PROLOGUE

The last time I saw my father, I was twelve years old, barefoot in the rain, screaming over the sound of motorcycles he had sworn he hated.

But before that night, before the thunder, before the men in leather jackets came to our door and broke my family into before and after, my dad was the kind of person who chased me through parks and worried when grass attacked my face.

“I’m gonna catch you!” Dad shouted behind me.

I looked back and saw him almost catching up, his arms stretched wide like he was already planning how he would scoop me into the air once he won. His dark hair was messy from running, and his green eyes, the same shade everyone said I’d stolen from him, were bright with laughter.

“No! You can’t catch me!” I screamed louder than a flying raccoon, even though I had no idea how loud a flying raccoon was supposed to be. It just felt accurate.

The park was bright that afternoon, all warm grass, melting ice cream, and the kind of blue sky that made everything look safer than it really was. Mum and Kyle sat on a bench beneath a tree, eating ice cream while they watched Dad chase me around like we were the most entertaining thing in the world. Mum had one hand resting against her stomach from laughing too much, and Kyle was pretending not to find me hilarious because apparently older brothers were legally required to be annoying.

I smiled at them for one second too long, which was exactly how my foot caught on a tiny bump in the grass. My seven-year-old face finally got introduced to the ground.

Hey, dirty ground. Nice to finally meet you.

“Ella!” Dad’s worried voice reached me before he did.

He always worried too much. If I coughed, he thought I was dying. If I climbed a tree, he stood beneath it like I was about to fall into another dimension. If a motorcycle passed too close on the road, he pulled me nearer without thinking, his hand tightening around mine until the sound faded. I never understood that part. Back then, I thought adults were allowed to be weird for free.

I lifted my head and spat out the lump of dirt that had somehow snuck its way into my mouth. “I’m good, Dad. Just introducing myself to some new people.”

The funny taste of sand had me gagging as his hands helped lift me back onto my feet, and I almost pouted at the short meeting between me and Mr Ground. Such a nice fella. Didn’t even charge rent.

Before I could take a proper breath, Mum pulled me into one of her killer hugs. “I’m okay,” I mumbled, my voice muffled against her shirt. I hadn’t even noticed when she’d left the bench. She pulled back to look at my face, her thumb brushing gently over my cheek as if dirt was the worst injury I could have possibly suffered.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” she said.

Dad crouched in front of me, brushing grass from my knees. “You scared me, little tornado.”

“I fell on purpose.”

“Of course you did.”

“For research.”

“Important research,” he agreed, though his smile wobbled at the edges. For a moment, his eyes flicked past me towards the road.

A motorcycle had rumbled by the park gates.

It was gone in seconds, swallowed by traffic, but Dad’s whole body changed. Not enough for Mum or Kyle to notice. Maybe not enough for me to understand. His shoulders stiffened, his hand paused on my knee, and the laughter in his face went quiet. Then he blinked, smiled again, and tapped the tip of my nose.

“Promise me something, Ella,” he said.

I frowned. “Depends. If it’s about vegetables, no.”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. “If anyone ever tells you something dangerous is freedom, don’t believe them right away.”

I had no idea what that meant. I was seven. Freedom to me meant extra ice cream and not brushing my hair.

“Okay,” I said anyway.

Mum called his name softly, and whatever look passed between them made my stomach feel strange. Then Kyle laughed at the dirt still stuck to my chin, Dad knocked the side of his head, and everything became normal again. I stuck my tongue out at Kyle because it felt like the correct legal response.

Life was great.

But it didn’t last.

Five years later, it was a school night, and I should have been sleeping. I wasn’t. Lightning kept flashing through my curtains, turning my room pale for a second before darkness swallowed everything again. Every roar of thunder made me flinch beneath my blanket. Call me a chicken, a goose, a cowardly potato, whatever you want, but I was afraid of lightning and thunder. No, afraid was too gentle. I was petrified. I smiled a little at the big word I had recently learnt while flipping through the dictionary, but the smile disappeared when thunder cracked so loudly the window gave a tiny shudder.

Being the dumb girl I was, I curiously opened the curtain.

I regretted it immediately.

Lightning split the sky white, and somehow I ended up on the floor with a thud, tangled in my blanket like a tragic burrito. Probably shouldn’t have done that. Of course the thunder chose that exact moment to strike too, loud enough that I swear I felt my bed vibrate. I scrambled up and made a beeline for Kyle’s room, tiptoeing across the dark hallway as if quiet feet could protect me from the storm.

Kyle’s door was closed, but I didn’t bother knocking. I never understood how he could sleep in such darkness. I flicked on the light and almost screamed when I saw a shadowy figure climbing through the window.

It’s the lightning thief.

The figure looked pretty small for a thief, though, and when he turned around, relief rushed through me so fast I didn’t think before running straight into him. Literally. We both hit the floor as another flash of lightning burst through the open window.

Kyle had snuck out with his friends again, a bad habit he had picked up recently. Usually, I would have gone all “I’m gonna tell Mum” like the dirty little snitch I was, but the lightning had stolen all my brain cells, and the roars of thunder were so loud I couldn’t hear my brain cogs turning. Before he could say a word, I shoved my tiny hands over his mouth. I didn’t call him Big Mouth for no reason.

I tilted my head towards the window, hoping he would understand that I wanted him to close it. Oh, and maybe not die by getting struck by lightning. He nodded slowly, and I smiled before removing my hands from his mouth. Kyle immediately rubbed his sleeve over his lips, trying to get my “cooties” off him, then gave me a dirty look. His hazel eyes narrowed into tiny slits, and his nose scrunched in what was supposed to be a glare.

So adorable.

Once he had closed the window and curtains, the storm became quieter. Still angry, but no longer reaching straight into the room. Kyle turned back to me and smiled, the kind of smile I rarely saw nowadays. As soon as he had turned thirteen, something in him had shifted. He was moodier. More secretive. More rebellious. I blamed his friends, because blaming mysterious outside forces was easier than admitting my brother was growing up without asking for permission.

“Scared?” he asked.

He already knew. I didn’t have to answer.

He pulled his blankets back, climbed into bed, then patted the space beside him. I eagerly accepted, burying myself under the blanket like thunder couldn’t get through cotton.

“Best brother ever,” I muttered into the pillow.

Kyle chuckled. “Don’t tell anyone. I have a reputation.”

Everything felt safe again.

Or so I thought.

I woke to loud banging on the front door.

At first, I didn’t move. I lay there in Kyle’s bed, staring at the dark shape of his desk while thunder rolled somewhere above the roof. The banging came again, harder this time. Not a normal knock. Not the kind used by neighbours or delivery people or relatives who forgot keys. This was the kind of knock that sounded like it already knew it would be let in.

Being the dumb girl I unfortunately still was, yes, I don’t learn, I got out of bed.

Kyle was still asleep, one arm thrown over his face, mouth slightly open. I snickered despite myself. He looked ridiculous. Less older brother, more exhausted raccoon. Carefully, I slipped through the slightly open door and made my way into the hallway. The floorboards creaked under my socks, and every tiny sound felt rude in the darkness.

By the time I reached the stairs, the banging had stopped.

Low voices drifted up from below.

I crouched near the railing and peered down into the living room. My dumbness always fuelled my curiosity. Horrible combination. One day, curiosity was going to get me killed. Or grounded. Honestly, at twelve, grounded felt worse.

There were three people in the living room.

Mum.

Dad.

And a stranger.

At first, my sleepy brain decided Mum was water-bending with her eyes. Wait, no. She was crying. Dad held her close with one arm while staring at the man in front of them. The stranger wore a leather jacket darkened by rain, black gloves, and heavy boots that left wet marks on our floor. A helmet hung from one hand. His face was half-hidden by the shadows, but I could see enough to know he didn’t belong in our house in the middle of the night.

He looked like a warning.

Mum shook her head hard. “No. You said we had more time.”

The stranger’s voice was low, but the house was quiet enough for pieces of it to reach me. “Time ran out.”

Dad’s arm tightened around Mum.

“I won’t let them touch my family,” he said.

The stranger glanced towards the stairs.

My heart stopped.

I ducked lower behind the railing, pressing a hand over my mouth. For one terrible second, I thought he had seen me. But his gaze shifted back to Dad, and he spoke again, too softly for me to catch all of it.

I heard only fragments.

“...the ledger...”

“...green-eyed girl...”

“...Acheron doesn’t stay buried forever.”

None of those words made sense to me then. Ledger sounded like something from Dad’s boring work papers. Acheron sounded like a sneeze. Green-eyed girl could have been anyone, except Mum didn’t have green eyes. Kyle didn’t either.

Dad did.

So did I.

Dad placed a kiss on Mum’s forehead and whispered something I couldn’t hear. Mum clutched the front of his shirt like she could hold him in place through force alone, but he gently removed her hands. She sobbed harder, and my chest started to hurt. I wanted to run downstairs. I wanted to ask what was happening. I wanted to tell the scary man to leave because this was our house and he had not been invited by me, the tiny authority figure of the stairs.

The stranger turned and walked out.

Rain blew in through the open doorway before Dad stepped after him.

Mum grabbed his arm. “Don’t do this.”

Dad didn’t look at her at first. When he finally did, the sadness on his face made him look older than he had that afternoon in the park, older than he should have looked ever.

“I already did,” he said.

Mum slapped a hand over her mouth, as if the sound inside her had become too big to let out.

Dad kissed her once, quickly, painfully, then walked out into the storm.

My eyes widened.

He’s going out in this weather?

I stood too fast and nearly tripped over my own socks. By the time I reached the bottom of the stairs, Mum had closed the door and locked it with shaking hands.

“Mum,” I said, “where’s Dad going?”

She jumped like I’d screamed, spinning towards me with one hand pressed to her chest. Her eyes were red, and her face was wet, but she wiped at her cheeks quickly, trying to erase proof of something I had already seen.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” she asked.

Her voice shook.

I heard it anyway.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Go back to bed, Daniella.”

She only used my full first name when something was serious, which instantly made everything worse. She came towards me and gently turned me by the shoulders, trying to guide me back to the stairs. Her hands were cold. Too cold. I looked past her towards the window, but the curtains were closed. The storm growled outside, and for a second, I heard nothing but rain.

Then came another sound.

Low at first.

Then louder.

Roars.

Not thunder.

Motorcycles.

My stomach twisted. Dad hated motorcycles. He called them suicide contraptions. He once told Kyle that anyone who trusted two wheels and an engine in Zarp City had either lost their mind or was running from something worse.

Before Mum could stop me, I slipped out of her grip and bolted for the door.

“Daniella, no!”

I ignored her. My fingers fumbled with the lock. The second I yanked the door open, rain slapped me in the face, cold and sharp. I ran across the lawn in my pyjamas, bare feet sinking into wet grass, thunder cracking above me like the sky was splitting apart.

The street was full of headlights.

Motorcycles lined the curb like black animals, engines growling, rain sliding over chrome and leather. Men sat astride them, their faces hidden by helmets or shadows. I didn’t look at them properly. I only saw Dad.

He was standing beside one of the bikes.

For a moment, he looked back at the house. At Mum in the doorway. At me running towards him. Lightning flashed, turning everything white, and I saw his face clearly.

Fear.

Regret.

Love.

Then he climbed onto the motorcycle.

“No!” I screamed.

The engines swallowed my voice.

Dad looked at me one last time. His mouth moved. Maybe he said my name. Maybe he said sorry. Maybe I made that up later because I needed his last word to belong to me.

Then the bikes roared forward.

I kept running, because apparently my body hadn’t accepted what my eyes were seeing. My foot hit a rock hidden in the wet grass, and I fell hard. Pain shot through my palms and knees as the ground met me for the second important time in my life.

But this time, I didn’t make a joke.

This time, Mr Ground wasn’t nice.

This time, he stole the last clear view I had of my father.

The motorcycles disappeared down the street, red taillights bleeding into the rain until there was nothing left but storm and darkness.

Mum reached me seconds later. She pulled me up, her hands frantic as she brushed mud from my pyjamas, my knees, my palms. She kept saying my name, over and over, but she wouldn’t look me in the eyes.

“He’s coming back, right?” I asked.

My voice sounded hoarse. Tiny. Not like mine.

Mum froze.

That was when I knew.

Not because she said no. She didn’t say anything. She only held me tighter, so tight it hurt, and stared down the empty street like she was watching something die too far away to save.

Dad had left on a motorcycle in the middle of a storm with men who looked like shadows.

Dad, who hated motorcycles.

Dad, who worried when grass attacked my face.

Dad, who told me dangerous things could pretend to be freedom.

Something wasn’t right.

And deep down, even before I had words for it, I knew my father hadn’t just gone somewhere.

He had taken part of our lives with him.

And whatever chased him into the rain would come back for the rest.