Excerpt from Hawthorne’s Journal – April 30, 4-1880

  A spark. That’s what I felt the moment I touched that human girl—Dahlia. It was a spark of recognition like we’d met before—many lifetimes ago. I’d never felt anything like it in all my years of existence. God wanted me to notice her. I was sure of it. I just didn’t know why.

  What was so special about this child? She was unruly—thieving in the city market like some kind of street rat. Clearly, she wasn’t a street rat—if her weight was any indication, she was well-fed—but she was wild like an animal. Even her hair was unruly—a mane of black, wavy hair she hadn’t even bothered to brush before leaving home. She looked at me with such defiance in her green eyes, too—like I’d wronged her, somehow. She was brave—perhaps foolish.

  If Simon hadn’t intervened, I probably would have cut off her hand as punishment for her thieving and defiance. Simon believes the boy she had with her—Erich, I believe—is simply a bad influence on the girl, but it’s no excuse. A Mirnen child would never act that way at her age—twelve, according to Simon. She should know better—should be disciplined for her actions.

  But we simply emptied their pockets and let them both go. Simon insisted. The girl was lucky this time. The next time I catch her thieving, I’ll take a hand—maybe two.

  Dahlia

  “Marry me, Dee,” Max stretched out on his lush, crimson bed before rolling over to look at me, where I tried to steady my breath beside him.

  When I turned to look at him, he surprised me with a kiss from his soft lips—a deep, intimate kiss that made me jump.

  So aggravating.

  Max was becoming attached to me. At the beginning of our arrangement, he refused to kiss me at all, calling it a mark of affection that he never shared with the women he slept with.

  But now? Now, he wanted commitment—the signs were everywhere. He stopped by my home unannounced with gifts, invited me to parties, and even just wanted to spend time with me outside of the bedroom. I wasn’t the kind of woman to form romantic attachments. I wouldn’t take that risk, even if I liked Max.

  Well, I usually liked Max.

  I pressed a palm to his forehead and shoved his head back as I growled, “Don’t you dare, Ferro.”

  He grinned—the expression lighting up his dark eyes and handsome face. Yes, Max was handsome in the way that money can buy beauty. He always had perfect hair and a well-groomed beard that highlighted his strong jaw. He dressed well and used only the best products to maximize his appearance.

  Max reached over to grab my hair and tugged on it harder than I anticipated—making me gasp and swat his hand away as he chuckled—showing his brilliant white teeth, “It was worth a try.”

  Wordlessly, I fumed as I slipped off the bed and collected my clothes from where we had discarded them around the room as he asked, “Will you come back tomorrow night?”

  “Probably not,” I answered honestly as I dressed—rushing through the buttons on my shirt and messing up the pattern.

  Shit. I really needed to get out of here.

  It was probably best to avoid Max for a few days.

  “Come on, Dahlia,” Max sat up quickly and grabbed my arm to stop me as he pleaded, “I can take care of you—let me show you.”

  I shot him an incredulous look, and he winced at the expression on my face. It was the wrong thing to say to me, and he knew it.

  I bared my teeth at him, “I can take care of myself.”

  He sighed and fell back onto the bed—his toned body still entirely bare as he sank into the soft bedding, “We’ve been doing this for two years, Dee—almost three.”

  “Back then, you said you didn’t want commitment!” I snapped, annoyed that he insisted on pressing this issue.

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

  “I seem to remember you saying the same thing when we met seven years ago,” Max reminded me with a snort, “And now look at you—you still work for us!”

  “That’s different! And I seem to remember I never agreed to anything but casual sex—your idea.”

  I rolled my eyes as my mind shifted to our first meeting when I was just seventeen. I’d visited his family’s bar after my only friend was sent away to become a Predictor. I’d been both drunk and emotional that day—feeling a little lost without Carmen. I’d dropped out of school and sulked at home for about a week before I wandered into the bar for more wine. Max found me there that day, and I left with a job as his family’s seamstress—my only admitted skill at the time. I’d found him charming—it didn’t take long for him to convince me to stick around.

  Besides, I needed a job.

  “THAT WAS THREE YEARS AGO!” Max complained as he rubbed a hand over his face—obviously exasperated when he added, “I’ve changed my mind since then.”

  Clearly.

  I turned to the door, unwilling to have this conversation with him, “Catch you around, Ferro.”

  “Wait!” He called after me, “The Reaper—”

  I whirled and hissed, “—has nothing to do with me!”

  “I heard that Councilwoman Hastings made an announcement about him yesterday,” Max warned, “The Predictors don’t like him—whoever he is. They may even start—”

  “I don’t give a damn about what the Predictors think about the Reaper,” I called back.

  That was true. Sure, Councilwoman Hastings—the current head of the Crimson Council—was someone to be feared, but not by me. The Council was a group of Predictors who ruled over the lives of everyone in Firen—and the Red as a whole. They were powerful and shrouded in secrecy—though Hastings seemed to adore the attention she received as their leader—but if you didn’t bother the Predictors, they didn’t bother you.

  So, I didn’t bother them.

  Ignoring Max’s protests, I left his room as I tucked my top into my loose trousers. I didn’t even bother to tie my boots before I slipped down the staircase and into the bar below. I paused as I took each step—trying to tie my boots without entirely breaking my stride. I gave up partway down the rounded staircase. I needed to get away.

  Lately, the Reaper was all Max could talk about—all anyone could talk about. Someone was killing the Imms—the immortals who called themselves Mirnen. And because the Imms routinely terrorized our city and sometimes kidnapped children, I couldn’t bring myself to care that they were dying. If this Reaper had the strength to stand up to the Imms, he had to be another Imm—or maybe a Halfling. And as the only Halfling in Max’s life, I was becoming the prime suspect in his mind.

  But I wasn’t the vigilante type—not in the slightest. If Max had taken even a second to really understand me, he would have known that, and I’d never be a suspect in his mind. My priority was staying in the shadows and out of Imm scrutiny. I wasn’t about to become a vigilante and risk my own safety.

  I stepped off the staircase and into the bar, drawing a few nervous glances from people nearby. The Ledge was busy today, just like it was every weekend. The dim bar was a beacon—drawing the seedy underbelly of Firen into its light. Max lived and even worked in the upstairs apartment, so I became a regular at this less-than-wholesome establishment.

  Less-than-wholesome, but the Ledge was well-cared for. Portia Ferro—Max’s mother—pumped money into this place to make it one of the most desirable bars in Firen. The red, wooden floors were spotless, the bar top was made of beautiful marble that shone, and only the best paintings and decorations made their way onto the walls of the place. As such, the crowd in the Ledge tended to be either wealthy patrons or those who had business with Portia.

  I caught some more patrons glancing my way as I stepped into the small crowd, and some who had been in my path to the door stepped away nervously. I didn’t blame them. As far as the people of Firen were concerned, I was Portia’s little pet.

  Untouchable.

  Protected by everyone in the Ferro network.

  Favored by her son.

  And anyone who messed with me felt the brunt of Portia’s rage.

  The people around me didn’t know it, but I had made myself invaluable to the Ferro empire. I’d become an expert at tracking down thieves, guarding Portia when she travelled for business, and even spying on her close business partners at times. And the world around me believed I was simply her seamstress. To be fair, I did work as her seamstress by day, but that wasn’t my primary role in her business.

  “Heading out already, Dahlia?” Al called out from behind the bar.

  The one-eyed bartender didn’t even look up at me as he polished an already spotless glass. I couldn’t help but grin at the sight of the violet flower I’d drawn in nail polish on his eyepatch after catching him snoozing in one of the bunkrooms the night before. He’d gotten drunk and didn’t make it home. It looked like he must not have noticed the design before starting his shift today.

  “Like the new eyepatch, Al,” I joked with a broad smile, “I think violet suits you.”

  With a start, Al removed the eyepatch to study the floral scrawl there with his good eye. He scowled, but only the good side of his face complied with the movement. The other side of his face hardly moved at all, as if he had lost all control of it. He spat at me and slammed the eye patch onto the bar top, “You bitch! That’s the third one this month! Do you know how much these cost?”

  I grinned.

  “Nope, but we can talk business later, big guy—I gotta meet Portia,” I called back with a wave, “See ya, Al.”

  I heard him mutter something under his breath, but I didn’t bother asking what he said. I knew Al was just as terrified of me as everyone else. But unlike everyone else, Al knew exactly what kind of work I did for the Ferros. He knew how irreplaceable I was, and he knew I was terrifying in my own right. So, he tolerated my jokes, but only because he wouldn’t risk angering me.

  With a smile at the thought, I pushed open the bar door and walked out into the early afternoon sunshine.