The Riot

Chapter 52. Home

The hum of the G650’s engines was a steady, low-frequency vibration that felt less like travel and more like suspended animation. At thirty thousand feet, the world below- the headlines, the fans, the memory of Stephen Morrison’s cold grip, didn't exist. There was only the pressurized cabin, the soft amber glow of the floor lights, and the vast, starlit expanse of the Atlantic outside the reinforced plexiglass.

​Rayna sat in the oversized leather captain's chair, her legs tucked under her. She had traded her hoodie for a soft cashmere sweater Caspian had practically forced on her, claiming the Irish coast would "eat her alive" if she wasn't layered. Across from her, Caspian hadn't touched the glass of scotch sitting on the mahogany table between them. He was staring at a tablet, his eyes moving over security feeds of the estate they had just left, but his mind was clearly miles ahead, already touching the rocky soil of County Mayo.

​"You're vibrating," Caspian said, not looking up from the screen.

​"I'm not," Rayna lied, her fingers restlessly plucking at a loose thread on her sleeve. "I'm just... adjusting to the altitude."

​"You’re a terrible liar, Rocker. Your heart rate is probably hitting a hundred and ten. Talk to me." He finally set the tablet down, his emerald eyes locking onto hers. The exhaustion he’d been masking since the Mojave was visible in the way he leaned back, his broad shoulders finally slumping against the leather.

​Rayna took a deep breath, the filtered air of the jet filling her lungs. "What should I expect? From your mother? I’ve never... I’ve never done the 'meet the family' thing. Especially not the 'meet the family of the King of Rock while disguised as a tourist' thing."

​Caspian’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smirk. "First of all, don't call me that in the cottage. To her, I’m just 'the boy who couldn't sit still.' And to answer your question: expect her to be exactly what you’d imagine an eighty-two-year-old woman who has lived on a cliffside for sixty years would be. She’s old-fashioned. Formally polite, fiercely observant, and she has a way of looking at you that makes you feel like she’s reading your grocery list from three weeks ago."

​Rayna smoothed her hair, the vibrant crimson strands catching the cabin light. "She’s going to hate the hair, isn't she? And the ink." She gestured to the faint tattoos peaking from her collar and the silver studs in her ears and nose.

​Caspian let out a short, dry laugh. "She’ll ask about them, certainly. She’ll probably ask if the hair is the result of a tragic accident with a paint bucket. But she won't be negative. She can’t be." He gestured to his own arms, where his tattoos wound like dark vines up toward his neck, and his own piercings. "I’m her son, and I look like a sketchbook. She gave up on 'respectable' aesthetics around the time I turned nineteen and started a garage band. She’ll just be confused as to why a lovely girl like you would follow in my footsteps."

​"I didn't follow in your footsteps," Rayna teased, a bit of her old spark returning. "I made my own path. It just happened to merge with yours in a very loud way."

​Caspian’s gaze softened, the intensity in his eyes shifting from protective to something much more intimate. "That it did."

​The silence that followed wasn't heavy; it was contemplative. Rayna watched the clouds move beneath them like ghost ships. "Caspian?"

​"Yeah?"

​"What are you going to tell her? About me?" She kept her voice steady, but there was an underlying tension she couldn't hide. "When we walk through that door, who am I to her?"

​Caspian picked up his glass, swirling the amber liquid but still not drinking. He seemed to weigh the words as if they were fragile. "I’m going to tell her the truth. At least, the version of it that keeps her safe. I’ll tell her you’re a friend. A close friend who needed to get away from the city for a while."

​Rayna felt a small, sharp prick of something- not disappointment, but a sobering reality. "A friend," she repeated quietly.

​Caspian noticed the shift. He set the glass down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, bringing him into her personal space. "Rayna, look at me. Technically, we aren't... we haven't exactly defined what this is. Between the riots and the threats and the 'Crimson Ascent,' we haven't had a second to breathe, let alone figure out labels. And in her world? 'Friend' is a safe word. It’s a respectful word. If I tell her anything else, she’ll start planning a wedding and asking about grandchildren before we’ve even had tea. I’m protecting you from the interrogation as much as I’m protecting the secret."

​Rayna nodded, feeling a flush of heat in her cheeks. "Right. No, I get it. We’re just... friends. Who live a fortress together and share a private jet."

​"We’re friends who survived a war together," Caspian corrected, his voice dropping to that low, resonant frequency that always made her skin prickle. "That’s a hell of a lot more significant than anything else I could call you."

​He reached across the table, his hand covering hers. His thumb traced the rose-colored stain still lingering on her knuckles. "But if it bothers you-"

​"It doesn't," she interrupted, catching his gaze. "I like 'friend.' It’s the first time in a long time I’ve actually had one. Not including the Vanguard’s, but thats pretty messy now."

​Caspian squeezed her hand, a firm, grounding pressure, before pulling back. "Try to get some sleep, Little Rocker. We land in four hours. When we hit the ground, the 'King' and the 'Queen' stay on the plane. We’re just two ghosts visiting the coast."

​The descent into Ireland was a jarring transition from the sterile luxury of the jet to the raw, untamed beauty of the Atlantic coast. As the plane touched down on the restricted strip at Knock Airport, the morning sun was struggling to break through a heavy, charcoal-grey mist.

​The landing was silent. There were no flashing lights, no throngs of fans, and no press. Just a few ground crew members in high-visibility vests moving through the fog and two blacked-out SUVs idling near the hangar.

​"Hats on," Caspian commanded as the cabin door hissed open.

​Rayna reached for the wide-brimmed black wool hat she’d packed. She tucked her crimson hair up, pinning it securely so not a single strand of fire showed, before pulling the brim low over her eyes. She felt like a character in an old spy movie. Caspian, meanwhile, pulled a heavy, dark grey hoodie over his head, the fabric thick enough to obscure his silhouette, and slid on a pair of matte black aviators.

​They walked down the air stairs into the biting Irish wind. It was a cold that didn't just chill the skin; it felt like it was trying to peel away the layers of the last few weeks. Rayna shivered, and she felt Caspian’s hand settle firmly on the small of her back, guiding her toward the lead vehicle.

​A few airport workers were standing near the hangar, leaning against a luggage tug. They watched the two figures with idle curiosity- two wealthy travelers arriving in the dead of night, but there was no spark of recognition. To them, Rayna wasn't the woman who had roared at the Mojave; she was just a girl in a large hat. And Caspian wasn't the man who had scaled a twenty-foot pillar; he was just another high-flyer with enough money to buy his own silence.

​Max’s local contact, a stone-faced man named O’Shea, held the door open. "Everything is set, sir. The route is clear. The cottage has been swept. Your brother is expecting a call when you’re within ten miles."

​"Good," Caspian said, his voice muffled by the hoodie. "Let's move."

​As the SUV pulled away from the hangar, the tires crunching on the wet tarmac, Rayna looked out the tinted window. The landscape was a blur of vibrant green fields and crumbling stone walls, all draped in a veil of mist that felt ancient.

​"They didn't see us," she whispered, a sense of relief finally washing over her. "We’re actually invisible."

​Caspian took off his glasses, looking out at the rolling hills of his home. "For the next forty-eight hours, we don't exist, Rayna. No fans, no Morrison, no Obsidian Dirge."

​"Just a businessman and his friend," Rayna said, trying out the role.

​Caspian looked at her, the grey light of the Irish morning reflecting in his green eyes. "Something like that."

​The car wound its way through narrow, twisting roads where the hedges brushed against the mirrors. The further they drove, the more the modern world seemed to recede. The sleek technology of the estate in California felt like a fever dream compared to the raw, salt-crusted reality of the coast.

​Rayna watched as they passed a sign for Easkey. Her heart began that frantic, rhythmic thumping again. She looked down at her hands- the red dye was now gone, but the memory of the music was still there, vibrating in her bones.

​"We're close," Caspian said, his voice tight with an emotion he couldn't quite suppress.

​The SUV slowed as they turned onto a gravel track that led toward the cliffs. In the distance, perched on a jagged outcropping overlooking the crashing white foam of the Atlantic, stood a small, whitewashed cottage with a slate roof. A single plume of peat smoke rose from the chimney, curling into the grey sky.

​Caspian reached out and took Rayna's hand, his grip almost painfully tight.

​"Last chance to run, Little Rocker," he murmured. "Once we walk through that door, there’s no turning back. She’ll have the tea poured before we can say hello."

​Rayna squeezed his hand back, her ice-blue eyes fixed on the cottage. "I’m not running, Caspian. I told you- I’ve spent my whole life looking for a door like this. I’m not about to turn around now. Even if I'm just pearing through the doorway."

​The car came to a halt. The engine cut out, leaving only the sound of the wind howling across the cliffs and the rhythmic roar of the ocean below.

​Caspian took a deep breath, adjusted his hoodie, and opened the door. "Then let’s go meet my mother."

​As they stepped onto the gravel, the front door of the cottage creaked open. A small, frail figure wrapped in a heavy wool cardigan stepped out onto the porch, squinting against the mist.

​Rayna pulled her hat lower, her heart in her throat. The "Red Queen" was gone. The "King" was a ghost. And the silence of Ireland was about to speak.