***Dru's POV***
Haitians know butterflies carry the dead.
These aren't butterflies.
They crawl over the windows, smothering the light, their wings leaving grease-black streaks. Uncle Danni curses, swatting at them, but they cling like leeches. One brushes my neck—its legs bite, sharp as fish hooks. I slap it away, my palm smeared with ash.
"Iron," I mutter. Iron breaks spells. But the nail in my pocket's gone, lost in the mud.
Marisol staggers out, clutching her shawl to her face. "Es él," she whispers. "The butterflies… he used them in Guerrero." Her voice cracks. "The whole village coughed blood by dawn."
I grab the closest weapon—Uncle Danni's Harley chain—and swing. Butterflies scatter, but more swarm my arms, weighing me down. Somewhere, Dragon's shouting, Mamá's praying, but all I hear is wings.
Then, a click.
The butterfly swarm thickens, their wings slicing the air like razor-edged paper. My eyes water, but I squint through the haze—there. Esteban's belt buckle glints, its silver filigree unnaturally pristine amid the chaos. A tiny vent near the clasp leaks a faint, iridescent mist. Pheromones! Haitian market smugglers used similar cartridges to ward off patrol dogs. A shadow moves in the swarm. The butterflies part like a curtain.
—Esteban—
Dressed head-to-toe in black leather, his hair slicked back, he sports a neatly trimmed goatee and bronzed skin. A teardrop tattoo marks the corner of his right eye, and a scar zigzags through his brow—a perfect mirror to Dragon's.
Esteban steps through the swarm, unharmed. The butterflies avoid him, repelled by the belt in his hand—Dragon's blood still crusted on the buckle from over a decade ago. He smiles menacingly, "Louise's daughter. Should've drowned you at birth."
I spit at his boots. "Come try."
"Get the buckle!", I snarl at Dragon, my voice raw from toxic scales. "It's repelling them!" I duck as a butterfly dives for my throat, its barbed legs grazing my collarbone. Dragon hesitates, wrench raised, staring at Esteban's sneer—frozen by the ghosts of his past.
***Dragon: Flashback 13 years ago***
Esteban's voice, cold and commanding,"Más fuerte, mijo. Harder. This isn't a toy."
I scrub the fuel tank, my tiny hands slipping on the rag. The scent of metal polish burns my nose, making my eyes water. I glance at the belt on the workbench—thick leather, silver buckle etched with a mariposa negra. Esteban's "teaching tool."
A drop of rain hits the garage roof. I flinch, the rag snagging on a loose bolt. The tank tilts, spilling oil across the concrete.
Esteban snarling,"¿En serio? You ruin everything."
He snatches the belt. I back into a tool cart, sending a wrench clattering. Mamá bursts in, her rebozo trailing, but Esteban shoves her against the wall. "Stay out of this."
The belt cracks. I try to dodge, but the buckle catches my brow, splitting skin. Blood trickles into my eye, hot and metallic. I scream—a raw, childish wail—as Esteban yanks me up by the collar.
Esteban whispering, savage, "You'll learn to hold still."
Another swing. I throw up my hands. Blood sprays the buckle, seeping into the butterfly's grooves. Mamá lunges, grabbing Esteban's arm. "¡Basta! He's three!"
Esteban laughs, "Three? Old enough to bleed like a man."
He tosses me into the oil slick. I slid until my head smacked the Fat Boy's exhaust pipe, branding me with a second scar. Esteban wipes the buckle on his jeans, admiring the rust-red stain. "A reminder. For both of us."
******
***Dru, Present Day***
I slap his cheek, hard. "Now, papi! Or we all die!", I screamed as I pointed towards Esteban's belt.
He blinks and looks at me confused. Blinks a few more times, shaking his head.
Marisol stumbles back, her ajíaco pot overturned, herbs floating in bloody rainwater. She fumbles for her cuchillo de sacrificio—the bone-handled knife she'd kept hidden since Esteban forbade her Santería rituals. "Forgive me, Ogun," she whispers, and slashes her palm. Blood wells, dark as pomegranate wine.
Dragon gags as she smears it across a bandana—"Mamá, no!"—but Marisol silences him with a mother's glare. "Cállate, mijo. Esto es por ti (Quiet, son. This is for you)." She ties the cloth over his face. Dragon's eyes clear—the toxins purged from his veins.
But the swarm shifts. Butterflies peel away from Esteban, homing in on Marisol's bleeding hand. They swarm her arms, her neck, burrowing into her braids like maggots. She collapses, clawing at her throat. "¡Mamá!" Dragon lunges, but Esteban's laugh stops him cold.
******
***Dragon's POV***
"Good boy," Esteban croons, reloading his pistol. "You finally learned to let go."
My fingers brush my scar as I stare at that same buckle—still tarnished with my blood, still hanging from Esteban's hip. He kept it. All these years. Like a trophy.
The buckle isn't just metal. It's a covenant. A promise Esteban made that day: I own you.
Esteban strides closer, boots crushing blackened butterfly wings. "You look just like her," he sneers, nodding at Marisol, now limp in Dru's arms. "Weak."
Vision sharpening, the bandana clings to my face, Mama's blood drying sticky against my skin. Not weak. Never again.
As I lunge for the belt. Esteban laughs, trying to swat me aside. I grab ahold of the buckle, its edges biting my palm. "This isn't yours!" I snarl.
"¿No?", Esteban yanks me close, breath reeking of cigars and pride. "My blood. My rules."
Click-click.
The prong releases. my scar begins to throb as the belt slips free—but this time, I'm the one holding it. The bloodstain glints, a fossilized scream.
"Wrong," I growled. "My blood. My rules."
With a cold smirk, I hold up the buckle and shove him away. "You don't own me", I spat back at him.
******
***Dru's POV***
I gently lay Marisol down and creep toward the father-son standoff. My boots crunch on glass. I glanced down—the nail, wedged between shards and mud. Using Dragon as a shield, I kick the glass aside and snatch it.
"Move lespri pa renmen fè, (Spirits hate iron).," I whispered in Dragon's back. Never moving his head, his eyes turn down towards my hand. I shove him left and leap right, lunging for Esteban's bike. The nail's rusted tip gleams as I jam it into the gas tank. Fuel gushes, soaking Esteban's boots. He kicks at me, but I roll away, snatching Marisol's fallen cuchillo.
"Fire, in the hole Uncle D!", I screamed just in time to watch Gwo Pistoleer's zippo arc through the air, already lit—flung from the tree line where Lou Nwa lurks. The fuel ignites. Flames race up the Harley's frame, swallowing the swarm. Butterfly wings pop like firecrackers, venomous ash raining down.
Esteban stumbles back as Dragon shakes the belt buckle tauntingly. His face twists with rage when he notices it's gone. Dragon hurls it into the inferno. The pheromone cartridge hisses, bursting in the flames. He roars, batting at the flames, trying to save his favorite little trophy but the fire leaps to his sleeves. "¡Te voy a matar! (I'll kill you!)," Esteban roars, retreating into smoke as fire licks his sleeves.
Uncle Danni yells out to Gwo Pistoleer, "Round him up!," as he points in the direction Esteban ran. Engines rev in the distance—Lou Nwa giving chase. I hope they bring him back alive. I'm just getting warmed up.
I crouched over Marisol, shielding her from the flames, "You stupid saint," I rasped, plucking dead butterflies from the woman's hair. "You don't get to die today."
Marisol's laugh is a wet, broken thing. "Eres tan terco como él (You're as stubborn as he is)."
******