A Mark Unwilling

by Candace Wondrak

  A Mark Unwilling

  © All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Design by Daniela over at www.Stunningbookcovers.com

  Prologue

  I don’t have a soul.

  Well, I guess technically I do, but it isn’t mine. It doesn’t belong to me.

  My parents were very down on their luck when my mom was pregnant with me. Penniless, jobless, about to be homeless—they had nothing except ratty old clothes and a baby on the way. They did what any self-serving parents would: they bartered my soul. From rags to riches, from a dilapidated hovel to a mansion with butlers and nannies.

  Really, it’s an amazing story. All it cost was my unborn soul.

  Growing up, I was told that many Demons take Human souls in exchange for their services. Human souls are high on the Demon black market, apparently.

  My parents never told me who they offered my soul on a golden platter to. Eventually I stopped asking. The debt my parents laid unto me before I took my first breath would be paid somehow, someday. I do my best not to dwell on it, even if it has made me a little…cynical.

  I left the sparkling mansion of glitter and wealth when I graduated high school two years ago. I enrolled in a university a few hours away—far enough to get out, but not far enough that I wouldn’t be able to return. They are my parents, after all. They might’ve sold my soul to a Demon, but they are still my parents.

  I have an apartment off-campus, and I share it with my cat, Xena. She’s about the only living creature I can stand, along with David. David, a three-hundred-year-old Warlock masquerading as a thirty-something-bookish shopkeeper, is my go-to guy for everything. He knows everything about me. He helped me grow up, taught me about the Demon world that most of the Human population has no clue about. He, unfortunately, lives in my hometown of Lakeview.

  I’m not rambling just to ramble, I promise. There’s a point.

  See, when your soul belongs to a Demon, the soul-less sometimes take on some of their owners’ powers. I’m lucky enough to have fallen in that category. I’m not the typical helpless college girl.

  For the last twenty years of my life, I’ve been okay. No one came to collect. My life was not as normal as it could’ve been, but I made do, somehow. After some recent antics and pure happenstance which I may or may not have helped instrument…I have a feeling things are about to change.

  Chapter One

  I’m walking to class with the rush of other students. Earbuds in, the music stops for commercials. Unlike most kids my age, I prefer the randomness of the radio than the selection of tunes I have on my phone. I stand near an intersection waiting for cars to pass before I cross. Other students do the same. Most of them, anyways.

  One particularly daft girl steps into the street, eyes on her phone, seemingly unaware of the cars that are driving. Her fingers furiously text, her brows creasing. She wears our university’s colors; a homage to the football game tonight. A game I promise I won’t be going to.

  A car begins to slow to let her continue her hazardous crossing, and I watch the other side of traffic, thinking the other lane will do the same. Only, it’s another texter. This one is a college boy who looks like he put an entire tube of gel onto his head. Someone needs to tell him it isn’t the nineties anymore.

  I roll my eyes. How stupid can you be? Texting at a red light—still illegal, but way better than texting while speeding. The girl hasn’t stopped to notice the speeding car. “Hey,” I shout to her, pulling out a single earbud.

  The girl doesn’t hear me. She keeps going.

  She walks in the path of the car, which clearly isn’t obeying the forty-mile-an-hour speed limit. The kids around me grow worried; they know what’s about to happen. Or at least, they think they know. They definitely don’t expect me to run out and push the stupid girl out of the way, but that’s exactly what I do.

  For a girl who hates the world for her rotten luck, I’m abnormally selfless. Go figure.

  The girl falls forward, her phone skidding out of her hands as I feel the first impact of the bumper on my legs. In a few seconds, my body topples around the car’s hood, falling to the pavement. The boy driving is already pressing on his breaks, flying out of his car, phone still in hand, muttering how sorry he is.

  A murmuring crowd gathers around me. I’m sure I look terrible. I’m also sure it was a sight to see. Too bad I was in it instead of watching.

  “Shit,” the driver says, clicking on his phone’s screen, “she’s not moving.”

  I’m not moving because my hip is terribly sore now, but I should show these kids I’m not dead or seriously hurt.

  The girl I pushed out of harm’s way dials 9-1-1. Just as she’s about to report the accident, I jump up. Like a stunt from a Jackass movie, I act like I’m fine, muttering something about no ambulance, no health insurance, that both the girl and driver should better watch what they’re doing. Shrugging off the impact, I merely reach for my phone, pop the earbuds back in and push through the crowd, much to their shock. Eh. Lives are long. I’m sure they’ll see weirder things eventually.

  What could I say—don’t worry about it, I can’t die? That wouldn’t go too well.

  As I hurry to class, I mentally chide myself. I should have let her get hit. Maybe she’d learn a lesson. Plus, I don’t want my life turning into a Kim Harrison novel. I shouldn’t advertise my special snowflake-ness. That’s what David always says, what my parents advise, and I know it’s true. But how can I let the people around me do such stupid things when it could cost them a lot more than fixing those stupid things would cost me?

  See? Too selfless. I should not care. I should just ignore the world as it turns. After all, if I was in trouble, I doubt anyone would help me, except maybe David.

  I head into the glass doors of the newest building on campus, using the rectangular stairwell in its middle. Beneath the leather coat, my pulse has quieted. I’m too busy checking the door numbers that I can barely hear the news report on the radio. A shootout in a downtown club.

  At the time, I don’t think twice about it.

  Throughout class, I text David. You will never guess what I just did.

  A minute later: Uh-oh…why do I have a bad feeling about this?

  Lol your feelings are usually bad! I might’ve done something.

  David’s response is quick: What. Did. You. Do. Now?

  As the professor (or graduate student, as they often are nowadays) goes on and on about how delusions and hallucinations are different, I text David the whole story. I bite the inside of my cheek as I take diligent notes. Sitting in the back of class, I’m able to hide my phone on my lap, under the table. It isn’t like I’m the only one texting, either.

  My generation, for good reason, is known for being glued to their phones. I’m no different than my fellow classmates.

  If only, if only.

  Do you want to alert every Demon nearby? David’s upset reply reads, What part of laying low don’t you understand?

  I smirk to myself. The whole thing. The expression’s a disaster. And besides, if I was that low I’d never be able to see the projection screen…or use the toilet. I could imagine David’s face while reading that message, and it was the reason I sent the last part. The Warlock, even though he was three hundred and something years old, was strangely against all things crass and inappropriate.

  …Ugh. You are so weird. But seriously, STOP…have it on good authority that it wasn’t a shootout that happened last night in a club near your school…PLEASE lay low. If not for yourself, then for me.

  I read his text a few times before responding. Don’t tell me—Trolls? I inwardly smile at my joke. The little beings adore sparkly things, and a club at one in the morning would be full of girls in sparkly dresses.
They aren’t too common anymore, with pollution and modern growth.

  No. V.

  I suddenly feel very, very cold. That single letter sends waves of chills over me.

  I quietly pack up my things and slip out of the auditorium. I’m out of the building and calling David in the next minute. The sidewalks are empty, how it usually is when classes are in session.

  “Unlike some of us,” David chirps into my ear, “I have to work for a living.” Which means he currently is at work, and I’m bugging him. Oh, well. The man is always at work.

  “What did you mean by your last text?” I demand, sitting on a bench.

  “You know what I meant.”

  Just what I do not want to hear. “Don’t they have a truce or something?”

  “Yes, but with those guys…take it from someone who’s quite a few years older than you, a peace pact with the undead never lasts.” He pauses, thoughtful. “Maybe because they’ve got nothing left to lose.”

  I look around me to make sure I’m alone before saying, “Vampires, huh? You think they’ll come on campus?” David has never been a fan of the undead. An ancient grudge he never fully explained to me.

  “I don’t know. Maybe. No, scratch that. Definitely, if you keep doing stupid stuff.”

  Rolling my eyes, I say, “Right, saving lives is really stupid.” Not that the girl would’ve died from getting hit; the kid wasn’t going that fast. She definitely would’ve broken a bone or two, though. You’ll find I’m much sturdier than the average college student.

  He sighs. “You know what I mean. I’m all for saving lives, but not if it means putting yours at risk.”

  “You say that like my life is my own,” I chuckle, feeling better, in spite of the Vampire situation. “I’m Marked, remember? Waiting for my Demon Master to come claim me. Remind me to thank my parents again for that, next time I see them.” I’m very matter-of-fact about it, now. Blunt and to the point.

  “Yes, but normally those Marked can still…push up daisies. I’ve never met someone, even Marked, who can’t bite the dust. It means that whoever your parents bargained with is extremely powerful, and very old. Older than me. Hard to do, since a lot of Demons were killed off in the Renaissance. How’s the Mark?”

  Holding the phone between my ear and shoulder, I pull down a sleeve to my coat, seeing the skeletal black design on the tender side of my wrist. “Fine.”

  “Remember, if it—”

  “Starts to burn, my Daddy Demon’s getting close,” I cut in. “I wish you could tell me something I don’t know, like who exactly I owe my allegiance to.”

  “I’ve researched your Mark from the day you were born,” he tells me, and I hear the faint noises of flipping pages. “And I’ve found absolutely nothing about it. It’s like your Mark doesn’t exist—which clearly isn’t the case. I’ll keep looking, though, just for you.”

  I repeat him, “Just for me. Gee, David, you sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

  “One of my many talents, I assure you.”

  Laughing, I tell him bye and hang up the phone.

  I go to my next class, waiting on an ugly orange cushion. Normally, with my classes scheduled ten minutes apart, I have to run from opposite sides of campus, but I left my last class thirty minutes early to talk to David. The boringness is deafening.

  Feeling the sudden urge to pee, I slowly wander to the bathroom. Hanging my bag on the outside of the stall, I’m about to do my business when my ears hear a loud bang. And then another. Quick, rapid succession that could only mean one thing—gunfire.

  I pull my pants up, wondering why today is such a horrible day.

  The second I exit the bathroom, I hear screaming. From the second floor, and thanks mostly to the building’s open concept, I can see a group of bleeding students in the lounge area. They were probably waiting for their next classes too or getting together to work on group projects.

  This could end terribly. Some of the kids, I notice, were shot in the chest. Whether or not they’d make it, I don’t know, but I do know something: I had to stop the shooter. No kid, even one who texts while driving, deserves that. And who better to run head-first into danger than someone who can’t die?

  Whoever has the gun isn’t there anymore. I hop down the stairs, checking the bleeding students. Three aren’t moving. I check their pulses; dead. Shot in the chest, like I saw from upstairs. I yell at the multitude of other students to keep pressure on their wounds. A lot look green, ready to vomit. One, who is only injured in the leg, is already calling the cops as he hides behind a table.

  Hearing more shots, I turn my head and run down the hall. The shooter’s footprints left a bloody trail, so I know exactly where to go. I pass a dozen or so classrooms, all their doors locked. Out of some I hear whimpering and screams, while others are silent.

  It’s weird that they teach drills in all other types of schools and colleges don’t. Here, it’s a free-for-all.

  I don’t linger on what I saw. I can’t. I only think of the shooter, how I have to stop him before anyone else gets hurt. For someone who doesn’t have a soul, I am an annoyingly goodie two shoes.

  After a short run, I make it to another common area. The students studying in it already disbursed. The shooter, a man of average height, wearing some kind of weird robe, has a rifle slung over his shoulders. Rounds upon rounds of ammunition cover his body, a telltale sign of what he planned to do. He must hear my approach, for he spins and fires without hesitation.

  A few shots later, the man lowers his weapon, smiling. From what I can tell, he isn’t a student. Or not a normal one, anyways. Too old, too…scary-looking. A tattoo of an upside-down cross sits on his forehead, and he grins at me, believing he has me beaten, killed.

  I stumble back, swaying with the impact of the bullets. And boy, do they hurt. I don’t even think I can adequately describe how much worse getting shot feels than being hit by a car. This pain is inside of me, touching every nerve and muscle. It’s a good thing my adrenaline had already kicked in.

  He makes a tsk-tsk sound. “What a shame. I can think of a few ways we could’ve made use of you. The Master always likes the virgins.”

  Made use of? And virgins? How presumptuous…how…

  I can hardly think. What thoughts I do have are jumbled beyond belief. My head just screams: ow.

  “Today, though, he wants blood. And blood he shall get.”

  I breathe out, growing angrier. He just shot at a dozen students, murdered at least three, and has the balls to say something like that? Behind the pain, I squeeze my fingers into fists. His smile fades when he sees that I’m not falling down in shock or death.

  “This,” I growl, sending him the evilest glare I could muster under the circumstances, “is my favorite jacket.” Which, after being shot so many times, probably isn’t my best one. I’d like nothing more to fall over and sleep it off, but I had a dick a gun to take care of first.

  “You got a bullet-proof vest on under there?” the man hisses with yellow teeth, raising his weapon and firing once. The bullet hits me in the head, scraping my left temple. The murderer should know that I’m not wearing a vest due to the blood that seeps from the holes in my chest and arms.

  “That,” I state, sounding out of breath, “was just rude.” I step towards him, grabbing the rifle and tugging it off his shoulders. He’s too surprised to react right away. I give him a hard kick in the groin, and he immediately doubles over, clutching his manhood.

  “What the hell,” he wheezes, rolling on the floor, “are you?”

  “I’m Marked,” I say simply, watching his eyes widen. So he has to know about the Demon black market then. Was his precious Master a Demon? Was he Marked as well? Would killing him send a big, bad Demon after me? Either way, it didn’t matter. He has to die for what he did here.

  I raise the gun, leaning the stock on my shoulder. I’ve seen a lot of movies, so I knew vaguely what to do. “And you’re dead.” I fire, even though he’s about to say som
ething to me. My finger doesn’t let go of the trigger. A continuous spray of bullets pelts his chest, and blood spurts from his mouth. The rifle nearly knocks me on my ass, but I hold firm, despite the pain coursing through me. His mean, confused eyes glaze over.

  Dead, just like I said.

  I drop the weapon, falling to the ground beside him, too focused on the pain to fully realize that the man was reaching into his robe for something. Probably another weapon. The metal bullets inside me—I can feel them. They hurt like nothing else ever has. The pain blurs my senses, and I’m too in shock to realize that I just killed someone.

  Zoning in and out, I don’t know how much time passes before a middle-aged, scruffy man kneels over me, shouting, “Another one over here! Multiple injuries! Get me another stretcher, STAT!” He kicks the gun away from both me and the shooter as he holsters his own gun.

  Soon I’m hauled away. I pass out sometime on the road between the campus and the hospital. It’s a good thing that whole no health insurance bit earlier was a lie, wasn’t it?

  When I open my eyes, I find that I’m in a hospital room. In a backless gown with flowery print. Tubes are attached to my skin, needles poking through and pumping me with fluids. I abruptly sit up, soon wishing I hadn’t. A sharp ache erupts in me, numerous similar pains throughout my torso—and that’s when I remember the fact that I got shot quite a lot.

  Wait till David hears about this, the opposite of laying low.

  A nurse walks by, sees that I’m awake and sitting, and hurries inside, saying, “Careful, there. You just came out of surgery. Doctor Hart removed all the bullets, but it’ll be a while before you can move like you’re used to without the pain.” She is by my side suddenly, forcing me to lay back down. “I heard what happened at the school. You’re one lucky girl, you know.” Her spirit falters. “A lot of the other kids didn’t make it.”

  “How many?” I ask, my voice dry. Is this real life? I thought this stuff only happened on the news. I never imagined it’d be something I’d live through. I never wanted to play the hero to something as awful as that.