If only it were just a dream.

  Something that would fade when she woke, leaving nothing behind.

  “Finish work and come straight back.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Luna answered Mrs. Thompson, the stout middle-aged woman who owned the orphanage where she’d lived for as long as she could remember. She wiped her wet hands on her shirt, twisted her chestnut-brown hair into a small knot at the back of her head, then slung her worn bag over one shoulder.

  “Don’t forget the flour,” Mrs. Thompson went on. “Your brothers and sisters eat like wolves these days. Rose and I have kneaded until our arms are about to fall off, and Fred still hasn’t finished fixing the dining hall. Take this for now.”

  She shoved a few coins from her apron into Luna’s hand.

  A pitiful amount, as always.

  Luna pressed her lips together. Old miser. She stepped beneath the crooked archway where a weathered sign hung, barely legible anymore:

  Thompson’s Orphanage

  A place filled with memories, most of them cruel.

  Government stipends vanished into anything but the children’s needs. Meals were scarce. Still, the limestone-plastered walls kept the nights from biting too hard—or maybe it was simply because they all slept packed together in rooms barely big enough to breathe.

  As for Mrs. Thompson’s “children,” they were far from innocent. But who could blame kids raised on hunger?

  Luna herself was one of twenty-five.

  The more children, the more subsidy. But the more mouths, the hungrier they became.

  Only three were old enough to work. Luna and her two older brothers went out every day, earning what little they could. The fatigue of labor was nothing compared to the pain of the beatings they endured in the house they were forced to call home.

  So going to work each morning was no burden at all.

  What she couldn’t stand was staying.

  But dreaming of escape was foolish. Whatever she saved went straight into food. And looming over all of them was Mr. Thompson, a retired sheriff turned tax-leech, fattened on money meant for the children. He had wealth, connections, and power.

  She, alone—or even with all twenty-five together—didn’t stand a chance.

  Luna’s steps slowed as she reached the freight lot behind the market. Wagons stood in rows, horses snorted, and voices mixed in the air—bartering, banter, gossip.

  “Big shipment today, Luna!”

  Mr. Atkins, the baker she worked for, waved from across the lot. She hurried over to help unload sacks of flour from the cart.

  She’d been working for him nearly a year now, long enough to let him call her by her first name. She hated hearing anyone say Luna Thompson.

  “Nearly forty sacks of flour. Where did you even get all this?” she asked, bracing a knee against a sack to wedge it into place.

  Mr. Atkins was doing well. Maybe it was his skill, his bread always sent warm, sweet scents drifting through half the town, or maybe it was his knack for choosing the best ingredients. Luna had never seen flour this fine and white. Without this job, she’d never have tasted bread like his at all.

  Work at Atkins Bakery was no small feat either. She hauled supplies, kneaded dough, baked, and tended the counter. But Mr. Atkins paid fairly, treated her kindly, and always made sure she ate lunch. She’d take that over the orphanage’s hard crusts any day.

  She and Peter, his eleven-year-old son, dragged the heavy cart through a narrow lane to the back of the shop. They joked as they stacked the sacks, then busied themselves with ingredients until the shop opened. Customers poured in nonstop until noon.

  When the last one finally left, Luna dropped onto a three-legged stool, then nearly fell when a hand touched her shoulder.

  “Your wages for today, Luna.”

  She looked up, startled. Now? He never paid her until closing. Was he firing her because she’d play-kicked Peter again?

  Mr. Atkins chuckled. “Not that. You did well today. Thought I’d pay you early. Something to keep you going.”

  “Um, thank you.”

  Relieved, she tucked the felt pouch into her pocket. It weighed at least four times more than Mrs. Thompson’s morning coins. Stingy old bat.

  “Luna! You must be starving. I made beef stew last night. Come have some!”

  Mrs. Atkins called from the kitchen, her deep-red apron dusted so thickly with flour it looked pale pink. She smiled so wide her rosy cheeks swallowed her eyes and beckoned them with a ladle.

  Peter was already at the table. Four bowls of stew steamed beside fresh bread still warm from the oven. The smell alone nearly brought tears to Luna’s eyes.

  They ate together, chatting about nothing. Peter babbled about the neighbor’s mare that had just foaled. Mrs. Atkins shared a recipe she’d picked up on a trip to Emerald Shine.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “How are things at home?” Mr. Atkins asked. “I heard old Mrs. Thompson’s been losing her temper a lot lately.”

  “Three days ago the dining hall wall collapsed,” Luna said. “Fred couldn’t come to work. He’s fixing it.”

  She tried not to think about the accident. At least no one was hurt.

  “So down one income,” Mr. Atkins said. “But she hasn’t done anything to you again, has she?”

  The three of them looked at her with such comic worry that Luna couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Not yet this time. I’m staying out of her way. Don’t worry.”

  Staying out of her way, my ass.

  The old hag couldn’t take it out on Fred or Jack, so she went after Luna and the little ones instead.

  They all sighed in relief. Luna smiled, using the last piece of bread to wipe her bowl clean.

  “I’ll go watch the counter,” she said quickly, standing before anyone could see her eyes glisten. She turned away and wiped the tears that slipped free with the back of her hand.

  Through the window next to the front door, Luna caught sight of a man sprinting down the street, wild-eyed and clutching his side.

  The market had slowed to a standstill. Wagons blocked the road, horses stamping and snorting as their drivers craned their necks to see what was happening. Shoppers gathered in a loose knot, murmuring, pointing, too curious to move out of the way.

  Someone shouted. Another voice rose in alarm. The sound rippled through the crowd.

  The man shoved at them desperately, but they barely shifted.

  His gaze snapped to the bakery.

  Luna lunged for the door on instinct.

  “Ah!”

  Her fingers barely brushed the latch before the door burst outward. The impact threw her into the man on the steps, and they tumbled down the stone stairs. The world spun. She heard someone cursing beside her ear. Then, through the blur, she saw the other two men charging toward them, a hoe raised high.

  She held her breath.

  Fists clenched.

  Eyes shut tight.

  A wave of heat rolled through her body.

  The noise around her dimmed until all she could hear was the frantic thud of her own heart.

  BOOM!

  CRASH!

  She opened her eyes to chaos. People were shouting, scattering again. The man who had fallen with her was pinned to the ground by townsfolk. The two thugs lay sprawled across a fruit stall, produce rolling everywhere. His weapon was nowhere to be seen.

  Just a brawl. Just a brawl. Nothing personal.

  Her thoughts tangled, her pulse raced as Mr. Atkins helped her up.

  “You all right?”

  She looked up to answer, and froze.

  Cold crept down her spine.

  Amid the crowd stood a man, utterly still. Only his jet-black hair, shifting in the breeze, proved he wasn’t a dream or a hallucination. His gaze locked on her, sharp and silent.

  Her heart stopped.

  He knows.

  Luna wrenched herself free and ran for West Street.

  THWIP!

  A gust of wind whipped past. Her arms were bound tight. Her heart plunged, her voice failed her as she met the stranger’s eyes.

  She struggled to break free. Peter rushed out with a rolling pin in hand, but the man yanked Luna back and flashed a badge at the Atkins family.

  The sight alone sent Peter to his knees.

  “Elderwatch…” he whispered.

  The word turned Luna’s legs to water. She would have fallen if the man hadn’t caught her. Cold sweat soaked her back, her hands and feet went numb. A hundred horrible possibilities flashed through her mind.

  “This woman comes with me,” he said, voice crisp and commanding.

  “No! Please! Mr. Atkins! Tell him I didn’t do anything wrong!”

  She fought harder, but it was useless. Desperate, she turned to the only people who had ever felt like family.

  “Please…” she begged through tears.

  Mr. Atkins looked at her with pity, then nodded to the man behind her.

  “Get inside, Peter.”

  The words struck like lightning. Luna watched the only family she had turned their backs to her. The stranger pulled her down the street as the crowd parted in silence. Her tears dripped onto the cold metal cuffs.

  Elderwatch…

  Their name was legend across Cascadia. Parents used it to frighten children into obedience. Behave, or Elderwatch will take you away.

  Anyone taken by them was never seen again.

  And no one knew what they truly hunted.

  Least of all Luna.

  Because of that? Is it because I have it?

  Images of torture she’d seen in books flickered through her mind. She sobbed harder.

  I need to fight. Yes, fight and run away now.

  But will I stand a chance? Against this man?

  She looked at the man beside her, studying him quietly. He couldn’t be much older than her, but he stood nearly a head taller, sharp-jawed and severe. His blue-gray eyes flicked toward her, then he sighed.

  “Don’t cry,” he said.

  That did it. Her tears broke free again. She sank to the ground. And oddly, he didn’t pull her up this time.

  “I’m not taking you off to be killed,” he added, softer now.

  As if she’d believe that.

  “Hey,” the man grunted, nudging her shoulder with a knee. “Say something.”

  “No—hic—”

  “Great. The mood’s so much better now,” he muttered, scratching his head. He opened his mouth to add something—

  “Trey!”

  Both of them looked up. A tall blond man approached, dragging a heavy sack behind him. He pushed his wavy hair back, stopping in front of them and wiping sweat from his brow.

  “What did you find?” the dark-haired man—Trey—asked.

  “Traces all over town. Densest at the orphanage. They didn’t want to cooperate, but that wasn’t a problem. I took everything suspicious. And this one…?” He nodded toward Luna.

  “Yeah,” Trey said.

  “You saw—”

  “I saw.”

  The newcomer studied Luna, then crouched before her. His icy-blue eyes met hers, steady and calm.

  “Hello, Luna. I’m Francis Creek, and this is Trey Lancaster.”

  She flinched. Francis raised a brow but didn’t move closer.

  “Is there anything important left in that house?” he asked evenly.

  Luna swallowed and shook her head.

  “Good.”

  He murmured to himself, then gently touched two fingers to the scrapes on the back of her hand. A cool tingle spread beneath her skin—and the cuts vanished.

  Luna stared, wide-eyed.

  Francis smiled faintly.

  “I’ve got the same thing you do,” he said. “I just don’t use it to blow up my own walls.”