***Dragon's POV***
"DRU!" I choke on her name, the sound torn from my throat, as I jolt upright. Every muscle screaming in protest, drenched in a cold sweat that clings like a second layer. My throat's raw, as if I'd been screaming for hours into a silent void. Cotton sheets sticking to my skin like an uncomfortable shroud.
For a disoriented second, the nightmare still clings to me. The phantom scent of ash in my nostrils, the searing heat of black fire still prickling beneath my eyelids, the frantic beat of my heart, echoing of a thousand black wings.
Then I feel her.
Dru's grip on my shoulders is vice-tight. "Breathe. It's me." Her voice is steady, but I hear the edge in it. The one she gets when she's scared but won't admit it.
I blink, the salt of my sweat stinging my eyes—blurring the edges of the familiar room. Dawn's pale light paints her in muted shades of gray and a soft, ethereal blue. She's real. Solid. No flickering black flames, no swarming darkness.
Just her. Her damp brow furrowed with concern, her seashell necklace catching the weak light, the pearly surfaces gleaming softly.
"Te habías ido (You were gone)," I rasp, my voice still thick with sleep and terror. "El fuego—no pude… (The fire—I couldn't…)" The unspoken words hang heavy in the air: save you.
"I'm right here, dumbass," she says, her voice firmer now, laced with a familiar exasperation that's strangely comforting. "Ain't no fire gonna take me, Dragon." Her fingers tighten on my shoulders, a warning and a reassurance all in one.
I flinch, her words hitting a raw nerve. She doesn't understand. It's him. The way his face, cold and mocking, replaced mine in the distorted glass. The way my hands, even now, feel alien. The callouses and lines mirroring his when I grip handlebars too tight.
"What if I'm not strong enough?" The words slip out before I can stop them, a confession of a fear I rarely voice.
"What if I… pull you under with me?" The darkness of the nightmare still threatens to engulf me.
Dru's eyes narrow. She grabs my hand, presses it to her chest. Her heartbeat thuds against my palm.
"You listen good. I ain't some damsel in distress waiting for your sorry ass to rescue me. I knew who you were, the good and the damaged, when I kissed you in that grease-stained garage for the first time a year ago. I know exactly who you are now, scars and all! You think I'm scared of your deadbeat father's ghost? Of you, Dragon?" She scoffs, a harsh, disbelieving sound. "You cried like a baby when that scrawny stray cat at the junkyard had kittens, for Christ's sake."
A laugh claws out of me, jagged. "Low blow."
"Truth hurts." She softens, her forehead bumping mine. "You ain't your blood, Dragon. You're the idiot who taught me how to pop a wheelie on your beat-up bike, nearly breaking my neck in the process. Who burns every damn grilled cheese like it's a personal vendetta against dairy. Who still can't watch that movie Coco without those tough-guy eyes of yours leaking like a rusty faucet."
I tense. "Eso no— (That's not—)"
"That's you," she interrupts. "And if you're so hellbent on running from your daddy's ghost? Fine by me. But we run together. Phoenix. Houston. Timbuktú. Just don't even think about leaving me behind." Her grip tightens on my hand, a silent promise.
Her words hit like a physical blow, a sharp reminder of what I stand to lose. Leave her? Nunca (Never). But the nightmare claws at the edges of my resolve—La sangre es destino (Blood is destiny). What if the road out is just another meticulously crafted trap?
She must see it in my face. Her fingers thread through mine. "You break, I'll weld you back. Just like you did for me when we first met. That's how this works. Always has been."
She traced the dragon tattoo, her fingertips light against my skin as her voice softened. "You know what I see? That time you rebuilt my bike after the Bayou Boys torched it. Took you three days. Didn't sleep. Hands blistered." Her laugh cracked. "I thought, 'This idiot's gonna die of exhaustion before I get a damn ride.' But you… you just grinned, bloodshot eyes and all, and said, 'Hop on, bruja.'" She pressed closer, her breath warm against my ear, "That's your legacy. Not his."
I don't deserve her. Never did. But she's here, solid as the engine parts we rebuild. So I kiss her, slow and deep, trying to sear this moment into my bones. When I pull back, her smirk's back. "Now sleep. You're hogging the blanket."
I lie down, her arms locking around me like a chain. Not the kind that binds—the kind that anchors. The ash fades. For now, her breath against my neck is the only mantra I need: Estamos aquí. Estamos aquí. Estamos aquí (We're here. We're here. We're here).
"Li byen. (It's okay.)" Her soft whisper curls around my ear, a soothing balm against the lingering terror.
But it's not okay. A prickle of unease crawls beneath my skin, a cold premonition. I tense, my eyes drifting involuntarily towards the window, drawn by an unseen force.
On the windowsill, stark against the pale moonlight, a single mariposa negra perches. Its wings not just black but glistening with an unnatural sheen under the streetlight, catching the cold, artificial glow. Not just black—skulls etched into the delicate veined patterns—a morbid work of art. Alive. Watching.
Dru follows my fixed gaze, her breath catching in her throat.
"Bouda. (Damn.)"
******
***Marisol's POV***
The mariposa negra on Dragon's windowsill isn't the only one. A cold dread settled in the pit of my stomach, a knot of pure fear.
I crush the second butterfly beneath my bare heel, the rough fibers of the rug doing little to cushion the sickening crunch of its obsidian wings. They still twitched, a faint, unsettling tremor as though a final, defiant spasm.
The note pinned beneath it, stark white against the dark wood of the floor. Bleeding crimson ink, the letters blurring slightly as if still wet. The words pooling like fresh wounds on the page: "Te vi, Marisol. Y él también." (I saw you, Marisol. And him too.)
The cartel's wax seal, pressed firmly into the bottom of the note, mocks me—a black butterfly with skull wings. Its malevolent insignia, a brand on my fear. My throat tightens. Thirteen years. Thirteen years since I last saw this symbol, its edges still sharp as the night Danni's Harley tore through my hell..
The memory slams into me:
Esteban's men dragging me by my hair through the chapel, Dragon's three-year-old screams echoing off stained glass. Then—engines. A dozen headlights tearing through the Colombian dark. Danni, the Lou Nwa's leader, swinging a machete slick with cartel blood. His snarl cutting through the gunfire: "Get the kid to my bike, Marisol! NOW!"
I ran, my breath catching in my throat. Dragon's screams muffled against my breast, his small body trembling against mine. Danni's gang formed a wall of leather and bullets between us.
Esteban's enraged roar: "¡LA MARIPOSA VOLVERÁ!" (THE BUTTERFLY WILL RETURN!)
I stare at the note, the crimson ink a stark reminder of spilled blood. Thirteen years since Danni's gang smuggled us onto a creaking cargo ship. My boy's face pressed to my chest, his tears mixing with the gasoline and salt spray. Thirteen years since Esteban's roar chased us into the jungle: "¡LA MARIPOSA SIEMPRE ENCUENTRA SU NIDO!" ("THE BUTTERFLY ALWAYS FINDS ITS NEST!")
Another memory clawed at the back of my mind…
**Columbia; 13 years ago**
The jungle air hung thick and green, buzzing with unseen insects. My lungs burned with each ragged breath as Danni dragged me deeper into the emerald labyrinth. Dragon clutched so tightly to my chest his small ribs ached against mine. Behind us, Esteban's enraged roars echoed, punctuated by the crackle of gunfire. We'd thought we'd lost them at the river, the current swallowing our tracks. But Esteban… he was like a shadow that refused to be shed.
Days bled into a blur of fear and exhaustion. We slept in damp hollows, the jungle floor our mattress. The constant drone of the wilderness a soundtrack to our terror.
One sweltering afternoon, as Dragon slept fitfully, his small hand gripping my torn shirt, I saw it. Perched on a broad, waxy leaf, its black wings stark against the vibrant green. A mariposa negra. My breath hitched. It wasn't just the color; it was the way it moved, a deliberate, almost knowing stillness. Then I saw the faint etching on its wing, barely visible to the naked eye – a tiny, skeletal face.
Panic clawed at my throat. I pointed it out to Danni, my hand trembling so violently he had to grip my wrist to steady it.
"He knows," Danni had grunted, his face grim. Sweat plastered his dark hair to his forehead as his eyes constantly scanned the dense undergrowth. "He always knows."
His eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. He didn't need words. The message was clear. Esteban's reach was longer than any jungle path—his eyes were everywhere.
Danni had crushed the butterfly with a brutal finality. "He sends them," he'd whispered, his voice low. "Little messengers of death. To remind us he's coming." He'd looked down at Dragon, his expression softening for a moment. "But we'll keep running, Marisol. We'll run until the earth swallows us whole before that son of a bitch lays a hand on this boy again."
The looming fear snaps me back to the present.
Now, the nest is here.
The wax sigil melts under my trembling fingers, stinking of myrrh and burnt hair. Esteban's cologne, the same stench that clung to the chapel pews as he forced me to pray. I gag. The rosary's silver chain chafes my wrists again. Phantom beads sawing into flesh—a chilling reminder of his control.
Dragon's voice drifts from the other room, deep and wary, already so much like his father's. But not all of him. Danni made sure of that—taught him to fight, to distrust pretty words, to value the Lou Nwa's *Kenbe La* creed over Esteban's poisoned blood.
Through the wall, I heard Dragon's muffled laugh—Dru's doing. Esteban's shadow couldn't survive that sound.
A fierce resolve sweeps over me as I burn the note.
The butterfly's ashes curl into smoke, forming a skull's grin.
*He's here.*
******
***Dru's POV***
The kitchen reeks of burnt arepas and Haitian coffee—Marisol's third batch this morning. Her usual calm is frayed at the edges. I count the cracks in the ceiling plaster (eleven, same as last week), a pointless distraction from the storm clouds bruising the sky. Dragon's laugh booms outside, raw and reckless, but it's undercut by Big Danni's graveled Creole curses. Home, I think to myself, but the word feels hollow, tainted by the image of those black wings etched with skulls.
Uncle D moved us back last summer after Dragon's fists 'convinced' a few Alabama bigots to leave us alone. Homeschooling was an excuse—hiding in the bayou's shadow where the Lou Nwa could guard us. The safehouse crouches at the swamp's edge, its rusted roof sagging under secrets. Nights thrum with distant drum circles; days blur with chopper drills and whiskey-laced gumbo. Dragon teaches kids wheelies in mud, Big Danni brokers deals over rum, and Marisol blesses meals with coffee and a .38 revolver tucked in her apron.
But today? The air crackles with an unseen tension. No amount of pistol recoil practice or whiskey-laced gumbo can smother it.
Marisol's been twitchy since finding those mariposas. Her gaze darts to the garden, fingers twisting her apron—a tic I've only seen during hurricanes.
My fingers fly over the vegetables, dicing scallions into sharp, perfect lines. I don't look up as I tease, "Dragon tried to dance kompa last night. It was like watching a rooster on ice." The words taste like sugar on my tongue—sweet deflection. If I laugh loud enough, maybe no one will hear the tremor underneath.
Marisol's chuckle is warm, a spoon clinking against the pot. "Ay, mijo… He's got the heart of a cumbia king and the feet of a drunk burro." But her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes.
I feel a deep flush rise into my cheeks, but not from the steam rising off the soup. I keep my eyes on the knife. "He's… not terrible. For a biker with two left feet." Liar, I chide myself. Dragon moves like wildfire even when he's still, all coiled grace and calloused hands. But admitting that would mean peeling back the scar tissue over my ribs, the part that still expects love to leave bruises.
Watching, Marisol's shoulders tense, her hands fluttering over the ajíaco like spooked birds. She's been like this since dawn, I realize. Spilling salt, a superstition she usually scoffs at. Muttering to the veladoras flickering by the Virgin's statue, her prayers hushed and frantic.
Through the window, Big Danni's voice rumbles in Creole, low and graveled. "Ou kwè'l ka pwoteje' (You think he can protect her)?" The question hangs heavy, a silent acknowledgment of the threat that shadows them all.
My knife hesitates. I know that tone—the one he used last year when he showed up on Louise's porch. "Pa pè, ti moun," he'd said. (Don't be scared, kid.) I'd believed him.
Dragon's retort snaps back in Spanish, sharp as his switchblade. "Más que tú, viejo (Better than you, old man)." A protective instinct, raw and immediate.
I risk a glance outside. The two men stand like rival tomcats, grease-streaked and glowering, but there's a flicker at the corner of Big Danni's mouth. Almost a smile. Almost. I exhale. They'll never admit they need each other, just like I'll never admit how the sight of Dragon's hands—scarred, steady—makes my pulse stutter.
Marisol starts staring at her palms as if they're foreign, voice trembling with the weight of ritual, "The black butterflies… Dios (God). Wings binding my hands, beads choking my throat—just like that night—and his laughter… Ay, mi vida (Oh, my dear), it wasn't the storm. It was Esteban's laugh. Sharp as a machete." Her words echo the terror from her nightmare, a chilling reminder of his lasting impact.
Forcing a scoff, but my knife slips, nicking a jagged line into the yam I'm peeling. The juice bleeds like old rust, "Please. You've been huffing too much salvia (sage) with Tía Rosa (Aunt Rosa). It's just a hurricane season nightmare." My attempt at levity feels thin, even to my own ears.
Marisol seizes my wrist, her calloused thumb pressing the crescent-shaped scar. Her voice drops, fraying like a Mass chant, "Escúchame, niña (Listen to me, girl). Esteban doesn't forgive. Doesn't forget. That man… he follows rot. Smells it in the wind. And Dragon—" Her fear for Dragon mirrors my own unspoken anxieties.
I flinch, but not from pain. My free hand drifts to an area on my collarbone, where Dragon's teeth left a bruise last week. Cold laughter spills out, bitter as chicory coffee, "Your ghost ain't special. My mother'd sell me to the Gulf for a nickel. Louise tried to. Your cartel kingpin's just another asshole with a gun." My bravado feels like a flimsy shield against the darkness Marisol conjures.
Storming out, I kick at the garden stone Uncle D hauled here a year ago as a "protection charm." Voice cracking, "Burn some damn palo santo (holy wood) for your guilt, but don't drag Dragon into this shit!" I kick at the stone again, harder this time. Something glints in the mud, a rosary. Not the humble Haitian wood beads my uncle wears, but Colombian silver, chain snapped and tarnished green. Crouching, I wipe dirt from the crucifix. The Virgin Mary's face is scratched out. Engraved on the back: "Eres mía. Siempre." (You're mine. Always.) —E.)
The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine, a tangible link to the fear that permeated Marisol's nightmare.
Marisol's voice flickers in the back of my mind, brittle from late-night aguardiente (firewater) confessions— her whispering, voice raw, "He gave it to me after Dragon was born. Said the Virgin would 'fix' my disobedience. Dios, I prayed it would rust." Her past pain feels suffocatingly present.
My throat tightened. The E glints, sharp as Esteban's smirk in the stories Big Danni won't tell. Too much like Louise's hands clutching that cheap chain from the French Market, hissing— slurred, like a ghost in my ear—It'll keep the spirits away. A hollow promise.
I spit into the mud, voice trembling, "But the spirits always came anyway." The mariposas negras. Esteban. Louise. They always found their way in.
I grasp the chain with mud caked hands to yank it free from it's grave. The rosary's chain feels alive, thrumming with a sickening pulse. My breath hitches as my thumb brushes the scratched-out face of Mary—and suddenly, the world tilts. Edges of reality blurring my vision…
**Colombia, 13 Years Ago**
The air hits me like a physical blow—thick with the cloying sweetness of incense battling the metallic tang of blood. My back presses against a cool stone wall. The scent of sacramental wine mixes with something acrid, like gunpowder. My breath hitches in my throat.
Across from me, a man's thumb, heavy and cruel-looking, digs into the raw wound on Marisol's shoulder. She flinches and I can see the strain in her face, the tightening around her eyes. He calls it a "lesson" for hiding a child—Dragon, I realize with a sickening lurch—from his men.
My gaze sweeps over the chapel. A fresco of Saint Michael, his powerful sword, is shattered by bullet holes. The man, Esteban, looms over Marisol. His white guayabera stained with dark patches that can't be his own. He takes something from his pocket—a silver rosary, tarnished and cold-looking. His voice, drips with false concern as he slides the rosary over Marisol's bruised wrist.
"Mira qué bonita te queda, gatita (Look how pretty it looks on you, kitten)." The endearment feels like a predator's purr.
He twists the chain tighter around her wrist, and Marisol's breath catches. His face is close to hers, his eyes promising pain. "The Virgin will forgive you. If you teach my son to be a man. If you remember who owns this pretty mouth." His words are possessive, brutal.
A raw sound tears from Marisol's throat—defiance mixed with pain. She spits a mouthful of blood at his polished boots. "Prefiero quemarme en el infierno (I'd rather burn in hell)."
His reaction is swift and brutal. His hand cracks against her face, backhanded, and the silver crucifix of the rosary digs into her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. I flinch as if the blow landed on me.
He leans in, his voice softening further, yet somehow becoming even more lethal. "You'll wear it. You'll pray with it. And when I come back, you'll thank me for saving your soul."
The heavy wooden door of the chapel slams shut with a resounding thud. Marisol collapses to the cold stone floor, fresh tears silently watering the ancient bricks beneath her. Her small hands clutch the rosary as if it's both a burden and a lifeline.
Then I see it.
A black butterfly, its wings the color of dried blood, flutters through a jagged hole in a shattered stained-glass window. It circles Marisol once, twice, before landing on the silver chain of the rosary. Its wings leave a powdery smear, like ash. The butterfly's wings flex once, etching twin skulls into the air—identical to the one on the windowsill last night—before the darkness swallows us both.
I gasped, the rosary slipping into the mud. My cheek burned—Marisol's wound, her blood, searing through time. Dragon and Uncle D's voices drawing closer, but distant as ghosts. The garden tilted violently, my world collapsing into shadows. Marisol's scream tore through me, raw and guttural, a mirror to the past—a sound that cracks the storm's spine.....
******