Excerpt from Simon’s Journal – August 16, 4-1893

  I probably deserved to bear the brunt of Dahlia’s anger tonight. I thought I did the right thing by keeping her confined to her home and protecting her while she healed. She didn’t see it that way. Given the choice, I’d lock her up somewhere far away where no one could hurt her. Even now, I sense something is coming—some danger is on the horizon. What if I can’t protect her? It would be easier to hide her away.

  Will the Predictors act against her? Will the Ferros turn against her? Will the Reaper pull her into his vigilante nonsense? Will Bennett or Hawthorne discover her identity? Will she make some mistake that leads to her discovery at a time when there are far too many Mirnen in Firen?

  I believe the Predictors are her greatest threat.

  With what Elaine has told me about the Predictor murders and what I know about Hastings, I’m beginning to think she intends to act against Dahlia. While Dahlia’s mother assured me that she could handle herself where the Predictors are concerned, I still worry. They know her secrets, and if Dahlia were to threaten them…

  I doubt Hastings would take that well—regardless of Dahlia’s importance.

  Dahlia

  “Are you paying attention, Dahlia?” Portia snapped her fingers at me to get my attention like I was some sort of disobedient dog.

  I bristled but kept myself calm.

  “No, not really,” I crossed my arms casually and leaned back in the chair across from her desk.

  She’d been discussing some new business contract within Firen that meant she would need to hire more people to work for her. I had no real interest in the discussion. This was clearly meant for Max—not me. Max sat in the chair beside mine as he took diligent notes, as expected of the perfect little Ferro heir.

  He and I were so different—shockingly so. It was a wonder he thought we would make a suitable couple. He was devoted to his work, including this meeting, but I hadn’t given much thought to the ongoing conversation.

  My mind was on the darkening sky—and what might be out in the darkness tonight.

  An image of the Reaper’s mask flashed through my mind—giving me a chill of anticipation. Even when he didn’t show himself, I suspected he was still watching me—as a protector or stalker, I didn’t know.

  And I wasn’t sure I cared.

  “I need you to focus, Dahlia,” Portia rose to her feet, narrowing her eyes at me as if she knew my mind had wandered again, “You’ll oversee a large part of the contract, after all.”

  “What?” I sat up straighter and pointed at Max, “This is a Max problem—not an enforcement issue.”

  “If you had been listening, you’d have realized that our clients have some serious security concerns.” Portia sat down again and rubbed the bridge of her nose, clearly bothered by my lack of attention.

  Max reached over and nudged me. I turned to him to see him mouth, “Listen.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Fine. I’ll listen. Tell me all about these serious security concerns.”

  Portia ignored my sarcasm and continued, “Three Predictors were killed recently on the Redmond Compound grounds. The Predictors have contracted with us to increase their security. I need you to identify the weak points of their current security arrangement.”

  I flinched at the memory of killing those Predictors. Apparently, I was the serious security concern—not that Portia knew that.

  Fuck.

  I kept calm and cleared my throat to ask, “So, that’s only part of the contract? What’s in the rest of the contract?”

  Would we be helping the Predictors get away with murder?

  Portia looked down at her notes, “Transport, cleaning, food services, maintenance—basically everything to keep them running. But right now, all you need to worry about is security.”

  I couldn’t speak, so I tried to school my face into a confused expression.

  It worked. Neither of them seemed to notice I'd become suddenly tense.

  “They will cancel their old contract next Friday,” Max explained as he tapped a pen against his notebook, “And they are willing to pay us nearly double to take over the contract on such short notice and address their complaints.”

  “I’ve arranged a meeting with Councilwoman Hastings,” Portia continued, “She should be here shortly.”

  I sat up a little straighter, “Right now?”

  “Yes, there’s no time to waste,” Portia stood, “She specifically asked to speak to you about investigating the murders, so please, Dahlia. Be on your best behavior.”

  “I don’t think that’s—” I started as I rose to my feet in a panic, only to be interrupted by a sharp rapping on the door.

  Max gave me a look of warning and moved to the door, pulling it open to reveal the Predictor who had ensured her face was plastered all over the city. Between that and my days and nights watching Redmond Compound, there was no questioning her identity.

  This was Councilwoman Hastings—head of the Crimson Council. Besides the long, jagged scar that ran down one side of her face, she looked so normal with her dark hair and tanned skin.

  But there was nothing normal about Councilwoman Hastings.

  “Hello, Portia,” the woman greeted Portia with a wide smile and her airy voice, “Good to see you again, and thank you for arranging this on such short notice.”

  Her tone was polite, almost friendly, but I saw the cold calculation hiding in her russet-brown eyes, leaving me with no doubt that it had been a calculating move to meet with me here—to ambush me.

  “You too,” Portia stood and started for the door as she pointed to me, “This is Dahlia. She’s happy to assist with whatever you need. Feel free to use my office for as long as necessary. Max and I will be down the hall, should you need anything.”

  “You’re leaving?” I felt my eyebrows rise, “But—”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “It is so nice to meet you, Dahlia—no need to fret. This should be an easy meeting. I just don’t want to waste Portia’s time with the technical details,” Hastings cut in sweetly before adding, “Her time is so valuable, and I’ve asked her to do so much these last few days.”

  “Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” Portia reassured the woman, whose face was still the picture of politeness.

  I narrowed my eyes at the woman’s fa?ade as Max and Portia left me with her, and it came as no surprise when that fa?ade ended in an instant. As soon as the door closed with a click behind the mother and son. Hastings announced, “Well, Dahlia, I think we both know I’m not here for business—not Portia’s business, anyway.”

  Gone was the pleasant expression on the Predictor's face. Instead, her face had twisted into something of a sneer, giving me no doubt how she felt about me. The loathed me.

  My stomach twisted, and my hands threatened to shake with nervous energy.

  This woman was a threat, and I'd be a fool to view her as anything else.

  I feigned disinterest and slumped back in my chair without offering a seat to the older woman, “Yes, I figured as much. Might as well get this over with, then.”

  Hastings looked around for a place to sit, claiming Portia’s own chair behind her large, wooden desk. When she was finally seated, she continued, “You’ve become a liability—a danger to us all.”

  “I’d love to know what makes you think that,” I spoke mildly, unwilling to let her get to me. “Let’s talk about it—seems like a good use of our time.”

  She pursed her lips, but I could tell she agreed.

  We sat and watched each other until finally I encouraged her to begin with a hand wave. “Go for it. I’m all ears, Hastings.”

  She narrowed her eyes at me as if disappointed in my controlled reaction, but finally, she began, “We both know you killed three Predictors on Redmond property. I want to know why you killed them and what you expected to result from their deaths.”

  I wasn’t about to admit anything to this woman.

  “I don’t kill innocent people,” I replied coolly.

  Those Predictors weren’t innocent—we both knew that.

  “I see,” she ran a hand absently over the scar on her face, “And the Reaper? Does he kill innocent people?”

  “I doubt it,” I shrugged casually, “As far as I know, he only kills the Imm intruders.”

  Hastings leaned forward and placed her elbows on the desk before continuing, “I wanted you dead for a long time, Dahlia. Did you know that?”

  “No,” I laughed—refusing to be intimidated by this woman, “What the hell did I ever do to you?”

  She clasped her hands together.

  “I came to terms with your existence many years ago—with the understanding that, should you die, it must be fate’s doing because we can’t see what outcome will result from your death—at least from your death this early in the timeline,” Hastings explained in a harsh tone, though she seemed distant—distracted. “But in truth, I don’t hate you. I simply see you as a harbinger of human suffering without any real awareness of the second and third-order effects of your actions.”

  Ouch—she was so specific. Somehow, that made the insult worse.

  She paused to smile at me and added in a condescending tone, “And unlike you, we Predictors always consider outcomes in our decision-making.”

  Again. Ouch.

  I gritted my teeth, “Well, what can I say? I can’t see the future like you can.”

  She smiled widely, and I felt a shiver down my spine as her scar stretched over her cheek in a way that was far more menacing than I’d anticipated.

  “Do you know the Predictor mission?” Hastings asked curiously, “Our purpose?”

  “Not exactly,” I admitted, “But my teachers used to say your mission is to guide the people of the Red.”

  “Close, but not entirely accurate,” she smiled, “Our mission is to protect the greatest number of people in the Red—a utilitarian approach, if you will. Have you heard of utilitarianism? It’s an Imm concept. Perhaps your Imm father taught you something of philosophy?”

  “I can’t say I’ve heard of it,” I crossed my arms impatiently as I waited for Hastings to get to the point.

  “We judge an act based on its result—not the actors’ intentions, or even their intended result,” She explained, “So while you may view the Reaper’s murders as morally right because in that moment he is saving a handful of people from a cruel fate, we Predictors only judge the ultimate outcome of his actions.”

  “I don’t follow,” I admitted reluctantly, gritting my teeth at the admission.

  But I wanted to understand.

  “A lot of our people are going to die soon because of you and that Reaper—that’s the true outcome of his actions,” She scratched the tip of her nose gently before adding, “But I think you can change their fate.”

  “How?” I scoffed incredulously, “You Predictors love to talk about fate, but you’re terrible at explaining it.”

  She reached into her robes and retrieved a perfect, green apple from her pocket. She placed the apple on the desk and leaned back in Portia’s chair as she appraised me. Her Predictor eyes—usually unfocused—were strangely attentive in that moment. Every ounce of her attention was on me and the present.

  “Leave the Red,” the woman explained, “Kill the Reaper and leave the Red—it’s the only way to prevent the worst outcome.”

  “Why would I kill the only person with the courage to stand up to the intruders?” I scoffed, “And besides, this is my home. I can’t just leave.”

  “If you don’t kill him or turn him over to the Imms, more people are going to die than he has saved—that is the outcome we, as Predictors, see in our future. To us, that makes his actions morally wrong,” Hastings warned, “Soon, very soon, our people will suffer unless you act against him. You can move us down a new path, away from that suffering.”

  I found this hard to believe.

  “Why don’t you turn him in yourself?” I asked—narrowing my eyes at the woman. If she were really concerned about the Reaper, she would have done something more about him by now.

  “We don’t talk about the Crossroads to outsiders—something I’m sure you’re at least vaguely aware of by now given your connection to Simon Calo—and any discussion of the Reaper is firmly within Crossroads territory,” She leaned forward, “I may not agree with this Reaper’s actions thus far, but it’s your responsibility to handle him—not mine.”

  “You already tipped off the Imms the night he killed three intruders near the Ledge!” I snapped, “How is that not handling him?”

  “I did no such thing!” Hastings scoffed and sneered, “Another acted against the will of the Council, and she was dealt with swiftly.”

  So it seemed the Council was no stranger to killing people, after all.

  “Ah, of course she was. Tell me, Hastings,” I smiled pleasantly, “What do you think will happen when our people learn about all the unfortunate deaths befalling young Predictors here?”

  She frowned and opened her mouth to respond, but before she could speak, I added, “That burial site in the park is so sad, isn’t it? There were so many names etched into that stone in so little time. Do you tell parents that their children are buried there? Do you even bother to tell them their children died?”

  “Predictor business is none of your concern, Halfling,” Hastings seethed, “Stay out of it.”

  She had all but confirmed she had a role in the deaths.

  “Actually, you hired Portia to take care of your business, which makes your business, my business,” I corrected with another smile.

  “Careful, girl,” Hastings snarled, “We are protecting our people—every action considers the best outcome—outcomes you know nothing about.”

  I rose—rage settling into my bones now, “I’m sick of your Predictor nonsense.”

  I made it halfway to the door before Hastings called out in an airy voice that made the hair on the back of my neck stand, “I warned you, Dahlia. If you don’t fall in line, you will regret it.”

  “Is that a threat?” I asked—pulling my evemant dagger from my skirt pocket.

  After my run-in with my father, I carried this dagger everywhere.

  Hastings eyed the shimmering blade warily before deciding, “You won’t kill me—that outcome seems certain.”

  I rolled my eyes and turned away, but before opening the door, I called back, “I have sufficient information to provide Portia with my security plan.”

  She didn’t respond, so I turned and added sarcastically, “We so look forward to working with you, Councilwoman.”

  “You aren’t excused, Halfling!” The Councilwoman called after me before yelling, “Get back here! You will wait until you are properly excused!”

  I almost dared her to stop me. Instead, I ignored her and strode out of Portia’s office, down the hallway, and into the small warehouse where Portia and Max were waiting.

  “Done already?” Portia asked, brows furrowed, “I expected you to take hours—”

  “I’m not doing it!” I snarled before jabbing a finger back in the direction of her office, “I’m not helping them get away with murder. You can find someone else to deal with that bullshit!”

  I wasn’t even sure Hastings wanted this contract with Portia. It may have all been a front to get to me. I didn't care. The Ferros needed to know my stance on this contract.

  Max furrowed his dark brows and opened his mouth to protest, but Portia stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder. I knew Portia well—probably better than anyone. That’s why I was caught off guard to find her entirely unsurprised by my accusation against the Predictors.

  From her reaction alone, I had no doubt Portia knew about the killing, at least in some capacity. She’d maintained contracts with the Predictors over the years. Maybe she’d seen something. Maybe she’d helped them in some way. Portia did have a way of learning everyone's deepest secrets.

  It didn't matter what Portia knew. Regardless, I wasn’t going to have a part in any of it.