Page 37 of This Cruel Fate

“Excuse me,” a short, middle-aged man said to her right. He reached out to grab a pastry from right in front of Xolia.

She didn’t grace him with a response, instead stepping away from him to give him space. Whether from obliviousness or malice, he stepped closer to her, shoving the entire thing into his mouth and chewing loudly.

It grated on Xolia’s nerves. She exhaled loudly, hoping that was enough of a hint for him. It wasn’t. Instead, he inched closer to her, and the fountain of running water behind her splashed precariously out of its pool.

Damn. It had been so long since someone had gotten under her skin for such a petty reason. However, it was more pathetic that she hadn’t been able to control her external response.

The man’s ice-blue eyes lit up, and his sly smile grew. “You’re a variant.”

She nodded, turning away to look for Adonis.

He held out a hand when she turned back to him. “John Clemont.”

A slight gasp escaped her. What an unsettling coincidence. “Xolia. . .Stone.” The awkwardness of her last name had never really gone away since it was given to her. It never felt right or fit her in any way.

Recognition sparked across John’s face. “Your reputation precedes you, though I am embarrassed to admit I didn’t recognize you from your Presidential Palace addresses.”

Despite the seemingly transparent words, there was something guarded about him. The way he had sidled up to her at the table lingered in the back of Xolia’s mind.

“I didn’t think anyone really watched them on PAN,” she said with a forced smile. The Public Access Network always televised the yearly dinner and speeches; however, it was a far cry from having any real public notoriety.

“It pays to stay informed,” John said. He wiped his hands on a napkin, which he left discarded on the table. “Could I convince you to walk with me around the grounds?”

“It’s cold,” she objected, but already curiosity was telling her to say yes.

John shrugged. “I’m sure you’ve lived through worse.”

Xolia narrowed her eyes but still matched his purposeful stride through the main room. A live band played music next to the open bar which was set up on the eastern wall. Adonis was still hidden somewhere amongst the partygoers. Her chest tightened; the whole thing felt off.

The tempo of the music changed in time with her heart, the sound of the music overwhelming her senses until it quieted as they walked through a set of double doors, leading to a terrace and a walkway that was enshrined in dying vines. There was a wildness here that didn’t exist behind the property lines of the Presidential Palace.

“How are things at the bureau?”

Her heart stopped. How did he know where she worked? It’s not that it was a secret, but she had never publicized it before.

Before she could ask him about it, he kept talking. “That good, huh? The bureau is a huge waste of Risian taxpayer money. FAR’s spent more funding the bureau than they have on rebuilding efforts.”

All those fallen buildings around her work were certainly a testament to that. However, the inside of the bureau was a mess of underfunding and overworked employees. “That’s not a good comparison. Nothing has been put toward the rebuilding efforts.” She didn’t know if anything would ever replace the catastrophe that ate away at Atalia’s eastern border.

“It should be. Don’t you think the city—this country—deserves something better than devastation?”

Xolia snorted. As if she wanted the country to stay the same forever. “I don’t have the power to change any of that.” Even if she accepted Peter’s offer, she couldn’t just wave a hand and rebuild city blocks of infrastructure.

John started walking down the quiet and darkened path, giving Xolia no choice but to walk with him. “Wouldn’t you like to?”

“I’m not really interested in construction,” she retorted, tiring of his aimless wandering and meaningless words.

She was resolutely ignored. “I’ve heard whispers that Peter isn’t asking Atlas to be his vice chancellor again. Early polls aren’t in Peter’s favor. He’s too much of an optimist for this country.” John stopped and stepped in front of Xolia, sending her to an awkward stop, her heels scuffing against the gravel. “Did you know this past year law enforcement agencies saw a 30 percent increase in human-and-variant violence across the country? Do you want to know how many variants died in those skirmishes?”

Xolia was sure she could figure out the answer, but shook her head no.

“None.” He had no problem answering his own question. “Variants are made for violence, Xolia. Are you content sitting behind a desk and emailing someone to get another variant a Good Faith check?”

Air. She needed air but couldn’t breathe. She wasn’t only made for violence. But you love violence. No, she didn’t. You do. You never feel as powerful as when you are fighting—when you’re using your powers.

She clenched her fists to her sides. Shut up. That inner voice that wasn’t logical, the one that spoke to her worst fears subsided, at least for now. She took a deep breath, held it for four measured seconds, and exhaled. “If I knew you were going to come out here and insult my people, I wouldn’t have joined you.”

“It’s not meant to be an insult,” he said. “I’m trying to offer you a job.”