Every survival instinct he had meshed with that quiet horror, seizing him. He pushed it to his expression, raw and unfiltered.

He had no idea what to do, and he let her see it.

The anger faltered.

“Try again,” she said. “Please?”

If he released Byron now, what would happen? They would both live in fear.

He could imagine the scenarios. Even the pair of them being out would be a hell of dread and mortal worry.

He tried to convince himself, to step to the edge of the cliff he was expected to jump from. For his entire life, he’d made the jumps.

He couldn’t.

“I can’t,” he said.

Coiffure rose to her feet, ginger in her movements, and walked over to Moonsong to hug her. That was good. Coiffure was good. Naturally kind, heroic, and cool. Moonsong had her shitty side, but he didn’t want her to suffer. He especially didn’t want her to suffer alone. Nobody deserved that.

Byron.

“Tribute,” Figurehead said, interrupting Tristan’s thought. “Call the bosses. Call everyone.”

Everyone.

Something in that word crystallized the horror in Tristan. He shivered involuntarily. Everyone. The team, the staff, students and teachers, other teams. Hell, there was the girl at the pasta bar just down the street from Reach’s headquarters, who was clench for By, bringing her A-game for flirting. She’d been visibly devastated when they’d come in with Brianna. Byron hadn’t noticed that she’d taken their drinks, but hadn’t been around the rest of the night.

Teenager stuff, in the best and worst way. Tristan would have brought attention to it, but what good would it have done? Byron would have accused him of being underhanded and trying to undermine the relationship with Brianna. What would the pasta bar girl think now? What would she say? What would anyone say?

Family. The thought made Tristan go cold.

“Breathe,” Figurehead said. “Okay? We’ve got you.”

Tristan nodded.

Their cousins. Their aunts and uncles. The old ladies at the church.

Everyone was so many people.

“Deep breath, Capricorn,” Figurehead said. “You didn’t actually breathe when I told you to, you just nodded at me.”

Tristan drew in a deep breath.

They would ask. Everyone would ask.

The thought had crystallized and he was getting his head around the shape and the scale of it.

“They’re coming,” Tribute said, a phone still held to his ear. “Mr. Vaughn and the rest of the staff. They want to know if we need emergency services.”

“Coiffure?” Figurehead asked.

Coiffure shook her head. Her hair was still limp, trailing on the ground.

“No, then. Nothing—” Figurehead started. “There’s nothing we can do.”

There was a commotion. His first thought was Moonsong. It wasn’t. Furcate, clawed costume shoes with metal decoration scuffed against the road-top.