David sits, eating a waffle with the others, who each have an assortment of breakfast food in front of them. Is it breakfast time already? Is that why I feel so extremely tired? When he sees me, he excuses himself, tells Josie to stay with Deb, and gets up, heading to me on the opposite side of the room. He pulls us to a different table, far from the others.
I instantly notice that something is worrying him. “What’s wrong?”
David tosses a quick look to the kitchen, where Mike is, cooking himself an omelet. Deb laughs at something Josefina does, unaware of the hidden weight David carries. “I’ve been thinking” is all he says at first.
I scratch my finger on the table. That could mean a lot of things.
“Doesn’t it seem odd that Mike is handling this so well?” he speaks the question in a hushed whisper so no one else hears.
“He’s Marked,” I say slowly, baffled at David’s inquiry. “Us Marked folk go with the flow. We’re like fish, or…” I can’t think of anything else, so I finish lamely, “spontaneous people.”
He leans closer, choosing to ignore my bad simile. “Deb makes sense. Her grandfather was a Warlock. She knew about the supernatural world her entire life, probably. She also has had that sixth sense going on for a while—since she turned sixteen—” A smile grows on me, causing him to stop and huff, “What?”
“Bonding with her, are you?” I ask slyly, wriggling my eyebrows, trying my best to face forward and not look back, not think of what I’ve lost.
“How many times do I have to tell you now is not the time to set me up? Besides, like I said, she’s too young,” he says, adding when I open my mouth, “I know, I know. I’m old compared to everyone. That’s beside the point.” His eyes close as he tries to find the right words to say. “Something doesn’t sit right with me about him.”
I set a hand on his shoulder, deadpanning, “It’s because he calls you Warlock, isn’t it? I can talk to him about it—”
David is unimpressed with the joke, frowning slightly. “No. And don’t tell him what I’m about to say, in case it is nothing and I’m overanalyzing for no reason.” He traces the edge of the point on his left ear; a nervous habit. “It seems odd to me that he’s still with us and not trying to get back to his job, help the government out with the Horsemen.”
I shrug. “The government can’t do anything to the Horsemen. I’m sure he knows that.”
My old friend—my only friend, really—buries his face in his hands. It’s clear I’m not responding how he thought I would. What does he think, that I should nod along and be suspicious? I’m too tired for that. Too tired, and too uncaring. Maybe if I could die, I’d be more suspicious, but I can’t, so I’m not. As long as he doesn’t go psycho and hurt Josie or Deb, it’d be fine. And he doesn’t seem like the type to crack.
“I don’t think his Mark is real,” David finally says, meeting my gaze.
Mike shouts from the kitchen, “Anyone else want an omelet?”
Deb thanks him before saying no, while both David and I yell a very quick and dodgy “No!” The man shrugs, not thinking anything of our panicky no, returning to his omelet and adding more cheese.
Waiting a moment, I recall his Mark, how he showed me in that coffee shop. “It looked real to me.”
“Really? It didn’t look like a somewhat scabby, three-day-old tattoo?”
“I didn’t look at it that hard,” I quickly say. “It didn’t cross my mind that it could be fake. Why would anyone fake a Mark?”
David sighs. “That, I don’t know.”
I chew my lip, trying to make sense of it. No sense comes to me, because I couldn’t understand why anyone would ever fake a Mark. There’s nothing to gain. Why would anyone do that? To get a Demon’s attention? To get closer to us? Demons couldn’t care less about most Humans, especially the old and middle-age ones. Their souls aren’t so good. Not pure enough. And as for us, we’re nothing. Just a ragtag group of people trying to stop the apocalypse, and there’s no way on earth Mike could’ve known about us before this thing started. He would have had to predict it days ahead of time to get that tattoo.
It doesn’t make sense.
And yet, now, thanks to David, I have a small, nagging feeling. As small as it is, I know it’ll grow if we do nothing.
“How do we find out if it is real?” I ask, keenly aware that Mike is pushing his omelet from the pan and onto a plate. This conversation has to end, fast.
“There’s a couple of spells I could do,” David says, growing quiet. “But I’ll need to go back to my shop for the ingredients.”
“Then that’s what we’ll have to do. Maybe I can grab my cat while we’re there…” I trail off at his questioning look.
“Let me think on it.” David stands, and I follow him to the table, sitting beside Josefina and taking one of her colorful flakes from her bowl. She offers me a whole spoonful, grinning, bits of rainbow stuck between her teeth.
Mike takes a large chunk of his omelet, speaking as he chews, “So what was that secretive talk about?”
While David freezes like a deer in headlights, I instantly say, “Oh, I was just trying to get David to make a move on Deb. I think they’d make a cute, Warlock-y couple, don’t you?” As I talk, Deb turns a bright red, and David gives me a look that says he’s going to kick my butt later.
Judging the expression on his face, Mike doesn’t know how to answer.
“Where’s Mommy?” Josie asks, playing with her spoon in her bowl.
The whole table instantly overcomes the embarrassment I gave Deb and David; a new form of uncomfortableness growing. Everybody stares at me as if I have the answers, which I definitely do not. Maybe they choose me because I lost my dad—maybe they thought that meant I could answer her without crushing her world.
How much does a six-year-old understand about death? A question I never asked before.
I take Josefina’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Your mom had to go away for a little while,” I tell her, smoothing her frizzy hair back with my free hand. “She wants you to stay with us until she gets back. She loves you and she misses you very much.” I take a nearby paper towel and wipe her cheek, where milk somehow landed. “You’ll see her again, I promise.”
The room is heavy as we wait for her response.
Josefina takes a huge spoonful of cereal, saying, “Mommy never lets me do this!” She puts the entire spoonful in her mouth, smiling and giggling. As she giggles, the cereal and milk ooze out through the spaces where she lost her baby teeth.
Some of the mess lands on her shirt, and I take the same napkin and dab it up, saying, “I wonder why.” The girl laughs more, and I see the rest of the group, Mike included, relax, sad smiles on their faces.
Sad smiles, masking how heartbreaking the situation is.
Chapter Six
The warm sun bakes my skin. I lay on my tiger-striped towel, soaking in the rays. The salty breeze gently blows my hair. My bathing suit is a strappy floral mix. I prop myself up, digging my toes in the soft sand. I have to squint to see my parents building a sandcastle closer to the ocean. Dad wears a hilariously awful bright blue pair of trunks, and Mom sticks to her plain red one-piece. I breathe in the air, my back and entire body blemish and tattoo-free. Everything is perfect.
I see a few joggers coming, and I hold in a laugh. Wearing shoes on a beach? Never. They pass, and I notice a rather hunky man walking in the opposite direction, his feet in the surf. Muscular in all the right places. Black, spikey hair. I absentmindedly twirl a strand of my own black hair, imagining how it would feel to be stuck between his fantastic body and a wall. Nowhere to squirm but deeper and harder against him…
A familiar man suddenly appears between me and the man I’m ogling. He has pointed ears and shaggy brown hair. His hands rest on his hips. His clothes definitely do not lend themselves to this hot, sticky, beachy weather. I’m instantly mortified, caught daydreaming about a random guy.
Thoughts like that have never popped in my head.
At least, not to that extent.
“What are you…” The man glances behind him, seeing my parents and the handsome stranger. “Oh. Right. I should’ve figured.” Back to me, he asks, “You do recognize me, right?”
The rest of the beach world acts as if he’s not even there, confusing me. Plus, the man is covering my bronze legs in shade. While he seems familiar, he also seems foreign. I can’t place him, so I shake my head.
“Oh, God.” He kneels. “You’re that caught up in this dream? I’m David. Your only friend in the whole wide, real world. This, I’m sorry to say, isn’t the real world. That guy you’re making sultry eyes to isn’t real.”
Behind him, the man in question leans around, staring right at me with intense blue eyes.
And just like that, it all comes crashing back. My dad is dead. Mom would never be caught dead in a bathing suit like that. My body isn’t free of markings. I sigh and peek around at the man, who still stares at me, making me do something I’ve never done—blush.
“Are you sure he isn’t real? Because he’s fine,” I say slowly, pouting. “What are you doing here, besides ruining a great dream?”
“I know what I need to find out about Mike’s Mark, and coming into your dream was the only way I could think of talking to you without being obvious.”
I let out a groan, falling backwards, digging my fingers in the sand. It feels so real. Which makes me even sadder. I’ll never go to the beach. The world’s ending. And even if I do end up, somehow, making it to a beach, it won’t be with my dad.
“I need a backpack full of shit, and luckily I know I have it all at my shop.”
“What’s the problem?”
“No problem. I just thought you’d want to tag along, find that blasted cat.” David stands. “I’m in the hall outside your door, ready to portal as soon as you wake your sorry ass up.” With a flourish of his hand, he disappears, and for a moment, my dream carries on normally.
I see the delicious man is gone, and even though he isn’t real, I can’t help but feel sad. Sad about the man, sad about my dad, sad about the general state of things, really.
Before I give into the urge to wake up and leave the beach, a strange, scaly sensation crawls across my feet. Eyebrows creasing, I glance to my bare legs. A long, black snake slithers on them, his scales speckled with red, just like my Mark.
A part of me wants to stay and see where this goes, what the snake wants, but another part wants to wake up and get my cuddly kitty back.
The second part wins, naturally.
Cuddly kitties top all.
I open my eyes in the dark room. Josefina is fast asleep beside me, Barbies in hand, even while stuck in dreamland. Thankfully, we’re sharing the bottom bunk; Eve has the top, and Deb has the pull-out couch. David and Mike have their own room next door. Five people in a room with two twin-sized beds seemed a bit too much.
I crawl out of the bed as quietly as I can, untangling my legs from the sheets. Josefina yawns and stretches closer to the wall, oblivious to my escape. I pray we’re back before they wake. This is going to be a hard secret trip to explain.
See? I can be psychic, too.
My boots rest near the foot of the bed, and I tiptoe, grabbing them and sneaking out of the room. The door shuts noiselessly behind me. I slip on my boots, not zipping them up in fear of the noise they’ll make. Just as he said in my dream, David stands in the hall, waiting for me. His face is unimpressed.
Ready? He mouths.
I give him a nod, and he waves a hand, opening a portal behind him. The portal shimmers a beautiful hue of blue and purple. A bolt of bright yellow jolts through every few seconds. It’s thick magic, and even though I know we’re going to David’s sop, it’s eerie that the portal itself is nothing but smoky energy. No mirror portals here.
I take his hand, and we go through the portal together.
It closes behind us, and we appear in the front portion of the shop.
To think, before recently, I’ve never been through a portal. David did them all the time, but I never joined him. With my Mark, I never wanted to add more magic in my life. No more supernatural than necessary.
Kind of silly, considering David’s my only friend. A Warlock does magic naturally. They go hand in hand, like Vampires and blood. Like TV cops and donuts.
The shop is empty and just as we left it. It’s a bizarre kind of quiet, making my stomach twist. I do my best to shake it off and ignore it, going up the steps as I search for my cat. Nothing but a mess by the food bowl. No fresh droppings in the litter box.
I run downstairs, passing David at the bottom and going to the backroom. I attribute David’s slow speed to the drain he felt after taking me through the portal. The backdoor hangs wide open, meaning my cute, cuddly kitty is out there, somewhere, in the big, scary world. My spirits slump, and I storm back to David, who hasn’t moved, near the stairs.
“The backdoor was open. Xena’s probably miles away by now.” I hop on the glass counter beside the register, shoulders slumping. Besides David, Xena’s it. That’s my circle of friends. More like a line segment, really.
All David does is stare at me, wide-eyed.
Rolling my eyes, I slide off the counter. “Sorry, I know how you are about butt prints…” As I talk, I realize that David hasn’t moved at all, other than his face. I slowly walk around the wall to see that he is also in mid-stride, completely frozen.
A small, circular stone sits on the floor. A next to nonexistent blue light emanates from it.
David is strained to say, “Trap.”
I want to say something sarcastic, because that much is obvious, but I don’t, because I’m wondering why I didn’t activate the stone when I walked over it while searching for Xena. I was the first one to go to the stairs; I should’ve activated it, whatever it is.
I bend down, poking the stone, of which I’ve never seen before. I know for a fact it isn’t one of David’s trinkets; I would’ve recognized it. The stone is oddly cool. After poking it does nothing, I try picking it up. The stupid thing doesn’t budge. It’s as if it’s superglued to the floor or weighs a heck of a lot more than it looks, considering the stone is the size of a quarter.
“Is there something here that could break it?” I ask, moving to his front. I would laugh at the odd way he’s frozen, but I can’t, because I’m busy worrying about A) my cat, and B) who put the stone here.
I have a feeling this isn’t going to end well. Some more psychic intuition from yours truly. Deb must be rubbing off on me.
David struggles to say, “Ham…mer.” When I only stare at him blankly, he is forced to stammer, “O-din.”
Memories of him showing me a plain, heavy hammer surface, and I begin a frantic search of the store. He would never leave any weapons out in plain sight, so I know it’s behind a counter, in a locked case, or even possibly in the back room. Minutes pass, and with each minute, I grow more and more anxious.
I ask, “I can’t find it! Where is it?”
“Don’t,” David speaks without moving his lips, “know.”
In front of him, I shoot him a look to thank him for being so unhelpful. I lean my feet against the vertical portion of a step, press my hands against his chest, and use all my body strength to push. While I’m no body-builder, I’m not the typical weak girl. I have a bit of muscle on me.
David doesn’t move an inch. He simply watches me with a bored, are-you-done-yet expression.
I take in the expression, ceasing my effort to push him out of the trap. “All right. I’ll look in the back room. Don’t move.” I say it without thinking, and I imagine he tries to roll his eyes. Try, being the operative word.
The backroom is just as we left if; the backdoor hangs open, and I have the urge to close it. After it’s closed and firmly locked, I start searching the boxes stacked upon each other. One by one. You’d think that, as the store owner, David could point me in a better, narrower direction to the hammer.
That’d be too easy, though.
I want to throw my hands up and shout about how I give up, how stupid this is, but I can’t. What started out as a quick midnight search-and-retrieve mission turned into a mess. And it isn’t even nighttime! It’s broad daylight. That underground building the Vampires live in messes with your sense of time.
After what feels like an hour—and it darn near might be—I find the hammer behind the television stand, propping it up. Of course he doesn’t know where it is, because he used the magical artifact as a replacement leg for a shoddy TV stand he bought at Wal-Mart. I tug the hammer out, causing the TV to slide to the right. The only reason it doesn’t fall on the floor is the bookshelf beside it. A clutter-filled heap of disorder and disarray. No organization at all.
If it were my shop, everything would be labeled and in its rightful spot.
But it isn’t my shop; it’s David’s, and he’s had three hundred years to perfect the art of messiness.
It takes both hands to carry the hammer. A hammer of the Norse gods, supposedly. Legendary, in certain circles. It’s simple cast iron, a single leather strap tied around the handle. I heave it over my shoulder as I walk into the other part of the shop.
“So, since I can lift it, does this mean I’m like a long-lost Norse god or something?” I ramble, “Because, not going to lie, that’d be pretty…”
David’s frozen body is nowhere in sight.
“David?” I say, nearly dropping the hammer. After a frantic run up the stairs and a quick look later, I grasp that I’m alone. David’s gone. I head down the stairs, holding onto the hammer tightly, and see that the stone—of which I tried desperately to move—is also gone.
What kind of twisted game is this?
The front door swings open, and a cloaked man walks in, wearing the same wicked grin and the same forehead tattoo as a few other men I’ve seen recently. He drags a girl, kicking and screaming, in one hand, and in his other rests a curved dagger. I’ve never seen the girl before; she looks to be about twenty—my age. She has thick, black hair, luminous green eyes…
A Mark Unwilling Page 10