Dahlia

  I let Portia believe I was spending my nights searching for the Reaper, but in truth, I spent my nights watching the Redmond compound’s gates, too desperate to learn what secrets the Predictors were hiding. It was a far better use of my time, too. The Reaper and the Imm rogues were still strangely quiet. And after two weeks without any movement at the compound, as I sat nestled in the shadow of a chimney on a rooftop across from the fence, my patience paid off.

  It was nearly ten o’clock when I heard the low rumbling of wheels on the cobblestone within the Academy’s grounds. I perked up at the noise—relying on my Sight to see from so far away. At first, I noticed nothing unusual, but when the gate creaked open, I finally saw the same cart from before. Again, three figures accompanied the cart, all with gray robes and hoods. Two of these figures pulled the cart along while the third figure followed close behind them as they made their way down the cobblestone road.

  There was no blood dripping from the cart this time, at least not yet, but there was a cloth tarp settled over the top of it as if to obscure what lay underneath. And there was something underneath that tarp—I didn’t need the Sight to pick up on that. My instincts told me there were bodies under there, but I needed confirmation.

  As I rose to follow the cart, a man’s harsh, deep voice sounded from behind me, “I didn’t think you had much of an appetite for vigilantism.”

  Startled, I whirled around to see none other than the Reaper standing just a few paces behind me, arms crossed as he watched me try to calm myself. I’d been so distracted by the Predictors, I hadn’t even heard him approach over the sound of the cart.

  “How the hell did you find me?” I gasped, taking a nervous step back.

  “We can talk later,” the Reaper gestured in the direction the cart was heading, “For now, let’s see where that cart is going, shall we?”

  I looked from him to the cart, where it was starting to curve around a bend in the road. My eyes darted back to him, and I took a small step back as he took a step forward towards me. “You can take your time, dear, but I’m going after them whether you join me or not.”

  “Why do you care about what the Predictors do?” I asked, my voice low—letting my suspicion seep into my tone.

  As far as I knew, the Reaper hunted the Imms—not the Predictors.

  Ignoring my question, the Reaper ran past me and gracefully leapt onto the next roof—impressive, given his size. I considered letting him run off alone, but I couldn’t ignore the mystery of the cart, unraveling before my eyes. Could I really give up this chance to learn what the Predictors were doing?

  No. I couldn’t.

  I groaned inwardly and ran after him, leaping onto the roof to follow him as he navigated this roof to jump to the next sloped rooftop. He struggled to maintain his balance on the sharply angled surface—his size was a disadvantage here. Sure, the Reaper was strong and dangerous, but I was far nimbler than him up here.

  We continued on with me following close behind, but when he jumped down to a smaller house at the end of the road, he landed quietly but nearly slid off the roof altogether. He growled at the sight of me landing softly beside him, easily keeping my balance, “This is bullshit.”

  I felt some satisfaction at knowing I excelled at this task, given that he probably had innumerable other advantages over me.

  “Get over it and keep up,” I huffed as I slipped past him to ensure we didn’t lose the cart.

  He grumbled something I couldn’t understand as I leapt onto the next roof. From here, I could see the cart again, and I watched as it turned onto a wide road that transformed into a dirt trail. I knew where they were going now. That trail only led into the dark tree line of Lore Park—the largest park in Firen.

  I paused and watched the cart as it slowly crept towards the tree line—struggling on the trail’s beaten path. The Reaper stopped beside me, “We need to see what they’re doing in there.”

  “Clearly,” I agreed as I jumped down to the ground without warning, my feet stinging from the impact of my soles on the hard ground, but I ignored the pain and took off, running as quickly as the wind.

  The Reaper cursed behind me, and though I suspected he had followed me, I couldn’t hear his quiet footfalls behind me.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  The cart disappeared into the tree line as I approached the wooded park, and I stepped onto the trail to watch it head deep into the trees and out of sight. I sensed the Reaper behind me—following so closely I could almost feel his breath through his mask on the back of my neck.

  The thought gave me chills.

  Everything about the Reaper gave me chills—and not just the bad kind. He was dark and dangerous, sure, but he also had a mysterious air about him and a deep voice that was just sexy. I shook away the thought. Maybe the strange connection between us was just messing with my brain. I needed to focus on my mission, a hard task when the Reaper was so close.

  We crept into the woods just off the trail, and I kept a slow pace to maintain a little distance from the cart while also keeping it within hearing distance. But the loud cart drowned out the sounds we made as we navigated the dense woods and shrubs—our clothes inevitably catching on the bushes and branches and leaving small cuts on my skin. When the cart finally stopped, I quietly crept closer through the dense shrubbery, unsurprised to find that the Reaper was following close behind me. I could hardly even hear him breathe from his place on my heels. He was well-practiced at his art.

  We finally spotted the cart at a gate built into a wooden fence—one I’d never seen before in this park. One of the Predictors—a woman, based on her stature—went to the gate while the others watched. She unlocked a large padlock with a key she’d produced from somewhere in her robes. The gate swung open with a loud creak that reverberated through the woods and grated on my nerves.

  “That’s new, isn’t it?” the Reaper asked in the softest of whispers into my ear.

  I knew he was talking about the fence because he was right. It was new. I’d been in the forest often as a child, but it had been years since I’d last come here. In that time, someone had built this fence and whatever lay within—the Predictors, probably.

  “Yes,” I confirmed, my voice barely a whisper.

  As soon as the cart passed through the gate and the door closed behind it, cutting off our view, I was on the move. I ran as quickly as my feet would carry me and leapt up onto the fence, swinging my legs over in a single fluid motion before dropping into a crouch on the forest floor below. It had been a risky move, but I didn’t have time to worry about the Predictors spotting me. I needed to see what they were doing within the fence line.

  I looked around wildly—my eyes falling on the silhouettes of each of the Predictors where they were pulling the cart further into the fence line. Once certain I wasn’t spotted, I looked around and saw what appeared to be a small burial site not unlike my own mother’s burial site—just on a smaller scale. I took note of the altar and a black stone wall etched with the names of all those laid to rest here.

  When they finally stopped the cart beside the altar, one Predictor began setting up logs around the altar as the others got to work on the cart itself. I ducked into the cover of some shrubs to watch these Predictors as they worked to untie the tarp covering the cart. They were halfway done when I heard the Reaper ask from just behind me, “Do you really want to see this?”

  I jumped—spooked again by how quiet he was. I hadn’t even heard him negotiate the wall—let alone approach.

  “I must,” I replied—my eyes never moving away from the cart as the Predictors unfastened the last of the ties holding the tarp down, “I need to know if they’re a threat.”

  “They won’t harm you—can’t.”

  I didn’t respond because I wasn’t worried about myself—not exactly. No. It was Carmen on my mind. She was the one stuck in that compound with these Predictors. If they were dangerous, I needed to know. I wasn’t sure what I would do with that knowledge, but as Mathy always said, there was power in knowing things.

  One Predictor—a man, based on the low sound of his grunt—climbed onto the cart and slowly started pulling back the tarp. I had suspected what lay beneath, but I wasn’t really prepared for the confirmation that the Predictors might be killers. My heart stilled, and I nearly vomited at the grim sight of what lay under the tarp. A teenage boy lay lifeless beside a middle-aged woman. Both figures were covered in blood—throats slit, by the looks of it. The boy’s eyes were wide open as if he was in shock, but those eyes were unseeing—as dead as the body they belonged to.

  I felt the Reaper’s hand on my shoulder and realized I had started to rise as if preparing to intervene—in what way, I didn’t know. They were already dead. There was nothing more to be done, now. With a glance back at my shadowy companion, I returned to a crouch behind the shrubs and continued to watch the scene unfold.

  One by one, the Predictors carried each body to the altar—placing them side-by-side there. Without a single word uttered in remembrance of their victims, the Predictors each lit a torch before tossing them into the wood around the Altar. I watched as the altar burst into flame almost instantly, as if they’d used a chemical to make it burn faster and hotter—so hot, I could feel the heat from where I watched the flames lick at the bodies on the altar. They caught flame in seconds.

  With such intense heat, the fire burned the bodies so quickly that they were nothing but ash and bone within an hour.

  My dark companion watched from beside me, both of us silent as the Predictors picked through the remains on the altar with metal tools, removing the large pieces of bone that remained and dropping them into a pre-dug hole in the ground along the fence line. As the bones fell onto the damp earth inside, steam rose from the grave and settled over the area, creating a haunting scene.

  Without bothering to cover the bones with soil, the Predictors packed up their supplies and made their way out of the fence line and back into the woods. I considered following them—killing them even—but something kept me rooted to the spot. Confusion, probably. I stared at the long list of names etched into the wall of the altar and tried to come up with an explanation for what I'd just witnessed.

  The Predictors were supposed to be the best of us. They lived by a strict moral code and acted only in the best interest of our people. And our people trusted them.

  But what were the Predictors doing that required so much death?