Marked

by A.N. Meade

instinct to fight to survive that drove Aimee to dive headlong into studying the rare gifts of her ancestry. She came from a long line of spiritually gifted women. Her grandmother was a typically red haired Scottish-American with some of the fiercest, most determined blue eyes you could imagine. She had married into another clan of Scotch Americans whose lineage was rich with high priestesses, Pentecostal preachers, prophets, and even a serial killer. Whatever they were, you would be hard pressed to find just one who was ordinary.

  Her mother certainly hadn’t been ordinary. She had long blonde hair with orange and gold highlights that framed her green eyes like a lion’s mane. She was charismatic, and a gifted Empath. Her great grandmother had gifts with plants, and her great grandfather was a healer. He had healed a burn on a baby’s face with a technique he called “blowing the fire out.” She remembered him telling her once that it wasn’t something that could be taught, but was a gift that either you were born with or you weren’t.

  Even as a child, Aimee had instinctively known that she was born with some measure of these spiritual gifts that her bloodline possessed. She had also learned fairly early on to hide them, or be labeled an outcast. She had never sought to develop her abilities, for any reason, let alone personal gain. She pressed any recognition of them as far back in her mind as she was able to, that is until now. Now, here she was, digging through old anthologies and memories trying to piece back together the puzzle she had worked so hard to distance herself from.

  This life that she had built was worth defending. If Aimee had to face the skeletons in her family’s closet to build up the strength it would take to face Damian, she was willing. Many things from the night of the cleansing ritual played over and over in her mind. Liam had come through for her when she needed him most. He had risked so much of himself to help keep her safe. She would never be able to thank him for what he had done. The men he had brought in to help him were mysterious, and her thoughts often lingered on them and imagining what they were all about. Maybe the book that Liam had given her in France would tell her something about them. Aimee had barely read more than the cover of that book. She felt a flush of shame that Liam had risked his life to protect her, and she had shown no interest in the effort that he made to teach her more about who he was.

  She tucked some of the loose, stained papers from her family tree into the front of a big brown book of birth and death records, and decided to examine the book that Liam had given her more closely. It was an old book, you could tell from the weight and thickness of the paper. A faint musty smell issued from the cover and the binding. It wasn’t worn on the edges like some of the ledgers were. This was not a book that had been often read. The cover was a blue, canvas like material. There was an odd emblem at the lower left corner that reminded her of the religious tattoos that she had seen on Liam’s back. The wording on the front cover was in some ancient language that Aimee could not recognize. She would try to remember to ask Marc about it later. The numbers marking the chapters were in roman numerals, and their subheadings were in that same unfamiliar languages as the front cover. The chapters themselves, however, were in English. The wording was not modern in any way, but it was no more difficult to understand than that of Nietzsche or Plato, or any other texts, for that matter, that she found so interesting. It was a storybook, as surprising as that was, like a tale from the Grimm brothers, only so much more poignantly told.

  She had begun reading with every intention of finishing up her research within a few hours, and then joining Marc. Lost in the pages, the concept of time had escaped her; the stories were stories of God and man, demons, and angels. There were stories of civilizations and governments, grand in nature, and as culturally rich as the Mayans or the Egyptians. These civilizations were older and the stories of their rise and fall were basic and all encompassing. They were stories that, in the end, are befitting to all nations. It was the story of a land of prosperity, born from the ashes of great hardship, ambitious in intention, and ultimately destroyed and all but forgotten due to the fallibility of man.

  Some of the names were vague recollections from her childhood study of the Old Testament. Aimee fought to recall what she knew of Sumeria and Babylon, this would certainly warrant further study. Shifting her weight from side to side, the length of time she had sat there on the cold floor of the library was immediately apparent when soreness and a dull ache radiated from her feet to her thighs. Such small pains reminded of her humanity, not so long gone. There is something about the dark stiffness of night that lends to philosophy and reflection. This was true before, and it was still true now. How surprising it was that just now was the first time since meeting Marc, she contemplated the nature of what she was. Aimee’s heart was heavy with the weight of each question and implications that accompanied them. She felt her energy waning, and she longed to tuck her body close against Marc’s and feel his arms enfold her.

  Marc tossed back and forth, fighting with the mattress, the sheet, and the emptiness of the room without Aimee in it. She had slipped away with her book early in the evening. Marc loved to spend time with Aimee in the library, but he recognized that she sometimes needed time to herself, to contemplate the secrets that she never shared even with him. It was more than difficult to maintain composure in her presence. He wanted her and cherished her as if she were the rarest of treasures. He needed her like life needs air and water. She was everything to him. She always had been, and he knew for certain she always would be.

  She had been able to escape within herself from time to time, and although these absences of hers were necessary, they filled him with a kind of dread and pain that bordered on despair. It was terrifying and enraging to depend on that connection so completely. He pretended to be sleeping as she crawled over him into bed. He didn’t want her to feel obligated to conversation unless she wished it and he certainly didn’t want her know that he was incapable of resting without her by his side. She pressed her body against his and kissed him lightly on the cheek. One small brush of her lips, and he was set at peace. “I know you’re awake Marc,” Aimee said peeking up at him from his side.

  “How did you know?”

  “I could feel you smiling when I kissed you.”

  “You are the only one in the world who can know that without seeing my face.” He was, of course, smiling. He smiled even more so with her intent gaze on his face.

  Sleep came quickly for them both. Marc did not dream, but Aimee was transported to a forest surrounded by darkness. It was hard to see, but things felt familiar. She was sure that she had been here before. Her dreams often led her into the heart of this forest. Many times she had walked along its familiar paths. She knew much of the landscape by heart, and most of the time, it was comforting to be here. There was a lake that she knew, and a meadow, ad if she walked far enough there was a beautiful manor and home. The trees were beautiful, tall and strong. The smell of their bark was deep and rich and fresh. She filled her lungs with the scent of it. She could sense the animals around her, all of them masked in shadow.

  There were two squirrels in the hollow of a tree in front of her. On a bough near them, was perched a large barn owl. His eyes tracked the movements of his prey, a small mouse that was scurrying amongst the underbrush. The mouse must have felt the great owl’s eyes upon him, because he stopped for one fatal second, hoping, she imagined that he was wrong. She wondered if he believed that he was still safe and hidden. Then, the owl descended in one fell swoop and had the mouse in its grip before it had the chance to react. He flew toward her next, up and over her head. The power of his wings left her breathless, and then she saw a figure draped in shadow standing not twenty yards away.

  It was the figure of a man, tall and broad. He wore a cape, or a long coat of some kind, and it disguised the shape of his arms and legs. Finer features such as the details of his face were hidden in shadow. Even with all that was indiscernible, there was something in the way that he held himself. There was something familiar in his carriage,
almost regal in his strength and composure. Aimee could not see his eyes, but she knew somehow that they were staring right back into hers. She knew him. His air did not invite her to go to him. He never moved any closer toward her. He did not reach out his arms in welcoming.

  At once, Aimee found herself hurrying to decide if he was her friend or her foe. She inhaled deeply, hoping that some scent of his would catch on the wind. A scent could help her in deciphering him. There was nothing but the wet dew, and a faint musk rising from the underbrush. When her mind was still, she heard him. The thought was foreign, but his message was clear. What are you doing, my beauty? Do you still believe you can get away from me? I have given everything to have you. I have given my very soul that I might always find you. You fantasize about freedom, but you are not free, never free.

  A cold determination swept over her as she looked at him. She stepped forward, stopping just as she began to see the features of his face take shape, faintly illuminated by the moonlight. She knew who he was. She was surprised in a way that he had not come to her sooner. Liam had