A Mark Unwilling

by Candace Wondrak

  Nothing matters.

  I close my eyes, leaning against the wall. The water courses down me, dirt and blood swirling in the drain. I try to fight the depressing thought, but I can’t.

  I don’t matter. What I want doesn’t matter. None of us matter, especially to Demons, Devils, and gods like Hades. Our world is a jungle gym. We’re chess pieces. Pawns, to be used and discarded.

  Sinking to the floor of the tub, I bite back tears. All I wanted was a normal life. A boyfriend, here and there. A close group of friends I could have sleepovers and gossip with. Go to college, get a decent job. Marry someone, eventually. Have a kid or two, if it floats my boat. Die old and happy, surrounded by family who loves me.

  None of that is possible, now.

  I cry.

  For the first time this all started, I let it out. I cry for me, for the future, for the recent past. Dad—a part of me will never get over losing him, watching him decay in front of my very eyes, something that was totally avoidable. He didn’t need to play the hero.

  That’s my job, because when I mess it up, it doesn’t kill me.

  I’m so overwhelmingly sad. Words cannot adequately describe how sad I am.

  I grow numb to the cold water, and as my thoughts turn to regret—regret over Cloud, my dad, everything—the white shower curtain is harshly pulled to the side. Devil Jr. stands there, staring down at me, the bathroom door still closed behind him. He must have portalled in.

  “Holy—” I catch myself, huffing as I turn toward the wall, covering my privates.

  “—shoot.” I hope the water covers my tears; I don’t want him to see me cry. I don’t want anyone to see me cry, but Devil Jr. is the last on that list. “Do you mind? A little privacy would be nice.”

  “You do realize that—” He starts, watching me cover myself with slight amusement.

  “You can make me drop my hands and blah, blah, blah. Yeah, I know.” I reach for the knob, turning off the water. I’m fairly certain he got a boob view, but I don’t care. I lean over the tub, giving him a nice look at my butt as I reach for my towel. I didn’t exactly shower, but too late for that now. I stand, holding the towel against my front, stepping out. Devil Jr. doesn’t move; I’m less than three inches from his chest. “Space, dude.”

  He either doesn’t know what I mean, or chooses to ignore it as he says, “You should not let what they say upset you.”

  I do my best to hide the shock on my face. That wasn’t what I thought he would say. Is he trying to comfort me? Weird.

  “In the end, they do not matter.”

  The shock fades, replaced by irritation.

  I push past him, going to the first room—what must’ve been a teenage girl’s room. Light pink walls, fuzzy carpet, a dozen pillows on the bed with animal spots and stripes. I catch a sight of myself in the mirror. My eyes are puffy and red, my hair knotted and messy. I’ve definitely looked better.

  Devil Jr. doesn’t take the hint; he follows me, using his invisible magic to close the door. For some strange, indescribable reason, I’m not afraid of him. I don’t believe he’d command me to do anything sexual to him. If that’s what he wanted, he would’ve already done it, right?

  I turn to the dresser, holding the towel close. “I wish you would go away.”

  You know how when you start to cry, it’s next to impossible to stop? Yeah, I’m in that boat, and as I try to focus on myself in the mirror, my vision blurs. I shake my head. The last thing I want to do is cry. I’m not weak. I’ve never been one of those girls who cry over any little thing.

  So…why can’t I stop the tears from falling?

  I feel his hand on my back, warm on my Mark, sending a tingle throughout my body. I start shivering, and not because I’m cold. “I hate you,” I whisper through watery eyes. Keeping one hand on the towel, I spin and slap away the hand that is on my back. I shove him—and the stupid man—he lets me. He doesn’t fight back, unlike our previous scuffle.

  I hit him in the chest a few times; harder than what my dad would call a love-tap. More like a hate-punch. “Why won’t you fight back?” I probably look hysterical; like an emotional, stereotypical woman.

  “I don’t want to,” Devil Jr. whispers, staring at me strangely.

  “Well maybe I want you to,” I hiss, my breathing uneven.

  His gaze is aggravatingly playful, but his tone is serious: “I know what you want me to do.”

  I glare. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “It means exactly what you think it means.”

  “Oh, excuse me. I wasn’t aware I was talking to the Riddler!” His confused expression rattles me more. I use the back of my hand to wipe away my tears, trying to get a hold of myself. As I do so, I see the activated Mark on my wrist, the same wrist I let Cloud feed from. “I hate you,” I whisper. “I hate that you’ve controlled my whole life. I hate this.” I hold my wrist to his face.

  He takes my hand, tracing a part of the Mark with his thumb. “Many would be thankful for this.” His blue stare meets mine, and I can tell he’s trying to figure me out. He’s probably wondering if all Humans are like this, if it’s only females, or if it’s just me. I honestly don’t have an answer for that.

  “Would you be thankful for something that was forced on you?” I ask quietly, aware that he hasn’t let my wrist go.

  Dimples form, and he smiles at me. Despite myself, heat flushes through me. “Perhaps I would learn to be grateful. I would try. I—” He starts to say something else as he lowers my hand, but I interrupt.

  “Shut up,” I say, trying not to listen to the gentleness in his voice. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m saying “Don’t talk” and leaning against him. My cheek rests on his chest, and I close my eyes, doing my best to forget who he is, what’s happening to the world. “I could use a non-judgmental hug.”

  I knew all this hugging was going to turn me into a Full House character.

  When he doesn’t move, standing there like a log, I use the hand that’s not holding the towel to me and show him what to do. Jeez. Hug lessons. Who knew I’d have to give them to the Devil’s son?

  After showing him, he gets the idea. Soon both arms are around me, and I inhale slowly, calming myself, soothing my nerves. The musky smell of burning hardwood relaxes me, and with his strong arms around me, I feel…safe, if only for the moment.

  Stupid, I know. I can’t trust the owner of my soul farther than I can throw him, which probably is less than a foot.

  It’s just momentary blissful, make-believe ignorance.

  The sun shines hotly over me, and I use a hand to give my stare some shade. I gaze out into the blue waves, the salt breeze licking at my tan skin. I wear a string bikini—something I almost never do, due to my chest. The waves have a habit of undoing the tied strings. It is supposed to be near one hundred degrees today, though, so I just decided to go for it.

  “Lexa,” a voice speaks next to me, breaking my attention from the ocean.

  “Hmm?” I turn my head to the man sitting next to me.

  The man grins, and I’m startled by how cute he is. “You were showing me how to make towers like that.” He points to the sandcastle in front of us. A hole a foot wide, a foot deep, with water on the bottom that comes and goes with the tide. A few, somewhat lopsided towers sit around it, my family’s specialty.

  It’s like I’m seeing him for the first time, which is impossible. I wouldn’t sit next to a stranger, show him my dad’s secret technique for building wet, droopy pillars for sandcastles. His black, spikey hair sways a little with the breeze, his eyes the color of the surf—a deep, dark blue. Dimples sit on his cheeks, making him look younger than he really is. Wide, broad shoulders sit atop an equally chiseled chest and abdomen. He wears a pair of black and red shorts.

  I wonder two things: 1) why is such a devastatingly good-looking hunk of a man sitting next to me? And 2) why does he seem so familiar?

  “Right,” I say, awkward, making it obvious that I was just checking h
im out. I reach into the watery hole, grabbing a handful of sand. I hover my hand over the sandcastle’s wall, demonstrating as I talk, “The key is to get wet sand, and let it drop from your hand in a slow drip. It dries by the time it falls.” After a minute, I have a brand new tower. “See? Sandcastles for people who are too poor to afford beach toys.” As I say it, it doesn’t feel right. Too poor to afford beach toys?

  My eyebrows crease.

  The man sees my confusion. “What’s wrong?” His eyes sparkle, making my stomach flip.

  “I…” I stare at him. “What’s your name?”

  “Do you think you’ve earned it yet?” His question sounds playful, but his tone is serious.

  Earned it? Earned the right to know his name? What silly nonsense is that?

  He chuckles. “I am incredulous.” He leans in closer. “You still don’t recognize me.” Trailing a finger down my back, along my spine, I feel a shiver sweep over me, in spite of the heat.

  “I don’t—” I breathe out, stopping when his face moves in on mine. Hot dude, but a little too confident for my liking. Still, his lower hand on my back feels nice, and I can’t even remember the last time I kissed someone.

  My parents always said I’m a pretty girl, why wasn’t there more…

  And then, seconds before passing the point of no return, I remember everything. I turn my head, feeling his nose on my cheek as I grab a handful of wet sand. I throw it at his face, standing as I say, “I don’t know what type of game you’re playing, but count me out.” I walk away.

  He follows me, wiping the wet, coarse stuff off his face. Before I can storm off the beach, through the dunes, I feel him grab my hand and pull me back. I struggle, pushing myself away from him while his arm holds my hips in place, against him.

  “No,” I say loudly, “you don’t get to play with me. I’m not a toy. I’m not a slave. You don’t get to…do that.” My bathing suit feels thin and flimsy between us, and suddenly I’m very self-conscious about my body.

  “Then let me warn you: you might not want to wake up.”

  The way he says it makes my blood boil. It makes me so mad that I squirm away from him and ram my stomach into the wooden railing of the steps that hover over the dunes.

  My eyes open, and I feel as though I ran into the railing, even though it was just a dream. Just a stupid dream. A stupid dream with Devil Jr. trying to, what? Get in my pants? Show his tender side? Surely there’s other things he can occupy his time with.

  My eyes adjust to the morning light, seeing the crumpled heap of my towel laying on the floor. Soft, silky sheets hug my body—my naked body. I lay on the edge of the bed and hug the sheets tighter to me. I vaguely remember getting into bed, too tired to find clean clothes, but I’m sure the towel was still wrapped around me.

  And I definitely don’t remember inviting anyone to sleep next to me.

  Though he isn’t touching me, I can feel his heat through the sheets. I slowly turn my head and glare at him through my messy black halo of hair.

  He simply props himself up on a fist, smirks, and says, “I warned you, didn’t I?”

  I clutch the sheets with one hand to my chest, and fling my other hand at him, wanting to smack him, get him away from me and out of the bed, but he catches my hand easily. Soon I’m in a very compromising position; his knee, still clothed in slacks—thank goodness—splits my legs apart, and he doesn’t release my thrown hand as he moves over me, grinning like a stupid boy.

  My cheeks grow warm, and I turn my head, muttering, “You’re enjoying this too much.”

  “I am. Better than pouting, is it not?” he speaks with a grin.

  I frown, staring hard at the towel on the floor. “I think I liked you better when you went off to pout for a few days. I don’t like the switch—” I hear a voice calling about breakfast, and I’m quick to shout, “Coming!” I swat Devil Jr. aside and crawl out of the bed, holding the thin sheet against me as I find some clothes that look like they’d fit. Clean underwear and the like.

  After I find something that look relatively my size, I say, “Turn around.”

  Devil Jr. sits on the edge of the bed, staring at me, white teeth showing. “No.”

  I fume, doing my best to change while simultaneously holding the sheet up. A very hard thing to do, let me tell you. “You know, it might surprise you, but I don’t think this alpha, dominant, man-thing you got going on is attractive. I think it’s irritating, and frustrating, not to mention cliché.” When he gives me a blank look, I explain, “Been there, done that. Or, actually, seen it. Read it. Played it. Pick one.”

  “That’s not what you told me in your dream,” he tells me.

  I blink, noticing how his hair, even after laying on it, is perfectly styled. Anime hair, without a doubt. Regular hair does not look like that after sleeping on it. “I didn’t know you were…” I picture the sweat dripping onto his abdomen, falling onto his shorts, precariously close to his… “You weren’t—” My words become jumbled, and I hurry up and finish getting dressed before marching my bare feet out of the room. “I give up!”

  I jump down the stairs, unaware that in my antics, I forgot a key piece of clothing.

  I make it into the kitchen, and everyone’s eyes turn to me. Deb quickly averts her gaze, as does David. My mom, sitting in the corner as she keeps Josie away from Cloud, shields the girl’s face, and she giggles. Every pair of straight male eyes, other than David’s, is on me, along with a pair of not-so-straight eyes, if Nat’s interest can be taken for face-value.

  Cloud, looking healthier, and wearing an oversized sweater, takes a long sip from his mug, cool stare on my chest. “Forget something, little Lexa?” He licks the red stuff off his mouth; deer blood. His mug says Best Dad in the World; coupled with his ugly sweater, the Vampire looks quite funny.

  Not as funny as me, though.

  Because, apparently, I’m not wearing a shirt.

  I storm up the stairs, keeping my mouth closed as I pass Devil Jr. on the stairwell, and grab the first shirt I see. It’s not my usual style, but the grey fabric is comfortable. Jeans are a bit too tight, though. You win some, you lose some.

  When I return to the kitchen, I’m greeted by laughter. “What?” I bare my teeth to the group. “First you have a problem with me going shirtless, and now you’re making fun of the shirt I did choose? Get a life.”

  “Sorry,” Deb apologizes, but David quips, seemingly forgetting about our spat last night, “I never knew you had a thing for Pokémon.”

  “First off, it’s Pokémon,” I correct his pronunciation. “Second off, Pikachu beats all. You know that.”

  Josefina escapes from Eve’s lap, running and jumping into me, hugging around my neck as I struggle to pick her up. She does her best impression of the small, electric yellow mouse, and laughs.

  “You sound just like him,” I tell her with a smile. Just like that, my bad mood fades. Was I always this moody? I don’t remember being this volatile before. I make a dramatic groan. “Josie, you’re getting a little heavy.”

  She giggles as I set her down. “I went to your room, but there was no room on the bed,” she says innocently. Her eyes move to Devil Jr. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  Multiple people nearly choke on whatever they’re eating/drinking.

  “What’s a boyfriend?” Devil Jr. asks, clueless.

  Josie gives me a knowing look. “He’s dumb. You can do better.” She returns to my mom, after I put her down, grabbing a toy stuffed bear she found and feeding him oatmeal.

  I head to the table, snatching a bagel from David’s plate. I’m not mad at him. I understand where he’s coming from. That doesn’t mean we can’t all still get along and pretend everything’s fine. “It’s very telling that even a six-year-old knows you’re dumb.” I take a bite of the buttery bagel before David can take it back from me.

  Even Cloud cracks a gloomy smile at that, but Devil Jr. doesn’t think it’s amusing.

  After everyone finishes their breakfast,
we split up and search the house for anything that might be useful. David gathers some herbs; never know when a potion might come in handy. I head upstairs and look around the computer in the parents’ room. My mom entertains Josie, who made herself at home in the room of the young girl who used to live here. About the same size as her, so she was finally able to take off that pink tutu.

  I sit on the wheeled chair, bending over as I look in the desk’s drawers. Manuals for the computer, printer, Wi-Fi router. After finding nothing, I poke the computer’s power button and wait a few moments for the all-in-one desktop to turn on.

  A blue screen flashes, and all I have to do is click on whichever user I am, no password required. I choose a bright pink flower, thinking it’s the mother’s profile. The computer fully boots up, and I click the internet symbol on the bottom taskbar. The internet window pops up, and an error message displays. My brows crease, and I click on the troubleshoot button.

  No solutions. It suggests that I check the router.

  I bend beneath the desk. The router’s power is on, the small space next to the wireless image blinking green, which means it’s working. I unplug the router’s power, wait ten seconds, and re-plug it. It doesn’t help.

  Frowning, I shut the computer off and push away from the desk. I slump downstairs, finding Mike in the kitchen, near David. Mike is in the progress of yanking out a chord from a junk drawer. I recognize the black thing as a phone charger. A generic, dollar store one, but it would work, if he has an Android and not an iPhone.

  Mike plugs it into the wall, his lips a thin line beneath his stubble as he takes his phone from his slacks’ pocket and plugs the charger in. Crossing my arms, I move beside him, trying my best not to get my hopes up.

  The phone boots up from a dead battery, and Mike shakes his head, a look of confusion crossing his face. “What in the hell?” He taps the phone against the counter—something you shouldn’t do to an eight-hundred-dollar piece of hardware. Though, money means nothing now. He lets out a harsh sigh. “That’s just fucking great.” Mike digs through the drawer again, pulls out an ancient box of cigarettes and a lighter that’s definitely seen better days. He goes out to smoke.