Page 67 of Alien Assassin's Heir

CHAPTER 19

LUNA

The safehouse smells like dust and iron, like it’s been holding its breath for years. The walls are streaked with rust where condensation drips down the old pipes, and the floor creaks under every step like it resents the weight. It isn’t home, not even close—but it’s what we’ve got.

Vale doesn’t ask questions the night we show up. He just eyes the duffel hanging heavy off my shoulder, glances at Solie half-asleep against my chest, and pushes the door wider.

“You can take the upstairs room,” he says, his voice gravelly from years of chain-smoked leaf. “Don’t get comfortable. You shouldn’t stay long.”

That’s Vale—sharp edges, sharper silences. He used to be a tech officer for the IHC, back before politics shoved him out. Now he keeps to himself in the canyon spires, fixing generators for barter and muttering about the old days.

“Thank you,” I whisper, my throat tight.

“Don’t thank me,” he says, lowering himself into a chair that groans under his weight. He drags a tin mug toward me, the bitter smell of caf wafting out. “Just stay breathing.”

We build a routine, though routine is the wrong word when every day is a new maze. I never take the same path twice. Somemornings we slip through the canyon markets, weaving between stalls of dried root and desert fruit. Other days, I drag Solie up the cliffside trail, our boots crunching on shale, so I can keep eyes on every approach.

To her, it’s a game.

“Are we playing spies again, Mama?” she asks, her little hand warm in mine as we duck between two cargo haulers idling in the square.

“Yes, baby,” I tell her, forcing a smile while my heart hammers. “Always spies.”

She giggles like it’s the best thing in the world.

I switch everything over to analog. Vale digs through crates of junk until he pulls out a set of ancient radios, heavy in the hand, smelling faintly of ozone. “No pings,” he says, holding one up to the light. “No digital trail. If anyone finds you with these, they’ll laugh before they realize you’re invisible.”

I tear the guts out of my datapad myself. My hands shake as I dismantle the thing I used to rely on for everything, snapping circuits and pulling out tracking chips until all that’s left is a hollow shell. It feels like cutting off my own arm.

And still… he finds ways to remind me.

A half-smoked cigar left by the stairwell—Kraj’s brand, the bitter-sweet scent unmistakable. Footprints in the dust outside the safehouse, too big to be Vale’s, too fresh to be forgotten. One night, a scrape on the roof pulls me upright in bed, Solie stirring beside me. Heavy enough to be real. Too light to be a storm.

He’s not here. Not yet.

But he’s watching.

Vale catches me one morning staring at the horizon while Solie kicks a ball in the dirt yard. My arms are crossed so tight my nails dig into my own skin.

“He’ll come,” Vale says. Not a question. A flat truth.

I keep my eyes on the canyon edge, where the spires stretch jagged into the sky. “Then I’ll be ready.”

“You don’t sound ready,” he mutters, chewing on a strand of dried root. His gaze narrows, assessing. “You sound like someone already gutted.”

I snap my head toward him, anger flaring, but before I can spit a reply, Solie runs up, her cheeks flushed, her hair sticking up in a wild halo.

“Mama!” she says breathlessly, tugging on my sleeve. “Where’s Kraj? I miss him.”

The words hit harder than any blow. My stomach twists so fast I nearly gag.

Vale looks away, pretending to fiddle with the radio wires, but his jaw tightens.

I crouch, forcing a smile as I brush sweaty strands of hair from her forehead. “He’s not who we thought, baby.”

Her brows knit, her little mouth turning down. “But he made me fly.” She stretches her arms like wings, spinning once in the dust. “And he called me firefly. Nobody else calls me that.”

My chest splits wide. I take her hands in mine, holding them steady. “Sometimes… sometimes people aren’t what we want them to be.”