by Rebecca Main
“It’s just a birthmark,” I tell him neutrally.
He snorts. His face is the picture of tired amusement. “It’s my mark.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He responds by roughly tugging his shirt over his head and baring his back to me. Sitting inconspicuously on his left shoulder blade is a dark mark in the shape of a crescent. My heart gives a sudden and painful lurch. The mere sight of my mark’s twin makes my mouth turn dry. It has absolutely nothing to do with the way his muscles rippled and contracted in the dim lighting. “That’s… just a coincidence. Loads of people are bound to have birthmarks like ours.” He turns around to face me.
“And how would you explain what happened in the forest?” His regard is wicked when combined with the thick timber of his voice, and I turn my gaze defiantly away. He doesn’t have to sound so smug. “Well?” he inquires. I take another sip of the tea. Stalling shamelessly as my heart begins to race slowly. I can’t explain it, and he and I both know it. “My brother only kept you alive because he caught sight of your soulmark, Zoelle. Because he knew it matched mine. All lycans have soulmarks, but not all find their match. If they do… well, it's quite like finding your soul mate. Only better. Everything is so much more.”
He smiles. Something real and genuine for once, and I find myself listening aptly, my gaze tentatively returning to his. “Bound soulmarks strengthen the pack because they are the heart of the pack. They are the reason we fight. They are our courage and strength. And you, Zoelle Baudelaire, are my greatest strength and weakness because of this. Yet, without you, I am weaker still.”
“How do you know my last name?” I whisper, face surely turning ashen as a million reasons run through my mind. None of them good.
“Your phone,” he says simply. "Your grandmother is Diana Baudelaire, is she not?" I nod reluctantly but feel the urge to slap the arrogant smile he shoots me.
I digest his earlier words, confusion and self-righteous anger rising forth as my migraine recedes. I lick my lips nervously. “Soul mates?” It comes out part scoff, part taunt. “You’re joking, right?” I have been chased, captured, taken to some stranger’s house with no remorse, and he has the nerve to spin me some bullshit story about love and soul mates?
“No, soulmark. Hasn’t your grandmother taught you anything?” he inquires, seeming truly curious despite my hostile response.
Apparently not, I think furiously. “Kindly leave my grandmother out of this and let me go. I’m sure everything can be forgotten, and charges won't need to be pressed—”
“No,” he says calmly, cutting me off. His jaw ticks as he scowls down at me. “You don’t seem to understand. You bare my mark, and I yours. We belong together. The first step has already been completed. We are sealed.”
A shiver darts up my spine at the memory. The lingering sensations send goose bumps across my flesh. I begin to disagree, but he is at my side in an instant. How could he possibly move so fast? “I felt you. I felt your breath fill me, and suddenly you were everywhere: in my gut, in my lungs, in my throat. I touched your skin, and you rose up around me. Filled every part of me. You embraced me, Baudelaire.
“I’ve dreamt of finding my soulmark all my life. I waited and waited until one day I placed all thoughts of you to the far recesses of my heart. And now you’re here.” His eyes hold mine captive, a fire burning behind them to go along with his emblazoned words. “And you felt it too, I saw it. I saw it in your eyes. The way it consumed you, body and… soul. It may not be tonight, or tomorrow, or the day after that”—he laughs humorlessly—“but soon I’ll be your every thought and dream as well. I promise you that.”
A panicky feeling itches at my insides. Screams at me to leave. But I’m frozen in place. I take a deep breath, then breathe it out slowly and purposefully. “No,” I say firmly. “If what you’re saying is…” I pause unsteadily, let out a sharp bark of laughter, eyes widening as the panic crawls up the back of my throat. “… that we're—no. Just, no! There are no such things as soul mates. No lycans. No witches.”
He raises an eyebrow at my show of hysterics. I glower in return. “You’re still adamant that you’re not a witch?”
“Of course, I’m not!” My hands jut upward and land in a flop at my side. “Are you crazy? I’m not a—a witch.”
“I’m not letting you go, Zoelle.”
“I’m not yours to do anything with, Xander. Your stupid seal be damned.” I hiss back. He growls. Literally, growls. A deep guttural sound of frustration and intimidation. I shrink back, and he immediately softens.
“While this isn’t how I planned our first encounter going,” he tells me through gritted teeth, “there’s no changing what has occurred. Maybe a chat with your grandmother will make you see sense, and afterward, we can talk again.”
I sneer back at him before turning my hostile gaze toward the wall, but Xander growls once more. Taking me by the chin, he forces my face toward him once more. “Don’t turn away from me, Zoelle. And don’t show me your neck until you’re fully ready to make that commitment—do you understand?” His fingers pinch painfully into my skin until I utter my compliance, and then they move, faster than lightning, to graze the length of my neck. I jerk backward and eye him distastefully. Taking in my expression, I note the flash of hurt that crosses his features, but it goes just as it quickly as it came. He exits the room without another word.
I’m shaking and crying when Gran comes in, my knees curled into my chest and my arms locked around as much of my body as I can.
“Oh, Zoelle.” Her expression is downtrodden as she comes to sit by me.
“Gran, what is happening? What’s going on? I don’t understand. That… that man thinks I'm his soul mate! And there were wolves in the woods, Gran! Men who turned into wolves right before my very eyes. Oh God—” I let out a pathetic moan. “—and he keeps calling me a witch. A witch!” She pulls me into her arms, holding me tightly while I regain my breath.
“This is not the way I wanted you to find out,” she whispers sadly in my ear. My entire body stiffens in response as she eases me away.
“What?”
“Sweetheart, what exactly has he told you so far?” I stare at her flabbergasted before detailing our conversation. Tears threaten to gush again with each passing word. She sighs once more, something laden and forlorn, before straightening her back. “You saw those men shift from man to beast? Transform?” I nod. Gran rolls her shoulders back, straightening before me. “It’s true, Zoelle,” she tells me, her voice unwavering.
“But, Gran—”
“Zoelle, you are a witch. All of those things that man told you… they are true. There’s a whole other world hidden right before your eyes, but it seems I can’t shield you from it any longer.”
A thousand stones land at the bottom of my stomach at once. I blanch. My nausea comes back full force for one terrible moment before subsiding. It can’t be true. Things like this don’t happen! Witches and werewolves don’t exist!
Except I saw with my own eyes the transformation of man to wolf.
“Gran… this can’t....”
“My darling girl, the women of our family all carry magic inside of them. Me, your sister, and mother included.” My mouth falls open in wonder. “Aunt Mo and Lydia, too.”
“Witches?” I whisper weakly. Gran nods.
“Our family is blessed. In each generation, at least two women are born: one to cast, and one to brew. The elder and younger respectively.”
“I’m a brewer? What does that even mean?”
Gran sends me a wry grin. “Why sweetheart you brew just about every day, don’t you? You cook. You impart your emotions into every dish, letting your diners experience what you want. It’s a particular kind of influence that—”
“Wait.” I hold up a hand and screw my eyes tightly shut for a second. “My feelings go into my food?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Your sister was a caster, as was your mother. They follow in my footsteps, but I’ve learned
a thing or two about brewing with my age.”
“And did you know about….” My fingers graze near my collarbone. Gran shakes her head.
“I promise you, darling, I didn’t. I only knew that I didn’t want you to be a part of this world. Not until I felt you were ready. There’s so much more to tell you—” A knock sounds at the door before Ryatt pokes his head inside. His dark hair is styled in messy spikes and he sports an annoyingly crooked smirk as he steps into the room. He gives a moment’s pause before placing a hand mockingly over his heart. His blue eyes are startling blue, a fact I’m surprised I missed before.
“What a touching scene.”
“What do you want, dog?” Gran asks coldly. He pouts.
“My brother asked me to fetch you. Won’t you follow me?” His hand sweeps out in front of him and waits for us to stand before exiting. We follow stiffly.
We walk down a long hallway. The walls painted a creamy white, decorated with large art pieces full of abstract colors to catch the eye. I try to lose myself in the work and detail of each color I pass, doing my best to choke down my thumping heart. Gran walks ahead of me, only a foot behind Ryatt, head held high. God, I still feel like I’m going to throw up. If only I had Gran’s confidence.
We walk into a formal room, the walls a vibrant royal blue with white crown molding and gold accents. The room is fit for a king with furniture that looks much too nice to sit on, let alone discuss supernatural politics. Xander stands near a drink cart, pouring himself a glass of liquid amber. Near him, a woman sits in a high-backed chair. Her hair is dark and reaches well past her small bust. She eyes us without a hint of a smile. Ryatt makes himself comfortable in the other available high-backed chair, gesturing for Gran and me to take our seats on the small settee.
“You’ve spoken, then?” Xander asks, coming to stand near the woman in the seat. Glass clutched tightly in his grasp.
“Barely,” Gran retorts. “Ten minutes is hardly enough time to explain the situation we find ourselves in.”
“I assume you were able to cover the basics,” he says unmoved, “the mark and what it means. I suggest we begin discussion immediately on the forthcoming nuptials to occur between me and your granddaughter.”
“Whoa!” I cry, “Nuptials? Let’s all calm down for a moment, all right? A wedding? That hardly seems necessary.”
“Of course, it’s necessary.” The woman sneers, her pert nose stuck permanently in the air. “Honestly.” She tut-tuts.
“Irina,” Xander growls in warning. They must be siblings. Their eyes are the same intense green and chins so similarly cleft. Not to mention their glossy dark hair, a trait all three have in common. Her lips form a pout.
“Your impatience has certainly done you no favors, brother,” she remarks, glaring at Xander with a beautiful scowl. Scorn has never looked so good on the woman, I think mildly envious.
“You are here to observe and stand witness, Irina, not for your unamusing commentary.” Irina releases a low-pitched growl; her lip beginning to curl when Ryatt barks out a laugh.
“These two are always at the ready to put on a show,” he comments. “You’ll get used to it.”
Oh no, I will not.
“I’m sure some compromise can be found,” Gran volunteers stoically. “Unfortunately, as circumstances stand, Zoelle has only recently been informed of her birthright and heritage. She cannot be expected to complete the bonding without all available knowledge presented to her. Nor will I force her into a marriage without her express consent.”
Xander glares at Gran while the room stands silently at her statement. “How… unorthodox,” Irina chimes after a minute. “Surely the standard courting procedure will do. The soulmark has already been sealed. It’s only a matter of time before the marking and binding will be completed. Zoelle should live under our roof while terms of a treaty can be negotiated between our families.”
I stare in a stupor at Irina, well aware that I am under her brother's scrutiny. “No deal.” My firm response quiets the group. “If we’re witches, can't we just undo this? With a spell or potion? Something?” I toss a helpless look at Gran whose face pulls into a frown.
“You cannot erase what is born, nor can we ignore the triggering of the seal,” Gran tells me softly. “But you do have a choice in this, Zoelle. It is not unheard of for a soulmark to be rejected, but it will be uncomfortable to ignore.”
“It will be impossible to ignore if I have anything to say about it.” Xander all but barks.
“You will not force this upon my granddaughter,” Gran retorts heatedly. “I’ll be damned before allowing that to happen. And don’t think for a moment the Trinity Coven will rally behind this union. Not if Zoelle doesn’t want it. Remember wolf, if she does not wish to be found, we can make it so. Your soulmark be damned.” The three siblings growl menacingly at the threat, but Gran doesn’t back down.
“Surely an agreement can be reached. There’s no reason for these two lovebirds to face the pain they are sure to endure by ignoring the mark,” Ryatt finally says, all traces of joviality gone. “Think of the possibilities their union could bring—this town would need never know fear with our families and priorities aligned. Furthermore, why deny your granddaughter her soul mate? We both know she will find no other—”
“I have a boyfriend,” I blurt out, face turning bright red as all eyes crash into me. “I… have a boyfriend. Who I love.” My eyes find Xander’s, pleading with this mysterious man to understand. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t think this will work. Maybe we can be… friends?”
Irina snorts, her heading shaking in disdain. “In love,” she mutters, “what you have now with your little boyfriend will pale in comparison to what you will have with my brother. Maybe you should be allowed more time to speak with your grandmother on the topic before she departs. Then we shall reconvene tomorrow to discuss the particulars?”
“I’m not staying here,” I say after processing Irina’s words. “I’m going home with Gran, and there will be no more—”
“We will speak on the matter more tomorrow, but I must agree with Zoelle. She will not be staying here.”
Irina bristles. “Don't be ridiculous. It’s customary for those who bear the mark to reside with the male’s family. It’s understandable that one might think these unusual circumstances might grant an exception, but I assure you, they do not.” Gran stands slowly, eyeing Irina with disdain and her fingers begin to let off sparks.
I stare wide-eyed as the room holds its breath, the atmosphere charged with unrelenting energy just waiting to snap. Xander lets out a huff of annoyance, snarling sharply at his sister, who reluctantly tilts her gaze downward toward the floor, exposing her throat ever so slightly to her brother.
“Zoelle may leave with you for the night,” he finally speaks, voice low and hard, “but I must insist on settling the terms of agreement on the morrow.”
“Xander,” Irina cries in distress, “you can’t—”
“That’s final,” he snaps.
“You’ll both suffer for it. You esp—”
“I said that’s final, and I meant it.” The room goes quiet once more as I stand quickly from the couch, hovering by Gran’s side uneasily.
“You’re aware of the consequences your actions may have if no... reasonable, compromise can be reached?” Ryatt asks pointedly of Gran, his voice ominous and face somber. Gran takes me by the hand and leads me out of the room, and out of the house, our answer clear.
My head spins in a daze the entire way home, my heart in my throat and feelings a blur as they cascade through me. Witches, werewolves, and soulmarks? What have I gotten myself into?
– Chapter 4 –
The Art of Negotiation