BOY: “You’re next.”

His hands shot up for her throat.

A gunshot cracked before his fingers could touch her skin.

Not Lucien’s.

Not Solene’s.

The boy staggered back, eyes wide, pressing a hand to the crimson blooming under his ribs.

He looked down at the wound, then up at the shooter.

SOLENE: “…Mother?”

Mother lowered her smoking pistol with the same casual grace she might use to put down a glass of wine.

MOTHER: “I told you I’d handle him.”

LUCIEN: “You ...