

### THE GIVEN  
(The Books of Ezekiel, #1)

### Volume I of II of The First Book of Ezekiel

### Colby R. Rice

~~~

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 by Colby R Rice. All rights reserved.

First published in the United States by Rebel Ragdoll Press, LLC

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

# CONTENTS

Welcome to the Alchemic Apartheid...

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VOLUME I OF II: THE GIVEN

Prologue

1. Not Ravens

2. The Converge

3. Jills and Jacks

4. The Closed File

5. Taxed

6. A Flag Death

7. The Guild of Almaut

8. Lot 12

9. The Jericho

10. Roll Call

11. Raid at Co-op City

12. The Forge

13. Wards of the State

14. The Lobon Inn

15. Vassal Alyosius Persaud

16. Breached

17. The Ninkashi

End of Volume I of II

More Alchemy, More Ass Kicking, and FREE BOOKS!

A Free Excerpt from the next book, "THE TAKEN"

A Thank You from Colby

**WELCOME TO THE ALCHEMIC APARTHEID...**

For over one hundred years the Civic Order and the Alchemic Order have held a shaky truce, peppered by violence and mistrust. But when Koa, a Civilian-born insurgency, bombs an Alchemist summit, the truce is shattered. Now, Koa is rising. War is coming. And all sixteen-year-old Zeika Anon can do is keep moving as she watches the lords of alchemy slowly overtake her home.

But when clashes between Koa and the Alchemic Order put a final, deadly squeeze on the remaining Civilian territories, Zeika finds herself in the crosshairs of fate. She must walk the line between survival and rebellion against the Alchemists. On one side of the line awaits death. On the other, the betrayal of her civilization, her loyalties, and herself.

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#

#

Shadows flittered in the night, and Xakiah jerked his head up, his eyes automatically tracking the movements. The light was sparse, but even from the passenger seat of the truck, his eyes could outline the three distant figures in the dark. About thirty yards away, the shadows of the hunted jerked and twitched with a contained haste as they assembled themselves in their sedan. It was time. The driver would be first.

He lifted the rifle and anchored the butt in the soft of his shoulder. He lowered his eye into the scope, positioning the crosshairs over the figure settling into the driver's seat. As he began to depress the trigger, he wondered how exactly the man's head would splatter— when the tires of the sedan _screeched_ against the asphalt, and it shot off into the dark.

"Shit," Xakiah hissed, letting the scope drop. "Gun it, Joseph!"

His body felt slick with a cold sweat as their truck roared to life and lurched forward. Joseph jammed his foot down onto the gas pedal, pushing nearly one hundred as the truck's tires kicked up the slag of the country road.

_My mission._ Mine.

His jaw ached beneath the grind of his teeth. Their hubris was surprising, that they fancied even for a moment he'd let them get away after what they'd done.

A sharp _clack_ of a round being chambered ricocheted through the truck as Bly, a teammate sitting behind Joseph, prepared to shoot. The only man in the van who didn't move was the one sitting directly behind Xakiah, silent beneath his hood and cloak. He looked out of his window, even, his chin on his knuckles, as though enjoying a slow Sunday drive.

The fleeing sedan far in front of them turned and reeled off the dark path, clunking across the vast stretch of green that separated the road from the main highway.

" _Don't_ lose them, Joseph." Xakiah said, his voice low in the dark.

"Y-yes, sir!" Joseph said, a whimper choking his voice. He veered off the road, leaves and branches snapping in dry whispers as he leaned in harder on the gas, following the hunted across the soft, mushy green. Both cars' headlights made yellow eyes in the growing dark, like one nighttime monster chasing another.

Xakiah grinned, joy swelling under his frustration. They were going catch them. _He_ was going to win— and he felt himself nearly thrown into the driver's seat as Joseph yanked the steering wheel, sending the truck into a hard lean.

The truck's tires lifted a couple inches from the ground, and the far right side of the windshield exploded open, fragments of glass flying inward as hot metal grazed the SUV in a messy swarm. A rogue in the scattered cloud clipped Xakiah across the high crest of his cheek, kicking up a curl of flesh, a splash of blood. As his mind made sense of the pain, his joy eroded. Bullets. The thieving bastards had the audacity to _shoot_ ...

He focused his thoughts on the wound, and his flesh began to heal itself. "Vassal—?"

"I'm fine, Proficient," the man behind him cooed.

Joseph jerked the truck to the side again as more bullets whined in the night. They were already just a couple minutes off the freeway, which budded with shining cars and vans.

"Christ, Joseph! My granny burns rubber better'n you!" Bly shouted from the backseat.

"What the hell are you waiting for, then?!" Joseph cried. "Shoot back!"

Bly leaned out his window and sprayed, aiming for the tires of the fleeing sedan.

The truck lurched from side to side as Joseph avoided the returning gunfire. "We're losing ground!" He yelled.

Xakiah leaned forward, realizing that he was right. The rebel's muscle car skirted the mud with ease, whereas their truck was in danger of toppling over if Joseph made another turn like that...

"That Page is the heart of the Order, Proficient."

The simplicity of his Vassal's statement threaded calm through the dark belly of the car, but the threat in his voice was unmistakable.

Xakiah locked his jaw, nodding as much from obedience as from the tightness in his throat that had stolen his voice. If they didn't get the Page back, he'd be punished. But far worse than that, his Vassal would be disappointed. He wouldn't fail. He _couldn't_ ...

"Take them out," his Vassal murmured. "I know you can."

Xakiah swallowed and nodded at him, fear and pride swelling in his chest. He rolled down the window, and wind blasted into the truck. With a smooth slide, he navigated his body through, positioning himself on the ledge.

White bursts of fire lit the night as Bly's shots knocked out one of the sedan's tires, slowing it down. Thirty seconds until they hit the freeway.

"Steady, Joseph," Xakiah said, lifting the rifle scope to his eye. He focused his thoughts on the driver's head, searching for it in the long dark stretch in front of him. He had homed in on the driver right before they sped off, and he could do it again. He just had to feel it.

He stared down the scope, letting it drift across the swerving sedan, and something aligned, linking his slamming heart, the rifle, his eye, and the bobbing head of the driver far in front of them. He pulled the trigger—

_Shp!_ —and the driver's head snapped forward, slamming into the steering wheel. Metal squealed high, and rubber peeled from the rims of the sedan as it veered off its path. It crashed into the bordering thickets of the highway, the hood folding in on itself like an accordion, crushed.

Bly roared with triumph, slamming his fist into Joseph's headrest. "Xakiah, man, you're an animal!"

Xakiah frowned as he looked back at him.

"Uh, I mean—" Bly stuttered. "Nice job, Captain."

"Badges," Xakiah commanded.

"Yeah. Right."

Joseph maneuvered the truck a few feet away from the crash. They had barely rolled to a stop before Bly popped open his door, jumped out, and ran over to the wreck. Joseph hurried after him, his gun up.

Xakiah followed, holding up his rifle, aiming at the overturned car. The fools. The hunted could have any number of traps prepared, and the young rookies were ambling over, hooting in celebration. He, on the other hand, kept his distance, and his eyes remained ready for even the slightest movement. Joseph and Bly were good cops, for what flatfeet were worth, but neither of them understood the true magnitude of this mission.

Behind him, Vassal Moss seemed to glide out of the truck, never once making a noise in the night. The leaves didn't even crunch beneath his feet as he followed them to the crash.

Bly and Joseph had already made their ways over to the steaming wreckage and were fumbling with something in the front seat. There was scuffling, and a scared whine wound its way out of the twisted metal as the two agents dragged something out of the front passenger seat. One of the hunted was still alive.

Bly threw the rebel to the ground and spat on its shadow. "Lay down, scum!" he snarled.

Xakiah tightened his grip on his rifle. Bly, like a jackal, was stealing _his_ kill.

"Calm, Proficient," Vassal murmured from behind him.

Xakiah nodded tightly at the warning. His Vassal knew him well, _too_ well, but he was right. Closing out this mission was more important than a few seconds of glory. Resigned, Xakiah slung his rifle on his shoulder as he approached the two agents.

"Only one survivor, Captain," Joseph announced. "The driver's head is dog meat, and the one in the back died in the crash."

Joseph tossed him something, and Xakiah caught it, already knowing what it was. A porcelain mask, just the bottom-half of it, hard and smooth. A tell-tale trademark of the Knights of Almaut— Koa— terrorist dogs who fancied themselves men.

Xakiah cradled the mask in his hand, feeling the ridges of the molded nose, cheeks, and mouth, all of them together barely the size of his own palm. It was the captive's. He looked up at the squirming rebel, finally noticing the long red hair that spilled out onto the grass—

A woman.

He smiled, somehow feeling impressed amidst his annoyance. Her face was speckled with a constellation of freckles, _acne_ even. She couldn't have been any older than 16.

"Show her to me." The soft command had come from the shadowed man at Xakiah's heels, the Vassal.

Joseph and Bly hoisted the rebel to her knees and lowered their heads in the Vassal's direction. Xakiah cast down his eyes and stepped to the side, allowing his Vassal to pass before he lifted his gaze again.

The Vassal stood before the captive, staring at her with soft eyes. Finally he spoke: "How young. I might have known Koa would send pups to do a dog's work. What should I do with you, I wonder? What purpose will you serve?"

"No purpose, sir," Bly said. "I say kill the Koan scum."

"No. We'll do no such thing. We are to honor the Articles39," the Vassal replied. He turned to Xakiah. "The car."

Xakiah nodded and went to work. He tossed the sedan, cast the corpses aside, ripped up carpet, gutted the trunk, seats, and glove compartment, or what was left of it. Nothing. There weren't even any _signs_ of it. No traces of energy, not even a ripple in the air where it might have passed through. Nothing betrayed its location.

He frowned, turning to his superior. "Vassal. This faction must have been a decoy so that the real transport could get away." Bitterness coated his tongue, almost forcing the words back. "They've hidden it somewhere else."

His Vassal's cold gaze flickered, and Xakiah tensed, expecting words of admonishment or worse, disappointment... but to his surprise, the Vassal said nothing. Instead, he turned to the rebel.

"Lift her up," he ordered.

Joseph and Bly hoisted the woman to her feet so that her gaze was level with his.

"You Azure bastards can go to Hell," she said, the pubescent snarl clear. "You can't kill me. Even your own code won't allow it."

"Oh no, we aren't going to kill you at all," Vassal agreed. "That's barbaric."

The man balled up his hand, and— _schhhleck—_ the girl's face fell from her cheekbones and cartilage, slapping wetly against the grass. She howled, a long wailing sound that whistled from the milky shine of her jaw. As she screamed, the large white balls in her eye sockets rolled, like slippery hardboiled eggs, and her teeth, exposed to the gums, clacked together with frenetic snaps.

"Xakiah, if you please," the Vassal said.

Bly and Joseph's faces paled with terror, but without so much as a flicker of disgust, Xakiah scooped the dripping wrinkles of skin from the ground, gripping it in a fist.

"Display, please."

Xakiah held the sagging flesh in front of the woman's eyes. The cheeks and lips of it drooped, as though lamenting the girl's disfigurement.

"Three cc's of morphine, please, Joseph."

Trembling, Joseph pulled the kit from his side pack and began to prepare the anesthetic. Bly held her, still turning his eyes away as Joseph slid the needle into the base of her neck and emptied its contents. Then the Vassal stepped forward, bringing his nose close to her face.

"I can imagine that you are in incredible pain," he said. "The morphine is to numb that for you so we can talk."

"Ooou astards!" She screamed, but without lips, the curses just sounded like angry jibberish. She began to sob.

"Not to worry, my dear. You are going to get your face back. How much of it is returned, however, is up to you. Now. I am going to ask you some questions. For every answer I think is a lie, my Proficient is going to slice away an inch of your face and burn it." The Vassal motioned to Xakiah, who still held the sagging flesh in the moonlight.

"Lllease... llease don't..." Her sobs crescendoed, forming echos in the night, and her body heaved with each cry.

"And we'll begin," And with almost a lover's touch, he took her chin in his thumb and forefinger. "Now. You tell me. Where is the Final Page?"

#

Two months later.

**March 21** st **, 2155**

"Ma'am, please. If you could just—"

" _Wait_ , I said!" The woman snapped, the decibel of her voice rattling the glasses on the tabletop.

Zeika gritted her teeth and jammed her pad and pen into the front pocket of her apron. She turned her head away, and blew a long string of hot air out of her mouth. If she had to look at this chick any longer, things were going to get unpleasant.

Mackey, another waiter on the clock, walked by. He was balancing a tall steaming stack of flapjacks, fresh from the kitchen. Usually, this would have distracted Zeika, but today was a no-go. Not even the heavenly scent of chocolate chip pancakes could overcome the sickening odor that emanated from the thin, oily woman sitting in the third booth. Because if anything in the world smelled like bitch incarnate, _she_ was definitely it.

Lady Veronica Webb, or "Croni Roni" as Zeika and Mackey had dubbed her, had a head that hung forward, a chin like an old titty, and bushy white hair that stuck up in odd places. She looked very much like a tattered vulture that was way past its prime, and today, she was at it again, making Zeika's life miserable for the 27th time.

Roni gripped her menu with bright red talons, examining it with a manic eye as she changed her order yet again. Zeika had had to apologize to the staff every time she returned another dish, and now, the line cooks and servers were glaring mobbishly at her table. Other customers, neglected because of the fickle woman, had also noticed the scene and had ceased their conversations to flag her down.

"Excuse me!" One old man hollered. "Do you mind if I have my check, please? I've been waiting forever!"

Zeika glanced at him, nodded, and started moving towards the register.

"I'm not through ordering yet," Roni said, her eyes burning. "Do you need me to get your manager? Or should I just dock your tip now?"

Easy, girl.

The mention of the money calmed the fire in Zeika's gaze as her inner voice reminded her that the rent was due tonight. Roni smiled with satisfaction, taking a few moments to savor the struggle in Zeika's face before she turned back to her menu.

She tapped her long, scarlet nails against the booth table top, swishing her lips from side to side as though making a life decision. Across from her, her ten-year old daughter stared out of the window, munching on the pancakes that Zeika had just set down. On the side of the daughter, Roni's husband shrunk into the booth corner, picking at his half-eaten sausage.

Zeika acknowledged the apology with a level glare, but it didn't make her feel any better. The other customers were now frowning and grumbling, somehow thinking that the hold up was _her_ fault.

"This," Roni pointed at the picture on the menu.

Finally!

Zeika smiled and said, "So, the bourbon steak with baby portabello?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?"

Without even asking how she wanted the meat cooked, or if she preferred potatoes or French fries, Zeika stormed away. In a few seconds, she returned, balancing the tray on her right hand. Usually it would never take such a short time to make the Bourbon special, but apparently, their manager had asked the cooks to make one of everything on the menu, for the customer's convenience.

As Zeika passed by other customers who were still waiting for their food, the diner exploded in an uproar of complaints.

"This is ridiculous! This woman has received her _seventh_ meal already and here I am still waiting for my first!"

"Yeah, kid! Are we going to get our orders taken or what? We've been waiting over twenty minutes!"

"Sorry," Zeika tilted her head to them in acknowledgment. "I'll be with you in a minute. There are only two of us working the floor here, you know."

As she turned to set down the tray in front of Roni, she overheard customers getting up to leave, grumbling as they did. She averted her eyes from the floating gauntlet of glares, and her cheeks flushed, failure building up in her chest like a supernova. One man's loafers disappeared into the kitchen, and a second later, his voice roared out from the back.

"Listen, I don't know what kind of restaurant you're running here, but the service is horrible! I'm never coming here again, and you have _that_ waitress to thank for it!" He stormed out of the back, shot Zeika a murderous glare, and a moment later, the glass door to the diner slammed closed behind him.

Zeika felt her stomach shrivel, but she was determined to keep her composure. "Enjoy your meal, Madam." And she turned away to take the next booth's order.

"This isn't what I wanted," Roni said. "I've changed my mind. I want something else."

Zeika stopped, mid-stride, feeling her composure slip away. "I'm sorry?"

"Are you deaf? I said I want something else."

Zeika turned to the woman full-body, her face darkening, and against all instincts, against all Mort's warnings and pleadings, it came out: "Piss off."

Roni's beady eyes became as black and as lifeless as marbles. "Excuse me?"

Zeika strode back to Roni's booth, leaned her hands against the tabletop, and came in close to her face, leveling their gazes. "Okay. Here I am. Up close so that you can hear me when I speak. As you can see, I have other customers. So you're going to eat your meal and like it. Otherwise, you can get the hell out of this establishment."

"How dare you!" Roni jumped up, knocking over her glass of water.

Zeika never moved, but instead her fists tightened as she looked up at the woman who now towered over her.

The husband stood up, wringing his hands. "Can we have the check, please Miss?"

"With pleasure." Zeika snatched the order from her tab book, balled it up, and tossed it onto the table. "Pay. Then get out."

"The sheer nerve. I won't be told what for by some teenaged civvie scamp who can't do any better than some shabby diner!"

"Veronica, please," the husband murmured, a high color blazing in his cheeks.

"Mortimer!" Roni shrieked. "Get your ass out here, now!"

After a few seconds of pan rattling, Manager Morty Hatton came out of the back, drying off his hands with a dingy dishtowel. His right eyebrow lifted as he approached Roni in squat, jiggling strides, but as hard as he tried to look casual, Zeika knew that he had been cowering in the kitchen. Her gaze on him was no less caustic than Roni's.

"C-can I help you, Mrs. Webb?"

"How dare you allow my food into the hands of this foul-mouthed Koan-bound brat?!" She spat, pointing a long talon at Zeika. "You expect me to pay after being served by this- this _poisoner_?"

"I am not Koan!" Zeika shot back. "I just work here! Keep your stupid war out of this, Azure!"

"Be quiet!" Mort hissed. He turned to Roni. "Madam, please. I assure you that we're doing all we can to accommodate you. She meant no offense, and I assure you that our food is perfectly healthy and safe."

"No offense? She practically spat on me as she told me to eat like I'm some child! You know who I am, Mort! I'll have my family shut this little dive down and have you living with the rats!" She poked a talon into the soft dough of his drooping pecs, lifted the pendant around her neck, and shoved it into his face.

The remaining customers stared at the scene wide-eyed, and in a slow, creeping trickle, they began to file out. Mackey had already taken cover behind the service counter to "ring people up". His head drooped lower than a thirsty flower.

Mort took off his hat and wrung it in his hands. "Please. Our establishment meant no such offense, my Lady—"

"How dare you serve such insults to an Azure when _we_ are the ones who protect and shelter you! If it weren't for my family's good name, this place would be a pile of rubble by now! It is by our patronage and protection alone that your families are able to eat!"

As she said this, she swung her gaze around the diner- to Zeika, to Mackey, to Mort, to the chefs who were now gaping at the scene, and even to some of the people in the diner whom she seemed to recognize as Civilians, not Azures.

Roni's acidic gaze settled back on Zeika. "So when I want a different meal, that's what you're to bring me. I put food on your table, civvie. Now put food on mine... and be grateful for the opportunity."

Zeika stood there, her chest heaving. Her eyes burned, her hand squeezing the side hem of her apron as she stepped towards the woman, hate filling her up.

"Z! Just relax." Mort turned and put his hands on her shoulders, stopping her in her tracks. He stared at her, and after a few seconds, she unballed her fist, letting the apron hem fall limply to her side.

"That's what I thought," Roni said, smiling smugly. "Now, I'd like a short stack, some fried eggs, and a decaf coffee with milk and sugar. Snap to it. I don't like cold food."

Zeika turned on her heels and stormed into the kitchen. She glanced around, looking for the short stack, having already decided to spit on every single layer before bringing it out.

_Give the special house sauce to Miss Bitch and Three Quarters_.

She clenched her fist again, only to wince as a sharp pain shot through it. She opened her palm and looked.

Ah shit...

A long shallow cut had lacerated her palm, and blood was eking out of the open slit. She lifted the hem of her apron to the light to see a matching crimson stain. She shook her head, allowing logic to cool the fire in her chest, and mental images of Croni Roni and tainted short stacks were replaced by a more sobering thought: she'd almost lost it today. She had almost lost control.

She walked to the sink and twirled the faucet, allowing cool water to flow over the cut. With her free hand, she reached into the kitchen pantry mounted above the sink, searching blindly for the first aid kit.

Bad, Zeika. Bad. Gotta be careful.

The clip-clop of feet broke into her thoughts as Mort came into the kitchen and put a hand on her shoulder. "You okay?"

Zeika popped open the first aid kit and grabbed the wad of gauze from inside. "Just dandy. Hit the water for me, will you?"

Mort turned off the faucet for her and then gazed at her with an apologetic look she had come to know well in the past three years she'd worked with him. She had come to hate that gaze of his, the sheer powerlessness of it.

"Stop it. That pathetic puppy dog look doesn't give me back a drop of the dignity I just lost out there." She wrapped her hand in the gauze and tightened it, tying it off.

"I'm sorry, Z. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you."

_You could tack your balls back on, for starters._ She glared at him, ready to share this little pearl, but then she sighed, giving up.

"Look," she breathed out, forcing a smile. "Don't worry about it, okay? I'll get over it. I understand."

Mort hunched his shoulders in a sheepish relief. "Thanks, Z. I—"

"Yep."

She ran to the fridge, popped it open, and grabbed two tight plastic containers, packed with food. Her customers' uneaten orders. She packed the heavy container into the bottom of a tattered knapsack that she'd just pulled off the top of the fridge.

"The kid?" Mort ventured more conversation as he watched her scurry around.

"Yeah, in about an hour. That's why I'm rushing and not talking. Not to be rude. Sorry."

She flopped on the floor, ripped her waitress' flats off her feet, and jumped into her decrepit traveling boots. She laced them, and in less than half a minute, she was on her feet again, walking to the far end of the kitchen to get her traveling robes.

Trying to be helpful, Mort scooped up her waitress flats along with a worn pair of ballet slippers. He put them both in her bag, and closed it up tight. "I'll take care of the close-out on your tabs."

She threw a nod over her shoulder as she took a crumple of traveling robes off the far hook and threw them on. She tied them closed around her waist with a wide obi sash, pulled on a pair of fingerless mittens, and then threw the dingy hood over her head, the brim of it hanging low over her brow.

Mort handed her the knapsack, and she tightened its straps around her shoulders. "My next shift?" she asked.

"I'll call you when we need you."

"Heh. That's what all the boys say." And she forced a playful smile at him before slipping out of the door.

Slices of orange in rosewater spilled across the sky as the sun sank down in the west of the Seventh, pulling a warm lacy veil over the atmosphere. Usually, Zeika would stroll down the quaint streets after work and take it all in, but not today. Her robes flew out behind her as she dashed down the long blocks of the Seventh Demesne, all her thoughts focused on getting back to the daycare on time. The bakeries, antique shops, and colorful boutiques that lined her path became nothing but blurs of color and sound as she fought the urge to slow down.

_I'm sorry, sweetie,_ her mind rehearsed. _I tried to get here as fast as I could._ The pouting little girl wouldn't give half a damn about the apology, especially if she had to spend the night at the daycare. She had forty-five minutes tops.

A mile later, she was running past the zoning line that separated the Seventh from the rest of the world. Like a slow rot, the blur of vibrant colors around her began to cool into a cheerless sludge. Sweet scents of the local bakeries' chocolate croissants wisped out beneath a sudden miasma of soot and sewage, and the bright pebbled roads beneath her feet began to fade and crack. Before long, all of the trimmings of the Seventh Demesne had faded, and her boots crunched madly over broken asphalt as she sprinted across the George Washington Bridge. Dead murky water crawled hundreds of feet below, marking the end of Demesne Seven and the beginning of no-man's land.

Keeping light on her toes, she hopped and scaled the potholes that gaped open on the bridge, swinging and balancing on the metal railings where the concrete had disappeared. Alighting onto one of the broken rails, she sprinted, leapt, and landed on a long stretch of bridge, breaking into another run. She was moving fast, her parkour more agile than usual, but she still wouldn't get to Manja in time.

A light rumble rolled across the sky, and she didn't have to look up to know that she had just run back under the Canopy. Black and thick, the muddy chemical clouds hung in the skies in random patches, casting a long darkness over the road ahead.

Brrr!

She slid to a stop. Her eyes widened. Another tremor, this one louder, was reverberating through the world, causing the bridge to creak. Almost a mile northwest, a large flock of ravens had just rushed up into the air, putting a crackling blight on the orange-pink sky.

Not ravens. Smoke. From an explosion.

She set her jaw, pretending that her fingers hadn't started to tremble. Whether the attack was Koan or Azure, it _had_ to have happened at a border. Koan insurgents wouldn't breach the remaining Civilian safe zones. And Azures didn't want to spur on the rebellion... at least not publicly.

Still, this explosion had happened close to Demesne Six. Dangerously close.

Always keep moving.

Of all her flurried thoughts, it was the only one that made sense. She tore her eyes away from the inky twisting plume and kept running, forcing herself to keep her eyes forward.

#

Councilman Micah Burke set the new legislation on his desk— slowly— as the Earth moved in the distance. Clearly, all had gone to shit down below.

And on the border of a protected Civic Desmesne, no less.

Or so he imagined. He wouldn't actually know; his binoculars only saw so far. The most recent explosion had come from at least a mile or two westward, but it wasn't his business anyway. So when the ground groaned and the sickly-sweet scent of charred flesh gushed over him minutes later, he barely budged. So long as they didn't bring that shit over here, they could blow each others' brains out for all he cared.

He turned back to the bills he had been editing, looking between them and the political map of Demesne Seven. The hot issue of the day were the zoning laws that Azures were lobbying for, on the grounds that Civilian presence in Azure neighborhoods would bring down property values. As obnoxious as the sentiments were, Burke couldn't ignore the facts: Azures just didn't want to live with Civilians, even if the Seventh _was_ a part of the Civic Order. Though that wasn't going to be the greatest selling point on the council floor.

He grabbed a fresh sheet of paper and started to jot down a list of pros and cons, the very effort making him feel traitorous. Damned Azures. Much as they were his people, they knew how to piss on a party, and he was always charged with clean up. The Civilians didn't deserve this, really, but truth was, if housing zones weren't established, the market would plummet and hurt Azure investment in Demesne Seven—

Burke straightened, feeling hopeful. Yes, _that_ was the angle. He began to write. "A loss in revenue is the _last_ thing the Seventh needs, especially now. As the three Protecteds are all yoked together— politically, financially, socially— a good move in the Seventh means security for the Fifth and Sixth Demesnes as well. Security is top priority, especially with the Koan insurgency at our doors..."

... _and how about a side of shovel to go with_ that _bullshit?_

He sighed, balled up the paper, and threw it over his shoulder. Stand against Koa by letting some fat Azure build his million-dollar condo over the local Civilian school? It was a stretch.

The phone rang, and he picked it up.

"Go suck on a blood bag, asshole," he snarled, and slammed the phone down, uncaring if it was a reporter or lobbyist. He didn't feel like talking to ass-headed Azures on the issue of zoning laws, he didn't give a damn who it was. He'd been pushed enough already, and it was time to make some decisions on his own, in the quiet comfort of his own crazy. Especially after what happened last spring.

_Could've been a_ Civilian _lobbyist, though..._

Yeah, right. It also could've been a high-nosed hooker with a pound of hash, but even that would've had to wait. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, irked that he even had to care about this. He'd done so much for these ingrates over the years, dodging bullets, dealing with death threats, all while lobbying for a people that hated him. The hearings were Friday, and for all his hard work, the Civilians were going to sink their fangs into him, accuse him once again of favoring Azure interests over their own. The room would explode, the debate turning into a political mud fest of who lost most in the war, and how Burke himself couldn't be trusted because _he_ was an Azure. In fifteen years, nothing had changed.

He got up and walked out, heading for his gardens. He needed some fresh air.

The cool croons of swallows met him as he stepped out, and the sun he hadn't seen for nearly ten hours drew pink across the sky as it sank. Most Azures in the Seventh would be heading home and locking their doors for fear of having to meet— or sometimes, exchange blows with— the local civvies. _He_ was safe, of course, as he lived right at the heart of the Seventh Demesne on a hill, his abode set up comfortably in an Azure-built biosphere. Nothing was more secure or more beautiful, and it was an appropriate gift for his service. Still, in war, nothing was safer than a Colt Government .45, and he kept it with him at all times. Aside from his daily regimen of bullets and gunpowder, nothing had changed. Nothing was going to change.

And what can one man do anyway?

A flutter of wings responded, and it was a noise he knew all too well. Burke looked back towards his home to see a slim carrier pigeon perched on his birdhouse. The bright-eyed thing looked at him with expectation, much as it did everyday. A carrier jacket was strapped to its chest, and the message phial was full. The phial detached, clattering into the birdhouse.

He frowned. Another one. The twentieth one, and probably from that same troublesome woman. He gritted his teeth as he locked the feeling of obligation back. Opening and reading these was no longer his responsibility. He had done his job.

Suddenly, the pigeon jerked, bristling and shaking its head. Its black beak parted, releasing a low and angry squawk. Then with another sickened caw, it flew off, shaking its head violently as it did.

Burke cocked his head. It had never done _that_ before...

And who the hell cares?

He stormed over to the message-filled birdhouse, ready to empty it. Damned woman sending her poltergeist pigeons. There must be some sort of complaint or call he could put into animal control, and _God_ what was that _smell_?

He stopped, scrunching his nose and lifting his head, his senses opening to the revolting haze that had settled over his property. The bomb had gone off minutes ago, but the feel and taste of it was different. Not like Koan pipe bombs. This was something else.

He sniffed. Carbon. He sniffed again. Blackened blood, seared fat, all tinged with the strange scent of copper. The nectar of death, as rich and layered as aged wine. Musky yet strangely saccharine, the smell of human sacrifice had come too close.

He tensed, letting his hand fall to the .45 kept religiously at his right thigh. He closed his eyes and reached out to the world as far as his mind could go, trying to feel any forms of life in the immediate vicinity. All he got back was the gentle pulse of the trees, vegetables, and flowers in his garden, no more threatening than a cloud was to the wind. He pivoted, letting his gaze search the area. Nothing. And yet, that smell...

"You need a nap old man," he muttered, shaking his head.

He turned back to his home, ready to tackle the bills again— and that was when he saw it. A misshapen pile of black folds crumpled up at the far corner of his garden, almost fifty feet away.

"The hell..."

He drew his gun from its holster and stepped over the flowerbeds, his hands slick with sweat. At thirty feet, he saw that the folds were actually a small black sack, filled and slumped like chilled tar. Twenty feet. He slid his finger over the trigger firmly, noting the large lumps that formed the bulge of the sack. And when he was nearly ten feet away, the scent of burning hair and muscle had already engulfed him. An inky steam edged out of the lips of the open bag, and Burke understood that the smell of death had been coming from _here_ all along.

He clenched his jaw, steeling himself, and he knelt down near the steaming parcel. With the nose of his gun, he opened the mouth of the bag.

"SHIT!" His heart hammering, he leapt back, pointing the gun frantically. He had only seen a slice of it, but didn't have to linger to understand what it was. A piece of scathed, flaking meat, too charred to be alive, too fragile to be anything but human.

He swallowed hard as he released the trigger, knowing that it was too late to turn back. He took a moment to compose himself and then knelt back down. Cringing, he ripped open the bag, and the dead thing fell out onto the ground, a glob of shiny obsidian under his blooming yellow rose bush.

"Oh, God..."

Three bodies, all of them tiny. Infantile. They were incinerated together in an unrecognizable alloy of parts so that each was slurred into the other, distinct yet inseparable. Their limbs, now protruding awkwardly from different sides of the mass, were curled into their shriveled torsos, like the legs of a dead spider. The battered heads hung from the collective corpse like crushed, blackened fruit. One sizzled half-opened eye, the bottom lid curled back from it, stared at Burke with the pallid and lifeless gaze of the dead.

He struggled to keep his lunch down.

The wind blew again, rustling the body bag, and for the first time, Burke noticed the note attached to its handle. He plucked it, reading the simple message over and over.

End this.

The note ended there.

What little warmth was left in him rushed away in a vacuum. In its place, he felt a chill he hadn't felt for years. Partly for the infants, but mostly for what he knew he was being asked to do.

No. No, not now. Not again.

"Not now and not ever!" He raged, lifting his boiling brown eyes to the sky. "I gave them the Articles39! That's good enough! It's over, and I'm done with this! Done!"

The scattered remains of the dead children began to move. Burke stepped back, now unsurprised. He watched the limbs curl farther in, the wide pale eye rolling back as though alive— and then the bodies all crumbled apart, smoothly sinking back into the earth from whence they came.

Burke cursed and slammed his foot into the body bag, scattering it and its burned contents across the soil. He stormed back into his house, rammed the door closed, and drew the shades— drew darkness— on the unhallowed rose bush and its blossoms of death.

The concrete tongue of the George Washington Bridge led Zeika into a large, stone plaza. She jogged through, nodding at the guards stationed at the mouth of the bridge. They barely looked up from their poker game as she left the Seventh.

She looked around the plaza. The Converge. The place where the gravel, grass, and granite from the three Protected Civic Demesnes all met. Long lines of tattered refugees snaked from the entry gates of the Sixth and Fifth Demesnes as they waited to be cleared by security. No one dared to approach the gate of Demesne Seven. Zeika ventured forward, towards her home: Demesne Five.

She skipped the endless queue of workers and exiles, drawing glares as she did.

"Hey! The line starts back _there_ , kid," someone grumbled, pointing way behind him.

Sorry, pal.

She generally didn't believe in VIP or special privilege, but the clock was ticking, and she wasn't going to wait. Not today, at least. She looked down to rummage in her pockets for her pass— and slammed right into the back of a man she hadn't seen, one who'd stepped out of the line to admire the traffic. She stumbled, and at the same time, the man turned.

"Sorry, kid. Didn't see you."

Her annoyance was snuffed out as she looked up. The man was tall, sturdy, with eyes that spoke from beneath the hood of his trench coat. He had a box tucked under his arm, and a sweet nature about his strong features. Moreover, he looked clean, with a familiar insignia embroidered on the shoulder of his coat. She blinked. He was an Azure. And he was actually waiting in line.

She stood and stared at him, her surprise keeping her rooted.

He raised an eyebrow. "Problem?" It was more of a genuine question than a threat, but he was looking at her, actually waiting for an answer.

"You're waiting in line." She knew it was the dumbest thing she'd said in a long time, but this was something she'd never seen, not in her sixteen years of living and breathing.

"Yeeaah, well, it's what people do. Except you, apparently. Who the hell are you, the queen?" Then he smiled, shifting the weight of his box. It was a tired smile, warm. Azure men in the Protecteds generally only spoke to Civilian girls for one reason, but for the first time, she didn't feel that vibe. Was he just being nice?

Do you have time to care?

"Yeah. Sorry. Bye." She turned away, deciding she didn't like Azures who visited Demesne Five, even if they _did_ wait in line, the bastards. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. He was nice at least. Decent.

"What's your business here, kid? You're out past curfew."

She'd barely gotten to the gates when the wide silhouette of the man approaching her almost swallowed her whole. Any pretenses she had that Azures were nice people were blown away as he glared at her. By his red beefy neck, hooded uniform, and eau de ass, Zeika knew he was an Azure policeman. Or "Alchemic Police", as they sometimes corrected her, if it applied, to remind her of their status differences. For her, the distinction between the two was negligible. She called them all "APs" for short. 'Ass pixies', was what it meant for her, but she usually kept those thoughts to herself.

'Officer Kirk Donovan', the badge said. That'd do.

"I'm just getting off work, trying to get home," she explained, eyeing his gun holster warily. She was careful to keep her empty hands in full view. "I'm a daily commuter. The guy that used to be posted here could vouch for that."

"The guy that used to be posted here isn't vouching for anything. He got hit with a stroke this afternoon and kicked the bucket. You're gonna have to deal with me now, sweetheart." Kirk's mouth curled down. "Ghosts like you aren't supposed to be out this late. It's past curfew. What were you doing over in the Seventh?"

Zeika pushed back her hood and cowl, almost having forgotten she was wearing it. Her long braids spilled out, but she tied them back into a ponytail as she stepped up him. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a pendant, trying to ignore the way his hand was gravitating to his gun holster. She held it out to him, and after shooting her a suspicious glare, he took it from her, examining it.

"Name?" He took a pad out of his pocket.

"Anon. Like 'cannon'. Drop the 'c' and the extra 'n'."

"First name?"

"You don't need it. There's only one Anon on there."

He glowered at her, flipped the pad closed. "How do I know this pass isn't forged?"

"It could be," she said, sighing. "But why would I want to _forge_ a pass to get into the crappy Fifth? 'Specially if I'm coming out of the Seventh?"

"That's a damn good question." Kirk's partner, a man with a gruffer voice and twice the gut, stepped forward out of their booth, his eyes piercing her with accusation. "What kind of business are you into over there anyways, civvie?" The tattooed badge on the right shoulder of his uniform blazed darkly as he advanced. It was the Monas Hieroglyphica, the symbol of the Alchemic Order.

Zeika narrowed her eyes. "My _business_ is that I break paper there. And if you've forgotten, Azure, the Seventh belongs to Civilians. You can squat on our turf all you like, but that doesn't make it yours."

"Sounds an awful lot like something a Koan would say. Don't it?" The other AP turned to Kirk, who was still investigating the work pass.

"I don't have to be Koa to know bread from bullshit," she snapped. "I have a work pass, and it's legit, so let me through. Besides, seems to me like you have a lot more to focus on than a small-time waitress trying to make it home." She motioned around the plaza filled with refugees and homeless.

"You telling me what my job is here, scarlet?" With a dark gaze, the AP took a step closer, and his shoulders seemed to widen as he looked down on her.

Zeika tensed, and on reflex, she raised her hands, keeping her eyes level with his. Surprise flickered through the AP's face.

"Heh," he muttered. "So we've got a tough one here. She thinks she's got special privilege. Someone over in the Seventh giving you 'special privilege', kid? An older Azure gentleman, perhaps?"

She pursed her lips. "Let me pass."

The AP's grin widened. "The only way a civvie like you could get a work-pass like this is if you've become an Azure trash can. Whose horn are you tootin' over in the Seventh?"

She seared the guard with a hellish gaze as he smirked down on her.

"She's not gonna say," Kirk said, finally looking up from her work pass. "Business contracts like that are 'don't-ask-don't-tell'. The little brat must be beddin' a higher-up."

"Yeah, well you know what they say about civvie chicks, 'specially the young ones." The guard never broke his triumphant gaze with hers. "Lips sealed tight, pussies like black holes... suck everything in."

She trembled, feeling rage kick up her adrenaline. She didn't have time for this, but she definitely felt ready to make some if he didn't get the hell out of her way. "Let. Me. Pass."

Kirk smiled. "With pleasure." He handed her pass back to her and stepped out of the way.

"Dicks," she muttered, and she brushed by him, passing through the checkpoint.

She spared another angry glance back as she walked through— and saw that the man she'd bumped into earlier had stepped fully out of line, box and all, and was talking to the officers. He didn't look happy, his seemingly sweet nature driven out by a dark and seething gaze and what looked like an alphabetical storm of curses. He wasn't defending her... was he?

Too little, too late, pal.

She shook her head. It had been a popular idiom of the old world. An anthem, really. Apparently, the new world wasn't any different. Choosing gravel, she pulled down her hood and ventured forward into the Fifth Demesne.

Caleb Rai walked into the Demesne Five Police headquarters, a heavy box tucked under one arm. He adjusted it once more, wishing he had brought a duffle bag instead. About a week's worth of clothes, case files, and personal items equaled about fifty pounds of pain-in-the-ass. But it was necessary. Sleeping in at precincts had become the norm since Koa had reared its head. Work was always piling up, as were the leads, and going home nightly simply became less of an option for Azure police. Especially if you aimed to make a higher rank.

The Azure rat race, and not a slice of cheese in sight.

He looked around, already feeling drained. The station was teeming with at least one hundred APs, each one of them scurrying back and forth and going at their daily duties. Joseph was supposed to have met him at the door about twenty minutes ago, and Caleb had gotten tired of waiting. He had arrived in Demesne Five only two weeks before, to move into his Riverdale condo and give himself a tour of the demesne. He wanted to keep in tradition by getting into headquarters ahead of schedule too. His debriefing with the captain was at twenty-hundred, and he'd gotten in a little early to get settled into his new office.

He checked his watch and sighed with exasperation. 7:25 pm. Joseph was a good guy. Funny, fair, and smart as a fox, especially where the lab was concerned. But today, he was just screwing with his timetable. If he didn't find his office soon, he'd have to roll into the interview with a carton full of granola bars and boxer shorts. Not exactly what he called dignified.

He creased his brow, trying to decide which way to venture first and nixing every idea that came to mind. His office was somewhere around the west wing, in the Detectives sector, but interrupting the APs to get the guided tour felt like a dick move—

"Rai!"

Caleb breathed out in relief as he turned to see someone jogging towards him. Under the mop of messy black curls and the nutmeg complexion, Caleb could tell it was Joseph, and like usual, his grin was so wide that the top of his head almost separated from its bottom. They hadn't seen each other since they'd graduated from AP training a little over four years ago... and the asshole had grown a goatee.

"Sorry, man. I got held up in the lab. We're hot on some Koan tail right now so time is of the essence."

"The rock star life of a forensic scientist," Caleb said, grinning. "What's with the face pubes?"

Joseph grinned, stroking the bristles at his jaw. "We're men of the law now, dude. Gotta be dignified."

"Right." Caleb snorted as they started to walk.

"So. What happened?"

Caleb looked at him and decided he didn't have to answer. Technically, by law he wasn't required to, but on a personal note, it was just a dumb question to ask. He cut Joseph a lethal glare and kept walking.

Joseph chuckled. "All right, hot shot. At least I didn't ask if you dropped the soap, yeesh! So sensitive."

Caleb sighed, giving in. "Lots of bars, lots of metal, lots of sweaty guys with cock-sized problems and problem-sized cocks, who made a huge deal of both. And I wasn't interested in any of it. So I'm out, so I'm here, so this conversation's over."

"Fine, fine," Joseph said, laughing, his hands in the air. "I was just trying to catch up!"

They made a turn past the busy desks, and Caleb noticed that some of the APs had stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Not one of them looked happy to see him. A few were sizing him up, even. Not surprising. He'd already mixed it up with a couple guards at the Converge after they'd harassed a Civilian girl, and by their smug attitudes, it hadn't taken him long to figure out the local ethos: dicks and donuts. _These_ guys looked hungry, though; it was new blood syndrome, prevalent only in the most dysfunctional of police precincts, and he'd heard that the Fifth was the worst. He half expected their pupils to contract as they watched him walk by.

"Cannibals..." he muttered, but Joseph hadn't heard him. He was still talking, not having noticed that the hallway had turned into a gauntlet.

"It's hard, you know, getting knocked off the perch," Joseph said. "But you're back on your game. If your training's still worth anything, you'll be king of the ring in no time."

Caleb actually found it in himself to laugh. "Yeah, well, I'm not here for that. I'm here to serve and protect. That's always been the plan. Don't see a need to change now."

"Right... you'll be singing a different tune once you get a load of the local coos coos. You'd be amazed at how quick civvie skivvies drop for the badge. 'Specially a high-ranking badge. Drives 'em crazy." Joseph winked at him, and Caleb chose to ignore the gesture as they made another turn, going deeper into the station, leaving the main offices, and the predatory glares, behind.

Over a decade had passed since he'd last been at the old Kingsbridge Armory. Now, he took it in with curiosity, memories that had been mere outlines in his mind now filled in with colors, sounds, and smells, all different than what he knew from his childhood. The once empty space was now crammed with desks and drenched in soft, overhead lighting. Yellow, blue, and red flags woven from rich velvets all hung from the rafters, sporting the blue and silver insignia of the Alchemic Order. Interspersed between the Alchemic Order's flags were the gossamer banners of the Civic Order, exhibiting its own insignia, a stylized wolf silhouetted against a full moon. But over the years, the banners had turned ragged and moth-eaten, practically withering off the wood.

Caleb's office just happened to be flush to one such tapestry, and Joseph ripped it off, tossing the decrepit thing to the side.

"So please His Majesty, it's not as cozy as I'm sure you're used to," Joseph grinned, putting a key into the lock.

"Yeah, yeah." Caleb smirked, and he nudged Joseph in as the door opened.

They were both greeted by a dust bunny uprising as fresh air followed them in. The office hadn't been used in years it seemed, but it was small and cozy, just enough to get work done without getting too comfortable. A flaking oak desk and a high-backed chair were shadowed by a large double-hung window that stretched across the back wall. Steel bookcases that reached from floor to ceiling flanked the desk itself, and the only free space was the one that he and Joseph were standing in. Caleb cocked his head, wondering how exactly to set up his cot when sleepover time came.

Joseph clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome home, buddy. I'll get Sam to fix it up a bit for ya."

"Sweet, thanks," Caleb muttered absently as he set his box down. He frowned. There was no way a cot would fit in here.

And you do? You got more to worry about than a cot, officer. Let's get the job first, eh?

Caleb smiled to himself. Good point. Sometimes his left brain did actually work from time to time, and it was nice to feel it put him at ease with... well, everything. As screwed up as his life had been for the past two years, he'd learned the hard way that it was better to manage his expectations. The captain still needed to see him, and Caleb still needed to pass his tests to get to stay here. Better to strap his high hopes to a parachute and keep the office decor in his box until that meeting was over.

"Hey, wanna grab something to eat real quick before the debrief? We got a damn good caf here, and I can show you around a bit. The gym and showers are right there too, and we also have a kick ass sparring room..."

Joseph didn't seem to care much about the past, it seemed. Tits, friends, and food had been his M.O. since the academy, and not much had changed that. Not even working in the toughest precinct in the worst demesne, apparently.

Caleb felt his self-imposed tension lift, happy to focus on Joseph's blissful unawareness. There was that, at least. Like most of the rest of the world, Joseph didn't know what had happened that night, and hopefully, he never would. It was just what Caleb needed: a clean slate, a new beginning, a friend.

"Yeah," he said, even managing to laugh. "Let's do it." And as Joseph's chatter kick-started up again, he followed him out the office.

#

Zeika stumbled into the mouth of the underground cavern, heaving. She had sprinted from the Converge all the way to Kingsbridge Road. Over five miles in 35 minutes. She had jetted it. Almost broke her ass a few times too. But she'd made it, and that was all that mattered.

Still reeling, she stumbled at the wide steel door and banged on it with her fist three times before collapsing onto the ground.

A rectangular space opened in the door, and a warm light filtered out, cutting into the darkness of the tunnel. A pair of large, twinkling gray eyes looked down at her, and a singsong voice twittered through. "Well isn't that a graceful pose for you!"

Zeika smirked. "You know me, Jules, I love the dramatic look."

The daycare assistant giggled and began to unlock the door. It was a complicated affair, as there were at least three bolts from what Zeika could see and more where she couldn't see. When the door finally swung inwards, she rolled to her feet and staggered inside.

"Wow. You look like something a horse crapped out." Julie snickered as she closed and locked the door behind them.

"Thanks for the vote of sympathy." Zeika reached into her robes to pull out a wad of singles. "Here."

"Twenty bucks? This is almost three times the weekly fee!"

"So what? Take it. Make it rain."

"But—" Julie protested.

"Think of it as a tip. For helping to arrange the meeting with your boss. Do the kids have food?"

"Just enough to last us until tomorrow's breakfast." Julie eyed her warily. "I mean, daycare fees have been coming in pretty slowly lately—"

Zeika reached into her backpack and took one of the plastic containers out. "Share it."

"What the hell, Z?" Julie crossed her arms, her face firm. "Is this a tip, too? Trust me, I don't need it. I get plenty of those on my job."

Zeika shoved the container into Julie's hands. "Not sure if anyone told you, but cheese sandwiches don't count as tips. Not even in your line of work where the mayo is free, if you get my drift."

Julie smirked and rolled her eyes. "Oh go screw yourself," she muttered, giggling. "They can actually be pretty nice, some of them. Lonely, war-torn, lookin' for a willing ear."

"That isn't all they're lookin' for, girl," Zeika said, smiling.

" _You_ could make a really good living, you know. They love 'em dark around here. Reminds them of Azure-livin'. Reminds 'em of home."

"Thanks, but I'll pass. I deal in one too many vices already. I can barely walk into a church without exploding into flames."

Julie hunched her shoulders, suddenly sheepish. "Guess you're right. I know you're not exactly a fan of what I do—"

"Hey." Zeika waved her off. "I wasn't judging. Really. I don't care what you do. We all have to survive out here. All I care about is that you're safe. You know?"

Julie grinned off her embarrassment and hugged her. Zeika hugged back, tight.

"Don't worry," Julie whispered. "I'm safe. I've made sure of it. Okay?"

Zeika nodded in response, her throat tight. When the Civic economy had finally collapsed five years ago, they both left school to go work at the Lakeside Diner, but life had soon taken them to different careers. Julie's parents had been social workers and had gotten caught in the middle of some flying shrapnel on a peace mission in the beyond. Koa had bombed some Azure councilman's motorcade, and while the Azure himself had survived, many others didn't. Word had it that Julie's parents had been on the sidelines of the procession, protesting Azure occupation of Civic Demesnes. Bombs never had the right names on them, though. Zeika would always give Julie her tips to help her out, but it wasn't enough. Eventually, she had to leave the diner and support herself in a job that'd singlehandedly pay the bills.

Beautiful Julie. Her innocent eyes, sweet face, and Midwestern charm was what got 'em, but it also made men think she was a punching bag. She'd come over to Zeika's house one too many times with bruises and sprained limbs. Her ballet buddy since kindergarten, best friend since grade one, and partner in forced truancy since grade six. One of her most loved friends, lost to the war in the beyond, just like she was.

Julie parted from her. "Your stuff's behind the kids' cubbies, and the bathroom's all set up for you," she said. "The toilet, uh, will unclog itself."

"And the shit will rise to the top." Zeika winked. "Got it."

"Behave yourself in there. Don't _break_ anything."

A smirk and wave of Zeika's hand vaguely acknowledged the warning before she walked to the cubbies and pulled out a long, heavy bag from behind them. She shook it, hearing the comforting clanks of metal on metal from within. Then, she did a few curl ups with the bag to test the weight. Thirty pounds. Just right, just like she'd left it.

She went to the bathroom to wash up. There was no door to it, just a long curtain that shrouded a speck of a room bathed in broken florescent lighting. Two toilets and two sinks sat squat in the L-shaped space, and a cracked full-length mirror hung on the only free wall. The wolf moon insignia on the back of her robes slipped in and out of her view as she passed by the mirror, and when she turned to face her reflection, the crack in the glass split the dark mocha of her face in two, right between the eyes.

"Koa implicated in the disappearances of Civilian children."

The headline fluttered at the top of the looking glass, freshly inked into the newsprint. This was the eleventh time she'd seen it around Demesne Five in the past month. A new record, but one that no longer surprised her. So long as kids kept disappearing, daycares had been put on special alert just in case any of the missing heads turned up. Thus far, though, no one had seen a thing.

And they never do, do they?

After she had officially dropped out of school for work, it hadn't taken her long to realize how invisible she was. People barely noticed ghosts of war like her and Manja— shadows hiding beneath the moon-emblazoned sheets that were supposed to protect them. No one watched as they slipped in and out of the dark, picking their ways across fields and mines and death to support their families. And no one ever found a ghost once one had gone missing.

So she studied them. Their faces, the bright and yet sunken eyes, how their round cheeks darkened beneath the dusks of their hoods... just in case she saw one. In case she could bring one home.

Missing: Jonathan Espinoza-Quinn.

Civic status: Civilian.

Male. Brown eyes, brown curly hair. Latino. Missing since January 23, 2153. Current age: 17 years old. Last seen at the Converge, crossing from Demesne Five into Demesne Six for work.

Missing: Michael Cray, Langdon Cray, and Clinton Cray.

Civic Status: Civilian.

Male identical triplets. Blue-gray eyes, blonde hair. White. Missing since March 2nd, 2155. Current age: 9 months old. Last seen at the home of their parents, Lynne and Jeffrey Cray. FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED.

Missing: Sofia Green.

Civic Status: Azure.

Hazel eyes, dark brown hair, splotchy birthmark on left cheek. Black / African American. Missing since March 19th, 2155. Current age: 9 years old. Last seen in the playground of Rose Hill Lot 36, Demesne Seven. Last seen wearing pink overalls and a blue shirt. Patchy birthmark on upper left cheek.

Any information leading to the recovery of Civilian ghosts of war can be anonymously delivered to:

Guild #5 of the Civic Order, The Guild of Almaut

Demesne Five, 40.81167, -73.846323

Phone: +001 718 792 9736

For leads on Azure ghosts of war, please direct all information to:

Guild #51 of the Alchemic Order, The Halls of Deis

Demesne Fifty-Two, 9.436797, 99.957685

Phone: +66 77 915 888

Zeika lifted her fingers and touched Johnny Quinn's picture. He had a serious and handsome face in this one, and yet it was only partially reflective of the one she'd seen every day.

She forced her eyes away from his face and frowned as she took in the rest of the wall. The ad for the missing Azure child, Sophia Green, had been centered and swollen with a large bold font. Stained with a background of yellow dye, it shone brightly beyond the other missing children ads, which lay scattered around it like graying, dead leaves.

Zeika jammed her hand into her pocket, snatched out her waitress' pen, and put it to the ad. With a deadly arc, she sliced ink through the words "Alchemic Order" and wrote capital letters in its place: CABAL. What had happened to Sophia was tragic, but it didn't erase the truth: there was nothing 'ordered' about the Azures or their Alchemists. They were just a bunch of rich thugs.

A toilet flushed. It was the one farthest to Zeika's left, and it gurgled loudly, like its throat was clogged with gobs of toilet paper and—

"Shit! Damn, girl, you should've told me you were coming early. I would've put on my Sunday's best." A voice as smooth and as slimy as moss rose above the toilet's wet roar, resounding off the walls of the bathroom.

Here we go. I'll try not to "break" him, Jules.

Zeika sighed as she walked towards the stall, peeking in just in time to see the large slab of wall tile moving upward. A secret door to an old speakeasy, and through it glided David Kohler, or "Wavy Davy", as some on his circuit now called him. Zeika leaned against the wall outside the stall and crossed her arms, looking at him critically.

He must have gotten his style from the history books of hustlers because the fool was completely out of context. Shiny finger waves set against pale skin, like a black sea on a white sand beach. Three gold teeth, which often switched places on different days, were set in a mouth that used to kiss all the girls. He always dressed up, and today he sported a dark red shirt, unbuttoned to the navel, tucked into a gaudy, gold-plated belt and black slacks. Polished gators on his feet. But none of the trimmings could hide the deep crags in his face, or his yellowing eyes, or the nervous tics in his fingers, all lingering specters of heavy drug and alcohol use.

Zeika tried to feel sympathy for him but came up empty. A lot had happened since the economic collapse, and even more had happened last spring, when the Azure raids began in the Protecteds. A lot of people— friends, neighbors, workers, good Civilians— had plummeted into some messed up places. Davy hadn't been one of those good people, though. He'd always been a creep and outcast, slinking around the streets of the Fifth. But the man who was once garbage was now godly. The recent darkness that had been cast over the Protecteds allowed vermin like him to thrive, and he did so on the very vices that now gripped the indigent. The streets on which so many had passed him by were now his domain. Poor, desperate girls clung to him for his connections and for work, and he controlled all of them. Julie was one of many in his stable.

"Hello, David," Zeika said, not bothering to mask her disgust.

"That's my name, the prettiest and wittiest. But look at you! You looked so tired when you got here. Outta breath. Why don't you come through to the other side and get comfortable?" He stepped closer as he said this, his gaze sliding to places they shouldn't, especially for a man his age.

She rolled her eyes at his suggestion. "I'm not a working girl. I assume Julie told you that already."

"Yeah, yeah, but she didn't tell me how _fine_ you'd become, either. Mm!" He bit his lip, a gold tooth protruding from his crooked grin. He looked like some broke-down comic book character or something. "Time flies like a goose from Christmas dinner! One minute I'm cheering you on at your ballet recitals and martial arts competitions, and next thing I know, you're all woman and wiggle."

"Look. I don't generally do business with pimps. So let's get on with it. I'm already struggling to re-swallow my lunch."

"Pimp?" He laughed and shook his head. "That's a filthy thing you're callin' me, baby. Me, I'm more of a manager... a manager of lovely ladies of leisure."

"Whatever. Manage your dick out of our business, and we'll do just fine." She threw the bag down at his feet, its contents clanging together. "Everything you asked for. Where's my money?"

"A business woman. I like that." Davy reached into his pockets, produced a thick roll of green, and started counting it. "You know, you ain't always gotta bring the bag, girly. You got some zippers of your own to sell that I'd pay real nice for. Others too—"

"Keep counting, David. Four hundred, clean."

"Ah, come on, I count dough in my sleep. We can talk."

"We have nothing to discuss except the exchange."

"Oh, we got plenty to discuss! What? Don't act like you've never bartered your God-given slice, baby. We all know where you got that work pass from. Now you think your shit's too hot to swap with civvies, eh? Think I can't afford it? Azures ain't the only guys that get to be treated nice, you know."

"What I _think_ is that you wouldn't know what to do with it. You couldn't come if I called you."

Davy paused in his counting, look at her, and scowled. Zeika never broke her gaze. Inside, she hated it, talking and acting that way. Hustling meant she couldn't be the best of herself, but worse would be to end up like Julie: bouncy, cute, and getting her ass handed to her every night. In order to be taken seriously, to keep both her and Manja safe, Zeika had to be rock hard. This was the lay of the land now, this was the game, and if she wanted to stay a step ahead, she had to speak the language. She often wished she could be softer... but out here, soft didn't survive.

Guess Davy bought the tough girl act because he sneered, breaking their gaze to look back down at the money. He shook his head before starting his count again, pretending as though he hadn't lost his place. "All you civvie bitches, swinging from the Azure boner branch like fuckin' monkeys," he muttered. "And now you're all used up, the lot of you. A sad world we're in when Jills can't get it hot for their own Jacks."

"Yeah, because that's the only time when the world gets sad, right? Get over yourself. Hand me the money, and get the hell on."

"Yeah... because you _need_ this money, don't you?" Davy looked up, smiling slyly. He'd finished his count and was now looking at her with a carnivorous gaze, like a cat who'd cornered a rat.

Zeika regarded him with suspicion, suddenly very aware of how small the bathroom was, of the fact that she was leaning against a wall, of how he was slowly halving the distance between them. She tensed, watching his movements.

_Don't do it, asshole._ _I really don't want to hurt you._

"The mighty have fallen, yourself and your Papa included, baby. So you'd better play nice," Davy continued, still advancing. "The meek like me have inherited the earth. We're highly favored. 'Specially me. So many good things just gravitate towards my energy—"

"Like flies are attracted to shit," she said, making a face. "Yeah, totally. I can totally see that."

"You come work for me, and you ain't gotta flip another waffle ever again in your life. I'll take care of you."

Zeika extended her hand, waiting for the money, but Davy kept on.

"I've been real nice letting the daycare use my secret place, haven't I? Someone's gotta pay up, right?"

Hairs raised on the back of Zeika's neck. Somehow, it didn't sound like he was asking. It didn't look like it, either. Davy's eyes danced, as though the machinations of his mind had suddenly turned diabolic, cruel.

"If _you_ don't wanna pay, then that's fine," he said, grinning. "But I see you gotta cute little sister in there. I'd give her about three or four more years before—"

She reached into her robes, but Davy was faster, grabbing her arm with one hand and pinning it against her body before she could draw her field knife. His long fingers tightened around her neck, and air rushed out of her chest as he slammed her into the concrete wall. The bulky contents of her pack dug into her spine as he pressed on her.

"Get off me," she seethed.

Davy's grin widened as he squeezed, and though he thought he had the upper hand, Zeika could feel it, the control slipping away from her second by second. She struggled to keep herself from walking through that door, but he'd just threatened her, threatened Manja.

"I'm warning you," she snarled again, ready to let loose. "Get the hell off me, or I promise you'll regret it."

Davy got close to her ear, rubbing his nose against her cheek. She squirmed as his stale breath condensed on her lobe as he whispered into it. "You smell really good," he said. "Like desperation. Tell your Papa if he's serious about doing business again, don't send his pretty little jailbait kid to negotiate. Gets me... distracted."

Laughing, he let go, and she pushed him off her, snarling.

"Go fuck yourself!" She rubbed her throat as it opened again, allowing her to breathe.

"I wish you luck with that too, baby," he muttered, lighting a cigarette as he picked up the duffel bag. He tossed the wad of cash he owed her in the sink. "But don't forget to send me a video of it, eh?" Cackling, he disappeared into the wall of the stall with his package, the tiled door sliding closed behind him.

Zeika shuddered and grabbed the knob of the money sink, turning it on full blast. She splashed her face and neck trying to get his stench off. So gross. It was bad enough that Civilian girls had to keep their guards up against Azures. Civilian guys weren't much different sometimes. It all sucked, really, but Zeika had chosen not to dwell on it, at least not until today. Ugh.

Her face dripping, she turned off the faucet and pocketed all five hundred dollars' worth of bills as they floated, not caring that they were soaking wet. It was just as well. She didn't want Davy's grease on her money, either.

"Hey you." Julie stepped in, timid in her walk. "Got what you came for?"

"Yeah, and more than that." Zeika wrinkled her nose, still feeling the icky warmth of Davy's body on hers. "Thanks, though. I owe you one." She walked up to her, coming in close. "Listen," she dropped her voice to a whisper. "About the daycare space..."

She explained what had happened with Davy, repeated what he'd said about Manja. Horrified, Julie agreed to move the daycare across town— today— to one of their old stations until they found a new space. The kids' parents would help to move the classroom supplies later. She apologized the entire time, blaming herself.

" _Stop_ , Jules. Stop taking responsibility for all these assholes," Zeika said, forcing a smile. "Please."

Julie nodded, but cast her eyes down. "Yeah..."

Zeika grinned, suddenly unable to hold it back: "Plus, you got some other 'holes' to worry about—"

Julie laughed and shoved her playfully. "You're such a bitch, you know that?"

Attagirl. Keep smiling.

Warmth filled Zeika up as Julie hooked her arm around her neck and walked her back into the daycare.

Simply laid, the one room cavern was just big enough to hold the entire class, with some extra room for limited movement. Crates of children's books, bundled sleeping bags and floor pillows, battered toy trucks, patchwork dolls— they all lined the craggy walls. Children's kitchens and tool shops kept lopsided vigils nearby. Even hanging loosely on the wall was a mini chalkboard where the children could use colored chalk to draw pictures. A few adult-sized chairs were scattered around, but besides those, the thinning gym mat on the floor was the only soft spot in the cave for sitting.

In the center of it all, a group of about ten barefoot kids all moved in unison. They were following the motions of the head daycare teacher, Denise, a rock in womanly flesh.

Julie dropped her arm and straightened, as though she'd just remembered something. "Got news," she whispered. "Didn't want to hit you with it when you first stepped in, but I'm not sure now's the best time either—"

"Shoot."

"We just got a call from some parents. We've extended daycare hours. Town meeting."

Zeika felt her skin prickle, and she broke her gaze from the group of kids, looking to Julie for confirmation. Jules nodded, her expression serious. The explosion, along with the gnawing dread that had come with it, crept back into Zeika's mind. "Meeting about what?"

"The influx of refugees into the Protecteds." Jules sighed. "We can't house them fast enough. That, and the explosion. Apparently, the target was an Azure summit, and Koa hit the bullseye. Real bloody. And it happened within ten meters of Demesne Six's border. On the _inside_."

As the words sank in, Zeika felt her lips part. "But, how? The borders—"

"It could have been a mistake," Julie reasoned with a shrug. "I mean, it's easy for a rookie Koan to fudge the demesne boundaries by accident..."

Zeika looked at her, helpless. The world really _was_ just going from ass to toilet.

"Try not to worry about it," Julie said, trying to be upbeat. She put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "Just keep it in mind."

"Yeah," Zeika muttered, embittered by the words. "I'm just not sure how much more I _can_ keep in mind."

"Form one!" Denise's command barreled across the room, drawing their attention.

"HAI!" The group of kids stepped forward with their right feet and crouched. As they did, they lifted one arm over their heads and circled the other arm down as though drawing an imaginary air circle. Their right legs were extended, each child balancing on his or her toes like dancers.

"Like swans, children! Keep those toes straight! Arms up and loose, hands and fingers like butterflies!" Denise instructed. She walked around, fixing each child's form as necessary.

"Swans and butterflies are girly!" One boy complained as Denise came around to him.

"All right then, be graceful like a ninja. Toes straight like a ninja. And arms up, loose and free. Hands and fingers like— er— like _worms_! Yes! Like limber, sneaky worms!"

"Cool!" The boy whooped. His stance improved immediately.

"Gonna start packing..." Julie muttered, and she moved off.

Zeika set her bag down onto one of the tattered love seats. She scanned the crowd of kids, finally relaxing when she spotted one four-year-old in particular. Manja was focused, her eyes hard, an adult-like seriousness on her mahogany face as she held her stance as still as possible. She was just as short as her peers, but the thick crop of kinky hair and stark blue eyes were almost impossible to miss in the crowd.

Denise barked again. "Form two!"

"HAI!" They pivoted, completing the air circles with their arms, ending the move in a step forward.

Zeika held back a small laugh as the kids straightened up like mini soldiers. The sight was enough to push her fatigue and worry and lingering disgust to the bottom of her thoughts. She clapped softly, stepping forward onto the mat.

"Very nice, you guys! All of you will be experts in no time!"

"ZEEKY!" Manja whipped around. Giggling, she made a beeline for her. "Zeeky, I missed you!"

The girl's smile knocked the chill out of Zeika's bones, and she knelt, scooping Manja up in her arms, snuggling her nose into her cheek. "What's kickin', Commander? How was your day?"

Manja let out a dramatic sigh. "Tiring. Her Highness is sleepy."

Zeika snorted. "Her Highness? It was 'Commander' this morning. 'Her Great Empressness', yesterday."

"I'm all kinds of queen, Zeeky. Right now is 'Her Highness'."

"Oh brother!" Zeika turned her knapsack around to carry it at the front. "You ready?"

"More work?"

Zeika nodded. "More work."

"Carry me then, please. The Queen is tired."

"You're such a brat!"

Manja bit her bottom lip and grinned. "But I love you, Zeeky!"

"Oh, shut up." Smiling, Zeika crouched down for Manja to piggyback. "Just don't fart on me while you're back there, all right?"

Manja climbed onto her back. Using the extra obi sash Zeika kept in her pack, she guided it around the girl's body and bottom, once, twice, three times, and then tied the sash tightly around her own torso. Manja's weight instantly melded into hers, anchoring her. She felt the little chin nuzzle into the crook of her neck, and the soft breath gave Zeika her rhythm. They waved Julie goodbye, and in the next second, they were heading out of the door.

#

Seductive ribbons of smoke curled up from the candles set on the low table. Tiny flames illumed the small tearoom, their light latticed by the pink rays of sunset that bled through the wall-to-wall shoji doors. Shadows fluttered against the walls and inked tapestries.

Ridiculous.

Xakiah frowned and sat back on the downy floor pillow trying to shake the haze that eclipsed his focus. Azures were used to such luxuries, but he'd never taken to them. There was nothing inherently powerful about the space. Like all other places designed by Azure architects, this one was built to dull the senses and slow the mind. Even the most discriminating Azure would be so sensually overwhelmed that he wouldn't be able to suss out a disturbance in the air, nor would he detect the soft padded footfalls of a lurking Koan assassin. It was a velvet slaughterhouse.

He homed in on his company of five, all of whom seemed quite at home in the midst of the sensual delights. Dispersed between the bowls of steamed rice and curries, five silver lockboxes sat on the small table, one for each guest.

"Do you all have safe places where they can be stored?" Xakiah asked. "Gentlemen?"

"Yes, yeah, uh huh," the group of councilmen responded, but not quite in unison.

The strange collection of people always made it difficult to run a roundtable, especially around dinnertime. At Xakiah's right, ever-quiet Sablo Peterson was lips-deep in a swig of coffee and had only half gurgled out his reply. Mikhail Beige swooned next to him, having just single-handedly polished off the last of the vodka. At Xakiah's left sat Hans Muirgin, a charlatan if he'd ever met one. Despite the ornate gold ring on Muirgin's left ring finger, he flirted shamelessly with Esther Monona, the only female councilmember in the group. The wrinkled hen-like woman giggled, turning away as Muirgin leaned into her cheek.

The largest and most attentive councilman, Ismail Billings, sat directly across from them. He scowled murderously at the raucous pair of paramours but nodded at Xakiah before stuffing another helping of chicken laab into his mouth.

"All the arrangements have been made, my boy. Just as your Vassal has requested," Billings announced, putting down his chopsticks. "You may consider your artifact in safe hands." He cut a disapproving look at Muirgin, Monona, and Beige. " _Relatively_ safe hands."

Xakiah felt himself relax, even if only a little. Billings was the head of the small council; he'd at least make an attempt to keep the others from screwing up. "That's good to hear," he replied. "And now for the rest of you—"

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Thick fingers cracked open the air about a foot from Xakiah's face as Muirgin tried to get his attention.

"Hey, messenga boy!"

Xakiah's fingers clenched into a fist, but as he pivoted, an eyeful of tropical color nearly blinded him.

Muirgin was brightly clad in a leathery orange and yellow zoot suit, and about six golden rings adorned his thick manicured fingers, including the wedding band he so dutifully ignored. Muirgin was wearing another one of those disgusting suits of his, the kind that looked as though it should be plugged into a wall outlet and lit up to bring business into a porn store. That Muirgin had paid his way up the ranks was the worst kept secret of the Order, ill-kept by Muirgin himself who was always throwing his money around and squawking about it.

Like a parrot taking it in the ass.

Xakiah would only be doing the Order a favor by snapping his neck. But luckily, the sudden fluorescent break in his thought pattern had given him a moment to recoup. Cool calm pooled into him, but he made sure his scowl was unmistakeable as his gaze on Muirgin darkened.

"Councilman?"

"Yeah so uh, how do we know that this favor we're doin' you and your Vassal ain't leadin' us into trouble, Cotch?"

"You are in service to the Order. That is all you need to know."

"Hey, just because Vassal Moss thinks he's got us by the balls in the Halls of Eyre don't mean he's got total power. We need you, sure, but you also need _us_ to protect this Page that the Order's all gaga about. So don't think you're the only one here with some lev'rage."

Muirgin's sudden belligerence caused a hush at the table, bringing in the gazes of the other four councilmen. The man smiled a bowl of butter, yellowing crooked teeth crowded inside thin, oily lips. A slick goatee shined against his pointy jaw.

"What is it now, Muirgin? You want more money, or are you just swinging around the power cock at the dinner table?"

"No, I don't need more money. I make my own. All I want to know is that I'm not gonna get capped by some Koan asshole just cause I got this piece of rock on my hands." Muirgin looked down at his own silver case with disgust. "What kind of protection do you plan to provide for our troubles?"

"You will be getting paid your keeper's fees as agreed. It's up to you to fashion your own protection out of that. Anything more and my Vassal will have to question your loyalty to the Order. Publicly." Xakiah seared Muirgin with a silencing gaze. "I'm not sure that would be good for your business or your health."

Muirgin's demeanor melted, his sarcastic smile turning into a nervous one. "Okay, messenga boy. No need to tarnish my immaculate reputation. I was just askin'."

"Good." Xakiah rose. "When I find a safe haven for the Page, I will inform you. Now, I need to tend to other business. Are there any other questions?"

"Yes, dear boy," Ishmael Billings piped up. "How went the meeting with our ombudsmen?"

Xakiah felt his mouth turn down a little. Vassal Moss' meeting at the Halls of Pact had gone well, but not quite as they had wished. Once they had discovered Koa was using minors to run missions, they had taken the matter to the Halls of Pact to... loosen some of the war stipulations. Some of the Council's response had been lukewarm at best.

"Sal Morgan has agreed to spearhead our endeavors in Demesne Five as expected. Micah Burke, on the other hand, may pose a problem. The events of last spring seemed to have left him... jaded. Now, he's charged with the zoning issues in the Seventh. He is not yet convinced that we should repeal the Articles39. Some on the Council seem to agree."

Billings snorted. "Of course he isn't convinced. 'Champion of Civic justice', indeed. He's a fence walker, not a reliable brother of our Order. Whether on purpose or by foolish coincidence, he'll get in the way of our objectives. I don't want the rest of the Council following him down his rabbit hole."

Xakiah watched Billings lean the soft lumps of his face against his folded knuckles. His usually sharp gaze now very far away. He could see Billings' wheels grinding on the problem and churning up blanks, ones Xakiah felt compelled to fill. "Do not worry, Councilman," he offered, stepping forward. "I can redirect him."

The corpulent councilman chuckled, finally looking up. "Don't trouble yourself, dear boy. Burke would be better convinced by one who speaks his language. Allow me and Morgan to deal with him. I think it would be a sensible start to our new partnership."

Xakiah locked eyes with him and smiled, impressed. A problem solver. Proactivity was a rare trait amongst politicians, and he liked that Billings embraced it, amongst other things. Of all the councilmen that Xakiah had ever met, Billings was the only one who made sense. He was a fat pompous windbag, but he and his policies made sense. He was probably the only other man of import aside from Vassal Moss who took the Koan insurgency— and their youthful new recruits— seriously. He was the one who had agreed to be leading chairman of their Page committee. He'd even promised to report in every three days on the status of the artifact and on the committee guarding it. With him on their team, maybe Xakiah could actually get some real work done for a change. As they exchanged confident nods, Xakiah felt himself relax even more, finally even able to enjoy the space and the fools in it. Yes, this could work.

"Agreed." He then turned from Billings, addressing all of them. "I take my leave. My escorts will arrive shortly to chaperone the five of you home. As always, the bill is on us. Enjoy yourselves... and keep the Final Page safe."

With that, he swept out of the room, leaving the chosen five to their meals.

Captain Jeb Palmer toggled with a flat silver plate on his desk, and a matrix of light glittered upward from it, bending into shapes, letters, paragraphs. In just seconds, all the details of Caleb's life were projected within the boundaries of the plate, and Palmer scrolled through them with pudgy fingers.

"Twenty-six. Home-schooled." Palmer's voice rolled over the floating dossier. "Proficient Alchemist. Druidically-aligned." He raised his eyes, the light of interest flickering on for the first time. "You're a Druidic Alchemist?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'm surprised. It says here that you were the apprentice of Vassal Alyosius Persaud. But he's Corporally-aligned. How did you two make it work?"

"We didn't."

Palmer's brows arched higher.

"We... parted ways a few years into my training," Caleb continued. "I no longer needed his tutelage."

Palmer's gaze waxed suspicious before he turned back to the hologram file. Caleb waited as the first fifteen years of his life rolled upward from the silver disk, disappearing into an invisible atmosphere. Palmer then stopped, pressing one meaty digit against the airy hologram, right under two lines that were capitalized in bold red letters.

"Seems you did a little hell-raisin' as a youngin'."

"Hormones."

Caleb winced internally as he watched Palmer scroll down at least ten more lines of bold red. But the man didn't seem moved by the scarlet letters. He was busy reading the information under it: Caleb's credentials as an officer in Demesne Fifty-Two.

As Palmer navigated his way through his dossier, Caleb's eyes wandered across the office. Files, dull gray cabinets, awards; cop stuff, nothing too out of the ordinary. Bookshelves sat on the walls in haphazard array. Papers, posters, folders of all kinds leaned out of their spots on the shelves, reaching for the captain.

Caleb's gaze finally rested on the dusty impressions in the wall behind Palmer's desk. Five differently-shaped molds had been carved in sequence next to one another, but only one of them had been filled. Sleek, descriptive plaques underscored each mold.

Vassal, Alchemist of the Fifth Degree.

Indigen, Alchemist of the Fourth Degree.

Silvern, Alchemist of the Third Degree.

Proficient, Alchemist of the Second Degree.

Dilettante, Alchemist of the First Degree. It was this one that had been poured full with molten bronze. The medal itself cast a dull shine, and carved in its center was Palmer's name, as well as his Vassal's. Months' worth of dust filled the calligraphies.

Palmer cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee, his eyes going wide under his bushy brows as he scrolled further down the holographic file.

Caleb decided he wasn't going to fret about Palmer's facial contortions, even though he knew what they meant. He had already prepared a well-rehearsed lie months before he got here, in case it came to that.

He continued to look around, noticing three thick tomes on the shelves beneath Palmer's rank plaques. The three stood taller and fatter than all the other books he had, and their covers had been stained with brilliant colors that Caleb recognized all too well. One was a deep azure blue, the other a sun-fire yellow, and the last a blood red. _The Three Alchemic Alignments,_ the collection was called. There was no indication of which alignment Palmer belonged to.

"So I guess you're trolling around Demesne Five for the civvie snatch then, huh?"

The acidic lilt in the Palmer's voice forced Caleb to avert his gaze from the tomes. "Sir?"

"You know what I'm asking. The rest of your file is closed. You wanna explain?" Palmer turned the holographic file towards Caleb, pointing at the thick silver line in the middle. Beneath it, the hologram read 'Access Denied'. "You had a good career, and then as of the last two years, your record drops off. Why are you giving up a cushy job over in the 52nd to lay up in the ass crack of the world?"

"Civic duty, sir."

A couple of chuckles fell from Palmer's mouth, practically clattering across the desk. "Bullshit. Civic duty? These are _my_ folks, boy. Not yours."

Caleb blinked. "You're a Civilian," he said, finally understanding. "Not an Azure."

"Well, whoopty-la-doo for you. Seems like training as a Druid did you some good."

Caleb made a face. Aside from explaining the huge rod that was up the Cap's ass, his being a Civilian also explained why he didn't have an alchemic alignment. That distinction belonged to Azure Alchemists only. Apparently, so did manners.

"You buried nearly 100 cases over there in the 52nd. That's pretty good. Excellent, even, if it weren't for the fact that most of your perps had been petty thieves, kidnappers, and thugs. You ever worked with _big_ fish, boy?"

"I'm pretty fond of grouper, actually."

"You know what I'm talking about, smart ass. Have you ever tracked down Koan terrorists?"

"No."

Palmer shook his head and laughed, sending his toothpick into a tailspin. "Sweet Jesus. And they have the balls to send you over here like you're actually going to be useful?" With disgust, he flicked off the hologram. "What a waste of my damned time."

"The criminals I caught were just a symptom of the pond I was working in, Captain. I'm not sure how you all work here, but we tend to keep our fish under control in the 52nd. Not a Koan terrorist in sight."

"Then I guess you won't mind if we let the big boys here cast the lines. They have more experience keeping dirtier ponds clean."

Caleb could feel anger flutter in his chest. "So what does that mean? You're not sending me out into the field?"

"Even if I wanted to, son, I can't. There's a special note here on your 'closed file'. Did you know that?"

Caleb felt the color drain from his face. He _hadn't_ known that, actually. When did someone addend his file? "What does it say?"

Palmer slammed a fist down on the silver plate, and Caleb's hologram file popped back up. "As a Proficient-level Druid, Caleb K. Rai is to be treated as an imported investigative consultant," he read. "He is to work from the office _only_ and is not to be put on patrol or special ops detail without _express_ permission from the Halls of Eyre."

Palmer looked up at him with an acrid glare. "If you didn't get that last part, son, that means that you aren't to be given any work that could possibly knock the glitter off your ass. S _omeone_ made it clear that they don't want you out in the streets getting your head blown off. So I'm sure you won't mind that the other boys take up the slack."

Caleb creased his brow. "Actually, sir, I _would_ mind. I'm here as an officer, not as a decoration."

"Ha, that's rich! An Azure from the 52nd Demesne..." Palmer focused his full attention on Caleb's face and then his attire. "More of a breeding ground for celebrities, than cops, don't you think?"

Caleb sighed and for the first time ever, he wished he hadn't pressed his clothes. Palmer was definitely noticing each careful crease.

"Cut me some slack, Cap, all right—"

"You think that I don't know where you _really_ come from, Azure, but I do. Your roots run deeper than the 52nd, don't they?"

Caleb's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"You wouldn't volunteer to come here, and we sure as hell didn't request you. So you had to have been sent here. What'd you do to get landed here in the Fifth? If your family is as blue-blooded as I've heard, I'm sure you were sent here as punishment. What'd you do, boy?"

When Caleb kept his silence, Palmer slapped his hand on his knee. "HAH! I'm gettin' warmer, ain't I? Okay then, let me guess. Your daddy's probably tired of you covortin' around with the ladies, island hoppin', playin' pretty boy down in the 52nd. Maybe you humped the wrong duke's daughter or something and caused a tizzy. So, Daddy pulls some strings and dumps you in my lap to babysit you and powder your baby blue ass while they figure out what to do with you in Royal Town. That's why your file's closed, ain't that right? You're here on vacation? Must be, because a little rich kid like you sure as hell ain't here for police work."

The muscles in Caleb's jaw were working double time to not curse this fucker out. "With all due respect, _sir_ ," he said, barely suppressing his snarl. "My status aside, I take my work as a cop very seriously."

"So do I, and if you think I'm going to put a royal like you on a beat in the Fifth Demesne you're whacked. Not only is the Fifth getting worse, but I enjoy having my neck right where the hell it is without your father trying to lop it off for something happenin' to you. I don't give a shit _how_ good you were as a Detective in the 52nd. New ball game, new rules. Work in the Fifth ain't a candy walk, son. That's why Cotch and his boys are in charge, and you're going to play to their game. Got it?"

Caleb's brows raised reflexively, knowing he must be talking about the infamous Xakiah. Or KX Cotch, as most knew him. Caleb had heard about him over in the 52nd. Rumors, and none too charming.

"Last time I checked, this was Civilian territory," Caleb said. "Why is an Alchemist, especially one like Cotch, running the Demesne Five precinct? That doesn't rub you wrong at all?"

Palmer sneered, seeming amused at Caleb's sudden abandonment of formalities. "Oh come on now, boy. You know old civvie blues like me are as useless as balls on a mule nowadays. You watch the news, don't you? According to the papers, here now's 'Azure time'. You like it being 'Azure time', boy? I'm sure you do. _Your_ family certainly gets all the perks of it."

Caleb bristled.

"As for Cotch, much as I'm not a fan, I can't knock his reputation. Two months ago, he made one of the biggest busts ever seen since the insurgency started. Since then, he's been knocking Koan heads down with the best of 'em. So, he's the lead nose 'round here. His tactics are a bit— rough—, but he gets the job done. He keeps the seams of Demesne Five closed to Koan infection. And while I ain't fond of him, he's a damned good soldier. He can learn you a thing or two about real cop work."

"If he's running the Fifth, then why are you captain? I figured the Civic Order would have you off their payroll by now, seeing as we all now have to swing from Cotch's sack around here."

Palmer's cheeks flushed pink. "It'll be a hard lesson for you Azures, but you'll find out pretty quick how much you need the Civilians. Me, I've been here for a while. Seen things. I know the Civic Demesnes in and out, and that's why I'm runnin' this precinct, much as you Azure dicks don't like that. But it just so happens that I don't give a damn what you all think. All I care is that you _do_. You gettin' me, son? You stay out of my ass, and I'll stay out o' yours. If you play nice while you're here, I might just forget all about your closed file, and we can get on as sweet as schoolgirls."

Palmer waddled to a stand, took a box of files off of a nearby cabinet, and dropped it at Caleb's feet. "There's a bunch of cases piling up that we haven't been able to pursue, due to lack of manpower for one, and secondly, because the organization of the police reports is shot to hell. You could start by going down into the cold room and organizing our paperwork." Then Palmer looked around his own office and made a face. "Actually, start _here_. I haven't been able to get my files together in ages."

Caleb's face screwed up. This was BS. "Sir, there's got to be something more hands-on I can do than this. I'm a cop, not a fucking maid. There's nothing else I can do here?"

"Well, our resident masseuse is out for the month, if you're interested..." Palmer walked past Caleb, heading towards the door, ending the conversation.

"I'm not joking, Captain."

Palmer stopped at the door, giving Caleb a look that said he wasn't joking either. "Get this place together, will you? Cotch will be back in a few days, and he hates clutter."

With that, Palmer closed the door behind him, turning over the hanging sign on the door that said "Out to Lunch".

Prick.

Snarling, Caleb kicked the box at his feet. It slid across the office and crashed against the far wall, regurgitating random slips of paper. The gesture made him feel better and yet more impotent all at the same time. All those years of cracking cases, of climbing the ladder, of special ops training in the 52nd Demesne, and _this_ is what he came halfway across the goddamned world for?

He walked over to the window, chewing on the bitter thought, cursing at how badly things in his life had gone in the past two years. He hadn't picked Demesne Five for the transfer, but at the time, he hadn't had a choice. He hadn't really had much of a say in anything. The Fifth Demesne Headquarters had been at the top of the list of the most understaffed and highest priority precincts, and one that would be the least likely to ask him questions. And likewise, he hadn't asked questions either. He had just been happy to be alive.

Guess I should be grateful for that much.

He sighed, already knowing the end to that tune. In the aftermath of his little "incident" in Demesne 52, he had spent nearly the entire trip over here mustering up some inklings of gratitude for what he had left. He had come up dry every time. So he had tried something a bit more practical and less infuriating: reading up on Demesne Five.

From what little info he had gathered, politicians of the Protecteds were afraid that Demesnes Five, Six, and Seven would soon lose their ground as Civilian sanctuaries. All the other demesnes surrounding the Protecteds had been getting hit with Koan metal. Hard. Outer Civic Demesnes were crumbling beneath the clashes between the Alchemic Order and the Koan insurgency, and guerilla warfare pressed harder and harder on the borders of the Protecteds as power shifted from Civilians to Koa... or so the files had said.

Either way, the reports didn't make sense.

Everyone, even Azures, knew that Koan insurgents considered the Protecteds sacred ground. Most Koan soldiers were rogue Civilians of the Civic Order, waging war on its behalf, not against it. To them, the Protecteds not only served as the capital of the Civic Order, but they were also the last three demesnes where Civilians were relatively safe. They would never breach them. It just didn't make sense.

The more Caleb had researched the situation in the Protecteds, the less sure was of the truth. He had only hit more dead-ends, more questions, and now that he'd been given bitch work, he definitely had doubts. Of all the things he thought he'd be doing here, he hadn't imagined that _this_ was the kind of help the Demesne Five Headquarters needed. Why even put out an urgent notice for transfers if they weren't going to use them?

Say it, Rai. Sounds like a crock of shit.

And now, whatever the Orders or the Demesne Five Headquarters were up to, he was smack in the middle of it. He didn't have proof of foul play, of course. But still, something just didn't feel right...

Yeah, but that doesn't stop you from cashing their checks, does it?

He frowned. In the end, he had no choice, and that's what it had come down to in the last year. Survival. But after everything he had gone through to get here, after all he had done to piece together even the semblance of a normal life, he still wondered if this was the best that he could ask for.

As if to welcome him, a cool moist wind rolled in through Cap's window, kissing Caleb's skin, heightening his senses. It had started to rain. Arms crossed, he watched the first drops fall, and still, he was unable to make sense of the whirlwind of doubts in his mind. But in the end it didn't matter. Demesne Five was his home now... no matter how much he wished things were different.

#

Zeika carried Manja up the last hill that looked over their lot in New Co-op City. She stood at the top, stopping to take in the night. The stop home had to be quick before she and Manja went to the Forge. Mama and Baba worked deep in the fields on the other side of Demesne Six, and the civic transport only ran four times a day to accommodate the workers. It would be well past midnight before either of them got home. And there was still so much to do.

Darkness had swallowed their neighborhood, and for the first time in weeks, a bit of the Canopy had cleared so that the moon and stars peeped through. Zeika looked up, smiling at the silver eye. Waning crescent, it looked like, an eyelid half-closed over a shining gaze, heavy with sleep. And no matter how little of it shone, it always filled her up.

She continued on into the black beyond, the gravel beneath her feet gleaming like crushed diamond. The only lights ahead were the tiny kerosene lamps of the Quonset huts in their rail-road style lot. Paused at the edge of the property, she sighed, her limbs feeling heavy and reluctant. She gazed up at the winking moon once more.

A few more minutes won't hurt.

She hung a left and made her way to the one joy of Co-op City: the gardens. She reached into her robes and locked her fingers around a wad of paper as she navigated her way towards a painted piece of wood labeled "Anon", which marked the start of their vegetable beds. The kids of Co-op City glided around her knees, giggling and chasing after one another under the sleepy lunar gaze, their white robes flying out behind them.

From the far right, hens clucked softly as they turned in for the night. The rustling of feathers reminded her of the boy who used to tend to them. The one who had disappeared from her lot and who now stared at her every day from his mount above a shattered looking-glass.

Zeika pushed off the thought and kept moving. At the corner of their garden, she set Manja down under their row of fava beans. The kid clutched her dinosaur bag, laying her head on its yellow snout, her eyes heavy. Guess the kid _had_ had a rough day after all.

"You okay, kiddo?"

Beneath the willows, Manja smiled and buried her cheek further into the dino's nose. Her eyes twinkled between the milky fava flowers, their black and smooth paint splotches forming night eyes against white petals.

Zeika pinched Manja's nose and knelt down to push back some thick braids of honeysuckle. Beneath, a small square door, its hinges, and a braided lock shined up at her from the earth. With a graze of her fingertip, the lock lost its rigidity. Zeika bit her lip, her eyes searching the night; no one had noticed.

Quietly, she slid the limp braid lock from its latch and opened the door. Dry old earth spat up from the void. She reached down into the dark and popped off the lid of a coffee tin. From places within her robes, some unmentionable, she took out her tips and Davy's money and shoved them into the metal tin before replacing the lid.

_That makes 5,565 dollars to date._ _Only 15 grand to go._

That's how much it would all cost. For the move into Demesne Seven, for the relocation tax, probationary work passes, for a year's rent on a new place. Only 15 grand more.

Not if you don't get moving, though.

Zeika lifted Manja back up from the dirt, where she had been dozing off. She set her on her feet. "Come on. Let's get you something to eat." She started towards the house, but her arm went taut as Manja stood rooted to her spot, her fingers laced with hers.

"I don't feel good, Zeeky. My knee hurts. Please carry me?"

Zeika's eyes widened, and a familiar dread began to gnaw at her chest. "Of course I will, honey." She hoisted Manja up, wincing as she felt Manja's limbs drape limply, too limply, against her body. "You've had a long day. We'll get you something to eat and get you down for a nap, okay?"

"Kay..." Manja whispered into her neck. The response was so weak that it drove Zeika into a jog back to their hut.

Closing and locking the shabby door behind them, Zeika shuffled over into the kitchenette with Manja on her hip. After readjusting their little round table out of its tilt, she set the girl down into a chair. The light from Manja's eyes had all but disappeared, and a sag weighed down the girl's cheeks as she laid her head on the table.

Zeika set her knapsack on the other chair and began to rummage through it. She pushed past the ballerina slippers, past the ragged woolen hat, past the holstered field knife she carried for protection. Finally, she produced a travel medical kit and emptied its contents. A tongue depressor, cotton swabs, and a small flashlight fell out.

"Open your mouth, sweetie."

Manja did, and Zeika lifted the girl's top lip, shining the flashlight in. Puffy, red tissue had taken the place of what should have been Manja's normal healthy gums. Zeika took a cotton swab and pressed down on the gums— and at the gentlest touch, thin particles of crimson beaded along Manja's gumline, staining the cotton with a dark rusty hue.

Zeika swallowed hard. "Which... which knee hurts again?"

"This one." Manja pointed at her right knee.

Zeika rolled up Manja's pant's leg, and as her fingers closed around the hot pulsing flesh, she creased her brow. The tissue was swollen about half an inch around Manja's entire knee cap, making an awkward brown lemon of the joint. Gently, she squeezed.

_"_ Ouch!" Manja whined. "It hurts."

"I'm sorry, honey." Zeika removed her hand. She had only touched it for a minute, but that was more than enough to send shivers into her body.

It's not serious. You caught it early. Deal with it now, and she'll be fine.

She went to the small fridge in the corner of the room and plunged her hand in, looking for the small orange she had taken from the Diner days ago. No orange. Her heart sank as she returned to her bag and dropped the day's take onto the table, hoping she could find _something_ with Vitamin C or K in it. Zeika knew it wouldn't help... but it'd make her feel better.

Double-decker cheeseburgers, grilled chicken club, cold French fries, and even a few slabs of steak that some customers had been too full to eat. Zeika had also pilfered a few eggs, sliced ham, oatmeal, and a couple pints of milk. Her wasteful customers had really come through, but not a shred of green leaf or citrus could be found.

_Stupid. Stupid of you to trust_ either _of them with this._ As she thought of her parents, Zeika felt the anger take hold of her. She spilled the contents of Manja's dinosaur bag onto the table. A coloring book and a few broken crayons, a hair pick, a monster truck magazine, a snack tin, a medi-kit, and a small dark vitamin bottle. Empty.

Zeika held the bottle up to Manja. "How long has it been empty, hon?"

"I dunno." Manja was tired but lucid at least. She looked up at her, just a hint of a twinkle returning to her blue eyes. And just as always, whatever anger or sadness consumed Zeika's heart melted away. She placed a hand on Manja's head and forced a smile.

"Okay, we'll get you some more. What are you in the mood for, kiddo? We've got some hamburger, fries, a couple of moo moos..."

"May I have the chicken club, please?" She had been eyeing it the entire time.

"Right on. You know I made all of this myself, right?"

"No you didn't!" Manja giggled. "Your food's yucky!"

Zeika smiled and rolled her eyes. "Way to make your big sister feel like a champion."

She had barely pushed the chicken sandwich up to Manja before she snatched it up and started eating like a barbarian. Zeika filled two glasses, one with cold water and one warm with salt, and put both of them down for her. A quick rummage back through the medical kit and their fridge produced a crude icepack for Manja.

We have to get to Guild Five.

Zeika clenched her jaw, unsettled by the thought. She hadn't planned on swinging by there for at least another week, but in Manja's condition, they had no choice. Her right knee had already begun to swell. It wouldn't be long before the left knee followed.

She looked at Manja, who had put her sandwich down. The bite marks in the bread were pinked with splotches of blood. Zeika forced her eyes closed, the decision cemented. They didn't have a choice.

She took the holstered field knife out of her bag, and for a long time, she gazed at it.

_More dangerous to be without it_ , she decided finally, and she jammed it into the sash around her waist. She started towards the tail of their hut, to grab some last few things— and practically slid to a stop as a tall body stepped out of the shadows.

The body didn't belong to her mother. It belonged to a man... and it wasn't her father either.

Zeika snatched her field knife from its holster, brandishing it. "STOP RIGHT THERE!"

She could hear Manja turn in her chair, but Zeika focused her eyes forward into the darkness. The figure kept walking towards her, casually even, and a chuckle rolled out of his mouth as he stepped into the light.

"A little paranoid today, aren't we, honey?"

Greasy smile, slicked back silvery hair, and a rolling gray gaze put a familiar face to the voice. Salvatore Morgan. Ombudsman, Representative, and Azure tax-collector for Demesne Five.

The first Monday of the month. It's tax day, and you forgot.

Zeika felt the tension in her muscles melt, but as the adrenaline washed out of her senses, her frown only deepened at the man standing before her. The awkward pitter-patter of unsure feet echoed out from behind him as Zeika's mother skittered out from the back, clutching the thin bathrobe around her body.

"Zeika, what in Christ's name are you doing?!" Mama's eyes were wide with fear. "Put that thing away!"

Lips taut, Zeika slowly slid the field knife into the holster at her back. "Excuse me," she muttered. "I didn't know we had... company."

She made a face at the frazzled state of her mother's hair, and then she saw them, chalky smudges that lined the skin under Mama's nose. They sloped, forming arrows pointing towards her mother's swollen and pathless gaze.

"Mama!" Behind them, Manja jumped out of her chair and hobbled over to their mother, arms wide. "You're home!"

"Hi darling!" Mama took Manja up in her arms, smothering her with kisses. Manja wrapped her arms around Mama's neck, and smiling, she turned to Sal.

"Hi Mister Morgan!"

"Hey there, munchkin. How was school today?"

"It was good! I practiced spelling long words! Seven letters!"

Sal slipped his hands into his pockets, curious. "Wow, already? You must be the smartest girl in the class!"

"Yup! Zeeky taught me. Everyone else does the alifbet, but not me! You proud?"

"I most certainly am, sweetheart. How old are you now?"

Manja proudly held up four straight fingers. "But my birthday's soon! Zeeky's gonna make me a big _fūl-medammis_ and bread pudding!"

Smiling, Sal leaned in further. "Well that's mighty sweet of her, don't you think?"

"Yeah, it's real sweet," Zeika snapped. She stepped between Sal and her family and handed the ice pack to Manja. "Here, sweetie. Go in the back, get a cloth, and wrap your knee good and tight, okay? Then re-pack your dino bag. We're leaving soon. And no running."

"Kay, Zeeky."

Mama set the girl down, and after Zeika handed her the dinosaur bag, Manja disappeared into the back. "Bye, Mister Morgan!" She called over her shoulder.

Once Manja was gone, Zeika turned to Sal, her gaze settling.

"Why don't you have a seat, Lord Morgan?" Her mother offered gently. "Zeika, show him to a chair."

Zeika took a step back and slowly lifted her chin. "A chair can be located approximately ten degrees to your left."

"Zeika!"

Sal lifted a hand, still smiling. "It's all right, Mika. I'm sure she's just had a long day. I'll make myself at home."

As though he hadn't already.

"Are you hungry?" Mama pressed.

"No," Sal said with a warm smile. "I'm quite satiated. Thank you."

Zeika's eyes widened, and she looked at her mother for meaning. Her mother was diligent in avoiding her gaze.

"I... I'm sure we could do with some tea, though. Zeika?"

Zeika's dark gaze rolled over to meet her mother's.

"Would you please?" Mama urged.

Zeika turned and started to walk out the kitchen.

"EZEKIEL!"

Zeika stopped short as her mother called out her full name. Mama only used it when she was upset.

"Get the tea. Now."

Tea leaves blustered from their tin, and the water in the teapot rolled around more angrily than usual as Sal and Mama settled into the living room's weathered couches. The cracks in their plates, teacups, and sugar bowl deepened as Zeika slammed everything down on their shaky coffee table. She tossed the last of their frozen bread loaf onto a warming skillet to make toast, and when it was done, she dealt the toast out, blackjack dealer-style.

Mama's eyes glittered with anger as her own slice of bread backflipped its way onto the tabletop, spilling crumbs. Finally, a half-filled jar of jam clattered into the middle of the table along with a couple of butter knives. Then, Zeika sat herself on the couch next to her mother, her lips smushed up against her knuckles as she glared at Sal.

As she watched his vile Adam's apple throb with the gulps he took from his mug, all Zeika could see was Mama crouched next to their withered ten-by-ten dirt patch, urging those tender tea leaves to life. Their _last_ tea leaves.

She closed her eyes against the scene and clenched her teeth. "Mama. Manja and I really have to go now."

"Where are you headed?" Sal asked. He was spreading an inordinate amount of jam on his toast.

She pursed her lips for seconds on end as she stared at him— and at the too-thick layer of jam on his bread— until her mother's gaze on her cheek urged her to answer. "Guild Five. The Guild of Almaut."

Mama stiffened, her jaw going tight beneath the smooth chestnut of her skin.

"Ah." Sal took more jam from the already waning jar. "You realize that your demesne's guild is under investigation for its ties with Koa?"

"Its _alleged_ ties with Koa. We have nothing to do with them."

"We?" Sal looked up at her, his eyes dark. He set his teacup down on the table. "Have you joined, then? Are you looking to become a Civic Alchemist?"

"I became a member of Guild Five so that I could get social services for my family and so that Manja would have a place to play," she replied. The well-rehearsed lines rolled out smoother than she expected. "I have no interest in becoming a Civic Alchemist. Everyone knows it's illegal. Besides, I have no interest in magic. It's dumb."

She could see Sal relax immediately. His smile returned. "Alchemy is not magic, my dear. It's a science, and a highly-regarded one at that. Better suited for people who know what they're doing."

"Yeah, like Azures." The sarcasm laid thick on Zeika's voice. "Their expertise is profound."

A touch of a smirk drove a glint into Sal's eyes. "It is. Either way, hearing you say that is reassuring, Ezekiel. A delicate thing like you has little business to do with Guilds and Alchemy and Orders." He took a bite of his toast. "So, if not to commune with barbarians, what pray tell, do you do at the Guild while Manja is playing?"

Zeika looked away and rubbed her arm. "I dance. I dance ballet."

Her mind wandered to the silken shoes in her bag, and for the first time since she'd been home, she felt some of her bitterness lift, even in Sal's toxic presence. It was the one thing, aside from Manja, that brought her joy, and one of the few things she didn't have to lie about.

"Ah. A dancer. A ballerina, even. That's something I didn't know about you. I assume you've been doing it most your life?" As he said this, his gaze rolled from her face and then down. She crossed her arms, cutting off his visual traipse.

" _Yes_ ," she huffed out. She was beginning to tire of this game.

"That's marvelous. That was a good decision on your mother's part. Ballet is a beautiful vocation. Very suitable for a woman. Especially a Civilian woman."

It took everything in Zeika to keep her fists from tightening. "I doubt that twirling around like some twit is going to get me that far in life."

"You'd be surprised at what talents can get you far." And Sal cast a smug glance Mama's way, to which Mama lowered her eyes. "Speaking of, that reminds me. You need your work pass renewed for that waitress job, don't you?" Sal shot her a grin that was so wide Zeika thought she'd missed the punchline.

"No," she replied with a hard gaze. "I don't need it renewed for another week. And I was planning to start working locally anyway."

Sal's smile began to fade.

"Ezekiel," her mother broke in softly. "Ezekiel, please."

Zeika turned to her and then looked at Sal, who had already extended his hand, bidding her forth.

"Please, honey." Her mother's eyes softened. "It is a gift. Please."

The gaze that Zeika unrolled at her mother was longer than yarn on a spindle. But finally, she sighed in defeat and got up, pulling the heavy pendant from her robes. On one side, the Monas Hieroglyphica was carved, and Zeika couldn't help but look down at it as she approached Sal. It filled her gaze, that menagerie of winding ribbons and ivy, twining around a set of symbols that Zeika had seen many times, but never understood. Still, her eyes lingered. The hieroglyphic sign at the Monas' center lay shadowed beneath the curly barbed lace around it, roads no one could ever travel.

Zeika knew what lay on the other side of the work pass, but instead of looking at it, she held the pendant out to him, averting her eyes as she did.

Sal snatched her wrist and pulled her in. On reflex, Zeika reached for her knife holster with her other hand, but as she did, her muscles screeched to a halt, suspending her hand in mid-air. She tried to move once. Twice. Nothing. Neither of her arms would budge an inch.

"Let go of me, Sal," Zeika's voice curled into a low snarl.

Sal's eyes danced with delight as he watched her squirm.

"Let go, or I swear, I'll— _hrmph!_ "

With a lift of his gaze, Sal locked the muscles in Zeika's jaw. Then he held out his free hand, spread his fingers, and gestured downward.

Her knees began to bend. She ground her teeth, fighting against his power as his force bore down on her. Pain exploded in her body as threads of muscle stretched and strained. She never whimpered.

"A pretty face that does not beg," Sal said. "I'm intrigued." He reached out and caressed her cheek, pushing a loose braid back behind her ear. He lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his face. She couldn't turn away, so instead, she focused on the long thin scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. She fixed on it, drawing strength from knowing he had once felt pain.

His power came down on her with ten times the force. She let out a low whine as her limbs began to fold down harder, forcing her knees and forehead towards the floor. She crumpled, and Sal's grip tightened on her wrist as he forced her arm and body in opposite directions.

"Please, my Lord!" Mama whispered as she stumbled forward, falling on her knees. "She's just a child! She meant no disrespect! She's tired from work is all!"

"I realize that. No need to be dramatic, Mika."

Sal plucked the pendant from Zeika's jerking fingers, and she felt her neck and back muscles contract as he forced her again to lift her gaze to him. Flipping the work-pass, Sal showed Zeika its back-side, which now read:

Work Pass Clearance:

ALL CIVIC DEMESNES.

Expiration Date:

60 DAYS.

Licensor:

LORD SALVATORE MORGAN,

PROFICIENT ALCHEMIST OF THE SECOND DEGREE.

The pass' expiration date had changed from 7 days to 60 days, and his signature glowed beneath it, still warm from its forced re-inscription.

"My dear. Your mother paid very well for this. Never snap at those who give you your daily bread. You may come to regret it." He tilted his head, smiling. "Safe travels to you." Then he released her. All of her.

Zeika wrenched away and scrambled backwards. Her heart hammered against her chest, breath whisked in and out of her in shallow rolls, but those numbing sensations couldn't match the crushing swells of hatred that surged as she watched Sal get up from their couch. He smoothed his collared shirt, grabbed his long coat, and tossed the work pass nonchalantly onto the table.

"Until next time, Mika." Then his gaze shifted down to Zeika, and he winked. "Ezekiel."

The door to their Quonset hut closed, and Mama turned to her, but Zeika barely noticed. She was still struggling to her feet and watching the door with a steady, roiling gaze. When she finally turned to face Mama, her dark expression sucked the remaining pleasantries out of the air.

"So you decided to skip the town meeting?" Zeika seethed. "Or did it just adjourn in our bedroom?"

"It's tax day," Mama murmured.

"Tax day. Right. Guess you and Baba are no longer filing jointly."

Mama's brows lifted, whether in surprise or indignation, Zeika couldn't tell. "I'm not in the mood for one of your spectacles, Ezekiel. It's getting old already."

"Tell me. _How_ have you been paying for this?" Her eyes hard, she lifted the work pass to her mother. "Are you using the money me and Baba give you, or are you using something else?"

Mama looked at her for a long beat, but not a word came from her mouth. Not even when she turned away and tried to walk into the back.

Zeika staggered, her muscles aching. But she was still faster than her mother, and before Mama could disappear into the back, Zeika slid in front of her, blocking her way.

"Honey, I have to be to work in an hour. I really don't have time for this."

"Answer me!"

"I'm your _mother_ —"

"Not when he had me on my knees you weren't. The least you can do after watching him humiliate me is answer my question."

Her eyes wide, Mama shook her head, at a loss. "I- I wasn't expecting you to be home this early. I'm sorry that you had to go through that, but aside from that, I don't know what to say."

Zeika felt the air rush out of her, hate filling her up. "You don't know what to say... Funny how a woman has nothing to say when she has an Azure dick in her mouth."

Her chin snapped to the right as Mama brought a hand across her face. Zeika's eyes went wild with shock as she put her fingers to her stinging cheek.

Mama then came in close and lifted a finger to her face, almost touching her nose. "Your time in the street has you smelling yourself. While you still walk this Earth and your asshole points to the ground, I am still your mother. You _will_ respect me. Is that clear?"

Zeika pursed her lips, gazing at her. "You want respect... while you cuckold my father."

The anger in Mama's eyes extinguished into another emotion that Zeika couldn't place. "You can't cuckold the dead, Ezekiel."

"I can't believe you just said that," Zeika whispered. "He's _gone_ , not— he's out _there_! Every day! He breaks his back for US!"

"Zeika." Her mother approached her, her voice wavering. "Please understand. This isn't just for kicks. If I didn't, Sal would take three times more from all our incomes than he's taking now, and you wouldn't have a work pass at all. I'm doing this for our family—"

Zeika started shaking her head, and she put her face in her hands. "No."

"—for you and Manja!"

"No! You aren't doing this for us! There are plenty of things you could be doing for 'us', but you chose this! Why? You've refused to come down to the Forge every time I've asked you, and for what? You'd rather be _this_?! Sal's concubine?!"

"I can only give what I have in the ways that I can."

"I have asked you once, twice, a million times to come down with me to the Forge!"

"You think that in between commuting and slaving away in Demesne Six that I have time for that? You're living a pipe dream, Zeika. Do you understand that? Those little side jobs you work don't pay the bills. The money I get from the factory and from Sal, on the other hand, does."

Zeika had to tighten her jaw in order to keep from saying it. Her mind flew to the three grand in the jar, hidden in the Earth, but for the sake of keeping those savings full, she had to keep quiet. Mama had bad habits... and the last time Zeika had told her where their savings were, it had cost them big.

"I'm not doing this with you right now," Zeika said finally. "We're leaving. We'll be back soon."

"You're not taking her with you. We both know that it's too risky. Guild Five is too risky."

"I don't have a choice. She's bleeding into her knees again. I need to treat her, now, and the only place I can do that is at the Guild. They have what we need, so that's where we're going."

"Sal is already suspicious of them. The entire Alchemic Order is."

"I don't care what Sal _or_ the Cabal are suspicious of, and I'm tired of dancing around them and their paranoia. Where else am I going to get supplies for Manja?"

"Caution is the path of wisdom."

"It's also the path of cowardice. Did caution matter for our livelihood? For Baba? For you?" Zeika's jaw quivered with anger as she forced the words out. "Did it matter for Johnny?"

"Zeika, Sal had nothing to do with—"

"That's garbage, and you know it."

"You're emotional. I know it's hard, but you can't take your anger out on Sal. For all our sakes, you need to reign it in, do you understand? If you truly care about our family's safety— Manja's safety— you need to deal with your loss—"

"I didn't lose anything. Sal took him from me."

Mama reached out to touch her, but Zeika brushed her off.

"Please," Mama pleaded. "Let me. You never let me in." Her eyes were soft and warm, rising above their dull-cow coma. Zeika wanted to take in her useless pity, be held in a empty embrace, hear powerless words of soothing. But there was nothing Mama could do to make anything better, not unless she could bring Johnny back. Not unless she could save Manja. She felt herself harden at the thought.

"You can tap dance to Sal's tune all you want," she said. "But he couldn't care less about you, about me, about Manja. He thinks we're a house of whores, and it's disgusting. Sell your ass all you like, but leave us out of it. Leave _her_ out of it."

A small shuffle brought both Mama and Zeika back to the bedroom door. Manja was standing there, her knee wrapped in the icepack and her dino bag full and strapped to her back. Her hair stuffed underneath a silky black scarf, she yawned and rubbed her eyes. Zeika and Mama exchanged glances, and just like that, anger swept out of the cracks of the room as quickly as it had entered.

"Sorry, Zeeky," Manja murmured. "I was doing _salat_ , and..." She smiled sheepishly. She had fallen asleep during prayer.

Mama's face softened. "We're sorry, sweetheart. We didn't mean to wake you. Did you... hear us?"

"No, it's okay, Mommy. I did all my prayers deep like Daddy said to."

Zeika kicked herself, feeling bad that she had forgotten. After dark and until dusk, Isha'a was the only prayer amongst the Islamic rites that could be done, and for Manja, that came before all else. Zeika had been long out of practice herself, but even _she_ knew to keep quiet during Isha'a. It was disrespectful to do otherwise. But luckily, Manja didn't seem to have noticed.

With a practiced deference, Manja carefully slid the hijab off of her head, folded it, and put it into her bag.

"Ready?" Zeika asked.

The girl nodded, raising her arms to be picked up. Zeika moved to get her, but Mama grabbed her shoulder, stopping her in her tracks. Her strength was surprising, and Zeika tensed, ready to throw off her grip if necessary. They looked at each other; then, Mama's eyes trailed down to Manja's knee. Finally, she let Zeika's shoulder go.

"Take care of her," she said. "And be careful."

Zeika collected her sister, hoisting her weight on her back and tying her in. They left, and she never looked her mother in the eye, never bade her farewell as she and Manja stepped back out into the world. Instead, she forced a stern gaze forward through a haze of burning, unshed tears and kept her eyes on the road.

#

"I don't want the police to find him. I want _you_ to find him. Do you understand?"

As he spoke, Morris Green looked up from his desk, his puffy red-rimmed eyes barely able to meet the cool gaze of the man that stared out at him from the back shadows of the office. Green hadn't slept in days. He'd been sitting in this exact spot, staring at the dossiers of his smiling nine-year-old daughter, a perpetual glass of whiskey at his right hand.

The kidnapper hadn't asked for money; he hadn't wanted any. In the single phone call Green had received, he was merely told to "not intrude upon their oasis". Then, the conversation was over. That was a week ago. He hadn't heard from his daughter or the kidnapper since.

"Perhaps the police would be a more suitable choice, Mr. Green. That, or a hunter's cell from the Order. My services don't come cheap." The voice said this from the darkness; its same cool gaze never shifted.

With almost an air of resentment, Green glared at him.

"Don't give me that shit, muzzie. Whether I hire them or you, it's all the same, so what's the difference? I want my baby back, and they aren't doing shit about it. I don't wanna admit it... but you are my last hope. And hers too."

Hand trembling feverishly, Green took a long swig from his glass, draining it. Then, he started to refill.

From the shadows, the silhouette nodded its head. "Do you have any special requests?"

"Yeah. His dick on ice, and his brains to the wind. Do you understand me, muzzie? Let those bastards know that anyone who screws around with Morris Green or his family is a dead man. That he's got Azure muscle and isn't afraid to fucking flex it!"

As if propelled by Green's anger, the sweat and alcohol wafted off of him, expelled moistly from every fold and crevice of excess fat on the man's 350 lb body. Morris didn't notice, but the shadowy man in the corner scrunched his nose up in disgust as the smell finally washed over him.

It was time to go.

"Done," the shadow said simply. "Expect results in a week."

"Everything is paid for in advance." Green threw a nod to the silver briefcase that sat upright on the floor in front of the desk.

"Leave the briefcase with your secretary. I don't collect until the job is done." And as the shadow turned to leave, he looked back over his shoulder. "Oh and Green? Call me a muzzie again, and paid for or not, you'll never see your daughter again. Are we clear?"

Green sat back, his chubby chin wobbling just slightly. Whatever words might have surfaced froze on his lips, and he stared at the shadow in fear.

"Good. We'll touch base on Wednesday," the shadow said. With those words hanging in the air, the silhouette turned and walked out, disappearing into the darkness.

* * * *

Xakiah breathed out evenly as he walked his Echo from Green's office back into his own apartment, the trip only a few steps long. He leaned against his desk as he watched the shadow return. The Echo wasn't a perfect creature as far as alchemy went, but it was a useful one for message and blood work. Efficient. He released his mental hold on it, and it disappeared in a black wisp, the knowledge it had gained from Morris melding with his own.

He looked over at his window, noting the steady brightening of the sky, and then glanced at his clock. 4:15 AM. He had been cutting it close with Green, the fool keeping the Echo hostage with his whines about his brat daughter. Any longer and the rising sun would have shrunk the shadows in Xakiah's room to nothing, leaving his Echo stuck in Demesne 20, scavenging for darkness for hours until the sun moved again.

His mouth puckered at the thought of Green, who had been too impotent and whore-hungry to protect his only child. Sophia had been lured away from her own birthday party while Morris had been schmoozing with some gold-digging Betties. Morris hadn't seen his kid since.

Xakiah walked into his living room, taking in the spartan smell of bleach, pine oil, and mint. By habit, he pulled the curtain back from his half-moon windows, and then sank into his thinking chair, placing his feet on his desk. He thought briefly about reaching for a cigarette, but quickly abandoned the idea, not wanting to pick up the habit again after decades of keeping clean. Besides, he wouldn't enjoy the morning as he should. Staying clean helped him to think. To plan.

The soft Turkish winds curled in through his windows, foretelling the summer heat. But Xakiah knew Alaçati better than that. The wind was telling lies again; rainstorms were coming.

_Cock tease weather_ , as Xakiah's father used to mutter. _No intention to stay._

The breeze caused his life to move around him on the walls, fluttering three skeins of cloth hanging on his left. The right was emblazoned with a red shield and eagle; the left with a red and white checkered shield. In the middle was a third, a combination of the two. Two flags that once stood separately now conjoined in madness.

Tick. Tick.

Xakiah cocked his head, homing in on the source of the sound. From a ceramic half-mask hanging on the bottom rack, drops of cherry red, plopped to the floor. Skin still clung to the inside of the mask, not yet dried. His most recent acquisition. Joining it were rows and rows of similar pearl white veneers, hung on the racks in front of him, a Venetian carnival of the dead. Thirty-seven conquests: soldiers of the Knights of Almaut. The mimed half-faces each showed a different expression, sweet and horrific, cast in their last moments of life. Like living art.

In the middle of the crowded dead, a frilly pink dress, small enough for a school girl, had been knifed into the wall at its collar. The dingy ruffles and bow hung limp. Rusty red splotches scattered their ways down the front of the dress, staining the smock and the skirt. Some of the masks on the wall looked at it, their jaws slacking into "oh"s of surprise or agony.

It had come from his very first kill, years ago. A child trainee. A murder of necessity, but one that he would always remember.

The little child had been staggering over the pointed stone heads of the road, trails of dark ichor sticking to the pink linen smock, its soft pastels crimsoned. White frills had foamed under the pink silk skirt at the child's thighs. The skirt had floated high, a paper thin cupcake frosting swirling above peppered knees. One dangling foot dragged along in the dust under the child's jerky stride, soiling the tip of the once-shiny Mary Janes, browning the flowery pleats of the dainty doll socks, and for the first time in years, Xakiah began to feel...

Stop. It's pointless.

He closed his eyes against the memory. If he couldn't frame it in porcelain like the others, frame it outside of himself, he needn't keep it. It would only be a distraction. The little ones were just as guilty, and they too needed to be educated, just as the one in the pink dress had been. As much as the Civilians refused to believe it, as much as they protested, no one could tell him that the ghosts of war weren't becoming soldiers of Koa. He had seen it for himself. It was why he was here. To crush them. All of them.

And to make my money in the meantime.

He smiled. Annoying as it was, the contract for Sophia Green was worth millions, and Morris knew that he was the only one who could fulfill it. So did Vassal Moss. His Vassal trusted him; he _wanted_ him to succeed in this new world, and he allowed him every opportunity to do so. Just like he'd promised. Now, it was time to get to work.

Xakiah got up, crossed the room, and opened his closet. A fresh scent of starch rolled out to meet him. Folds of clean, navy-blue linen stacked up as high as they could go, peered out at him from the darkness. He reached in to grab one. Jolts of pleasure tickled his bowels as the velvet practically melted beneath his fingertips. Then he carefully pushed the joy back, locking it deep within.

"Calm, Proficient," he murmured, and he eased the fabric out of the small cupboard and unfolded it.

A bright silver insignia beamed out from the middle of the dark azure square, and Xakiah had to remind himself that it was okay to remain on his feet. Because a man should always bow before it. The Monas Hieroglyphica, the crest of the Alchemic Order.

The heart of the crest was egg-shaped, darkened with First Matter, and inscribed with the Greek symbols of the sun, the moon, and the Cross of the Elements. The inscriptions shone under a flowering crown of ivy. To the unworthy, the arrangement of lines and symbols looked preposterous, but to the chosen, it revealed the beautiful symmetry of everything it meant to be an Alchemist. Ordered perfection.

He slung the flag over his shoulder and looked to the door of the closet. The racks cradled a variety of firearms, automatic, semi-automatic, all cleaned and oiled, and from the arsenal he now made careful selections. Morris had asked for torture, paid for it; it was the only way these bastards would learn that Azures, especially Azure Alchemists, were sacred.

He closed the closet and suited up, being careful to handle the flag with the delicacy it deserved. A moot gesture, perhaps, as blood and matter would nest in it anyway. Such was the price for a flag death.

He kissed the cold barrel of his gun. _"In hoc signo vinces,_ " he whispered.

Just as he had promised his Vassal, he would put the beads on the rosaries of the non-believers. God save anyone who stood in his way.

#

Blood pooled into the clear belly of the syringe as Zeika drained the contents of Manja's swollen knee. With each draining, the puffy flesh deflated to re-grip her kneecap. Manja was lying back on the bunker bed, covering her eyes with her arms, sniffling quietly.

I'm sorry, sweetie.

Manja whimpered and tears squeezed out her eyes even as Zeika finished the procedure and re-wrapped her knee. Then Zeika sat her up and gave her an injection of hemostatic medicine and half a pill of Tylenol. The Guild's five doctors had had their hands full— as usual— and so Zeika had to step in.

"You okay, sweetie? You were really brave."

Manja nodded silently and buried her head into Zeika's chest, sniffling. "I hate this, Zeeky."

"Me too, baby. But we're gonna get your medicine really soon, okay? We're going to go home, and you can rest."

Manja wrapped her arms around her, and Zeika returned the hug, stroking her hair as she did.

A man came to their door, carrying a whole bushel of freshly cut kale, a bag of oranges, and a paper bag filled with jumbled miscellany. Zeika held up a hand, signaling him to wait.

"You should take a nap, okay?" She said to Manja. "By the time you wake up, the pain will be gone, and then we can get out of here. I'll leave the night light on."

"Can you put on the music too?"

"Of course, baby. Which?"

"Come on, Zeeky. You know." The little girl smiled.

Zeika smiled back. Nina Simone. She dug out their radio from under the bed, jammed in the cassette. As Nina's smooth hums filled the room, Manja yawned, clutching her dino bag. Zeika pulled the covers over her, and then closed the door behind her and locked it, leaving her sister to her dreams.

When she turned around, she was face-to-pecs with Kenneth Taitt, the Master of the Guild of Almaut and resident nut-crushing giant, Esq. She looked up until her eyes hit his face a foot and a half above her. Ken was a broad and bronzed fellow who usually sent people scattering whenever he entered a room. His warm and honest smile seemed sewn on to his leathery features by the scar that ran from cheek to chin, and it was the only signal that told her he wasn't going to pound her into a grease stain on principle.

"How much?" Zeika asked, eyeing the bag.

"A hundred and fifty. Azure bills."

She scoffed. "A buck fifty for some fruits and vegetables? That's almost my entire weekly paycheck!"

"Come on, kid. You know the score. These are out of season for one, and they're super hard to grow with the Canopy rolling ape-shit 24/7. Not to mention taxes and tariffs— Azures don't trade duty-free."

"Only because _I_ wasn't working the trade. Who the hell do you have bartering on behalf of the Guild nowadays, some rookie?"

"It's not my fault that _someone_ around here decided to go rogue," he shot back, his gaze piercing hers. "You and Merco were the best negotiators we had."

"Yeah, well, when Koa's gone and the Cabal dislodges itself from your ass, you can give us a call." Zeika reached into her pocket. She flipped fifteen dark-blue bills over in her fingers, separating them from the Civilian green as she counted them and laid them in Ken's palm.

"You gonna bake it all up right here?" He asked, handing the burlap bag to her.

"Nah," she muttered. "I'll do that at the forge. It's safer, and it'll keep your nose clean. You're already under watch by the Cabal. No need to smack the balls of a nervous dog, ya know?"

The smile on Ken's face widened, bringing a warmth to the room rivaled only by that of Zeika's father. The two almost looked alike even. "You always had a nice way with words, Zeika," he said. "Merco's done well. How is he, by the way? And your Ma."

"Baba's fine. He'll be back from the salt mines in a few days, I think. He's putting in double time. Mama's having a hard time keeping herself occupied because of it, but aside from that, she's... her usual self."

Ken nodded. "That's good, Z. Real good to hear." Then he looked down. Then to the side. Then back at her.

Zeika cocked her head, noticing the change in his demeanor. His smile had become taut with uncertainty, and he had started rubbing the back of his head. It was a nervous tick, one that Zeika rarely saw. He had something to tell her, and it wasn't good.

"Z... about your mom," he started. "I, uh... I saw her booking a flight the other day..."

Zeika shifted her gaze, the truth burning hot in her mind as Ken spoke of it: kunja. The specter. The white flight. She remembered the streaks under her mother's nose. Addicts called those marks "the wings". They were tell-tale signs of kunja use.

"I'm not trying to stir up trouble or get into your business," Ken cut in again, quickly. "I just thought I'd let you know that before you put any cash in her hand, you know?"

When Zeika looked back at him, she was forcing a smile. "Thanks. I really appreciate it. You telling me, I mean."

"It ain't a moral mark against her or anything. I'm not judging. You know that. Staying clean is hard when shit's so bad all the time. Just thought I'd let you know. And if you ever wanted to re-admit her, you know we'll take good care of her. Get her clean again."

She swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded. "Thanks. I'll look into it."

Ken had barely been able to offer the apology in his eyes before she turned away. "I'll see you in a bit," she threw over her shoulder. "Keep an eye on the little one for me?"

"Always."

Bag in hand and ballet slippers over her shoulder, Zeika walked deeper into the heart of the Guild. She hated turning her back on Ken like that, but she didn't have much choice. He wanted so badly to help her, to help them, by rescuing her mother from herself. But only Zeika knew the truth: until the war in the beyond ended, her mother couldn't be saved. She didn't _want_ to be saved.

As much as she didn't want to think about it, she couldn't help replaying the near-future events that were destined to happen, like a bad episode on its third run. She would have to turn the hut upside down to find the "tickets", phials of kunja that Mama would have hidden all over the house. Then, Mama would have to be checked into the Guild. She'd be institutionalized five floors up with all the other airman baseheads, in the Angels Nine ward. For a third time, Zeika would have to file a worker's leave for her mother, which would come with a dock in pay. She and Baba would have to put in double hours to make up the difference; Baba at wherever he was contracted, and Zeika at the Diner and at the Forge.

Assuming that Mort could swing that anyway.

Which he probably couldn't. And if Mort couldn't afford to give her extra hours, then she'd have to do week-long stints at the Forge. She'd have to pull Manja out of daycare and school her at the Forge while she worked. The girl would cry that she missed Mama, and when they both finally came home after days of being gone, they'd find wads of money in their garden safe, but they'd also find Baba gone, eternally breaking his back in the three Protecteds to keep their family afloat. For a third time, for nearly an entire year, Zeika and Manja would be alone.

She bit down and shut her eyes at the vision. It was crappy, but it had to be done. She'd investigate when they got home.

As she walked towards the elevator lobby, murmurs and bubbles of conversation flittered up from all directions, rolling around the deep wells of the Guild. Crowds bulged in the hallways, spilled over stairwells, dozens of dirty boots leaving masks of grime on the tiles. The elevators were busy, so she picked her way through the thick worm of bodies that clogged the northern stairs. As she did, her heart sank— Azure guilds weren't like this, reduced to kennels for the flotsam of war.

"Excuse me... I'm sorry..."

Zeika carefully wove her way down, sliding by duffel bags, trunks, hunched bodies. From luggage tags and traveling robes, she recognized the fifteen insignias of the Civic Order: sun-lions of Demesne Eleven, the bull-rocks of Demesne Three, water-doves of Demesne One, the fire-dragons of Demesne Eight, and others. An Eden of the dejected.

Behind them all, waiting dutifully at the bottom of the stairs, were the wolf-moons of Zeika's own Demesne Five, here to get their daily rations. It was a silent policy amongst the Demesne Fivers and their Guild... refugees always got first dibs.

She winced as she walked by her own brethren, remembering the days that she had to wait on lines like these, sometimes for hours, just to get rations for her family. Until Baba had started the Forge, that is.

She passed down the hallway of the third floor, looking for a staircase that wasn't so crowded. A heavy cloud of warmth, streaked with reddened embers, set on her shoulders as she walked further down. Something smelled heavenly. Smiling, she peeked into one of the hot rooms.

The gritty sandy smell of hummus, pita, and bubbling chicken-and-bean stews puffed up from all of the stoves; fatty hunks of pork and chicken sizzled and sweated spice as their spits rotated over roaring fires. Pear-shaped hermetic vases and beakers, which had once been vessels for liquid metals and tinctures, were now containers for the earth-tone ochres of baharat, cardamom, olive oils, cumin, and other spices. Every now and again, a colorful potpourri of flavor would sprinkle from one or more of the beakers into any one of the simmering pots on the stoves.

Zeika swished her tongue around her cheek, longing for the scorpion sting of the caraway, but she pried herself away and kept moving. She found a clear stairwell at the far end of the hall and skittered down.

Her feet finally hit the old cherry wood of the second floor, where the lights had been torn from their outlets long ago. Iron candle sconces stood tall, or they twisted and looped through the air, cradling dozens of tea lights. A dusky citrus glow draped over the second level as Demesne Fivers took colorful wands of twisted wax and wick, lighting every candle.

The hands of the Guild had brought Spring inside for the evening, twisting brilliant flakes of lily and jasmine around the mahogany railings. The petals gleamed under the candlelight like flecks of stained gold, seeming to change color as the flames flickered. Scents of the wild mingled with the candles' cinnamon and vanilla effusions.

Zeika kept moving, descending down to the first floor, where she stopped short. The foyer was filled with Demesne Fivers and refugees from the beyond. Julie was right about the influx. There had to be at least 200 non-members in the Guild right now.

I'll go on duty after I'm done.

There was so much to be done: registering the refugees for services, getting them settled, reuniting them with their families, and more. An extra volunteer would be helpful, and Manja would need a few hours for her knee to heal up anyway.

Later, though.

She turned down an adjacent hallway, a crooked pinky of a corridor that branched far off from the others, and headed towards the gyms. Flyers were stamped all along the walls and ceiling.

Children of the Civic Order:

Know Your Rights!

**If You are** 17 Years of Age or Younger **, You Are Legally Considered a "Ghost of War", which Means:**

You Are Protected by

the Articles 37 through 39.

**Article 37:** Clear distinctions **must** be made between Koan soldiers and Civilians prior to the enforcement of legal and penal sanctions. Such distinctions must be supportable by both probable cause and clear, indisputable evidence

**Article 38:** All non-military human subjects, Azure and Civilian alike, who fall below the age of 18 are to be classified and treated as 'ghosts of war'

**Article 39:** No 'ghost of war' is to be physically harmed, arrested, or interrogated by any Azure or Civilian in law enforcement, any Alchemist in law enforcement, or by _any_ agent— human or otherwise— working at the behest of the Civic or Alchemic Orders.

Any questions or concerns regarding the Articles39, or complaints of undue harassment by an Alchemic Police Officer, Soldier, or other Agent of the Alchemic Order should be addressed to:

Councilman Micah Burke

Demesne Seven, 40.723619, -74.036653

Councilman Duncan Pihonak

Demesne Six, 40.769302, -73.981363

**Councilman Salvatore Morgan** :

Demesne Five, 40.938154, -73.832078

Zeika wrinkled her nose in disgust at the sight of the councilmen's names. Why they had been put in charge of enforcing the Articles39 in the Protecteds was beyond her. In her sixteen years of being a ghost of war, she'd only seen Burke once, over a year ago. He and the Azure police had come to "alter" her family's business model— permanently— on behalf of the Civic Order. Since then, she had called him a few times to file complaints against APs, only to get a voicemail box that was always strategically full. So much for equal representation. Then, there was Sal Morgan, another supposed 'champion of children's rights'... while he eye-humped them in their mother's houses.

She bit her tongue and kept moving.

The squeaking of sneakers, the padded thumps of basketballs, and gym weight clanks echoed in the hallway as she passed by the first couple of gyms. When she got to the last gym, she peeked in and smiled.

Floor mats stacked up almost ten feet high in the corner. The left half of the space had been transformed into a dance studio, equipped with a line of mirrors, a barre, and a wooden floor, old, smooth, and clean. The wall directly in front of her sported an array of sparring equipment, complete with a wooden, rope-wrapped Mook Jong for practicing offensive Majkata. Twenty feet to the right, there was a gymnastics setup, with a couple of balance beams, high bars, parallettes, incline mats... everything she needed.

She dropped her bag and slipped out of her boots as she walked in, and for a minute, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Memories filled her up, and from among them, she picked the warmest, and she meditated. Peace filled her, replacing the pains of the day with a new consciousness, a focus necessary to get the most out of her limited time. She wrapped her hands and feet in gauze, her deep focused breaths allowing her muscles to relax. Then she turned on the old sound system, closed the door, and began her routine.

She stretched. Calves, quads. Breathe. Glutes, abs. Reach. Shoulders, neck. Roll.

She warmed up. Sit-ups, 100 of them. Push-ups, 100 more. Squats and pull ups. She imagined Baba behind her, barking at her the way he used to when she was young. _You're not going to stop until you feel like you're about to_ die _, is that clear?_ He had screamed this at her one day when she had tried to be lazy.

A heavy sweat drove out the dirt and bacon grease and cheap tips, everything that smelled of Azure and Koa; it all condensed out, chasing each other down her body in trails.

She inhaled nearly half the water in her bottle before she shook out her arms and legs and dragged herself over to the next station, where the Mook Jong stood fixed into the wall. She stepped in, and with a long breath out, she eased into a low square stance and lifted her hands. Her body burned, but Baba was still behind her, breathing down her neck.

She drove her knuckles and palms into the ropes and wooden heart of the dummy as hard as she could. She slammed the blows home over and over, the sharp staccato _cracks_ of padded flesh meeting cherry wood underscoring the tempo of her music.

_Hit it harder, Ezekiel. Wood doesn't hit back, but_ they _will._ _These bastards out here won't stop unless you're dead. Dead and_ worse _, since you're a woman. Now, HARDER._

For years, Zeika drove out the faceless demons in the wood, the ones that wanted to hurt her and their family, even though she could never see them. But Baba seemed to see them... and he feared them.

Bruises lifted the skin on her hands and then swelled over her knees, elbows, and heels as the core of the wood pushed back against her every strike. The awkward inanimate creature rattled on its stand, but she kept wailing on it, rope burns stinging her skin all the way up to her elbows as she smoothly moved around the Mook Jong, striking with everything she had.

When she allowed herself to walk away an hour later, her limbs were still trembling. _Happy now, Baba?_ The sour thought drove a frown into her face. She didn't want this, any of this. The war, Koa, Majkata— none of it. But as the shadows of Koa and the Cabal had continued to grow across the world, she realized she _had_ to practice, every day, just in case. Besides, Majkata helped her maintain control _—_ and that's what Baba cared about most.

She looked to the gymnastics station, and for a moment, she allowed herself to smile. Finally, it was time to be Ezekiel.

First, the uneven bars. She fluttered from one bar to the other, her body straight but limber, her joints hinging the contortions of her body to one another. Controlled yet supple, she became a dark ribbon beneath the lighting. She moved to the balance beam: mount, front handspring and then back, front, front, back, dismount. She repeated, rolling round offs and slow cartwheels into her routine.

Lastly, to the wooden floor and mirrors, where she took a moment to cool down and stretch. Then in her worn ballet slippers, Zeika started small, practicing the five positions. She changed to pliés, degagés. Then she moved to point, executing chaînés, pirouettes, fouttés. Another hour fell off the clock, and her silken movements evolved: front two-knuckle punch, roundhouse kick, chaîné. Crescent kick, triple chaîné, crescent kick, foutté.

She grimaced as her Majkata awakened, threading itself into her routine. The same curve of the foot, the same precision, the same muscle memories. Ballet, Majkata, and gymnastics— they polluted each other, using _her_ as their dumping ground. Even if she and her family did make it into Demesne Seven, no dance school would ever take her. Her forms were too impure. Too Civilian.

I'll never be a dancer. Just some twit twirling in the dark.

But until Manja woke up at least, they were safe here, in the warm halls of the Guild of Almaut.

#

The rickety old shopping cart creaked in complaint as its battered wheels rattled against the wet dirt and concrete. As another rumble rolled through the heavens, the cart trembled in tandem, its metal pelican's beak bulging outward with the heavy packages stacked inside it. The rain came down hard across Zeika's poncho, and she gritted her teeth as she pushed the cart, her load feeling heavier today than it ever did before. Delivery was the longest part of her circuit, and it never got any easier. Especially on the rainy days.

"Shit!"

Zeika stumbled on some loose debris and nearly fell until she tightened her grip on the cart. She found her footing again, but just as she was about to push on, she paused, allowing her aching muscles to breathe. There was no reason for this. She was an athlete, as fit as they came, and yet her whole body was trembling beneath her plastics. She hadn't noticed how weak and achy she felt until now. She'd been so busy, the food had been so little for so long. She thought she could just push through it today, but...

Manja's little hand alighted on hers and squeezed, and when Zeika glanced at her, the girl smiled. No words. They always had to listen out for oncoming looters and APs, so they never spoke on the circuit. Manja maintained a lookout as she sat in the front baby seat of the grocery cart, holding a tattered child's umbrella over the both of them. Apparently, though, looters weren't the only things the girl was looking out for.

Zeika smiled back at her, Manja's bright eyes somehow sapping away the pain in her body. She braced herself and continued on, choosing to focus on Manja's wrapped knee instead of the long road ahead.

An entire two days had fallen off the calendar before she and Manja could leave the Guild of Almaut. Manja had needed more time for her knee to heal up, putting them a whole night behind their schedule. But Zeika didn't mind it. Manja always came first. Always.

After pushing the cart for what felt like ages, they finally came upon a housing settlement that looked much like their own. This one, however, was couched away inside a dilapidated donut shop and laundromat. Zeika rapped on the door.

" _Quien_?" A sweet accented voice filtered through.

"Me."

A chain of five locks opened one by one until the reinforced door was released and swung open. A warm, sumptuous smell wafted out into the street, settling into Zeika's senses. Garlic, pork, beans, sweet plantains. Mrs. Cartegena was at it in the kitchen again.

" _Mis amores!_ " The short, squat woman greeted them cheerfully. "Please, please come in. Get warm and out of the rain! And the cart too, _mamita_ , just set it right in here."

Zeika whispered her usual thanks as she rolled Manja and their load in.

"My goodness, how many times have I told you to call me Gladys, honey?" Gladys closed the door behind them and locked it again. "Now have a seat. Dinner's almost ready."

"Mrs. Cartegena, you really don't have to—"

"Shut up, Zeika. I said sit down."

Zeika smiled sheepishly and picked Manja up out of the cart.

"Hi, Mrs. Gladys!" Manja twittered. "Is Mr. Anthony here?"

"Yes, sweetie! He's tinkering with his gadgets again! Go get him so we can have dinner."

Shaking off her poncho, Manja ran to the back, calling Anthony's name. As Zeika laid her own wet clothes on the cart, Gladys bussed her down with a towel.

"My, my, you girls are out doing deliveries in this kind of weather? You work much too hard!" Without waiting for a response, Gladys ran into the kitchen.

"Rain's not too bad," Zeika whispered.

Plates clattered together in the distance, and Zeika sighed, plopping down on the soft shredded loveseat. She listened out for Manja.

"No, Mr. Anthony! Put your robot pictures down and come to dinner right now!" Manja's command boomed from the back.

Zeika rubbed her temples, trying to massage out the hunger pains. She didn't like this, getting too close to the clients. More time spent with one customer meant fewer trades as a whole, and less money. But Manja loved the old couple, and Manja always came first.

Soon, the girl skipped out from the back, followed by Mr. Anthony, who hobbled along on his walking stick. They were chatting; Anthony, about the newest robot arm some Azure had invented, and Manja, about what, precisely, was wrong with it. The conversation took a turn when Manja ran up to her, holding a fuzzy patchwork stuffed bear for Zeika to see.

"Look at what Mr. Anthony gave me!"

Zeika smiled at the old man. "Thank you, Mr. Cartegena. She loves stuffed animals."

"Ah it's a small thing compared to what you do for us!" Anthony smiled good-naturedly. He leaned hard on his cane as he sat himself down in an adjacent armchair.

"Speaking of." Zeika stood and took the first couple of wrapped packages from the top of the shopping cart. "Here's your delivery. Just double check to make sure we've gotten everything."

"Wonderful!" Anthony rubbed his hands together as Zeika set the package in his lap. He unwrapped the plastic and surveyed the collection of supplies within. An assortment of carrot and broccoli seeds, some garlic bulbs, two pints of paint, three spools of black sewing thread, a bottle of water pills, a frozen pork shoulder, a first aid kit... and a Glock 21 with two full magazines.

"Marvelous. Your payment is there by the door for when you leave."

Zeika looked over her shoulder to see that the old couple had already arranged and packaged their payment. They had promised her three-feet of painter's canvas, some dried herbs, a couple of pairs of worn shoes, a small sack of rice and brown sugar, and some woolen hats. By the looks of the package, they had delivered.

Anthony looked up. "The hardware?"

"They work. I've just cleaned them, too. If you'd like anything else, feel free to put it on your order slip." Zeika reached into her robes and pulled out a mini notepad and pen. It was already open to its first page, which read at the top: "Stop 1, New Order, Tu/March, 23, 2155."

Anthony quickly scrawled out a new order before he handed the pad back to her. "You are the angel of Demesne Five, Z."

"We're just making a living. Glad to help anyway we can."

"Shame what those bastards did. The whole Fifth misses your metal." He looked at the cleaned Glock in his lap, making a face. He was glaring at the insignia of the Alchemic Order emblazoned on the barrel, and Zeika could have sworn he was about to spit. "Piece of Azure trash. Wouldn't know firearms from their—"

" _AMORE_!" Gladys interrupted from the kitchen. "Please! The children!"

Anthony and Zeika exchanged smirks. Crude as it was, Zeika was grateful for his sympathies. She still remembered last spring, when Azure and Civic government officials had brought their trucks to Baba's gun shop. They had waved cancelled contracts and eviction notices in their faces, and cleaned them out. They'd frozen and seized their assets too, leaving them penniless with the garbage excuse that money gained from "trading with insurgents" was ill-gotten, and subject to civil forfeiture. They'd also forced them to hand over their customer lists, and then they cleaned _them_ out too.

It had all happened under the Alchemic Order's scorched earth policy: Act 948, the siege of arms. To keep weapons from falling into the hands of Koa, no Civilian could make or bear arms without a special license signed by both Orders. Not a single license had been signed since the siege.

Sal Morgan had given the command in the Fifth, but Councilman Micah Burke had done the dirty work. He had served her and Baba the warrant himself, complete with a steaming side dish of apologies, on the house. "I'm so sorry." Hollow words coming from a long time friend. And yet he had still just hung there like a limp cock as he watched the APs gut their shop and their livelihood. After that, she and Baba had both gone underground. Baba to the mines, and she— well— back to what she knew best.

Zeika touched the Azure Glock. It was pretty, at least. If Anthony ignored the frayed magazine and blocky grip, he might be able to forget that it was a junker: a high-priced, low-efficiency scat gat that was bound to jam and have loads of other problems.

"They do try their best, though, don't they?" She said, laughing. "I did what I could with it."

"That you did, girl, but no matter how long you toss chicken shit, it'll never turn into a chicken salad, now will it? Nothing fires like an Anon cannon. Every marksman alive knows it, Azure and Civilian alike." Anthony winked at her. "Real craftsmen you and your Daddy were."

She shrugged. "It was mostly Baba—"

"If you expect me to believe that, you take me for a bigger fool than I have patience for. Hush up."

A bashful smile was breaking onto Zeika's face when Gladys came out the kitchen, carrying three plates, one in each hand and one on her head. "Dinner! All weapons of death off the table, please!"

"Oh Mrs. Gladys, this looks so yummy!" Manja announced, taking a plate from the woman. "Thank you!" She dug in.

"Smells delicious." Zeika smiled warmly as she also took a plate from the woman. It was piled high with shredded pork shoulder, sweet plantains, rice and beans, and even a bit of lettuce. Food like this didn't come cheap or easy. She'd know... it came from her Forge.

"Do you have your plastics?" Gladys whisked back into the kitchen, where the glasses began to clink again.

As if on cue, Manja hopped up from her meal and went over to rummage through Zeika's backpack to get out their plastic storage dish. Gladys took it into the kitchen. Zeika began to eat, trying her best to savor the succulent shreds of meat even as she forced herself to eat quickly. Much as she wanted to, she couldn't get too comfortable. There were many more deliveries to make and even more things to do when she and the little one returned home. So she balanced her books as she ate, creating an exchange ticket for Anthony's new order.

He wanted more vegetables and also some 75-watt light bulbs, some screws, and some green nail polish for Gladys. Below his order, he listed things he was willing to trade. Socks, some old silverware, a pair of spectacles, a couple of old baseball caps, three pills of Viagra...

Zeika shook her head. It was amazing how much you got to know a person by collecting their old junk. Now she knew why Gladys was so damned energetic all the time.

She went down Anthony's list, checking off things she'd take from him. She definitely needed more socks. Viagra was in high demand, and silverware was always a good trade staple. She marked the items and also added a requirement of ten dollars petty cash. Tools and hardware would cost more than some sex pills and old nylons. She handed Anthony the exchange ticket.

"Fair?"

Anthony looked over the list and nodded. "Very. A little too good to be true. Are you sure you don't want more money?"

She finished off the last of her meal. "I'm sure."

He looked like he wanted to argue with her, but she shot him a silencing look. The Cartegenas barely had enough cash to cover themselves for the week, much less enough to pay her more money. Their situation was thin.

Zeika snatched the exchange slip back from him and stuffed it in her pocket, ending the conversation.

"At least let me give you this tidbit of information that might be good for your business—"

She was already shaking her head. "Sorry. I don't deal to Koa."

He smiled, admitting defeat. "Current events, then?"

"I'm listening."

"I've heard rumors that there was a raid last night, at Lot 12 at the borders of Demesne Six."

Zeika froze. "Raid?"

"We don't know who moved first, but shots went off," Anthony continued. "Very few of the Civilians survived. Those who did fled the compound."

Zeika set her jaw as the information tore into her calm. First the explosion. And now a raid. In a Protected Demesne. She looked at Manja, and with two fingers, she motioned at her. Just like that, Manja understood, and taking her food and stuffed bear, she ran into the back. When the girl was out of ear shot, Zeika turned back to Anthony.

"Who ran the raid?" She asked. "Azures? Koa?"

"No. Civilians."

"How do you know that?"

"It had to have been. Azures know better than to attack a lot in a Protected Demesne; that's political suicide. And Koa... they're a lot of things, but they're still for the people. It was an in-house job. Civilians. I'm pretty sure of it."

"You're 'pretty' sure of it?"

For a moment, she and Anthony locked gazes defiantly. He didn't know who had orchestrated the raid; she could tell from his face. He probably wasn't even sure the raid had actually happened. But he seemed intent on believing what he wanted. Geezers were like that.

Not in the mood for a debate, Zeika changed the subject. "And the bobbleheads?"

"Come on, what do you think? Politicians over there are keeping the situation as quiet as possible."

"CPs?"

Anthony raised his brow, and she knew the answer before he even opened his mouth. The 'CPs' or Civic Police— _their_ policemen— were few and far between nowadays now that the Azures had begun to occupy the Protecteds. But to her memory, there were still a few of them scattered throughout some of the precincts.

"Give it up, Z," Anthony said firmly. "Their phones ring, but no one's picking up, if you get what I mean. I think maybe a couple of them have been through the lot, but there just aren't enough of them to clean things up. The only people who have been through there are a couple families of the victims, trying to retrieve the bodies. And those are few and far between."

Zeika pursed her lips. She wanted to ask more about the survivors, but it seemed that Anthony had more to say.

"It's a gruesome idea to mention to you, but I know you need supplies for your work. Now that Lot 12 is abandoned, you may want to see if anyone left anything behind. Silverware, metal, guns. If the APs haven't cleaned it out already, of course. Once word of the raid gets out to the Protecteds, orders will be high. People will want to stockpile. You'll be a busy girl." He motioned with his chin to the goods on the table.

She nodded. Two breaches of a Protected Demesne in just 48 hours. That no one was raising a stink about this was disturbing. Maybe people were too afraid to believe that their peace had finally been disturbed. Even Anthony seemed to want to believe that the raid was led by a bunch of Civilian punks, and not by Koa. After all, acknowledging the raid meant acknowledging that the war had finally come to their homes. The three Protecteds were poor but still safe as far as safe went in times of war, only because Koa and the Azure military had promised not to ever set foot here. But maybe times were desperate. Maybe Koa was desperate. Maybe the attacks in the Sixth were just the beginning—

BABA!

She leapt up as her mind screeched to a halt. Baba was a free agent worker of the Protecteds, and his most recent contract had put him in Demesne Six. What if he had been caught in the raid?

Anthony furrowed his brow. "What's wrong, girl? You look like the Devil before a cross!"

Gladys whisked back in, setting down glasses of water, but Zeika was already buttoning up her traveling robes, trying to keep the shaking out of her hands.

"I'm really sorry to be in such a rush, Mr. and Mrs. Cartegena. I just remembered something I have to do." She forced a weak smile, trying to flatten the tremors in her voice. "I think the little one and I will continue our route. But as always, thank you so much for your hospitality."

"Oh of course, darling. Thank you so much for stopping by!"

Zeika and Anthony exchanged one last grave look before she called to her sister. Manja ran out from the back, gripping her teddy bear in a chokehold. Zeika packed up the Cartegena's exchange package, two containers of Gladys' food, and finally, Manja. The little girl bade the couple a cheerful goodbye, and then they both ventured back out into the rain.

#

Xakiah felt nothing as the oven thermometer _tinged_ gently, alerting him that it was now preheated to 500 degrees Fahrenheit. He grabbed the handle and jerked the oven door open. As the dry heat wafted over his skin, the man cowering at his heels whimpered.

"Oh God, please, please don't do this. I'm not a bad person. I'm really not. Please!"

Xakiah looked down at the man he'd bound at the wrists and ankles. He pulled the five-fingered oven mitt over his hand.

"Goddamnit man, I didn't know how old she was!" The man's desperation went high. "I didn't know any of the circumstances! I didn't know anything! They just told me to pick up someone, anyone—please you've got to believe me! I don't deserve to die like this!"

Xakiah looked at him and couldn't help the sudden smile of amusement on his face. The junkie was practically working himself into a froth. He hadn't had a hit of kunja in days, that much was clear. K-heads were always easy to find. Their faces always looked like they had just tongue-fucked a bowl of flour. But they were even easier to squeeze... especially when they hadn't had a fix in a long time.

"My dealer asked me to bring her, okay? He said he'd trade her for a ticket— _five_ tickets!"

Xakiah raised his brows. This is what he had been waiting for.

"A Koan dealer?"

"No. A Jericho. Local. _They_ deal out flights around here, okay? No Koa, no how."

Xakiah's interest flickered. He hadn't picked up info on a Jericho in a while, but they were some slippery bastards. Traitorous militia nut jobs that hired themselves out to Koa and anyone else on a freelance basis. They trained as doctors, scientists, surgeons— combining their craft with all sorts of alchemical science. Jerichos were usually rogue Civic Alchemists, who slinked around as the last vestiges of their fallen nation... or they were rogue Azure Alchemists who had escaped imprisonment, who needed a way to survive.

"Where is the Jericho?" Xakiah asked. "And don't hold out for the authorities, Haddick. If they get here before I'm done, I'll just kill them too. They are only APs, after all."

"I don't know! Really, I don't!"

"Right," Xakiah said coldly.

Without another word, he picked Haddick up and threw him face first onto the scalding oven door. The screams split the air as his skin cooked on the iron surface. Ignoring the k-head's shrieks, Xakiah stepped on his head and pressed his cheek down onto the burning metal. Haddick howled even louder.

"I'm only going to ask you one more time," he said calmly, "Where is the Jericho?"

"Man, please! I'll do anything―" Haddick's words eked out between squeals. "Oh, Jesus, please! It burns!"

"Oh yeah? Then let's pull you up."

Rubbery ribbons of skin and flesh had welded onto the oven door, and now peeled away from Haddick's face as Xakiah yanked his head by the hair, his cheek sticking to the iron like melted plastic.

"AARRHH!!" Haddick screamed.

"Feel like singing?" Xakiah's cool voice cut into the shrieks.

Haddick's courage suddenly faltered beneath scorching agony. "He's under St. Ahlan Street! In the old sewer lines!" He bawled. "That's where he'll be tonight! Fuck!"

Satisfied, Xakiah released his head, letting him fall back against the stove door. "Much appreciated," he muttered, and he reached into his back pocket to pull out the folds of dark blue cloth.

The junkie turned, one raw and ragged cheek gleaming up through trickles of blood.

"W-what are you doing?"

Xakiah smiled and unfurled the flag.

"Please... I already told you, I was just following orders!"

Xakiah grabbed the cowering man, wrapping the blue material around his head.

"No! Plea—mm!"

The k-head's cries muted under the fabric. Xakiah pulled tightly, mummifying the man's face until on the last wrap, the silver of the Monas Hieroglyphica lay flat against his forehead. He gripped the extra folds of the flag in a tight fist, suspending the man's head. Then, he lifted his gun and aimed.

"Wait! No! NOO!"

Haddick's body went lifeless, and brains and blood splattered over the hot iron. Xakiah released the fabric, letting the junkie's body drop. It fell forward onto its shattered face, bowing on the insignia of the Alchemic Order.

A slight sizzle and a strange tangy aroma rose into the air as flesh began to fry... then burn. Haddick should have considered himself fortunate. The one before him had gotten it worse. The Jericho wouldn't be so lucky.

Xakiah whisked out of Haddick's apartment, heading towards St. Ahlan. He was eager to make the Jericho's acquaintance.

Finally home, Zeika and Manja walked into the fragrance of pressed olives, garlic, and freshly baked pita. The _tit-tat_ of a kettle against iron straight-keyed the warm darkness of their hut, coming from the bean-and-egg soup that simmered on the stove. Greens and yams roasted in the oven, and a cornbread pudding rose in a cast-iron skillet. Mama was home, and strangely enough, she had cooked. There was more food than usual, though. Zeika decided it was better not to wonder where it came from.

"You've been gone for almost three days... were you really that angry with me?" A voice said from the chair in the corner.

Zeika turned to see her mother sitting, sewing a patch onto a pair of Manja's jeans. She turned to Manja. "Go wash up, okay?"

The little girl nodded and ran into the back, eager to eat, and as soon as she disappeared, Zeika turned back to her mother. As she took Mama in, her eyes softened, and her worry about Baba somehow diminished. Mama's fingers were calloused, probably from her day in the sewing factory, and her arms and face were gaunt. If she had any doubts about Mama being hooked on kunja again, her misgivings were blasted away by the bloodshot eyes that peered out at her.

"Your father's fine," Mama continued. "He wasn't caught in the raid, but they're sending workers back home until that gets resolved. I know you came back here for him. Not for me."

She stood up, wobbling on her feet, and Zeika felt something inside her break. Her eyes filled with tears, and she crossed the room, locking her arms around her mother.

"I'm sorry for those things I said to you before," she whispered. "I was angry, but you didn't deserve that. I will _always_ come back for you."

She felt her mother's hand on her head, warm, as warm as the tears that plopped onto Zeika's cheek as her mother cried. When they finally stepped back from one another, Mama kissed her on the forehead.

"Mama, can we talk about this?" Zeika lifted a small glass tube, no bigger than an inch long, up for her to see. A fine white powder filled it, creating a small blizzard as her movements unsettled the grains.

Her eyes wide, Mama reflexively jammed her hand in her pocket where the phial had been just seconds before. Zeika had picked it when she hugged her.

"Mama, I know it's hard. This life is hard. But we need you. Do you understand? You can't check out on us. Now please, tell me where the rest of them are."

Keys rattled their way into the lock of the front door, and Mama's eyes bounced between it and Zeika. Zeika slipped the phial into her pocket. Baba needed to know, but not like this.

"I'll tell him myself," Mama said. "Okay?"

Zeika nodded tightly, just as the door opened. The rare smell of seashore wafted into the house, and she turned, smiling with relief as her father walked in. Baba was a salt miner. _Today_ he was anyway. On any other day, he might have been a construction worker in Demesne Seven or a lumber jack in the upper Sixth, where the trees still grew tall and thick. Didn't matter; nowadays, he was whatever the Civic Order needed him to be to get paid.

Baba filled the doorway with his broad shoulders, which stuck out wide like two boulders, framing the smooth, bald head in between. He was a serious man generally, with lake-still eyes, a square jaw, and a graying goatee. But as he stepped into the door of his home and saw his family huddling, the hard lines of his work day dissolved into a wide smile, lighting up the room.

"DADDY!" With wet hands, Manja ran out of the back, and he scooped her up, hoisting her onto his shoulder.

" _Kayf al-haal, habiibaati?_ "—How are my darlings?— He cooed, smiling warmly as he kissed both Manja and Zeika on their cheeks. _"_ Hi, honey." He kissed Mama on the lips as she took his coat and a raggedy lunch box out of his grasp and disappeared with them into the back.

"Baba, guess what I did at school today? I read three books and played house and I—"

"Hey! What's this?" Baba scolded. " _Bil Arabiyya_."—"In Arabic".

Zeika chuckled. Manja had forgotten the golden rule. As a refugee from Demesne 21 in the far East, Baba still held onto the Semitic tongue of his country— or _countries_ , as they once were. From countless stories, Zeika had understood Demesne 21 to include countries of legend: Egypt, Northern Sudan, Yemen, Oman, and bits of Saudi Arabia. The rich nightshade of his skin and his emphasis on Arabic had marked Baba's origins as Northern Sudanese, though the Great Collapse had since made such distinctions useless.

Still, there were memories— traditions— that Baba wouldn't allow them to neglect. At least not while he was around.

" _Anaas'fa, Baba,_ " Manja apologized and jumped down from his shoulder. Alarmed, Zeika caught Manja by the front of her robes mid-flight and lowered her the rest of the way.

"Mou, Zeika!" Manja huffed, pouting at her interference. She turned back to her father, grabbing his hand. " _Yaa Baba_ , _fil madrasa_ _katabtu—_ "

As Manja rattled on about her day, Zeika led Baba into the living room. "Sit down, already!" She said, smiling. From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother slink back, looking tense.

Baba looked at her with eyes that were ragged with fatigue and guilt, and for the moment they stood there, she could see a struggle in his eyes. Fatigue won out, however, and he practically fell into the chair. She pulled off his boots. A rancid smell leapt out of them, causing her to drop them and stumble back. She wrinkled her nose, glowering at her father.

"Ugh! Do you believe in talcum powder? This is worse than mustard gas!"

Mama burst out in laughter. Baba shot her a playful glare. In spite of herself, Zeika stared at her mother, love filling her up. Seeing Mama laugh lifted her heart in ways she had forgotten years ago.

"You women sure are a pain! Look, I'm a man, not a rose garden!"

"And your feet are swollen again," Zeika scolded. "You should soak them in some salt water."

"Salt? No way, I don't want to be near the stuff," he muttered, managing a chuckle.

"Okay then, I'll get some cold water. Hopefully, that won't offend your dainty feet."

He cut Mama an amused glance. "You hear how she speaks to her father? That waitress job is teaching her some things I don't think she should be learning."

Zeika dumped Baba's boots into their usual soap and water bucket where the smell of grime and brine would soak out. Then, she filled an old pan with cold water. At night, his feet were always twice the size they were in the morning, from being on them almost sixteen hours a day.

"Thanks, love," he said affectionately, putting his feet in. He sighed in an obvious relief, almost melting into the living room couch.

As Baba unraveled, the three of them set the table and served the food, and for an hour, all of the worries of the world melted out of the room as they laughed and ate. They chattered away about a myriad of things, and Manja sang songs until she got hungry enough to plunge her face into her food.

Right in the middle of the bread pudding, though, Baba put his coffee cup down in the middle of the table. It was a gesture that Zeika knew well. She nodded and got up to get her ledger.

Mama looked at him with exasperation. "Merco, do we have to? We're having a nice family dinner."

"You know we have to. Time to talk business." Baba then turned to Zeika who was sitting back down at the table. "Did your mother tell you what happened?"

Zeika looked at her father cautiously. A lot of 'things' were happening, but what he knew and didn't know was beyond her. "No..." she responded carefully. "No, she didn't."

"Contractors are getting squeezed out of Demesne Six because of the incident. We're being limited to the Fifth and Seventh. I'm not sure how long it's going to last, but that's what we're working with now. That knocks me down to about 1,200 a month. How are things on your guys' end?"

Mama leaned her cheek on her hand. "On a good day, I pull about twenty articles, for two dollars each. On regular days, fifteen is my average."

"So let's get that down at 900 dollars a month. Zeika?"

Zeika was rebalancing the ledger. "Seven hundred a month. About a quarter of that is from the Diner, and the rest from the Forge. Hardware is moving at 50 bucks a pop, give or take what clients are willing to barter along with it. Negotiation fees bring in about 30 bucks a week."

"Have you crafted lately?"

She shook her head. "We got slowed down because Manja was swelling up again. We just finished deliveries a few hours ago."

"Have you _practiced_?" Baba asked, eyes hard.

She knew he was asking if she had been staying on her Majkata. "Two days ago. Haven't had time since."

"Make time. For that and for dance. Even if it means fewer deliveries or less time forging. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Baba."

She was about to apologize when a tinny knock at the door drew her from her seat. It was one of the boys from three rows back, and she could never remember his name.

"Hey, Z. You got a call at the front. It's from Mort. He's on line three."

"Oh, thanks!"

Zeika excused herself from dinner and jogged into the misty night air, towards the public telephones that their lot shared. The set up made communications much cheaper for the whole lot, the downside being that everyone knew your business.

"Mort!" Her voice hit a high twitter as she put the receiver to her ear. "Got work for me?"

"Yeah, about that..."

As the lilt in Mort's voice turned downward, Zeika tensed. "What is it?"

"I called because I need you to turn in your uniform. We're letting you go."

If Mort didn't have to push out each word with such slow force, Zeika would have thought she was dreaming. She creased her brow, the confusion going deep. "What?"

"Please don't make me repeat myself. This is hard enough already."

Her cloud of confusion turned into a storm of fury. "You're _firing_ me? For what?" Her voice was shaking, and it was all she could do to keep the decibels down to an even hum.

"Lady Webb is threatening to withhold business if we don't let you go."

"WHAT?! She comes in and starts throwing her weight around, kicking us like we're animals, and you're going to punish _me_ for it? The Civic Order just put a work quarantine on Demesne Six, Mort. My parents can barely get contracts. I have a family to feed!"

"So do I, Zeika. And there is no way I can do that so long as you're employed here."

"But this isn't my fault! _She_ came in with the vendetta!"

"I'm not blaming you. I'm just asking you to understand. I've already asked the kitchen to pack you up some food. To help you and your family until you can find a way to get back on your feet. I gave you a month's advance on your weekly pay, to help you guys get over. Mackey's got it for you at the back."

Zeika leaned her forehead against the booth. "You've been planning this all along, haven't you?"

"We are indebted to Lady Webb and to her family for our business, and for our protection from the war—"

"Protection from a war _they_ started! When they started muscling in on _Civic_ Demesnes, _Civic_ Guilds! They made the world like this, and now we have to lick their feet for the scraps?! Screw 'em, and if you're going to bend over for her like some choir boy, then screw you too!"

"Now see here, Zeika!" He tried to protest, but then he sighed. "Please, kid. Let's not end this on a bad note. Take the severance pay, okay? And I'm really s—"

Zeika slammed down the receiver and stormed back to the hut. There was no point in playing nice. So long as Roni hated her, Zeika'd never work in the Diner again. Or anywhere else in Demesne Seven for that matter, depending on how far her Azure arm reached. The money and food that Mort gave them would probably last their family only a week before they'd start to feel the pull. Either way, she needed to go get it.

From there, she didn't know what would come. All she knew was that things were going to get very real. The Forge was all they had left.

The Jericho had been busy indeed.

The small apothecary had been empty when Xakiah got there... in a way. Dozens of jars filled with piss-colored formaldehyde were stacked on the shelves, and floating in them were shriveled sacks of smooth muscle and slick bone. A liver, a stomach with the entrails, a heart... all the size of a small child's. He walked up to the old splintered writing desk in the middle of the room, noting the open doorway behind it. He didn't doubt that it led back into the Jericho's lab and "butcher shop", where the blood-letting was done. Pearl-sized chips of ivory shined up at him from the surface of the desk. Teeth, too small to belong to an adult. Next to them, a thick spindle of sewing thread, a suture needle, and a needle driver.

Perhaps as a young boy he might have been disgusted, but he had grown up since then, had begun to understand the merits of shrine-keeping.

He picked up the smooth row of baby teeth from the table, examining them— and then his eye caught sight of an old hardback book with decaying, yellow pages. Ignoring the dried splotches of rusted blood at its corners, he pulled it towards him and opened it to find the Jericho's chicken-scrawl.

_Progress Report on Sweet Susie #6: Cerebellum and basal ganglia still operative, femoral catheters installed, C_ 3 _H_ 6 _N_ 6 _O_ 6 _at stomach cavity, C_ 3 _H_ 5 _N_ 3 _O_ 9 _at left node, vagus nerve and sinoatrial node reconfigured— energy recycling engine nearly complete. Set point reconfigured..._

The scratchings named body parts of the brain, circulatory system, the heart... and there were also formulas for various chemicals, two of them being high explosives, C4 and nitroglycerin. But what a Jericho— a specialist in surgery and medicine— would need with such things was beyond him.

"That gun in your hand won't do much for you, Jericho. I've already closed the barrel," Xakiah said without turning around. "That, and you don't have enough light in here."

He could hear the man behind him stiffen, and the gun clattered to the floor. Footsteps shuffled forward, and as Xakiah turned around, he watched his Echo walk the Jericho into the room by his collar. It shoved him forward before dissipating back into its shadow.

In his wrinkled, blood-spattered lab coat, the old man looked worn to the bone, but the wide smile betrayed a boyish glee as his gaze rolled up and down Xakiah's body.

Hairs raised up on Xakiah's neck. The way the Jericho was staring at him wasn't at all human. It looked unhinged. Clinical. As though he wanted to take him apart.

"Ah, so I finally have the pleasure of meeting the infamous Kaelen X. Cotch. Assassin of the Order. Your notoriety precedes you," the old Jericho said, smiling. His gaze was glassy and necrotic.

"If my reputation precedes me, then you are a fool to still be here."

The Jericho's smile widened. "Not everyone will scatter like mice when Death's at the door."

"Where is Sophia Green?"

"She's here. And there," the Jericho answered. "I'm afraid you won't find much of the little Azure left—"

Xakiah closed the distance and slammed the man into the wooden floor by his neck. The Jericho sputtered beneath the dull crack that erupted from his skull.

"I'm not sure that answered my question."

The Jericho gurgled, something like wet laughter crawling from his mouth. Xakiah slipped the eight inch field knife from its sheath and angled it at his jugular, but the Jericho's smile never slacked, the corners of it flecked with foam.

"Retribution is coming," the Jericho whispered. "You'll get to experience it in a very personal way. We're going to make sure that all the world's woe is carried by your children. As you've done to ours. Your kind is going to burn... starting with Sophia Green."

Xakiah was about to start carving until the foam at the man's mouth began to expand. It dribbled down his cheek, taking curls of flesh with it. Xakiah's eyes widened, more in curiosity than in fear. Whatever the liquid was, it was eating away at the Jericho's skin.

The man's body temperature shot up, and Xakiah stumbled back at the sudden flush of hot-iron heat that had nearly burned his palm. The Jericho was heaving, spasming on the floor, and his flesh began to balloon. As he swelled, a wet and spotty groan rolled out, evaporating into the thick, acidic foam that was now pouring from his mouth.

Xakiah took a step back, his instincts kicking up, telling him to run, even though the man's sudden throes weren't making any sense—

The Jericho's eyes filmed over, a clear viscous liquid pouring from them, emitting a smell Xakiah knew well. Nitroglycerin.

He sprung over the man's body, flying from the mouth of the apothecary into the dank and dark tunnels he'd had to navigate to find it. His footfalls echoing in the damp sewer, he ran faster than he ever knew how, propelled forward by what he knew was coming, by the sudden absence of the Jericho's garbled struggle—

The explosion that followed was magnificent and all-encompassing, a supernova of light, heat, and sound. Xakiah grunted as skin peeled from his neck and shoulders, as he was thrust forward and landed in a hard roll further down the tunnel. Behind him, slimy stones had been blasted from their mortar, and they rained down in a sandy waterfall of soot and rock, forever burying the entrance to the Jericho's hovel.

Ignoring the stings and ringing in his ears, Xakiah stood up and dusted off his hands. He frowned, looking back at the charred, sinking wreckage. The crazy bastard had turned himself into a walking bomb. The bomb had been a small one, probably no more than a pound of C4, with a nitroglycerin trigger— wherever he had hidden it— but the tight space of the sewer had magnified its effect. Had he lingered any longer, he wouldn't have survived.

As for the Jericho... God only knew how he was able to survive a surgery invasive enough for him to carry an explosive. The sheer mechanics of such a thing were impossible, and aside from the heat burns on Xakiah's back, he had no evidence to prove his story.

One thing was for sure. Whatever they had done to her, Sophia Green was dead. While there had been a collection of body parts in the apothecary, the smaller ones had looked relatively fresh. Not to mention the teeth he had picked up. He had no doubt they were hers.

He slumped down against a clammy stone wall and flipped through his memory until the page in the Jericho's lab book glowed brightly in his mind. Though he didn't generally report his comings and goings, he needed to log the details of the incident for the police files. If the Jerichos and Koa were in league to initiate terrorist attacks against Azures, the Order and alchemic law enforcement would need to start building up contingency plans.

He took his cellphone out and flicked it on, ready to log his investigation when two messages came up. One was from Muirgin, the wet-tailed rat holding a piece of the Page. According to the encrypted note, Muirgin had another shipment he wanted moved. Not high on Xakiah's list of priorities, but as much as he hated dealing with the rat, he always got a good cut out of it.

The second message was from Captain Palmer at the Demesne Five Headquarters. He hadn't written anything, but he _had_ attached a dossier of updates on the precinct.

A quick scroll through the message told Xakiah everything he needed to know... and the most important thing. There was a new recruit with a closed file. Caleb K. Rai. Palmer had given him access to the recruit's file, but Xakiah couldn't read past the seal. He didn't like it, but as long as this "Rai" stayed in his place, there shouldn't be a problem. And if he didn't, well... Xakiah smiled. He loved breaking in new blood. But now wasn't the time to muse on how to geld the new stallion.

Work now. Play later.

He logged the Jericho's notes, the man's last chilling words ringing in his ears. _All the world's woe will be carried by your children._ He frowned. It wasn't just harmless psycho-babble. Xakiah had learned long ago how to tell the true jingos from the bullshitters... crazy or not, the Jericho hadn't been lying about retribution coming.

_Not before_ mine _, though._

Anyone even tangentially connected to the Sophia Green kidnapping had been hunted down, from drug pusher to school teacher to messenger boy. He had killed many of them, but not all. One thing he'd learned in his career was that loose ends had a nasty habit cropping up just when you thought you had already closed a contract, and sometimes, they left you ass up. But never him... he always had stragglers to bleed when he needed more info. The only question was who'd be next.

Einee, meenie, miney, moe. Kirk Grainger, you're next on the roster.

He stood up and stretched his muscles, breaking the soreness out of them, and with a thought, the skin on his neck and back began to regenerate. He walked out of the tunnels, knowing that Kirk had probably skipped town already, running scared. Xakiah smiled, knowing he would comfort him in ways he couldn't imagine, because he was going to blast away his uncertainties, uproot them through the arts of terror. He would show the infidel the divinity of torture— and share with him a sweet, prolonged anguish that would linger in Xakiah's heart for as long as an alchemic eternity could last.

When Zeika sneaked into the back alley of the Lakeside, Mackey was already waiting for her, sitting on the back step and smoking a cigarette. The pack he handed her was bulging with food, her severance money in a hidden pocket on the side.

"When you left that day, Crony Roni practically held a protest to get you fired," Mackey muttered in between puffs. "I'm sorry about all this, Z. Bad luck, bad timing." Except he didn't sound sorry at all. He took his cig out of his mouth and frowned at how small it was, looking more worried for himself than for her.

"Yeah. Thanks." Zeika tightened the straps around her shoulders.

"I tried to talk some sense into Mort, but he's too yellow. Old Crony Roni in there's got him by the sack."

Zeika shrugged. "Who _don't_ the Azures have by the sack?"

"Everyone except you, apparently."

She stopped gearing up to shoot him a quizzical look.

"Oh come on, you know what I mean. Your mouth, your attitude... they get you into worlds of trouble. They got your job lost, and look at you, still walking around with your chin upwind."

"If you want to keep your nose above the bullshit, you have to lift your head. It's the only way to really see where you're going."

He paused, considering this. She didn't wait for it to sink in.

"Take care of yourself, yeah?" She said, turning to leave. "Don't let Croni push you around."

Mackey waved her goodbye and went back inside, and she continued back the way she'd come. The shadows of the alley seemed to grow around her as new thoughts clouded her mind. The pack he'd given her was heavy; maybe the money and the food could be stretched out to two weeks if she stretched it thin and controlled their rations. Plus, the Guild would take care of Mama once she was committed to Angels Nine. It'd be one less mouth to feed, so her working at the Forge full-time _might_ make up the difference. But they'd still be tight...

Someone was walking down the alley. Towards her.

The outline of the body was framed against the night, and as Zeika got closer, she realized it was a little sprat of a girl, no thicker than her hip, dressed in Azure robes. A clot of bitterness curdled in Zeika's chest as she noticed how clean and bright her robes were... but Zeika also averted her eyes, trying to fight the urge to roll up and hide her own sleeves, which were saturated with dirt.

The child's shoulder slammed into her body, cold and heavy, a sack of wet cement knocking a concave into Zeika's right side. She felt the wind rush out of her as she stumbled and hit the alley wall, the clammy chill of the child's touch causing Zeika's skin to recoil.

"Sssorry."

The one-word whisper slipped from the child's mouth, running an icy finger down Zeika's spinal cord, taking all the warmth from her body at once. The kid hadn't seemed to feel anything at all. But what was more disturbing was what Zeika _thought_ she saw.

Under the low hood and cowl, a lipless, gazeless gray body with cords sewn tightly in the places where two eyes and a mouth should have been. Worse yet, was that Zeika thought she recognized the corpse-like face... that birthmark on the left cheek...

It— _she—_ looked like that missing girl Zeika saw every day in the bathroom of Manja's daycare. That Azure kid, prioritized above all others in the hunt for the missing ghosts of war.

She looked like Sophia Green.

No... couldn't be...

Zeika looked back over her shoulder, feeling the dead chill once more as the child swayed through the back alley of the diner. The kid never looked back; it was as though she hadn't even really seen Zeika to begin with. Even the apology had seemed to hiss out between the child's bodily cracks, as though forced by reflex, by the impact itself, rather than by the child's desire to apologize.

She kept staring, part of her thinking that the girl needed help. She was lost or stunned or _something_ ... Whoever she was, she couldn't have been any older than eight or nine, and it was nearly eleven thirty at night. Who the hell would let their kid just wander around like that?

The little girl was heading towards the back door of the diner, and Zeika felt relief pool into her as she watched her stumble in. Whatever the kid needed, whether it was food or help, she would get it. Mort was a coward, but he wasn't heartless. And she was an Azure besides. He'd break his back to make sure she was okay.

She turned to leave, perplexed at the sudden impulse to run as fast and as far away from the diner as possible. Something wasn't right...

_Okay, but what_ is _right? You just got fired, and the world sucks, hello?_

She smiled, shaking her head. She was just stressed. She just needed a night jog to calm her nerves, get her blood flowing. A couple of miles would do her good, and besides she'd eaten well at home. She had the energy for it.

She began to run, then leaned in and picked up speed. She left the diner behind, and the world turned to a blur around her as her body came alive again, her spirits lifting. But for the life of her, she couldn't shake the sudden tremble in her limbs. There was still—

Her thoughts disappeared in a deafening holocaust of light, heat, and sound as she was shoved forward and lifted off the ground, as though the hand of God himself had thrown her. Ten feet later, she slammed down hard on concrete, skidding a couple more feet before finally slowing to a stop. On impact, a sheet of black snuffed out her vision, and minute after minute fell off the world as her body lay there.

"Unh..."

The primal groan seemed to reset her body completely. One by one her senses flickered back on, and immediately, she felt the pangs of her unexpected flight. Scratches had torn open the skin where she had slid, and bruises swelled up.

What... what happened?

Still laying at the mouth of the bridge, Zeika blinked away the tears, at the same time rubbing her stinging eyes with the back of her hand. She coughed, once, twice, feeling something like coal dust dislodge from her windpipes. The taste was bitter, and as she purged, she realized that the noise of the world had been muffled. Trickles of fluid, running down her neck. She put fingers to her ears and looked at them once she felt a warm glaze on her fingertips. Blood.

Slowly, she rolled over, forcing herself to deny the agony inside as she tried to get up. She clamped her jaw, placing her hands squarely beneath her body and using her legs in tandem, and in the next moment, she was standing on wobbly legs, turning around to see what had pushed her.

My God...

The top of the Lakeside Diner had been blown open, twisted and charred by flame. Bricks had blown out of the diner's belly, glass windows scattered across the ground like black rain. What remained of the wreckage was completely engulfed by hellfire. A thick inky cloud billowed around the dead brick and mortar like fingers of death, and Zeika's skin practically shriveled beneath the dry heat that blasted over her.

_Mort. Mackey._ Feeling tears spring to her eyes, she shook her head as though trying to ward off a bad dream. _Me. That could have been me in there, too._ She folded back down to her knees, and her fingers closed around the folds of her traveling robes as she realized how close she had come to being blackened to a crisp, robes and all.

The bridge shook and groaned, dust and debris shaking from its loose parts and snowing down around Zeika's head, but she could barely feel it. Her mind was spinning, navigating around both her shock and sorrow to try to understand what had just happened.

A gas leak, maybe. But not likely. Mort was extra careful about his kitchen safety and even had an in-house technician for that sort of thing. Especially since his diner had become so popular with Azures. Telling by the extent and nature of the damage, it had been a munitions explosion. Bomb.

But who would do this? And why?

She shook her head, bouncing between Koa and the Azures. The three Protecteds were like sacred meccas to the Koan rebels; being the defenders of Civilians and their territory, they would _never_ target any place in Demesne Seven, not even one so populated with Azures and Azure Alchemists like the Lakeside Diner. And the Azures... they would never attack their own. It was against their code.

None of it made any sense, and no matter how many times she asked herself, the answers never came. And it didn't matter. The sick truth of it was that Demesne Seven had just been breached, just as the Sixth had.

Zeika pursed her lips, understanding what this could mean, what could happen next. Burning with purpose, she staggered to her feet, shaking out her limbs and re-securing her knapsack before breaking back out into a sluggish, limping jog.

She had to get home before daybreak.

#

In his dream, Caleb never made it to the room on time. He always got there right when the dark drops of crimson were already rolling across the marble floor, right as the body was hitting the ground face first. He struggled and reached out, to channel some sort of power, _something_ protective and alchemic that would stop it, stop everything. But the familiar stirring in his gut was once again cut off from the rest of his body, like an engine without its spark plugs. The power was there, but he couldn't use it, and calling it forth only caused him physical pain, deep and wracking— almost as deep as the sorrow that followed as he understood that he could never protect him...

_Brrring!_ The digital shriek of his cell phone cut through his REM, and Caleb slowly opened his eyes to the darkness, his mind still heavy with sleep.

Head still reeling, he rolled over to the bright green face of his alarm clock and squinted to get the blur out. These sons of bitches. Not even four in the morning and the goddamned phone was ringing. He felt around for it, and found it blaring and rattling behind the clock, practically throwing a tantrum.

_"Huy_ ...?" He finally answered, not bothering to look at the number.

"Detective, this is Loka Torv, the police secretary. The Captain wants me to call in a squad. You're on the list. Demesne Seven has been bombed."

He shot up, his eyes widening. " _Nani_ — er, I mean, what?"

"Yeah."

"But why does he want me there? I'm not on field duty."

"I realize that, but the Captain put the request in personally. There's a debrief at 0530 sharp. Just get down here."

The phone clicked silent, and Caleb sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. A bombing. In a Protected Demesne. After he had finished organizing and refiling hundreds of dossiers in the past three days, he had been hoping that Palmer would reconsider his assignment... but he never imagined it'd be under these circumstances.

Be careful what you ask for right?

He looked at the clock again, wondering if he could catch some snooze time before the debrief. He had an hour before he needed to get moving, but thinking on it, he nixed the idea. He'd be too busy mulling over the attack. That and the dream... He put a hand on his abs, just below the ribcage, right where his powers had stalled. He winced. Still tender. Those bastards in the 52nd really did a number on him.

Let's get to work, officer.

Resolved, he stood up sluggishly, grabbed a new pack of cigarettes off the nightstand, and headed for the shower.

It was going to be a long day.

Burke's fingers trembled as he tore out the innards of his top drawer and hurled them into the suitcase on the bed, not even bothering to fold them. Just hours ago, he had felt the floor move, felt the grains of plaster raining down on his head from the molding, and he wasn't going to stick around for what would come next. The bastards had breached the Seventh, with a hit on a popular Azure diner, and he knew it wouldn't be long before someone decided to leave a sweet farewell on his doorstep too. Sweat crawled down his temples as he moved.

_Lay low in the 52_ nd _, just for a few days while I get my thoughts together._

He bit down, severing the thought in two, knowing that it was a lie even as it crossed his mind. Truth was, he was scared shitless. But that was okay. Being scared and valuing his own life was a perfectly normal human reaction, wasn't it? His departure didn't have to stop him from working on the new legislation for the Protecteds. And who could work in these conditions anyway? That this was a hostile work environment was an understatement, and it sure as hell wasn't what he'd signed up for. He shook his head, already knowing how the reporters would twist this. He could see the headlines now:

Councilman Micah Pencham Burke, Civic representative for the Protected Demesnes and Ambassador for the Alchemic Order, flees his home after terrorist attack on his own Demesne. Burke is currently unavailable for comment on this tragedy...

Whatever. Those left-wing journalist nut jobs could say whatever they wanted from behind their mahogany desks. They didn't know what it was like to live in sheer terror every day like he did. He was an _Azure_ for Crissake, and he didn't have to be here. The Protecteds were lucky enough he'd stuck around this long at all. Rather than complain about him leaving, the civvies and the press _should_ be helping him pack. Otherwise, they could shove it in and break it off for all he cared.

Flipping the luggage lid closed, Burke went downstairs to his garden, unable to resist looking at his tulips one last time. He stopped and stared at the red and white laced lips and their long stems. He'd started gardening out of a need to actually grow something, to see life flourish amidst the death and terror. He'd donated tons of vegetables, fruits, seeds, and flowers to the Civilians during his years here. It had been one of his few positive contributions to the Protecteds while he'd served them. Now though, without him here, his Eden would surely shrivel and die— and so would Demesne Seven.

The whisper of that simple truth bothered him, but he wasn't sure what else he could do. He'd tried his best, hadn't he? And there was a possibility that the Protecteds would see this breach through on their own. The Civic Order was its own entity anyway; its officials could fix this if they wanted to. But damned if he was going to get his ass blown off waiting for it to happen. It was time to go.

Burke turned to walk back in, also trying his best to avoid looking at the yellow rose bush at the far corner of his garden. Since his garden "accident", he hadn't gone near the bush, and its sharp tendrils had grown almost viciously over the spot where the dead infants had laid. The sunny rose petals had all fallen off their branches, shriveling into dead whimpers on the dry soil. He'd had no other incidents since then, though he had slept with his .45 under his pillow every night since.

Don't even know why. It was probably just a hallucination...

Or a bad dream. Or a trick of the heat. Or anything else he would have rather believed... but when he had finally come back out of the house that day, the body bag _had_ been gone without a trace. The more he'd convinced himself that he'd been stressed and sick that day, that he was just getting old and paranoid, the more he was able to make peace with the fact that it had never happened. His therapist had even said that the stress of his job could force him into having "walking illusions". War was stressful, after all, and so was his duty as a politician. Constantly under threat, constantly barraged with the sounds of bombs and terror. With impending death on the brain, Dr. Jacobs was surprised that Burke hadn't gone crazy sixteen years ago when this had all started.

But no matter what he'd been imagining in his garden, the Lakeside bombing— _that_ was real. If he was losing his mind either way, he figured he'd just as well hallucinate on the powder-white beaches of the 52nd Demesne, where he could fight his mental battles with yoga and mojitos. Yeah, that's what he needed. Once he was on his way, the tension would fade away, just like those babies in his dreams. His darling tulips would just be a small sacrifice for his peace of mind.

He still had to pick and pack his shoes. He walked back through his large stucco kitchen, eyeing the gleaming copper pots on the wall above his stove. Rolling down his cuffs, he sauntered through, thinking more calmly about the things he would have to pack for the trip. He had his suits, swimming trunks, two pairs of custom shoes, his cufflinks, his ballroom tuxedo freshly tailored, cologne, and somewhere crumpled in the bottom of his suitcase were the testimonies, case files, and pending bills for Demesne Seven. He would bring the files just for good measure, though he doubted any of it would matter. Better to plan for problems he could actually solve, like sunburn and hangovers, than to fight city hall for impossible victories.

He walked past his kitchen island, past the plush stools. Then he stopped, his eyes widening. He had just passed something tall by the garbage can at his right, something that had never been there before. Something that shouldn't even _exist_ ...

He turned, his heart stopping as his eyes took in the impossible. Wooden roots seemed to have grown out of his tile, breaking right through his Italian stucco floor to intertwine into a viney high chair... and in it, sat a small, figure, so dark that it looked like charcoal. Its swollen head slumped over a flaking, blackened chest—

"No," Burke's breath rushed out, and he shook his head, trying to ward off what he knew was just another hallucination. "No, it can't be."

The burned thing squirmed around in the chair, bringing movement back to the deadened limbs. Slowly, the creature's head rolled back, its gaping mouth disintegrating into a misshapen "O" of agony, the same milky, deadened eye opening wide, exposed by a melted, sticky lid.

"Mai...cah..."

Burke's throat tightened as the creature's mouth began to move, opening and shutting like that of a human fish.

"Mai-cah," it started again, its cycloptic gaze fixing on him. "Mai-cah you have forsaken me. You have forsaken your oath." The voice was human and older, but its tone was hushed, robotic even. Sexless. "You have be-trayed us," the corpse accused.

Burke's lips parted. He knew such strange things could and did happen so long as a skilled Alchemist was pulling the right strings. Still, for the first time in his life, Burke was sure he was about to shit his pants. The thing was grotesque, like something even nightmares couldn't countenance.

"Speak." The anger in the creature's voice was undeniable, and Burke had no doubt it would leap if he did not obey.

He swallowed, barely able to get the lump down. "I can't betray that to which I never swore an allegiance," he said shakily. "This was not my choice."

"It was not ours either." The rhythm in the creature's voice became smoother with every word. "It was not this child's choice. Nor was it that of the other innocents that have been consumed by this war."

He felt his face flush. "You are the one who opted for the betrayal of the Order!"

"You know that is a lie. You choose to believe lies so that you can continue to roll around in cushy Eden while the world dies around you. This is not the legacy that your House wanted to leave. You have become cowardly, Burke, and your cowardice has condemned this world to death."

He trembled as he watched the creature's eye become more conscious. The gaze was no longer clouded by sleepless death; now it was bright and alive. Aware. And it was staring at him with judgment. He broke his gaze with the disgusting thing, turning his sight to his fingers, which had locked themselves around the marble countertops of his kitchen island. His knuckles had gone white.

He relented. "What— what do you want me to do?"

"Eventually, the Koan insurgency will force the Cabal's hand. They will try to repeal the Articles39, and all the protections that come with it. You will fight it. You will fight that, the zoning laws, and any other base attempts by the Alchemists to acquire Civilian territory and capital. You will advertise your position against the Gestapo policies of the Order and make clear your allegiance to justice. And you will do it all from Demesne Seven. You will stand by the people you swore to protect. You will put yourself at risk the same way your family did... the same way _mine_ did."

Burke set his jaw and looked back up at the child defiantly. "And if I don't?"

The creature's wide mouth shut up tight in a smile. The highchair began to recede into the hole from whence it came, and the thing stared at Burke as it sank into the ground, its haunting grin never slacking. In the next minute, all traces of the child and its throne had disappeared, and Burke's floor tiles had rearranged themselves and re-cemented together seamlessly as though nothing had ever been there. Silence.

For what seemed like minutes on end, Burke waited, expecting something else to happen. But all that he could see was the sunshine peering in through his window. Somewhere in the distance, the birds of his eco-dome chirped pleasantly, digging for worms in the garden. He let himself breathe.

The "child" had said no more to him, but the threat was clear.

Burke ran his trembling fingers through his hair, preparing to make a case against the Alchemic Order.

Caleb got to roll call thirty minutes early. Chewing on a ham and tomato on kaiser, he took in the debrief room from the door. The lights were dimmed, and plastic chairs were scattered in broken lines in front of a large projection screen. Political maps of the three Protecteds, livened up by red, yellow, and black circles, were posted at random around the room. As he looked around, he realized he didn't know most of the officers in here.

Off to the side, a group of APs hovered around a tall, broad-shouldered man with eyes as dark as coals. The cops all looked worse-for-wear at best, most likely from the double shifts. The tall man in the middle, however, had not a wrinkle on him. His eyes were alert, their energy clear and yet muted beneath the seriousness of his gaze. He was talking to the officers with a tone of lofty authority... that is, until he looked up and saw Caleb at the door. Whatever he was saying remained suspended in the air as he bored through him with an unreadable gaze. Following the man's stare, the other APs in the group turned to Caleb, looking at him.

Here we go...

Caleb raised an eyebrow and took another bite of his sandwich. Sauntering up to the group, he wiped a crummy hand against his slacks, ready to make introductions.

"You must be Caleb." A bald dark-skinned man, nearly as wide as he was tall, broke off from the group, walked up to Caleb and shook his hand firmly. He was the only one of them who made a move to introduce himself. "Pleased to meet you, man. The name's Jake."

Caleb hid his wince behind a smile as he squeezed the guy's hand back good-naturedly. It took nearly half of his strength to offset this dude's vise grip.

"Same. Are you also a detective?"

"Yep, just made detective a couple of years ago. Uh, how long have _you_ been on the circuit?" Jake asked, studying Caleb's face quizzically.

Caleb smirked. He got that look often, and only when people were trying to figure out how old he was. Jake had to be in his mid-thirties, and Caleb had just made twenty-six this past November. Not many APs liked the idea of taking orders from a spring chicken, but most people got used to it eventually.

"Just a few months," he replied. "They broke me in pretty good over in the 52nd."

Jake smiled, his eyes alight with surprise. "Demesne of the gods. Impressive." A new respect seemed to come into his gaze. "I hear you're going to be running some teams here."

Caleb blinked. "That's... new."

"Oh, Palmer didn't fill you in. Things got pretty crazy when the bomb hit, and the Civic Order wants to investigate. They called him into the Halls of Pact for a debrief. In the meanwhile, I'm running roll call and am serving as interim Captain until Palmer gets back. I looked at your file and saw that you hadn't been assigned yet, so I put you on as Special Forces Tactician. You are a Druidic Alchemist, aren't you?"

"Uh... Yeah... " Caleb could barely keep the widening smile off of his face.

"Great. Then, you wouldn't mind running a couple of investigative triads. We don't have too many Druidic APs around here to strategize our beats around Demesne Five. We need it." Jake smiled and turned over his shoulder to wave to an athletically-built long-haired Asian in the group. "Kenji! Get your ass over here and say hey to the new blood."

Jake bade him goodbye, and breaking off from the group, Kenji walked over. As he approached, Caleb could see his eyes go wide with shock. "Holy shit."

"Yup."

"Kenji Sato. Pleased to meet you, man. We've heard a lot about you out of the 52nd. Didn't expect you to be a kid, though. No offense." Kenji said warmly.

Caleb smiled back. "None taken."

"Also didn't expect you to be one of us," Kenji smirked and pulled down his bottom lid. "Nice job sliding through the ranks, kid. But maybe they saw the cream in your blood, eh?"

For a second, Caleb paused, surprised at the crude reference to his ethnicity. He was Japanese, at least on his mother's side, but he was built mostly like his father, whose Italian name and physical features he'd carried throughout most his life. Not many people put a fine point on his background, or even cared, but Kenji apparently did.

"Not too many of us in alchemic law enforcement nowadays," Kenji continued. "Nice to see a fellow yellow. Even if you're only a half-breed."

"Aheh... woof," Caleb snorted. "Didn't know we were still counting quadroons in 2155, but thanks for noticing."

Kenji's lopsided smirk parted as though to respond, but then the smirk died, flat on his face. Before Caleb could ask what was wrong, he could _feel_ it. Cold silence had fallen over them like a death shroud, and he turned around to see who'd thrown it.

The man with the dark stare had somehow circled behind him, without notice. Instead of introducing himself, the man just stood there, staring at him with sharp silver eyes. The hot potato had passed round, and this guy had clearly dropped it.

"The name's Caleb," he cooed, turning to him and reaching out his hand. "Caleb Rai."

"Ah. So you're the porcelain doll the 52nd precinct sent over here to keep the order." Tinges of an Eastern European accent clung to the man's words, the lips that formed them taut and parallel, driving home the coldness in his gaze.

Porcelain doll? Okay, asshole.

Aside from the unwarranted insult, the way he was sizing him up wasn't at all good-natured. Caleb had gotten plenty a once over in his lifetime, but nothing about this dude's aura was inviting. The man looked at Caleb's outstretched hand with complete disinterest.

"Just in case you were wondering, this is a handshake—" Caleb muttered. "—not an attempt to jack you off."

"Pity. It just so happens that I have more use for the latter."

Caleb started to clench his fists, but common sense intervened. _Too early to start fights._ The reminder slid smoothly in between His sudden anger and his knuckles, disconnecting the two.

"How long did you say you were out of the academy?" The man asked.

"I didn't," Caleb replied, feeling his own gaze cool. "And I've been out nearly three years. Who are you?"

"Cotch."

Caleb raised his brow. Kaelen Xakiah Cotch. Now things made more sense. "I see."

"Where is your Vassal?" Xakiah snapped. "I thought all the young pups were kept on leashes."

Sneers and low chuckles rose up from the scattered group of officers, Kenji included.

Caleb frowned, his dislike for Xakiah cementing. "Vassal Persaud and I broke relations almost a year ago when I made Proficient. What's it to you?"

A ghost of a smile played across Xakiah's features.

"Roll call, ladies," Jake announced from the front. "Fall in."

Caleb's eyes narrowed as he took in Xakiah's slow smile. Something about this guy and his personal government was off. And it wasn't the nightlight, either. Just as he opened his mouth to ask him what the hell his problem was, Xakiah finally spoke.

"I've heard about you. I know why you're here." His voice was soft, dangerous. "If your Vassal won't be here to keep you in line, you can be sure that I will do that for him."

"If any of my 'lines' run as crooked as yours, Cotch, then you won't have to lift a finger."

"Cotch. Rai," Jake called out. "Would you two like to join us, or are you waiting for Xakiah to propose? Get your asses over here."

Caleb cut Xakiah one last glare and broke contact to sit off to the right of the group.

"We'll get to the bombing in a minute, but first I want to catch us up on some news. As you know, two months ago, one of Guild 35's high-priority shipments was jacked by Koa. Xakiah, Joseph, and Bly petitioned for a hunter's cell, and thanks to their efforts, we've retrieved the stolen property and placed the suspects under arrest. Five points for the Fifth Precinct."

Hoots, whistles, and claps rose up out of the crowd, and anyone who was sitting near the three men jostled them with congratulations.

"What was the shipment?" Caleb ventured.

"Classified," Xakiah interjected. "You'll find out when you become a real cop."

"Easy, easy, boys," Jake intervened. "Cotch, hop off the bitch pills for a second, yeah?" Then he turned to Caleb. "The truth is that none of us know much about the contents of the shipment. The retrieval was a special ops assignment, and all we got to do was follow Koa's trail and bag 'em."

"Are they planning another heist?"

"We're not sure. We're questioning some suspects now to press out more info, but it's not guaranteed that any of them'll crack. There's no telling whether or not they'll put another hit on one of Guild 35's shipments, so we've taken measures to increase the security around their assets. Patrol is being fortified in and around the 35th Demesne, but of course—" Jake turned his attention back to the rest of the team, "—none of you will be walking that beat."

"So then why do we need to know about it? This shit is practically happening on a completely different continent," Kenji piped up.

"Because we believe that the hit was planned and executed right here from inside the Protected Demesnes."

The entire room buzzed with murmurs of surprise. That Koa had operated on the borders of the Protecteds was a well-known fact. Bringing their operations inward, however, was a different matter entirely.

Jake held up a silencing hand. "According to one of the detained suspects, Koa is beginning to plant seeds _here_. We can all agree that the bombing is a very clear indication of that. There are even rumors of Koan hollows being built right under our noses. Our task in the next coming months is to smoke those seeds out and keep them out."

"But if they want to stay secret, then why bomb the Lakeside?" Another officer asked.

Caleb stepped up. "Because it's close to the Converge where everyone in the other two Demesnes can see it. It's a warning sign. To instill fear in the Civilians... and in us too."

"Well look who's the little forensic psychologist," Xakiah sneered, not bothering to turn to him.

"It's a part of my training—" Caleb cut a smirk at Cotch. "—which is outside of Corporal Alchemists' jurisdiction, unfortunately."

From where he was sitting, Caleb could _hear_ Xakiah snarl. The age-old rivalries between the three alchemical alignments still ran strong, apparently.

Xakiah tore his predatory gaze away from him, looking back at Jake. "If we have to waste time on Civilian matters, we could at least do it efficiently. Why don't we just form another hunter's cell? We'd find the Koan hollows much easier with a concerted effort on _all_ the detectives' parts."

Xakiah shot a look at him, venom dripping from his voice. _That's_ when Caleb understood. He'd clearly gotten a look at his file, just as Palmer had, and he didn't like Caleb being a pencil pusher, protected from the shrapnel and scumbags of the Civic Demesnes.

_You and me both, buddy._ Caleb met Xakiah's gaze, and instead of responding, he took another bite of his sandwich.

"Forming a hunter cell requires special clearance by the Order itself, and we'll need a good reason for doing so," Jake replied. "It's just a lot of bullshit red tape that we don't need right now. Guild 40'll be up our asses trying to regulate every aspect of the investigation. Right now, it's just better that we work through protocol.

"The first initiative is to keep the borders of the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Demesnes tight. Step one is firming up security at the Converge. No one goes through without special clearance from the Alchemic or Civic Orders. We've also been asked to institute a strict ten pm curfew, until we can get a decent lead on the bombing. So what's going around now—" Jake lifted his chin to the clipboard that was floating around. "—is a sign up schedule for watch-duty. All APs and CPs in the three Protecteds are required to guard the Converge and the borders, and this will become a part of your daily patrol."

Xakiah stuck a thumb out at Caleb, seeming intent on getting a reaction. "And what about dollhouse over there? Is he going to work too, or is he just here for decoration?"

"Caleb will be operating solely as an imported consultant for Special Forces. His training as a tactical Druid makes him far too rare and valuable to dispatch for fieldwork. He'll be working from the precinct, advising you and the other agents on your missions."

"But Dilettantes and Proficient-level APs like us are expendable?" Xakiah snapped back, suppressing a growl.

"No. But you know the score and you know the rules, so stop being a Mary about it. Otherwise, you can take it up with Captain Palmer. Or better yet, with Vassal Moss." Jake eyed Xakiah coolly.

Caleb watched the liquid mercury in Xakiah's gaze settle, not resigned, but calm... and clearly marking Jake. For what, he didn't know, but it put a chill in him.

Jake either didn't notice the look or didn't care, but he glowered at Cotch before he continued. "That's it for light duty. As for targeted investigations on the bombing and Koa, we've assigned you to triads. After I announce your teams, you can get to work. Just make sure you drop your case files at the front before you leave. Caleb will be analyzing the evidence in the coming months, and he'll be in touch with you for dispatch as strategies are formed. Hank, Bly, and Kenji, team one. Joseph, LC, and Drew, Team two..."

As each team was called, they came up to the front and dropped their case files into a box.

_Guess that's my cue._ Caleb could feel the tension and excitement well up in him as he walked over to the box, already wanting to pore over the first dossier. But he resisted the inclination and decided to wait. Not many of the cops in the room seemed particularly thrilled at having to report to him, and flipping through the files over a ham hoagie probably wouldn't win him any popularity points.

When Xakiah's triad was finally called, he "handed" Caleb his case files by hurling them into the collection box. The force caused the box to slide, almost sending it toppling off the table. "Have fun, pencil pusher. Don't break a nail if you can help it."

Caleb lifted an eyebrow, finally giving into temptation. "Don't worry, Cotch. My manicure will stay super clean as I dispatch you to your assignments."

Xakiah turned to him, eyes blazing, but Caleb just smiled back. Without another word, Xakiah turned his back on him and walked out of the debrief room.

#

When Zeika finally crashed through her front door, there was a tight crowd of bodies in her family's hut, trying to calm Mama down. Her parents had heard about the bombing; in fact the whole lot had heard, and many were still standing vigil by her family's side when Zeika finally made it back.

The sight of her stumbling into the doorway tattered and bruised must have knocked out the last of Mama's reserves because she immediately swooped down onto her, poring over her wounds and asking her frantic questions amidst the smothering of hugs and kisses. Baba and Manja joined, not nearly as frantically, but no less relieved.

"Demesne Seven has been breached," Zeika gasped out when she could finally get a breath. She slumped against Mama's shoulder, breathing hard. Every breath stung.

The crowd didn't seem to need any more information than that. People quickly dispersed, some of them going off to phone relatives and friends, others strapping up to go find their families or children who had crossed over into the Seventh for work, and a few others going for their gardens to start moving out their things.

Baba didn't say much, except that they should go to the Guild of Almaut to get Zeika patched up.

"I'm fine, Baba," she groaned, sitting up. "It's just a couple of bruises. I'll walk it off."

"Yeah, okay. You're getting checked out, and I'm not arguing with you about it. Besides, I've been meaning to move some of our stuff from the garden safe to the Guild anyway."

"Okay, just pass me a list. I'll go."

"Me too," Manja piped up, throwing on her yellow dinosaur and grabbing her flashlight.

Baba took a minute to scribble out the things he needed before Zeika took the list and limped out the door, Manja in tow.

The garden plots were practically empty by the time she and Manja reached them. Zeika herself was almost done getting everything that Baba wanted from the safe: a couple of pounds of beans to be dried, five onions, three bulbs of garlic, and some old clothes.

Where is it?

Zeika winced as she reached down and rummaged through the safe. Manja was going to be five in a few weeks, and in order for her to keep getting services from the Guild of Almaut, they needed to officially register her. But to do that, they needed her birth certificate.

"Here." She handed Manja the two of the three most important things. "Zip it up tight."

After Manja put her medicine and their can of savings in her dino bag, she shined the flashlight in the hole, lighting it up as Zeika tossed the contents of the entire hovel. She unearthed blankets, old clothes and socks, dried herbs, beans, flour, and finally, she found the old briefcase. In it were the deeds to their hut and the garden plot, along with their prior registrations to the Guild. But for the life of her, she couldn't find either of their birth certificates anywhere... where _were_ they?

"Zeeky!" Manja cried out, the light suddenly going wild.

Zeika jerked her head out of the hole, coming nose to muzzle with a gun. She froze, as much in shock as from awe of the towering, ghostly man standing over her. He was dressed like she was, robes and hood all, except with military attire, and the face beneath his hood was covered at its bottom half in shining porcelain molded to his features. She didn't have to guess who he was and what he represented: she already knew.

Koa.

"Is this your kid?" He demanded by way of introduction. He pointed at Manja with what Zeika recognized as an AR-15 automatic rifle. She slowly straightened up, taking care to position herself between the gun and Manja.

"Yeah. She's _my_ kid," she said carefully. "What's it to you?"

"We tourists love looking at the local wildlife. We find it quite beautiful," said another from behind her. She could hear a soft metal _chick_ as the other Koan handled his gun, most likely aiming at her back. "Hands up," he commanded. "You too, kid."

"Zeeky...?" Manja's voice was shaking, scared. Tears had already begun to well in her eyes.

"Do as he says, honey, okay?" Zeika tried to smile as she raised her hands slowly, lifting them until both palms were up, fingers spread. "Just look at me, only at me. Copy what I'm doing."

"Kay..." she stammered, copying her. Her flashlight hit the ground.

Movement at the edges of Zeika's vision. In the slinking shadows, she could see the outlines of hooded bodies moving fast and low, heading towards the dimly-lit huts.

"You're hitting our lot..." she whispered, stunned.

Another soldier, male, came up to the gunman at her front. Her eyes widened. The newcomer had to be sixteen, _seventeen_ years old, max. Three more teenaged Koans, one of them a girl, came up next to him. All of them were young enough to be considered ghosts of war. But these... these were ghosts of Koa.

"Captain?" The first ghost asked.

"Tell the F-cells to round up the g.ow.s in the lot, and keep them subdued. Starting with these two. If they or anyone else moves, kill them."

"Yes sir," and he took up the gunman's post at Zeika's face. She watched the gunman nod to his partner behind her, and without a word, they walked around her, heading for the huts.

The girl ghost lifted a radio to her ceramic lips and spoke silently into it. "Round up the specters. Draft time."

"Roger that," a voice responded through the radio.

Zeika tensed. There was an opening between the three of them. She and Manja could run for it. They might be able to make it off the Lot... sound an alarm...

The metal peephole of the ghost's gun sliced that thought off at the knees. He seemed to sense what she was thinking, and he was aiming, right in between her eyes.

"If you even breathe wrong, you're dead."

Keep them talking, stall, sing, dance, whatever you have to do...

"You shoot me, and the whole lot will hear it. Then we'll see who's pushing up daisies at the end of the night. We're not rookies like Lot 12."

"We?" The teen soldier looked down at Manja who was clutching her dinosaur bag to her chest. He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "What are you going to do, kid, snuggle me to death with Barney?"

"Leave her alone!" Zeika snarled. "The bin is open. Just take what you want, and leave!"

"But my interest is right here. Strapping young women like yourself might do well in the right circles."

"We're not interested in being recruited to Koa, so don't ask."

The other male ghost circled to the side of her. "Why should we recruit you—" he said, his mask smiling as he did. "—when we can just take you?"

Zeika looked at their home, a little over 200 feet away, at the Koan soldiers who were crawling slowly toward it, and at Manja, who was shaking. Her fingers put a tighter clutch on her dino bag.

"What's this?" One of the ghosts stepped up to Manja and snatched the bag out her arms.

"NO!" Manja cried out as he opened it, spilling its guts onto the ground.

Her stuff clattered out, along with the medicine and the can of money that spilled open, shedding dollars over the dirt.

"Jackpot," one of the girl ghosts snickered. "Looks like someone's been hoarding. Good for me. I need more nail polish." She picked up the dollars and shoved them into her pocket. Zeika began to shake with anger.

"Score." Another male ghost bent down and picked up the box of medicine. "Clotting factor 8," he read. Then he looked up to his mates, his eyes wide with interest. "Hemostatic medicine."

"How much is it worth?"

"Boatloads." He pocketed the medicine and dino bag and began to walk towards the lots.

"Wait! Please!" Zeika stuttered. "We need that. Take the money, but we need the medicine."

"Shut up, civvie," the gunman on her muttered.

"Please! It's the only dose of medicine she has! I just lost my job and won't be able to buy her another one! She needs it! She needs it, or she'll die!" She rose to her feet.

_Bam!_ Zeika's lip split open beneath the butt of his rifle, and she fell to her hands and knees in the dirt.

Manja screamed, grabbing the arm of Zeika's robes and pulling. Sobbing.

Zeika's vision swarmed, sending bile from stomach to throat, and she could feel a painful swell rising at her chin. The impact clouded her sight, but all she could think about was the one who had Manja's medicine. Those boots were getting farther and farther away with each second she cowered in the dirt. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to a stand once more.

"Give it back..." she snarled, watching the ghost walk into the distance. Manja's dinosaur bag swung in his grasp.

"Stay down."

She kept rising, blood streaming down her chin.

"Stay down, I said!" The ghost roared, jamming the muzzle into the side of her head.

Zeika grabbed the barrel of the rifle, even as he pulled the trigger—

Click.

The gun still-birthed in the night air, and Zeika slammed her heel into his gut, parting the rifle from his grip, sending him flying back and skidding through the mud.

The staccato of dry clicks and jamming chambers echoed across the remaining three, and stunned, they all exchanged confused looks as their guns yielded nothing but noise and air. Zeika still held the ghost's rifle, and she tossed it onto the ground in front of her and tightened her fists. She could hear Manja's whimpers, feel her trembling even as she put a hand on her head and pushed the girl behind her, shielding her—

The ghosts came at her all at once, and Zeika lashed out, disarming each of them before hitting one in the throat, another with a back fist, grabbing the last by her lapels and hurling her into the mud.

"RUN, Manja!" She shouted, and Manja obeyed, ducking and beelining for the house, screaming Mama and Baba's names.

"You little bitch!"

Two ghosts closed in on Zeika, again, one of them grabbing her hood. She threw an elbow back, smashing one in the face, and clotheslining the other with a spinning roundhouse. A fist slammed across her face, pushing black into her line of sight, but as she fell into the mud, one pulsing thought brought her consciousness back—

MANJA.

Almost on command, her vision cleared, just in time to see two rebels sprinting, bearing down on Manja from behind. She felt a ghost jump on her, and snarling, Zeika reached over her shoulder and threw him, slamming his body to the ground. She scrambled to her feet and plowed towards the other ghosts in front of her. Just as one of them reached to grab Manja's hair, Zeika left the ground, planted both feet into his back, and _pushed_ , hurling his body face first into the ground. He tumbled, and his mouth and nose splashed crimson across the grass and gravel. Manja was still running and crying out, Zeika could hear her— and the army of footfalls as Koa ran out from the shadows.

The noise caused doors to open. Lights spilled into the lot and people poked their heads out of their houses.

"RAID!" Zeika screamed as a ghost tackled her to the ground, pinning her with his weight.

Civilians rushed out of their homes, but they stopped in a messy wave as Koan soldiers darted from the shadows from all sides, aiming their guns.

"Hands in the air, now!" One of the soldiers shouted.

Zeika wriggled under the weight of the ghost on her back, but she could still see into the lot. The group of Koans wasn't that big, fifteen at most. If they didn't have guns, they could take them.

"Round 'em up," the leader commanded. Then he turned to Zeika, searing her with an angry gaze. "And bring that little whistle blower to me. She needs to be taught some manners."

His soldiers dispersed, and with a few warning shots, they dragged most of the remaining lot out of their homes. As the older soldiers rounded Civilians up at the lot's edge, Zeika was hoisted to her feet by the two ghosts. She shot a long angry look at each Koan soldier and the weapon in his hand as she was shoved forward. They dragged her in front of the cowering crowd and then threw her down in front of the leader.

"EZEKIEL!" Mama's voice rang out, and there was a bustle in the crowd as she tried to barge through. A nearby soldier grabbed her and threw her to the ground, aiming his rifle at her. She scrambled to her knees.

"Please, don't hurt her!"

Zeika felt her mouth curl downwards as she watched her mother grab the hem of the Koan's robes. It wasn't how she imagined it, her mother down on her knees before specters that weren't even supposed to exist.

"How dare you buck your recruits on our lot!" Zeika snarled at the Koan leader.

"Shut up, Ezekiel!" Mama screamed. "Just shut up for once!"

"No, she's right!" One of the Civilians stepped forward. "The Knights of Almaut are supposed to stand _for_ the people, not against them! Who the hell do you sons of bitches think you are?! Why are you in the Protecteds?!"

The man let out a muffled " _ugh!_ " and fell to his knees as a Koan slammed the butt of his rifle into his stomach.

"Line them up," the leader said. "Show them what happens when dogs bite their master's hand."

The crowd protested as Zeika, Mama, and the Civilian were all dragged forward. The bodies of the angry crowd teemed against an invisible line, a dead zone marked by the floating muzzles of the Koan firing squad... half of which turned towards the three of them.

Zeika was thrown down onto her knees in front of the executioners, next to Mama and the other Civilian. The roar of protests and screams swelled against her ears.

"Ready!" Their leader barked. "Aim!"

Zeika raised her eyes, seeing the leader's lips scream "fire", watching the executioners squeeze the triggers— and watching as the guns clicked. Dead. Empty.

Civilians roared and flung themselves at the small militia, grabbing their guns, and burying knuckles and knees into Koan flesh. Others ran to the nearest hut, even if it wasn't theirs, to get pots, pans, anything that could be used as a weapon.

In the melee of flying fists and furniture, Zeika scanned the crowd, looking for the Koan with Manja's bag. He was facing off with another Civilian teen and winning, about to stomp the civvie's face in. Zeika sprinted and tackled him at his midsection, and as they rolled across the ground, she punched, kicked, and slammed her knee into his body. Clearly taken by surprise, all the ghost could do was try to cover his face as she wailed on him. The effort proved useless. His mask shattered into pieces under her assault, jagged porcelain clinging to his face like a second skin.

"Where is it?!" Zeika screamed. She punched him again, feeling the skin of her knuckles slough off on his mask and not caring. She slammed him down onto his back by his neck and cocked back a fist. "Where is her medicine?!"

Another ghost grabbed her hair from behind. He wrenched her off his comrade, putting her into a headlock. Twisting, she slammed her elbow into her captor's gut, but he was stocky, and her blow met him with little effect. He hooked his arm into hers and jammed it back, stopping the onslaught. Pain shot through her arm, and she could feel her throat close as her captor clamped down on her neck.

The ghost she had been beating up crawled to his feet, his eyes burning. The broken mask clung to his bloodied, swollen cheeks like plates of dry earth.

"Lift her chin," he snarled to his partner, wiping the blood from his face. "Civilian or not, I'm gonna cut her ear to ear." He pulled his field knife from his shoulder holster.

_BAM!_ The shot from the .47 went off, high and whining in the air. The group of rebels froze, and so did the citizens of Lot 3, the brawl stopped by the song of the only working gun on the lot. Dazed, Zeika looked at the scene, a living fresco of war. Civilians held the insurgents at bay, brandishing all types of clubs, rolling pins, or portable furniture, holding them tensely in case someone moved. The ghost who had Zeika in the chokehold froze as well, but his arm remained locked around her throat.

"Get off our lot you thieving bastards!" Baba snarled, aiming the gun at the group. "And leave the girl lie!"

Zeika felt herself thrown to the ground, and she heard her attacker back up slowly. She scrambled to her feet and whipped around, just in time to see the leader, who was bruised and knotted up, nodding at his men. Koans pulled themselves from under the crowd, and one by one, they dispersed, many of them limping away or leaning on a comrade. Seething, the leader backed off too, but as he did, he turned, allowing the venom from his gaze to seep into Zeika.

"You got lucky this time," he said to her. " _All_ of you. But we'll be back, and if you think the Civic or Alchemic Orders are going to swoop in and save you, you've got another think coming. This is Koan turf now. Just ask the _other_ eight lots." Below the glint of his eyes, the lips of the mask curled into a snowy smile. Then, he ran off after his men. In the next second, they all disappeared into the shadows as quietly as they had come.

Baba walked up to her and pulled her up from the ground. "That Majkata's doin' you pretty good, unh?"

"Yeah, but Koa might have done me harder had you not come," she said, smiling, nursing her bloody lip. "Thanks."

Baba forced a smile. He had a few scratches on him too, but nothing too serious. Men tended to bounce off his tank-like body. She had no doubt that he had bounced more than a few Koans tonight before going for the gun.

"Your Pa's not liking that dirty mouth you've picked up, chicken." Baba smiled. "But you're welcome nonetheless. Now take your tail inside and give Manja a snuggle. She's scared stiff."

"Manja!" She felt herself stiffen. "She's okay?"

Baba nodded. "She was in the crowd, but when the brawl started, your mother snatched her up and ran."

Zeika nodded, relief filling her. Then, her shoulders slumped, and she was fighting tears of frustration. "They took it, Baba. Our savings and Manja's medicine."

He put a hand on her shoulder, and smiling, he reached in his back pocket, pulling out the hard case. "This fell out of that ghost's pocket as he was having it out with the Smith kid. I knew it could only be one thing, so I snatched it. The bastard made off with her little bag though..."

"Oh Baba!" Zeika grabbed him around the mid-section in a hug.

He handed Manja's medicine case back to her. "Now go check on them. I'll finish things out here."

Smiling, Zeika nodded and turned to go in. That was, until she could see a blue and white light flashing in the distance. It headed towards them, its shine speckling the thick moist air, like a raincloud rolling over the horizon. Her eyes widened, and she exchanged looks with Baba, who looked as shocked as she felt. None of them, in their 15 years of living in the Fifth, had seen such a sight.

It was a Demesne Five policeman.

The Canopy had snuffed out all heavenly night lights with an electric black, and as Caleb's police lights washed over the quiet lot, he wondered if he was in the right place. From what he could see, the lot's electricity had been cut as reported, but the residents looked relatively in tact. They ambled around listlessly, carrying small tea-light candles, and while he was glad people were still alive, he decided to save the sigh of relief for later. He had never seen so many that looked like walking dead.

He'd gotten the distress call at the desk— rather, the precinct had, and he had just happened to be walking by the empty dispatch booth, where Loka Torv and her team were _supposed_ to be sitting. He didn't know what the hell the police secretary and dispatches did all day, but it certainly wasn't cop work. They had routed all dispatch to a silent line, and calls had been backed up the goddamned wazoo.

From Lot 36, Lot 14, Lot 3... How long had the phones been turned off?

Caleb was still trying to shake them off, the sounds of bullet ricochet, the screams of terror that had been coming through the airwaves as he picked up each call and dispatched units. Civilians had been begging for police assistance, pleading for the lives of their children— until they were all cut off at once, all the sounds muted, all the blinking lights on the switchboard extinguished, leaving nothing but dead silence. It didn't take an Einstein to figure out that some of the lots in the Fifth were getting hit at the same time. He had done what he could to get units to each lot under attack, even though he knew it would already be too late.

_Dirty bastards._ All _of them._

He gripped the steering wheel, resisting the urge to tear it off as he remembered running through the precinct, looking for on-duty cops to dispatch. Many officers had refused, even when he reminded them that he had authority over them. Fear or sheer lack of respect had kept each AP rooted to his donut. Caleb had known about the prejudice between Civilians and Azures, but this bit the artery. He'd been pissed, had roared at five officers and kicked over a chair before he jumped into a car and barreled down the streets of the Fifth, sirens blazing, with nothing but his gun and a prayer that the people in Co-op City Lot 3 were still alive.

_Violating restricted duty, Captain's gonna chew my ass, don't give a_ damn. _Fuck em, every last one of 'em._

Now he understood, that this is why he'd been called into the Fifth. To pick up after the apathetic bullshit of Azure cops in a dying Demesne, help them do a song and dance for the Civic Order while it crumbled from the inside out.

Please, God, don't let anyone be dead.

Caleb pulled into the lot, to see that a group of Civilians were standing or sitting at the edge. Steeling himself, he got out of his vehicle and pulled his weapon, in the same moment realizing how stupid he had been. Even if a raid _were_ happening, how the hell was he supposed to stop it alone? He hadn't seen any suspicious activity on his way in, but as he walked to the group, he understood that perhaps Koa wasn't the only danger to look out for. The Civilians were staring, holding all manners of bludgeoning miscellany, and none of them looked particularly happy to see him.

_Easy, Caleb. They just got pummeled for crying out loud._ Cautiously, he re-holstered his gun.

"Police," he announced, showing his badge. "Someone from here reported a raid. I'm here to investigate it."

A flicker of confusion rippled through the crowd as they looked at one another. Finally, one man, dark and towering, stepped forward. The man was holding a candle, but it did nothing to soften his somber chiseled face.

"Not sure how, officer," the man rumbled. "Koa cut off our electricity. Maybe someone ran to the next Lot and called it in... but no one here could have. Either way, we're glad they did."

A small smile spread across the man's face, and Caleb recognized it as respect, even if slight. He felt a tiny bit of tension fall away.

"Caleb. Detective Caleb Rai. Are any of the soldiers still in the vicinity?"

The man shook his head. "We scared them off after giving them a good beating. It'll be a while before they come back to mess with Lot 3."

The crowd around him whooted, and cheering, they lifted their rolling pins and baseball bats into the air. Caleb couldn't help but grin.

Well I'll be damned.

"That's impressive. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask a few questions and get some witness reports so we can start tracking these bastards down."

More murmurs of surprise in the crowd. Some even laughed. Uproariously. Caleb raised an eyebrow.

"Sorry," the man apologized. "We don't see too many APs around here, so this is a first for many of us. I'm Merconius Anon. You must be a greenhorn." The man, Merconius, smirked. "That's the only reason you'd come down here. But we'd be glad to help you anyway we can."

Caleb opened his mouth to respond, but then his eyes caught sight of the girl standing next to Merconius. She stuck close by him, and she looked like all kinds of hell, more so than anyone else in the crowd. A black-eye, bruised cheeks, scratches... and her clothes were singed. Many of the injuries looked like they'd come from somewhere else, not a fist fight with Koa.

She was staring at him, dazed and yet all too alert. Caleb felt a pang of familiarity hit him. He'd seen her before... and more than once.

"Hey. Did Koa do that to you?" He took a careful step forward and paused when she tensed.

Merconius stepped in front of her protectively, and Caleb could see him expand in real-time. Aside from skin-tone, there wasn't much of a resemblance between him and the kid. Either way, the girl had to be his.

"Sorry, detective," Merconius said. "You're only talking to me." He then turned to the girl. "Go inside, Z. I'll talk to Officer Rai here."

The girl did as her father told, but as she walked back into their hut, she gazed at Caleb, even as the flame on her father's candle died out.

It was the Azure from the Converge. The nice one who waited in lines. Zeika watched him and Baba talk. Baba's body language was firm, but not intimidating like usual. Any other Azure he would have run off the Lot, but not this one. The AP stood tall, a hooded trench coat draping from a broad body. In the sparse light, she could see only slivers of him. His hands were in his pockets, the hood of his coat hanging low over his brow. On each shoulder of the coat an insignia: the Monas Hieroglyphica on the left, a red and black flag on the right. He seemed to know she was watching him, and never breaking the flow of conversation, he turned to the window and looked at her.

"You forgot to show fear."

Her mother's soft voice tore her away from their window, and Zeika turned around.

"Sorry, Mama."

Mama nodded, and with shaking fingers, she unconsciously touched the cross hanging from her neck. She had clearly just finished praying with Manja. Zeika raised an eyebrow, almost in amusement, once again wondering how Mama the Catholic and Baba the Muslim ever made it work between them. Then again, if they could handle the end of the world, then hell, religion should be a cakewalk.

"Did you change the bullets back?" Mama asked.

"Yeah."

" _All_ of them?"

" _Yes_." She glared at her. "Come on, I've been doing this for ten years already. I know how to control it—"

"Hey, shut up," Baba interrupted, frowning. He had just walked back in, and he was closing the door behind him.

Zeika spared a glance to the window. The detective was gone. Probably to interview other Civilians.

"Your mother's right," Baba continued, his voice low. "It doesn't matter how good you are or how long you've been practicing. Discretion is of the utmost importance. Are we clear?"

Zeika sighed and looked away.

In two strides, Baba was in front of her, and he grabbed her hand, turning it palm up as he lifted it to the dim lighting. He frowned at the fading red line sketched across her palm. Her mother looked at it too and furrowed her brow, her fear hardening into something else.

Zeika's throat tightened. It was the scar she had lacerated into her hand just days ago, while she was having it out with Roni in the Diner.

"You know how to control it, huh?" Mama threw up her hands. "Goddamnit, Ezekiel!"

"I'm sorry—"

"You're going to get yourself found out and killed!" Mama snarled.

"I was being bullied by this crazy customer. I got angry and—"

"You're going to get _all_ of us killed!"

"It was just the apron hem," Zeika cooed, raising her hands. "Just the hem. I got angry, it hardened, _turned_ , whatever... then I— turned it back to fabric again, okay? It all happened in my fist. No one saw it."

"You sure?" Baba looked at her warily.

"Positive."

Mama sat down in the couch, spent. Baba took a deep breath in. Then out.

"Okay," he said. "As far as those idiots know, their guns just jammed. And that's _all_ we want them to think. So be more careful next time."

"Okay."

"You did good today, Z. Next time though, just shut up and let them take whatever they want. Don't fight them again."

"I know, but I had to, Baba. They were going to take Manja's medicine. And us too. For the war."

A long pause hung in the air as Baba looked at her and then at Mama, a struggle in his face. "The detective told me that nine lots in the Fifth were hit all at the same time," he said finally. "Ours got lucky because of Zeika. But the others—" He shook his head.

Zeika's heart began to pound. Nine lots. Nine.

_"_ They chose tonight on purpose. They know that the Protecteds are weak, that the police would be disoriented by the bombing in the Seventh. It's started. The siege."

Zeika drew herself up. "What'll we do?"

"We're moving to the Guild of Almaut. We still have a room there, right?"

She nodded.

"Okay, after we're settled, I want you to empty the inventory at the Forge. Flip everything. All for cash. No more trades."

"What? Why?"

"If Koa is infiltrating the Protecteds, then they'll be looking for stores of supplies. The Forge will be prime on the list; we have good loyal customers, but loyalty flees at the muzzle of a gun. I'm giving us a week maximum— and then we get the hell out of Demesne Five."

Her mother stood up. "And go where, Merco? The outer Civic Demesnes are torn apart."

"We'll figure something out. We always do. But we're not staying here to wait for things to get worse. We'll pack, go to the Guild _tonight_. I'll be in and out of Demesne Six the next few days, scouting for a new place and working where I can. I expect you all to hold down the fort in the meantime. One week, Zeika. Clear out what you can, and then we're gone."

"Okay."

Baba pulled something out from within his robes and handed it to her. "Take it. It's the only thing I don't want you selling."

As he held it out to her, Zeika shook her head, denying it. "You said yourself that we just sell them. We don't use them."

"I'll be away for days, maybe even weeks at a time, and you are going to be responsible for them. Do you understand me? Whatever happens, I'm going to hold you responsible. Now, do you want to be responsible with nothing to defend yourself? Or do you want to be responsible with _this_?"

Zeika frowned and crossed her arms. "I'd rather use my powers to disarm than to use a gun to kill."

"You _can't_ , Zeika, you know that. You aren't a registered Alchemist. Even if you were, people are going to want to know where you got your powers. They are going to want to see records of your Vassalage, your tutelage, your progress— and when we can't produce those records, what do you think will happen?"

Zeika's lips parted, the answer they all knew refusing to come out. Baba grabbed her hand and put the gun in it, not letting her go until her fingers curled around its heavy body. She looked at him, fearful.

Mama shook her head. "I'm worried, Merco."

"If we're going to worry about anything, we should be worrying about _this_." He reached into his pocket and then opened his palm. Laying in it were two tickets filled to the brim with kunja.

Mama's lips parted, and her eyes softened with shame. She turned her head down.

"I didn't tell him, Mama, I swear," Zeika whispered.

"Ezekiel," Baba murmured, still looking at Mama. "Go check on your sister, please."

Zeika nodded, and without looking at her mother, she went in the back.

"Now," she heard Baba say. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Zeika lowered her head as she pulled the door closed against Baba and Mama's voices. She peeled off her hood and cowl, being careful to keep Baba's gun hidden in the folds of her clothes. She threw on some light pajamas, and in the corner, she could outline Manja laying on their side of the room, on the thick ragged pile of blankets and pillows they used for a bed. Manja's eyes were swollen from crying, and as Zeika flopped down onto the mattress with her, she rolled to face the wall.

"Hey kiddo."

The little girl curled herself into a ball, and Zeika slipped her hands under her body, cradling her in her arms. Manja started to sniffle.

"You wanna help me fix my face?"

Manja pouted and shook her head.

"Aw, but I need my little nurse, or else I'll look like Quasimodo. Is that what you want?" Zeika made a lopsided face as proof, and Manja giggled, though she tried to hide it behind her hands. After a moment, she rolled out of Zeika's lap and tottered to the bathroom. She came back with the first aid kit and a wet cloth.

"Nurse Iemanja is here, okay?" She sniffled.

"My hero!"

Zeika laid down on her side, and Manja dabbed her burst lip with the cloth. It stung, but not nearly as much as the rest of her body, which felt drained and battered from the events of the past five hours. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was, and now sleep was calling her. Still, she refused to close her eyes until Manja did.

Manja finished, and she laid down, wrapping her little arm around Zeika's stomach. For a long while, they lay there in silence, Zeika fidgeting as pain crawled over her body.

"It's not fair," Manja finally whispered, smiling. "You got to use your powers today."

Zeika managed a smile. "Jealous?"

"Yeah. And you kicked the Kokos' butts. I saw you."

Zeika raised an eyebrow. How would she have seen that anyway? She'd been running and lost in the crowd, hadn't she?

"It's _Koa_ ," she corrected. "And butt-kicking's not as fun as it looks, kid."

"Yes it is." Manja lifted her hand from Zeika's stomach, and without touching it, she raised the metal tin can that sat at their heads. Excited, she rolled over onto her belly and cradled her cheeks in her palms, watching the can dance on its own. " _Tons_ of fun."

Zeika didn't even bother to look. Instead, she folded her arms behind her head. "You know you're not supposed to be doing that. Baba says we have to control ourselves."

_Smack_. The can came down on Zeika's forehead.

"Ouch, you little brat!"

Manja giggled and tried to bring the can down again, but as it fell, Zeika forced her powers out. With a whisper, the can unraveled into a silk sash and fell down around Zeika's face. Manja took it and threw it across the room. Zeika sent her powers out again, and they both watched the drizzling silk turn into a metallic noodle before it hit the ground. Manja twiggled her fingers, flattening the noodle and bending it back into a can shape before settling it back near their heads. Then, they went through the cycle again.

Zeika barely had to focus on the game; her powers came so easily to her now that she often played with Manja this way while doing other things. And tonight, her thoughts were on the next week. She hadn't seen the Forge for days now, and with the Converge getting locked down extra tight, deliveries and exchanges would be nearly impossible to make. She'd have to sneak across borders, or take in lots of orders and negotiations _at_ the Forge itself, something she never liked doing. She didn't like business getting too close to their second home...

Don't have a choice. No job and no savings, remember, Z?

She sighed, knowing the truth and feeling too empty, sore, and powerless to be angry about it. Once again, Koa had screwed the Civic Order without a jimmy hat and forgot to pay child support. The Protecteds were no longer safe, and if Zeika's family didn't move soon, they'd have to worry about keeping a roof over their heads _and_ bullets out of their asses. And then there was that Koan captain... he seemed pretty pissed that she had ruined his surprise party. He might come back, maybe even gunning for _her_.

"Zeeky? What did Baba give you before? That thing in your robes."

Zeika shifted, and the left side of her face smiled. Manja was such a snoop! "Candy."

"Liar. I saw it."

"Then why are you asking, kid?" Zeika turned to her, watching the girl's sapphire eyes dance in the dark. "And why are you spying on grown folks' business?"

"Cause I love you bunches," Manja whispered. She turned over and snuggled into Zeika's neck.

"We love you too."

The can clattered to the floor as Manja's consciousness let it go. Soon, her coos of slumber floated in the dark.

"Just one week, baby," Zeika whispered. "Then we're gone."

Baba was right. They had to go at it, all or nothing, and then get out the hell out of here. No matter what the cost.

#

Hours after the debrief, Xakiah stood on the northern borders of the Fifth, mulling over the investigative tip he'd just received. Veronica Webb, the owner of the now-destroyed Lakeside Diner, had been at home when the bombing had happened. So had about ten other regular customers, and they needed to be interviewed. Rai's coordinates would send him north-east, into the posh heart of the Seventh Demesne.

Xakiah curled his lip and turned, trekking south.

The little Prince was tenacious, and smart, no doubt about that. Still. No one, especially not some spoiled Vassal-less pup, was going to send KX Cotch to fetch anything. He needed to be free— to run his demesne the way it should be run and to finish his own investigations.

He'd collected quite a bit of interesting information from the hunted, and there was still more to cull from the other hangers-on. Tongues often loosened beneath torture, and he'd use the infidels' admissions of guilt to crack the case of the Lakeside bombing when he saw fit. Rai and the other civvie-sniffing APs could investigate the bombing on their own steam, but they could count him out. The police headquarters in the Fifth was as leaky as a house shingled with shit, especially with Captain Palmer at its helm. Xakiah couldn't bring such sensitive information back to a Civilian precinct, not until the Order saw fit. Of course, though, he wouldn't hide any of his findings from Vassal Moss. They shared everything.

Rustles far below him pricked his ears. Alert, he ducked down behind a tree as he listened. The sounds got closer, and he slipped through the underbrush, looping around to the far right. He chose a tree, trying to ignore the slight tremors of excitement in his limbs. The sounds were coming from people, or perhaps even better—

_Messhe_.

He smiled as he climbed up the trunk. He already had a Messhen shipment to traffic for Muirgin, but he loved picking up spares. The beautiful, delicate creatures always came as lovely surprises, to be used for their high energy content or his pleasure, if he was in the mood.

He crouched low in a high branch, concealed by the twisting mossy fingers of wood around him, and he put his vision scope to his eyes. He grunted in disappointment.

Not a single energy-laden nymph to be found. They were just regular humans, and even worse, Civilian refugees. There were about thirty stragglers, and they stumbled forward in a staggered line across the land, all of them about to cross into the Fifth Demesne.

He scoffed. They would only add to the number of heads he'd eventually have to catch and break, as many refugees from the Outer Demesnes became robbers and thieves... and sometimes Koan rebels. The Guild of Almaut was completely to blame. Its "bring me your poor, tired, and hungry" bullshit only left the Protecteds open to an influx of evil that constantly needed to be cleansed from the land. His land.

One man in the worming line hunched over beneath his robes, a fleshy knot in the crowd. But even as the man shuffled on, once in a while he would jerk, violently, as though yanked by an invisible puppet master. Then, he would settle back down, rolling back into his slow, crooked hobble.

It looked like the throes of an onset seizure— one that Xakiah had seen before. He leaned forward and focused the scope, trying to get a better look under the seizing man's hood.

"Gah!"

A sudden gust of wind blasted gritty debris into his vision, caking the scope and grinding against his eyes, and when he finally blinked away the dust, the man in the crowd had disappeared.

He frowned and looked east toward the wind. The gusts were unwarranted. He checked the directions of the winds every day so that he could plan his approach to his targets, dodge the senses of Koan bloodhounds. But this eastern wind hadn't been in the weather report. They were supposed to be blowing from the southwest today, at 12 miles per hour. This wind, though, curled in from the east at five times the speed. It came in at random bursts, angry blusters that didn't feel like Nature's will at all.

Beneath him, the line of refugees fell over. Everyone hung onto the person in front of or next to him to keep from blowing away. The trees groaned and the grasses hissed as they bent to the winds' wills. His own tree leaned a bit, but he kept his balance, turned on the swaying branch, and looked through his scope.

Well then. That explains a lot.

Giant wings— ones that only a Proficient Corporal Alchemist like him could see— were breaking apart the clouds in the distance. There were a set of ten of them, five on the left, five on the right spanning at least 100 feet in either direction, and they flapped vigorously, like huge fans in the hands of God, parting the atmosphere. The body of the winged creature was long, dark, and rigid, as stiff and faceless as a humongous two-by-four being lowered to the Earth. The thing was settling down miles outside of the Protecteds, on the outskirts of Demesne Seven, and Xakiah smiled, finally understanding.

These were the Winds of Cua.

Vassal Moss had intended for him to arrange a meeting there when he could. Xakiah hadn't expected them here so early; and on foot, it'd take a full day to get to them. But now that they were here, he'd certainly pay a little visit.

Finally home.

On the ground floor of the little office, Zeika popped on the old lamps and was greeted with the familiar hodgepodge of junk. High cherry-wood bookshelves lined all of the walls, and hammocks filled with trinkets hung low from the ceiling like snake bellies, making a jungle of the space. The wood and cloth cradled not only books, but other miscellany— random jewelry, musical instruments, old electronics, even a few car engines that Manja tinkered with in her spare time.

More sat in the hidden cellar below, their fridge and walk-in freezer besides. Dried meats, vegetables, canned and pickled foods, flour, eggs, butter, and even beer and wines. All inventory. The only things that weren't for sale were the large antique desk in the back of her office, and the books in five marked hammocks that hung high above it.

She looked around and smiled, feeling warm and secure. The dusty little cove wasn't much, but she and Manja loved it. Sequestered away beneath the dead gardens of old, under a silent beauty.

Zeika looked down at Manja. "Which one this time, kid?"

"Um..." Manja put a finger to her chin in genuine thought. "Oh! The Masshinst Diary, please."

"You mean the _Machinist's_ Diary?" Zeika corrected her gently as she reached into one of the marked hammocks and brought it out. The diary wasn't a diary at all but a tome, as thick and nearly as heavy as Manja herself. But it was filled with information, from how to stock your own tool shop to rifling firearms to souping up engines.

"Yeah, that one!"

Zeika raised an eyebrow as she handed Manja the book. "You sure you don't want the Princess Diaries instead?"

"Princesses are stupid."

"So it's okay to act like a bratty princess, but not okay to read about them, huh?"

"I'm not a Princess. I'm an _Empress_."

"Psh, right, silly me."

Book in hand, Manja dragged it over to the corner closest to Zeika's desk where she'd piled a heap of old pillows and blankets. She flopped down and grabbed a pair of huge, spacey-looking headphones and a decrepit cassette player from within the pile. She jammed put in an old Nina Simone tape and began to "read" the chapter on car anatomy as she listened. Zeika held back a giggle as she watched her sister stare at each page of the book with an intensity that was beyond her years. Who knew whether she actually learned anything from that thing.

Zeika walked over to one of the bookshelves and chose one that was eye level, looking for the book she needed.

Bingo.

She was looking at the spine of an old how-to guide, hardback, from the 1950's. _Warriors with Wings_ , it read. _The Life and Loyalty of the Domesticated Homing Pigeon._

She slid it, and the line of books next to it, all the way down to the book end, revealing a small door carved into the wall. She opened it, revealing the old dumbwaiter she used to move supplies up and down between the cellar, the office, and the surface. A sharp blast of frosty morning greeted her and silvery cones of light filtered down into the shaft. She flipped open the front cover of the pigeon manual, the inside of which had been gutted and filled with birdseed. She grabbed a handful threw it into the shaft.

A flutter of wings responded, followed by pleasant coos, and a melee of feathers and feet came flying down the flume. Carrier pigeons— one brown, one white, and one gray— all strapped with harnesses, alighted on top of the birdseed and began to peck. Zeika reached in, locked the top of the shaft, and unhooked the notes off of each pigeon's harness. The gray one stopped its meal and hopped onto her wrist, ticking its wings and nuzzling against her fingers.

"Hey there, Munch!" She laughed. He was the fattest one, and he ate the most, so Manja had named him in the way that made the most sense.

Zeika creased her brow as she examined him. Some of his feathers were stained a bit, as though he had fluttered up against some red paint. Most of it had washed off, but the markings looked weird. They were splotched around his chest and back, as though he'd rolled in the paint or something.

"You were trying to get into someone's bird feeder, you fat greedy thing!"

She smiled and peered up the shaft, catching slivers of powdery light through the cracks of the closed wooden hatch. Her fourth pigeon, Jacqueline, was the most adventurous one, and as usual, she hadn't come back yet. Zeika had sent her deep into the Seventh Demesne to drop off a series of money requests, and she suspected that one of her clients would bring Jacqueline back when they finally met. At least she hoped so. She had heard rumors of a tornado warning near the Seventh Demesne or something like that.

She walked back to her desk, already engrossed in the messages in her hands. As she pulled out a thick ledger and dropped it onto her desk, the pigeons followed her into the office. Crunch, the brown one, took his usual detour and alighted onto Manja's head.

"Don't poop on me again, Crunch," Manja warned, flipping another page in her book. Crunch cooed an ambiguous response, as though he'd consider her request.

"Two-pound sack of dried mushrooms and turnips, two dollars," Zeika muttered to herself. She thumbed through the pages of the ledger and jotted down her appraisals next to the clients' requests. If they could liquidate even half of the Forge's assets, they'd scratch off about five grand, more than enough to get out the Fifth. "Short wave radio with a bent antennae, seven dollars. The casing of a laptop, twenty."

She went through the first two notes, balancing inventory, setting prices, planning packages. Then, she unrolled the third... rather, she _resurrected_ the third.

The hell? Jeez, people

The note that had come from Munch's harness had been crushed and jammed into the holder, as though the sender had been off his meds a while—

Zeika's thought died, mid-skitter, as she looked down at the crushed paper in her fingers.

_They've come,_ it said.

Dark and drizzling fingerprints were smattered across the words, which had been scrawled frantically across the paper. Blood. Days old. Her throat tightened, and she looked at Munch, who was now waddling around on her desk. Red splotches on his feathers. She got up slowly and closed the ledger.

Manja looked up from her book with wide eyes. "Work?"

"Yeah. Work." Zeika replied with a weak smile. "Let's go."

Ignoring the whirls in her mind, she pushed the desk to the far wall and lifted the rug beneath it, opening the hidden trapdoor in the floor. She went down into the darkness, and Manja, still clutching her monster truck magazine, followed closely behind. The trapdoor closed above them automatically. Only seconds passed before they came into the belly of the dank underground. Zeika flicked on the switch at the bottom of the stairs, and the cellar lit up under the swaying bulbs. A long table was laid out in the center, and Manja ran up to it, standing on her tiptoes to peer over.

Rifles. Guns. Blades. Weapons of all different creeds lay out on the surface, each one gleaming eerily under the pale lights, ready for use. Zeika came up behind her, looking somberly at the arsenal. From years of study, she knew how to build and forge them, all of them.

Endless nights as her father's apprentice had followed behind her studies in the sciences and field medicine, behind her ballet lessons with Mama, behind practicing Majkata. Poor as they were, no one could tell her or Manja that they weren't well-rounded kids. _You two won't be the daintiest dames in the dell,_ Baba would often say. —but you'll be among the smartest, no doubt about that.

"Hiya, Margaret! How are you today?" Manja gently patted a toolbox on the table like it was an old friend. It was painted pink, and plastered with flower stickers, and it sat open, showing all of Manja's favorite mechanic's tools. "Oh, did you miss me? I missed you too!"

"Psychopath..." Zeika murmured as she reached into her robes and handed Manja a thick notepad. The new orders took up the first twenty-six pages.

"Now remember, books and personals are upstairs—"

"And other stuff's here. Don't touch anything 'cept for Margaret. I know."

"And can you read this? Have you been practicing your words and numbers?"

" _Yes_ , Zeeky," Manja smiled, rocking back and forth on her heels. "You think I'm crazy _and_ stupid?"

"No. You're way too much of a smart ass for your own good if you ask me."

"Better a smart ass than a dumb ass!"

Zeika snickered. "Get outta here and get to work, kid."

Manja smiled and scurried off, collecting large burlap bags, plastic wraps and the like from the supply closet. Zeika walked to the other end of the cellar.

She came on a large chain link fence that stood between her and the far wall, and for a moment, she stood back and admired it. She'd tied and sewn long strips of coiled fabric together and strung up the gate herself, tying its ends to various pegs or crannies in the wall. Then she had turned the net into metal, creating the same fence that now stood before her. The masterpiece created a neat divide between the cellar and the small forge that lay on the other side of it, and no one but she or Manja could get in. When Baba had worked here with them, even he couldn't get through unless she helped him.

She touched the bottom of the fence, focusing her power until just enough of it had turned into canvas. Lifting up the droop, she slid under, turning it back to metal once she was through. She surveyed the space, noting that everything was exactly where she'd left it. The small homemade forge, the gun swage, the propane tank, the anvil, the crude smithing tools. Years before the siege of arms, it had taken her and Baba months to build the forge from scratch. Yet, it had paid for itself with every blade and gun they had fixed and made.

She turned and reached up behind her to feel around in the dimness, making sure to not knock over the large water barrel crammed up against the fence. She grabbed a metal knob above her and pulled, and with a lonely groan, a large square in the upper wall opened. Strips of white powder fell onto her shoulders, followed by the icy breath of winter. Manja called it the "holey gate"; the trellised flume was the only other way out of the Forge besides the front and back entrances. She'd need it open now, as a vent.

The scattered bars of light were just enough for her to see her way around. She snatched up a pile of items sitting in the corner and adorned herself. Teflon gloves, an old welder's suit that was nearly three times too big for her, a gas mask, goggles.

"Gas mask, Manja," she announced, slipping into her gear.

"Okay!" In the distance, Manja took a moment to rummage through some of the cabinets, and she pulled out one of their child-sized masks from inventory. When Zeika saw that it was firmly over the girl's face, she flicked on the gas valve.

The first piece of fabric was a long one. Zeika folded it up into a sheet, 4x13 inches. She focused, and the linen became a thick wad of metal, ready for forging.

In and out of the forge the metal went, its dark flesh heating to nearly three thousand degrees until it glowed yellow in the dark. Zeika laid it on the anvil next to her, and then picked up her forge hammer, raising it high. On the other side of the room far beyond the fence, Manja picked through the trunk against the far wall, pulling out the first customer's order.

Clank. Clank.

"First order. The Lim family. Carrots!" The girl announced.

Clank. Clank.

"Sack of potatoes! And more carrots!"

Clank. Clank.

Zeika grunted as she pounded the metal into submission, stuck it into the forge, and placed it back onto the anvil. There were no orders for blades yet, but after word of the recent raids got around, there would be.

Clank Clank.

"Zeeky, is this thirty yards of linen?"

Clank. Clank.

Zeika took a moment to look through the fence. The girl was practically buried in the fabric that wrapped around her little body. "Looks like it," she replied.

Clank. Clank.

"Wow, this is heavy, Zeeky!"

Clank. Clank.

Zeika put the metal back into the forge and looked over. "Hey. Be careful with that."

"It's okay, it's empty!"

Manja grunted as she struggled, and with a grunt, she threw the separated stock and barrel of a Ruger 10/22, into the bag. "Big stupid thing!" She huffed, and she walked off to get the rest of the order.

_Ssss!_ The water hissed as the fire-red blade slaked its thirst in the cooling barrel. The water broke into steam and filled Zeika's side of the room before wisping out through the airing vent. Zeika leaned back and took a moment to rest her arms. In a while, the blade would be ready for sharpening by hand. Onto the next one. She reached into the linen box again, folded it into a thick wad, and turned it into a block of metal.

"Wiiiintertiiiiime. And the living ain't easyyyy..."

Zeika smiled, as Manja's lulls swept around the Forge. The duffel bag rustled as the girl packed the orders away, but her movements never cut into the silk of her little voice.

"Bombs are jumpiiin', and the smog's so hiiiigh! Oh our Daddy's goooone, and Mama's seen better daaays—"

Zeika snorted with laughter. "That is _not_ is how the song goes!"

Manja giggled and dropped four rolls of toilet paper into another duffel bag. "But, it's true!"

Zeika shook her head, feeling a sudden rush of love for the girl. She was really too smart for her age, and somehow, in the midst of death and madness, she had picked up a sense of humor, one that was a couple sizes too big for her.

Manja labeled and tied off the Lim order and moved on to packing another. Her sweet tones mixed with the deep strokes of Zeika's hammer, creating a familiar but unusual harmony in the belly of the Forge.

Still, the cryptic, bloody letter bit at the back of Zeika's mind. Who was "they"? Koa, or someone else? Who sent the note? Had someone intercepted Munch mid-flight, or had this come from someone in Munch's assigned demesnes? Munch usually did his rounds between the Fifth, Sixth, and Eighteenth Demesnes. _Someone_ had wanted that last message to get out. But why to her? Was it their last attempt at an S.O.S., or did they want to contact her specifically?

And even if it was an S.O.S., it came too late.

The blood on the letter looked days old. For all she knew, it'd come from one of the Civilians of Lot 12, the first lot that had gotten hit, the one Mr. Cartegena told her about.

She shook her head, finally giving up the attempt to understand the note. There was nothing she could do about it, and her family was leaving the Protecteds anyway. No matter what happened, Manja still had to be raised. Zeika still had to work. If the world really was going to hell out there, it would have to wait. Koa had already invaded. It couldn't possibly get any worse.

#

There'd been a sudden tornado warning in the Seventh, but other than the weird weather news, Caleb hadn't gotten squat from his teams. Days had passed since he'd first dropped new information on them. Either they were on a perpetual lunch break, or they had just turned off their radios altogether.

He shook his head, fully intending to file reports of insubordination if these bastards didn't do their jobs. They could hate him all they wanted, but stopping Koan terrorism was more important than bruised egos. Even the higher-ups of the Alchemic Order would agree to that.

Caleb sat down to go through the dossiers for anything he missed. He had compiled info from the Special Forces Tacticians in the Sixth and Seventh and combined it with his own from the raids. While he'd come up with many interesting leads, he wouldn't be able to do much else or strategize until his triads came back with their bits.

Then again...

There was still that dark-eyed girl from Lot 3, the one that Merconius, had been protecting. It wasn't just that he'd seen her before. There was something about her eyes. He'd seen that hard gaze somewhere before.

"Maybe..." He got up and started rifling through three boxes of tapes on his desk. Two-week's worth of security recordings from the Lakeside Diner, installed at Veronica Webb's request. He'd just finished watching the first week, taking notes as he did, trying to create a timeline of events. He'd wanted to avoid researcher bias, and so he'd steered clear of starting his video analysis with the day of the bombing. In his experience, the answer was always in the smaller data points rather than in the bigger ones. But maybe now was the time to break the seal. Maybe if he worked backwards, he'd find something. He popped in the most recent tape, the one recorded on the day of the bombing.

The video of the Lakeside Diner looked normal. Three waiters worked the floor for the customers that were filing in. Business men, construction workers, local Joes and Janes stopping in for drunken breakfast. Mostly Azures, but nothing special. When a shuffling Azure girl swayed in, however, Caleb raised an eyebrow. She had come in through the back, walked by several onlookers, and then sat on the floor, smack in the middle of the eatery. A couple of people started over to her, seeming to want to help.

Oh wow.

The girl was convulsing. Caleb sat back slowly as he watched a flurry of terror fly through the diner. A few customers went for their phones, most likely to call the ambulance. One man even ran over and laid the girl down, trying to hold her still as she spasmed— and then the man leapt back at something seemingly horrific, something that Caleb didn't understand until he zoomed in.

Sutures. At the girl's eyes and mouth. They ran from ear to ear, as though someone had completely separated the girl's lower jaw from the upper and then had sewn it back on.

What the...

The customer was screaming for help. His plea was muted on the video, but by the way the man slumped to his knees, Caleb knew it had been shrill and desperate.

The girl's throes became more violent, and he thought he could see her body begin to expand. Her fingers and joints bent weirdly, contorting in jerky snaps as something bubbled up from beneath her flesh, swelling her limbs, tearing the skin. Her hood was now thrown back, and her cheeks were filling up, the flesh of them ripping away from their stitches.

Static filled the screen. The video had cut off at 11:41 pm... the exact moment of the bombing.

No. No way.

He felt himself go numb. Pieces were beginning to fit together, and still, his mind couldn't accept it. He went back through the tapes, still shaking off the chill that had just laid itself on his bones. He needed to go back through more video, to see what had lead up to that day.

Something clicked.

That girl from Lot 3. He knew where he had seen that dark and placid gaze before. She was a waitress at the Lakeside Diner.

In the first week's footage, she had been on the security camera one day and had looked directly into it. While she couldn't have known it was there, the camera had caught her face at a clear three-quarter profile. Same jawline, same hair, and those eyes. The fire in her gaze could melt rocks; it couldn't be replicated anywhere else. But then, why hadn't she shown up in the Civic Order's face recognition databases? Weren't all Civilians required to be registered?

Caleb got up, grabbed his coat, and headed out the door. Registered or not, it was her. And she was the only witness, that he knew of, who was still alive.

"We're moving, Zeika. Today. To the Island. You and Manja need to get down here now, okay? Run. Don't walk."

Only four days had passed since Baba had told Zeika to clean out the Forge; Mama's call was early and unexpected. Furthermore, the details were different. She'd thought they'd be meeting Baba on the mainland of the Sixth, but now the Island? Before the Collapse, the Island had gotten zero respect as a borough, but now, it was a cosmopolitan mecca, Azure-occupied, and one of the most stable areas of the Sixth. Even so, it was the last place she expected Baba to pick as a safe haven. They didn't have much money, but more importantly, Koa hated Azures. Living among them, especially amongst the richest and bluest, was like painting a target on their foreheads.

Still, Mama's voice had sounded so urgent that it put movement into Zeika, and she was already rolling out of the hammock to gather her and Manja's stuff.

"Manja? Come on, baby, we've gotta go see Mama."

"Mm?" The little one rubbed her eyes, looking as though she were about to cry.

"We're leaving to a new place, remember? We're moving today."

Zeika put on a big smile, one that she had been saving ever since the raid attack nearly a week ago. She knew that once Baba had made up his mind to leave, no border control in the whole world was going to keep him from moving his family. He had found a way, and they were finally going to get out of this hell hole.

Manja seemed to understand that too because she brightened and shot up in her hammock, sleep sliding off her face. Without a single word of complaint, she hopped out and got moving. She took her tutu'd teddy bear, which Zeika had gutted and re-sewn into a new backpack, and she began to pack up her "Manja stuff", including her machine books and her last dose of medicine. They had packed their things days ago, just in case something like this happened.

Zeika did one last look over the nearly bare Forge, stuffing a little over a thousand dollars into different parts of her clothing as she did. She hadn't sold all the inventory, but she'd been working non-stop for four days straight, flipping every and anything she could. At first, customers had been nervous about stockpiling food and supplies. They were afraid it would attract Koa. So in order to move a lot of the smaller things more quickly, Zeika had slashed prices and put on a fire sale that had cost them most of their inventory, including most of their food supply. The hardware had moved the quickest.

Now, the nearly bare shelves and hammocks held mixed feelings, a sense of freedom and a sense of loss for the life she had lived until now. Her purpose had always been to 'get out' of the Fifth Demesne, but she never would have thought it would end like this.

_Things will get better, eventually._ _Right?_

As if to answer, Manja's warm hand slid into hers. Zeika smiled at her, at the hope in the little girl's eyes, knowing that this was the right thing to do. Even if they were afraid of what lay ahead, _Manja_ needed this. And Manja always came first.

"Come on, kiddo. Let's go see Mama and Baba. They're missin' you a whole lot."

Manja's smile widened, and Zeika led her out of the Forge, leaving it behind for the last time.

Five in the morning. Burke had just woken up, and he'd barely been able to scratch his crotch before his doorbell rang. Stalkers from Satan's tea shop wasn't enough, apparently. Now, he was getting house calls at the crack of dawn. What the hell.

"What?!" He snarled as he yanked open his door. "And in God's name, _why_?"

"Councilman. I bring great tidings, friend."

Burke scowled. It was a great tide, all right. A tsunami of snake oil and bullshit had just spilled onto his mahogany floor, and in the middle of it stood Sal Morgan. He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, grinning like a sideways ass crack.

"No, goddamnit," Burke snapped. "I already told Billings 'no' once, and I don't want to discuss it again— HEY!" He stumbled back as Morgan slithered his way through the door. Burke slammed the door closed and followed Sal down the hallway.

"Lovely morning for a visit with an old friend, yes?" Sal barely looked over his shoulder as he made his way in.

"What in blazes did I just tell you?" Burke trailed Sal's clicking heels into the kitchen. He frowned, surprised that the tax collector even needed to walk. As greasy as Sal was, Burke half-expected him to just glide over the wood. "I already powwowed with the rest of the Council on this. The motion's too radical."

Sal didn't respond. Instead, he opened Burke's cabinets, took out a pair of coffee mugs, and began to peruse the large pantry.

"We don't have nearly enough evidence to warrant it," Burke continued, eyeing Sal. "And even if we did—"

"Dark or light?"

Burke frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Your roast. Do you like it dark or light?" Sal lifted two cans of Burke's most expensive beans.

"Roast my fucking ass, Sal. Don't make coffee, because you're not a guest. You're leaving. Now."

Sal shrugged and chose the dark roast. "I will do nothing of the sort, my friend. You made a mess. It's time to clean it."

"Bullshit it is."

"The ghosts of war, the Articles39 were _your_ ideas. Ideas upon which Koa has capitalized—"

"You have no right to roll those stipulations back. The Civilians will have nothing left!"

"—ideas that the Order have not yet forgiven. You and your little poodle, Luke, are walking on some very shaky ground before the Halls of Deis. And before the eyes of your precious Civilians as well, if rumor be true."

"An honor I owe to you," Burke muttered darkly.

"Such honors are my pleasure to bestow, Councilman, to those who forget their lineage. It's a strange thing, lineage. While it is long forgotten by fallen, rotting apples like yourself, it is never forgotten by the tree or its roots."

Sal's back was still turned to him. He was grinding Burke's beans. His goddamn 300-hundred-dollar-a-pound coffee beans.

Burke tore his eyes away from the coffee grains before more homicidal thoughts set in. "Right. Nasty apples. And?"

"My point is that the Order's memory is long and unyielding. The only question is whether its memory of you will be fond, to burn eternal and glorious... or if it will be foul, to be spurned and purged from the pages of its great history."

Sal finally turned to face him, the coffee pot behind bubbling softly. His grease was gone, replaced by a face that was now flatline. Games were over, apparently. Now it was time for the real meeting.

"I want your signature, Micah," Sal continued. "I want you to support the repeals of the Articles39."

Burke crossed his arms. "You'll have better luck finding support for Billings' man-boobs than getting me to sign that piece of shit legislation. Not after last spring."

Sal sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "This again, Micah?"

"Last spring, Sal."

"Yes, yes, April showers and May flowers, it was beautiful—"

"You sonofabitch!" Burke seethed. "I had to watch shop owners beg as their livelihoods were stripped away from them without warning. Civilian lawyers, up my ass about the violation of Civilian rights to bear arms. Threats filling my voicemail box to the brim. 'Death to the Besieger', nailed to my goddamned door! And now you would have me serve them yet another injustice?"

Burke could tell from Sal's patient smile that he wasn't moved. In fact the only thing that moved on Sal's body at all were his hands and arms as he poured the steaming black coffee atop a thick layer of cold condensed milk.

"Act 948 was a necessary measure," Sal said finally, topping off his coffee. "An _unfortunate_ measure, from which not one of us at the Halls of Deis derived a single pleasurable moment."

Burke sneered. "You're so full of it. Talking so much crap you could open a shit farm, easy."

"I regret putting the task of 948 upon you, dear friend. That's why I'm here, to offer you recompense. Councilman Billings and I are more than prepared to support you in the restoration of your alchemic titles, if you would but choose wisdom over passion."

Burke narrowed his eyes. Passions his finely-dimpled ass. Cowering before child demons was one thing, but there was no way he'd let this scummy low-level tax jerker come in and throw his meager influence around. Sal Morgan didn't call shots. He was a lap dog at best, but _he_ — Micah Pencham Burke— was a Vassal. No matter what Billings or anyone at the Halls of Deis said, he'd earned his titles. He'd never beg or sell out to get them back.

So he squared his shoulders. "No."

"Will you sit on it, at least?"

Burke paused for a minute, rubbing his jaw with a thumb. "Yeah, sure. I'll sit on it," he said, finally. "I think I'll wipe my ass with it a couple times too, for good measure."

Sal put his empty mug down and regarded him for a minute— impatience finally creeping around the edges of his gaze— until he let it go. The man never lost his cool, it seemed, not even when he was losing a battle. Finally, he shrugged.

"You've always had a knack for poetry, dear friend. Despite your reservations, I believe that you'll want to meditate on this for a bit. You should watch how the world around you turns before you put in your final word. Keep an eye on your little garden, perhaps?"

Burke felt the color drain from his face as he watched Sal's mouth tighten with that cocksure smile. What the hell did he know about the garden? Unless...

"It was you. It's been you all along."

"Me?" Sal said, feigning innocence. "What, pray tell, have I been doing?"

"At best? Prying into business that isn't yours." Burke stepped towards him, feeling vicious. "And at worst—"

"Please, Micah, your proverbial muscles are outgrowing your tiny T-shirt." Sal waved off his advance as though he were a fly. "I haven't done a thing except ask the right questions of the right people. I mean, really. You didn't think that you— demoted and on the brink of disownment— could go to an Azure psychiatrist and still maintain any sort of privacy, could you? It's no small secret that one of the Order's former finest is cracking up."

"I am not cracking up!" Burke snapped. In spite of himself, though, he began to relax. So it wasn't Sal who had raised the dead in his garden. But someone— likely Dr. Jacobs or one of his assistants— was flapping his gums about it.

"So, then?" Sal poured himself another cup of coffee. "If you aren't losing your mind, then tell me. Are the rumors true?"

"You seem so informed lately. You tell me."

"Well, one can only speculate as to the goings-on of the great House of Burke, now can we? But if I _were_ to speculate, I'd say that your recent experiences are more than just a clash of PTSD and delicate faculties. Someone of import seems to be quite interested in making a point."

"If you know who's doing this, I'd appreciate a straight answer rather than all your damned riddles."

"Truth be told, I haven't the slightest idea. But I'm sure you do, Councilman. I'm sure you know exactly where these 'telegrams' are coming from."

Burke set his jaw.

"If you would only divulge your suspicions, perhaps we can help you. It would come at a cost, of course, and we have already named our price."

Burke raised an eyebrow. We? Since when was Sal Morgan a part of the fold?

"Oh. You haven't heard," Sal said. He looked pleased beyond words.

Burke eyed him warily. "And I'm not sure I want to."

"I'm afraid Councilman Clegg has tendered his resignation as of late. I will be representing the Fifth Demesne as its new Councilman."

"What the hell are you talking about? Elections aren't for another seven months."

"And yet recalls know no schedule, it seems."

Burke looked off, unbelieving. Recalls. Ones that _no one_ had even heard about. Not even him. The Alchemic Order controlled a lot, but this level of treachery bit the artery. He thought at least the political system of the Civic Order was still insulated. He thought the Civilian officials still had procedures, protocol. Did the Alchemic Order's influence really reach this far?

Sal smiled, seeming to enjoy Burke's reactions. "It's a lot to take in, I know. I can barely believe it myself. But when one is called to serve, he must do his duty. Who was I to say no? I am but a humble civil servant."

Burke looked back up, the anger simmering. "How?"

"Quite a messy business it was," Sal said. "And yet, recalls of men in power can crop up so suddenly, especially when Koan terrorists slip in under guarded walls and slaughter nine Civilian lots all at once."

"Eight," Burke snarled.

"Sorry?"

"Eight lots. Nine were attacked, but one survived. As new Councilman of the Fifth, you should commit that to memory. Maybe even do something charitable for the ousted people of your Demesne. Celebrate the resilience of Lot Three to give your people hope. Civic duty, and all."

Sal put down his coffee cup. "Ah yes, the valiant Lot Three. Spared by all manner of luck and pluck. How fortunate for your precious gunsmith Merconius Anon and his two little girls... what were their names again, I can't quite remember..."

"I'm sure you remember well enough."

"You pick the strangest allies, my friend. The weakest allies."

"Yeah? Is that why you stole the Fifth Demesne? Is that why the Anons' shop was the first on your list to shut down? Because they're weak?"

"No. Because you are."

Burke huffed and turned away.

"I ask a favor of you in the Fifth, and you handled it with the barest of Azure confidence. You dropped to your knees before the Civilians, before the Anons, begging for forgiveness like some scarlet woman. I've always wondered at the strange indebtedness you bore towards Merconious and his ilk. As painful as it was for you, however, I'm glad to have helped relieve you of that debt. In coming here, I had hoped you would allow me to relieve you of yet another."

"I owe no debts to you or to the Order."

"Debts are my speciality, my friend. From my count, you are very much in arrears. Very much alone."

"You don't scare me, Sal. I _have_ people on my side. Real friendships extend beyond the Alchemic Order—"

"Nothing extends beyond the Alchemic Order. Whoever your allies may be, they can't be of much import. As I said. You are the rotting apple, and only maggots make homes with the dead." Still calm, Sal reached inside his inner jacket pocket and took out a long silver pen with a matching writing stone. "The repeals of the Articles39. You have a month from today to reconsider my offer. Your titles in exchange for your signature and public support. It's an important decision, Burke. Meditate on it." Sal placed the writing stone on the countertop, and Burke glared at it, seeing that his name had been carved into it in beautiful cursive.

"You remember how to use these, yes? I trust you haven't forgotten everything that makes you an Azure Alchemist."

"Only as much as you've forgotten what makes you human, Sally."

"You serve your justice, I'll serve mine. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to the Guild of Almaut."

"Auditing?"

"Adopting, actually. Two orphans in need of a home. Civic duty to my Demesne, and all that."

Burke raised an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for the fatherly type."

"Well, I'm not a total monster." Sal smiled. "Good day, Councilman. Thank you kindly for the coffee. It was... refreshing."

He left, and as soon as the front door closed behind him, Burke hurled the writing stone and pen off the counter. The stone cracked, the jagged and toothed bits of it scattering like a crushed headstone, his name scrawled across the pieces.

When Zeika jogged up to the Guild, pulling Manja behind her, she slowed, her eyes stuck on the bustle in front.

What the...

Buses were lined up, but the path to them was blocked off by thick police tape. A massive crowd, teeming and angry, was being held back by a line of APs with assault rifles.

"This is bullshit!" One crowd member near her roared. "We're all citizens of the Civic Order! You can't leave us here!"

In the distance, Zeika could see that a line of people, many of them wolf-moons, filing out of the Guild and boarding each bus. From the murmurs of the crowd, she picked up that the buses were going to take the members to the edge of Demesne Six, where they would then grab the ferry to the Island. To the side, Mama standing on her tip-toes, wrapped in a shawl. Her eyes darted back and forth, searching the crowd.

Zeika hoisted Manja onto her shoulders, and Manja began waving her teddy bear bag. Mama caught sight of them and beckoned. The two picked their ways through the crowd until they reached the tape, but when they ducked under, an AP stepped forward.

"Stop right there." He didn't lift his rifle, but two of his comrades did, aiming right at them.

"They're mine!" Mama stumbled forward. "They're guildmembers."

Zeika showed their member cards, and the AP signaled his team to stand down. The girls ran forward, hugging their mother for the first time in days. Mama's bones practically cracked beneath Zeika's embrace. Her skin lay warm and sweaty over the brittle branches of her frame, her entire body slick like Amazonian wood. She was in withdrawal.

When they parted, Zeika looked around. "Baba?"

Mama's head trembled. No.

She nodded, her throat tight with tension. Their escape wasn't like they had planned, but at least they were getting out of here. That was first. Then, they could reunite with Baba on the Island and plan the next step. Things were going to be fine.

A social worker walked down the line, double-checking each member off a list and running identifications. When he got to them, he narrowed his eyes at Zeika and Manja.

"The emergency evacuation is for special-needs members only."

"They're mine. Mine, minors." Mama took a step in between Zeika and the social worker, cutting her off from the burn of his gaze. "I'm all they got."

Zeika put a hand on her mother's back. Jesus. Mama's bones shook with each pound of her heart. She was coming down hard. Too hard. She was shaking, barely able to string words together.

The social worker sniffed and flipped the pages on his clipboard. "Ah yes. I see here," he said finally. "My apologies, Mrs. Anon."

Mama cast her eyes down at the social worker's feet and smiled, and as they walked forward, Zeika began to relax.

"Wait." He was looking at the clipboard again, his eyes alert. "Mrs. Anon, do you mind stepping over here for a moment, please? Your children too."

Zeika and Mama exchanged glances, but did as they were asked.

In a low voice, the social worker began. "My apologies. I didn't see the note on your file. According to the Guild's records, because you've been repeatedly committed for drug rehabilitation, the Guild of Almaut cannot recommend that your children stay in your custody. We cannot release them to your care unless their father is present."

Mama's eyes widened and her lips parted as though to speak. Nothing came out. Zeika stared at her, her heart kicking up its beat as her gaze begged Mama to break the silence. Still nothing. Whatever she might have said stalled, traffic-jammed in her throat somewhere far behind synapses burnt dead by kunja.

Even the social worker creased his brow at Mama's silence. "As the primary center for social services," he continued. "—the Guild will remand your children to its custody until their father claims them. If not, then they'll be remanded to foster parents until you have reached a reasonable rehabilitative state, at which point they will then be returned to you."

"Mama—" Zeika turned to their mother, her face desperate.

Confusion clouded her mother's face, a sunken and gaunt face, blued at the cheeks... the blush of the dead. Mama looked haunted, cold turkey.

_No._ Zeika's mind corrected her. _High._

One of the buses rumbled to life, and Zeika couldn't offer another thought to Mama's condition, not when every second mattered. She pushed past her mother, stepped up to the social worker. "She wants us in her custody. Right? Mama?"

Mama's eyes darted around, from the social worker to Zeika to Manja. Her thin, cracked lips opened, trying but not succeeding. The social worker's face relaxed, as though his suspicions were being confirmed.

"Our father isn't absent," Zeika protested. "He's just stuck in Demesne Six. The quarantine!"

The social worker sighed, shook his head, and turned his eyes back to his clipboard before walking away.

Zeika took off after him. "We can't stay here by ourselves! How will we live?!"

"The Civic Order can temporarily adopt you as wards of the state in lieu of your parents' absence. But you must stay here."

"How long?"

"As long as it takes for your father to return to Demesne Five."

"Who knows _when_ that will happen!" Zeika persisted. "Koa is here! The Protecteds are getting locked down! It could be months before—"

"I'm sorry, but due to your mother's clearly unstable condition, we cannot allow you into her custody. The transfer is for her and her only."

"Where's Kenneth Taitt? He's the Guildmaster, he can vouch for us. He knows that my father's waiting for us in the Sixth Demesne. All you have to do is let us get on the bus over there. He can vouch for us!"

The social worker's face hardened. It seemed the 'nice guy' act was over. "Unless Kenneth Taitt is willing to adopt you personally, his testimony is irrelevant. Guards!" He turned away from Zeika, pointing at her and Manja as though they were dogs. "These two!"

The APs swarmed them, ripping Manja from Mama's arms and pulling Zeika away. Manja started to scream. Zeika struggled, but an AP was holding her by both arms, ushering her and Manja towards the Guild door.

"Get the hell off of me!" Zeika shouted. "Mama!"

Mama stumbled forward, reaching out to one of the APs with fingers that could only graze, not grab, with words that gobbledy-gooked their ways forward, like dancers with club feet. The AP held her back, barking at her as her awkward, nonsensical words finally took form. Please don't take my children away, please don't, please—

"You bastards!" Zeika screamed as she was pulled away. "I want to see a court order! You can't do this without a judge!"

"Bring them to the office for processing."

"Mama, don't let them take us!" Zeika cried out. "Please!"

"We really need to get a move on," the social worker snapped. "Put Mrs. Anon on the bus, and take them to the office, _now_ please."

Three APs swarmed Mama, pushing her towards the buses, and Mama somehow came to life, scratching, kicking, screaming, biting like a wounded animal, until one of the Guild's doctors joined the scuffle.

A needle went into Mama's arm. Air rushed out of Zeika's lungs, all the fight draining from her.

Mama lapsed into sedation, the APs dragged her onto a bus, and somewhere, Zeika heard the soft swell of whispers in the crowd watching them, tasted the exhaust of the evac buses as they pulled away, disappearing into the distance. They'd been so close, always so close and yet so far, _always_ —

Not real. This isn't real.

The world blurred in a rush of tears, and Zeika fell out of the AP's grip onto her knees. Manja ran to her, and their limbs locked around one another, their bodies the only real things to hold onto as their lives were swept away from them... and finally, Zeika let herself cry.

#

"Only _two_ dollars?" Zeika narrowed her eyes. "Don't blow smoke up my ass and tell me it's windy, friend."

"Don't sass me, Z, I'm telling you the truth. You can take the deal or roll that piece of shit cart around the Market looking for others to buy. But you won't find any takers. So what's it gonna be?"

Zeika scowled and folded her arms. She'd tried to put on her game face and bury the desperation deep inside, but the jerk had still sniffed it out. He was trying to snag a perfectly snug parka for a disgusting price, one that she couldn't accept if she and Manja wanted to eat. If Baba and Mama stayed missing long enough, then fine. Two dollars might feel like a good day. But today? No sale.

"With things spiraling down into hell and Koa on the loose, people's needs are changing," the merchant said. "Food and clothes are one thing, but if you want real money, you need to bring metal. Get me?"

"I'm sure I don't."

She threw the coat back into the cart and walked off, rolling it across the marketplace square. They needed the cash, but hell, if he thought she was going to start pawning off-the-books firearms to random Civilians, he had another think coming. They had enough problems without having local law enforcement sniffing around the Forge for illegal activity.

She'd done all she could to pick up the pieces after Mama was dragged onto that bus and out of their lives. Forty-eight hours had passed, and they hadn't gotten a single message or phone call from their parents, not even when Zeika sent all three of her pigeons to circle around the Protecteds and the Island. As promised, the Guild had taken them in and allowed them to keep their old room; they got food and counseling, and Manja was able to attend daycare while Zeika went out to work. The Guild was pretty lax on her so long as she made it back by curfew. Still, they were chained to Demesne Five as wards of the state, and worse, no matter how many times she tried to explain everything to Manja, the little girl still didn't understand why Mommy was gone.

"How you doin', kiddo?"

Manja hugged her teddy bear around its neck. She hadn't spoken much since Mama left.

"Yeah. Me too." After a moment, Zeika brightened. "Say! How about we—" She stopped short as a body she recognized stepped in front of them.

"Got a minute?"

The detective. The one who had come to their lot the night of the raid. His voice was gentle, but Zeika got a feeling that he wasn't asking. She had no clue how he'd known where to find them, or how he'd picked them out of the crowd. All she knew was that it was time to tuck tail and go.

"You're not allowed to speak to me, detective. I know my rights." She kept her eyes forward as she started up the cart again and navigated through the bustle. "Have a nice day."

She walked quickly, but the detective kept pace with her, slipping his hands into his pockets as though they were shopping together.

"I'm allowed to speak to you if you're a witness in a Koan terrorist attack," he spoke in a low voice. "So you need to slow down right now, kid, or I'll be forced to cause a scene."

Zeika stopped again, her eyes wide with shock. A witness? How'd he—

"You showed up on the diner's security camera a couple days before the bombing," he said, reading her expression.

"Well that'd make a lot of sense, detective, because I worked there."

"Then, why weren't you there when the bomb blew? I checked the employee records, and your boss had you on the schedule for that day."

"Yeah, well, I'm not sure how Mort kept his records, but he definitely called me the night before I was supposed to come in. He laid me off."

The detective folded his arms. "Did that make you upset?"

"Of course it did!" Zeika cut a glare at him.

His eyes shifted, and immediately she knew she'd said the wrong thing. She knew what he was going to say even before it came out of his mouth.

"Don't," she cut him off. "I did _not_ bomb the Lakeside. It was my bread-and-butter. How else is she going to eat?" She motioned to Manja, who was hiding behind her bear.

He looked at the little girl, not at all moved. "I think you should come with me. I think it'd be better for you to come down to the station and give an official statement. On the bombing and on the raid."

"I'm not going anywhere with you, and I don't have to answer any of your questions."

"You're right. I'll just walk away, change your status from material witness to suspect, and come back with my warrant. Then, you'd be under arrest. Is that what you want?"

Welp, there went the nice guy routine. Guess he was just another Azure asshole—

But one with authority. Chill, Z.

Asshole or not, he was a cop. If she made the wrong move, he could do more than just arrest her. He could take Manja away. Technically she wasn't old enough to be her guardian, and they had no adult to claim them. Her best bet was to play it cool... and yet, she felt a powerful urge to call his bluff.

_Maybe_ he was a bad ass AP who'd lay down the law if necessary, but above all, he was a decent person, well-meaning. He'd shown that at the Converge and at their lot after Koa's attack. He'd shown who he was, but he didn't know her, especially where Manja was concerned. No one was questioning her, no one was arresting her, and no one was taking Manja away... but if he kept pushing, he was going to find that out the hard way. Everyone in this damned market would.

She gripped the push bar of the shopping cart, feeling her power build up in her hands, ready to set it off. "Come back with your warrant, cop," she challenged. "Then we'll talk."

The detective looked at her, his expression a mixture of curiosity and amusement, as though he were a high-perched cat looking at an angry dog. Zeika huffed, irked at the smile sneaking onto his face. She didn't know what was so damned funny, but she'd wasted enough time. Without another word, she turned and pushed the cart forward. Screw this guy.

"Hey Commander!" The detective called out after her.

She stopped, frozen. Commander? She looked at Manja, whose eyes had also gone wide.

"He took my name..." Manja whispered. "Beat him up!"

"I know you and the kid are scavenging for food," he continued. "Let me buy you something."

"Oh yeah?" Zeika could feel venom spike in her as she whipped back around. "In exchange for _what_ exactly?"

He held up his hands. "Information. That's it. No pressure, no other cops. We can sit in a diner or somewhere else public. We'll eat, and you can bring the kid." He reached out, a card in hand.

She glared at the card and then at him. "This is coercion."

"Not if you agree."

"You want to eat in an Azure diner while Koa's targeting them?"

"It's a Civilian diner," the detective said, smiling, still extending the card. "I don't eat at Azure diners in Civic Demesnes. It's not too good for the local economy."

"You'd eat with Civilians?"

He creased his brow, as though he didn't understand the question. "It's all food, isn't it?"

She cocked her head, curious, and with a slow grace, she took the card from him. "What time?"

"Now. It's a one-shot deal, kid."

She looked at him, wary, and then she glanced at Manja, who was peering around her, trying to get a look at him. Before setting out to barter, they'd only had an apple between them for breakfast, with an extra pita for Manja. She'd be hungry by now. Baba wouldn't be happy that they were talking to an AP, but Baba also didn't have to feed the kid.

All right, cop. We'll play your game for now.

Zeika nodded and let the detective lead the way.

* * * *

They had barely stepped into the Lobon Inn when Civilian customers started turning, looking at them, and whispering in dropped voices. Wolf-moon civvies were scattered throughout the diner but the detective was the only Azure there. Zeika became painfully aware of how people were looking at her, some with glares of accusation. Others with disgust.

"Unfuckingbelievable," one man muttered from the bar as they walked by. It was Franz Diehdrick, local wino and degenerate. As they walked by, he burped loudly and turned, mumbling under his breath. Zeika lifted her chin high above the man's alcoholic stench.

The detective picked a table at the back, and the waitress wasted no time swooping in to get their order and sending it to the kitchen. Zeika looked after her worriedly, wondering if the staff would put something 'special' in their food.

Nonplussed, the detective took off his hooded trench coat and tossed it into the booth. Zeika couldn't help but notice the broad athletic body flushed against the tactical compression shirt he wore. When he settled, he leveled his eyes with hers, observing her. His gaze smoldered, a touch of silver roiling in an ash green that was dark and mute. Black buzz-cut hair, almond-shaped eyes, tanned skin, and a square set jaw with just a hint of stubble.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd seen something that beautiful. And he was staring at _her_.

Woah, relax. Down girl.

She'd been ready to pummel him just 30 minutes ago, and she might still have to, depending on where this interview went. Better to keep that in mind going forward.

He broke his gaze to look at Manja, who was clinging to Zeika's robes for dear life. "How's it goin', kiddo?"

Manja pouted and buried her head into Zeika's shoulder.

Zeika smiled weakly. "Sorry. She's not usually like this. We've had a rough two weeks."

He smiled back. "It's okay."

The waitress set down their food, squeezing Manja's plate of pancakes in next to Zeika's. Still, Manja wouldn't turn around.

"Manja, sweetie. Your food's here."

"I wanna go back home. I wanna see Mommy."

"We're going to eat first, okay? Then we'll go back home." When Manja didn't move, Zeika nudged her. "It's pancakes, honey. You love pancakes."

"NO! I _HATE_ PANCAKES!"

Zeika expected the detective to scowl, but he actually cracked a wide grin. His eyes lit up, and he grabbed his fork.

"Wow, you hate pancakes? That's too bad. They sure look good. Mm, mm, so buttery and syrupy, yum. You're missin' out, kid." When Manja didn't lift her head, he continued. "Oh wow, just _look_ at these chocolate chips! They're even making a smile. Man, these pancakes sure are happy to see me."

Manja peeked out from Zeika's shoulder, looking at him warily.

"And there's whipped cream? It looks so good, I think I'm gonna try some—" He reached over to prod the top flapjack with his fork.

"No, they're my pancakes!" Manja turned around and grabbed the edge of her plate. "You said so!"

The detective gazed at her, a twinkle in his eyes.

"My pancakes." Manja smiled sheepishly. Then she turned to Zeika, trying to whisper and failing miserably. "He's cute, Zeeky!"

Zeika's cheeks flushed hot. "Manja!"

The detective laughed. "Thanks. You're not half bad yourself, kid." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pen and pad, and then looked at Zeika. "Now, tell me again about that night at the—"

"Oh we're ssstepping _out_ with the Azure pigss now, are we, Z? Thiss a date?"

The three of them turned to the shadow that inked over them. Franz. And he was glaring at them. His puffy red-splotched gaze focused mostly on the detective, but his boozy stench was making its rounds. Manja sank down in her seat, her little nose scrunched up, and finally, she climbed over Zeika to sit on the inside of the booth.

Zeika stared back at Franz hard, not budging. "No, but even if we were, no one asked you."

"Tha good people of thiss here bar don't need to ssee your nasssty," Franz said, stumbling against the booth. "You and your slut mother should keep your Azure pimps at home, ya fuckin' whores—"

"Go suck the cock's end of a beer bottle, all right, Franz?!"

The detective stood up, his face dark. "Get out, or I'm going to arrest you for disorderly conduct and for being a dick."

Franz straightened up as though to challenge the detective, but then he seemed to reconsider. He stepped back, a sloppy smile smeared on his face. "I saw your mom in Angels9 the other day, Z. Tell her I'll see her on the next flight." He burped and staggered off, but not before smirking at them one last time.

Zeika slumped back into her seat and looked at the wall, rubbing her arms. She could feel tears welling up.

"Zeeky, why'd Franz say that about Mommy?"

Zeika couldn't work up a response. She could feel the detective's eyes on her.

"You all right?" He asked.

"Look, no offense, detective," she murmured. "But we're just here to eat and answer questions. If you're working up to getting friendly, please don't bother. You don't have to pretend you care."

To her surprise, he didn't even flinch at her reaction. But he _was_ observing her, more with curiosity than anything else.

"Sorry, Mister. Zeeky's got a real mean mouth."

Zeika cut Manja a glare. Manja stuffed her face full of pancake and looked off, as though the voice had come from elsewhere.

"Not a problem," he replied. "So do I. And you don't have to call me 'Mister'. It's Caleb. Caleb Rai." He lifted his eyes to her. "Zeika, is it? Anon?"

"It's _A_ non. Like cannon, only drop the 'c'. Ezekiel D'jihara Anon." She regarded him with impatience. It was undeserved, her attitude, and she knew it by the amused way he looked back at her. But she couldn't help it. People always pronounced her name like it was the confessions of friggin' Shakespeare.

"I've never heard a name like that in my life," he said. "It's pretty cool."

Somehow, there wasn't a single drop of sarcasm in his voice. He smiled, even— sincere. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

"And _I'm_ Manja!" The little one muscled in. "And I'm going to be a big singer one day, like Nina Simone!"

Zeika smiled a little and turned to her. At least the kid was talking now.

"Yeah? That's great!" Caleb said. Then he turned to Zeika. "What about you?"

As Zeika opened her mouth, Manja crawled into her lap and sat right in front of her, as though to block her. "She dances! And flips and jumps! She's great, and she's gonna be the best ballerina in the world and—"

"Well, excuse you, your Highness, but when did I become a chair?"

" _Mou_ , come on, Zeeky, stop interrupting! I'm about to get to the best part!"

"And I'm about to toss your little behind clear across the diner if you don't stop acting grown!"

Manja reached up and put her hand on Zeika's mouth. "Anyway! Hey Mister Caleb, are you really a policeman?"

Caleb smiled. "Yup."

"Can we see your badge?"

He pulled it from his trench coat pocket and showed it to her.

Manja gasped and leaned her cheeks in her hands. "Woow... and do you get the bad men?"

"Most the time. At least back home I did."

"Cool! And are there bad girls too?"

"Not as many, but—"

"Do you have a police car? Can we ride in it? Where do you work? Can we see the station? Do you 'oink', because Zeeky says the police are pigs and—"

Zeika grabbed Manja's mouth and held it tightly.

Caleb's eyes twinkled. "I'm kind of interested in hearing what she was about to say."

"Aheh. One minute she's a mute, and the next you can't get her to shut up," Zeika chuckled nervously as she put Manja back into her original seat. "You wanted to ask me about the bombing, detective?"

"You can ask me too!"

" _Eat your pancakes!_ " Zeika hissed.

Manja giggled before digging back into her food.

"Ugh, kids..." Zeika took a minute to rub the bridge of her nose before they started to talk. "About the bombing, I know it looks like I have a motive, but the truth is..." And the truth came in full, from the attack all the way up to the raid on her lot. "Koa took everything," she said finally. "Our money, our supplies, my job, _everything_ , and they left us to scavenge for scraps."

"And you've never been approached, solicited, or bribed by any members of the Knights of Almaut?"

"No. Not until the raid."

"Do you know of any Civilians your age or younger that have had any sort of contact with Koa?"

Lauren McGee. Abe Young. Quenton Reed. And others. She'd heard the stories, rumors. While for a long time Koa would never cross into the Protecteds, they still loved to shake working kids down on the borders where they could. They were bastards. Terrorists. Even so, Koans were still Civilians. If anyone was going to deal them justice, it would be the Civilians and the Civic Order. Not Caleb Rai. Not Azures.

So Zeika looked dead at the detective and replied with full confidence: "No. Before the raids, I hadn't heard a thing."

"Not in school, either?"

"More of us work than go to school, detective. But I'm the only one I know of that worked in the Seventh Demesne. The rest work in the Fifth or Sixth. Some come home everyday. Some turn Azure. Others just disappear."

She watched Caleb draw up his shoulders, his eyes went serious. "How many?"

"I dunno. I see missing ads for different kids all the time. It's scary."

"Your parents still let you walk around alone though?"

"Don't have a choice. We all work, or we all starve."

"Have any of the Knights of Almaut or their associates ever offered you any... alternatives to your current situation?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"Have they ever given you incentive to become a soldier?"

Zeika leveled her eyes with his, and she leaned back, feeling the metal of her hidden gun press into her lower back. "What's a soldier?"

"Someone who serves in a military force for a cause or for a country. In this case, a ghost of Koa."

"I'd never become a ghost of Koa. Especially not after they raided our lot. They're garbage."

"They think they're fighting for a good cause."

"Good cause or not, they step on their own to make their point. I'm not a fan of their scorched earth policy. It's neither good business nor good publicity, and now that they've made us targets, Koa will never receive quarter in the Protecteds. They lost this war the moment the Lakeside detonated."

"I think Koa just suffers from inexperience. Too many young hotheads leading the charge, maybe. Don't you think?"

She raised an eyebrow. He was humoring her, and that was kind of cute, but where was he going with this?

"Some of the residents in your lot said that nearly half of the raiding party were teenagers," he said. "Do you know anything else about that?"

Ah. There we go. He was good at this interrogation thing, trying to pull info through casual conversation. But she wasn't a fool. She shook her head as innocently as she could. She even smiled.

"Mm, sorry, Detective. Didn't get much info while they were knocking my head into the dirt. I thought ghosts of Koa were just rumors until the raid, and flying fists aren't exactly the greatest ice-breaker. You know?" She sipped her water.

"I heard you mopped the floor with some of them." Caleb sat back. He didn't bother hiding his admiration.

She shrugged. "They took her medicine. I needed it back."

"She's sick?"

"Hemophilia."

She could see his face soften with an emotion she couldn't place. Compassion. Pity, maybe. Either way, she didn't like it.

"You asked earlier if I was a soldier," Zeika started again. "The only cause I serve is this one. Spoiled as she is." She put a gentle hand on Manja's head, rustling her pigtails. "And anyone who gets in the way of that cause gets handled." She lifted her eyes back up to him. Her smiled faded. "Koan, Civilian, Azure alike."

Caleb smirked. "Is that a threat?"

"No. I'm just keeping you informed. I didn't thrash Koan ass because I wanted to. I had to."

"Yeah, let's talk about that a bit. Tell me how were you able to fend off a group of Koan soldiers— armed with guns— all by yourself?"

"I've studied Majkata since I was five. My father's pretty adamant about that."

"Something that you and the ghosts of Koa have in common."

She frowned, not liking his implications. The cat-mouse thing was kinda cute, but he needed to get back in his lane. "I am not a ghost of Koa, detective. My parents were just preparing me for the inevitable. We Civilians study Majkata to defend ourselves from _everyone_. Anything else is just coincidence." She stood up and grabbed her traveling robes. Game over. "We didn't ask for this."

Caleb stood up too, motioned to the waitress, and threw a few bills onto the table for the check. "You have my card if you have any more information. Or you could ask your parents to call me too. I have some more questions I'd like to ask."

"Yeah." Zeika knelt to help Manja into her robes and bear backpack. "You'll probably find my parents before we do. If that happens, then you can call _us_. We haven't seen them."

"I... heard the guy say earlier that he saw your mother around."

"Yeah, well, you didn't hear him too good. She's a k-head. Got shipped off to rehab on the Island."

Caleb's eyes softened. "I see."

She avoided his gaze as she tied her obi sash around her waist. "Thanks. For the food, I mean. It helped. Good luck with your investigation." She put her hood on and proceeded to walk towards the exit. She got to the door before she noticed there were no sounds of little feet pattering behind her.

Zeika turned to see Manja talking to Caleb and smiling. A second later, their waitress came over to the table, toting a brown paper bag. She gave it to him in exchange for a wad of Azure bills, the stack of them blue and thick. Damn, was that her tip? He'd given the girl way more than $29.34. But maybe he just had it like that.

When the waitress left, Caleb gave Manja the bag and something else too. It was too small to see from where Zeika stood. Cash, maybe. Or candy. Whatever it was, Manja put it into her pocket. Zeika shook her head. The kid always had her own game going; she was good at sweet-talking people out of things, but sometimes she overworked it, didn't know how to leave 'em hanging. She'd get better with practice. For now, it was time to go.

"Hey! Come on, brat," Zeika called out. "Stop flirting."

Manja waved goodbye to him before running over and taking Zeika's hand. Zeika lifted her chin to the detective, the nicest goodbye she'd mustered in a long while. He nodded back. Together, she and Manja ventured back out, Zeika already deciding to trade their winter coat for the two bucks.

#

Jeb dick-in-his-hand Palmer was finally back from the Fifty-Second, and he was screaming his head off in the debrief room. He walked around, ripping badges off cops' uniforms and hurling them into the door.

"You're a goddamned disgrace! All of you! You practically greased up and grabbed your ankles while Koa rammed the Fifth Demesne, and you got the brass nuts to call yourselves cops?!"

Caleb leaned casually against the door, watching the whole scene. Apparently, Palmer _did_ do cop work once in a while and had read Caleb's weekly reports. Of course, Palmer only gave a shit because the precinct had made him look bad, but at least something was getting done about it.

"Captain," Kenji stepped forward, his eyes hard. "We're patrol units, not SWAT—"

"I don't give a damn if you're Granny Knock-Knees, when there's an emergency, you DISPATCH TO THE FUCKING EMERGENCY!" Palmer looked around the room at the fifteen officers he'd just undressed, Loka Torv and her dispatch among them. "All of you are suspended without pay. Don't even _sniff_ around here unless I call you. Now get the hell out of my face!"

Dejected, the line of disgraced filed out the debrief room. Many of them shot angry looks and rude gestures in Caleb's direction as they left. He smiled.

Palmer turned and kicked over the front table. "I can't even fire these bastards because we're so understaffed! What the hell is happening to my precinct?! Trying to kill me, trying to fucking kill me, that's what!" Palmer muttered angrily to himself until he finally looked up at the rest of the debrief room. "Did at least one of you assholes pick up any information on the raids?"

"I did."

Everyone turned at once, and Caleb stepped forward, holding up a stack of dossiers. He looked around the room. "And we've got a shit storm of problems."

"And who, exactly, authorized you to investigate the raids?"

Caleb turned in the direction of the new voice and found it in a shadowy corner of the debrief room. He raised an eyebrow as Xakiah stepped forward into the light. He certainly hadn't been there before. How long had he been listening in? And what the hell happened to using the door?

Xakiah's eyes flickered, their gaze boring through him as he approached. He was still a dick, apparently. He had even grown a permanent scowl which laid tight over his face like a foreskin. "You're on restricted duty aren't you, dollhouse?"

"You're goddamned right he is!" Palmer swung his gaze towards Caleb. "Jake promoted you to Special Forces Tactician, _not_ to patrol officer!"

"If I hadn't gone, the trail on Koa would be cold by now. None of your cops followed up on the leads I gave them. Train your officers better next time, Palmer, and I won't have to break the rules."

Palmer grunted in response, and Caleb turned back to Xakiah. "And to answer your question, Cotch, the moment the precinct's phone lines were routed to a silent alarm, Demesne Five was _put_ in my jurisdiction. But I don't even know why you have shit to say about it anyway; you're not on the fucking payroll, and you sure as hell aren't my superior officer."

"Rai—" Jake warned.

"That's a matter of perspective," Xakiah replied coldly, stepping up to him. "One that I'm willing to adjust if you don't watch your mouth, boy."

Caleb held his hands out to the side. "Adjust it, sweetheart. I'm right here."

Xakiah approached, but Jake beat him to the punch, sliding in between the two of them. Xakiah seared Caleb with frosty gaze.

"We don't have time for this," Jake snapped. "Now either you two have something to report or not."

"The biological warfare, the man responsible, his notes." Xakiah flicked a flash drive to Jake like a bone.

"How nice of you to share," Caleb muttered as Jake passed the drive to him.

"Only at the behest of my Vassal. As for the remainder of the investigation, I have more pressing matters to attend to. I'm sure dollhouse will oblige in my stead."

Xakiah's cold gaze passed over Caleb once more before he walked back into the shadow he came from, leaving the team to their meeting.

"Show off," Jake muttered. "Caleb?"

Caleb squeezed the flash drive in his fist, it feeling more like a dog biscuit than he'd liked to admit. He was still glaring at the shadow that Cotch had disappeared into. He had never seen someone exercise their powers so brazenly—

"Caleb."

"I examined the video surveillance from the Lakeside Diner. Koa is using the bodies of children as a new form of biological warfare. You all can take a look at the video later. I'm sure the data on Cotch's drive will confirm that. Also, after speaking to dozens of witnesses from the lot raids the other night, it's becoming clear that Koa has not only grown roots in the Protecteds, but they are stocking up, probably for smaller, more local hits. They're also training and recruiting new soldiers. Some Civilians report recent runaways, deserters, and people that've gone missing. Especially children. It's possible that minors are either being lured into Koa or forced in."

"Are you sure?" Jake pressed, his brow creased.

"At least half of the raiding party at Lot 3 was comprised of kids. Stragglers from the other eight raided lots said the same. Not that I could find many people. Koa cleaned those lots out."

"Did the Civilians run, or...?"

"Hard to tell. People who were wounded or critically injured were taken to the hospital, others abandoned their homes. The rest are dead." Caleb looked around the room. "Thanks to us."

"Well, we're just patrol, not detectives, not special forces, not military," Kenji spoke up again. "What the hell do you want us to do about all this?"

Caleb's gaze hardened. "Aside from the obvious? Be a cop. Start tracking down the missing ghosts of war from the Protecteds. If we can trace their disappearances, we'll also probably find the Koan cells who are turning them into soldiers and bombs. Where are the case files of the missing, and why aren't any of you pursuing them?"

Kenji matched Caleb's gaze, unfazed by the criticism. "The reason no one is looking into the missing kids is the same reason you didn't even know there _were_ missing kids. Because it's civvie business. So if you're working up to some from-yonder-high speech, don't bother."

"If we're working in a Civic Demesne, we also should protect Civilian interests. Else, why the hell are we even here?"

"We're here because we get paid to be here. But I'm not getting paid enough to save the whole damned world. How about you fellas?" Kenji looked at Bly and Joseph. "Are any of you getting paid enough to track down missing civvies?"

"Nope," Joseph replied.

"Not even a little bit," Bly responded loftily.

"See? No one but you is getting paid more than crumbs to do his job. So, yeah. We tend to let the civvies cops handle civvie business. We, on the other hand, deal with Azure shit. We track Azure Alchemists, dispatch to Azure emergencies, and stop violence from spilling into _our_ streets. That is... Joseph and Bly and the rest of us do. Not you. You're a bluer Azure than we are, so you don't deal with much of anything, do you?" Kenji muttered with a smirk.

Caleb bristled and turned to Kenji, full-body.

"Come on, Ken, give it a rest already," Jake said, sighing.

Kenji ignored him, never breaking his gaze with Caleb. "You have no clue what it means to get your hands dirty by breaking heads or doing any real cop work. Rich kids like you don't really need to know what's shaking beneath them except the next broad, am I right?"

"Back off, Kenji. If you all were a bit busier doing your jobs and not worrying about my paycheck, we might have solved some cases already."

"We need special ops training. Patrol isn't going to be enough to take on Koan cells growing in the Protecteds. Instead of using us as your personal foot soldiers, why don't you and Palmer use some of your fancy influence to get us better funding and a bigger staff?"

Caleb shot an exasperated look over at Palmer. "Captain?"

Palmer had been standing there the entire time, his arms crossed, watching Caleb get creamed, and now, he shot him a look of absolute boredom.

"Our funding was frozen in the Halls of Pact last week. All public institutions from hospitals to schools are clawing each other's eyes out for money that ain't there. The Civic Order's going bankrupt, and until they get back on their feet, funding for law enforcement's in the fridge."

A chorus of groans and curses shot up from the officers in the room.

"This is bullshit," Kenji hissed.

"You can't do anything, Cap?" Jake started. "Kenji's right. We're understaffed. No money, no resources. Nothing. Can't you at least put out a call for transfers?"

"I did that while I was in the Fifty-Second. They said they'd see what they can do, but in truth it's all fucked. That's the only reason they called me over there in the first place: to give me fucked-up news about how they're screwing over my precinct. Then I come back to this misconduct bullshit!" Palmer threw an accusatory glance around the room.

"Bottom line: the Civic Order is dying," he continued. "The three "Protecteds" are weakening, and with Koa blowing the shit out of the other twelve Civic Demesnes, people are fleeing, and they're taking their money with them. There's no work, no taxes being paid, no money being generated to fund public services like law enforcement or military. Holding the Protecteds is the last hope for the Civic Order."

"I'm not sure if I would say that, Captain. Last hopes do sound so very depressing."

The new voice drew attention to the door, and everyone turned to see who had crashed the party. In walked a silver fox, hair combed and smoothed behind a widow's peak. He was impeccably dressed, slacks creased, shoes shined to a squeak.

"Who the hell is this?" Bly muttered, pulling up next to Caleb.

Caleb narrowed his eyes. He knew full well who it was. The devil himself would have been better company.

"Excuse me, sir, but this is a confidential briefing," Jake intervened gently. "Can we help you with something? Administrative offices are back up front to the left—"

"I'm here to help _you_ actually." The silver fox took in the tired crowd, noticing Caleb for the first time. "Well, well. This _is_ a treat." He bowed his head in respect. "Highness. It's been too long."

Caleb frowned and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Of all places, I never expected to meet you here in such—" The man glanced around, smiling. "—esteemed company."

Bly folded his arms, unamused. "Pause. Let's try this again. Who are you, and how'd you get in?"

"My name is Morgan," the silver fox said. "Salvatore Morgan, at your service. I'm the new Councilman for Demesne Five, and the former local tax collector."

"Tax collector, my ass," Bly huffed. "Were you sleeping on the job the past five years or sumthin'? Where's our money then?"

"Right here, gentlemen." Sal smiled, lifting a file of papers for all to see. "Your money is right here."

"It's snowing, Zeeky!" Manja whispered in awe as they stepped back outside.

The snow was coming down thick, and Zeika hadn't been prepared for it. Had the Canopy not returned, she might have balked at the fact that it was snowing in mid April. But now nothing was weird anymore.

She shook herself and lifted the papers in her hand to catch some of the light. The receptionist at the citizenship office had given them some preliminary information, and now, snow kissed the paper along its edges, leaving a lacy veil over the squat bold letters.

"What's it say?"

Zeika began to read aloud:

Applying for Azure Citizenship

1. Must be a permanent resident and not on probation at the time of your naturalization interview.

2. Must be at least 18 years of age at the time of submitting the application.

3. Must be able to pass a test in the fundamentals of Azure (and Alchemic Order) history and in the forms and principles of its government.

4. Must be able to take a loyalty oath to the Alchemic Order and to the Silver Pact.

5. Must pay a $700.00 application fee, per application.

6. Must fulfill the permanent resident requirements, including:

• You must have lived and established residence in one of the 37 Azure Demesnes for five years (three years if married to an Azure). Must not have disrupted permanent residence for any of the five years (or three years) or residency.

• You must have been physically present in one of the 37 Azure Demesnes for a period of at least one-half of the five (or three) years of residency (30 months if not married to an Azure or 18 months if married to an Azure).

• You cannot have taken a trip outside of the Azure Demesnes that lasted a year or longer during your residency

• Must have been residing in the Azure Demesne in which you are applying for citizenship for the last three months.

• Demesne of residence must be an Azure Demesne of the Alchemic Order

7. If applying for citizenship as the spouse of an Azure, must continue to be married and continue to live with that spouse until the time of swearing in.

8. Must demonstrate good moral character primarily (but not exclusively) for the five years prior to applying for citizenship, and continuing up to the time of swearing in. Need three character references from a natural born Azure OR a naturalized Azure who has been a citizen of the Alchemic Order for at least ten years.

9. Must be able to read, write, and speak at least two of the following languages: English, Modern Standard Arabic (Fusha), Egyptian (Aamiya), French

10. Must pass a background check as well as physical, psychological, and alchemical exams. Must also submit genetic samples and biographical history for processing

"What's all that mean?"

"It means 'better luck next time', kid."

Zeika sighed, crumpled the paper, and slipped her hood over her head before turning away from the citizenship office. Obviously, becoming Azure was out. Besides them being too poor, too young, and too everything else, the "genetic sampling thing" threw her off. Why would they need to get into their DNA anyway?

Baba had made it clear their powers were to remain a secret. The Alchemic Order would dig too deeply. Part of her regretted it, that they couldn't tap into Azure resources, but the other part of her couldn't help but feel relieved. While surviving was more important than her pride, she hadn't reconciled enough of her disgust for Azures to be counted among them. It was something she needed to work on eventually, but right now, they just needed to earn money. She re-adjusted Manja on her back and continued on.

Two more weeks had passed, and still nothing from Mama or Baba. With each barter Zeika made, their inventory at the Forge was dwindling down to just one product: the hardware. She was trying to avoid gun smithing, but every time she went into the cellar she found fewer things to trade. So every day, she went out scavenging for metal and for fabric of any kind. With her powers, it didn't matter which. She just needed to be ready to sell arms again, no matter how uncomfortable she felt about it.

Manja's arms tightened around her neck, and she leaned in close. Zeika grabbed the girl's ungloved hands and blew her breath on them before breaking out into a jog. If she was going to agonize over their lack of options, she could at least do it someplace warm. Time to head back.

En route to the Guild, they passed the Lobon Inn, where they saw their waitress from the other day. She was outside smoking a cigarette, shaking the sticky ice from her bouncy golden hair and digging her flats into the snow. When she saw them walk by, her face brightened.

"Hey, you two! Are you coming in for a bit? We got a breakfast special going on today!"

Zeika readjusted Manja on her back. "Sorry, miss. The other day was a one-shot deal. We don't have money like that."

"You don't need it! That detective left a tab open for you guys."

Her eyes widened. "A tab?"

"Yeah! He opened a house account just for you. Said you could eat as much as you wanted, whenever you wanted. I'm surprised he didn't tell you."

Warmth flooded Zeika's cheeks.

"You two come on and eat now, ya hear?" The waitress twittered as she opened the door and waved them in. "You look like walking tree branches you're so thin!"

Still numb with shock, Zeika shuffled in, and the waitress showed them a booth. Manja bounced with excitement and ordered her usual chocolate chip pancakes and bacon, but for a few minutes, Zeika could only just sit there and stare at the tabletop.

"Miss?" The waitress leaned in.

"Oh. Sorry!" Zeika shook herself, forcing a smile.

She ordered an omelette with about every kind of meat and vegetable in the world, a coffee, and a fruit platter. The fruit was mostly for the kid; she needed as much Vitamin C as she could get to help with blood clotting.

They ate better than they had in years, and Zeika ordered a couple of sandwiches for later too. She chased her omelette down with a steaming coffee and then ordered another one, extra strong. The cold shrivels of her stomach relaxed beneath the sudden warmth. But why was he doing this?

"Man these pancakes are sure happy to see me!" Manja beamed, digging in.

In spite of herself, Zeika smiled. She hadn't seen Manja this cheerful in days. No Azure had ever treated them with such kindness, at least not without asking for something depraved or illicit in return. Caleb, he had asked for nothing.

Yet.

Without her input, the warmth in her cooled, as though steel walls had shot up around the hearth in her belly. _Be careful, Zeika. Even the Devil an Angel once was, sitting at God's right hand,_ Baba had said once. It was his warning about trust. She had grown up with the words, and when Manja was born, Baba had repeated them like a daily prayer.

Zeika nodded firmly, knowing that her first priority was protecting Manja from harm. They'd eat, they'd thank Caleb, and they'd observe. The detective would reveal his true motives soon enough. Everyone did. She'd be ready for whatever came— and yet, her father's words couldn't completely erase the small and shining hope, a certainty even, that she and Manja were no longer alone.

Caleb couldn't take it. He had left the debrief early because he couldn't stomach what he'd been hearing and seeing. Ten million dollars— Azure dollars— and Sal was just willing to give it to their precinct. But only if they signed the fat stacks of papers in his hand, petitions to repeal the Articles39.

Sal had spewed some pseudo-poetic garbage about how Koa was using "poor innocent children" to dupe and disarm the police. That Demesne Five would be safer from terrorist attacks and raids if they could just stop and frisk at will. That people who were truly innocent had nothing to hide, children least of all. The APs ate it up, and Caleb watched with disgust as Bly, Kenji, and many others swooped onto Sal, practically giving his palm a hand job. Sal was their new savior, the only one who truly understood their plight as underpaid, misunderstood, and overworked.

But not Caleb. This was the same garbage he'd heard all throughout his childhood from the racists and classists inside the Alchemic Order who wanted to justify their treatment of Civilians. So when Sal's petition made its way to his side of the room, Caleb had signed it with a literal "Fuck You" and passed it along. Luckily, he wasn't alone. Jake, Captain Palmer, and a few other APs, surprisingly, thought the motion was barbaric. Palmer himself had actually balled up the main page of the petitions and spat on it, which caused a ruckus.

From there, the entire debrief had gone to hell. All while Sal stood there, taking in the chaos with an uncanny serenity. Caleb had regained some respect for Palmer and for some of the officers, but not even that could keep him hanging around. Besides, he had more important things to do.

When he got back to his office, he set three boxes of case files on his desk. It hadn't taken that long to locate the files of the missing ghosts in the cold room, but with each one he now unloaded onto his desk, his anger rose.

Not only were these poor kids probably already dead, but Kenji's accusations about his motives still bothered him. These were _kids_ , for Crissakes. His status had nothing to do with his basic humanity. Besides, he hadn't asked for his life. His upbringing wasn't his choice. It wasn't that he hadn't appreciated every minute of it; it's true that he'd been pampered pretty much the whole way. He'd never known a cold or hungry day. He'd always had clothes on his back, nice ones. Top schools, personal training as an Alchemist since the age of four, he even had political immunity because of his family name. He had it all... but whether they believed it or not, he loved cop work and had busted his ass to make Detective and Proficient Druidic Alchemist, right along with the other Dilettantes.

He'd had to earn the respect of his fellow officers and colleagues in the Fifty-Second, earn the trust of the people, earn the right to enforce justice, to protect. It was like finally winning the love of a woman who'd never noticed you, but whom you loved your entire lifetime. It was why he pushed longer hours than most, and gladly. He loved what his job stood for, and he loved it enough to not let it— and the people he was supposed to protect— be soiled by dirty money and politics. So Kenji and the rest of them could kiss his privileged ass.

Caleb tossed the now-empty cardboard boxes to the side and looked over the case files. One hundred and forty-six reports had been filed for missing children, all between the ages of two and eighteen, all in the last ten years. Forty-five of them had been filed in this year alone. Which was insane... they were only in the middle of April.

Each smiling photo he pulled out of the box deepened his angst. Why the hell had no one been looking into these? Professional detachment was one thing, but these were kids. Who cared if they were Azure or Civilian?

"They're barely even human."

Caleb looked up to see a tall man standing in his doorway, and he felt a surge of disgust. The lean body, the leathery smirk, the long gray whiskers. Alyosius Persaud, his former Vassal. Apparently, today was the march of the assholes.

"Human or not, they're cold cases," Caleb said. "I'm reopening them. It's well within my jurisdiction."

"You're going to waste precious manpower on finding Civilians? That doesn't sound professionally wise. Your Druidic constitution seems to be wavering."

"That stopped being your concern two years ago."

Persaud smiled and shook his head. "No lowering of the eyes, no prostration to your superiors. I thought you would have learned the consequences of insubordination after your little— incident in the Fifty-Second."  
Caleb set his jaw. "Why are you here?"

"Well... where is it?"

Pure fiendish pleasure spread a slow smile across Caleb's face. He half-expected tango music to start playing as it begun. The dance. "I'm not quite sure what you mean."

Darkness fluttered through Persaud's gaze, and he took a step forward. "You test me, Proficient. Very unwise. Were it not for your station, I would have had you publicly disciplined from the beginning. You would have never made it past the rank of a Dilettante."

"Pissed that a mutt exceeded your expectations?"

"Exceeded? Not quite."

Persaud's fingers budged, and the pain in Caleb's diaphragm spiked up from its low hum. He doubled over beneath slow tear of his muscles.

"Sonofabitch..." The words barely made it out through the foam in Caleb's cheeks.

Persaud smiled. "Having fun yet, Proficient?" His hand relaxed, and so did his invisible grip.

Caleb swallowed down gulps of air. Sweat beaded on his brow as he pulled himself upright, clutching his abs. "This seal on my powers won't last," he seethed.

"Oh, it will. And you have no one to blame but yourself. Now, that is just a taste of what I'll do if you don't tell me. Where is the Black Matter Glaive?"

"I don't have to tell you shit. It doesn't belong to you."

"But you do, I'm afraid. Unfortunate for the both of us. The trainer is only as good as the dog, after all, and you've been pissing on my floor."

"So what?" He leaned against the desk, breathing hard, still feeling the pull. "You came to put me down?"

"No. You've already robbed me of my prize student. I would not now rob myself of another."

"Robbed you? You know what happened to Sairen. And as much as you can't believe it, he bequeathed the Glaive to me. It was his estate to give, and nothing you or Father say can change his last wish."

"Fascinating. I wonder if you think that this—" Persaud motioned to the squalor around him. "—was also what Sairen wished for you?"

Caleb scowled and turned back to his files.

"Look at you, Caleb. You are in fugitive, serving the wills of bottom-feeders when you could be sitting on the throne next to your family, where you belong."

"This conversation is over, Persaud. Get out."

"Sadly, like most other Alchemists, I am still bound to both my duty and my lord. So while I loathe being here more than you, I cannot leave. I am here by your father's order alone. He wants assurance that you won't cause him anymore embarrassment."

"Knock yourself out. Just don't expect me to accommodate you. Your betrayal lost you that privilege."

"Do as you will, Highness. But remember that no matter what you do for these peasants, you are still an Azure. You are still subject to our laws, to your vassalage, and to the tenets of the Silver Pact. If I catch you in a moment of the slightest impropriety or insubordination, I will drag you back to the Fifty-Second. No closed file will be able to save you."

"Sairen's closed file didn't seem to save him, either. So I guess I have nothing to fear."

"I admire your passion. It has always been your saving grace. But you do know what the original meaning of 'passion' is, do you not, Proficient?" Persaud said, smiling. "Suffering."

The Vassal left just as quietly as he'd come, and Caleb breathed out, long and slow. The pain in his abs finally subsided, and looking for further relief, he cast a glance at his bookshelf. An old picture was tacked to one of the shelves. Three boys, all different ages, were crowded into the frame. Caleb was one of them, at a ripe and dirty 18 years old. The boy on the right was eight, bookish and serious-eyed. And smack in the middle was the oldest. He'd been in his late twenties then, porcelain-faced, long hair, dark sloping gaze. His cocky smirk balanced an unlit cigarette. Sairen.

He was rustling Caleb's hair with one hand, and with the other, he yoked the pre-teen up by his suspenders. The whole scene had caused Caleb to scrunch his face in annoyance right as Mom had snapped the photo.

You always were an asshole, Sairen.

And to his surprise, he felt a sting at his eyes. He tore his gaze away, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a box of Wren Silvers. Sairen's favorite. He put one in between his lips and lit it, taking a long draft before he picked up a file for a missing ghost, all the while wondering who else was out there making it alone.

#

Xakiah went to the back of the semi and lifted up the metal door. All eleven pieces of Muirgin's merchandise recoiled as he shined a light in. He smiled, allowing his gaze to crawl over the first one.

Beautiful.

The Messhe were such splendid creatures, unable to hide the soft luster of unspoiled skin, rich with energy. They were so very unlike their Ninkashin brothers, who were so bereft of their own energy that their bodies fed on themselves until wither and decay settled in, down to the bone. But not the Messhe. Sixty percent First Matter, forty percent human, they were perfect living engines for the alchemic arts and for Alchemists as well.

Heart: three million dollars. One million for each lung. Ten million for a kidney, if you were a woman who needed it, but twice as much if you were a man. Any Messhe was a one hundred million dollar jackpot, but the females were far more valuable; they yielded riper harvests. Millions of joules of First Matter energy, then millions of dollars per internal organ. And when their bodies couldn't take anymore manipulation, they reduced into _cumaji_ , a rich silt that could reinvigorate the most barren of soil, make cornucopias of the driest desert sands. That, and they could be enjoyed in other ways.

He smiled, letting his gaze fall on the one he had already picked out for himself. The slope of her exposed back had betrayed her. Muirgin's idea probably. As much of a slimy-skinned rat Muirgin was, he knew how to tip for good service. He tipped well, and while Xakiah himself had alternative preferences, he'd never deny himself the pleasure of making acquaintances with a Messhen woman. "Do not let a simple thing like body composition interfere in your own alchemic ascension," Vassal Moss had once said. Xakiah agreed.

"Vassal..." he whispered, remembering that they hadn't spoken much lately. So busy with work, all they had left for one another were memories to fill the downtime, and even then, Xakiah had put all his focus into his own affairs. He hadn't made time to reflect, to let thoughts of his Vassal fill him—

But maybe now. I have a little bit of time now.

He leaned his brow against the cool metal and flipped through his mind's eye for the right memory. And he found it, his favorite.

The eve of the Collapse, year 2045. He and Vassal had been stockpiling for their repose. They had shared them, the Messhe that they'd captured. One had been a beauty of olive skin, brown eyes, and long black hair. Young. "A weaning age", Vassal had said smiling.

Xakiah ran his thumbs over the chilled metal of the truck door as he relived her, the smooth, glowing, unspoiled skin, until the energy had been drained from her flesh. Her shrill screams had melted into ashes with the rest of her, making lullabies of the whispers of her embers. Lullabies that had soothed his dreams over the slow crawl of a century-long slumber.

The pleasure had been profound, more than just physical, as he had evolved from Man to Alchemist. With each siphon, vestiges of who he was had been drowned in the tides of a new consciousness, his old world eclipsed by the new; and no matter which Messhe it was, man or woman alike, Vassal would always have to touch the top of his hand— lightly— to remind him of temperance. Vassal Moss had done so that night as well, and Xakiah remembered looking him in the eyes, feverish and rapt. The touch had ended the siphon, but he knew that his Vassal understood him. Knew him.

Xakiah opened his eyes, marking the Messhe he wanted.

"You." He nodded at her. "Step out."

The utterances from his mouth were Messhnai, the native tongue of the Messhe, but he barely even noticed the switch, so intent he was on the movements of his target as she came towards him. Short, pixie cut hair, doe-like green eyes. She'd barely crawled to the front before he reached in and dragged her out into the sun, already trembling with anticipation.

"Stay," he commanded.

He reached to close the door of the truck, but when something in the back of the trailer winked in and out of view, he froze and took a step back. There was a little girl among them. In a frilly pink dress.

Against his will, the flip book of his mind flew back open, different memories coming back in jagged pieces— dirty knuckles flying at him, knocking him to the ground. Heels coming down hard on his body, tapping blood, salty tears, screams, all of which had stained the front of his smock... a pink one.

"You two," he hissed between clenched teeth, pointing at the pink-clad girl and the woman clutching her. "Get out."

The two Messhe looked at him, recoiling.

"Out! OUT I SAID!" And he snatched his gun from his holster and pointed it at them to drive home his point.

Peeling themselves from the group, the mother and child scrambled out of the semi. The mother held the girl close to her, shaking as she looked at him.

Xakiah looked away from them, his jaw clenched. "Go."

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the truck, finally realizing that he was breathing hard. What was it that he was feeling? He had taken care of the ones who had burned the pink dress into his mind, many years ago before the world had been reborn. He had watched them die, and had harbored a pleasure too deep to manifest, one that should have buried his hate. So what was this? Compassion for the Messhe, maybe. A pang of conscience, for those poor delicate creatures—

No. That pink dress.

Vassal Moss was right. Xakiah needed more time to adjust. He hadn't divorced himself from his past as cleanly as he wanted, not yet. He thought of the dress clinging to his wall amidst the white Koan masks. Not yet.

"Go, Mama, please. Take her away."

From far, far away, Xakiah somehow heard the plea of his Messhe. Sobs broke up her words and bounced around his head, chasing the memories that he'd just forced back into the corner of his mind. The Messhe kept him rooted, and he gripped her, knowing that if he let go, he'd get lost in his own head again. He needed her now, more than anything.

The sudden rustle of grass softened the ragged screams in his head, and through blurry vision, Xakiah watched the two Messhe— and millions of dollars— run off into the distance. The mother looked back over her shoulder with tears in her eyes, but she never stopped running. Xakiah swallowed down a painful welt in his throat, understanding that for the first time in a long time, he had failed.

Doesn't matter.

Muirgin would accept the loss of his shipment. The Messhe were a boon to the Order, not a necessity, and therefore, the loss of but two were not a priority. Yes, that is what he would tell him. The Alchemic Order— and more importantly, the prosperity and equality it had brought with it— was worth any sacrifice. No one, not even a slimy rodent like Muirgin could argue against that much.

This is why he was here. It was why his Vassal had entrusted the safety of the Order to him. Moss and the rest of the Executive Board knew that only he remembered so freshly what hate and discrimination had felt like in the old societies. Only he could muster the ardor, the memories, needed to forge a new and better world. All they had to do was let him be who he truly was. Then he could bury those memories beneath the accolades of his Vassal as they welcomed their new world with open arms. Together.

But until then...

He closed the truck door, grinning as he gazed at his Messhe, the one thing that would bring order to his world. He stepped forward and touched her face, once again feeling whole.

Even in the closed phone booth, the high-tide hum of the Guild washed over their conversation, almost muting what Caleb was saying. Zeika had to press her ear into the phone and cover her other one, but she thought she'd heard clearly enough, and she couldn't believe it.

"I checked the facilities and the worker dispatches on the Island, and I couldn't find a single trace of your parents. Even the satellite Guilds there said they hadn't admitted anyone by the name of Mikaela Anon. Are you sure she was sent to the Island and not one of the mainlands?"

"I'm not sure where exactly Baba is, but I know for sure that Mama got transferred to a drug rehab place on the Island. They would have registered her in the system that very day."

"I'll check again, and I'll look around in the Seventh too. I'd go to the Island myself, but I won't be able to until I can get special clearance. Should I try to reach you at this number if anything comes up?"

"Yeah, or you can just call the front desk, and they'll page me. Listen. Thanks. For everything. For looking for them, for the food, I mean, you do _not_ have to do this for us."

She could hear Caleb chuckle softly on the other line. "I know what I have to do. Don't worry about it."

"Not to sound ungrateful, but I have to ask: what are you looking for in return? What do you want?"

A pause. Zeika cringed. She knew she shouldn't have introduced such a thing into the conversation, but she didn't like surprises either. If she was racking up some sort of debt with him, she wanted to know about it. The pause was only a few seconds, but it dragged. He was going to ask for something terrible... a cut of their bartering profits, maybe. Or perhaps something up Sal Morgan's alley.

"I want you to live," he said finally. "I'll be in touch."

The busy signal in her ear ended the conversation. Zeika hung up the phone, and for a moment, she stood in the public phone booth, unable to move her hand from the receiver.

"Zeeky? You okay?"

She felt a tug at her sweater, and looked down. "Yeah, baby. I'm fine." She ran a hand through her braids and then forced a smile. "Hey, I'm gonna get a snack, you want one?"

"Yeah! Her Highness wants _beleh!_ "

Dates.

"Anything else, Highness?"

"Nope! Thanks, Zeeky! I'm going to go pray now, okay?"

"Yeah, and hey, you think we should do something nice for Caleb? Maybe some bread pudding?"

Manja's face brightened by 100 watts. "Oh yes! And I'll draw him a picture too!"

Zeika smiled. "Sure, kid. You keep thinking about it, okay?"

"Yup, and I'll pray about it, too!" Manja twittered, and Zeika watched her skip down the hall until she disappeared into their gym.

The first floor was in the thick of its usual bustle. The foyer was packed with refugees and wolf-moons, but as she walked by it, she noticed that someone had closed the door behind the teeming crowd. Not only that, but the heavy wooden bolt was locked across the door, sealing the Guild closed. The Guild _never_ locked its doors.

She craned her neck to look at the front secretaries and social workers. Many of them were doing in-take; others weaved in and out of the long lines, encouraging refugees to sign petitions for the protection of the Articles39. Sal Morgan was up to his worst, apparently, running all around town to get as many supporters of the repeals as possible.

Zeika was glad to join the countermovement. The political pushback was spearheaded by the Guild itself. Ken Taitt had already left town to lobby on behalf of the Protected Demesnes. Along with hundreds of others, Zeika and Manja had already signed petitions and written letters to their councilmen. They weren't old enough to vote, but they still volunteered when they could by hitting the streets, getting signatures, talking to local Civilians. This had already become a daily habit, rolled into their circuit. They didn't have a dollar to their names, but the importance of the issue couldn't be overstated. If the repeals of the Articles39 passed, they'd all have a lot more to worry about than staying fed.

Maybe that's why no one paid the front door any mind. Either they didn't notice it was closed and locked, or they had done it themselves. Maybe the Guild had finally decided to put a cap on social services or something.

Not bothering to unravel the mystery, she headed to the caf, seeing more lines for meals. Zeika by-passed the queues, heading to where the wolf-moons had (with much indignation) set up their own members-only pantry. Waiting at the end of long lines for the past few months had worn them thin.

She walked by an adjacent table, where she glimpsed a small crowd of exiles— six old beggars— who seemed to be waiting for the lines to shorten. The six sat, silent and immobile as statues, not even bothering to acknowledge one another as they waited. There was no demesne insignia on the backs of their robes— no wolf-moons or otherwise— nothing. The pale sallow faces beneath their hoods seemed to droop down further to the table with each passing second. They looked so much like rotting trees that she half expected them to grow roots.

Creepy.

She raised a brow as she walked past them; one had just spasmed violently, as though he'd just gone cold-turkey off a kunja binge. Then, he seemed to ease back into his silent sit. None of the other beggars at the table seemed to mind or be concerned with the near seizure this guy had just had. A familiar feeling of flight began to rise in her gut, similar to what she had felt at the diner on its last day.

_Yeah, and how are you_ expecting _to feel around them, Z? No k-head has ever given you the warm and snugglies._ _Get real, and stop being paranoid. This is Guild Five for Pete's sake. They're probably just some random addicts._

Sighing, and realizing that she needed way more sleep, she turned towards the pantry— when a high-pitched scream snapped her calm in half.

She jerked her head up just in time to see that a pale and lanky blur had just flown over the table of six and jumped on a passing refugee, knocking him and his food tray to the ground. It was one of the old rotting beggars, and he was fighting, attacking, _biting_ the refugee who was clearly no match for him, even though he must have outweighed the beggar by at least fifty pounds.

In the wild struggle, Zeika could only see bits and pieces, including the bull-and-rock insignia of the Third Civic Demesne, which stretched across the broad back of the refugee's robes. Her vision was quickly obscured again as the beggar and bull rock tumbled.

"THIS IS _MY_ FOOD! GET THE HELL OFF OF ME, MAN!" The bull-rock snarled.

But from what she could see, the old beggar paid no mind to the food on the floor. The two were brawling now, and Zeika thought she could even hear animal snarls rising up from the brawl, curls of mammalian fury not at all human— and as the beggar's cloak fluttered to the ground, it revealed him in all his unholiness, revealed something so disfigured that it had to be a rejection of Nature.

Stringy hair clung to the man's head in plaid patches, and his skin was badly lesioned, decaying even. Long gnarled fingers dug into the bull-rock's neck and shoulder as the creature clamped down with its teeth. The tears it took from the man's flesh sent mists of blood into the air, speckling its jaundiced fish-eyes, which waxed wide as the man screamed. The beggar fed in grunting jerks, and the refugee's skin shriveled in almost instantly, like a tomato in summer, his flesh stripped— _sucked—_ out of him until the ridges of his cheekbones poked through, sunken.

Zeika froze, and it took everything in her to not piss her pants as flight crashed up against fight, making her too afraid to stay, even more afraid to turn her back to it.

Crashes and screams of terror reverberated through the Guild. Her wide fearful eyes caught similar blurs of cannibal fury, saw people buckling to their knees and being dragged away screaming, but somehow she couldn't get her legs to move. There were more of those things, but she couldn't turn from the man who had just stopped struggling in the jaws of the human demon.

When the last twitch eked from the man's body, the _thing_ dropped him, almost with contempt, and it roared, fonts of blood drizzling down his chin and throat, the sound not quite human, not quite animal. His own gaunt frame was increasing in bulk, plumping, replenished— and just as quickly, the bulk receded as though seeping out through some invisible sieve.

The creature looked across the caf, his gaze glazing into beige cataracts, once again knowing hunger. For the first time seeing _her_.

MOVE!

Her body fled, her arms pumping as fast as they could even as she heard the monster sprinting after her on two limbs or four, interchangeably, tearing down the hallway.

"Zeeky?"

Zeika rounded the corner just as Manja poked her head out of the gym. The little girl's eyes buzzed with curiosity and then shifted, eclipsed by sheer terror.

She snatched Manja up by her robes and threw her into the gym, closing the double doors behind her just as the monster slammed into them. She whimpered as the thing rammed into the doors again, parting them just slightly. The monster was strong, and it screamed with animal rage as it slammed into the doors again. It was all Zeika could do to keep the doors closed.

"Zeeky!" Manja ran up to the door.

"Get back, Manja!"

Manja ignored her, and instead, she took off her hijab and tied it through the looped handles of the double doors. Zeika forced her powers through it, and the black linen turned into a steel knot around the handles. Then she fell back, breathing heavily.

"What is it, Zeeky?" Manja cried as she clutched her.

"I don't know, baby. I don't know." Zeika held her close and crabbed away from the door as the monster continued to slam into it and roar. Screams, human and creature alike, joined the monster's feverish peals of hunger, resounding against the walls of the Guild.

They were trapped.

Sirens blaring, Caleb and Jake tore down the back streets of the Droge section of the Fifth, taking the fastest way to the Guild of Almaut. The call had just come in, and Caleb had never seen so much movement in a police precinct. While none of the officers would lift a toenail in the direction of Koa, everyone knew what a Ninkashi attack in the Protected Demesnes meant, and even though Caleb was on restricted duty, he had jumped into the police car next to Jake. Palmer hadn't argued.

"Man, I never thought I'd see those things. Not here." Jake shuddered as he pulled the wheel, turning them down the next street.

From the passenger seat, Caleb didn't answer, but his fingers were unsteady as he checked his weapons. His throat was tight, tighter than he'd ever remembered it being.

"Have you dealt with these things before?" Jake pressed.

"Yeah."

"Well the fact that you're still alive says something."

"Yeah, I shot my last partner in the leg so that I could get away."

Despite his nervousness, Jake laughed. "Come on, man, this is serious."

"Sorry." Behind his smirk, Caleb swallowed, and found it hard to do. "Listen. I've seen a group of Ninkashi take out entire squads of officers. Whatever you do, _don't_ get bitten. And aim for the head or the heart."

"Yeah, thanks. I appreciate that coming from a master marksman. How about you shoot, and I pick their pockets after the fact?"

Caleb snorted. "For what, knuckle bones?"

"Shit, man, is that what they carry?"

"Seen it before. Bone marrow has lots of First Matter in it. But when that runs out..."

From the corner of his eye, Caleb could see Jake nod tightly in response. He pressed down harder on the gas.

" _Aaarrgghhhh!!!!_ "

The inhuman scream shook the doors on their hinges as the monster rammed into them again. With each hit, Zeika glimpsed a swollen pus-filmed eye gaping at them through the crack in the door. The metal hijab was starting to bend, the crack beginning to widen.

She stumbled to her feet, her eyes darting around, making blurs of the room until she saw it. The vent on the wall.

A sharp _chink_ cut through the gym as the monster hit the doors again, bending one of the hinges.

Zeika pushed the balance beam as close to the wall as she could, and she jumped onto it, pulling Manja up behind her. She reached up with her power and melted the vent off its hinges, and as the knots of fabric fell down, she lifted Manja as high as she could.

"It's too high, Zeeky!" Manja cried as she reached up.

The door bent in, letting in another hellish scream. Zeika cast a desperate look back to see that one of the hinges of the door had broken off.

"Reach, baby! Reach higher!" Zeika stretched her body, lifting Manja as high as she could.

"I can't!"

_BAM!_ One of the doors caved in at its bottom, and howling, the monster flailed around, gnashing its jaws as it tried to squeeze its body through the bent bottom of the door.

Zeika tensed her muscles, and then with one powerful push, _threw_ Manja upwards. The girl screamed but somehow grabbed onto the lip of the open vent. Struggling, she pulled her little body through.

"GO!" Zeika yelled, just as a loud fleshy tear slid wetly into the air, the unmistakable sound of the monster mutilating itself to get through the door.

"IT'S COMING!" Manja screamed from the opening. "JUMP, ZEEKY!"

Zeika turned only to see a ripple of wet muscle and decay scrabbling across the mat, halving the distance as it shrieked. She screamed, and as she fell back, she blindly reached out with her powers. As the monster leapt forward, huge chunks of rock and plaster came down from above and pounded down onto its body, burying it. Nothing moved beneath the pile.

Her breaths whisked in and out of her body in shallow rolls as she stared at the rubble. She hadn't known how it happened, but apparently, her instincts had reached above her, killing the metal reinforcements in the ceiling, bringing it all down. For a moment, the room was eerily silent. She didn't dare take her eyes off the pile of rock and marble.

"Go, Manja," she said shakily. "Follow the vent to the front, and I'll meet you there. Don't come out unless you see me. You know where it is, right? Go."

"Yes, Zeeky." Manja sniffed. "Please be there, okay?" And behind her, Zeika heard tinny thumps as Manja crawled through the ventilation system, vanishing into the dark.

Come on, Zeika. Go.

It took her a few seconds to get moving, and when she did, she slid as quietly as possible, all the while facing the pile of rubble, waiting for the thing to blast out of it like some flower from hell. She ignored all the questions hammering at her, knowing only one thing: she needed her gun.

She trembled, and still watching the rock pile, she crept around the edge of the gym until her wrapped foot touched a crumpled pile of cloth. She knelt down to her travel robes, eyes still fixed on the rubble, and she fished blindly for the Glock she'd stuck in her obi sash. When she felt its heavy metal in her grasp, she yanked it out and dashed into the hallway, taking the safety off as she ran.

Somehow, the hall was now thick with a gray haze, as though something had been on fire. People were still screaming in the Guild, but the cries of terror had grown distant, mere echoes in a labrynth.

Where are you, baby?

Looking up, Zeika traced the path of the vent into the hallway. She could see no sign of Manja. Either the girl hadn't known which turns to take, or she was faster than Zeika thought. Zeika skittered through, her eyeballs torn between scanning the vents and watching the floors for any signs of the other monsters that were surely prowling the halls. Seconds crawled by, and worry crept in as she looked for a sign of the kid— a flash of a blue eye, a wooly puff of hair—

_Skree—_ a loud, squeal of metal being torn apart, and a scream from the kitchen. Manja's scream.

Zeika bolted, and she slid into the kitchen just in time see Manja running and ducking under the counters, crawling and crying as one of the monsters gained on her. Pots, pans, silverware, anything metal that Manja could mentally grab onto jumped off the counter beneath her power and clattered to the floor behind her, all of them rolling into the monster's path, tripping it up. It gurgled hungrily as it tripped and fell, but it kept crabbing forward, undaunted.

Zeika lifted the gun and squeezed the trigger, ignoring the thunderous, ear-splitting roars that filled the small room. Slick fingers and an untrained aim sent the shots wide, and chips of tile exploded from the kitchen wall, cups flipped off their stands, but Zeika clenched her teeth, tracing the path of the monster, aiming high and wild until five out of the ten bullets finally buried into its flesh, peeling it back from the bone.

The monster skidded off Manja's trail and crashed against the kitchen cabinet, the skin on its arms and ribcage exploding open beneath the hot metal. Manja ran over to her, and Zeika held her close, still aiming at the writhing thing on the floor in front of them.

It was still alive.

Her heart hammered as she took a step back. The monster flipped from its side to its slimy belly, and with wet hacks, it wheezed the bullets out, spitting their crushed bodies onto the kitchen floor.

Holy FUCK.

Zeika flew, Manja's hand in hers, and somehow, she found the strength to lift the girl onto her hip as she tore her way to the front doors of the Guild.

Screams in the distance put speed into her; it was hard to tell where they were coming from in the vast old space. Shaking, Zeika lifted her gun and aimed as she made her way forward, marshaling all her courage to keep putting one foot in front of the other. She didn't hear the monster chasing behind them, but she didn't let herself hope it was dead either. They kept moving.

They crossed into the next room, into another cafeteria, an immense space which had been full but was now empty and trashed. She pushed forward, and as she passed through the blood-spattered doors of the mess hall, she finally understood where the smoke was coming from.

Bodies.

Dead and blackened on the floor, they laid prone, a stinking fog oozing from their burnt flesh. Men, women, even a couple of kids, a wrenching horror etched into their charred faces, legs bent weirdly, and arms reaching out, fingers curled into tight, gripping knots. As though they'd been trying to get something off them.

She swallowed down and hardened her stomach, forcing her legs into a harder jog through the cavernous hall. Her body ached, and for the first time, Manja felt heavy. The girl whimpered and buried her head into Zeika's shoulder as they ran through the graveyard. Zeika kept her own eyes off the carbonized corpses, and tried to ignore the distant screams, not daring to slow down—

An angry hiss snaked in from her left, and Zeika turned to see another one of them staggering forward, some bloody hunks of flesh falling from its knotted, swollen digits and plopping onto the floor. The thing's plump limbs were shriveling up again, its insatiable hunger returning. The stupor in its eyes sharpened as it saw them, _marked_ them.

Zeika tore through the cafeteria, and yet another blur of gray flesh slid in front of them, cutting off their path. She turned, forcing her heels away from the ground with all her strength, all her speed, as the two monsters snarled behind them.

The cafeteria blurred around her, and suddenly, a messy barricade of long tables was blocking her path, standing between them and the front door of the Guild. She leaped and skidded across the long table on her side, knocking cold peas and glasses of milk onto the floor. She hit the ground running, glass exploding into bloodied shards beneath her bare feet. A scream scratched up her throat as the slivers burrowed into her heels, and still she ran, her fear drowning out the stabs of pain in a great flood of blinding terror.

Through the other two doors and into the foyer. She reached the main doors, seeing and remembering just as she slid to a stop in front of them—

They were dead-bolted.

Screaming in rage, Zeika kicked the door, again and again, trying to knock the heavy wood out of place. On the third kick, a heavy pounding responded from the outside.

"POLICE! OPEN THE DOOR!"

Zeika's heart nearly burst out of her chest as she recognized the voice. "CALEB! It's locked from the inside! I can't—"

A scream tore from her mouth as a powerful grip clamped down on her hair and shoulders. She dropped Manja, struggling against the monsters as they dragged her off her feet.

"ZEEKY!"

"RUN, MANJA!"

In her fury and terror, somehow Zeika yanked free of one of them, wrenched around, and at point blank range, she pulled the trigger on her gun over and over, sound and metal pounding the atmosphere until the gun clicked dry. One of the monsters howled as its gut exploded in dark streams of ichor and entrails, and it fell back against the floor, writhing, shrieking, but still not dying.

"ZEEKY!" Manja screamed again.

Zeika felt herself get thrown into the door, felt the gun fall from her grasp. The monster grabbed the back of her head and _wham—_ slammed it into the wood. Pain exploded in her skull, and as she fought off the darkness, she flailed and snarled, her will to survive almost as primal as her attacker's hunger.

The thing shrieked, an angry bloody howl that seared her hearing, and it dragged her back as she struggled. She cried out as it bit down.

When Caleb heard Zeika's terrified scream, he cocked his shotgun and aimed at the door jamb, in the same moment knowing that it wouldn't work—

"Jake!"

"We're on it!" Jake and a group of officers that were covering the door began to ram it.

Caleb slung his Remington, switching it for his rifle, and ran around to the side of the Guild. He picked the lowest window, tensed, and then sprang up the outer wall, the slime of the stones covering his fingers as he pulled himself up and onto the sill. Soot and smoke filmed the glass from the inside, obscuring his view. He didn't have to guess where the haze was coming from. The Ninkashi were feeding. Heavily.

He gritted his teeth and rammed the butt of his rifle into the glass, once, twice, until— _crack!—_ the window blew in at its bottom right. Sweat rolled down his neck as he bludgeoned the rest of the pane out of his way. When the hole was big enough, he dove through, landed in a hard roll, and sprinted towards the front door of the Guild as worked the rod on his rifle.

He could hear the wails, distant and echoing. Dumb, it was dumb to not have cleared the room before barging in, but Zeika's cry for help—

Caleb slid to a stop, feeling his eyes widen at the scene at the front door. If he had time to not believe what he was seeing, he might have, but instead, he lifted his rifle, looked down the scope, and aimed.

Fangs ripped at the flesh in Zeika's shoulder, the pain new and magnificent. But even as Zeika's body began to go weak, even as the strange razing fire crawled from her chest, arm, and neck, out through the wound, she refused to die.

Screaming, as much to keep herself conscious as from the pain, she turned the right elbow of her sweater into solid steel, and threw it back into the monster's ribs. The blow was met with a dull wet crunch, as something beneath the animal's skin snapped. She was rewarded with a yelp, but it bit down harder, digging its teeth in. She threw her elbow back again, again, and again, putting all her strength into what she knew was the battle for her very life.

_Diediedie—_ please _DIE!_

Her blows weakened as the tears ran down her face, and the monster still wouldn't let go. She her felt consciousness evaporating, and as she kept hitting, she forced herself to look one last time at Manja.

A loud splat erupted into Zeika's ear, and the hard crunch at her shoulder disappeared as the demon's face parted in a gush of blood and bone. The thing spasmed to a halt, and the headless corpse fell down. Dead.

She fell with it, twitching, and everything after that happened so fast— Manja running over to her bawling, the police breaking the door down and spilling into the Guild, Caleb trading his rifle for her as he picked her up and cradled her in his arms, calling for a medic.

Manja was on her, pulling the collar of her sweater. Caleb was telling her to stay awake. But she couldn't, and without her permission, her mind slipped into darkness, all the while the pounding, the pain, and the howls creating a symphony of terror that lapped at the sides of her dreams.

#

Zeika couldn't breathe. Something heavy was weighing her down from the torso up, something that didn't move at all, not even as her eyes fluttered open. Fuzzy circles of color clung to the edge of her vision. Still. She couldn't breathe.

"Oh come on, Manja. Seriously?"

The little girl had crawled on top of her and had fallen asleep, her limbs sprawled over the bed. Her cheek was cemented to Zeika's chest by a solid pool of drool. Zeika scooted up her pillows, careful to not wake her, and finally, she allowed herself to feel relief. They were alive.

She shook her head, once, twice, straining to make sense of the kaleidoscope of blurs around her. Then it registered: a sharp pain, pulsing in her left shoulder. She tried to move her arm, but all she got was a buzz in her muscles. No movement. Her fingers didn't even curl.

"You're going to be fine. You just need to take it easy."

She blinked, and as the outlines at the door began to solidify, she finally understood that they were still in the Guild. In her and Manja's room.

She squinted. "Caleb?"

"Yeah." He walked in, and as he drew closer, her stomach tightened. His face and body were smattered with blood, bruises, and grunge, but beneath it all, his eyes were still pinched with concern.

"You okay?"

Caleb nodded, but she knew that was a lie. He looked far from okay, like he'd have to jog a mile just to get to "okay".

"We got them all," he said.

"Yeah."

"But we're going to have to move you out soon. The Guild's a crime scene now, so we've got to clear it until the investigation is over. We're waiting on word from Ken Taitt on the move."

Zeika didn't respond. She clutched Manja and stared down at the sheets. "They were... _eating_ people. Human cannibals just— chowing down."

"Not human. Ninkashi. Feeders on the bodies of men."

She looked up at him, haunted. "Strange. No Civilian public service announcement ever mentioned them." She sat up more, her fear steadily boiling into anger. She glared at him. "So these things must have come from Azures. Am I right? This is some Azure-borne bullshit."

Silence. Caleb was working something out behind his eyes, but when he looked back at her, he forced a smile. The kind of smile that meant he was about to lie.

"Try not to worry about it, kid. The point is that they're gone."

"One just took a huge bite out of my neck, are you serious? What the hell are your people doing over there, Caleb? What's out there beyond the borders of the Protecteds?!"

"Keep your voice down, all right? You'll wake the kid." Caleb got up and brushed his hands on his pants. Zeika felt the ball of rage spinning in the pit of her stomach. This asshole was really going to ignore her?

"You're on antibiotics for your shoulder so that it doesn't get infected," he announced. "As for the rest of your arm, it'll be fine, but you won't get movement back into it for a few more hours. We put you on an intravenous restorative to repair the damage done to your veins and muscles."

"But what's wrong with it? Why can't I move? Will you at least answer _that_?"

"It's drained of its First Matter."

Zeika scowled. "Can you answer that in _English_?"

"First Matter. Azure-borne bullshit." He cut her a sarcastic look. "Just think of it as 'energy'. Like the ATP found in cellular mitochondria. I'm not sure if you're familiar—"

"Yeah, I know what it is. ATP. Adenosine triphosphate."

He paused, surprise buzzing in his face. Seeming impressed, he smiled. "Where'd you learn that?"

Zeika vengefully refused to respond.

"Right. When the bonds in ATP break, they release energy— First Matter— or at least a form of it. That's what that thing was trying to get from you. To feed, they have to break ATP bonds at a phenomenal rate while draining the released energy from the host. The speed of breakage can damage muscular function, thin your veins. It's why you can't move your hand."

She looked at her hand again, cringed at the blue in her fingertips. The ATP thing, crazy as it sounded, made some scientific sense. It was plausible, at least. But Ninkashi, First Matter... none of these things had been mentioned in any biology or organic chemistry book she'd ever read. All she knew was that the dead were supposed to stay that way, and they definitely weren't supposed to be running around draining energy out of people.

And I killed one.

Zeika felt it all rise up in her chest, the emotions she'd been holding back for days. She didn't understand what was happening in this world, why, and what it was forcing her to do. She had killed a living thing. The Ninkashi wasn't human as far as Caleb was concerned, but it had looked human enough to give her pause, even though it had been bearing down on her sister, ready to devour her. In her moment of panic she had made a choice, one that she would be living with for the rest of her life.

_I should have just used my powers. I should have just—_ anything _but this._

She felt Caleb's hand on her shoulder. She looked up, and somehow, her frustration with him dissipated. His gaze was calming somehow, anchoring her. He moved to say something—

"Anon? Zeika Anon?" A young social worker stepped into the room without knocking, eyeing the scene with interest.

The woman had the face of an apple, and long silky brown curls were clipped behind her ears, the ones that were so famous for picking up local gossip. Zeika could actually feel her eyes glaze with annoyance as she recognized her: Phoebe Schmitz. Mood-killer and hater-extraordinaire. Today, she was dressed classy— silk blue mandarin collar dress, silver closed-toe stilettos, and bangles to match— looking more put together than her meager salary allowed. Generally, Phoebe dealt with the elderly members of the Guild— the ones who'd managed to hold onto a little of their money before the Guild had gone into the hole. She thought she was high-class and sass because of it, so she dressed the part. For whatever reason, though, she hadn't been in today. Lucky, and strange, that she had missed the massacre.

Phoebe's gaze moved to Caleb's hand, and he dropped it. She smirked, raising her snotty unibrow. Apparently, she'd found her new gossip headline.

Zeika sighed. "Can we help you, Phoebs?"

"Yes, you can. Pack up. You need to be ready when your placement gets here."

"I'm sorry?" Zeika looked at her, then at Caleb. "I thought we were going home."

Caleb turned to Phoebe. "She'll be in rehab for a little while yet. What's this about? I thought Taitt was supposed to call us on this."

Phoebe eyed him with amusement. She smiled as her eyes rolled down his figure. "Are you her guardian? Or are you just an AP looking for something to guard?"

Caleb wasn't amused. "I'm an officer asking you a question."

Phoebe pouted, her delight turning to genuine annoyance as she looked back and forth between them. "No one told you?"

"Obviously not," Zeika said impatiently.

"Guildmaster Taitt is currently unavailable, so the guild hands are handling the guild affairs. We're relocating as many of our members as possible until we can re-secure the Guild. A foster parent on our list has volunteered to take you in until the Guild is safe. I'm required to board you with him until further notice."

Zeika pursed her lips. Life was just one party after another, wasn't it? "Okay, well, who's the foster parent?"

"Lemme see." Phoebe thumbed through her paperwork and searched down the list. "Oh my!" She cried out. She looked up, her face bright. "How lucky! I almost wish I were you! Well— sort of. I wish I were you, just better dressed— oh, you know what I mean!"

Zeika's heart sped up, too pumped to be pissed off by Phoebe's prattling. "Baba? Did my father come back?"

"No, but you've got someone even better!" Phoebe tittered, smiling ear to ear. "Apparently, he would have gotten you earlier, but he was out of town on business—"

" _Who_ , Phoebe?"

"Lord Salvatore Morgan! What an honor!"

Zeika's lips parted, but no sound came out. All she could do was look down at her covers, completely frozen. She could feel Caleb staring at her. From the corner of her eye, she could see that he looked equally surprised, but she couldn't even look at him.

Phoebe plotzed. "Well, ugh! Hello? Did you not hear what I just said?! You're going to be living with Salvatore Mega-hunkster Morgan! Aren't you just _crazed_?"

Zeika looked up, still speechless. Crestfallen. This— this wasn't happening.

"Wow. Seriously?" Phoebe was obviously disturbed by Zeika's silence. Too jealous, maybe, to even begin to understand what this meant. "I thought you might be a bit more grateful. But I guess there's no bottom to the well that holds the Anon pride, is there?" Her smile had disappeared, the perfectly-glossed-up lips now wrinkled with condescension.

"If only you had the courage to drop your bucket and share in such a bounty," Zeika whispered, the words finally surfacing. "Do you even know what he's trying to do? To us, to our demesne? Did you _know_ about the Arcticles39? Or do you just not give a shit?"

Phoebe looked at her, pretty and yet dumbfounded, unable to make the connection.

"Tell Sal I said thanks but no thanks," Zeika seethed. "I don't dine naked with the devil."

Phoebe stared at her, floored. Caleb was also still looking at her— calm, mildly interested. She could see the smallest of smiles on his face.

"And while you're at it—" Zeika continued. "—you can ask him to adopt you instead. Don't forget to speak using the lips you've got flapping south of the border. That's the only language you two would have in common."

"Ouch..." Caleb muttered, smirking.

Phoebe's jaw dropped, and blinking in shock, she turned on her heels and pit-patted her way out, prissy clipboard and all.

Zeika put her face in her hands. She and Manja needed to get out of here, find a safe haven from this madness, and she knew there was only one place to go. They were leaving, now, and she didn't give a crap if Phoebe, the Guild, or even Caleb had objections. She slid Manja off her carefully, got up, and ripped the IV from her arm.

"Woah, relax!" Caleb turned and grabbed her good arm. "You keep moving around like that, and you _will_ pass out. Calm down."

"The Guild isn't safe. I need to get Manja out of here. Both of us. We— We can't—" She put a fist to her mouth. "We can't stay here. Please. Take us home. We need to go home."

Caleb's eyes were pinched with wanting. "I can't take you. Not without Taitt here. You're a ward of the state."

"Caleb, please."

"I can't, kid."

She locked her jaw, and whatever emotions she felt, she forced them back. Tears couldn't happen, not now. "Our parents left us. They left. And the Ninkashi monsters, the Articles39, Sal. But most important, if you let him take us, you will never see us again. He's wrong. There is something wrong with him. You know why he's adopting us. You know."

Caleb didn't respond, but there was a struggle in his face. Zeika wasn't sure who Sal was to him in Azure world. Maybe Caleb was like Phoebe, who wouldn't understand why a poor, abandoned Civilian wouldn't want to live with a rich Azure, a rising councilman of the Fifth Demesne, even. Maybe he'd think she was being too prideful.

"Let's put the Articles39 to the side for a second, okay? And I want you to focus just on Sal. What do you mean by 'something's wrong with him'? Has he done anything to you or your family?" Caleb's questions weren't accusatory, but they were careful and gentle, like a doctor with a patient. "You can tell me. Whatever I can do to help you, I'll do it. I'll take care of it."

He meant it. She could feel it. She wanted to tell him everything: about Mama's affair, about Sal's wandering eyes, about his threats to her family, but no matter how hard she tried, the words didn't come out. She felt shame, as though maybe— maybe this was all her fault somehow. Like maybe she had brought all this on her and Manja. That's what the Azures would say. And what could Caleb do?

Even if he did slap some cuffs on Sal what would come of it? He'd charge Sal with what? With being a philanthropist? A civil servant to a hostile demesne during times of war? That's how the media would spin it. The Azures would laugh in both their faces, demote Caleb, and slap a label on _her_. She'd be a total outcast, a "liar", and then that's when Sal's real fun would begin. She'd be trapped, maybe even forced to use her powers if he tried to hurt her again. And then... No, there was no other choice but to run. So she straightened up, looking at Caleb full on.

"He hasn't done anything," she lied. "I just... I don't feel safe not having my father around. Please help us get out of here. Don't let him take us."

Caleb gazed at her for a long time. He didn't look entirely put off, but his warm bedside manner had extinguished beneath the most sober look she'd ever seen. "Put on some clothes, and wake the kid," he said finally. "We're out of here in five minutes."

He left the room, and she took in a deep and steady breath, the fingers in her left hand finally beginning to twitch.

Caleb liked tacos, cheesy horror movies, and really loved cop work. He'd made designated marksman for his squad in the 52nd, and even alluded to having done some solo sniper work, though the details he gave were sparse. Apparently, his precinct had cleaned up the Fifty-Second so well that he'd hit promotion and had worked beats as a detective, and a successful one at that. Until about 18 months ago. She listened, more intrigued than she wanted to admit. Despite his accomplishments, he was actually pretty humble as far as Azures went. He credited a lot of his success to his teammates and training officers.

"There's more to marksmanship than just pulling the trigger. There's gravity, velocity, wind speed. There's quite a bit of math involved, and so being a Druid helps. Higher-ups often look for Alchemists with Druidic training when they're recruiting for SWAT in Azure demesnes," he explained.

"Oh." Zeika leaned her head against her front seat window.

Caleb caught her expression and smirked. "Thanks for sounding so riveted, kid."

She turned her eyes down. "I'm sorry, I'm still a little—"

"Yeah. You should open the glove compartment."

She didn't know why, but she felt her cheeks flush. "I— I'm not much of an open person."

"Wasn't a metaphor." He nodded at the dashboard.

Oh. She reached, popped it open, and pulled out a gun. Her gun. And the clip had been refilled. Her eyes widened.

"You dropped that," Caleb said.

"You took it from the scene of a crime? You're not really much of a cop, are you?"

"What's a cop?"

Zeika made a face. "I'm breaking the law by having this. We _both_ are."

"I'm already breaking the law by taking you from the Guild. Everyone breaks the law, Zeika. Not always by choice." Caleb leaned forward to check the street and then made a right turn. "Ah shit. Fantastic," he muttered.

She leaned too, to see what he was seeing: a row of barricades scattered across Castle Hill Road, dotted with APs with automatic weapons. She eased her gun deep into her robes, into her jeans' belt, and sat back, careful not to move too quickly. She cast a quick glance into the back seat. Manja was awake, clutching her teddy bear bag as she scrambled to one window and looked out.

Caleb slowed down, rolling his window down as an AP approached. Another came around to Zeika's side. A third, along with a few others, stared at the car from the barricade, some with their fingers on triggers.

"License and registration, sir," the cop at Caleb's window requested.

"Oh, well look who it is!" The AP at Zeika's window was looking at her with a douchey smirk that she recognized all too well.

"Awesome," she muttered, leaning her head back against the seat.

It was that AP Kirk Donovan, the one who had harassed her at the Converge.

"So this is the Azure horn, eh, civvie? Hows the tootin' going? Very well, apparently." Kirk leaned in and looked at her with a lopsided smile. "Guess you wouldn't mind if I frisk you then, am I right?"

Zeika pulled on her hood, never looking at him. "If it'd help your three-incher get ready for lift-off, then hey, grope away. I'm all for helping the needy."

"Better watch your mouth, you little c—"

"Hey, you're not talking to her, you're talking to me, all right?" Caleb snapped. "Back off." He pulled out his badge, and Zeika saw a change come over both APs' smug expressions. Kirk's especially.

"You again! You're a blue?" Kirk stood up straight, startled. A high color formed in his cheeks. "Sorry about that, detective."

"Yeah, no shit," Caleb frowned. "What's up with the extra tight security?"

"Quarantine," the AP at his window replied. "It's because of those damned Ninkashi. This is the last time anyone will be crossing over to anywhere."

"Does security include harassing Civilians?"

Kirk backed away from Zeika's window, hands up. "Sorry. We just have to be extra careful nowadays. Now that the Protecteds are barricaded, small smuggling businesses are popping up. Literally over night."

Zeika did all she could to not register this information on her face. She pretended to study the lines on her hands as Caleb exchanged more terse words with the APs, finally ending the conversation with information on how to get to where they needed to go. Zeika didn't look up as he rolled up his windows and pulled off, almost swiping one AP with the car.

When they were on their way again, she felt Caleb's eyes on her. "Do APs always speak like that to you?"

She shrugged. "Guess so. We're already two-for-two. That's just this month, though. I stopped keeping track years ago."

Caleb didn't say anything more but looked lost in his own thoughts. They remained silent until they reached Lot 3. As he pulled up, his mouth turned down. The rows and rows of huts stood like tin soldiers on the dust and gravel. Not a soul in sight.

"You really expect me to believe that you've been hanging out here while you've been bunking at the Guild?" He looked at her with narrowed eyes.

Zeika looked away.

"Kid, I know you don't trust me. But do me a favor and take a look at my actions for a sec, all right? Forget the fact that I'm Azure— and just judge me on what I do."

Zeika bit her lip, struggling. She spared another glance back at Manja. Then she looked at him. "All right," she relented. "I'll show you. But we walk from here. No cars. No noise."

"Fair enough."

They got out, and he popped the trunk while Zeika hoisted Manja out and put her on her hip. Caleb took out a duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder before slamming the trunk closed. They began to walk, with Zeika taking the lead.

Suddenly, Caleb stiffened and stopped. He looked far off to his left. Then his right.

She raised a brow. "You all right?"

"Yeah..." he muttered, still looking distracted. He searched the distance a little more before finally turning back to her. "Yeah, let's go."

They smiled at each other. Uneasily, but it was the best anyone could do. Readjusting Manja on her hip, Zeika led the way.

* * * *

"Stand here, and don't move, okay?"

Caleb looked at her with a raised eyebrow. She had led him into the old Botanical Gardens, to one of the large, stone fountains. The water had long since dried up, but the snow had piled high, and he was standing nearly calf-deep in the middle of it, looking like a tall bird in a frozen bath.

"Don't worry," she giggled. "I won't leave you here looking stupid, I promise. We'll be back."

"Yeah, it's a secret! Just wait!"

Manja had taken her usual position on Zeika's back. She smiled wide and for whatever reason was grabbing Zeika's ears. Apparently, having Caleb come to see the Forge was the new candyland.

They waved at him before walking away, and Zeika couldn't help but feel bad at the pang of innocence in his eyes. It might take him a little bit to figure it out, but they weren't coming back. The Forge was the last safe place they had left; no one could know where it was.

They traipsed through the gardens until they reached the Observatory, and though Zeika had seen it hundreds of times, she always felt her heart soften in awe at its dilapidated beauty. The dome reigned high above the 250-acre grounds. Most its windows had been shattered, and the dusty glass still remained sprinkled along the floor as the shimmering snow fell in, creating high banks. The trees and bushes within had long since expired, serving only as pit stops for migrating birds.

They passed through as carefully as they could, trying to avoid getting pooped on by the perching crows.

"Can we use the holey gate again, Zeeky? That was fun!"

"Yeah, tons of fun, kid."

Zeika snorted, remembering the incident clearly. About a year ago, she and Manja had locked themselves out of their own shop. She'd just worked double shift at the Diner and had lagged on getting to their entrance on time. The entry code only worked twice every 24 hours, so they couldn't get access. She'd been forced to turn the ventilation grating into canvas to get in, and they'd had to crawl a good ten minutes through the air system just to get inside of the Forge's cellar. Re-crafting the grating, reinstalling it, and then getting her and the kid clean had been another three-hour pain-in-ass task.

"Well can we?"

"No, baby. Only in emergencies."

"Aw!"

When they got to the middle of the fifth rose bed, Zeika knelt at one of the dry, greenless weed patches. She weaved her hand in between the barbed brambles and brushed away the icy powder and dirt from the roots. She brushed until all that shone up at her was a dusty number console. She punched in her birthday, 0229, and at once, she could hear the slow grind of rock moving in the distance.

She buried the console beneath the snow and dirt, jumped to her feet, and dashed out of the Observatory, with Manja bobbing around on her back. Manja curled her arms and legs more tightly around Zeika's torso and leaned in, making their separate weights one. Zeika skipped over fences and slid over patches of glistening slick, flying to the front entrance of the Botanical Gardens. Manja giggled as she hung on.

"Go, Zeeky! Faster, faster, faster!" She cheered.

Zeika hopped another low fence. It was like this every time they came here; she had to make the half-mile sprint to the other side of the garden in three minutes, else she'd have to go back and re-enter the code again. She'd programmed the door like this, because she was the only one who could make it in time.

Her senses opened to the sharp breath of Winter; its frost nipped at the corner of her eyes as she ran, and when she skid over a frozen pond on her knees, icy fingers of water crawled up the legs of her jeans. At the pond's other side, she gripped the carbon bars of the border fence and swung herself and Manja over.

Just as she was scaling the trellis gate of the Rock Garden, she could see movement beyond the dry branches. A square plot of rocks was moving inward and sliding up behind a frozen waterfall, revealing the 3 x 3 back entrance to her shop. She jogged up to the door, unraveled Manja's harness, and set her on the ground.

"How's that for super speed, kid?" She put an affectionate grip on Manja's head.

"Meh. Coulda gone faster."

Manja stuck her tongue out, and before Zeika could say anything smart, Manja ran and ducked inside the shop, squealing with delight. Smiling, Zeika crawled in after her, not noticing the eyes on her back as the door slid down behind them.

Ten minutes after they had gotten inside, Manja was yelling at her. Crunch had taken his usual perch on top of her head, and he cooed, fluttering his wings against her afro puffs, struggling not to fall off. She had one little hand on one little hip, and Zeika tried not to smile as Manja pointed at her and cut her with those diamond blue eyes of hers.

"I SAID OPEN IT! NOW! I'm the Queen, not you!"

"Oh, and what's your crown, the pigeon?" Zeika snapped. "I already told you no."

"But he got the bad men at the Guild! He took us home!"

"Manja. He's an Azure."

"But what does that mean?"

Zeika struggled as she looked at her, at the innocent crease of her eyebrow.

"It means— fine!" She growled finally. "I'll let him in." She walked over to her bookshelf and flicked a switch next to the dumbwaiter. A faint rumble echoed its way down the cave as the platform hidden in the fountain lowered in.

Hopefully, he wasn't still standing there.

Manja turned her nose up and strode to the door, pulling something out from her pocket. Zeika stiffened. Manja had put something in her pocket that day they were in the Lobon Inn. Something that Caleb had given her. Zeika folded her arms, the question clear.

"It's a password," Manja retorted.

A knock came at the front door.

"A password for what?"

"So that we know it's him, and that he's real."

"You gave him a password?"

"Because you're mean and crazy!"

Zeika snatched the paper from her hand and walked to the door, moving Manja to the side. "All right, what's the password?"

"Hospitality. Nice." Caleb's amused chuckle filtered through the wood. " _Boku no me wa midori da._ "

Zeika looked to the scratchings on the paper. The words were Japanese, from what she could tell, and the password was a perfect match. She unlocked the door, and of course, standing there was the Azure, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

"Glad to know that you and my sister are plotting behind my back," Zeika seethed. She didn't move out of his way.

"Even gladder to know she's not as much of a bigot as you are. Are you going to let me in?"

"What's your problem? Why didn't you buzz off?"

He leaned against the door frame. "I'm on my biggest case of the year. Trying to find out how you can still walk straight with that huge chip on your shoulder. Also trying to figure how you can lie so easily with a straight face."

She opened her mouth to respond, but then she shut it up tight, not really knowing what to say. She turned her eyes away from him with a huff. "I didn't lie about Sal Morgan. But... I can't tell you the whole truth, either."

"Fair enough. I don't need to know the truth to see you need help, kid. But you're not even trying to give me a shot here."

"I can't give you a shot because I don't understand your investment. I mean, what do you care about Civilians, anyway?"

"I worked Civilian cases all the time in the Fifty-Second."

"Cases? Well that's great, but I don't need your charity."

"And what makes you think I came down here for you?" He smiled, casting a look down.

She turned to see what he was looking at, and she saw Manja peeking out from behind her leg, beaming. Defeated, Zeika sighed and stepped aside. He sauntered in, as though there hadn't even been a question.

"Nice place," he mused. He stopped to examine the stacks of science books on the shelf near the door. Physics, anatomy, chemistry, field medicine.

Zeika shut the door. "Thank you."

He turned, brows raised.

"For everything, I mean." She swallowed and began to play with her fingers. "Thank you. I've been trying to get it out ever since the attack, but I, well, you know—"

"You got a mean mouth!" Manja snapped.

"Yeah," Zeika nodded. Then thinking on it, she grinned, embarrassed. "Yeah, I have a mean mouth."

"Don't worry about it. You're going to pay me back anyway." He walked further in and set his duffel bag down on her desk. Its contents jangled against each other, the sound all too familiar. "The kid told me you used to fix hardware for the force, so—" He smiled.

Zeika's eyes widened. He couldn't be serious.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. He _was_ serious. "I've brought you two Glocks and a rifle. I need them cleaned and oiled, and I'd also like the rifle blued. And this—" He took out a Colt Government .45. "It jams during rapid fire. I need you to ramp and throat it."

Her gaze bounced between him and the parts, and in spite of herself, she smiled. She didn't want to admit it, but she felt stirrings of excitement in her gut. Gun parts were the best puzzle pieces in the world; it had been a while since she'd been able to wrap her fingers around some.

"A rifle, huh?" She began to rummage through his bag, pulling out the bones. "Woah." She was holding the parts for a Dragunov SVD. Sniper rifle. Old school. And heavy. She started putting it together.

"Are you special ops?" She asked. She slid and screwed in the gas system, worked in the bolt assembly, popped on the sidings. She was already halfway through. He was watching her. Closely.

"Something like that."

"From _when_ , the Stone Age?" She attached the scope.

"Real cute. It's a little old fashioned, but it's damned good at what it does."

"And you're trusting your hardware with me?" She admired the body, running her fingers along the stock. Then she turned it sideways, off-setting its weight on her shoulder as she looked down the scope. "What if I run out with your hardware and start blowing Azure heads off? Are you willing to shoulder that kind of responsibility?"

Caleb smirked. "Nice try. They're all Kshessinkas. No one can use them but me."

"Kusha- _what_?"

"Special issues. Engineered so that the guns will lock if it can't strike a DNA match between it and the shooter. You can disassemble it, but it won't fire for you. Not as Stone Age as you think."

Zeika's blinked. "Is that an alchemy thing?"

"Yeah. I'm surprised you didn't know about it, being a gunsmith and all. It came right out of _your_ demesne's guild. Drop the hard science for a sec, and pick up a history book, kid."

"What's the point? Azures wrote them all, remember?" She smiled.

Caleb chuckled and started counting bills. He dealt out five hundred blue dollars, which was worth nearly twice the amount of their green.

"Here's a down payment." He tossed them onto the desk. "No offense, but please, get the kid some sneakers that don't look like they came out the ass' end of a cheese grater."

"Thanks for the shopping tip, genius."

He smudged her face playfully, and Zeika grinned, wrapping her arms around the rifle. "About the quarantine. Are they going to keep us here forever?"

"No. I'm sure they'll take it off once we've smoked out all of the Ninkashi."

"You're going to help get them?"

Caleb nodded, and for whatever reason, Zeika felt worry spike inside her. She shrugged it off as quickly as it came. He could take care of himself. Why did she even care? Unable to answer in a way that made her feel cozy, she looked away and hunched.

"Make sure, you— you know— be careful." She cleared her throat and shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. "Just watch your back. These streets are hard out here for Azures."

Caleb smirked, amused. "Yes, I'm sure."

She avoided the teasing gaze. "I don't even know how I'm supposed to work with those things running around out there."

"Listen, if you need to go out, go at night."

"Night? But what if—"

"The Ninkashi aren't vampires. They're active during the day, particularly in early morning, because that's when people are active. You're safer walking around at night. But I want you to limit that as much as you can."

"Are they smart? I mean, are they people-smart?"

"Maybe as smart as really hungry chimps. But only as far as how to strategize on trapping and hunting food."

Which, to her, meant smart as hell. Where did these things _come_ from? She looked away, rubbing her arms. "Then, did someone do it on purpose?"

Caleb cocked his head, and she took a breath before she pushed on. "I mean, the Guild is at least fifty miles inland, right? The Ninkashi would have had to walk miles, through hundreds of people, through an entire buffet, just to reach it. If food's their only motivation, they would have eaten right by the borders. So I'm asking you: do you think someone brought the Ninkashi into the Guild of Almaut?"

He gazed at her silently, and immediately she knew: he _did_ think so. And he had come to that conclusion long before she had. Seems like she wasn't the only one practiced in playing innocent. His mouth tightened, probably preparing to tell another lie— until his phone chimed. He broke their gaze to glance at it, and he frowned.

"My Vassal's calling me in. I've got to go."

He hesitated, searching her face, maybe looking for a way to kill the convo. Whatever he was thinking, if he was keeping information from her, it was probably for her own good. Dropping hints of an inside job would only make her more paranoid than she needed to be, and it could possibly ruin his investigation. He'd told her the basics of what she needed to know— how to avoid the monsters— and that was enough. She'd let him off the hook. For now.

"So, a Vassal, huh?" She smiled, changing the subject. "You have a live-in servant?"

The corners of Caleb's mouth turned down. "Don't be fooled by the title. I am his apprentice, and he is my master."

"Then why are they called 'Vassals'?"

"Because they are in service to the Alchemic Order. They are the highest ranked and most trusted servants of Azure society."

"Uh... okay. Wow."

"Pretty charming, isn't it?"

Seems like she wasn't the only one who thought this was a little ridiculous.

"Hey, look," he continued. "I listen to you sometimes, the way you talk to APs. I've wondered how you're still walking around healthy."

"I jog."

"I'm not kidding, Zeika. I'm not saying they deserve respect on the merits of where they come from. This isn't about Civilians versus Azures. This is about common sense. It's about safety, for you and for the kid. You can get into a lot of trouble if you mouth off to the wrong person. You hearing me?"

"Yes. Loud and clear."

She hid a smile. His eyes were so calm and concerned that she felt compelled to say it. He looked genuinely worried. It was kind of sweet.

"If you ever stumble across a Vassal, please, just stay out of his way. You might be able to snap off to APs, but a Vassal will tear your tongue out. They will hurt you, if they can get away with it. And they can."

"Well then! For someone who serves such a powerful guy, you certainly don't seem to give a damn about putting on the chicken. You didn't even respond to his message, and you're still in one piece."

"Not really, kid."

Zeika blinked. Maybe he wasn't as together as she thought.

"Don't follow my example," he continued. "Promise me you'll be more careful. If not for yourself, than at least for her. All right?"

So cute. He didn't know a thing about her powers. No one could really hurt her so long as she had them. The problem was being forced to use them. As long as she and Manja could run, hide, or stay away from Ninkashi and assholes like Sal, they would be fine. She smiled and leaned back against her desk, feeling safe in her secret. "I don't have to defer to anyone, Azure. I write my own tickets—"

Caleb groaned and rolled his eyes.

"—but fine, I'll be careful. For the kid. And because you asked me. Okay?"

His gaze halved as he looked at her with skepticism.

She held up her hands. "I promise! Manja comes first. Always. I'll keep my mouth shut."

He smiled, seeming relieved. "All right. I'll be back. Not today. But soon. Is that okay?"

"No! Don't go, Caleb!" Manja ran over and grabbed his pants leg. "I'll miss you!"

He knelt down. "I'll be back, kiddo. I promise."

The girl crossed her arms and put on the biggest pout Zeika had ever seen. Manja had never pouted like that for her, ever. Scam artist.

"Come on, kid. Don't be sad. I got something for you."

Zeika looked at him, brow creased.

"In the bag. Side pocket."

She glanced at the duffel bag, noticing the bulge in the side pocket for the first time. She opened it and pulled out something furry. It was a teddy bear, darker than Manja's other one, and dressed in commando gear.

Manja gasped. "Oh my gosh! A _bear_ , Zeeky!"

"Yeah. Sorry it's not a girl bear. They had one in some glittery pink get-up, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to question my manhood quite yet. But its yours, kid. Maybe it can get married to your other bear, or endure whatever torture you kids inflict on your toys nowadays."

Manja ran over and grabbed the bear, just loving the hell out of it.

"Thank you," Zeika murmured, smiling.

Caleb rose to his feet. "See you two later."

The door closed behind him, and Zeika stared at the doorway, becoming increasingly aware of how calm and warm she felt. Somehow, it made it harder to focus. Made her reconsider staying...

Nope. Gotta get Manja out of the Protecteds. Gotta find Mama and Baba.

The cold voice of reason snuffed out the warm glow in her chest. It was time to get back to business. Besides, Caleb was an Azure, and as much as he wouldn't admit it, he probably wouldn't be caught dead hanging around with two Civilian kids. There was no reason to believe that any friendship could emerge between them. He was just doing his job. Now it was time to do hers. It was time to get the hell out of Demesne Five.

She turned from the door, already in thought. That dickhead Officer Kirk said smugglers had already started to pop up around the edges of the demesnes. She didn't need them for travel between the Protecteds, though. Sneaking across the borders herself would be hard but not impossible considering her powers.

Getting onto the Island, however, was a different matter entirely. Over five miles of water stood between them and the Island, and they wouldn't even be able to skirt through Demesne 18 on the eastern border. The Eighteenth was solid Azure territory, both war-torn and now locked down, even to passing refugees. It would be impossible to gain access to any direct routes unspotted, even _with_ her powers.

Smuggling it was, then.

Finding out who the smugglers were was the first priority. Getting up the cash was the second. Knowing shipping rates, getting trafficked to the Island would probably set them back about five thousand Azure dollars. The Anon trade name still carried a little weight, though, enough so that Civilian runners might be happy with three thousand instead. The _only_ thing in her way was the money.

She looked at the rubber-band of blue bills on her desk. A good start, but they'd need way more than that. They could wait until Caleb came back. Fix his hardware, get the rest of their money, get closer to their goal—

But would he let us leave?

She smiled, already knowing the answer. Mr. Captain-Save-Em would build a settlement in their asses just to make sure she and the kid were "safe and sound".

Yeah, that'd be an issue. Then, she'd also have to feel guilty the day they'd have to trick Caleb, the day they'd have to lie to him and say they were coming back, when really they were leaving for good. She wouldn't feel badly about it, no, just a little... off-kilter. Yeah.

She gazed at Manja, who was snuggling with her "Butch Bear" (as she had just christened it) and brushing its hair. Caleb wouldn't be able to stay away for too long, not with the kid growing on him the way she was. They had to move quickly, had to survive the world they'd been given before they could take the life they wanted. If they were going to get themselves to the Island, they'd need more money. To get money, they'd need metal... and Zeika knew exactly where to get it.

#

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Zeika had waited until after 11:30 PM, after AP activity around curfew had slowed down. Cold biting wind whistled through her clothes, and her back itched terribly. Yet she continued to walk, boots crunching in the snow, Caleb's duffel bag on her shoulder. She passed under the Kingsbridge Road train station as she approached the front doors of the Demesne Five Headquarters, and almost lost her nerve when she saw a cop smoking in the distance. He extinguished his cigarette against the stone, not noticing her as he turned to walk back into the station. She clenched her gloved fists, to steady the trembling in her fingers.

_You can do this. You_ have _to do this._

She leaned against one of the metal balustrades holding up the empty train station, the front of the police headquarters in clear view. There was little traffic tonight, so she stood there in the middle of the street, gathering all her courage. The cold gnawed her ears and close-shaven head; she missed her hair now more than ever, never realizing how warm it had kept her most of the time. Finally swallowing her fear back, she reached into her robes, pulled out her black ski mask, and rolled it down over her head and face. She threw on her hood and started walking towards the police station.

Inside her robes, she put a firm grip on her Beretta, fully loaded and chambered. She stretched her vocal cords, dropping her voice an octave, and making sure to keep it there, though not much talking was going to be done.

She walked through the gate and into the front doors, where the warmth and the light of the station filled her, where _purpose_ filled her—

Do it.

—and she lifted her gun into the air and fired three times, filling the warm place with angry bursts of thunder. People in the lobby began to scream, duck, and run.

"Get on the ground!" Her deeper voice fell foreign on her own ears, but it felt in control. Powerful. "Or I'll blow your fuckin' heads off."

"In most recent news, a bizarre string of crimes very rarely seen in the Protecteds: a rash of grave-robberies have been reported throughout all three Civic Demesnes over the past month. Troubling to city officials but even more disturbing to Civilians in the wake of the Ninkashi attacks, police are now scrambling to solve these strange crimes as soon as possible. WKCO6 news reporter, Frank Romana is live in Demesne Six's Saintland with a story you'll see only on WKCO6."

"Thank you, Alicia. The citizens of local neighborhoods are shocked and appalled, but most of all, they're frightened. Here's what some of them had to say."

"I mean, it's crazy, but this doesn't really surprise me. The Protecteds are so poor, people probably think the bodies have gold on them or something," one witness said. "Ugh, barbarians!"

"It's one thing to steal stuff from the coffin, but to actually take the (beep)-ing body? That's gross. What are they gonna (beep)-ing do, a blood sacrifice? Eat it? Boink it? What the (beep), man. Sick."

"Zombies. Let's just call it what it is. Zombies. With those vampire things walking around, you didn't think this would happen next? After the attack on Guild Five, I'm scared to come out my home! Seriously. The world has gone crazy."

Caleb scoffed as he came out of the shower into the living room, drying off. He'd heard the whole thing from the bathroom and snatched up the remote to change the channel to something more reasonable. He had hoped Joseph had been pulling his leg, but clearly not. Stealing corpses? People were officially going nuts.

He flipped channels, but nothing was on this late, so instead, he found the public access channel that broadcasted proceedings in the Silver Chamber. There was nothing nearly as pivotal as the Articles39 repeals, but he liked to stay informed— even if they _were_ only talking about demesne budgets.

He threw on some clothes and walked into the kitchen to start breakfast. He cracked a window, lit a cigarette, and before long, a shot of espresso and a slice of pound cake had been neatly arranged on a tray. Next to it sat a bowl of miso soup and steaming hot rice. It had been a long night after he'd left the murder scene, and it wasn't over. His search for Taitt had once again turned up a lot of dead ends, locked doors, and busy signals, as though he and everyone he'd ever known had collectively decided to skip town all at the same time. So Caleb had come back home to score a few hours' sleep and a meal before going back out and re-doubling the search. It'd done him some good.

He blew a long string of smoke out his window before turning back to beating his eggs. He'd just started to pour the yolks over his rice when the Congressional crawl was interrupted by a siren blare— all coming from the television.

What a bullshit cable connection...

"Ladies and gentlemen. This just in: at 11:49 PM last night, a rogue Alchemist stormed his way into the Demesne Five Police Headquarters and opened fire—"

Caleb sputtered and whipped around, staring at his television.

"—though not directly _at_ officers. The rogue apparently just wanted to get their attention for a greater scheme: the robbery of their weapons cage. Luckily, no officers were killed or harmed in the attack. What you are about to see is real footage of the robbery, and we do warn you, the footage is disturbing."

Eyes glued, Caleb walked over to the television, balking when he saw the 5'5" shrimp walk in through the front doors, lift his gun, and fire off a few rounds. He was wearing a balaclava and the wolf-moon robes of a Desmene Five Civilian. But what came next was unreal. As the officers pulled their weapons, the intruder lifted his hand— and changed the cops' clothing from cotton to bronze, encasing them in full-body casts.

Holy hell.

He watched as one of the cops, still encased but with hands unencumbered by metal, began to squeeze the trigger of his gun. The gun didn't respond, and the robber walked up to him and snatched the firearm from his hand before making rounds to the other cops. The robber plucked the misfiring weapons from the human statues and threw them into the duffel bag on his shoulder. Metal to fabric. Caleb snapped his head to the kiln of soft blue silk hanging over the back of his love seat, understanding. This had to be the same Alchemist, the one who'd trashed the Sigma Express.

He looked at his watch. 4:29 AM... this happened hours ago. Why the hell hadn't anyone called him?

The newscaster continued on. "Even more disturbing, the robber looked no older than a teenager, though alchemic law enforcement has no record of teenaged Azure Alchemists currently missing in action. The Demesne Five Headquarters Police Captain, Jebediah Palmer, could not be reached for comment—"

The newscast muted as the front door slammed behind Caleb, his breakfast going cold on the counter.

Dear Awesome Reader,

Thank you so much for spending time with Zeika, her friends, and foes in THE GIVEN! I hope you enjoyed the ride! The second & final volume, THE TAKEN, is available now and completes the story for this book. You can even get it for FREE if you sign up to my email list. ;-)

Even better, the next installment in the series, **THE IRON MAIDEN** , will be out this 2015!

If you enjoyed THE GIVEN, then I'd love it if you could leave a review on the site where you bought it. I'd love to hear your feedback and get your advice on how to make the next book even hotter! Also, reviews really help other urban fantasy and dystopian sci-fi fans find my work, and I'm excited to share my work with as many people as possible.

Thanks so much for your support, happy reading, and keep imagining! Also, feel free to hit me up on my website,  Facebook, or Twitter if you want to say hi!

Warmly,

Colby R Rice

www.colbyrrice.com

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