ever in a pinch. But a hole's burning in my gut, and I don't feel triumphant or even relieved.

Owl was cruel, she hurt me, Heaven, and certainly Gats. If anyone had the right to kill her, it was him. But at the same time, she's my mom. Maybe, digging deep, some part of me hoped to redeem her. Maybe I thought I could pull off her armor like Darth Vader's mask and find a human underneath.

But I never had the chance.

I snake forward, braving carpet burn, my broken chains clanging around my wrists, biting my skin. Heaven has Jaylin, trying to right the break in her leg while Jaylin groans and twists. The pieces are snapping back together, slowly, slowly. I want to help, but don't dare.

Gats stares at my dead mother, unmoving. He still holds the sword at the exact same angle he killed her, even though now she's crumpled on the floor. Heaven pushed her off, but couldn't pry the blade out of his hands. Now he's wide-eyed and pale. Stiff as a wax mannequin.

Though I'm sick to my gut, I move closer. With the barrier down, Luce is weaker, but I don't want to risk it. I have to do what I have to do. Two cloaked figures stumble toward the room, "freeing the prisoners" I hear one woman say over her shoulder. A group of henchmen nods, as if in a trance, others squabble. No one steps up to take her place, no one issues orders. As an immortal, I guess she thought she didn't think she'd need a successor.

A successor.

At this, I sit up. A voice giggles in my head. Oh, this will be fun. But he's losing cut. Luce is something of a playground bully now, and his teases are weak. Thirteen times nineteen is two hundred and forty-seven. I play with the numbers to ease away his presence, like someone whistling in the dark.

I raise my voice, which has gone raspy and weak. "I'm her son and I'm her heir. She's told you that." I'm sure of it.

Cloaked figures whip toward me, eyes searing into my skin through their masks. The hairs stand up on the back of my skin, pins and needles all over my skin. I deepen my voice, push my mask up, lift my chin. I don't look so authoritative, I suppose, talking while I'm on my hands and knees. But I'm trying. "You'll free the hostages immediately and make sure none of them are harmed."

People stare at me, silent. I smile, broad and wicked while a headache rips my scalp into pockets of white, searing pain. "Please? I'd hate to use my telekinesis. It's dangerous." I extend my wings, long and inky, so the cast dark shadows across the floor that swallow the room in darkness. I hate to threaten, but it's for the poor people's sake out in the hall. And I said 'please.' So there.

There's a whole second of silence. And then the henchmen dip me bows. One by one, some simply lowering their heads, others falling onto their knees before me. I'm frozen, my mouth flopped open in a silent "uhhhh..." I don't deserve their respect. Am repulsed by their show of it. Of what I've become. As they slip out, what the women told me out on the balcony haunts me. I've just inherited an empire, I realize, and with the empire, its slaves. Ice churns in my belly. I have to undo the wrongs, fix what Owl's done.

But first, I crawl to my dead mother.

I've never seen a dead body before, unless you count Heaven since she always seems to be in some state of dead and undead. But Owl's really dead, and I hear Juniper and Storm whisper about it. She's flat on her stomach, no breath in her still chest. I'm glad. I don't want to see her dead, open eyes. I'm a pretty traumatized kid as it is.

"Will you try to reanimate her?" Storm asks.

"Not unless Fallout can produce his still-beating heart for me to replace hers with." Juniper sighs as she leans back against the wall, spent.

I reach out a shaking hand for my mother's belt. This is a bad idea. The voice in my head sounds as much Luce's as my own.

Hot blood splatters onto the back of my neck from Gats' sword. He saved Heaven, and for everything, a price. But I just want to hug him for saving us all.

The belt is fashioned out of smooth black plastic, notched with slim equidistant holes for the buckle. Pockets dangle, a single holster for her dagger. I jimmy the belt free from around her waist, if only because I don't want to rifle through the pockets while they're still on my dead mother. I already look like a graverobber to whoever's watching, especially to my guardians. And somehow, after all they've done to me, I still want their approval.

The belt pops loose after a few jerks. Luce is restless, an alien panic pumping adrenaline into my veins, sharpening my breathing, making my hands tremble.

The belt's worn, flakes of the soft black leather weathered away and flecked gray. A lasso dangles by her dagger, frayed tan cord looped over in neat coils. The pockets snap open with a click of their ivory buttons. Looking at them I realize they only make the snapping noise because of the carved shapes that interlock like puzzle pieces. One button's in the shape of a snail. It has a little curly shell and two eye stalks poking out of its notch for a head. The next is a dove with open wings. It makes my heart hurt, and I dump out the contents with a quick shake, eyes torn toward the ceiling to the ceiling.

Capsules, mace, a thin hand-stitched wallet of faded blue felt. The yellow threading at its spine is clumsy, especially the sun at the corner. I pick it up, rough fibers pricking my fingers as I roll it in my hand. A child made this. A bundle of cash bound up in rubber bands hits the floor, and my first impulse is to take it and run. Money is money, and she won't need it. A pang lights my stomach; I can't blame thoughts like that on Luce or my dark side or anything. It's me. And it's a me I have to deal with.

So instead of stealing my dead mother's money, I take another hard, dry gulp and set the wallet back on the floor, as gently as you'd set a body into a coffin. A smooth black pebble winks up from the pile in the morning light. I recoil instinctively.

Bad, bad idea. Luce, again. But I'm tired of Luce calling the shots, even if he's right. Before I can think any longer about it, I brace myself, flip my hand so the tougher skin of knuckles is exposed, and slam it down on the stone. The explosion of pain instantaneous. It ripples through my body in waves, first an acid burn, then a raw, crushing ache.

I press against the stone until I can't feel my wrist, hands clenching und unclenching, my eyes shut up with such intensity I feel the strain in my eyeballs. I drink up the pain and imagine Luce washed away in it, gone from my head forever. A minute passes, then another, until my only feeling is the burn from the obsidian. Another minute after. I lift my hand and turn it over, a sound like static buzzing in my ears. I have a new scar, a long white circle that's scraggly at the edges. So out of place with my blacks and blues, greens and purples, I stare it, noting with some distaste that I still can't see out of my right eye, at least, not well. It's like I'm peeking at the world through a cloud of black smoke, and as I stare at the new mark for another infinite moment, I I'm so entranced I only glimpse the figures in the window.

My pulse flutters. One of the huddled figures creeps toward me where my vision gets spotty and black. My mind is a blur, fight-or-flight. And that's okay. I don't want to think about the second voice I just pushed out of my head, how he might come back if I'm not careful. Don't want to think about Gats, frozen in shock. Don't want to think about hurt Jaylin or the Heaven I almost lost or the physical and emotional exhaustion that threatens to put me to sleep. I grope for Owl's dagger.

Hev cooes at someone, calling her 'sweetie,' repeating that she's okay, Jay's okay, and don't look over there, baby, that's not for you to see. Reminds me of Owl putting her hand over over my eyes when her people began their attack.

I don't want to think about it. I want to wash this from my mind, my mother too. She hurt Gats and would've tortured Heaven to death. Nothing was human about her. Not a thing.

My fingers find and a wrap around the bandaged hilt of Owl's dagger just as a snowy white wing dips at the edge of my vision. It's so frilly it glimmers like lace at the edges. If I had a panoramic view I'd make out more, a glimpse of face, a show of fabric, but as it is I already know who I'm fighting. I hold the knife in my fist, that hand taking the rear of a guard. I punch out with my other hand, swinging hard and fast. My knuckles, angled just up enough that the strongest ones crunch flesh first, catch Poison's cheekbone. The knife comes up and the blade glints under his chin. He stumbles back blinks a couple of times, wide-eyes, looking through me as if unsure if seeing me or just an illusion of me.

Then he settles. "Lame," he says, crossing his arms over his chest as a purple bruise blossoms under his eye. "You're the dopiest, jumpiest kid I've ever met." He pushes the knife down, a lip curled in disgust. But it's not the murderous disgust I usually see from him. He doesn't look scary anymore, just unhinged I jumped him with a blade.

"There's no such thing as 'jumpy' when you can only see out of one eye." I hold my grip steady on the knife. I've got about as much strength in me as a pudding cup now, so I want to make him see me as a threat. Theoretically, if you're faced with an unfriendly grizzly bear, you're supposed to make yourself as big and loud as possible. So, I square my shoulders and look into his too bright-eyes, my voice so low I can feel the gravel in it. "And I'm over my powers, anyway. If you want my wings, you can have them. But I don't like it when you go after my friends."

He sighs, looking over my shoulder at Gats, who has finally lowered the sword. Still won't move though, like he's been stitched to that very spot. Blood drips down his arms in red rivulets and I suddenly regret every mean thing I said to him, even if he deserved it.

Fingers skim my shoulder. I yelp and spin around, the knife still held at a Poison who's now behind me. Poison'd laugh is unmistakable and I jerk up my fingers and nearly stab him for it, my hands so jittery. Dad squeezes, looking down at Owl. He is silent, and I see his wings for the first time, long and leathery, interspersed with the occasional patch of black feathers. They twitch every couple of seconds or so, as if they act separately from Fallout. Mine fluff in response, wing-muscles aching from such long strain. I want to crumple against his and sleep, sleep deep. I haven't slept for so long thinking about it makes my vision spotty. He squeezes me again as if to keep his balance as he looks at the dead woman who used to be his wife.

Suddenly, I want to throw up.

"You won't be able to keep this up," Fallout says, and his voice is haunting. It echoes with a soft sort of grief, not the anguish of someone's who's lost someone they love, but a sort of emptiness. A sigh. "You can't live with one foot in a villain's world and one out. You've just gotten lucky." His grip tightens. "For your own protection, I'm going to take—"

"Try me." I poke the tip of the knife into Poison's chin. He yelps and Fallout narrows his eyes down at me. They blaze with such fury I almost drop the blade, but I stare right back. "I spent the last twenty minutes fighting a demon. I won't live in chains." I let the knife clatter to the ground because holding my unarmed brother at knife point is a pretty villainous activity. "I'll never be like you."

His expression softens as he swipes a feather of black hair behind his ear.

"A demon, you say?" He shoots me a sympathetic smile, wings spread behind him, still twitching. Feathers fall loose, long and silky, black as ink. More like mine than Poison's, whose wings are made of the stuff of rich-lady boas. His smile fades. "You mean your aura, Angelos. I dealt with same problem your age. I can train you," he says. "Heal you."

My heart stops. I feel like I've been drowning, and someone plunged their hands into the dark waters to save me.

"All you have to do is come with me."

Poison shifts back, wiping blood off his chin, blushing. I have nothing to feel bad about, I tell myself, he crept up on me so I poked him. With a knife. He'll be fine. But I feel a creep of guilt gnawing at me anyway, and for that, I look away. Meet my father's eyes, who's looking at me with such intensity I want to shrink away.

"I have responsibilities."

His grip relaxes on my shoulder, but he's still looking down at me with the same intensity. It seems to gorge my freaking soul, so I elaborate, almost glad I'm one-eyed. Both eyes and I'd hold out my hands all 'Yup, yup, take me into your criminal business. Sounds golden. Just stop looking at me like that!' I unravel the makeshift bandages around my knuckles with narrow-eyed concentration, as if this is one of the "responsibilities" I have to uphold. Breathe. In, out. In, out. "I inherited Owl's organization. It's my job to look over her henchmen and end it. She's hurt so many people and their families, their city, I have to help them."

Fallout frowns. Then he straightens up and glares. His look makes me feel like a child. "You don't know what you're getting into. Hundreds, if not thousands of people work for Syndicate. Its history extends a lot farther than you, boy, made up of delicate operations you don't understand."

I angle my chin up. "I. Can. Learn." The discussion is over as far as I'm concerned, so I turn away. My legs are butter, my arms too, but when he grips me I tear right free. Even Poison gets out of my way, and I glimpse a flash of shriveled black feathers and broken wing. I wince.

"Backup is coming," Fallout says coolly, his arms over his chest. "So we're leaving. But know that I'm your father, and I forbid it. And if you escape this alive so help me I will hunt you down and make your life hell."

My life is already hell. So phooey on him. "You're my father." I rub what remains of the neck of my shirt, and a laugh, a true laugh bubbles up from God knows where. It scares even me, so rough and low I want to believe it's Luce. But this is who I am, and right now, I'm okay with that. "Good one." I turn away and leave him scowling. I touch Gats on the elbow, my heart floundering.

"Hey, buddy," I say.

He's still. Doesn't even twitch.

"Buddy?"

He breathes sharply. "Okay," he mumbles, "I'm okay."

"Let's get Hev and Jay, and let's go. Okay buddy?"

He looks down. "Okay," he says again, and then I realize he's talking to himself. "Everything is okay. I'm okay, he's okay, Hev's okay." His voice shakes. I know he's holding back tears. He's hurting and scared and I don't want to leave him alone. Outside, sirens wail. Fallout glares. Cups a fireball in his hand, his aura snaking out again. Long, sinewy tendrils, black as a moonless night. Spooky. He hurls his fire onto the shredded wall, and it hits me like an electric shock.

If we don't leave with him, he won't let us leave at all. We'll be crushed in the rubble. And without my powers? Sparks dance up the wall, eating through it in a flash of orange and a crackle like paper being wadded up. I glance at the flames. They flare in firework bursts with the roar of a steam engine. Orange and gray, twisting into a raging column. Unnatural super, unnatural fire. We're figuratively and literally toast.

I snatch Gats by the arm and sling him over my shoulder. He's a light thing, and though I'm sure he can walk, I expect him to stumble and stagger in his shell-shock. My wings unfurl, and thank God I have them. I'd be grounded otherwise. The fire roars. Juniper and Storm stumble, and I help them up. They hurry, but they've been hurt bad. Wounds in their stomach up their torso. Thick ropes wound up around their limbs. Heaven dives out the window carrying Jay and is back in a blink, a blur. I toss her Gats. The fire thickens, moving faster than any fire should. 

It consumes the walls, which should be fireproof, eats the piping and wire and languishes on the pastel paintings. Smoke fills my lungs, blurs my vision, makes my head spin. Juniper pushes off me, stumbling. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and guide her toward the window. Heaven pulls her out. 

The process repeats with Storm and then with the mayor, who screams at my touch. The smoke chokes me now. The ground wavers with shimmer lines. My throat is so dry I think of the latte Owl bought me, and my heart hurts again. So I don't think about it. I think about every wooden thing in the capitol building catching fire and the roof collapsing in. I think of the woman who ordered my parents, the real ones, the ones who raised me, hurt. I jump the window as the world burns behind me. I breathe out a sigh and wipe tired tears from my eyes as I watch the cloaked henchmen take to the sky.

I even wave.