Dahlia

  “Remember what I said about Red Halflings?” Hawthorne asked from his place beside me as we walked up the hill towards Calo Castle.

  Hawthorne was eager to get to the Reaper—to show me the man behind the mask. It was difficult for me to keep up with his pace, given his long legs and even longer strides. At times, I was forced to jog to keep up with him, and to his credit, each time that happened, he slowed down for me.

  But I needed to prolong this walk. I wasn't sure I was ready to learn the Reaper's secrets.

  Or to see what the Imms had done to him.

  “Of course,” I gritted my teeth at the memory of Hawthorne describing how they tormented Red Halflings in the past.

  How could I forget what could very well become my own fate?

  “We will keep the Reaper in chains in the castle courtyard for the next week before taking him to the Circle for judgment,” Hawthorne explained as we neared the castle, “By day, the people of Firen will see him and hopefully learn the consequences of turning on the Mirnen.”

  I wanted to roll my eyes. The people knew the consequences well, so I didn't think it was necessary to treat the Reaper as some sort of spectacle.

  I kept that opinion to myself.

  “He’s a Halfling?” I asked, hoping for confirmation of what the Reaper had once told me about himself.

  “Yes—almost certainly a Red Halfling.”

  Somehow, I managed to find my voice, “So you’ll torture him?”

  Hawthorne looked down at me and frowned, but he didn’t answer.

  That was confirmation enough.

  “For how long?” I asked, trying to determine just how much the Reaper would suffer in Imm hands.

  Again, Hawthorne didn’t respond. And again, it was confirmation that the Reaper’s suffering would be greater than I could imagine.

  I felt the somber mood settle between Hawthorne and me. He didn’t speak, and I kept my thoughts to myself as we walked along. I struggled to stay relaxed, but relaxing seemed easy for Hawthorne. His hands were hidden in his pockets, and he adopted a casual gait.

  Despite his calm demeanor, the humans in the street avoided Hawthorne as if he were some sort of monster sent to kill them. At the sight of him, they scurried away to hide.

  He was a predator, even without all his weapons and fighting attire.

  When we arrived at the castle, I heard no sounds, but the metal gates obstructed my view of the courtyard within, where I suspected the Reaper would be waiting. Drawing closer to those gates, Hawthorne turned to me and asked—no, accused, “Did you know the Reaper killed about a dozen members of the Crimson Council last night?”

  I stopped in my tracks, “He what?”

  I shouldn't have been surprised. He'd said he would kill them. I just hadn't expected him to actually do it.

  “Don't even bother with answering. I know honest surprise when I see it,” Hawthorne sighed and waved a hand at me as he explained, “He slaughtered them while the others watched—he can be quite…theatrical, apparently.”

  My stomach churned at the thought, and the food I’d eaten that morning threatened to make a reappearance. I knew the Reaper would have wanted the rest to suffer as they awaited their own fates. He’d already said as much.

  “And Hastings?” I asked, wondering if the head of the Council would still be a threat.

  Hawthorne looked down at me with a confused frown, “Is that one of the councilmembers?”

  I rolled my eyes. Of course, he didn’t know anything about the Council.

  “Yeah, she’s a real pain in the ass.”

  Hawthorne furrowed his brows at me, “What business do you have with the Crimson Council?”

  “Portia’s business, mostly,” I shrugged, still trying not to think too much about the Reaper slaughtering the Council, but it did raise a question, “Is that how you caught the Reaper—the Predictors helped?”

  A dark smile flashed across Hawthorne’s face, and he shook his head, “No, human. That was your doing, actually—you helped.”

  I looked up at him, confused by his meaning until he explained, “You told us he was here to stop the intruders from taking human children. I didn’t believe it at first, but then we learned there was some truth to your words—so we set a trap.”

  I was first surprised that the Imms didn't know about the intruders, as if they'd been living under a goddamned rock.

  But then I felt my eyebrows rise as startled realization hit me, “You staged a kidnapping.”

  “Exactly,” Hawthorne seemed proud that the idea had worked, and I couldn’t fault him for it. They’d been smart to use the Reaper’s predictable nature against him.

  “And we couldn’t have done it without you, Dahlia.”

  I stilled.

  He was probably right. This was my fault. I’d tried to protect the Reaper, and in the end, I’d failed him, just as he once predicted. I tried not to react, but there was little I could do to silence my heart. Hawthorne seemed to hear every beat, using it to gauge my reactions.

  “Does that mean I get the reward, then?” I looked up at him with a forced smile, hoping it appeared genuine, "I mean—I could use that money right now. You know that.

  To my surprise, Hawthorne burst out laughing, “God no. Rewards come to those who help willingly—not those who side with murderers.”

  "Besides," Hawthorne turned to the gate, pulling out the key ring from before to unlock one of the doors with one of the iron keys, "I thought you didn't need my money."

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  Shit. Yeah, I did say that.

  "Well, yes, but—" I started to argue as Hawthorne opened the gate, and it swung on silent hinges into the castle courtyard. My train of thought faded as I shifted my attention to what waited within.

  My focus immediately fell on the figure chained to one of several metal posts in the middle of the courtyard—posts I’d noticed before but never realized were meant for this purpose. In the sun, the metal of the posts and chains gleamed with the colors of evemant, leaving no doubt that the person chained there could never escape through sheer Imm strength alone.

  The man hung limply from the top of the post so that only his toes touched the stone ground. His head hung limp too, his jaw-length, dark hair covering most of his face, hiding his identity.

  He wore only ripped trousers, leaving his upper body and feet entirely bare. He was covered in crimson smears of blood, but through the red, I could see he was rather pale—paler than most humans from the Red. I could also see that his flesh was covered in dark markings of flowers that ran from his shoulders and neck down his muscled chest and stomach to where they disappeared into the top of his trousers.

  Markings the likes of which I’d never seen here in the Red.

  Markings that looked much like the dahlia charm on the bracelet Hawthorne had gifted me.

  And something told me it wasn't a coincidence that the Reaper had marked his body with dahlias.

  Hawthorne pushed me forward, forcing me to draw closer to the man—the man I presumed was the Reaper, given the similarity to his size and bearing. I couldn’t tell if he was awake, but he was breathing—that much I could see from the steady rise and fall of his chest.

  As if hearing my footsteps, the man’s face turned up to me—his skin lit up by sunlight above.

  The world around me seemed to fade away as my eyes settled on the man’s face, and I realized it was as familiar to me as my own reflection.

  It was a face I knew well, though I hadn’t seen it in over a decade. His face was angular in a way that wasn’t entirely human, leaving him even more striking than the last time I had seen him. His lips were black, not red, and his eyes were also lined with black. As he rubbed his chapped lips together, I saw the points of his sharp teeth. Through his hair, I could see the tips of his ears—pointed and black-tipped like many of the Imms I’d seen over the years.

  He had changed so much, yet he was still the same person as before. His eyes were still a deep, chocolate brown. The shape of his face was still long, ending at a rather pointed chin. And he still had a smattering of freckles across his nose, giving him a more youthful appearance.

  I was surprised to see that he had a series of stars marked into the skin of the right side of his face, just beneath his eye. There was metal embedded in the skin of his face, too, with metal rings on his lip, nose, and even eyebrow. His earlobes both had metal rings, and he had a series of rings along the top of one ear.

  Just like the markings on his skin, I had never seen anything like this before. In a way, it horrified me to think he had mutilated himself—yet I found the jewelry beautiful.

  Despite the changes and the passing of time, there was no doubting this man’s identity. He’d taken up so much space in my mind and memories for so long, it was impossible not to recognize him.

  The man who defended Firen by night and seemed to know all my secrets was someone I’d lost, thinking I’d never see him again.

  Erich.

  “You recognize him, then?” Hawthorne asked, his voice cutting into my thoughts and reminding me that he was there, watching me closely.

  There was no doubt that Hawthorne remembered Erich from the day he’d caught us thieving in the market. I wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. He had said the Reaper had everything to do with me, and he wasn’t wrong.

  So I closed my eyes and nodded just once as I whispered the truth, “Yes—of course.”

  Hawthorne gripped my arm to whirl me around to face him, and I looked up into his furious expression as he seethed, “The penalty for helping a fugitive Red Halfling is severe—just as severe as the Halfling’s crime. Did you know that?”

  “I—” I couldn’t find my voice. There was so much running through my mind right now. Erich was alive—he was the Reaper. Hawthorne was threatening me, but he was also threatening him. It was only a matter of time before they executed him.

  And every part of me wanted to defend him.

  Before I could say anything, I heard the Reaper's—no, Erich's—harsh voice snarl from behind me, “Get your filthy Imm hands off her! She didn’t know anything!”

  Hawthorne’s eyes flicked up to Erich behind me, and he appraised the man, but only for a second before looking down at me, “I’m inclined to believe him, but only because I sense your shock.”

  I nodded dumbly, still unable to speak, but Hawthorne's attention had returned to Erich.

  “You should know something,” he glared at Erich, “You put her at risk. If I were any other Mirnen, she’d be tied up beside you right now.”

  My eyes closed involuntarily. I couldn't even look at my old friend. Seeing him here was just too much.

  “What will you do to him?” I managed, my voice hardly more than a whisper.

  Hawthorne hesitated, and when I shifted to look up at him, I found him watching me closely—gauging my reaction as he explained, “We will open the gates from tomorrow until we leave for the Circle this time next week. Before he stands before the King, we will invite your people to see what we do to traitors—murderers.”

  I swallowed hard as I forced myself to turn and lock eyes with Erich, finding him staring at me with something akin to loathing, but he wasn't afraid.

  No, he was brave—far braver than me.

  I tried not to think about my own fear as I turned to Hawthorne and spoke in a firm voice that cut through the chaos within me, “He’s a hero for saving children from the intruders.”

  As Hawthorne’s expression darkened, and he prepared to argue, I quickly added, “But he deserves to be punished for killing those Predictors. That wasn’t justice.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed my words, but I sounded like I believed them—that was all that mattered right now.

  I heard Erich’s harsh intake of breath. He believed me. He had no faith in me.

  But I shouldn't have expected anything different. I'd given him no reason to have faith in me.

  Feeling suddenly ill, I knew I couldn't stay there without saying something to reassure Erich that I wouldn't give up on him—something that might reveal too much to the Imm by my side. I forced my feet to move—to put some distance between myself and the compound.

  I had a new mission—one which could very well be my last.

  But it would also take some time.

  Erich would never stand before the Imm King—not if I had anything to say about it.

  Hawthorne caught up to me when I was already several blocks down the road, and I turned to look up at him, letting the connection between us take the reins over my self-control as I asked, “What will you do now, Hawthorne? The Reaper is no more. You have no reason to remain here in Firen. So, when will you leave?”

  "What about your friend?" Hawthorne raised an eyebrow as he gestured to the castle, "Aren't you concerned—"

  "I don't give a fuck about him," I argued, voice harsh and convincing, even to my own ears, "Right now, I want to know about you."

  His eyes skimmed over my face, seemingly skeptical as he considered the question, but he finally answered, “I’ll return to the Marrow—I've been gone too long, and I have responsibilities there.”

  I looked down at my hands, taking deep breaths to calm myself as I whispered the words that would set my plan into motion, “Will you come to me before you leave?”

  He stilled at the question—clearly caught by surprise.

  Raising my eyes to meet his, I strengthened my voice. “Will you say goodbye?”

  I tried to appear timid—like I longed for the Imm but couldn't quite put it into words. I used our connection to my advantage, leaning into the man as I spoke and inhaling his pleasant scent.

  Somehow, my act worked.

  “Sweet human,” Hawthorne murmured back as he raised a hand to stroke the right side of my face with surprising gentleness that gave me goosebumps, “Shall I say goodbye now, or is there something else you had in mind?”

  “I don’t want you to go yet,” I whispered—not sure if it was a lie or the truth, “I think…I think I need you, Hawthorne. I don’t understand it, but I—I don’t want you to leave me without doing something about this connection between us. I need to know it isn't just my imagination—that it's real."

  I was worried he didn't understand—that I hadn't been direct enough. I wondered if I should have just come out and said I wanted to fuck him.

  There would be no mistaking me then.

  But Hawthorne understood.

  His expression softened at my admission, and he leaned down to whisper, “Then go home, Dahlia. Take some time to decide if this is truly what you want. On Friday, when the city sleeps, I will come to you expecting an answer."

  He gently pressed his lips to my cheek before warning, "And prepare yourself, human. Because with me in your bed, you will have little time or inclination to rest.”