“Seven so far. Three more are critical. If only they were as lucky as you.” Sighing, she leaves me with my thoughts.
It’s a while before anyone other than a doctor or nurse visits me; it lets the reality of the situation sink in. What I did, what could have happened if I hadn’t stopped him when I did, how many other students could have died.
A man appears in the doorway, and I recognize his face as the man who first found me—a man in his late thirties or early forties, his badge hanging around his neck, his brown hair speckled with grey. Scruffy in the face. Not a bad-looking man, but too old for me.
You’ll see I always come up with excuses on why I don’t date or have friends. Mostly it comes down to the Mark. I’m playing the waiting game, and I don’t want anyone else to hurt when the game finally comes to an end.
“Hey, there. Name’s Mike Hess, FBI.” After gesturing to his badge, he offers me his hand.
I glance at his extended hand, swallowing before I say, “Would you settle for an introductory nod?” I give him one before he can respond. FBI? Not exactly your stereotypical small-town police officer. How’d he get here so fast?
He sits on the ugly chair next to the hospital bed. The design looked like it was taken out of the eighties. Ugly, bright, very vomit-inducing. “Lexa, I need you to tell me exactly what happened.”
He probably knows my name from my ID. Or my phone. Oh, God. Does that mean my parents were called? Are they on their way here? Please, please, let that not be the case…
“I was in the bathroom, about to pee,” I speak, regaining my voice. I like whatever was in that baggy attached to me. My body doesn’t feel so heavy. “I heard gun shots. I ran out, found some students in the study corral. Some were already gone. I followed the trail.”
“You wanted to find him?” the agent asks, intertwining his hands together. “Why didn’t you run?”
I shrug, but I don’t know how much of the shrug he sees. Actually, I don’t know how much of a shrug I actually make.
“So, you ran after him, found him, and then…what? He shot you?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I must have been in shock, because the next thing I know, I’m taking his gun and shooting him.” A lie, but I don’t want to go into the truth with him. I don’t know how much he knows about the supernatural world.
The man sees that something is amiss. His face frowns. “He was a big guy. It must’ve been some kind of adrenaline running through you to take him down while having seven bullets in you.”
Seven?
Oh, my Lanta. That’s a lot. More than I thought.
“And that’s not counting this,” he says, motioning to his forehead.
I feel a bandage on my head, unaware of it until now.
“Did he say anything to you before he shot you?” he asks. “Anything that might reveal a motive?”
I shake my head. I’m not going to tell him about the Master or virgin thing.
The man stands. “You remember anything, I’ll be in touch.” And then he leaves.
I close my eyes, drowsiness sweeping over me before I can really think about how weird that exchange was. I might’ve dozed off. I don’t know. I’m in and out of consciousness until it’s dark out. The next time I lift my lids, a tall, thin figure looms in the closed doorway.
This day just keeps getting better and better.
Forgetting my manners, I say, “Hi. What’s the name? I need to tell the engravers so they can put it on your Creepiest Man of the Year Award.”
The man steps out of the darkness. He looks a few years older than me, but I know better, especially after the recent conversation I had with David. Skin white as a ghost, features cold and cruel; his presence brings a shiver to my spine.
“Get out,” I say, mustering up the courage. Why is it harder to stand up to a Vampire than to confront a crazy shooter? I don’t make sense, I know. When his cold expression hardens into ice, I gulp. “You know, uh, please?”
He grins for a split-second, flashing his sharp teeth. “You look like shit, little Human.”
Blinking at the insult, I say, “Honestly, I’ve had better days.”
Whereas the FBI agent looked like a gentle fuzzy lumberjack—a man that’d treat you right, if given the chance—the Vampire before me is the opposite. Clean-cut, cruel eyes, sharp nose. An air about him that stifles and chokes. He looks like a preppy boy who’d rather have his fun with any girl he can get a hold on, albeit a little pale.
I do not judge anyone’s sexual escapades. I do, however, judge Vampires and most other supernatural races.
“I do not often mingle with those who still have heartbeats, yet I find myself in need of a favor from you.” The Vampire sits down on the same chair the FBI guy did. His legs are a lot longer, though; they poke beneath the bed.
“I don’t suppose you’d let me say no?”
He leans forward, into the dim lamplight. His eyes are a bright, vibrant blue despite the fact that he hasn’t breathed in a very long time. Decades, probably. “Why would you want to say no to me when I could offer you something in return?”
“Unless it’s the full series of Sailor Moon, Japanese sub included, I don’t want anything you can offer me.”
My strange statement gets him to chuckle. Such a weird, lifeless sound. “If my suspicions are correct, things are about to change. It would do you well to have a favor from me up your sleeve.”
There is a pause as he glances to my wrists. I don’t purposefully flash him my Mark, but he must see it. Vampires are undead Human lookalikes. They aren’t Demons, per say, just another species, and a parasitic one at that. They might like violence more than others, but they also know the limits, the rules. There are certain boundaries that even Vampires won’t cross.
Marked Humans can’t be touched.
Well, I suppose they can, but when—not if, when—the Demon whose Mark it is finds out, the Demon makes sure the offender pays. We are, in a sense, cattle. Property. To be used to their discretion.
Fun, isn’t it?
“Since you are Marked, I will not compel you,” he says, and I immediately realize his careful choice of words. Will not instead of cannot. “I do ask that you tell me one thing, though—did the man have a tattoo on his forehead?”
I swallow. This is getting weird. It almost feels like the Vampire knows who the man is. “That depends…are you looking for a specific facial tattoo?”
“A cross,” he says simply. My reaction is enough of an indication for him. “I see. Just like the club.” He stands.
“You know something about them?” I ask him, moving to a sitting position as I watch him go to the door. My body feels heavy, like I haven’t used it in years. It is past visiting hours, but I know he can compel the nurses and orderlies not to see him. “Wait—”
Hand on the doorknob, he pauses and gives me a toothy grin. He’d almost look cute and boyish if he didn’t have practically translucent skin and teeth that can easily tear meat from bone. “Goodbye, little Human. I wish you luck in the upcoming days. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
Gone, just like that, and I’m alone with the queasy, uneasy feeling.
For the next few hours, until sunlight streams through the window, I lie awake, wondering what in the world the Vampire meant. Why would I need luck in the upcoming days? I don’t plan on doing anything else heroic in the future. I’m going to listen to David and lay low.
Lay as far low as I can get.
A few naps later, my parents walk into the room behind a doctor. Of course, leave it to my parents to not show up on the first day of my stay in the hospital. They’re a certain…special kind of people. Not normal in the least.
As the doctor checks me, trying to make small talk, I stare at my mom and dad. My mom clutches a three-hundred-dollar purse, wearing a hideously pink skirt and matching coat. A diamond-studded necklace graces her neck, rings on nearly every finger. My dad is less dressed up, wearing slacks and a button-up shirt. The only ring he we
ars is his wedding ring—a simple silver band. Both would be naturally greying, but they each go to a salon on a frequent basis.
And that hue of black my mom has going on? Nobody’s hair is that blue-black. Dad at least sticks with a chestnut brown.
“Sorry we didn’t get here sooner, Kiddo,” Dad speaks, gently touching my shoulder once the doctor leaves the room, careful to avoid any of the bandages. “We had…a business meeting.”
At that, I couldn’t help but laugh. “What kind of business are you guys into now? I thought you had all the money you could ever want?” A low jibe, but I don’t mean it like that, not really. It’s a serious question.
My mom is suddenly beside me, gripping my hand. “It was very brave, what you did. All the local news stations are outside. They’re dying for the lone survivor’s interview.” She glances to Dad. “They got us on the way in.”
“I’m the only one who made it?” The news makes me terribly sad. What was the point of the violence? Why? So stupid and senseless…and yet the Vampires are interested—meaning it might not be so senseless in the crazies’ eyes. “I’m not giving any interviews.” I won’t. I don’t want to keep thinking about it, not when I’m already constantly thinking of the future and the day my Demon comes.
“That’s what we told them,” Dad says, “but since you’re an adult, they want to hear it from you. Oh—” He pulls a small card from his pocket. “—and this is for you.”
I take it, reading it slowly. Special Agent Awesome wants me to get well and call him. He has more questions for me. I’m not going to be at his beck and call twenty-four/seven. I sincerely hope he knows that. I flick the card; it lands by my feet.
Mom is quiet for a second before bursting, “It was brave, but you shouldn’t have done it!” Ah, there’s the mom I know and sort-of love.
Dad hurries to close the door to give us privacy.
“I know it’s horrible what that man did,” she continues, not meeting my gaze, “but horrible things happen all the time in the world. You can’t stop everything. And you, especially, shouldn’t. What if…what if being in the spotlight brings him closer to you?”
So the he-who-shall-not-be-named Demon who owns me is her focus?
“I don’t recall you worrying too much about that twenty years ago,” I say, referencing the selling of my soul.
“We were so young,” Mom says. “So foolish. And because of that, you…” Beside her, Dad lifts a hand, waving her words off.
“I, what?” I prod, shooting a look at Dad.
“I’m sorry, Lexa, but we can’t say anything about it. It was…one of the terms,” Dad explains, unconcerned, considering what’s happened. “All we can say is that it’s weighed heavily on our minds since.”
I bite my cheek. That’s what they always say, and frankly, I’m getting tired of hearing it.
“I’ll call the school,” Mom says, standing and grabbing her shiny new phone from her purse. Her small hands can hardly hold onto the overly large screen. “I’m sure that they’ll give you an extension on your schoolwork.”
Yes. Because my schoolwork is what’s most important here.
I shoo my parents away, growing impatient and upset.
I feel better than I did; couldn’t they release me? I had to get out of here, away from it all, be alone again and wallow in my self-pity.
But much to my annoyance, it’s a couple more days until they let me go. Tests and more tests. Turning down interview after interview. Doctors and nurses alike are shocked at my quick recovery. They’ve never seen someone survive such a mass number of bullets with no nerve damage, let alone someone recover so quickly. I can thank my Demon Master for that.
When I’m released, Mom and Dad both follow me home, delivering me straight to my apartment, shielding me from the news stations. They’d fed Xena while I was in the hospital—at least they are good for something.
The multi-colored cat meows when she sees me, rubbing against my leg. I bend to pet her, scratching her whole face with my palm and each finger. It’s what she likes. Cats are weird.
I’m told that I probably shouldn’t watch the news, the university president wants a meeting with me, and that the memorial service for the other students is tomorrow. I don’t want to do or go to any of them.
When my parents leave, I practically run to the bathroom, ready to shower for the first time in days. I take off my clothes—new, brightly-colored clothing my parents bought for me (that I plan on promptly never wearing again)—dropping them on the floor. I peel off the bandages covering the bullet wounds. My skin is already scabbing.
I turn the showerhead on, stepping in. My Mark is free, and it feels great to have water washing off the dirt. My Mark, you see, isn’t just on my wrists. It’s on my entire backside. Like a tribal skeleton design, it travels up the underside of my arms, entwining on my back shoulders, meeting and rising up my neck and down my back, down along my butt and my legs. On my back sits a bull-like skull, and behind it, dragon wings. Above the skull is a crown. Not a bad-looking Mark; I just wish sometimes it isn’t so large. It’s why I usually wear long sleeves and rarely ever leave my apartment in shorts and a tank top.
David told me that it’s the biggest Mark he’s ever seen. And that’s saying something, since he’s three hundred years old.
I wish I knew who the Mark belongs to.
After my shower, I dress in my fuzzy pajamas, pour myself a bowl of the cereal that’s made of the little cookies (yes, I’m an adult), and plop on the couch. As I take my first bite, I hear a knock.
With a mouthful, I yell, “Go away.”
A key is inserted into the lock, and the knocker lets himself in. David shows his face, relief flooding him when he sees me. “Is that any way to treat your only friend?” With a satisfied smile, he closes the door behind him and greets Xena.
“Friends are overrated,” I say as he sits beside me. “Why didn’t you portal?”
“I was feeling old-fashioned, and I heard somebody became a hero.” He takes a cookie out of my dry bowl of cereal, muttering, “Try some milk next time. It adds some oomph to the cereal.” David makes himself comfortable, unlacing his black high tops with unseen magic. Beneath his shaggy hair, his ears are pointed; a sign of his Warlock nature. Most Humans don’t notice, and he makes sure those who would are charmed not to. Charms, compulsion—it’s how a lot of the supernatural get by in this world unseen.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I was in Egypt trying to cut a deal with the stingiest supplier of mummified cats—” He glances to Xena. “—no offense, kitty, I’ve ever met. So,” David pauses, studying me, how laid-back I am, “let’s see one of them.”
Rolling my eyes, I lift up my shirt, revealing the bullet wounds.
David isn’t as impressed as others would be. “Can I say something? Why the hell did you do that?”
I pull my shirt down, giving him a frown. “Was I supposed to let the guy shoot up the whole campus?”
“I’ve been watching the news. They’re calling you the unlikely heroine—shot, depending on the news station, twice, seven, or a dozen times. You rose through the pain and tackled the gunman. They’re using your senior photo.”
I groan. My parents’ work, probably. I know what picture David means, too. It’s an ugly picture—my black hair, which is naturally wavy, was straightened, my hand awkwardly on my chin just like they’d posed me. A close-up view of my face. A winner, there. Not that I’m hideous. I don’t like the way I look in most pictures. I think most people don’t. It’s a brain-thing.
“And the supernatural world is aflutter,” David goes on, taking another cookie out of my bowl. “I think it’s safe to say there’s no point in you laying low. All the nearby Demons know you, now.”
“You think I’ll finally get to meet the Demon that seduced my parents for money?”
He turns serious. “How is your Mark?”
I shrug. “Okay. It kind of burns…” I pause to revel in the expression he g
ives me. “Kidding, kidding. Same as always.” I take a big spoonful, chewing thoughtfully. It’s difficult to joke around, after what happened. I’m just trying to make things seem as normal as possible. “A Vampire visited me in the hospital.”
That gets his attention instantly. Xena, who is cuddling on his lap, hops off him in an angry huff when he turns his body towards me. “A Vampire? Shit. I knew something bad was happening. Well, besides the shooting, I mean. Did you get a name?”
I shake my head.
“What’d he look like?”
I give him the stink-eye, wondering how a simple physical description could give him the answers he needs. “Tall, pale, and blonde. Very Eric Northman.”
Waving me off, he says, “You know I don’t watch that Buffy show—”
“True Blood,” I correct him.
“Tomato, tomato,” David speaks the word different each time. “Tell me, at least, that he didn’t have blue eyes.”
I nod.
Instead of telling me the Vampire’s name, David says, “Why would he visit you himself?”
“He asked about the shooter, if he had a tattoo on his forehead.”
David lets out an incredulous yet disheartened laugh. “Let me guess: the shooter did have a tattoo, and it resembled a twisted version of a cross?”
“How did you—”
“Funny how the news stations don’t mention that.” But he stands and heads for the door after his shoes magically tie themselves. “Lexa, whatever you do, please don’t go to class tomorrow. Stay home until…until I get back to you.” With a hand on the knob, he stops as I call out to him.
“Why is everyone being so cryptic? It’s irritating.”
He gives me a forced smile. “It may be nothing. I may be overreacting. It might be…a coincidence. It probably is. Don’t worry about it, for now. Just…stay here. Maybe order some food. Your parents are loaded. Order a shit-ton of groceries. If I’m right, things are about to get rough.”
He leaves, making me wonder just what crazy train I hopped onto. David is never that weird, which is saying something, since Warlocks are usually the weirdest of the bunch.
A Mark Unwilling Page 2