Episode 4: Play the Hero

KANE

FINDING SOMEONE WITH THE same curse as him should bring clarity. Connection. Maybe even hope. But if the last year has taught Kane anything, it's that Golden don't last.

Death circles this girl like sharks, and she has no clue. None of them ever do.

Faces flash in front of his eyes. Freckled, tanned, tired… All young. So, so young. Unknowing and burdened with abilities and experiences they can't explain. Mistrusting Kane at first, then searching his eyes with confusion, then recognition.

But every Golden he's found the last year has fallen.

Right after meeting him.

Fuck, he intones to himself, but says out loud, "C'mon, blondie."

He steers her toward the door by the arm, restraining his strength as best as he can. The panic doesn’t help though, and he knows he's too harsh. She trips over her own feet, skin ice-cold beneath his fingers. But there's no time for niceties. She needs to get out of here. Now.

"What are you doing?" she gasps. Her voice quakes. By all counts, he's a psycho dragging her out of her own home.

Kane cringes at the thought. "I'm looking for something. Something…" He waves his free hand toward the pizza-sauce mess in the living room. "Haunted. I'll explain outside, I swear."

She pushes against him. Not strong—but stubborn. "Let… go…"

"I know this is freaky, but you gotta trust me, just come outside, and—"

Thwack!

The metallic crack stuns him. Kane staggers, cupping the blooming throb at the back of his head. "Crazy son of a…"

"What, I'm a bitch?" It's the skinny girl with spiky black hair from the Estate Sale—spatula raised like a sword, bright eyes sparking. "Look in the mirror, pal."

His gut drops. Double fuck.

Can't ever be simple.

Kane glares. "I'm trying to help you."

"Says the man getting beat by the one-ten-pound girl." Spiky-hair swipes her weapon toward him again.

Kane easily dodges but misjudges the step. His boot catches the threshold, and he tumbles backward out the door, landing hard on the lawn. To spiky-hair's giggling amusement.

I'm here, Adrienne sings in his skull. Waitin’ in the wings. Jus’ say the word, and I'll defend ye from the mighty force of cookware…

"Ade," he growls, scratching at her soul swirling in hot circles at the crest of his neck.

A chill ghosts over his skin and he looks up. The Golden girl shadows behind her spiky-haired friend in the doorway, hazel eyes shining. Panic and fear dominate her fragile features, but behind it all is the same soul-deep echo as all the other Golden… intrigue.

"Yo, Chloe!" A voice rings out—loud, full of cocky bravado.

Kane cranes around to find the horde of costumed teens gliding across the street. A medieval princess. A whiskered cat-girl. Two out of three musketeers. And at the center as their leader: a Viking, blond wig slapped over his head, plastic axe in hand.

Of course. An audience, Kane sighs. Perfect.

Cheap body spray carries up the lawn with them. His gut tightens. Highschool halls flood back. Flashes of dozens of fistfights. Kane got into it with every flavor of bully between the private academies he got expelled from to the public schools kicking him out for violent behavior. He knows this puffed-chest Viking type all too well. Defended his brother and other more reserved kids from their needless torment.

Kane grunts, standing, not sure how to handle this. No cops. Rule number one. He scans the crowd of five teenagers and catches three cell phones already pointed his direction.

Make tha' a triple fuck, Adrienne teases. Now what, hero?

"You got somewhere to be, pizza man?" the Viking mocks.

Kane snatches his red hat from the ground, jaw clenching. Paying that delivery kid forty bucks for the uniform so wasn't worth it. Westley was right. Should've just asked for the damn board. Screw social contracts and gentility.

Lives are at stake.

Her life.

A cold pulse, deep in the chest. He blinks—gaze snapping to her again on instinct.

Her arms wrap around herself, grip tight on her shoulders, as curled blonde hair sways forward, covering half her pale face. Her fear cracks through him like a bullet. He felt her before she even opened the door. Frosty breaths of energy. A tug on the invisible thread of Golden souls tying them together.

He tried to deny it, at first. Golden are never just out in the wild like this. Westley tracks them down, as Adrienne's deal bids them to do. To run into one like this doesn't feel right. Too coincidental.

Fated, Adrienne muses. Or planned.

"What the hell did Lor send us into?" he mutters.

"Hey!" Viking guy struts forward, plastic axe raised. Smack—right across Kane's bicep. "I asked you a question."

Spiky-hair cheers, hoisting her spatula higher.

The Golden girl searches between them. Still frightened. She has no idea. What she is. What he is. Or about the danger lurking in that house.

"Hey!" Another plastic thwack.

Kane grunts, Golden marks heating. Why does he always run into this brand of dick? Entitled, impatient, invasive. Kane snatches the toy by the blade and locks glares with the Viking’s glassy eyes. "I don't want trouble, kid."

"Kid?" The Viking snorts. Puffs up taller.

Behind, the Golden girl's wispy voice slips through the air, barely audible. "They can't fight."

Spiky-hair laughs. "He started it."

"Th-they can't. He's… I don't know, he's—"

A thick fist arcs toward Kane's head. He ducks out from under it, skirts to the center of the lawn. All eyes, and cameras, track him. This fight's happening. Kane knows he can't leave. Not without her. He shrugs out of the red jacket, fists curling, breath tight.

The crowd jeers.

"Oooh, all serious now."

"The hell are those tattoos?"

"Get him, Greg!"

The Viking lunges again. Kane slaps the jab away. As expected, the kid's attacks are slow—telegraphed swings, zero skill. Kane circles him, all defense. Still unsure which way to take the fight. Would flattening this guy win the girl’s trust? Or just confirm her fears—that he’s some raving psycho? She already thinks he’s a threat.

Another wild punch. Kane deflects it again.

We don't 'ave time to deal with teenage hormones, Kane. Adrienne's heat simmers down his spine. Stop stalling.

The Viking lands a lucky shot to his chin. Then wraps a thick arm around Kane's neck. A headlock, struggled, but effective. Kane’s windpipe spasms as he coughs under the kid's bulging bicep.

A gust of power surges through Kane's chest, burning his lungs. His own Golden strength fueled by his frustration. Instinct takes over. One quick motion and he flips the Viking over his shoulder—thud! The Viking loses his breath, back hitting hard on cold ground.

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The audience hushes.

Kane stands over him, knuckles drawn back, one blow away from landing this kid in the hospital.

Would be easy. But then what? Assault caught on camera. Breaking and entering accusations. All roadblocks to his ultimate goal.

The Viking winces. Kane holds back the coiled heat, the need for impact tight between his shoulder blades. He could blink out this problem in an instant. Adrienne hums, urging.

But Kane loosens his grip on the Viking's costume tunic. Lowers his fist. "Like I said, I don't want to fight."

Oh, jus' END it! Adrienne’s fiery heat licks down his marks, pressing for release. The swerving shapes down his arms burn a harsh orange glow. Let me out, she snarls. I'll deal with this joker.

Smoke trails from Kane’s wrists, curling around his fingers. "Ade," he breathes, strained against her fire.

Cameras flash. Eyes widen.

His marks sear, verging on molten crimson.

The Viking recovers—strikes! A punch straight to the nose.

White-hot pain flashes through Kane’s skull. Blood spurts down his front. He balks back in the grass. Fists curling, but not with a counter. With restraint.

Holding his passenger soul back.

Let me out! Adrienne slams against his ribs, her Scottish fury rippling down his marked arms. Another spark. More smoke curls into the night.

The Viking laughs, kicks Kane to the ground, digs his boot hard into his chest. Presses up toward his throat.

Kane's hot fingers dig into the dirt, seething. "Don't… do this…"

"Oh, I'm gunna do this," the Viking sneers.

Adrienne's fire breaks free, licks down Kane’s palms, burns through skin. Burn him, break him! No one has power over us. No one!

The crowd gasps.

And through the heat and smoke—her trembling voice, "Don't!"

Wide gold-rimmed irises lock with Kane. And a cold soul-deep wind cuts through the firestorm struggle inside his body. It snuffs out Adrienne’s fire, and the Scot gives a hiss, fury extinguished.

The cooling relief is instant. Clears his mind of Adrienne’s pressure. Leaves him room to fight his own way. No flames, no powers. Just good old-fashioned skill.

Kane catches the Viking's ankle. Twists. And the teen hits the ground hard with a satisfying crunch.

Kane scrambles over him—knee to the Viking’s chest, hot hand squeezing around his thick neck. "We're not fighting!" he growls, burned marks bleeding down his arms, pooling across the Viking's throat.

"Shit," someone breathes above them.

Wide eyes. Cameras.

Kane seethes. He wants to end this. Knock this kid unconscious. Make him second guess ever entering an arena he can't win again.

What’s another scar on his record? Busting someone’s jaw, that critical crack under his knuckles, always feels good, punishment or not. Always worth it.

Or it used to be.

It’s not just him in this. Westley’s waiting for him up the street. Adrienne’s deal blares in his mind like a fucking neon sign. And through the heat of his own wants, he feels the Golden girl’s stare. He finds her piercing, studying, pleading hazel eyes.

He leans into that chilled energy to calm his own Golden heat.

To convince him to let the Viking go. To think straight.

The Viking takes his shot.

An immediate punch to Kane’s stomach pushes them apart, then the kid swings another across the bridge of Kane’s nose. Kane drops to his knees, spitting blood into the grass. He doesn't fight back. The swift kick to the ribs, the wicked backhand to the jaw—he lets it happen. Winning a high school fight isn't priority.

When the Viking finally lets up, Kane struggles to rise. The kid parades in front of the cameras, flexing to his friends. He spins back and spits, "I think you better leave, kid!" A rumble of laughter follows.

Kane's experienced worse pain. And already his Golden marks churn their magic beneath his skin. Tingling along the blows to this face. Easing the pain along his ribs.

No, the fight doesn't matter.

He finds the Golden girl’s confused stare across the lawn. He can't drag her away. That's never worked before. But he can't explain all this without sounding like a lunatic, without her friends threatening law enforcement. He’s been in this scenario too many times and there’ve been too many losses.

He can't screw this one up.

You will, Adrienne taunts. Voice steaming down his back. You're weak without me.

Kane sneers, stands.

The Golden girl is the only one not laughing at him among the teens. That same intrigue glowing in her stare. Searching his face, his arms, as if reading his intentions like a book.

He silently begs her to follow him. Make this easy. Don't go back inside.

And she leans forward. Biting her lip. Questions swirling.

But spiky-hair flips him off. "Get walkin' mister!" And the Viking starts shoving him by the shoulder to the edge of the lawn.

The Golden girl finally turns away, hiding in her hair.

Give it an hour, Adrienne muses. They'll be too drunk to notice you.

"She'll notice," he says. A shiver clings between his shoulder blades.

That cold… Her cold. Beyond anything he's felt from another Golden. A power that dampens Adrienne's fire. That tempers his own impulsiveness.

It stirs something inside him. A memory? Or instinct? Like a molten promise, cooling after years of burning.

No matter what, he has to protect her. From the spirit board. From the world.

From the thing inside her that no one else will understand.

Those eyes…

He's seen them before.

Noble, hero. Truly, Adrienne sighs, unimpressed. But how're we gettin' back inside, exactly?

The Viking shoos Kane away, then folds his large arms as if guarding the front lawn.

Kane sneers, ready for round two, but snatches the pizza delivery hat and jacket from the grass and starts down the sidewalk. As he crosses the street, he searches the moonlit sky for a plan.

"Gotta wait them out. You're right," he says, spotting his brother in the truck parked a block down.

Adrienne laughs. I’m always right. Glad ye're catching on.

He pauses and scans back toward the house, the Golden girl’s cold magic still layered over his skin, as he counts windows, clocks the six-foot fencing heading to the backyard. "Let them lower their own defenses. Get in."

Nab the board.

“The board and…” Kane trails off, catching himself searching for blonde hair among the crowd of teens verging on the front porch.

Adrienne huffs. And save the girl.

Kane swallows. Nods. "We have to get her outta there. Away from the vessel.”

I am curious, Adrienne muses. Power like that… she may be a good candidate for—

“No scheming,” Kane commands, hurrying to his brother and the truck. “We have to be on the same page tonight.”

I always have your best interest—

“Save it.” Kane tugs open the passenger side door of the truck and hops in, tossing the delivery jacket in the back.

Westley squints. “You’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“You were delivering pizzas… I don’t understand.”

“Change of plans.” Kane downloads the last fifteen minutes to his brother in a rush.

Westley wants to say something, annoyance pinching his brows, but pushes past it. “Well, we could wait until they’re asleep. Try to break in. But that would take—”

“No, no time.” Kane musses his hair back, gaze glued on the roof of the house up the street. He can still feel a thin thread of cold knotted inside him. “There’s a girl. Golden.”

Westley’s brows twitch together. “You’re sure?”

“She has no idea.”

“Shouldn’t we… I mean, if she touches it…”

“I know.”

And Westley searches the air, gaze landing somewhere far off. His own way of processing change. Not his favorite, but one he’s had to adapt to in this last year of chaos. Finally, he swallows. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

Kane can’t help a side-smile, glad to have his brother here with him in this. He points up the road. “No more games. Probably fast exit.”

Westley starts the engine. “Got it. And your parasite?”

Adrienne scoffs. Tha’ is no way to talk about—

Kane smacks the hot ball of energy at the back of his neck. “She’s game.”

Westley steers the truck per Kane’s directions, shaking his chin. “Course she is. Now that there’s something she wants—”

Oh, the nerve! Jus’ because he can’t hear me—

Heat flares down Kane’s back and he cuffs hands over his forearms, holding back Adrienne’s fire. “Ade.”

Westley talks over, “Conniving, self-important—

—he thinks he’s so much better, jus’ because he’s alive and has his own body—

“—evil demon thinks she can just take over our lives and—”

A reaper is NOT A DEMON!

A hot flash of flame spits from Kane’s marks. Adrienne nearly takes control, hooking behind the ribs and forcing Kane to knock against his brother. An orange flash! The truck swerves as Westley bats his singed sleeve against the side of his seat.

Kane rips back, shouts incoherent vowels. He pushes against Adrienne’s hot influence and with a lurch back to control, punches the truck door. “This is not part of the deal!”

Heat pulses down his arms again, but Adrienne concedes. Grumbling words Kane can’t decipher but tucked to the back of his skull again.

Westley hushes, shaking his still smoking sleeve.

Kane checks his brother’s arm but finds no burn in the skin. He slumps in the seat, swiping his own blood from his hands and Golden marks on his jeans. “Fucking child. I swear.”

Westley glares out the windshield.

Adrienne simmers, a tea kettle on the verge of whistling.

Checking his reflection in the visor mirror, Kane grunts at the lines of red splitting down his lips. “Can we all cool it. Like, for one more night? To save someone? Hm?” He wipes his face with the inside of his collar, shaking his head. He’s going to need completely new clothes at this rate, everything stained half red.

Westley parks then raises a brow at his brother. “One more night? What do you mean?”

Kane rolls his eyes, slaps the visor back in place, then rifles in the center console for a set of ear buds. “Keep moving. Stay on the call.”

Westley wants to say more, but settles with, “Got it.”

Kane snatches his ratty bomber jacket from the backseat before exiting and waving Westley off. The rattling truck leaves without pause or wave back.

Adrienne’s fire swirls down his spine, resentment bitter and biting. He’s going to hate you.

With a sigh, Kane wishes he had more coffee. Fatigue from the fight and keeping Adrienne’s fire under control hits the backs of his eyes. What he wouldn’t give for a twelve-hour nap. “Crisis for another day.”

Right. Gotta play the hero, first. Then the shitty brother.

Kane dons his jacket, shutting his mouth against answering. He has to focus. Follow the cold thread back to the Golden girl. Keep her away from that damn vessel.

Adrienne scoffs, but then says, I wouldn’t have hurt him, ye know? I can keep my side of the deal.

Kane shakes his head as he ducks through a crop of trees toward the fence behind the house of teens.

But with how you’re acting, maybe I should just burn him up. Ye too. Move on to this new girl.

“Not happening, Ade. You’re not cursing anyone else’s life.”

The Scot simmers but doesn’t bite back.

Kane pauses beneath the trees, leaning into crisscrossing shadows as he sneaks a glance over the fence and searches through the back sliding door for a hint of blonde hair inside. After a moment, he ducks back down and mutters, “You’re pouting. You actually with me on this?”

The passenger soul pulses. Ye still going to honor our deal?

Kane’s eyes roll. “Of course.”

You say that—

“Once Wes is safe… I’m all yours.”

Adrienne sniffs. Always the stipulations… but fine. Yes. I’m with ye. What’s yer plan?

Lifting back up to peek over the fence, Kane hushes, “Like you always say.” He catches sight of blonde hair inside and the cold thread knotted around his soul thrums. “Play the hero.”