Dajah failed to study the life-sized glass maze before him; his eyes kept straying back to his brother. They had Taron restrained to a chair in a room filling with caustic, yellow liquid that bubbled and popped at the surface. A putrid stench reached Dajah’s nose as he stood poised to enter. Scientists, embedded behind clipboards and tablets, sat near, observing.

​

An eternity passed before the light flashed GREEN.

 

“Hang in there!” he shouted to Taron, squeezing into the maze before the door fully opened.

 

Hand on the wall, he turned left. Right. Right again. A sizzling noise intensified. Darts flew past mere inches from his face as he dove, rolling back to his feet and continuing down the next corridor. His feet pounded the floor. His heart pounded his chest. Another left had him bracing for impact against the invisible surface. Dead end!

 

“Damn it,” he cursed, pivoting only to find himself face-to-face with a set of serrated teeth. Smoke leaked from a smile. The Babdagoon was a grotesque monstrosity with appendages protruding out at odd angles and a whip-like tail capable of ensnaring prey. Towering over Dajah, its attack distorted spacetime.

​

Anticipating the strike, he propelled himself forward, flipping onto the creature to find purchase between two vertebral spikes. The Babdagoon flailed and bucked in attempt to throw him, but his grip held firm even as its dexterous tail caught his leg, slicing through muscle and tendon.

 

Work faster!

 

Focusing on the back of its skull, Dajah stabbed with thumb and pointer finger. He dug in, pushing towards the soft, fleshy interior. Found the stringy bits connecting its brain to the rest of its body. The beast gave a desperate screech as he pulled. Cords ruptured like broken piano wires, springing back into wet tissues. With the link severed, the Babdagoon collapsed beneath him. Its death cry gave away his location.

 

A multitude of turns and quick maneuvering brought him to the center, his brother’s cell, but it wasn’t over yet. A series of geometric glyphs appeared on the window. An alarm sounded. Lights flashed and the maze walls began lowering. Soon all the creatures would come straight for him.

​

Sparing a moment to breathe, Dajah watched shapes slide and shift in his mind’s eye, revealing the proper sequence. He repeated the movement on the surface, beasts closing in.

​

TEST COMPLETE, the computerized voice announced. Cages dropped. Thrashing growls declared the monsters’ unanimous displeasure, but Dajah kept his eyes on his brother. The liquid drained too slowly. Scents of macerated, blistered flesh revealed Taron’s condition before the wounds became visible, his clothing all but disintegrated.

​

Taron watched Dajah from the other side of the glass, mouthing the words: Knew you could do it. Where’s Zayan?

​

Dajah took a heartbeat to consider their oldest brother’s absence. The scientists loved studying them together. If Zayan wasn’t in the maze, it meant something worse. Dajah balled his hands into fists, remembering the last time they injected Zayan with Stream radiation. How weak he was. How messed up after. How little he or Taron could do about it.

​

Movement caught his attention when men entered Taron’s cell and checked his vitals. The silent barbarians exchanged head nods. In the blink of an eye, his brother was rolled away still shackled to his seat.

​

One of the scientists approached Dajah, sliding a tranquilizer gun through a small opening in the glass. “Get on with it,” he commanded.

 

Tears welled in Dajah’s eyes from the resulting sting. Seconds later he lost motor function, collapsing on the maze floor. His heart raced with a new kind of fear. Cold steel touched his skin.

 

Weighted cuffs chained him to a sterilized surface. Bright overhead lights painted the room a harsh cream. Despite his body’s unresponsiveness from the paralytic, he knew what came next: The needle prick.

​

A kiss of warmth pulsated through his veins, finding its rhythm in sync with his heart until every nerve blazed agony. Dajah released a blood-curdling wail as the Other breached the surface, pushing him under to drown in the deep recesses of his mind.

​

From fathomless depths he saw Zayan. Barely standing with the aid of a nearby wall.

​

“Get out of here! Run!” Dajah called, but no sound left his lips. He tried again. Failed. Willing himself to remain still, his legs betrayed him with each step not of his making.

​

Why? he demanded of the Other.

​

The Other lunged at Zayan. Colliding, their bodies crashed to the ground. Fragile bones broke upon impact. Dajah pleaded with the entity controlling him and the corners of his mouth turned up in a sinister expression, reflected on the polished floor.

​

“Know you can hear me, D,” Zayan coughed out.

​

Tears spilled from Dajah’s eyes, blurring the image unfolding. His fingernails pierced soft flesh. Hands squeezed, crushing as warm liquid oozed between his fingers. Choking gurgles. Gasps for air. Silence.

​

The Other roared in victorious triumph and Dajah drifted to depths unknown, his world shattered.

 

*

​

The wonderful aromas assaulting his airways brought reality into harsh focus. Sweet, lingering remains of burnt coffee offset blood and undercurrents of charred wood. Dajah shifted minimally to appreciate the weight of debris pressing against him. Can’t just lie here.

​

~Why not? Maybe they’ll come back to finish the job.~

​

He winced at the sound of her voice. Queen had gotten better over the years, but the memory was too fresh. Pain prickled the edges of his consciousness, souring his mood further. Odds were good everyone else was dead. That’s what happens when people get close to me.

​

Queen knew better than to comment.

​

Knowing he had minutes before physical shock wore off, he surged adrenaline, hyper-tuning his senses. His ears picked up the faintest crack of rubble. The scent of a patron’s cologne reached his nostrils. Strength increased ten-fold, and dull discomfort replaced all the acute stabbing sensations.

 

Dajah repositioned himself and gave a firm tug, releasing his arm from the damaged equipment. Skin tore. Aromatic vanilla and char wafted up as the espresso machine clanked into empty space. He stood up, pieces of the display counter peppering his casual attire. Not everything came away willingly.

​

So much for business as usual. This wasn’t entirely unexpected, but he preferred to limit near-death experiences to bi-weekly occurrences. After last week’s incident, this bordered on unlucky.

​

Opposite the mangled remnants of the bar rested one of his earlier guests, the man’s neck bent at a bad angle. Managed to keep hold of that latte, huh? The biodegradable cup was crushed in his hand, three-quarters full.

​

~If you were more careful you could have avoided this. Told you to stop asking questions at the packing plant.~

​

Unhelpful, Queen.

​

He spared a few minutes to clear rubble from the base of the industrial-strength door and pried it open. Sugar and beans crunched beneath his shoes, but the small room was mostly unscathed. A different type of explosive would have leveled the coffee shop outright.

​

Was I the target?

​

Shaking his head, he remembered the low-fat, double shot, caramel macchiato handing him the envelope. Should’ve opened it immediately. He’d been distracted by the new kid hovering over the complimentary cookies. Whether the message was a clue or a warning relating to his current search, he’d never know. It was ash now.

​

~You were too obsessed over those cookies, Dajah.~

​

Hey, that was the best batch I’d made so far. Not like you’d understand.

​

Something heavy and metallic slumped in the front of the shop, causing a cascade of rubble. He yanked a chunk of glass from the muscle in his forearm, ready to launch it at the next fool to step through the door. Blood oozed from the raw wound. Dripped to the floor.

​

The din settled.

​

~You’re jumpy. They’re not going to come back that fast.~

​

Deep breaths did wonders.

​

Time for answers, then.

​

If there was one place in the city with the potential to deliver, it was the Raven.

 

* * *

​

Peering through the telescopic sight, Kiera watched each variable line up with precision. The pad of her index finger brushed the trigger with feather-light pressure. Her target, Evelyn Francis, responsible for the biggest child trafficking ring on the East Coast, was leaving the grocery store with a paper bag in hand.

​

Every ounce of credible information confirmed the woman was human. The man accompanying her was not. Kitsune were known for their superb strength and speed whether in human, fox, or hybrid form. Having the pleasure and misfortune of knowing a dozen non-humans from her time at OPASA, Kiera kept interactions with them casual – no different from other ethnically diverse humans unless they ended up on the wrong side of her rifle.

​

Clouds eased across the sky. She adjusted for wind speed and then pulled against the two-stage weighted trigger. Bye-bye, Evelyn.

​

“Too easy,” she said to no one, numb to the aftermath as she broke down her SR-25. Unfortunately, the target’s mannerisms and appearance poked at old wounds. “Some days I really miss you, Mom, but I think you’d be happy with how things turned out.”

​

The rise of the Organizations changed the face of law and justice forever. They weren’t any less corrupt than the former government, but it meant people like her could make a difference. This job was flawless. She’d picked the perfect hide site – one floor down was a known government supporter who actively campaigned against the Organizations, wishing things would go back to the way they were. Kiera effectively eliminated two problems.

​

Sighing, she zipped her rifle case closed and left the roof.

_

​

Rad Tattoos catered to all tastes. These days you had humans wanting to appear more animalistic, non-humans wanting to stand out less, and mainstream society ranging from oblivious to accepting of the fact that a difference existed between the two.

 

The shop’s owner and operator, Skullz, waved Kiera over as she made her way to the back. She rested her hand on a cocked hip and studied the clean-shaven, burly man covered in skeletal heads.

​

“Happy to see we’re packed, but aren’t you supposed to be closing early tonight?” she asked.

​

“They know we’re closing at seven. Those waiting are here for consultations only. You’ll have peace and quiet for the rest of the evening, but invitation’s still open if you change your mind.”

​

Kiera smiled. “Doing recon again. Wish your partner happy birthday for me, though.”

​

“Will do,” Skullz said. His toothy grin negated his macho vibe instantly.

​

She pat him on the arm then continued to the door labeled Private. Once secured inside her loft, a spa-like atmosphere settled around her. She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge. Being ahead of schedule meant time for a shower and a meal before heading out.

​

​

CHAPTER 2

​

Sipping a watered-down Malibu and Coke, Dajah observed the Raven’s occupants. Groups mingled, some laughing, others opting for less crowded corners and more intimate conversations to flaunt their seedy standards. The Raven was the local Organization’s attempt to create a neutral zone for anyone registered with them, and some version of it existed in every major city under Organization jurisdiction. Part dive bar, part wannabe cocktail lounge, the rules were simple: No unnecessary violence. Assassination attempts on the premises were expressly prohibited.

 

Most civilians knew the Raven’s reputation. It wasn’t uncommon to be solicited by a desperate man, woman, or nonbinary who couldn’t afford the Organization’s exuberant fees. Unsanctioned assassins and bottom-feeder mercs frequented the underbelly of every city. The difference was that contracts issued through Organization channels were guaranteed, and their professionals honored a code of conduct: Loyal to your own.

 

Registering with the local Organization the week after he arrived was risky, but it meant less interference in the long run. The monthly files allowed Dajah to identify fifteen different patrons within earshot. Information would always be the most valuable currency.

 

Lots of interesting tidbits for the right set of ears, but nothing on the shop getting blown up this morning.

 

~You stopped listening for that an hour ago. Who’s the woman you keep staring at?~

 

The question brought the woman feigning intoxication back into focus. Kiera Lin. Muted peach lips sipped a glass of whiskey while she studied a group four tables over. He watched her empty that glass three times and refill it from the bottle she purchased. Several pieces of smooth, dark hair framed her face, the rest tied back. The low-cut white blouse offered a tease of cleavage from a well-proportioned chest. She was beyond attractive physically, but what interested him more was the fact that she seemed oblivious to the man at the bar. The one watching her too closely. The one sending texts.

 

~It’s probably her ex. No one dresses like that to drink alone. Stay out of it.~

 

Nah, something else is going on.

 

~Not your business.~

 

Are you gonna stick around in my head all night?

 

~Someone has to keep an eye on you. Don’t go over there.~

 

* * *

 

Over the last two weeks, Kiera developed a relationship with the Raven’s bartender consisting exclusively of her handing over a Benjamin in exchange for a bottle of JD. If she looked particularly haggard, Pete would throw in a fresh bowl of peanuts with her glass.

 

No peanuts tonight.

​

The type the Raven attracted tended to be amusing, but she hadn’t been coming for the booze or the company. Two indiscreet men and a woman always sat at the same table. The Employer knew the men were selling information; the woman was the wildcard and potential link to another gang trying to set up shop in their not-so-fair city. All Kiera had to do was discern whom the woman reported to and eliminate both men.

 

Observation and experience taught her all three marks came armed, capable of protecting themselves, but professionals wouldn’t meet in the same location more than once. Amateur hour droned on. She took another sip, wishing the bitter notes of chocolate and orange sliding down her throat had an effect.

 

Compared to non-humans, her abilities were subpar. Arguably-accelerated healing and a bloodstream that dissolved most foreign substances didn’t give her an edge. Hard work and relentless training did that.

 

I’d still give my favorite rifle for a chance to get tipsy off a fifth.

 

She giggled at the thought, reinforcing her persona of regular Alcoholic. The crowds and loners usually read her body language and stayed away, but a few always pressed their luck.

 

The first charmer slid into the booth across from her without even so much as a hello.

 

Ballsy compared to most. Kiera dropped her right hand to her lap, close to the twin semi-auto SIG .45 ACPs strapped to her hips, and regarded him. “Seat’s taken.”

 

“By me now,” he said. “No one was sitting here. You’re kind of hot and looked lonely, so I thought—”

 

“You’d keep me company?” she cut him off, eyebrow raised. Head tilted with a faint smile, she gave him the courtesy of a once-over.

 

Silver hair hung loose, stopping just above his collarbone with choppy pieces framing the contours of a pronounced jawline and clean-shaven face. Most noticeable were his eyes. Vertically slitted pupils took center stage in pools of green that glowed with minuscule movements. Either he was part cat, or he invested in premium lenses to pull off the effect.

 

This one fits in with the Raven’s more eclectic clientele.

​

Pale, soot-smudged skin gave the impression he made a piss-poor attempt at bathing with a rag. He raised his glass to salute her. Crescents of dirt marred the underside of his short nails. The jacket, jeans, and off-grey shirt were cleaner than he was, lacking any insignias or visible brand labels that suggested affiliations or status.

 

Starving Rock Musician?

 

She refrained from looking for a guitar case, but envisioned him on a stool, shredding his Fender in tight black leather pants and nothing else. Musing, she took another swig of whiskey.

 

“Seemed like a good idea,” he said.

 

“Hate to tell you this, but it’s a terrible idea. You should go find someone to keep company, though. What about her?” She sloshed the liquid in her glass, finger pointing to the young prostitute leaning over the bar, tits popping out as she laughed in response to something Pete said.

 

“Think I’ll stay.”

 

Kiera choked on her next sip of whiskey. The woman she was supposed to be watching disappeared, and the men were concluding affairs, preparing to leave.

 

Not their usual routine.

 

“Tell you what,” she said to her admirer. “Keep this company. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She placed the bottle halfway between them and left the booth with her glass.

 

The next charmer, clearly drunk, knocked her sideways on her way to the door.

 

“Hey!” she yelled, nearly dropping her glass.

 

“Fuck you, bitch. Watch where you’re walkin!” He glared as if daring her to say something back. Drawing one of her sleek, Legion Gray-finished beauties would make a statement, but pulling a gun was a surefire way to escalate a nuisance.

 

He reached for her arm.

 

“No!” she emphasized, deflecting his hand and delivering a knock-out blow to the temple. The now-unconscious drunk fell backwards, caught by her silver-haired admirer.

 

“Whoa there, friend,” he said, taking the full weight of the man. “Think you had a bit too much. Have a seat.” It was tactfully done, propping the man up in the booth as if he passed out there, and not an uncommon scene for the Raven. While he was preoccupied, she set her sights on the exit, set her glass down on the tray of a passing waitress, and slipped out.

 

“Hey, wait up,” the same voice called when she gained the doorway. “I wanna talk to you.”

 

Kiera turned to face him, noting the .380 pistol resting loosely in his hand. At this range, she could disarm him or end him before he got off a lethal shot, but he didn’t look ready to attack. That made him dangerous.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching my bottle?” she asked, playing it off cool.

 

“Your ass was more appealing.”

 

The corners of her mouth lifted. “Do you have a name?”

 

“Dajah.”

 

“Ok, Dajah, listen. I don’t need a savior or company tonight. Find someone else.”

 

“Your name’s Kiera, right? Pretty sure people are trying to kill you.”