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“You know that Braxians do not fare well in city settings. There is a reason each clan lives in their own compounds,” I argued. “Haven is supposed to be a sanctuary for all those who come here seeking shelter. Are hybrids now supposed to be prisoners holed up in Genxia to benefit from that protection?”
Callan heaved a sigh. By the way his face closed up, I realized the battle was lost. “You are right, it is unfair. However, we cannot spare the resources to guard all their individual ‘compounds’ when each one is scattered far and wide from the other.”
This time, dropping all pretense, I glared at the Councilor. “If the Pelurians were being hunted, you would have no problem coming up with the funds necessary to ensure their safety,” I hissed. “The Braxian hybrids may not be cute, can be rude, love to brawl, be overly horny, and overall intimidating, but they still abide by your laws. Remember well that many of the essential resources of Haven are harvested by the sweat of their brow, and it is their strength that keeps the cities safe from stampeding wild beasts every spring.”
“We do not forget,” Councilor Linora interjected in a stern tone.
Lips pinched, the older human female leveled her disapproving dark brown eyes on me. She had often been the swing vote who had helped tip the scale in my favor on the rare occasions I managed to get anything out of the Twelve to support the shelter.
“As Callan has already stated, we mourn the losses and ache in light of the plight of your wards. But they must meet us halfway. Until we have more clues as to who is behind these senseless killings, they will need to return to Genxia or regroup in a way easier for our limited resources to provide protection. We’re sorry we cannot do more at this time, but we simply do not have the budget for it. Our decision is final.”
Fighting back angry tears and the burning urge to give them the tongue lashing they rightly deserved, I rose from my chair and plastered the most stoic expression I possibly could on my face. The stiffness of my back and shoulders wouldn’t fool anyone, but further burning the bridges with the Twelve would only be a disservice to those under my care.
“Thank you for taking the time to hear my request. Good day to you, Councilors,” I said in a controlled voice.
“And to you, Dawn,” Callan replied, having the decency to look ever-so-slightly embarrassed.
I walked out of the imposing room, the long aisle framed by countless empty rows of seats for the public feeling endless. The balcony overhead also sat empty. Although this hearing had been published in Haven’s Bulletin—as required for any requests involving dipping into Haven’s treasury, no one had shown up in support. Even just a dozen random citizens could have turned the tide, if only a little.
Refusing to give in to the wave of helplessness that wanted to settle over me, I tried to cheer myself up at the prospect of Prince Keran Xeldar’s arrival later today.
Not Prince but Jakar. I better remember to use the proper Braxian title.
I had hoped to have some more encouraging news for him, such as the Twelve backing our efforts to apprehend the murderer. It already sucked to have to reach out to the Braxian royal family for aid. But what would he think once he realized even the leaders of our sanctuary couldn’t be bothered to protect the hybrids? I hated coming to him in a groveling position.
Walking hastily, I headed to the parking area, avoiding making eye contact with the clerks, guards, and civilians scurrying about. They all knew the reason for my presence here. By the sympathetic, almost apologetic glances they were casting my way, they had likely known all along what unfavorable outcome awaited me.
The spiteful part of me wanted to convince the hybrids not to participate in the culling of the wild beasts that would stampede on the outskirts of some of Haven’s villages in the next couple of months. Once their pockets got hit by losses of herds, and days—if not weeks—of lost sales and work hours while everyone hunkered down until the danger had passed, maybe they would show more appreciation for the hybrids’ contribution.
Obviously, I wouldn’t do that. Aside from not wanting to get innocent animals slaughtered, civilians would more than likely also get injured, if not killed in a desperate attempt to save their herds. I didn’t want people’s blood on my hands just to make a point.
Heaving a sigh, I hopped inside my personal shuttle. It was one of five generic, slightly dated two-seaters, that the Twelve had donated to Genxia, the Braxian hybrid shelter I’d been managing for the past twenty years.
Built over sixteen hectares, the shelter had originally served as a religious compound. After the Galactic Council’s peacekeeping forces settled the unrest that had forced them to flee, the congregation had returned to their homeworld. The abandoned compound had first served as an orphanage before being turned into a Braxian hybrid shelter a little over sixty years ago.
As I began my approach, I let my gaze roam over the sprawling facilities. The main building made of brown stones and wood had previously housed the dorm rooms, classrooms, communal room, cafeteria, prayer hall, infirmary, and administrative offices of the religious colony. Countless other buildings around it had offered “honeymoon suites” for couples in need of temporary privacy, as well as many artisan and food production buildings, stables, storage, a large animal paddock, and fields to grow produce as far as the eye could see.
Today, while the hybrids still tended the fields to provide for the shelter as well as sell in the market, most of the buildings had been repurposed. Before Magnar Ravik forbade hunting down hybrids, most of the members of our shelter had taken some of the individual buildings as their personal dwellings. The dormitories had been divided into private bedrooms and guest rooms. The prayer room now served as a meeting hall. Some of the classrooms kept that purpose while the others were turned into workshops.
When I first took over the management of the shelter, the place was booming with activity. At twenty-five, full of hope, enthusiasm, and great ideas, I thought I could turn this place into the go-to reference when it came to accompanying and supporting refugees. I would give them shelter, provide them with the tools to become productive members of their adoptive society, and then send them off on the bright and safe future they never imagined possible.
Two decades later, this place had become a ghost town.
My heart sank upon seeing the paddock—now turned into a landing pad—empty but for two personal shuttles. The standard dull gray one undoubtedly belonged to Melinda, my assistant. I silenced an inward groan as I recognized the second one as being Vintor’s. That male was a handful.
But at least he showed up for the meeting, unlike everyone else.
Although it didn’t surprise me, it still hurt. You couldn’t help people who couldn’t be bothered to get involved in the process. They wanted me to just hand them over a solution that suited their needs and expectations. But as much as I hated to admit it, Callen hadn’t been wrong in suggesting that everyone should gather here for safety in numbers until we had a better sense of who we were dealing with.
I landed my shuttle then walked with heavy steps to the entrance of the main building. As I climbed the six steps of the wide staircase to the entrance, a gust of wind blew my long black hair into my face. Flicking the locks back over my shoulders, I fleetingly wished an even more powerful wind would sweep away all our woes.
But as I opened the front door, it was the loud sound of voices arguing that kicked my somber thoughts to the curb.
What now?
I rushed inside to find Vintor towering over Melinda, right in front of the large doors of the meeting hall. His massive arms crossed over his chest, the muscles bulging with tension, he was glaring at my assistant with a mulish expression on his brutish face. Where hybrids possessed between mild to very prominent Braxian features, Vintor would have easily passed for a pureblood, had it not been for his smaller stature in comparison.
Although I had yet to meet a pureblood in person, it was no secret that the males averaged a height of 7’5”—up to 8’2” for the tallest—with nearly three hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle. They didn’t even have to train to have the type of muscular definition even the most hardcore human bodybuilder would kill for. While most hybrid males hovered around 6’5”, Vintor had achieved a very respectable 6’7” and two hundred and fifty pounds. His body was to die for, unlike his personality…
