Mystery, Dreams, and Impending War

A buzz surrounds the city as it moves between happiness and sadness. The sunsets and fireworks throw gnarly tantrums as people fill the streets. Cheering, laughing, dancing. It's a special occasion where you meet your friends and family of the decade.

You can hear about Julian Cross and Delia, the golden couple of the Cross empire and supermodel world, everywhere you look or listen.

The celebrity couple walked the red carpet, holding hands together. Photographs show Julian in a tailored tuxedo and Delia in a fog-like, floaty dress. They're radiant. Unreachable. Unaware.

Mira sits beside me and lights another cigarette, looking at me with one brow raised. I can tell from your expression that you are planning another murder.

"I'm just saying," I begin.

"You're always saying." She releases some smoke from her mouth and smiles. "Floods, fire, thunder. And tonight—what is it? A plague of hornets?"

"War," I mutter. "Massive, bloody war."

She snorts. "We've jumped ahead to the major games right away."

"No one's listening," I say. "It's not a joke."

Mira gets up, wiping ash off her pants. "Alix, babe. I'm your best friend. I love your weird brain. Still, you shouldn't try to fix everything, or you might go too far and cause harm."

I glance toward the horizon. A soft haze fills the air, and the lines of the city become gold in the faraway sunlight. Even before any action happens, I can tell—there are clouds of smoke from destroyed buildings and people lying broken in the streets while the air smells of blood. I watched it two weeks back. I have seen this every night since.

They start the same: sometimes, I can see flashes of images, much like lightning, when my eyes are closed. Then faces. Then screaming.

I whisper, "I dreamed the same dream last night." Yet, this time, Robert spotted Julian wearing the blue suit. The one he's wearing now."

Mira pauses. Her face tightens just slightly.

"You have stress dreams. You read too much. You're grieving."

"I'm not grieving," I say, but I know it isn't the whole truth.

I've lived with Mira ever since we were in college together. Liv is sensible, intelligent, and kind when it counts the most. She is the person closest to me, acting as a family.

"You still believe these things happened because of Ellis," she says in a kind voice.

Something about "Ellis" hangs in the air, much like ghostlike smoke. My brother. The one who passed away three months ago in a car accident that not even I can explain.

I don't answer. I'd rather not say anything about Ellis.

Mira points out that Delia chose Julian over a much older and more successful man when she left—it was a big deal. The tabloids are always messy. However, you treat her as if she exploded a bomb.

I almost say the same thing, letting my voice sound very cold. "You're telling me that you're not even sure who the ex she's talking about is?"

Mira shrugs. "Some South African mining guy?"

"Matteo Dray. CEO of Viresa. It runs 10 ports, accounts for about half of the copper trade in North Africa, and backs private security forces for its protection.

Mira freezes.

I press on. Could he start something harmful? He's got money, weapons, allies. Julian's father has steadily worked against Viresa's plans for expansion in the Eastern Mediterranean. This isn't just heartbreak. This is bloodlines and leverage."

She waves her cigarette. "That's… very international-thriller of you."

"It's true. And you know what's worse?"

From the edge of the building, I can see Delia's dress glimmering as the last light shines on her silver dress.

"She's not herself."

Mira frowns.

"I mean it," I say. Her expression shows that she does not even want to be there. She looks dazed. It feels like she's following a script written by someone else.

"You're projecting."

"Am I?" I ask. "Or is it just easier to believe that a woman who is always shown on ads would end up falling in love with Julian Cross, whose only idea about Qatar is that it's the name of a tasty alcoholic drink?"

Mira laughs, but I don't.

"There's something unnatural here. Like she's being manipulated. Controlled."

"And by whom? Cupid? A witch?"

"Aphra."

Mira blinks. "The publicist?"

I nod.

Aphra Reed, smart and never caught by surprise, has been running Julian and Delia's publicity efforts from the very beginning. But there's something else. Something in her eyes that gives me a creepy feeling.

"She's not human," I whisper.

Mira closes her eyes. "Alix."

"No, listen—every time Aphra comes in, I shiver even though the room hasn't gotten any colder." Like she takes warm air from her surroundings, the way Delia looked at her made it seem like she was waiting for someone else to make a move.

Silence.

I didn't notice I was saying it.

Mira looks at me carefully. "You need to stop. People will start wondering if you've gone crazy or taken leave of your senses.

"What if I have?" I whisper. "What if I'm really going crazy?"

She takes my hand. "Then I'll stick around until you run into it again and pick it back up."

That's Mira. Always choosing me, even when I'm really out of my mind.

But I know what I saw with my own two eyes. I know what's coming.

—

Later that night, after the party gets going and everyone is having a good time, I find myself in the stairwell, holding on to the railing as if it might take me away from all the noise.

Someone comes up the stairs.

It's Delia.

She doesn't notice me in the beginning. She's barefoot. Her hair's a mess. She looks... scared.

"Delia?" I ask softly.

She turns.

For a moment, she looks like her life is slowly going out, just like a candle in a breeze. Her eyes search mine. Desperate.

"Do you know what happens next?" she asks me softly.

I swallow. "Do you?"

"I dream of fire," she says. "And I wake up crying."

I go to touch her, and she pulls away. Then, all of a sudden, she grabs my wrist.

"Tell me what I need to do to make it better."

Her voice cracks like glass.

Behind her, on the roof, the music starts to get louder. Laughter roars. Julian calls her name.

"I can't," I whisper. "I've tried. No one listens."

She stares at me. Then she's gone again, slipping back into the shiny world of her engagement.

I sit on the cold stairwell for what seems like hours.

—

It's getting close to dawn when I climb back up to the rooftop. Mira's still curled up in a blanket, drinking a cold cup of coffee.

She pats on the spot next to her.

"Did you know," she says quietly, "there's a flower called yarrow?"

I glance at her.

"Soldiers used to put ground-up charcoal into wounds to help stop the bleeding."

"Sounds bitter."

She nods. "It is. But it helps."

I think about the yellow petals that made the path in the parade for Delia so beautiful. The bright yellows and soft whites are what stood out to me. I wonder if they'll put the flowers along the graves as well.

"Do you believe in fate?" I ask.

"No," she says. Then, "Maybe. I believe in choices."

So what if no one decides to do anything about all this?

"Then you and I get through it together," she says. "We try to. That's all we can do."

The sun comes up slowly and with an enormous breadth, slowly drawing warmth into the sky as if it's putting off giving us the heat. Below us, the city goes on for miles, and people move about everywhere.

I close my eyes and tightly hold her hand.