Bereft

- 47 -

The traffic heading into Verweald was as irritating as ever, and when I reached the industrial center I did not search the parking structure for a spot; I stole Amoroth's vacant, marked space on the ground floor. If she wanted the car moved, she could have it towed—or do it herself. Either way, I was not going to be stupid and park somewhere secluded ever again.

It was the first day of September, and the summer's heat had yet to break or wane, really. A line of people braved the morning sun and grim-faced guards to stand outside Klau headquarters, hefting large signs and crafted banners, their chants rising about the honking of passing cars as they demanded the closure of the company until the Klau Killer was captured.

One of the guards took pity when he saw me caught in the midst of the riled crowd. He shunted several larger bodies aside and gave me directions toward the loading dock on the other side of the building, as the main doors I approached were sealed to prevent the protesters from barging in. I was stunned to see the small uprising taking place outside Amoroth's towering monolith. The murders were obviously upsetting, but I had never guessed they were having such an impact on the general public—especially in Verweald of all places.

I was the only person behind the receptionist's desk today, but due to the protesters outside, I had little to do besides field phone calls on the complicated phone system I'd yet to master. I sometimes directed people with the wrong extension, and they'd call back, frustrated and belligerent. I kept lifting my head from the desk and looking around, expecting to find someone—anyone, really—who could assist me, but there was no one. The lobby stretched almost completely vacant, and those who did pass through fixated their eyes on the black floor and all but ran to their destinations.

I didn't need to watch the news to know someone else had been murdered. The anxiety and fear was a cumbrous wrapping that tightened about the throats and hearts of Klau's remaining employees. They scurried through the building with their heads down and shoulders up as they tried to avoid attracting attention. The lobby would have been dead silent if not for my desk phone ringing, and most of the calls were for the management department, investors demanding to speak with 'someone in charge.' K.I.I stock was in a freefall, and the corporations partnered with Klau were desperate to sever ties—lest they find their business targeted next.

When my lunch hour arrived I decided to eat somewhere besides Klau's morbid cafeteria. I gathered my things and chucked my beeping earpiece across the desk before leaving through the doors that led to a cluttered technician's floor where rows of glass-walled cubicles created a modern maze. Many of the technicians were absent—some had even cleared out their desks, presumably with plans of never returning.

The small loading dock adjoined the technician's floor, facing a wide alley cluttered with trucks and smoking employees. One of the muscled workers stopped stacking pallets and lent me his hand to hop off the dock's concrete lip. I would have undoubtedly face-planted on my own, so I was grateful for the assistance. I hustled from the alley onto the busy boulevard.

Behind me, the protesters had swelled in number and in volume. So had Amoroth's guards.

I chose a well-lit and populated café a block from Klau's dark tower. I stood in the line with the strap of my heavy purse digging into my shoulder as I read the board behind the baristas. It felt odd to do something so very innocuous, and I fought to urge to fidget and flinch and look around me for threats.

This place was strangely familiar, and it wasn't until I had retrieved my order and found a seat by the window that I realized I'd been in this café before. It was a demure but well-appointed coffee shop frequented by office employees and sales associates from the neighboring commercial district—and after my first day of work at Imor, Tara and I had stopped here before Tara returned to the hospital.

I traced my thumb along the rim of my black coffee as I stared at nothing in particular. Tara wore her lab coat that day. I remember it drew curious stares, seeing as Verweald General was closer to the airport than it was Klau Tower, not that Tara gave any of the attention a second thought. My sister hadn't gone to bed yet, so her messy hair had been caught in a lopsided ponytail and bluish circles had rested beneath her eyes. I'd been tired too, after spending the previous night lying awake with nerves, and as we drank our overpriced coffees, I thought that my sister and I hadn't looked so similar in many years.

Remembering Tara was painful but didn't reduce me to tears. I sat alone and sipped my coffee, watching as my breath rippled across the placid surface, and though indulging in maudlin reflections wasn't productive, I allowed myself a moment to sit and think of my sister. Even Dante once wrote, "Oftentimes a backward look comforts one on the way." Given the ugly nature of my life, I considered myself worthy of a nice, long backward look.

I wished she was here with me. Tara would've been able to handle Darius better than I could, and Amoroth wouldn't have disparaged her quick-wit and sharp-tongue. It horrified me to think they might have gotten along in another life. Of course, Tara would've never been in this situation; forming a contract with a demon would have been unconscionable to her, and my gracious sister would have never considered killing someone who'd wronged her. She believed in justice, not vengeance.

Tara had been a good person. They say the good die young and the evil live on—so was I, the sister who lived, the sister who believed in vengeance, evil?

Around me, people went about their business and didn't spare a glance for the dark-haired woman sitting alone with her drink.

No, I told myself as I shook my head and inside unearthed my laptop from my bag, setting it on the wobbly table. No. I would have never done any of this if not for the Exordium. I am...good. I am a good person forced to make terrible decisions.

Even so, no matter how many times I repeated the positive mantra, I couldn't clear the bitter taste clinging to my lips.

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