Eva's car screeched to a halt in a cloud of burnt rubber and dust. She threw open the doors and stumbled out, Billy limp in her arms, his breath faint as smoke.
The old warehouse loomed over them, a giant skeleton of rust and shadow. The city lights barely reached its broken windows. It was the kind of place the world had forgotten, and that was exactly what Eva needed.
If she tried to make it home, Billy would be gone before sunrise. And she wanted a place where nobody would see them.
Inside, echoing footsteps followed her urgency. She lowered him onto the cold concrete floor, brushing his hair aside, her hands trembling. His pulse flickered so softly she could feel the seconds slipping away.
"Stay with me, Billy," she whispered. Her voice cracked. "I won't lose you."
By making him drink her blood earlier, she'd bought time—but not enough. She knew the cost of the decision forming in her chest. She was about to do the one thing she'd sworn never to do again.
Eva scanned the warehouse and found an old, dented fuel drum. Gasoline, half full. She lifted it easily and poured a ring around his body, careful and deliberate, the smell thick and biting.
Then she sat cross‑legged on the concrete, inches beyond the circle, her posture straight, her expression solemn.
She pressed her right hand to the ground. "Forgive me…"
At her touch, the liquid hissed and ignited a ring of fire bloomed around Billy, golden at first, then deepened into violet flame. The heat shimmered, but Eva's skin didn't blister.
The circle flared brighter as Eva began to chant, syllables ancient and heavy, each one carrying the resonance of an older language, older than demons, older even than Heaven's light.
---
As she spoke, the fire rose higher. Runes of black light formed in the flames, turning slowly like cogs. Billy's chest lifted suddenly—then froze.
A current of energy flowed from Eva's palm into the circle, wrapping him in thin threads of pale purple light. They seeped through his skin like roots sinking into soil, tracing paths through his veins.
Her vision blurred with pain. Each word she uttered tore something from inside her, a memory, a heartbeat, a measure of power she would never regain.
"I give what is mine," she breathed, voice trembling. "My flame, my breath, my eternity...divided, not destroyed."
The fire around Billy pulsed once, twice, then converged into his chest.
For a moment, silence. The flames died instantly, leaving only the faint scent of burnt metal and oil.
Eva's body slumped forward, it went into Billy's chest before vanishing in sight. The circle was gone, just a blackened mark on the concrete.
______
[9 YEARS AGO.....]
Billy's toy cars clattered across the hardwood floor of his bedroom. He was eight years old, lost in a world where he controlled everything. The red Corvette always won the race. The blue pickup truck never crashed.
Downstairs, the doorbell rang.
Eight year old Billy barely noticed. His father's voice drifted up, calm at first, then tense. Billy's hands slowed. He knew that tone. It was the same one Papa used when men in dark suits came to the restaurant.
Footsteps. Multiple pairs. Heavy.
Billy crept to his doorway, curiosity overcoming caution. He could hear his mother now, her voice sharp with fear trying to sound like anger.
"We had a deal—"
The gunshots cracked through the house like thunder.
Billy froze at the top of the stairs, his small hands gripping the banister. Below, his father crumpled first, clutching his chest. His mother screamed, then a second shot silenced her.
Two men stood over the bodies. One holstered his gun with mechanical efficiency. The other shook his head.
"You should have waited for the boy to come back and killed them at the same time."
Billy's breath hitched, a tiny, strangled sound.
Both men's heads snapped up.
Their eyes locked on him.
"The kid!"
Billy ran. His legs pumped, feet pounding carpet as he tore back down the hallway. Behind him, heavy boots thundered up the stairs. His bedroom. He slammed the door, locked it with shaking fingers that barely worked.
The lock wouldn't hold. He knew that.
The window. He rushed to it, threw it open. Cold air hit his face. Three stories up. No fire escape. Nothing.
Billy dropped to his knees and rolled under the bed, pressing himself flat against the wall, making himself small. So small. Like when he played hide-and-seek with Mama.
Don't breathe. Don't move. Don't exist.
"BREAK IT DOWN!"
The door shuddered. Once. Twice.
The door exploded inward.
Boots. Two pairs. Right next to the bed.
"Window's open."
One of them crossed to it, leaned out. "Don't see him. Little bastard must've jumped. Three stories... he's either dead in the bushes or running."
A phone buzzed.
"Yeah, boss." A pause. "Not really. The boy's on the loose."
Billy could see the man's shoes. Expensive leather, flecked with his father's blood.
The voice on the other end was tinny but clear in the silence. "The boy is nothing. Burn the house."
"Copy that."
They left. Boots retreating. Voices fading down the stairs.
Billy lay frozen under the bed, even as he heard liquid splashing below. Even as the smell of gasoline crept up through the floorboards. Even as the first wisps of smoke began curling under his door.
The heat came next. Then the crackling.
He crawled out, choking. The hallway was an inferno. The stairs were gone, just fire. The window. His only chance.
Billy climbed onto the sill, looked down at the bushes far below, and jumped.
---
He sat on the neighbor's lawn an hour later, wrapped in a blanket someone had draped over his shoulders. Firefighters shouted. Hoses sprayed. The house collapsed in on itself, sending sparks spiraling into the night sky like dying stars.
Billy didn't cry.
He didn't speak.
He just stared at the fire consuming everything he'd ever known, his home, his parents, his toy cars, his life—and felt something inside him turn to ash along with it.
A police officer crouched beside him. "Son? Can you tell me what happened?"
Billy's eyes remained fixed on the flames.
He'd heard everything. Seen everything.
And he'd tell no one.
Not yet.
_____
Billy's eyes slowly opened as he stared up at the glass ceiling, where the warm light of the setting sun shone through.
His head throbbed.
When he blinked, the world swam in colors too sharp, too bright. The image of the demon flashed in his vision, jagged and unstable. Then another memory forced its way through—Eva, carrying him.
He sat up fast gasping, "Eva—!?"