Dahlia

  It was the first warm day of the year. Typically, Firen warmed in mid-March, but this year it took another month to feel the signs that the brutal heat of summer was approaching. Taking a deep breath, I pulled off my thin coat to soak in the sun, turning my face up towards the warmth above.

  As I turned my attention back to my surroundings, however, my eye caught a new mural on the side of the butcher’s shop across from the Ledge. Murals weren’t uncommon in the Red—most businesses in Firen left their walls open to the many artists who lived here—but this was the first mural I’d seen of the Reaper. In big, bold orange letters, someone had spelled out R-E-A-P-E-R at the base of the wall. Above it, they’d painted a half-black, half-white mask with gold spiderwebbed across its surface. I’d seen it before in the wanted posters throughout the city, but what caught my eye about this painting was what was painted above it.

  HERO.

  It was a bold statement to make when the Imms were so eager to cut down the Reaper just as he had cut down so many Imm intruders of late. It was dangerous to be his ally these days. I certainly wouldn’t risk it myself.

  Ignoring a brief stab of meaningless worry for the shop’s owners, I started down the street and stopped in my tracks at the sight of a huge man standing before me. The Imm man stood firmly in my path with no signs of moving—a dark expression on his face as he stared down at me. I was, admittedly, surprised to see the man. After so long, I almost believed he’d forgotten about me.

  I wasn’t so lucky.

  “Dahlia,” he muttered like it pained him to speak my name.

  “I remember you...Simon, right?” I asked, frowning at the angry expression on his face, “It’s been a while.”

  My mind wandered to the first and only time I’d met the man when I was twelve years old. I’d just returned from extended training with my father out deep in the forest that surrounded Firen. My friend Erich and I had been thieving in the market—picking pockets and stealing from vendors when they weren’t looking. Simon caught us and made us empty our pockets—threatened to punish us the next time we were “up to no good.”

  I’d never seen this man before that meeting, but he seemed to know me—he even called my mother a friend. And then I never saw him again—until now, that is.

  Fucking. Perfect. And here I’d thought I was going to have a good day.

  Simon looked almost exactly as I remembered—a perk of his Imm heritage. He didn’t age—not in the slightest. While the Imms appeared relatively humanlike on the outside, they were something else entirely—something that defied nature. My father once explained that the Imms were human once and remained human at their core. In whatever world they came from, something changed them—made them physically stronger, tougher, and far more dangerous than their human ancestors. Perhaps they were cursed. Perhaps they were blessed. Whatever the reason for their strangeness, it wasn’t natural—it couldn’t be.

  Simon’s eyes were a deep gray that reminded me of storm clouds—his hair thick and red-brown like the color of a chestnut horse’s hair. But what made him unique—and all the others in the Calo family unique—was the faint scale-like shimmer to his cheekbones and on his pointed ears—scales as smooth as the rest of his skin. And as I studied him, I noticed the same coloring where his neckline disappeared into his tunic. I’d heard this coloring likened to fish scales before, and up close, I couldn’t help but agree with the description.

  “I told you I’d punish you if you started getting into trouble again—don’t you remember?” Simon asked—his gray eyes affixed firmly to mine. His nose was wrinkled as if he’d smelled something rancid.

  “I don’t get into trouble, Simon,” I snarled at him before impulsively adding, “What the hell is that face for?”

  “I can smell Ferro all over you!” Simon snapped as he closed the distance between us and reached for my hair.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  On instinct, I slapped his hand away and growled, “What I do with him is none of your business.”

  “Everything you do is my business!”

  I winced at the rage in his voice. I could act tough all I wanted, but the Imms were a threat—something for me to fear.

  “I haven’t seen you in over a decade, asshole,” I reminded him, “How is anything I do your business?”

  His stormy eyes met mine, and something about my expression made him soften instantly—catching me off guard. He seemed about to reach for me again, but stiffened and affixed a neutral, emotionless expression to his face as he pulled away. Gone was any sign of warmth. I was puzzled by the change until I heard footsteps approach on the cobblestone road.

  “Simon,” a rough voice called out behind him—a voice I could never forget, though I wanted to. I looked around Simon’s tall frame and wrinkled my nose at the sight of another Imm man walking down the path with even, unhurried steps.

  Hawthorne.

  I met this Imm the same day I met Simon, but he’d left an entirely different impression on me. With a single touch, I felt a strange connection to the man—one that haunted me to this day. And the second time I encountered this man at sixteen years old, I knew I would never forget the handsome Imm soldier. Years later, I still thought of him.

  And he still featured in my nightmares.

  Terror filled my veins, and I felt my stomach flip at the sight of him after so long. The last time I saw Hawthorne, he threatened to kill me simply for talking back to him. But like an idiot, I also fantasized about him for years—a foolish teenager’s delusions, of course. He was so startlingly beautiful, it was truly a shame he was so dark. I tried not to think about that as I finally faced this Imm man once more.

  Hawthorne was massive—even among the Imms. His dark hair was long today, but I could see his pointed, feathered ears peeking through the dark curtain of hair that fell to his broad, black shoulders. And there were more feathers along his hairline and even mixed into his hair, making me wonder how he combed it. His black clothes stretched over his muscular form, leaving nothing to the imagination below the fabric. Upon his back, he wore two massive, crossed swords as if he were prepared for a fight—almost comical in a place as peaceful as the Red.

  Admittedly, his dark eyes threatened to make me swoon like some sort of lovestruck human girl.

  Pathetic.

  I was, once again, startled by my attraction to the man—an attraction I’d hoped was simply a teenager’s foolishness. But even after all these years, I wanted him, not that I’d never act on those desires—not with an Imm.

  Well, fine. Not unless he asked nicely—but Hawthorne wasn’t nice. He was dangerous—horribly dangerous. I didn’t need to know him well to sense the darkness clinging to him.

  Noticing me peeking out from behind Simon, he ran his dark eyes over me with interest as he approached, “It seems the human is all grown up.”

  Mere steps away from me, I watched him stiffen, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring as he growled, “Playing with men, now, little human?”

  Little. The Imms loved to describe humans in a way that diminished their worth. Little. Pathetic. Weak. Poor. Pitiful.

  I crossed my arms in frustration but kept my voice even, “Only the nice ones.”

  “What a shame,” He stepped forward so that I was forced to look up to meet his gaze. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, “I’m not nice—not to humans.”

  I kept my expression guarded, but my mind wandered to all the things I had imagined doing with this Imm man over the years. And just like that, the line I swore I’d never cross started to blur—until he opened his mouth again, that is.

  “Tie your goddamned boots properly—and fix your blouse,” he sneered as he gestured to my appearance, “You look like a common whore walking around like that.”

  Yeah. His words knocked some sense back into me.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re jealous,” I sang with a sly smile—refusing to be insulted.

  He stepped forward—smirking at me now in an unnerving way that made me wonder if he was amused or simply excited to pummel me for mocking him. I hoped he just thought I was funny.

  “Hawthorne,” Simon interrupted with a firm warning in his tone.

  Ignoring him, Hawthorne grinned down at me, “You should be jealous, not me. Does that human make you feel good, little thing? A Mirnen could do better, you know.”

  Refusing to be embarrassed or provoked, I smiled back, “I doubt that. He’s pretty good in bed. I wouldn’t waste my time with him otherwise.”

  Hawthorne narrowed his eyes at me again, but before he could say more, Simon pushed me in the direction I’d been heading and grumbled, “Have you lost all sense—testing a Mirnen man without any regard for your own safety? Fool.”

  I bristled and jerked away from Simon’s touch. Without breaking stride, I turned my back on the men with a wave of my hand, “You can both go screw yourselves. I didn’t ask for this little reunion, and to be clear, I’d rather not repeat it anytime soon—so stay away from me.”

  I heard one of the men—which one, I couldn’t be sure—grumble something under his breath, but neither man followed me as I stormed away as quickly as I dared. I silently thanked the Imm God when neither man followed me. It had been a risk to talk back to them—to argue. This time, the risk paid off.

  I exhaled deeply as I looked down at my shaking hands. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, but my confidence was fading now—the adrenaline making me feel sick. I loathed the Imms—all of the Imms.

  Because of them, I would never be safe.