Sometime before the Present: Night Doctor …

  Lilian jolts upright, heart slamming against her ribs as the sharp, insistent knocking rattles the front door. The silence of the house—of the entire sleeping world outside—makes the sound feel louder, heavier, like a fist pounding against her chest.

  Beside her, Chris stirs sluggishly, blinking blearily at the darkness. His warmth shifts as he props himself up on one elbow, groggy and utterly oblivious.

  The knocking resumes, louder this time.

  “What is that?” Lilian breathes, twisting toward the bedside clock. 3:24 AM. What the fucknugget?

  Chris lets out an exaggerated yawn, stretching his arms high above his head. “Calm down, honey,” he mumbles.

  She realizes belatedly that she must’ve spoken that last part out loud.

  His eyes finally pry open, the weight of sleep fading as he processes the situation. He rubs a hand over his face. “It’s just the door.”

  She shoots him a look. “At this time? Why didn’t George call?” Her throat feels tight, and she hates how uneasy she sounds.

  Another round of pounding rattles through the house, making them both jump.

  She swings her legs out of bed, padding toward the window, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. The street below is empty. No cars, no figures shifting in the shadows, nothing. Just the dim glow of streetlights and the eerie stillness of a night that should have remained undisturbed.

  “Chris, I don’t like this,” she mutters, her fingers gripping the windowsill.

  Chris exhales heavily, throwing the duvet off himself. “Fine. Stay here, I’ll go check.” He yanks a robe over his shoulders, already moving toward the door.

  Lilian nearly chokes. “By yourself?!”

  Chris pauses, then gestures vaguely behind him. “Then grab a bat or something and follow me.”

  He disappears down the hallway, and despite every part of her screaming stay put, she scrambles after him, moving on autopilot.

  Their descent down the stairs is cautious, both of them instinctively avoiding the creaky spots. Chris moves with careful precision, his body tense.

  Lilian, however, is a step too quick and bumps into him, sending them into a near-comedic stumble. Chris jumps two feet in the air, barely biting back a curse.

  “Jesus, Lilian! Watch where you’re going!” He turns just enough to glare at her, likely trying to calm his hammering heart.

  “You slowed down!” she hisses in defense.

  Chris gives her a flat look. “Do you want me rushing to the door?” He gestures at their current position, then to the looming front entrance. Then his expression twists into something even more irritated. “And where’s the bat you were supposed to grab?”

  She blinks. “…No one in this house plays baseball!”

  Another rapid-fire knock rattles the door, making her jump. Without thinking, she latches onto Chris, arms squeezing around him like a terrified koala.

  Chris sighs. “Honey, at some point, we’re gonna have to answer it.”

  Lilian reluctantly loosens her grip, stepping back. She rubs her arms, hating the prickling unease crawling up her spine.

  Chris takes a steadying breath, rolls his shoulders, then reaches for the door.

  The second he yanks it open, all the breath leaves his lungs.

  “Alex?”

  There, barely standing, is Alex—her body swaying like a puppet on cut strings, blood slicking down her side, soaking into torn fabric.

  She manages a weak wave before her arm drops back down, cradling her left shoulder.

  “Hey, Chris,” she greets, lips quirking into what looks like a genuine, albeit exhausted, smile.

  Then, voice light as ever despite the horror painted across her body, she adds:

  “Let’s not make this a habit.”

  And just like that, her legs give out.

  Chris lunges forward, catching her just before she crumples to the ground.

  ~~~

  The living room air is thick with the iron tang of blood and the faint sting of disinfectant. Alex is sprawled on the couch, the once-pristine cream upholstery now shielded by a haphazard arrangement of towels, though they do little to contain the steady stream of red seeping from her shoulder.

  Lilian kneels beside her, fingers moving with practiced urgency as she dabs at the deep gash. The wound is reluctant to close, pulsing with inhuman resilience, as if mocking the very concept of clotting. By all logic, Alex should be dead.

  Chris stands at a careful distance, arms crossed over his chest, sleep-deprived eyes narrowing at the bloodied woman on his couch. His patience is wearing thin.

  “If this is drug-related, I suggest you leave as soon as Lilian’s done,” he says flatly.

  Alex lets out a bark of laughter—hoarse, breathy, but amused nonetheless.

  “Chris.” Lilian shoots him a look, her focus never wavering from her work.

  “Drug-related? Ow.” Alex winces as Lilian presses a fresh cloth against the wound. “Haven’t heard that one before.”

  Chris drags a weary hand down his face. The glowing digits on the clock mock him—4:07 AM. He has work in a few hours, and instead of sleep, he’s dealing with what feels like the beginning of a horror movie.

  He takes a slow breath, schooling his expression into something less exasperated, more resigned. “Look, when I said I was here to help, I certainly didn’t mean dry cleaning blood out of my sofa.”

  Alex ignores him. Instead, she reaches into the folds of her jacket and pulls out an object. A dagger. The weapon gleams under the dim light, its jeweled hilt catching the glow like an omen. Ancient runes snake along the blade, whispering secrets from another time.

  Chris and Lilian instinctively step back.

  “What am I looking at?” Chris asks, voice low.

  “A knife?” Alex replies simply, head tilting slightly.

  “Yes, but why is it in my house?”

  She glances from him to the dagger and back again, jaw tightening. Clearly, she hadn’t thought this through.

  “Because I honestly have nowhere else to put it,” she finally says.

  Chris scoffs, incredulous. “What do you want me to do? Add it to my kitchen set?”

  “Chris, she’s bleeding out,” Lilian interrupts, her voice firm but urgent. “We need to get her to a hospital.”

  Chris is already gearing up for a long-winded complaint about bloodstains in his car when Alex, mercifully, objects.

  “No, none of that.” She tries to sit up but collapses back with a pained grunt. Lilian immediately moves to steady her.

  “You don’t get a say in this.” Lilian’s voice brooks no argument.

  “You don’t understand,” Alex grits out. “It won’t work.”

  She musters enough strength to shake off Lilian’s grip, feet planting stubbornly on the floor. “You’ll just end up confusing a lot of doctors.”

  Chris pinches the bridge of his nose. “What the hell does that even mean?”

  Alex takes a steadying breath, then meets his gaze with deadly seriousness. “I need a car battery and some jumper cables.”

  Chris and Lilian gape at her.

  “Lilian,” Chris mutters, still staring at Alex in abject disbelief.

  “Hm?”

  “What have we let into our house?”

  ~~~

  The living room looks more like a makeshift science experiment than a place of rest. A car battery sits ominously beside the sofa, the attached jumper cables draped over Alex’s lap. She grips the ends with unwavering resolve, while Lilian looks on, pale and horrified.

  Chris, arms folded, leans against the wall, watching the madness unfold with the grim curiosity of someone who knows better but can’t look away.

  “You know you don’t have to watch,” Alex says, eyes flicking up to him.

  Chris exhales sharply. “Are you seriously about to weld your wound shut?”

  Alex shrugs, utterly unfazed. “It’s the only thing to do.”

  Chris gestures vaguely around the room. “As opposed to the normal people way of getting stitches?”

  She finally looks at him, her expression unreadable. “Let me rephrase. It’s the only thing that will work.”

  There’s an uncomfortable pause as Alex struggles to reach her shoulder, arms not quite bending at the right angle. She makes a few fruitless attempts, gritting her teeth in frustration.

  Chris glances at Lilian, who nudges him lightly. He rolls his eyes, sighs, and holds out his hands.

  Alex blinks at them, then at his face. “Are you sure?”

  “No,” he deadpans. “But after this, I’m expecting a huge bottle of Jack and an explanation.”

  “Fair enough.” She passes him the cables, adjusting her posture as he sits beside her.

  “Wait!” Lilian’s sudden outburst makes Chris flinch, fingers twitching around the metal clamps. He glares at her.

  “What now?”

  Lilian gestures vaguely at Alex. “Don’t you need something to bite on?”

  Alex offers a tired, lopsided smile. “It’s alright, really. I’ve had worse.”

  Chris’ eyes widen slightly. “‘Worse’?”

  “Just do it.”

  The room holds its breath. Then, the sharp crackle of electricity.

  The smell of burning flesh and a bloodcurdling scream.

  The stark white ceiling above him is unfamiliar, its brightness an unwelcomed contrast to the inky void Kyp had just been submerged in. His chest feels like it's caving in, the pressure immense, and his fingers—instinctively probing for relief—halt mid-motion as a voice cuts through the haze.

  "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the voice advises, cool and even.

  Kyp’s eyes snap open, adjusting sluggishly to the sharp light. He blinks hard, flexing his fingers, curling his toes, running a silent tally of all the body parts he still possesses. When he finally attempts to sit up, pain spears through his chest with an intensity that forces a strangled sound from his throat.

  "Ow!"

  "The secret to avoiding the pain," the voice continues, unfazed, "would be staying still."

  Kyp turns his head painstakingly slow, every muscle protesting the movement. His gaze lands on the man from the crystal room. Chris.

  The human is covered in blood—Kyp’s, presumably—but he seems thoroughly unimpressed by the crisis at hand, like patching up extraterrestrials was just another Thursday for him.

  "Chris," the man introduces himself, lifting a crimson-stained hand in a mock greeting. "Your makeshift nurse."

  Kyp stares, taking in the absurd level of composure. Humans typically scattered in the face of danger, making them easy to eliminate one by one. But this one remained. Perhaps he was part of an elite legion, trained for such circumstances.

  "Kyp," he manages finally.

  Chris frowns. "Skype?"

  Kyp exhales sharply, enunciating, "Kyp."

  "Okay, Kyp." Chris shrugs, returning to whatever medical travesty he’s performing on Kyp’s chest.

  The pain spikes again, and Kyp groans, head tipping back. "I have not felt pain like this in millennia."

  Chris lets out a short laugh. "Millennia? You’re pretty spry for a mummy."

  Kyp scowls. "I am male."

  Chris tilts his head, smirking. "For a Daddy, then."

  Kyp blinks, unsure if he’s been insulted.

  Chris, still grinning, gestures vaguely with his scalpel. "Sorry about the gun, by the way. Glenn showed me a prop from E.T., and I may have gone a little overboard with the Alien-Invasion Prevention Protocol."

  "Invasion?" Kyp’s brow furrows. "Do three people count as an invasion?"

  Chris adjusts his glasses, giving him a pointed look. "Seeing as you three could probably cripple our entire world government with a sneeze? Yeah, I’m going to go ahead and tick ‘yes’ on that one."

  Stolen story; please report.

  He’s only grasping every fourth word out of Chris' mouth, but the meaning is clear enough.

  "All we came for was the crystal," Kyp says.

  "You didn’t exactly ask nicely, did you?"

  Kyp exhales, irritation creeping in. "A ruthless tyrant grew power-hungry and exterminated my kind. Forgive me if we were aggressive in retrieving the instrument vital to our retribution."

  Chris’ expression flickers, the sharp edges of his usual sarcasm dulling for a moment. Then—

  "Hold on," Chris says suddenly, narrowing his eyes. "You told me you were here to help."

  Kyp tenses as Chris levels the scalpel at him, accusation sharp in his voice.

  "I lied."

  Chris scoffs, exasperated. "Of course you did. Now, tell me how I’m supposed to believe anything else that comes out of that perfect mouth? If that’s even your real mouth—"

  Kyp flinches as Chris waves the scalpel a little too close to his face. Awkwardly, he scoots back an inch.

  "I knew you wanted it off your planet," Kyp reasons. "I did not think you would care what it did off Earth."

  Chris presses his lips together, mulling that over. The statement is technically true, but the principle of the matter still stings.

  With a long-suffering sigh, Chris refocuses on his patchwork surgery, jabbing at Kyp’s injury a few unnecessary times.

  "Ow!"

  "If you could try not to move at all, I’d appreciate it," Chris quips, his eyes locked onto his work. "I mostly deal with wires and the occasional computer, so—y’know—not that kind of doctor. But I’ve got two kids. One’s an actual doctor. The other could be President if she wanted, but she’s too busy binge-watching old TV shows."

  Silence stretches between them. Chris eventually glances up to find Kyp staring at him, expression unreadable. This would be when he'd generally apologize for going off track, but Kyp for all purposes, was staring at him like he genuinely hadn't understood a word that had been spoken.

  "You talk a lot," Kyp observes.

  Chris snorts. "Guilty."

  Kyp cranes his neck, wincing, to assess the damage done to his torso. "And you seem to know what you’re doing."

  "This isn’t my first rodeo, friend." Chris preens, purposefully ignoring the suspicious gaze boring into the side of his face.

  "I do not trust that statement." Kyp's eyes narrow even further.

  Chris ignores him. "Hopefully your friends are coming for you, ‘cause I was hoping to hitch a ride." He segues skillfully away from any talks about previous rodeos.

  "As long as the crystal is nearby, it can be tracked." Kyp shifts, settling his head back against the cool floor. A frown creeps across his features. He turns back to Chris, suddenly alert. "The crystal is nearby, yes?"

  Chris scratches his temple absently. "I dunno. Between the both of us, I doubt they’ll ever let us near that thing again. Semi-good news, though—they shut it off to move it."

  "Move it?" Kyp’s pulse spikes. "This is not the Plant?"

  Chris shakes his head. "Nope. And I can’t even tell where we are. I got the little black bag treatment." He gestures vaguely to his head.

  Kyp’s stomach sinks. "You do not know where the crystal is either?"

  Chris shakes his head. "Could be in Timbuktu for all we know."

  Kyp exhales sharply, dread curling in his gut. "If we are not in proximity to the crystal, Nod and Nelzux may never find me."

  Chris doesn’t have a single reassuring thing to offer.

  "That’s... not great," he says instead, gears turning in his head.

  There’s a brief pause. Then—

  "Your offspring," Kyp says.

  Chris blinks. "Excuse me?"

  "They are forever indebted to you for their birth. Can they not save us?"

  Chris groans. "Don’t call them that."

  Kyp studies him. "On my planet, it was worth a two-moon celebration if a child picks up the sword."

  "Yeah, well, I don’t want them within ten feet of this place. There’s no need to drag them into this mess, too."

  Kyp frowns, considering. "So you would rather die than be saved by them?"

  Chris’ jaw tightens. "If it means they stay safe, then yes."

  Kyp stares, long and searching. Then he nods, as if filing that information away.

  "I cannot decide if your decision is endearing or foolish," Kyp muses.

  Chris grins. "Let’s stick with the former."

  Then, he reaches for something nearby. Kyp’s eyes dart to the object in his hand—a soldering iron.

  Kyp stiffens. "What are you doing?"

  Chris clicks the iron on, its tip glowing ominously. "Try to hold still," he instructs, far too casually. "I’ve only ever done this once before."

  Kyp’s eyes widen in horror.

  (Continuation)

  The living room was dimly lit, the heavy curtains filtering the early morning light into thin, golden ribbons that stretched across the floor. The air carries the faint scent of coffee—long since abandoned—and the sterile tang of antiseptic from earlier ministrations.

  “She looks so peaceful,” Lilian coos, her voice soft, as she watches Alex sleep on their couch. The blanket draped over her is tucked neatly at the edges, her shoulder wrapped in tight bandages. She was unnervingly still, curled in the exact position they had left her in two and a half hours ago.

  Chris is stood beside his wife, both of them clad in fresh pajamas after the impromptu doctor session that had wrecked their night. He rubs a tired hand down his face, barely suppressing a yawn, his jaw cracking with the effort.

  Lilian had been restless, tossing and turning, jolting him awake every time she sighed too loudly or shifted under the covers. Sleep had barely kissed his eyelids before the cruel rays of the sun, had torn with a ferocity through their curtains.

  So much for wishing it was all a very creative nightmare.

  “Indeed,” Chris mutters, blinking blearily at their guest. “She doesn't sleep like someone who mutilated herself not three hours ago.”

  And she hadn't so much as stirred in the ten minutes they'd been watching her. That unsettling thought crawls up his spine like a spider, planting an irrational fear in his mind.

  Was she…dead?

  “I'm just gonna check if she's still …” Lilian, seemingly reading his mind, squats beside Alex, hesitating before reaching out. Her fingertip barely ghosts toward Alex’s nose.

  Alex's hand shoots out like a whip, snatching Lilian’s wrist.

  Chris yelps—loudly. A high, undignified sound that makes Lilian whip her head around to glare at him.

  In his defense, he was functioning on less than two hours of sleep.

  Alex sits up violently, her eyes unfocused for a moment as she blinks rapidly, shaking her head, like a wet dog.

  “What the hell are you, a vampire?!” Chris blurts, clutching his chest as his heart struggles to recover.

  “Vampires aren’t real,” Alex replies smoothly, as if she hadn’t just risen from a pain-induced sleep like something out of a horror flick. Her voice was crystal clear, an odd contrast to the guttural screams she had let loose earlier in the night.

  Then, with an air of casual reflection, she muses, “Vlad was a sick man. An artist, given, but a very sick man.”

  Chris pinches the bridge of his nose. “How do you say so many things and still make no sense?”

  Lilian, more concerned with practical matters, wrinkles her nose. “You’ve got blood on your face.” Producing a tissue from God knows where, she hands it to Alex, who accepts it with a murmured thanks.

  “Sorry for grabbing you. Reflex thing,” Alex adds after dabbing at her face.

  “It’s okay. Breakfast?” Lilian smiles, always a sucker for good manners.

  Chris, however, has reached his limit.

  “Hold on now, honey. I think she owes us an explanation.”

  “I am a bit hungry,” Alex says, ignoring him completely in favor of Lilian.

  Chris scowls. “Good. Because the faster you explain, the sooner you get to eat.”

  Lilian, ever the peacekeeper, starts to protest. “Chris, don’t you think—”

  “No, Lilian,” he cuts her off, firm. “We're in this too deep. We helped her. Now, I’d like to know if someone's going to attempt to snipe me on my way out to the office.”

  Alex waves a dismissive hand. “Nobody’s going to snipe you. I sorted it out.”

  Chris lets out a slow breath. “I am begging you to assure me that ‘sorted it out’ is not code for ‘I killed someone.’”

  Alex fidgets on the couch, her eyes flitting around the room before she answers, “Look, if it helps, he wasn’t supposed to be alive this long anyway.”

  Chris blanches. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

  Instead of answering, Alex chooses to peel back the blanket covering her, catching sight of her borrowed attire.

  She freezes.

  Then, with a most un-Alex-like noise of sheer horror, she leaps off the couch to properly inspect herself.

  Clad in a bright yellow Winnie the Pooh pajama set, tiny honey pots decorating the fabric, Alex gawks down at herself, squirming vigorously as if the act alone would be enough to separate her from the pajamas.

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  Chris crosses his arms. “Those are my pajamas, so you’d better not.”

  “I had to put your… paraphernalia in the wash,” Lilian chimes in, returning from somewhere setting the ancient dagger on the side table. “It was soaked in blood, and the shirt sleeve was ripped from where… you know.”

  Alex however is still stuck on the pajamas. “Why is it yellow?”

  Chris answers deadpan, “Because that is the best color.”

  Alex looks up at him slowly, trying to determine if he was serious.

  He snaps his fingers in front of her face, jolting her straying focus back to the present. “Focus. Who exactly did you kill, and how do we prepare for the blowback?”

  Lilian makes a small noise at ‘kill’ and taps her chin. “Meredith will be so mad.”

  “PR officer,” Lilian explains, in answer to Alex's furrowed brows. “She manages, well, PR.”

  Alex still has a confused look on her face. Lilian trudges on.

  “PR means—”

  “I know what PR means,” Alex interrupts, blinking rapidly. “You’re not going to need her. I told you, I sorted everything.”

  “Is that why you showed up to my house with your blood on the outside of you?” Chris scoffs.

  A flicker of something passes over Alex’s face—pain, regret, frustration—but she quickly schools her features into neutrality.

  “Slight miscalculation,” she admits stiffly. “I wasn’t expecting him to be hostile.”

  Chris lets out a humorless laugh. “Considering you stole from him—”

  A low, feral growl cuts him off.

  It takes him a full second to process that the sound had come from Alex.

  “I did not steal from that weasel,” she seethes, stabbing a finger into his chest to punctuate every word. “The dagger is technically mine.”

  Chris, belatedly realizing he had been backed into a literal corner, holds up both hands.

  Alex exhales sharply, forcing herself to relax. She turns to Lilian instead.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience I must have caused, and thank you most profusely for the first aid, Mrs. Jordan.” She says, some new Alex replacing the one that looked like she was about to rip Chris apart.

  “Lilian is fine—”

  “If I could have my… paraphernalia back,” She grimaces at the word describing her all black get up. “I’ll make sure to send your pajamas back dry-cleaned.”

  “No.”

  Alex’s head snaps toward Chris. “I beg your pardon?”

  He crosses his arms. “I want an explanation. And I am going to get one.”

  Alex hadn't meant for any of this to happen. She had gotten hurt and was now dealing with her subconscious for some pain-clouded reason leading here.

  She takes a swift moment to curse Castor's lineage. After extensive planning and said plan’s execution, the thief had proven himself to be more trouble than she had stumbled across in a while.

  Alex studies Chris for a long moment. Her world was the sort of thing that was best left as fairytales and nightmares.

  But the look on Chris' face promised calamitous unrest, should be not get a befitting answer for losing precious sleep.

  Well, if he insists—

  “The knife, in the right hands, can kill me.” She says finally.

  Chris tilts his head. “Yes, knives can sometimes do that. Kill people”

  Alex inhales through her nose. “Not me. Knives can’t kill me. In fact, not many things can.”

  Chris hums disbelievingly. Like she were a cute child showing of a crayon drawing and he was humoring her.

  Lilian on the other hand look like she was seriously concerned for Alex's mental health.

  “And why can only this particular dagger kill you?” She lets a hand hover halfway. Torn between reaching for her and staying far away.

  Boy was she about to rock their world.

  “Because it’s magic.”

  Chris lets out a hollow laugh. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “You think you're magic?” Lilian asks, desperately trying to give Alex a way out of what she seems severe insanity.

  “I’m not actually judging” Chris nods amicably. “I mean, we've all had our childish moments. You have no idea how many times I've wished—”

  Alex’s eyes widen at the statement.

  "Don’t!" She flies toward Chris, slapping a hand over his mouth before he can say another word. The sudden movement jostles her injured shoulder, sending a sharp bolt of pain through her body. She bites back a hiss, jaw tightening against the sting.

  The dagger reacts.

  The purple gem at its hilt hums, a low vibration that builds into an eerie, electric buzz. A glow pulses from within the gemstone, like a heartbeat, faint at first—then brightening, throbbing with intensity. The dagger lifts, trembling before it breaks free from the table, spinning midair in a slow, deliberate arc.

  It moves like a compass searching for North.

  Lilian lets out a muted gasp. Alex turns her head sharply, bringing a finger to her lips, eyes imploring Lilian to stay silent. She feels Chris stiffen beneath her grip, his muffled protests vibrating against her palm.

  For a long, tense moment, the dagger continues its search, circling, spinning, the air thick with an unseen force.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the motion ceases. The dagger drops, clattering against the wooden table with a sharp finality, its glow snuffed out like a dying ember.

  Only then does Alex release Chris from her firm grasp.

  He stumbles back, coughing, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and indignation.

  "What the fuck was that?!" he sputters, voice half-strangled between outrage and shock.

  It is testament to the sheer absurdity of the moment that Lilian—sweet, ever-proper Lilian—does not immediately chastise him for the profanity.

  Alex reaches over, snatching the dagger from the table with an ease that should not be possible. "I told you. Magic," she answers, twirling the blade between her fingers with casual dexterity.

  Chris flinches.

  She clocks the movement from her peripheral vision and inwardly grimaces. Probably not the best time to be playing around with something that had just been alive thirty seconds ago.

  Chris looks as though he is caught between yelling at her and physically dragging her out of his house. His hands twitch at his sides, jaw working, eyes darting between the knife and Alex like he is desperately trying to logic his way out of what just happened.

  Instead, he stands frozen.

  The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, before Lilian finally breaks it.

  "Like abracadabra?" she whispers, brows furrowed.

  "Fine. Sorcery." Alex amends with an exasperated sigh, setting the knife back down. "A group of very angry warlocks crafted it a long time ago."

  Lilian blinks rapidly, disbelief etched into every line of her face. "You asked a bunch of magicians to make you fancy weapons?"

  Alex scoffs. "It was made to kill me, why the hell would I ask for that?"

  Lilian’s mouth opens, then closes.

  Chris, finally regaining his voice, crosses his arms. "Why aren’t you dead then?"

  Alex bristles. The memory of the wooden box—the damp earth, the suffocating dark—threatens to surface. She shoves it back, locking it away.

  "Believe me," she grits out, "it’s not for their lack of trying."

  "Mm-hm." Chris folds his arms, skepticism still thick in his tone. "So, it takes ‘sorcery’ to make killing you possible because…?"

  The sheer audacity of his doubt irks her. A knife just levitated before his very eyes, yet here he stands, still questioning.

  "I’m not ordinary, Chris," Alex says, the words heavy with exhaustion. Bone-deep. An age-old weariness that settles in her bones like an ache. "I’m tired. Probably insane. And I’ve lived over a hundred lifetimes. It would be insulting if a mere gunshot was what ended all that."

  A beat.

  "So, what can kill you?" Chris asks. Again.

  Alex sighs, slow and measured. "The dagger, Chris."

  "She did say the knife, honey," Lilian supplies, voice thin.

  "Right, right." Chris nods, gears audibly turning in his head. "And you were able to save us that night because of… magic?"

  "Ugh, no." Alex rolls her eyes. "I don’t touch the stuff with a ten-foot pole. Besides, I’d have to be a warlock to practice."

  Chris contemplates. "So what are you?"

  The million-dollar question.

  The answer she had been chasing for over twenty-five hundred years. The answer she still does not have.

  "Demon. Demigod. God. Abomination. Vampire. Four times a witch, and once a ghoul," she lists off on her fingers. "Take your pick."

  Chris’ expression shifts.

  Beside him, Lilian makes a small, pitying sound.

  Alex stiffens. She would die before letting this turn into a goddamn pity party.

  "How long have you been like this?" Chris asks, his sarcasm stripped away.

  "As far as I can recall."

  "How far is that?"

  She hesitates.

  "Just over 2,500 years."

  Lilian rears back as if struck. Chris’ sympathy dwindles, replaced by something closer to exasperation.

  He scoffs. "On one hand, you act mostly insane, so mental unbalance really isn’t a difficult conclusion to come to."

  "You’re not wrong," Alex acknowledges with an amused smile.

  "Then again, you did rip apart my car door like a piece of toast." He rubs his chin, tsking under his breath.

  "I accept that you’re some sort of… uniquely powered individual," he admits begrudgingly. "I’ll maybe even accept that that knife over there is voodooed ten ways to Saturday. But I draw the line at dining with Attila the Hun."

  His expression tightens, like acknowledging the existence of the supernatural physically pained him.

  A glance at Lilian reveals her running through the laws of nature in real time, eyes darting as if reading from an invisible blackboard.

  Alex tilts her head, eyeing him. Chris needed time. He was a man of science, after all. Lilian, however with the right push …

  "I did kill Attila," Alex says.

  Chris’ expression remains unimpressed.

  "Don’t worry. He wasn’t a good person either."

  His frown deepens. "I have a very strong urge to restrain you right now."

  "Maybe call for help," Lilian adds weakly.

  Alex throws her hands up. "I can’t convince you I’m older than I look. That’s fine—probably. How about if I prove I can’t die?"

  Chris perks up instantly. "That sounds like an excellent first step."

  "Awesome. Do you have a gun?"

  A slow, manic grin spreads across his face.

  "Follow me."

  He gestures with a grand sweep of his hand.

  "NO, NO, NO, CHRISTOPHER!" Lilian shrieks, voice bordering hysteria. "We are NOT going to shoot this poor girl!"

  "Oh, you don’t have to worry about that, Mrs. Jordan." Alex flashes her an easy smile. "I’ll be the one doing the shooting."

  Chris claps his hands together, beaming. "There! Our hands are clean." He turns back to Alex, nodding in approval. "This way."

  "Chris!" Lilian screeches after them, her protests echoing through the house as they march decisively toward the garage.

  ~~~

  "I am not in support of this," Lilian huffs, arms crossed. The words come out firm, but her heart is pounding so hard she half-expects it to burst right through her ribs.

  Chris, meanwhile, was entirely too comfortable, whistling as he cleaned Darling—his stupid handgun, which she had worn him down into relocating to the garage years ago. If she had known some delusional child-slash-self-proclaimed-demigod would one day waltz into their home asking to be killed, she might have fought harder to get rid of the damn thing.

  "Calm down, honey," Chris soothes, blowing air up the barrel. "She’s just going to prove she’s indestructible. For the sweet love of science."

  "That’s not why I’m doing this," Alex interjects, voice flat. She takes the gun from him a bit too aggressively, checking the chamber like she actually knows what she’s doing. "I hate being called a liar."

  Lilian grips her own arms. "I hate being an accomplice to homicide."

  "So," Alex continues, ignoring her, "whatever happens, I ask that you at least give me two minutes before you start panicking." She flashes them a tight, humorless smile.

  Lilian stares at her like she’s lost her mind.

  "Does panicking before you start count?"

  "Two minutes," Alex repeats.

  Then, without preamble, she lifts the gun to her temple.

  Lilian's stomach drops.

  "Oh my God," she cries, her hands flying to latch onto her husband’s arm. "Chris, stop her!"

  Chris stumbles forward, one arm outstretched. "Wait, wait, wait, wait! I thought you were gonna aim at your arm or foot or something, not your—"

  Alex pulls the trigger.

  "—skull!"

  The gunshot echoes through the garage.

  Lilian barely has time to register the sickening impact before she slaps both hands over her mouth, eyes locked in horror on the body now slumped against the floor.

  Chris mutters an unbroken string of "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," his voice pitching higher with every repetition.

  "Is—Is she dead?" Lilian squeaks, unable to tear her gaze away from Alex's motionless form.

  Chris shudders. "There's a bullet in her head, Lilian. I think it's safe to assume."

  Neither of them move for a long moment. The air is thick, heavy, the stench of gunpowder lingering between them.

  Slowly, they inch forward, drawn in like helpless moths to a nightmare.

  Alex’s glassy, unblinking eyes stare back at them.

  Chris sways slightly, hands flying to his head. "Oh my God," he mutters again, tugging hard at his hair. "Meredith is going to kill us."

  Lilian rounds on him, voice shrill. "I warned you about this!"

  "I didn't think she was actually going to go through with it!" Chris all but wails, fingers whitening in his hair.

  "You gave her the gun!"

  Chris nudges the body with the toe of his shoe, shuddering when Alex doesn’t react. "I knew she was insane," he says regretfully.

  "A little late for that realization!" Lilian snaps, wildly gesturing at the corpse. "Who the hell shoots themselves in the—"

  A gasp.

  A ragged, shuddering inhale, sharp and desperate.

  Alex jerks upright.

  The bullet pops out of her skull with a grotesque squelch, clattering uselessly to the floor.

  Chris makes a choked noise. Lilian stops breathing altogether.

  Alex, still heaving from the literal death experience, blinks rapidly, shaking off the lingering haze.

  "I," she gasps between death-rattling breaths, "am not a liar."

  A beat.

  Chris and Lilian stare, mouths hanging open in perfect unison.

  Then, the world tilts.

  Lilian sways, head spinning, and before she can even voice her distress, her body gives in to the overwhelming impossibility of the situation.

  She collapses.

  Just as the cold floor rushes up to meet her, she barely hears Chris—voice weak, awestruck—murmur:

  "I believe you."