Excerpt from Hawthorne’s Journal – July 29, 4-1896

  I need to get out of Firen. The longer I’m here on this mission, the more I’m drawn to the damned human woman. Every time I see her with Ferro, I want to cut him down and claim her as mine. It’s infuriating. How does this human woman hold so much power over me? Why the fuck do I want to lock her up somewhere only I can find her?

  Why couldn’t Dahlia be unsightly or irritating? Why couldn’t she be wild like she was as a child? If she were different, I could ignore her completely as nothing more than a curiosity. But she’s stunning and bold. She walks around Firen like she owns the damned place, and people respect her. I fantasize about her. I can’t focus—my mind is always wherever she is.

  I envy Ferro and the hold he has on her. I envy the way she goes to him when she needs company. I envy the way she lets him touch her—the way she trusts him. I envy his humanity. She would never give herself to me the way she’s given herself to Ferro. No. She looks at me like I’m some sort of monster.

  I can’t even confide in Simon anymore. There’s something about my interest in Dahlia that bothers him. Jealousy, maybe? Is Simon a threat where Dahlia is concerned, or is his interest in her simply platonic in nature? That seems more likely given Simon’s history. She wouldn’t survive if Simon’s interest in her was more than platonic—she’d probably already be dead.

  Regardless, the Reaper needs to die quickly so I can leave the Red before I do something I’ll regret to Ferro—or maybe to the woman herself.

  Dahlia

  “Keep up, Dahlia!” my father called back to me as he sprinted through the forest at his full Imm speed.

  I groaned loudly as I tried to pick up speed, panting loudly with the effort of keeping pace with him. My clothes were now drenched in sweat. Even my hair was saturated with it. The stifling, mid-August heat was oppressive—even at night. I was on the verge of exhaustion, but I couldn’t stop yet.

  We’d been running for hours to improve my stamina. While I inherited Imm speed and healing, I didn’t quite match a full-blooded Imm’s stamina and physical strength. I tired quickly—almost as quickly as a human despite my intense training. And while I was stronger than humans, my strength was laughable compared to an Imm—especially an Imm man. These weren’t my only shortcomings. My sense of smell, while good, was muted. My hearing, while heightened, paled in comparison to the Imms. As far as my father was concerned, I didn’t see quite as well as a full-blooded Imm either.

  But he didn’t know about my Sight. It was my secret. My best defense against the man who raised me, and yet, I couldn’t quite bring myself to trust him—to believe he would defend me from his people when the time came.

  As we neared the small lake that indicated we were almost back to our usual meeting place, I smiled to myself. Soon, I could rest. Suddenly emboldened by the thought, I felt a burst of energy and increased speed. Noticing this, my father glanced back and smiled to himself with satisfaction, thinking I couldn’t see him in the dark.

  I felt myself swell with pride. It wasn’t every day my father showed me some sign of his approval—even when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  We finally burst into the meadow—our usual Friday night meeting-place—and my legs gave out on me. I collapsed into the tall grass—grateful that it was there to break my fall—and mustered just enough energy to roll over onto my back. As I panted and fought off lightheadedness, I looked up at the stars and counted them to stay conscious. By the time I counted to one hundred stars, barely making a dent in the night sky, the pace of my breathing eased, and my rapid heart rate slowed.

  Noticing the change in my breathing, my father approached and sat beside me in the grass—commenting absently, “You’re bleeding.”

  “I’d heal faster without that damned poison,” I laughed humorlessly as I tried to sit up. When I found the effort too exhausting, I abandoned the task with a groan.

  I was probably covered in cuts and bruises. Running through the forest was a treacherous task at night. Tree limbs, branches, and shrubs often caught on my clothes and scratched my exposed skin. I barely noticed the pain. I was conditioned to tolerate it by now.

  “I thought maybe your skin would grow more durable as you aged,” my father admitted—ignoring my complaint about the poison he made me take in small doses each night to slow my healing, “But you’re as delicate as a human. Well, besides—”

  “My bones and nails, I know,” I interjected, looking over at him and noticing the distinct lack of cuts and bruises on his skin.

  I’d heard this a hundred times. While I’d inherited my rock-hard bones from my Imm father, my skin was nowhere near as tough as an Imm’s skin—leaving me more vulnerable to injury. And with the poison in my system, I was even more vulnerable nowadays—more humanlike. Given how often my father brought this up to me, my vulnerability clearly bothered him—a necessary evil, it seemed.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  But everything about me seemed to bother my father.

  “So, are you going to tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?” He asked as he lay back on the grass beside me.

  I rolled my eyes.

  After meeting with Mathy, it took months for me to work up the energy to meet with my father regularly again. That didn’t prevent me from training on my own. I just didn’t want to deal with how inadequate my father made me feel on top of the pressure of pretending to look for the Reaper while also figuring out the Predictors’ secret and trying not to get involved with the Reaper’s mission to take down the Imm intruders.

  I was stressed—overwhelmed, without anyone to confide in.

  “I’m concerned about the Imm presence in Firen lately.”

  Not a lie, but also not entirely the truth.

  “Ah, good to see you have some sense, but you seemed so confident the last time we spoke—so sure you didn’t need to worry about them.”

  I turned my head to look at him and found him watching me closely.

  As I ran my eyes over his perfect face and eyes that were so much like my own, I had to look away. I would never grow accustomed to how strange it felt to have a father who appeared to be so close to me in age. If he were human, I’d think him to be somewhere around thirty years old—not much older than me. It felt unnatural.

  I muttered, “They’re concerned about the Reaper—not me. They have half of the city looking for him now.”

  “Him?” my father asked as if surprised.

  “Yes. Him,” I confirmed with a weary sigh before offering a little truth, “I’ve seen him—he’s an Imm, I think.”

  My father sat up straight, “You’re telling me a Mirnen is out here killing other Mirnen?”

  “Did you think he was a human?” I scowled before muttering under my breath, “Wouldn’t that be an incredible feat?”

  “I thought he might be a Halfling—someone looking for revenge for our treatment of Red Halflings!” He stood and started to pace back and forth across the grass.

  “The Imms are taking children!” I snapped, wondering if he’d forgotten about our last conversation, “He’s cutting them down to save them!”

  “Why would we need human children?” he scoffed, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I don’t know! I don’t know what they want with children. I don’t know what they do with them,” I groaned, rubbing my temples as a headache started to set in, probably from the tension in my shoulders, “I just know that they come for our children, and the only one who is willing to do anything about it is the Reaper.”

  “I’m starting to wonder if you are the Reaper,” my father muttered under his breath.

  Fury rising and finally emboldened with the strength to sit up, I snapped, “Why the hell does everyone assume I’m the Reaper?”

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt the blood drain from my face. I clasped a hand over my mouth to stop myself from speaking. But it was too late. I’d screwed up in the worst possible way where my father was concerned.

  My father stopped mid-stride and turned to face me—face tight with fury, “Everyone?”

  Shit.

  “Can you just forget I said anything?” I hugged my knees and hid my face—wishing I could run and hide from the rage in his eyes.

  How could I be so stupid?

  He startled me by gripping my arm with bruising force and dragging me to my feet as he spoke in a low, controlled tone that barely hid his rising temper, “Who knows about you, Dahlia? Why would anyone think you’re capable of killing Mirnen?”

  I clenched my jaw to keep from answering. It wouldn’t help. No. It would probably only make him angrier. I expected him to chastise me. I expected him to yell at me for being foolish, once again. I was used to these reactions. I even suspected he would try to hunt down anyone who knew about me—something I couldn’t let him do. None of the reactions I imagined in my mind resulted in him harming me, so when he slapped me hard enough to send me crashing back to the ground, I cried out more in surprise than in pain.

  Fine, maybe I cried out in pain, too. The pain was excruciating. I felt the skin on my cheek and jaw break open with the stinging impact of his hand against the soft flesh of my face. The sudden assault was disorienting. I rolled onto my hands and knees and looked down at the grass below me as I tried to regain my bearings. As I gathered myself, blood dripped down my face and fell in small droplets onto the grass below as I tried not to cry—to show weakness. I couldn’t show him how much he had hurt me—it wouldn’t solve anything.

  Before I could fully collect myself, my father wrapped his hand around my upper arm and yanked me forward—making me yelp in surprise. As he dragged me towards the dark forest in the opposite direction from Firen, I dug in my heels to stop him, but it was no use. He was stronger than me, and I was exhausted from our training. He dragged me through the forest underbrush, and as I struggled against his grip, it tightened on my arm—gripping me so firmly, his nails tore open my flesh, and blood dripped down my arm to my fingertips.

  “Stop!” I cried out, and when we entered the dark forest, panic gripped me. “Where are you taking me?”

  Darkness settled around us as we made our way deeper into the woods, and I was forced to rely on the Sight to see properly. I knew he could see well enough in the pale moonlight to navigate the darkness, but even an Imm would need to focus on the ground to avoid tripping.

  My father clenched his jaw but didn’t respond. He simply tightened his grip, making me wince as he threatened to break bone. The pain was too much now—his grip too tight.

  I begged—tears falling freely down my face now, “By the Imm-God, LET GO!”

  “SHUT UP!” He snarled back at me as he yanked my arm with even more force.

  And then, despite the strength of my Imm-like bones, an audible snap sounded as the bone in my upper arm gave way—breaking under the force of his powerful grip. I cried out, nearly fainting from the pain coupled with the exhaustion from our training. As my legs gave out on me, he started to drag me as though unfazed by my agony—agony that grew as he continued to pull on my broken flesh and bone. I screamed and sobbed and struggled against his grip on my arm, but in the end, I wasn’t physically strong enough to free myself.

  Resignation fell over me, and just like that, some of my own control snapped.

  I was so tired of being oppressed.

  I was tired of hiding in fear.

  I was tired of acting like a poor, defenseless human.

  I was tired of being so goddamned pathetic.

  Screw the Imms for their oppression. Screw the Predictors for murdering people with even the slightest chance of turning on them. Screw Portia for blackmailing me into compliance. Screw the Reaper for injecting himself into my comfortable life in hiding.

  And screw my damned father for failing to believe in me—for making me believe I was anything less than an Imm.

  He didn't know me as well as he thought he did.