Her blush deepened, turning her ears pink, but she did not let go. She pressed his hand harder against her chest.
"We have that word too," she said. "Mate. This is not that. Not yet." A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, lightening the gravity of the moment. "This is a promise first. Heart later, maybe. But I do not dislike looking at you."
He huffed out a rough, startled laugh. "Good to know. I'll take it as a compliment."
Behind her, Liri watched them with wide eyes, looking like she was watching the season finale of her favorite drama.
Eira pressed his hand to her chest one more time, closing her eyes as if sealing the pact. Then she lifted his hand to her forehead for a heartbeat, her skin cool against his knuckles.
Then she released him and stood up.
"In my world, this means your fight is my fight now," she said, smoothing her skirt. "Your enemies are my enemies. You tell me stay or go, I listen. We move as one pack."
Her smile turned playful for a second, a glimpse of the person she might be when she wasn't running for her life. "Also, you eat first at the fire. That part is very important."
"Yeah?" he said, rubbing his hand where she had held it. "I like that part. I can get used to that."
Eira slid back into the booth, her movements losing some of the sharp, coiled tension she'd held since the attack. Her shoulders dropped, the line of her back a little straighter now that the weight of imminent death had been replaced by the weight of a promise.
Liri leaned in close to her sister, whispering something in their native tongue. The words were liquid and fast, accompanied by a quick, sly glance at Marcus. She raised her hands and made a heart shape with her fingers, pressing it against her chest.
Eira's eyes widened, and she swatted Liri's arm lightly, a flush rising on her cheeks.
Marcus didn't know the words, but he understood the universal language of little sisters stirring the pot. He allowed himself a small, tired smile.
Uncle Marcus
Liri turned her attention back to him. She studied him for a long moment, her head tilted to the side like a curious bird.
Where Eira's gaze carried heat and the weight of shared survival, Liri's look was different. It felt more like someone checking the foundation of a house, kicking the tires to see if the walls would hold against the storm. She was assessing his utility as a shelter.
She took a breath, her brow furrowing in concentration. "We have no word for you exactly," she said, her English improving with every sentence. "You are not father. Not brother. Not mate." Her face brightened suddenly. "You are... uncle."
"Uncle," Marcus repeated, the word sounding strange in his mouth. "I'm twenty-five, kid. I'm not exactly ancient."
"In our years, that is elder," she said solemnly, her expression deadly serious. "Not old. Just... old enough to be yelled at for bad choices. Old enough to fix things."
Eira laughed softly, a sound that was less guarded than before.
Liri pointed between them with a decisive finger. "Eira is your sky-bond," she declared. Then she poked Marcus's shoulder, her finger surprisingly firm. "You are my uncle. I am your niece who does not listen."
"That tracks," Marcus said dryly. "I'm getting that vibe already."
The word sat strangely warm in his chest, settling into a space he hadn't realized was empty. Uncle. Not hero. Not stranger. Not threat. Not target. Family, but with a respectful distance.
"I'll take uncle," he said, nodding. "But the 'niece who does not listen' part? We're going to work on that. You still listen when I yell 'duck' or 'run.' Deal?"
Liri grinned, a bright flash of white teeth. "Deal."
She stuck out her hand, fingers splayed wide. Marcus took it, shaking it solemnly. Her hand was small and warm in his, fragile bones wrapped in surprising strength.
Eira watched them from across the table, her eyes softer than they had been all day. There was a quiet gratitude there, a recognition that he had just accepted a burden he didn't have to carry.
Boom Wands
On the bar, the sawed-off shotgun and the M16 lay where he'd left them, dark metal catching the red glow of the neon sign. They looked out of place against the diner backdrop—instruments of war in a place of peace.
Liri's gaze kept drifting over to them, drawn by the magnetism of lethal potential.
"Boom wands," she said at last, pointing.
Marcus looked over his shoulder. "Boom wands?"
She nodded, very serious. "You hold them. They make loud boom. Monsters fall. That is a wand that booms. It is simple magic."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "They're guns, Liri. Shotgun. Rifle. No magic involved. Just physics and chemistry."
"Gunn," she tried, testing the hard consonant. "Riffle. Boom wand is still better."
Eira hid a smile behind her hand.
Marcus pushed himself to his feet, the vinyl screeching under his jeans. "If we're going to talk about them, we're going to do it properly. Ignorance gets people killed."
He walked over to the bar. He checked the shotgun first, cracking the action open to ensure the chambers were empty. He checked the M16 next, dropping the magazine, racking the slide three times, and visually inspecting the chamber. Clear.
He brought them back to the booth, carrying them with the reverence they demanded. He laid the shotgun down on the table, the barrel pointed safely toward the empty back wall of the diner. He placed the rifle beside it.
"Rule one," he said, his voice dropping into instructor mode. "No touching until I say so. They are safe right now, but they are not toys. They are not magic. They are tools. Dangerous tools. You treat them like they are always loaded, always ready to bite."
Both women nodded, their posture straightening instinctively.
He rested a hand on the scarred wood of the shotgun stock. "This is a shotgun. Twelve gauge. Short barrel. Big spread. Good for big targets close up. It's a hammer."
He patted the matte black receiver of the rifle. "This is a rifle. M16. It shoots little pieces of metal very, very fast. Good for distance. Good for precision. It's a scalpel."
"In our world, only the Gifted kill from far like that," Eira said, looking at the rifle with a mixture of fascination and revulsion. "They use sky-threads. Fire. Lightning. Your people... you build your own sky in iron."
"Yeah," Marcus said grimly. "We like to make the sky angry with hardware."
Liri licked her lips, her eyes fixed on the shotgun. "Can I hold the small sky?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.
He hesitated. He looked at her small hands, then at the heavy weapon. Then he looked at the door with the broken latch. She needed to know.
"Okay," he said. He slid into the booth beside her, crowding her slightly so he could control the weapon.
"Slow," he instructed. "Careful. No fingers near the trigger. Ever."
He lifted the shotgun, feeling its familiar heft. He settled the stock into her hands, keeping his own strong grip on the barrel, directing it safely.
"It is heavier than it looks," she warned herself, bracing her arms.
It immediately sagged in her grip.
"Ah..!" She jerked it back up, straining.
He chuckled softly. "Not a wand. Wood and steel. It has weight."
He moved her hands, adjusting her grip. "This is the stock. It goes into your shoulder, tight. This is the barrel. You never, ever point this at anything you are not ready to lose. Friend, foe, furniture. Doesn't matter."
She repeated the words under her breath, a mantra. "Stock... barrel... lose."
He took her index finger gently between his thumb and forefinger. He guided it to the side of the receiver, well above the trigger guard.
"This is the trigger," he said. "You do not touch it. You do not even think about touching it unless I am right here and we are in very deep trouble. Understood?"
Color rose in her cheeks, but her eyes were serious, locked on his. "Understood. Finger honor."
He eased the gun back down onto the table, taking the weight from her. He glanced across at Eira. "You?"
She shook her head once, a sharp, decisive movement. "I know blades," she said. "I know how to cut men who need cutting. Iron that shouts like storm... I will watch first. Learn with my eyes. My hands are for other things."
That answer made something in him unclench that he hadn't realized was tight. She knew her limits. That was safer than bravado.
"Watching is good," he said. "For now."
He began to disassemble the rifle partly as they watched, his hands moving with the fluid, unconscious competence of muscle memory. He popped the pins, separated the upper and lower receivers, pulled the bolt carrier group.
"Magazine," he said, holding up the metal box.
"Mag-zen," Liri repeated proudly.
"Safety." He pointed to the selector switch.
"Safe-switch," she translated.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to find the right words for the most important rule. "Trigger discipline. Keeping your finger off the trigger until you are ready to destroy the target."
She frowned, trying to line up the concepts in her head. Her face brightened.
"Finger honor," she said finally.
Eira let out a startled laugh, a genuine sound of amusement.
"I mean... she's not wrong," Marcus admitted, grinning despite himself. "Finger honor. I like it. We'll go with that."
For a moment, with the weapons laid out between them and the smell of gun oil in the air, the diner felt almost normal again. Just people joking around a table full of hardware, preparing for a storm they hoped wouldn't come.
Restaurant Logic
Later, the diner had settled back into silence. The guns—the shotgun and the M16—were back behind the bar, secured in the locked cabinet. The sharp click of the latch sliding home felt like locking up a volatile part of himself, a piece of his soul that only knew how to destroy.
Marcus wiped his hands on a rag and dropped into the booth again, the vinyl groaning under his weight. Across the table, the sisters were busy rearranging the pink and blue sugar packets, building small, neat ziggurats on the Formica.
"Alright," he said, leaning forward. "So. You now know what a gun is. Time for something even stranger. Something harder to explain."
They both looked up from their sugar architecture, their eyes bright with interest.
"This," he said, gesturing around the room with a wide sweep of his arm, "is a restaurant."
Blank stares met him. Just blinking, beautiful confusion.
"Okay," he tried again. "It's a system. People come in through that door." He drew boxes in the air with his finger. "They sit in these chairs. I cook food in the back. They eat the food. Then, they give me money. I use that money to buy more food, pay for the lights, and keep this building standing. The next day, we do it all over again."
Eira frowned, her brow furrowing. "You feed everyone who comes? Strangers? Enemies? Not just your family or your clan?"