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THE REFLECTIVE

A Reflection Series Novel

Book 1

New York Times
Bestselling Author

TAMARA ROSE BLODGETT

All Rights Reserved.

Copyright © 2013-14 Tamara Rose Blodgett

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

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Cover art by Phatpuppyart.com

Editing suggestions provided by Red Adept Editing

THE CAUSE

First:
Right the Wrong

Second:
Bear No Injustice

Third:
Change Not What Must Be

Prologue

twenty years before

The midwife made her way along ancient cobblestoned streets, her shoes catching in the crevices though Principle knew, her shoes were as sensible as they come.

As was her occupation.

She would arrive in the birthing ward at exactly eight a.m. for her twelve-hour shift. Of course, it would not be twelve hours—it would be for however long the woman labored.

And if a Reflective were born ....

Just the thought of the
potential
for that caused a nervous thrill to flutter deep within Florence, as it did each time she worked.

The Reflective newborns must be swaddled in special non-reflective blankets. A baby would not be lost on her shift because it was a prodigy who jumped at a mirror or other reflective surface left uncovered.

Dear Principle
. She shuddered, thinking about what the punishment would be for
that
. As it was, midwives couldn't use any surgical instruments that were not brushed stainless steel, and since the last unfortunate incident, the midwives had since moved to an all-ceramic surgical unit.

Florence swept up the massive steps. The rise of the treads was so low the stairs felt more like a gentle slope than true steps.

The sparkling flakes of charcoal that clung to the thick white granite reminded her that the sun still shone brightly, though their version of autumn would soon be here.

A shadow fell over Florence, and she twisted to look at the sky, her foot on the top step, her hand on the solid brass door handle that opened to the birthing center.

A swarm of butterflies, so thick it blocked the cerulean of the sky, dropped false night all around her as they flew through the rectangular vents that fed the ventilation system in warmer months.

The ports were a deliberate architectural feature that allowed entry to the only creature in their world that could identify a Reflective

So many.

Florence stood in stunned wonder. She had witnessed butterflies come to mark the birth of a Reflective, but never in such a great number.

Their importance was such that her world was named in their honor: Papilio, Sector Ten.

Their path created a rainbow of iridescent color, which poured like water through the narrow vents that had been carved in the solid stone of the birthing center.

All who lived in their world were born in similar structures.

However, Florence was one of few birthing center workers who had seen the highest incidence of Reflective births. She had requested placement to this one. After a five-year waiting period, she’d been assigned to the most prestigious.

She snapped out of her reverie as the last of the mingling kaleidoscope of insects funneled through the slits underneath the eaves of a copper roof, now aged a deep verdigris.

Florence tore open the heavy door.

She didn't hear it clank behind her as she ran the length of the corridor to the floor that housed laboring mothers.

*

Florence burst through the swinging doors as a man and a woman stood over a cradle.

Confused, Florence skidded to a stop.

What is this?

This
... appeared to be the parents in front of a babe so new that some of the vernix still coated the wee one, her arms swinging as she howled.

Two nurses, one at the end of her shift and one in training, hung back.

Oh, for the love of all that is good.
She
stalked over to the newborn.

Florence halted as the sight overtook them all.

Their breath.

Their thoughts.

Everything but the scene itself melted away for those who witnessed the post-birth spectacle.

The butterflies descended, floating in a lazy spiral as the opalescent sunlight washed over their multicolored wings.

The chubby arms of the baby girl swirled and pumped, slowing as the butterflies drew nearer, and her echoing screams gradually grew quiet.

The insects lighted on the rails of the basinet in a portentous group, their wings moving in a steady sweep to maintain balance.

Their appearance froze the parents’ breath in their throats.

The moment swelled and grew in the stillness of the nursery, where rows upon rows of cradles pressed against the other. The parents watched the butterflies flutter precariously on the polished sides of the newborn's bed, landing only on hers and no other.

Their appearance was beautiful… final.

Florence strained to hear the mother's voice.

“She is Reflective,” she said in a sorrowful tone.

Her mate squeezed her hand so tightly her knuckles turned white.

“Yes,” he replied, just as gravely.

Their gaze met in perfect understanding of what the future held for their daughter: a life as mercenary, hunter and hunted.

This was an honor and privilege among their people.

Florence closed her eyes in sympathy.
A female Reflective
—every parents dream… and nightmare.

*

five years later

Beth shot the plain glass marble across the stretch of earth, watching the glass orb tumble and spin as it met the others she’d shot in a smack of hardened glass. It swerved at the last moment, ricocheting off a shooter, and came to stand where she'd intended.

All the other children her age could play with any marble they chose, but she possessed no mercury-coated marbles.

Beth Jasper was a solitary girl.

But not one who lacked intelligence. Beth had felt the sadness from Papa and Mama and knew she would soon leave for the building that had a big shining silver
papilio
above the entrance.

Mama and Papa had taken her there the previous week to meet with a man who had a nose like the water birds that gathered near her family's pond.

His nose made it very difficult for her not to giggle. Beth sometimes had a problem with laughing when she shouldn’t.

Beth had observed and stood watch over her new surroundings, remembering what her adoptive parents had told her.

Beth, you must let us do the talking. Under no circumstances should you volunteer to train for a combative role. There are alternative roles for female Reflectives.

Beth crinkled her face at the memory. She understood all of what they wanted of her, and she would not shuffle papers and sit behind a desk, looking like the dolls she had given up playing with.

All Reflectives were far more mature than their human counterparts from the other twelve sectors.

Beth spoke like a teen, though she was five cycles. She puzzled through things that confounded adults.

She was faster, stronger, and brighter.

Beth was female.

When Commander Rachett of the Reflective Militia, who operated under The Cause leaned forward and delved deep, he tried to pierce young Beth's very soul. She met him halfway.

Her small body leaned boldly toward his, unafraid.

In their people's ancient language of Latin, he posed the question:
What role will you fill within The Cause, young Beth?

Beth narrowed her eyes, and Rachett's eyebrows raised slowly.

He had studied her, no doubt because she was a half-breed, and female besides. She had met his stare with an unwavering gaze.

“A combative role, of course,” Beth said in her childlike voice, though the meaning was very adult, because she understood and communicated like one.

“No! Beth…” her mama said.

Beth swung her legs back and forth underneath the chair. Her eyes drifted to the candy dish poised at the edge of the desk before returning to the commander's.

Beth's stare matched Rachett's.

Rachett had to know what she was: a warrior. The attribute was either present, or it wasn’t.

Her papa stood.

“We can't have her fight. She is female… and not big for her gender.” Her father's face pleaded with Rachett to see reason.

Commander Rachett wasn't known as a reasonable man.

Rachett steepled his fingers underneath his chin, looking at Beth’s adoptive parents. Good people, common folk who were loyal to The Cause, believers in the Principle.

Rachett's gaze shifted to Beth. He scrutinized her face: eyes like crushed brown velvet; hair like a raven's wing; and skin like polished marble, pale but not pasty.

She is too beautiful to fight,
he must have thought with regret.

Beth saw that future remorse on his face.

Then he looked at her hands, long-fingered and limber.

His eyes shifted back to hers.

“Beth?” he asked softly.

“Yes, Commander Rachett?” Her small fingers held something.

He frowned, obviously distracted from his planned comment.

“What do you have in your hand?”

She opened her palm, revealing a large reflective marble—a
shooter coated with hard-laced mercury.

Rachett sucked in his breath.

“That's a locator.”

Her parents looked at each other.

“Where did you get that, Beth?” her papa asked carefully.

Beth's eyes touched on the worry that each face held, and she felt her face scrunch.

“They hand them out at the front entrance…” Rachett said thoughtfully before Beth could answer.

Beth nodded carefully. The nice lady had given it to her to entertain herself with.

“Do you know what those are for?” Rachett asked her.

She nodded again.

Beth knew. She liked the feeling of the smooth glossy surface. Her fingers worked over the cylindrical perfection delicately, with reverence.

“It is for those Reflectives who need to find their sector,” Rachett explained neutrally.

He smiled down at her.

Beth was certain he understood she wasn't a regular five cycle.

Then his smile faded as he no doubt recalled her gender. Beth was weary of being thought of as lesser because she was a girl.

She'd heard the whispers of the bullying that was so commonplace within the ranks of the Reflectives.

Though, of course, everyone had heard the story of the swarm that had descended on her day of birth.

Papiliones
did not lie.

Rachett shook his head, obviously having made his decision. It was safer—for everyone.

Beth narrowed her eyes on the vision of his soft thoughts of her future role.

Rachett stood. As did Beth and the parents who were not of her blood.

“I'm sorry. Beth will be placed in… inter-dimensional communication training. An excellent program and critical calling for the female Reflective,” Rachett stated, lacing his hands together, effectively closing the meeting.

“Thank Principle,” Beth's mother murmured. She shot Beth a look that let her know she had been naughty for sharing her crazy intentions after being instructed to remain silent.

Heat began to build in Beth's chest. She recognized it immediately: anger.

It began at the core of her body and swam out like molten lava, lashing through her circulatory system in defiance of being contained.

Beth did not want to be a weak female.

She was not.

Then Beth did what all children do—she threw a tantrum.

Beth threw the marble at Commander Rachett.

“No!” she shouted in a clear, bell-like voice that stung the ears and raised the hair on the back of his neck.

Beth's body reacted to her emotions and the spinning ball of glass coated by the forbidden mercury.

It spun, and Beth tracked it automatically, as if it were as natural as taking her next breath. It was part and parcel of being Reflective.

The heat inside her body coalesced, bursting painfully and beautifully, and she gasped as the ball moved toward her, then slammed into her in midair.

Her small body morphed into the narrow strip of shimmering ribbon that all Reflectives become when they jump.

Beth allowed all of it to happen in an instinctual slide of circumstance and raw emotion. Her new form lashed like a shining whip, absorbing into the shell of the spinning glass as it sailed in the air for its two seconds of flight.

Coolness washed away the heat, and she spun with the ball… and went somewhere else, in a falling stream of fire bathed by ice.

Rachett stilled, dazed, as the ball that Beth Jasper had used for transport shattered at his feet.

He and Beth’s parents stood stock-still, their bearings gone.

Commander Rachett picked up a shard, and one of his eyes caught in the mirror-like image. He didn't like what he saw there—fear.