Dahlia

  “Your strikes must be more precise!” my father called out in the harsh language of the Sands as he blocked my chipped and battered training sword and stepped back to circle me. His steps were soft and nimble on the dry grass below our feet—my father’s footwork was impeccable. His eyes never left me—always calculating and anticipating my next move.

  It was the middle of the night, but the almost-full moon illuminated the clearing—our normal training spot—and the dense forest around us. Out here, we were isolated from Firen and miles away from the nearest path. We had never encountered anyone here, which was why we had made this our training site.

  For as long as I knew him, my father met me here almost weekly to train me. He trained me with swords and knives, instructed me on various survival skills he deemed important, taught me languages, and even told detailed stories of the history of his people—stories I probably should have paid more attention to.

  I tightened my grip on the hilt of my heavy training sword—using both hands to swing again at my father. And again, he easily blocked my weak blow and batted my sword away. My hands ached from our training, but I managed to maintain my grip on the rough hilt.

  We’d been at this for hours. My hands and arms were bruised and discolored from blow after blow from my father’s training sword. Even my ribs and thighs were probably black and blue beneath my clothing. Our training had been especially brutal tonight, and my father showed no signs of holding back.

  In a series of rapid blows, he pushed me back onto my heels until I stumbled back onto my ass—finally dropping my sword in the process. I started to turn to retrieve the heavy blade from where it had fallen several feet away, but my father pressed the tip of his sword to my throat and announced, “That's enough.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and leaned back against the grass, “Finally!”

  I prepared myself for my father’s disappointment. I’d been distracted, and it probably affected my sword work. After my run-in with the Reaper, I went home to open Mathy’s letter, only to find it wasn’t from Mathy at all, but from Carmen.

  The letter was unsigned, but I would have recognized the beautiful scrawl of letters anywhere. I’d read dozens, if not hundreds, of Carmen's short stories growing up—stories that evolved into full-length novels by the time she was sent away to the Academy.

  Her writing was beautiful, so I was bewildered to find her letter to be filled with confusing gibberish.

  Dee, remember Redmond’s “Flower Girl” song—the one we learned in school?

  “Flower girl, flower girl, do you think you see at night? Flower girl, flower girl, your path is not so bright. Golden boy, golden boy, betray her and you’ll see. Golden boy, golden boy, your rule will never be. Rebel boy, rebel boy, the girl is not a doll. Rebel boy, Rebel boy, force her and you’ll fall. Orphan boy, orphan boy, take her to the fray. Orphan boy, orphan boy, and the girl will run away. Soldier boy, soldier boy, your past will play a part. Soldier boy, soldier boy, the girl will judge your heart. Flower girl, flower girl, pick one to defend a birthright. Flower girl, flower girl, or pick two to embody your spite. Flower girl, flower girl, pick three to kill them all. Flower girl, flower girl, or pick four to answer his call.”

  It’s about the Crossroads. I wish I could tell you more, but Hastings is always watching. I wouldn’t dare cross her. Stick close to Simon, and don’t cross the Predictors, especially Hastings.

  I hadnt the slightest idea what the Crossroads was supposed to be. I recognized the song, of course. We sang it in school. Redmond, the greatest Predictor to ever live, taught it as a children's song. Our people passed it down over hundreds of years. But what it had to do with the Crossroads, I didn't know.

  As for her warning about Hastings and the Predictors? Like I would ever dare cross the Predictors. As far as I was concerned, it was better they didn’t know I existed. If I ever drew their attention, how long would it take for them to realize I wasn’t human?

  My father dropped my sword beside me, distracting me from my thoughts. I looked up as he smiled at me briefly and surprised me by asking, “You’ve been practicing, haven’t you?”

  I hadn’t practiced in weeks, but I didn’t dare tell him that. I just smiled and nodded—knowing he wouldn’t doubt me. I usually did practice when he was away. But lately, it had been difficult to motivate myself to even leave my home. Anxiety was a terrible thing—as was paranoia—and with the Imms around, I was far too anxious and paranoid nowadays.

  I retreated to the small fire that lit up the meadow and picked through my father’s satchel until I found a bottle of water under the rest of the meager belongings he brought with him from the Circle. He’d travelled heavier than normal, this time. His satchel was filled to the brim with his possessions.

  “What’s with the intensity tonight?” I asked—remembering to speak in the Sands’ tongue as I opened the bottle and took a sip of the cool liquid.

  The language of the human world, called the Sands, was our language of the day. Every time we met, he chose a language for us to speak, and we didn’t deviate. That was why I’d learned so many languages over the years—languages I’d probably never use with anyone else, but I didn’t question his methods. A long time ago, I learned it was best to just comply with my father’s plans.

  As soon as the liquid hit my tongue, I nearly choked on the bitter taste of it—spitting it out in a fine spray over the fire, “What in the name of the Imm God was that crap?”

  “Brandy,” he chuckled as he sat beside me, taking the bottle from my hand and sipping from it as I watched.

  “Brandy?” I wrinkled my nose, “Liquor, I assume?”

  “Yes,” he handed it back to me before warning, “Expensive liquor, so don’t spit it out again.”

  I took another, more cautious, sip—letting the liquid settle on my tongue before swallowing it. It wasn’t unpleasant—not in the slightest. I’d completely overreacted to the taste before when I’d been expecting water.

  “How expensive?” I asked, eyeing the bottle curiously—perhaps this was something Portia would be interested in selling here in Firen.

  He gestured to the bottle where I’d placed it in the dirt between my feet, “That bottle is two thousand.”

  I scoffed. What a waste. You could feed a family of four for three months with that kind of money. My father smirked at my reaction as he reached into his satchel, retrieved another bottle, and handed it to me wordlessly. This bottle, I was pleased to see, was almost certainly water. But I took a cautionary sip of the liquid before downing the entire bottle.

  “Are you going to tell me why we trained so hard tonight?” I asked as I watched my father search through his satchel once more—this time to retrieve two journals and the little vial of poison he made me take at each of our meetings.

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  Wordlessly, he handed the poison to me and waited as I opened it and tipped the red liquid into my mouth. The bitter liquid burned as it made its way down my throat. Even after years of taking the poison, I never acquired a taste for it. This specific poison—a concoction made specifically to weaken the Imms—never tasted the same to me. Some days, it burned my throat worse than others. Some days, it tasted sweeter—others saltier. On occasion, the poison left me bedridden for days, and on occasion, I felt unaffected by it. It wasn’t perfect, but still, I depended on it.

  Once my father was sure I’d swallowed all the poison, he wordlessly handed a red-leatherbound journal to me, and I took it from him. I didn’t even really need to look at the journal to know what it was. I’d handled the thing nearly fifty times. It was my third journal, all of which had identical red bindings. I suspected my father had dozens of these journals waiting for me—full of fresh pages for me to fill every week to meet his expectation that I record my life.

  And he did the same, oddly enough. Each time he visited, we sat in silence beside the fire and filled in the pages of our journals with whatever was happening in our lives. My father was secretive about his journal—and about mine. He often reassured me that no one—not even he—would ever read my writing.

  It was taboo among the Imms, apparently, which raised another question—how common was journaling among Imms? For some reason, my father wouldn’t answer this question—or any of my questions about his people, for that matter. The journals were a sensitive topic for him, so I complied with his requests to write the most intimate details of my life in a journal that could outlast me, leaving my personal life open to scrutiny when I finally died.

  I relied on my father’s assurances that no one would dare read it, though I doubted a curious Imm would let some strange journal taboo stop them from reading someone’s private thoughts if the impulse struck them. I certainly didn’t have these reservations.

  I looked over to find my father deep in thought as he wrote in his own, black leatherbound journal. So, I started writing—first about meeting the Reaper and speaking to him. I wrote about the strange connection I felt to him and how it was so much like my connection to Hawthorne. And as I wrote Hawthorne’s name, I remembered to also write about how he was still ever-present in my waking thoughts. I couldn’t help but obsess over the man despite fearing him.

  It was foolish, really. I knew that. And yet I couldn’t help but think about him. And now the Reaper seemed to be equally present in my thoughts. They were both such dark men—Hawthorne with his moody temperament and the Reaper with his murderous tendencies.

  I sighed. Why couldn’t I be attracted—or connected or whatever this strange sensation was between us—to someone normal like Max?

  I turned to another page, and I felt my father’s eyes flash to me as I began to write urgently about how stupid I was for fantasizing about such dangerous men—a literal murderer and an Imm who threatened my very existence.

  “You have a lot to write about tonight,” he observed—his eyes gazing at my journal like he desperately wanted to read it.

  “I had a shit week,” I admitted with a frown as I lifted the journal to ensure he couldn’t read anything, “Carmen finally reached out to me—only she spoke in riddles like a goddamned Predictor.”

  My father’s curious expression softened, “I found that quality endearing in your mother.”

  “It’s infuriating—not endearing,” I scoffed at the ridiculousness of his statement, “I miss my friend the way she was before the Predictors sunk their claws into her. Now, she’s completely isolated from me and doesn’t talk to me the way she used to.”

  Or at all.

  “Hmm,” my father became immediately disinterested in my ramblings as he turned back to his writing.

  I nearly laughed. He never knew how to respond to my emotional rants and found it easier to ignore them—which was fine. He wasn’t equipped to handle my emotional turmoil on the best of days. I didn’t blame him. I was a lot to handle.

  With an exaggerated eye roll, I returned to my journal to document how Carmen had sent me a letter through Mathy—but I was careful not to document everything within that letter. I simply wasn’t sure I knew what to highlight.

  When I was done writing, I tossed the journal back to my father, who deftly caught it as I asked, “Why are we training so hard?”

  I crossed my arms stubbornly—holding my father’s gaze now. Now that I was done journaling, he really had no excuse to keep me in the dark.

  He sighed, “The King is sending soldiers to track down this…Reaper who’s been murdering our people.”

  “The soldiers have been here for weeks.”

  “He’s sending more—his best, actually,” my father clarified, “He’s frustrated that no one has located the Reaper yet.”

  “And what does that have to do with me?” I asked—worried that he somehow knew I’d spoken to the Reaper.

  “With these soldiers wandering the streets of Firen, you are at risk, Dahlia—you know that.”

  “I’m always at risk,” I shrugged casually, though I felt my anxiety spike at the thought of encountering more Imms, “No one has ever suspected me.”

  He nodded—acknowledging that what I said was true.

  “In the Circle,” he revealed, “The Reaper has become something of a legend—a scary story, even.”

  “Good,” I smiled at the thought, “Maybe the Imms will stay out of the Red with the risk of death looming over them.”

  “The Reaper puts you at risk,” he disagreed, eyes narrowing on my face, “And he’s a murderer—not someone to praise.”

  “He’s a hero—one with far more nerve than me,” I rose, sensing our conversation was devolving now, “At least he’s out there trying to stop Imms from kidnapping children.”

  “We aren’t—” he began.

  “You are.” I raised a hand to stop him. “You’re just oblivious to what’s happening here. The Imms have been coming here to kidnap children for well-over a decade—it’s not only a problem in Firen. Children from the Red go missing almost every week.”

  As he opened his mouth to argue, I pictured Erich as I leaned toward him and hissed, “They even took one of my closest friends—years ago. So don’t tell me I’m exaggerating or lying—this problem has touched nearly everyone in Firen. So many of us have lost someone we love. I’ve kept my head down, but I’m starting to wonder if I should have intervened by now.”

  “You aren’t a hero—a vigilante—Dahlia,” my father frowned at me, “That’s not what I’ve trained you for.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” I laughed. That was an obvious statement. "I'm trained to be a coward—to hide!"

  I wasn’t strong enough to risk discovery—something my father constantly reiterated. I was talented, but I wasn’t like the Imms. I didn’t have their endurance, my senses—while enhanced—were muted compared to their senses, and my flesh was as soft as a human’s—even if my bones were probably as strong as an Imm’s. I would never compare to an Imm’s perfection and strength—not without using my own advantages like the Sight, that is.

  But even with the Sight, I wasn’t sure I could last in a fight with a well-trained Imm. Immortality meant many more years of experience. They simply had more time to perfect their skills.

  “Do you truly believe that someone is kidnapping children here?” My father asked—pink lips pursed on his perfect—yet abnormally pale—face.

  I could tell he wanted to believe me, but it would take some convincing.

  “I know that people are kidnapping children,” I corrected with a shake of my head, “Everyone knows it. These rogue Imms come in the night and steal children away—often from their beds.”

  He continued, “And this Reaper is saving them? That’s why he’s murdering Mirnen?”

  “Exactly,” I nodded—satisfied that he was trying to understand, “And as far as I know, he hasn’t killed anyone with an official purpose in Firen—just the intruders who come for the children.”

  “Are the Calos aware—”

  I cut him off, “I don’t think Eloise Calo cares to know why the Imms were here and why they were killed. As far as she and the other Calos are concerned, there are dead Imms in the Red, and they want to punish the Reaper for it.”

  My father studied my face for a long time. Silence settled between us, but as it grew, the meadow and forest around us became awash with the sounds of wildlife and the breeze rustling the trees.

  Finally, he admitted with a sigh that cut through the noise, “That does sound like Eloise. When you’re made responsible for a human world, it does look bad to have even rogue Mirnen slaughtered in the streets. We can’t have the humans believing they can stand up to us.”

  My ears perked up at this.

  “Can they?” I wondered aloud, “Stand up to the Imms, that is?”

  “No. But sometimes, they try anyway.”

  I didn’t have a response to that, and the silence grew between us once again. Deciding there was nothing else to talk about, I rose to collect my belongings. Before I could finish, he finally spoke. “Swear you won’t get involved, Dahlia.”

  I couldn’t help but snort a laugh as I continued to pack my small satchel, but I didn’t respond. As I turned to leave, he caught my arm and urged, “Swear, Dahlia.”

  I took in his expression. His eyes were so serious and so much like my own that I could never doubt he was my father. I nearly looked away at the thought. Instead, I yanked my arm out of his grip and started to back away with my arms spread wide in submission as I explained, “My biggest priority is still self-preservation, and I can’t stand up to Imm soldiers—we both know that.”

  I turned into the forest, slipping into the darkness where the moonlight barely seeped through the dense overhead foliage. I walked several paces into the tree line before I continued, “I’m no hero. I already know that. I won’t risk my life in support of the Reaper.”

  But what would I risk my life for?