His mother, Hazel Anders… Fletcher didn’t know how she was here and a general of all things, but the shock wiped his mind of all the questions he knew he should ask.

  “Do you know who I am?” the woman before him questioned.

  The faintest memories of his early childhood played in his mind, scratching up every shred of evidence it could.

  “You’re my mother.” He shifted in the chair, grateful for the handcuffs since it meant she couldn’t expect a hug. Even if he could have, he wouldn’t have. Some part of him was ecstatic about the revelation, but the majority of him was angry and hurt.

  “Good.” She leaned back against the desk. “I’m sure you have some questions, and I have plenty of my own, but you can go first.”

  Fletcher swallowed heavily as he tried to figure out what to ask first. “Does Dad know?”

  “Sebastian is aware I’m alive,” Hazel said

  “Why didn’t I know?” he continued.

  “It was too dangerous for you.”

  He frowned. That was it? She wasn’t going to expound on why he was kept in the dark about such a big secret?

  “You should have told me,” he said.

  “Enough of that. Next question.”

  Fine then. Clearly she didn’t want to give many details about things, and Fletcher wasn’t about to push. Doing so seemed about as smart as poking a sleeping bear.

  “How did you end up here?” he asked.

  “I’m going to assume you’re referring to my position with the Mixed, and not this raggedy outpost,” his mom said. Her body language was stiff, and her eyes were cold. “After I was Hexed, I was freed by the Mixed while a prisoner of the Unhumans.”

  “Freed by the Mixhumans?”

  “The Mixed represent all three kinds of people on the planets. Unhumans, Humans, and Mixhumans,” she clarified with a note of disappointment. “We are the group working for a world free for all.”

  Fletcher furled his eyebrows. “‘Freedom for all’ was on the banner after the gala explosion, but Addy said that the attack came from the Humans.”

  “The Human government likes to use us to cover for their terrorist attacks. We prefer surgical strikes,” Hazel said.

  “What species are you mixed with?” he asked, changing the subject as he once again noticed the blue streaks in her hair.

  Hazel frowned. “It’s rude to ask such things, Fletcher. You should know better.”

  “Sorry,” he said sheepishly.

  “I’m part [Sylph],” she answered softly before turning her voice hard once more. “But you’d do well to not ask such blatant questions in the future, understand?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t particularly like her tone, some mix of an officer issuing orders and a parent disciplining a small child. In her defense, she might not have gotten much practice in parenting after getting Hexed since she was separated from him when he was less than three years old.

  “We just barely met for the first time in over two decades, and you already seem to hate me. Why?” Fletcher bluntly questioned, unhappy with the way his mother was treating him. This wasn’t what he expected from a long lost parent. Not what he expected at all.

  “You were found living among the Unhumans as the sole Human which means you betrayed your own people. I’ve never taken kindly to traitors, regardless of familial connection.” She kept her green eyes on him, cold and calculating.

  Fletcher regretted asking that question, and he didn’t ask anything else. He heavily disagreed with her interpretation of betrayal, especially given she was part of an active terrorist organization, but he didn’t want to argue that with her. He had enough sense to know he should at least try to ease the tension between them given she held all the cards in this situation.

  “Good. Now it’s my turn.” Hazel smiled at him, but the light of it never reached her eyes. “Fletcher, what on earth were you doing in Bren’it’p?”

  “I live and work there.” He kept his answer as concise and devoid of details as hers had been.

  “Work? Bren’it’p has no embassy.” His mother crossed her arms.

  “I’m the Chief Education Administrator. That’s why I was at the gala.” He leaned back, trying to make himself seem confident and relaxed when he felt neither of those things. Why was she keeping him handcuffed? She couldn’t really believe he was dangerous.

  “Well, that must be an interesting story as to how you ended up with that kind of job at such a young age, and in an Unhuman city even.” Hazel looked down at him. “Why don’t you start from the beginning?”

  “Can you uncuff me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I said so.”

  They stared at each other, Fletcher waiting for a smile or some other signal that she was joking. Surely, she was joking. Who spoke like that to another adult?

  “The story, Fletcher,” she reminded him.

  He sighed. “I was a math teacher in Alcett, spending my summers—”

  “A teacher?” Hazel interrupted. “You wasted a college degree on teaching?”

  Fletcher had never been ashamed of his decision to teach, not even during the most bitter arguments with his father during his university days, but at that moment, whatever pride he felt about his profession buried itself away as he met the stoney face of his estranged mother.

  “I wouldn’t call it a waste,” he said slowly.

  Hazel rolled her eyes and waved her hand. “Moving on.”

  He cleared his throat. “I used to teach at the summer program for Unhumans. During our last session, the government took notice of my care of Unhumans, and they—”

  “You mean they noticed you’re a traitor and a freak-lover?” she interjected, a dangerous edge to her voice.

  He bit his lip before speaking again. “Isn’t everyone who’s a part of the Mixed a freak-lover? You’re a Mixhuman even.”

  “Don’t say that,” Hazel spat. “We accept the few good Unhumans who exist. We don’t embrace their entire kind. Unhumans are naturally evil, Fletcher.”

  “Evil?” he chuckled. “My deities, you’ve got to be kidding. Sure, some Unhumans are evil, but so are some Humans. They’re just people, same as anyone.”

  “You don’t know them,” she said in a cold tone.

  “I think I know them pretty well. I have lived among them for months. I’m even dating an Unhuman.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

  “Dating… an Unhuman…”

  “Yeah. And she’s a great person. Not an ounce of evil in her.”

  Thinking of Beam caused a pain in his soul. She must be worried, assuming she was okay even. He’d never gotten the chance to confirm she’d made it out of the gala unharmed. His throat closed up as he considered how terrible of a boyfriend he’d been by abandoning her to care for someone he hardly knew anymore, but what was done was done. He couldn’t change things now.

  His mother closed her eyes and took a breath, drawing Fletcher’s attention back to the small room. She reopened them and forced a smile. “It’s alright. You’re just confused, but it’s nothing I can’t fix.”

  “Fix?” Fletcher asked in disbelief. His mother was crazy. He was done trying to play nice with a psycho. “Oh my deities, you’re actually serious right now. No wonder Dad didn’t tell me you were alive. You're a psychotic terrorist.”

  Before he could say anything else, Hazel was above him, one hand on his jaw to force his face upwards to look at hers. “Watch your mouth, boy.”

  “Or what?” he asked as a surge of bravery hit. Clearly she wanted him alive and unharmed given the lengths Addy and her team went to to bring him in and care for him while wounded.

  “Do not test my patience, Fletcher Anders,” his mother warned. She released her grip. “Tell me about your time in Bren’it’p. I can’t imagine many took kindly to having a Human around.”

  “What do you care,” he said sourly.

  “I’m your mother. It’s my job to care.” The words were awfully similar to something his father would say, but they lacked any of the warmth Fletcher expected from a parental figure.

  “You may be my biological mother, but you’re not particularly good at the job,” Fletcher said.

  Her lips twitched in frustration. “I’ll admit I’m upset with how you’ve run your life so far between being a full on freak-lover and traitor to your kind, but I am still the woman who gave birth to you, and I will always love you, no matter what idiotic mistakes you make.”

  “Really?” Fletcher realized that he was now very interested in poking this bear. In fact, he wanted to test just how far that “love” she claimed to have would go. “You know that Unhuman girlfriend I have? We’ve slept together. A lot.”

  Hazel took another breath in an attempt to keep her cool. “I told you to tell me about Bren’it’p, not the slut you hooked up with.”

  “I was a virgin before her actually, which means the only woman I’ve ever been with is an Unhuman,” he added casually.

  His mother turned away and formed a tight fist with one hand as the other reached up to her ear, drawing his attention to the small radio there. “Major Simpson, we’re through in here.”

  The door behind Fletcher opened, and he managed to crane his neck enough to see a Human man walking towards them. He was in his middle years, somewhere in his early forties with brown skin and buzzed black hair. He stopped and saluted Hazel.

  “Prepare the prisoner for transport. He’ll be coming with us to the base,” his mother said.

  “Prisoner, huh? So much for always loving me.” Fletcher couldn’t resist one last jab at the bristling woman in front of him. If she thought she could rip him away from his entire life without any kind of fight, she was wrong.

  Hazel didn’t even bother looking back as she issued her next order. “Shut him up.”

  Before Fletcher could give her a full review of exactly what he thought of her parenting skills, the other soldier in the room slapped a long piece of duct tape over his mouth, forcing him to keep those comments to himself.

  “Your team will handle his care,” Hazel said, finally turning to face the two, a slight smile forming as she caught sight of Fletcher struggling against his bonds and the gag. She looked at Simpson. “I don’t want Lieutenant Baltic or any member of her team near him without my permission. He speaks to no one, and no one speaks to him.”

  “Yes, General,” the Major said with a quick nod.

  “Dismissed.”

  Simpson turned to Fletcher, lifted his cuffed hands from behind the chair, and pulled him to his feet, ignoring his grunts of protests. The man kept a firm grip on Fletcher’s upper arm as he hauled him from the room with a quick pace, and as they exited, Fletcher took one last glimpse of his mother who watched him go with a shake of her head.

  His captor continued with the hasty pace, barely giving Fletcher a chance to walk on his own as they made their way through the hallways of the outpost. Just as he’d expected, the walls were a mix of cement and metal beams with white overlights that made the entire place cold and unwelcoming.

  They passed several guards as they went, who all saluted the Major but did nothing to acknowledge his prisoner, and after about five minutes of walking, Simpson opened a metal door that looked the exact same as any other they’d passed and shoved him inside.

  It was a small room that looked to have once been a closet. The shelves were all empty now, and a single crate waited in the center of the room.

  The officer pulled the tape from Fletcher’s mouth, undid his cuffs, and gestured to the container. “There are spare shoes and coats in there. Find something that fits.”

  Fletcher rubbed his wrists as he walked towards it. Inside was exactly what the Major said, but it was all military issued—combat boots and camo jackets that lacked any kind of rank or designation.

  Seeing no other option, he began digging through the contents, checking sizes to see how close of a match he could find to what he needed.

  “So where are we going?” he asked as he searched.

  Silence.

  “How long have you been with the Mixed?” he tried again. It felt weird to do this with someone watching over his shoulder and not try to have a conversation.

  Simpson still didn’t say anything.

  Fletcher sighed. If the guy didn’t want to talk, there wasn’t much he could do about it, but he planned to enjoy these precious minutes of freedom, so he took his sweet time as he sifted through the items, his movements slow and deliberate.

  He’d gotten through about half the box when Simpson grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back.

  “Time’s up,” the man said gruffly.

  “Wait a second. You never said there was a time limit,” Fletcher argued.

  The Major rolled his eyes as he bent down to the box and the items Fletcher had already sorted. He grabbed a pair of boots that were a size too small and a coat that was two sizes too large and shoved both into Fletcher’s chest.

  “Put these on, and let’s go.”

  “They’re the wrong size.”

  “You should have thought about that before you wasted all your time. Either you put them on, or I’ll do it for you,” Simpson threatened.

  Fletcher set the articles on the ground. “Socks?”

  He took the grunt the Major gave him as a “no,” and, with a sigh, shoved his bare feet into the boots, his toes crushed up against the edge. Uncomfortable shoes on, he then slipped into the coat that made him feel like a marshmallow with all the extra room, and just as he finished zipping it up, Major Simpson yanked his hands behind his back and cuffed them.

  “Where to now?” Fletcher asked.

  Simpson’s response was to pull out a roll of duct tape.

  “If I promise to stop asking questions, do you still have to do that?” he asked hopefully.

  The officer smirked and ripped a piece off.

  “Yeah. I figured that’d be the answer,” Fletcher said to himself just before the Major placed the new piece over his mouth. Gagged and bound, Simpson escorted him from the room, leaving half the box’s contents strewn across the floor.

  Back in the hallway, the Major resumed their quick pace, his hand still on Fletcher’s arm, though with a less secure grip due to the oversized coat. They continued through the maze, Fletcher sure he’d never be able to retrace their steps even if he got away, and soon they came to a set of wide open doors leading to a huge garage where more than a dozen vehicles waited—half of them trucks, two of them SUVs like the one he rode in to get here, and the rest jeeps.

  A group of about ten soldiers worked, carrying boxes and loading the vehicles. The Major took Fletcher to the woman at the center who was holding a clipboard and issuing orders in a loud voice.

  “Sergeant, the kid’s coming with us. The General is keeping him at full threat status which means no contact so let’s stick him in one of the loaded trucks for the time being. That way Benson and Humphrey can do double duty in watching the supplies and him,” Simpson said to her.

  The woman looked Fletcher up and down. “It’s pretty cold out there today, Major. Why don’t we keep him in here for now? I can pull Connor to babysit.”

  “He’ll be fine. He’s got a coat,” Simpson replied.

  The Sergeant shook her head and motioned them away. “Whatever you say, sir.”

  Simpson smiled as he ushered Fletcher out of the garage and into the freezing cold evening where five more vehicles waited alongside two soldiers standing guard. His escort explained the plan to them, and after they both agreed to it all with the usual “yes, sirs,” Simpson dragged Fletcher over to one of the trucks and into the crowded bed.

  “The guards have a clear line of sight so don’t think you can try anything,” the Major said as he forced Fletcher into a small space crammed between boxes and the tailgate. He then used his duct tape to further secure Fletcher, binding his ankles together and then tying his wrists to some hook along the wall, ensuring he couldn’t move more than a few inches.

  “Deities, it is pretty nippy out isn’t it,” Simpson said as a breeze blew through, ripping straight through Fletcher’s thin pants and sending shivers through his body. He grabbed a tarp from one of the boxes and threw it around Fletcher as some kind of makeshift blanket. “There you go.”

  The Major patted his head. “Sit tight, kid. I’ll move you to a jeep for the actual trip, but this will do for now. See you in a few hours.”

  Simpson jumped down from the truck, leaving him alone for the first time in well over a day. Sighing, Fletcher leaned his head back to stare up at the sky, counting the clouds above and wondering just how much worse his life could get.