The Marked Girl

by Lindsey Klingele

  As soon as her feet touched the ground, Liv looked to her right and saw the man had exited the bus also. Just as the bus door started to close behind her, Liv reached up and stuck a hand out, stopping them. She slipped her body back in through the door just before it swung shut.

  “Hey,” the driver called out to her. “You can get hurt doing that.”

  “Sorry,” Liv murmured. “Wrong stop.”

  The driver shook her head and pulled away from the curb and back into traffic. Liv looked out of the window at the man, now standing motionless on the sidewalk. He was still staring at her.

  Liv sat at the very front of the bus until it arrived at her actual stop. As soon as the doors opened, she jumped out and started running toward home. It wasn’t until she pushed through the chain-link gate outside of her house and jogged up to the front door that Liv really let out her breath.

  Inside, the living room was stuffy, and the curtains were still closed from this morning. No sign of Rita.

  Liv locked the door behind her, then leaned back against it and reached for the light switch on the wall. Warm yellow light fell over the room, resting on the familiar couch and coffee table. She suddenly felt silly for running home.

  With a sigh, Liv pushed off from the door and headed to the bathroom. Once inside, she put Neosporin and a large bandage over her hand. She then washed her face and ran her finger along the cut on her head, cautiously. It wasn’t as bad as she’d originally thought. In the end, she was able to affix a small, beige Band-Aid just over her left temple. She moved a chunk of hair over her forehead to hide it.

  Liv walked into the kitchen and was still scratching the corner of her hand bandage when a movement caught her eye. The green-and-white-striped window curtain was blowing in a breeze. Liv swiveled to the patio door and saw it was open to the night. Or no—not open—but gaping, hanging off its tracks. As if it had been torn from its place.

  And lying just beyond it was a small, dark shape, barely visible in the moonlight. Liv took a few quiet steps forward. It was a single, black tennis shoe. The kind Rita wore to work every day. And just a few feet beyond the shoe was Rita herself, sprawled out on the concrete patio.

  Liv gasped and ran to Rita’s side. An empty liquor bottle was lying near the side of the house, just inches from Rita’s outstretched arm. A plastic patio chair was tipped over on its side, with one leg broken. Rita was sprawled out underneath it, her head resting half on the concrete stretch of patio and half on the browned grass beyond.

  Liv took hold of Rita’s shoulder and turned her over. The overwhelming stench of hard liquor and vomit hit her at once. Rita’s body moved limply, her eyes half open but unmoving.

  “Rita, please,” she cried, fighting against the rising lump in her throat. “Help! Somebody!”

  The windows in the neighboring condo remained dark.

  Liv ran back inside to call 9-1-1, while Rita’s half-open eyes continued to stare vacantly at a world they couldn’t see.

  THE ORPHAN’S REFUGE

  When Cedric woke up, he had no idea whether it was morning or still night. Though his eyes had mostly adjusted to the natural darkness of the living space under the museum, it was still difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. With a groan, he pulled himself up from his nest of blankets and rubbed at a crick in his neck.

  He heard a click, and then a small, bright flame flared up in the darkness. It illuminated the face of Merek, who leaned against the wall near Cedric’s makeshift bed.

  “He rises,” Merek drawled.

  Cedric rubbed his eyes. He was definitely not awake enough yet to deal with Merek. “Watching me sleep?”

  Merek scoffed. “Hardly. Katerina asked me to come fetch you from your royal slumber.”

  “Fetch me?”

  Merek clicked the little metal device in his hand again, this time closing the cap that extinguished the fire. Then he clicked again, relighting it. He’d found the device in the alley outside of the museum and couldn’t be parted from it. Partially, Cedric suspected, because he knew how much the constant clicking noise irritated Cedric.

  “I am merely the messenger.” Merek kicked off from the wall and slipped through the doorway, blessedly taking his clicking fire device with him.

  Cedric sighed. Whenever he went outside, into the wild, chaotic mess of a world that existed out there, he was terrified of running into a new threat or doing something that would expose them. He was constantly confused by new words, places, and situations that made little sense, and every day threw him something new to try to comprehend. But when he was down here, surrounded by Merek’s endless barbs and the stress in Kat’s eyes, he longed to climb up to the surface of the museum, escape through his tunnel hatch, and run down the streets, free.

  Cedric lay back down against the tangle of old blankets, trying to prepare himself for another fight. If it were the kind involving swords and fists—like the one he’d had last night against that wrath—he’d be up and ready to go. But this kind of fight, the kind that involved labored discussions and endless complaints, was one he would rather do without.

  Again and again, the king had tried to prepare Cedric for leadership, telling him that he must be firm with his subjects as well as fierce with his enemies. The second part had always been the most appealing. He had wanted to be a great warrior, like his father. He’d just assumed all the leadership stuff would easily follow.

  It wasn’t really working out that way.

  Cedric pulled himself up and put on a shirt—he was now in possession of two of them, in addition to the nightclothes he’d worn through the portal and his stolen museum uniform. The shirt he wore now was faded and old, emblazoned on the front with bold letters that read, inexplicably, “The Rolling Stones.” He had seen many people in this world wearing clothes with words and pictures on them, but as far as he could tell, they only sometimes designated their wearers with particular meaning. The museum guards wore shirts that read “Security.” That, Cedric could understand. But the day before, he’d seen an old woman with a walker wearing headgear that read “Oakland Raiders,” and Cedric doubted highly that she was in the process of raiding anything at all. Some shirts even had nonsensical directions, which were even more confusing.

  Honestly, what did “Come at Me, Bro” even mean?

  Cedric ducked to avoid the low ceiling and walked carefully out into the common living area, where stolen lanterns provided some light. Kat was making a meal out of something called “trail mix,” which Cedric had stolen from the museum gift shop. Next to her was the sword Cedric had taken back from the museum’s Acquisitions Department—by breaking through its door the previous night.

  On the handle of the sword was a series of fresh markings Kat must have just etched into the wood. They were a vestige from the Guardians’ own ancient, mostly lost language. More ceremonial than anything else, the language was now used to decorate weapons and draw up formal announcements. It was a fairly useless tradition to mark weapons meant for battle, but seeing the familiar language on the sword hilt made Cedric feel closer to home, if even just for a moment.

  Seeing the marks in this realm also boosted his confidence—when he’d come across pieces of the Guardians’ old language in one of the museum’s rooms, he’d felt closer than ever to finding the scrolls. Convincing Kat and Merek of that was another task altogether.

  As Kat worked, Merek lay back against some wooden boxes by the wall, examining his fingernails. He flicked his long hair away from his half-lidded eyes and blinked at Cedric.

  “Good morning,” Cedric said.

  “If you say so,” Merek replied.

  Kat shot him a withering glance. “Enough, Merek. You promised to remain civil.”

  “Of course,” Merek shot back. “We are stuck in a dingy cavern on some foreign hellhole of a dimension, but let’s do remain civil.”

  “Anything constructive you want to add today, Merek? Or just the regular complaints?” Cedric asked.

 
No one said anything for a beat. Cedric took in the faces of his friends, the only reminders he had left of home. They looked dirty and tired and older than they had a mere two months ago. He knew he should say something uplifting, something to inspire confidence in their search. But Merek’s smirk pushed all hopeful thoughts out of his mind.

  Merek shrugged. “You call it complaining. I call it maintaining a voice of reason in this chaos. Someone ought to.”

  “Merek,” Kat said, her voice filled with warning. “Cedric is doing the best he can.”

  “The saddest part is I believe that,” Merek said.

  Cedric gritted his teeth, knowing that defending himself would only encourage Merek to continue. Not that he necessarily needed encouragement.

  “Our Cedric may be the best possible example of why blood and birth order don’t necessarily translate into intelligence. Let’s not forget it was his ludicrous plan to jump into the portal in the first place—”

  “And you would have had us, what? Do nothing? Get put in the dungeon along with our parents?” The last of Cedric’s fragile patience had fallen away.

  “At least we would be home.”

  Cedric turned away. He hated the part of himself that knew Merek was right. Everything that had happened since he’d knocked down that first wrath guard in Caelum and escaped through the palace tunnels had been his doing. And now here they were, hungry, cold, tired. Every day it was getting harder to rally his friends. Every hour that passed took more of their hope from them.

  Cedric took a deep breath. “We will get back home.”

  “Do you know every time you say that, you sound less and less convincing?” Merek said. “You know as well as we do that those scrolls do not exist. We need to figure out another way to get home that does not involve sleeping in this stone cellar that stinks of mildew and underarms.”

  Cedric gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to sniff himself.

  “Merek.” Kat’s voice was at its most dangerously calm. “We agreed to limit this discussion to whether or not we should stay at the museum. Leave the scrolls out of it.”

  “Why should I? They are all he ever talks about,” Merek shot back. He pushed his dirty hair out of his face with one hand.

  “They exist,” Cedric said, clenching his fist.

  “If you want to lie to yourself, fine. But stop forcing us to suffer.” Merek stood up from his box and moved toward Cedric. “Just because you had the good fortune to be born within the castle walls does not mean your plan is inherently the best one.”

  “Do you have a better idea?” Cedric shot back, then instantly regretted it. It was the opening Merek had been waiting for.

  “The wraths that followed us must have come from a portal as well. If we can leave the damned scrolls alone and find where they came through . . .”

  “How do you propose we do that?” Cedric asked, his voice rising. “We do not know how many of them are here or where they are coming from. We don’t even know that they came through a portal! Wraths might have existed here all this time.”

  “Maybe we should ask them,” Merek said.

  Cedric clenched his jaw. Didn’t Merek know how hard he was trying? He didn’t want to be here any more than the rest of them. But no matter what Merek thought about Cedric’s ability to lead, the responsibility of getting everyone home fell to him.

  “No,” Cedric finally said, slowly. “The wraths are not to be trusted.”

  “You cannot just dictate—”

  “He can,” Kat cut in. “Whether you like it or not, he is still our prince, in Caelum and in any other realm. If he says we need to keep looking for the scrolls, then that is what we will do.” She looked over at Cedric, and he felt instantly buoyed by her support.

  “But,” Kat continued, “staying here, at the museum, might not be the best idea anymore.”

  Cedric shook his head. “We have been safe here. Safer than anywhere else . . .” His voice trailed off. The weeks after they had come through the portal had been chaotic, confusing, and dangerous. They’d slept wherever they could those first few nights—under bridges, in small clusters of trees. On the fifth night, the wraths had found them, and they’d had to flee again.

  The museum at least offered them a brief respite from being out on the streets. They were still overly hot and hungry most days, but at least they weren’t constantly on the run.

  “We were safe here,” Kat said. “But the wraths have gotten closer and closer. They tracked us somehow, Cedric. We have no idea how large their numbers are and we have no weapons to damage them permanently. It is only a matter of time before they break into the tunnels and find us. Like they almost did last night.”

  Cedric tried not to betray any emotion at the mention of the previous night. He had told Kat about the wrath in the alley, but at the last minute, had decided to leave Liv out of the story entirely. It wasn’t just because Kat was untrusting of everyone in this realm and would be angry with Cedric for risking their cover to protect one stranger. There was something more than that. Cedric’s conversation with Liv had been the only enjoyable (though still extremely confusing) one he’d shared with a non-Guardian in months, and it felt precious to him somehow. He didn’t want to offer it up to Kat and Merek for dissection.

  “The wrath yesterday didn’t see me climb from the grate, I promise,” Cedric finally said, sighing. “They still do not know the way in.”

  “How convincing,” Merek muttered.

  Kat looked at Merek, her eyes flashing. “Cedric would not lie.”

  “Thank you,” Cedric said to Kat.

  She turned to him and sighed. “Do not mistake my defending you for agreeing with you. You are our leader, and I will support you; you know that. But, Cedric . . . we cannot go on like this. At the very least, we should find a place that Merek and I can get into and out of without being detected, so we can look for the scrolls as well. We cannot stay in this . . . hole.”

  Cedric closed his eyes, trying to gather his thoughts. It was all so much—keeping everyone alive and looking for the scrolls at the same time. And he really had no idea why the wraths of this dimension were following them, or what they might do if it turned out that Merek was right, that the scrolls didn’t exist . . . and it was so hard to think when he was so, so hungry.

  Although he tried to focus, Cedric’s thoughts drifted back to the wonderful food he’d eaten the night before with Liv. He could practically taste the sticky, drippy syrup still. He recalled the way she’d smiled when she watched him eat, and how she’d let him have both meals, and how she’d offered to help. . . .

  Cedric opened his eyes and sighed. So much for his secret.

  “All right. Just give me the afternoon. I might have an idea on where we can go. But you will have to trust me.”

  Kat gave a slow nod, but Merek just continued to flick his fire device, staring at the flame as it appeared and disappeared. In Caelum, Merek had always been quick to contradict Cedric, and yet he had always followed the prince’s lead in the end. Cedric could only hope that here in this new world, his friend would follow that tradition of talking a lot and acting little.

  It wasn’t trust, exactly, but it was the best Cedric was going to get.

  Liv’s chin rolled down and smacked into her chest for what must have been the twentieth time in an hour. She jerked her head back up and willed her eyes to stay open. She shifted against the hard, plastic hospital chair and clutched her Styrofoam cup of now-cold coffee. It had been a long, anxiety-filled night, and she’d been trying to stay awake until the doctors brought news of Rita.

  An older woman in light blue scrubs finally entered the waiting area and made her way toward Liv.

  “Is she okay?” Liv asked, as soon as the doctor reached her.

  The doctor nodded. “She’ll be fine. We had to pump her stomach and put her on fluids, but after a long rest, she’ll be okay.”

  Liv exhaled one long, ragged breath. “Thank you.”

  “She’s awa
ke for the moment. Would you like to see her?”

  Liv nodded and followed her out of the waiting room, down a narrow hall lined with faded, pink-framed posters of seasides and meadows. After a few moments, they went past a hallway with a placard reading “BURN UNIT.” Looking at those words, everything else in the world seemed to fade away at the edges. Liv struggled to breathe in, but her throat felt tight and hard, like there was something stuck in it. The walls of the hospital grew fuzzy, and the only thing she could concentrate on was that black-and-white placard with those two words—Burn Unit.

  Liv nearly walked right into the back of the doctor, but caught herself just in time. As soon as they moved past the burn unit, the knot in her throat loosened. After a few minutes, it was like it was never there at all.

  The doctor finally stopped in front of a room and ushered Liv inside. Rita lay in the center of a hospital bed, her body a small, straight line under a tight sheet. Various tubes connected into her arms, which looked so drained of color they almost matched the white fabric of the bed. Her face looked equally drained, its only distinguishing color coming from the greenish-yellow tinge beneath her eyes.

  Liv walked closer and carefully took Rita’s hand.

  “Oh, kid,” Rita said, her voice raspy, “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay. The only thing that matters is you’re okay.”

  “No, I really messed up,” Rita said, then coughed. “I never meant . . . you have to know I didn’t mean for this . . .”

  “I know,” Liv said. She thought back to those panicked moments when she’d seen Rita lying on the concrete outside of the kitchen patio door. Her first thought had been, crazily, that it was her fault. That the wrath had followed her home and hurt Rita. And she hadn’t thought the man in the alley, or the black-eyed man; her brain had immediately gone to Cedric’s word. The wrath.

  It wasn’t until she saw the empty liquor bottle that she knew what had really happened. And in that instant, she’d felt a bit of relief that she hadn’t been responsible, but she’d also felt a sense of the inevitable, like some part of her knew the second she’d been placed under Rita’s care that this moment would occur. Rita was kind, but she wasn’t happy. And she wasn’t good at taking care of herself.