Dahlia

  A tapping sound woke me in the middle of the night in late September. I sat up with a start and looked around in confusion—blinking away sleep as I wiped droplets of sweat from my brow. Given we were now well into Firen's six-month summer, there was no hiding from the oppressive heat—even at night.

  I listened intently but heard nothing but silence for several long moments. Just when I decided to go back to sleep, however, I heard the creaking of a floorboard in my kitchen.

  Adrenaline spiking, I leapt from my bed—retrieving a spare dagger from my bedside table as I readied myself to fight an intruder. I heard nothing then, not even footsteps as I waited for the intruder to enter my room.

  Eventually, I saw a shadowy figure step into my doorway on silent footsteps—a figure I immediately recognized as the Reaper.

  I lowered my blade as I locked eyes with him.

  “You can’t be here!” I whispered urgently, “The Imms are watching me. You’re in da—”

  “I left a diversion for them,” the Reaper cut in, “Don’t worry, Dahlia. We are alone.”

  “What kind of diversion?” I asked suspiciously.

  “The kind that won’t last long, so we need to hurry.”

  “I don’t think so,” I stepped back and lowered my dagger, “I thought I made myself clear—I don’t want you here.”

  He waved a hand dismissively, “I know, and I don’t care. I’m here because your Predictors are up to no good again, and you need to see it.”

  “What?” I felt my eyes widen as my mind immediately went to Carmen, “What do you mean?”

  “They’re back to killing—with the guards on Portia’s payroll to help them cover it up, now,” The Reaper explained as he stepped further into my room, “Come with me. I found someone who is willing to talk to us—who knows about the Council’s involvement.”

  I felt my heart race at the thought, “You’re sure the Council is involved—not just a few of them?”

  “Yes,” the Reaper nodded, “And the guard has proof.”

  Without waiting for confirmation that I’d join him, he turned to one of my three wooden wardrobes and rummaged through the brightly colored material hanging there.

  “Don’t you have anything that isn’t conspicuous? Green and orange? Red? Useless.”

  “I happen to like colors,” I shrugged as I pointedly flashed my violet-painted nails at him.

  His eyes shifted to my nails, but only for a second before he muttered, "You happen to be a spoiled brat."

  "Asshole," I murmured under my breath as I watched him move on to the next wardrobe.

  “Ah, here.” He ignored my comment as he pulled out a pair of dark trousers and a black tunic, and tossed them to me before retrieving my dark cloak, “Get dressed. We must get there and back before the Imms return.”

  I caught the clothing absently and paused—watching the Reaper turn to give me some privacy—and he waved a hand hurriedly back at me, “Didn’t you hear me? Get dressed. Quickly.”

  As always, my mind raced through tonight’s risks as I dressed in the clothes he retrieved for me—my eyes never moving from his back as I waited for him to sneak a look at me. But he never did. He just stayed firmly rooted to the spot as he waited for me to dress.

  Maybe the Reaper was a better man than I thought.

  “Let’s go,” I announced while pulling my hood over my face. With purposeful strides, I headed towards my kitchen with the Reaper close behind me.

  We quickly climbed over my kitchen sink and out the window into the small space between my house and the next to avoid detection on the street. The Reaper hoisted himself onto my neighbor’s roof before pulling me up to join him, but he quickly released his grip on my hand—not waiting for me to steady myself before running off in the direction of the Academy. Again, he jumped from roof to roof with the same clumsy footing as before.

  I followed him with comparative ease—travelling for miles before stopping at a small, green-painted house not far from the compound. He dropped to the ground, and I followed—dropping beside him before following him to the front porch.

  He knocked on the yellow, wooden door three times in quick succession, and the door opened quickly as if the occupant had been waiting just beyond it—the occupant being a guard I immediately recognized, though I didn’t know him well.

  Havish. He’d worked the gate sometimes on the days I went to visit Carmen.

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

  And if I knew him, I had no doubt he would know me.

  I hurriedly affixed my cloth mask over the bottom half of my face and lowered my hood over my eyes. Noticing this, the Reaper seemed to understand my desire to remain hidden, and he ordered gruffly, “Douse the lights.”

  The guard didn’t hesitate. He immediately went to douse the flames in the lanterns around his home—shrouding the place in a reassuring darkness that put me more at ease.

  The darkness belonged to me, after all.

  “Now,” the Reaper began as he closed the door, “Tell my friend what you told me before.”

  The man glanced at me suspiciously before explaining in a near-whisper, “The Council—they’re murdering Predictors.”

  “Speak up!” The Reaper ordered in a sharp voice before pressing, “And why—why murder their own people?”

  The man hesitated before clearing his throat and continuing in a much louder voice, “They claim to be protecting the Red—I don’t know why they think this helps, but that’s what she told us. She made us swear to secrecy—threatened to kill us if we said anything.”

  “Who is she?”

  The man hesitated before muttering, “Councilwoman Hastings.”

  "Louder," The Reaper growled before asking, “If she threatened to kill you, why talk?”

  “My sister is at the Academy.” Havish looked down at his hands and sighed with frustration, “I thought she was safe there—that the Predictors would take care of her. Clearly, if they are killing their own, I was wrong.”

  “What else?”

  The man continued, “We watch over them when they are in session now—”

  He paused to explain, “Hastings has become paranoid. She thinks she’s being watched—that someone might kill her and the others. And she’s not alone. Many others on the Council feel the same way. Some always have guard escorts with them now, especially when they meet.”

  He took a deep breath before continuing, “But I was there today when they voted to kill a handful of students who posed some sort of risk to something they called a ‘crossroad’—whatever that means.”

  I looked over at the Reaper, who seemed unfazed by the news—he’d likely already heard it from Havish before retrieving me. I doubted he knew anything about the Crossroads—or cared. He was more concerned with the murders.

  “And the proof?” the Reaper asked, his demeanor calm.

  The guard nodded and turned to a table with a stack of papers. He retrieved them and explained, “I took these notes from one of their desks today while they were on break—to be sure I understood what was happening there.”

  The Reaper took the papers from him but handed the top page to me as the man continued, “As I told you before. They need to be stopped—I just don’t know how to do that without being killed myself. I’m not sure the other guards will talk—especially to you. They know what the Council says about you—some of them believe it.”

  So the Reaper had been gathering information about the Predictors—using the guards as informants. But why?

  I studied him for a moment, wondering if maybe he had done this for me.

  I frowned at the thought and turned my attention to the papers to find a list of names written in black ink. Each name had either a checkmark or a line through it. I scanned the list, and my heart stopped at the sight of a familiar name on the list with a single line through it.

  Carmen Desa.

  Pushing down my panic, I lowered my voice—making it gruff and unrecognizable, “What do the checks and lines mean?”

  Startled by my sudden question, Havish whispered something I couldn't make out and then looked at me in confusion as if not sure what I meant. I tapped my hand on the table next to the paper I’d just reviewed and pointed out, “Some names have checkmarks beside them and others are lined out—what does it mean?”

  He cleared his throat again.

  “Checks confirm the vote to kill, and lines mean they voted to spare the person,” he explained, “And the votes were close—all of them. Some of the councilmembers didn’t want to kill at all, but others had no hesitation—it was…disturbing, to say the least.”

  “But the ones who didn’t want to kill were complicit,” the Reaper growled as he snatched the list from me.

  It was true, but I was less concerned about this fact than the Reaper was. I was more concerned about Carmen. Despite the Council’s choice to spare her, I knew it was an ominous sign that Carmen’s name had made this list at all. Someone had considered killing her, and that wasn’t a threat I was willing to accept.

  “We must go,” the Reaper announced as he looked at the clock on the far wall—clearly worried that his diversion wouldn’t last much longer. He took my arm and led me out of the house before announcing to the guard, “We will take this from here. Thank you for the information—I’ll find you if we need anything more. I trust you'll keep this all to yourself.”

  The guard didn’t say a word as we left him there in the dark, but by the way his face paled, I got the distinct impression he didn’t want the Reaper to come back anytime soon. No—he only wanted the Reaper to deal with the threat to his sister.

  That was something I understood.

  The Reaper rushed back to my house with me close behind. We moved in complete silence, relying again on the dark shadows of the rooftops to conceal us. And as we slipped back through my kitchen through the window, he turned to me, “Now you need to decide what you want to do, Dahlia. I’ve confirmed it for you. The councilmembers are killers—the worst kind.”

  “Not all of them,” I argued, though my argument sounded weak—even to me, “Clearly, some of them don’t agree—”

  “They are complicit! The Council even kills children,” The Reaper spat, “They should be dealt with. I’ve given you the proof you needed. I’ve shown you that your precious Carmen has been threatened. What more do you want, Dahlia? It’s time to act!”

  So that's what this was about. He was still trying to get me to join in his vigilante efforts.

  I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off again with a growl, “I'll give you some time, but eventually, if you aren’t ready to bring down the Council, I’ll take care of it myself. I gave you this chance as a courtesy.”

  I tightened my hands into fists, but I couldn’t respond as he turned and left by hoisting himself up and through the kitchen window, returning to the rooftops we'd just come from.

  I stared out into the night after him for a moment before closing the window and latching it shut—not that a little latch would stop an intruder like the Reaper. I could still pretend my little home was secure from the dangers stalking the streets of Firen nowadays.

  As I stared down at the latch, I considered my options. The Reaper would destroy the Crimson Council. He would kill them all without hesitation—I was sure of it. But I couldn’t support that. I wasn’t ready to condemn two-dozen humans to death without knowing each one—individually—had a part in the killings. And even then, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be the one to execute them.

  Maybe I could come up with a better option—one that didn't involve any more killing.

  But how did one bring down the very people responsible for governing their world—the ones who had no one above them to keep their power in check?

  How could anyone hold them responsible for their crimes?