Mark of Love (Love Mark Fantasy Book 3)

by Linda Kage

  “Whatever.” I sighed and rolled my hand toward her encouragingly. “Are you going to alter me now or what? I’d rather get this bread-selling shit done and over with now rather than later.”

  Her smile dropped into a pout. “Why must you always spoil my moments when I’m having a brilliant idea?”

  “I thought you said it was my idea?” I countered, unable to keep from quarreling with her.

  “That’s it,” she shot back, waving her hand in a circle and then flicking her fingers my way. “You deserve this.”

  A familiar tingling sensation spread over me. Being glamoured always felt as if my skin was being covered with a swarm of crawling insects. I just wanted to bat them away and bathe immediately whenever she transformed my appearance.

  But it was a necessary evil.

  Because I was a Graykey.

  After the family’s eleventh and last reaping eight years ago, the rest of the Outer Realms had finally had enough. I honestly couldn’t blame them. Whenever the Graykeys expended their bloodlust on each other, they tended to turn on outsiders next, ravaging their way across the land and killing indiscriminately to appease the urges flowing through them.

  And though the eleventh reaping had occurred in the kingdom of Lowden, because that’s where my grandfather’s brother—Great-uncle Orrick—had ruled as king until he died and his son Percy took power, it was the kingdom of High Cliff who’d led a charge to invade the land and dethrone my father’s cousin. From there, the High Clifters had shown no mercy, cutting down anyone who bore the mark of the Graykey curse.

  They wanted the reapings to be done and the curse to be over in a bad, bad way. After killing all the Graykeys who’d fought back against them, they went on a hunt for all the ones who’d fled and evaded the war, and they killed them too. They were determined to eliminate all of us, so we couldn’t reproduce another generation and rise up once more with our evil bloodlust.

  And they were still out there today, searching for every last Graykey.

  I completely applauded the idea of ending the curse and eradicating even the idea of having another reaping. I had nightmares about getting caught in another family kill reunion.

  But flat-out liquidating all of us indiscriminately seemed like a bit much. I had personally ensured myself safe from the dark side of the curse by casting off my magic years ago and giving it away to another. I still missed my powers of persuasion sometimes, but whatever. It had been worth it.

  I might’ve been immune in the tenth reaping when I’d been young, but I think that had changed as I’d grown and started to mature. I could feel myself craving more, wanting to hunt down my own family and take from them. If I hadn’t shed my magic when I had, I probably would’ve been the very Graykey who had started the eleventh reaping. But I had shed my powers just in time, so it’d been my father’s cousin Percy who’d started the eleventh.

  I hadn’t stopped my safety measures there, either. After giving away my magic, I’d gone a step further. I’d found a mage who could seal my womb closed, preventing me from having children and passing my curse on to another generation. There was no way I could fall victim to the bloodlust now or even be a carrier of it.

  But did anyone care about that?

  No.

  They still sought me too. I’d evaded half a dozen High Cliff henchmen in the past six years. And all of them would’ve captured me or slaughtered me on sight, not even pausing to ask if I’d taken care of the risks from the curse by myself or even if I was willing to do so to avoid getting sucked into the bloodlust.

  And so, I lived in hiding, always on the move, never staying in one place too long, and making sure I got close to no one. I had Melaina who assisted me, by keeping my face changed so no one ever really knew what I looked like, and that was it. But that was fine. We had to travel a lot in search of the amulets; there wouldn’t have been time for other friendships, anyway.

  The creeping, crawling sensation finally abated, and I opened my eyes—not sure when I’d squeezed them closed, to begin with—and I glanced down to see what Melaina had turned me into with her magical abilities this time.

  I saw my hands first—aged and wrinkled with liver spots. Scraggly blue veins crept up my arms over medium-toned skin, and grayed hairs covered my forearms.

  When I checked my waistline, the pudgy, soft middle looked so believable I could almost feel the added weight bearing down on my hips. With trousers and a stained tunic covering the form, plus no breasts, I could tell she’d turned me into a man again. She did that a lot. It amused her to make me male, I think. She must think I abhorred the idea of being a different gender, so I never let on that I secretly felt safer that way.

  Fewer people paid attention to and bothered you when you weren’t a soft-skinned female with pale, flowing locks and big, soulful brown eyes. Being a comely maiden had never benefited me before, so it was a relief to escape that shell for a while and look like, well, basically like anything else.

  Except I already knew Melaina had made me as unattractive as possible—her form of punishment, I guess. Spotting a puddle nearby, I caught a glimpse of my face and found that I now had a jutting masculine brow, thick bushy eyebrows, the biggest, most crooked nose I’d ever seen, and plenty of raised moles with sagging jowls.

  Yep. I was hideous.

  But hopefully not so repulsive that no one would buy bread at the market from me. We really did need to turn a bigger profit today. Constant traveling wasn’t cheap. And a night or two in an actual inn would be heavenly.

  “Make sure to hobble like you have a bum leg or something,” Melaina instructed, looking as if she enjoyed my glamour far too much. “Or else no one will believe the disguise.”

  “Limp?” I sent her a sharp frown. Limiting my ability to move freely was dangerous. If some threat showed up, I’d need to be able to run. And escape.

  But my aunt obviously hadn’t considered that possibility, or maybe she just didn’t care. That sounded more likely.

  “What?” She smirked cruelly. “Being elderly will help you garner sympathy and sales.”

  “Sympathy is extinct.” No one cared about anyone else’s plight anymore. Not from what I’d seen anyway. Why did she think I had become so anti-social? So anti-people? Because they were all rotten, straight to the core; that’s why.

  “Then scare them into buying from you. Tell them all the other bread vendors have bugs in their loaves. I don’t give a fuck. Just make us some damn money.”

  I nodded and started to turn away, only to pause when I caught sight of the bell hanging from the outer wall of the building. “Don’t forget,” I reminded her. “It will ring three times if the jeweler’s open for business. Two means stay away because they’re probably being raided.”

  Those were the types of details Melaina tended to forget.

  “Got it; three times a charm.”

  “Right. Good.” I reached for the handholds on the pushcart and began to wheel it toward the opening of the alley and in the direction of the Pinsky marketplace. “I’ll see you at our meeting place at two.”

  She didn’t answer for a moment, but when I reached the exit to the alley, she called, “Oh, and, Quilla?”

  When I glanced back, she flashed me a sudden grin and playfully waved me along. “Do your auntie proud.”

  My lips twitched. No matter how much of a bitch she could be, there was a certain charm about her that not even I was immune to. I wouldn’t just be alone if she took the amulet and left me; I’d actually miss her.

  I’d die before letting her know that, though.

  And so I shuffled along without a rejoinder.

  The market square wasn’t located clear on the other side of the village, but it was still a good distance away. I grumbled under my breath, cursing Melaina the whole way for putting me in a disguise that forced me to shamble and go slow.

  The trolley I was pushing must’ve had something wrong with the axle because it wobbled and kept trying to go in the opposite dir
ection than I was pushing it. The force of the breeze wasn’t helping anything either. Bowing my head against the wind, because one good, strong gust could wash away my glamour and reveal my true image, I plodded along, hoping the damn bazaar didn’t finish before I even made it to the village square.

  All the good spots were taken by the time I arrived, so I was forced to squeeze the pushcart between a vendor selling onions—half of them overripe, by the scent of things—and a fishmonger who also didn’t have the freshest supply. Both were going to snuff out that inviting aroma of warm baked bread.

  Grinding my teeth, I set up shop anyway, parking the trolley and glowering quite frequently at my neighbor merchant to the right who kept spraying fish guts whenever he chopped off the head of his catch of the day and then wrapped the body in parchment for customers. Turning to the side and using my body as a shield from the pungent shower, I unpacked my loaves and began to set them out for display.

  I had two customers stop and buy a loaf before I was even finished setting up. That was good; the place was packed today, too. I might just sell my entire inventory before noon, despite my unlucky location and late arrival.

  Since sound couldn’t be glamoured, it was difficult to deepen my voice whenever I was forced to speak to customers. So I kept my phrases short and clipped, and I didn’t mess around with small talk—not that I was a fan of small talk, anyway, but whatever.

  About half my stock was sold when a particularly destitute-looking cluster of children edged in the direction to my stall. I scowled at them, hoping they didn’t come any closer because I already knew I’d end up handing over something to them if they did. Melaina must’ve really made me appear cantankerous, though, it only took me one glance in their direction for them to scatter.

  Crap. Now I felt shitty. It was on the tip of my tongue to call them back and shower them with free goods when a commotion in the crowd caught my attention.

  Something big was happening. And the small warning hairs rising on the back of my neck told me I wasn’t going to like it. The crowds shifted, attention narrowed in one direction, voices changed.

  And just like that, everything inside me went on immediate alert.

  I braced myself, preparing for anything.

  Chapter 2

  Quilla

  “Hey,” I called to the onion man selling his bulbs next to me. “What’s going on?”

  “Haven’t you heard?” He sent me an annoyed frown for daring to talk to him. “The queen’s visiting today. And I guess she’s decided to come to market.”

  “The queen?” I turned curiously, hoping to catch a look for myself.

  Melaina and I hadn’t been in the kingdom of Far Shore long—maybe three or four days—but a lot of change had happened here recently it seemed. The whole country was all astir with juicy gossip about it, anyway.

  I guess a princess from the neighboring land of Donnelly had overthrown and killed the king and queen here, married the king’s bastard son, and then taken over the rule herself. She was rumored to be young and beautiful and far kinder and more benevolent to the people than the last ruler had ever been. So, the locals weren’t quite sure yet whether to love or hate her. They sure liked to talk about her, though.

  The Outer Realms had never had a female govern any of its territories before. That garnered some respect from me right there, but I still wanted to see this girl with my own eyes, because there was no way she could be as spectacularly lovely as everyone made her out to be.

  A sudden hush fell over the people, and the crowds automatically parted to let a wave of Far Shore soldiers through the clearing, their weapons held ready at their sides, prepared to protect their leader with violence and their own lives if necessary.

  Instantly on edge, I shied a step back before reminding myself it was only High Cliff soldiers who’d ever been sent out to hunt Graykeys down and eliminate them. The army here in Far Shore wouldn’t be so fervent to look for me, and besides, my glamour was holding surprisingly well in this breeze. No one would even know I was a despised Graykey.

  Even though it was impossible to see my mark, as I wore long sleeves and had the glamour hiding it, I tucked the inside of my forearm firmly against my rib cage, keeping it held close to my side.

  And then, there she was: the new young queen—pale dress fluttering in the wind and long, dark hair flowing behind her. She didn’t ride in a fancy carriage nor was she mounted on a horse, but she walked—fucking walked—among her subjects as if she were one of them, out for a daily stroll like a normal, average person.

  Incredible.

  She did seem pretty from here—a perfect, slim but still pleasantly curved form and a mass of dark hair. At least the rumor about her visage didn’t seem to be an exaggeration.

  But then I sniffed and rolled my eyes when I saw a High Cliff mark blaring from her temple. Stupid tattoo. It was a custom for all High Clifters to get their fancy mark at birth, but all the thing did was help them recognize their true love at first sight. They didn’t grant people wisdom or strength or even logical thinking. Their only purpose was to find a life partner.

  Meaningless, if you wanted my opinion.

  So it surprised me to see one on the queen here in Far Shore.

  Then again, she was Donnellean-born, and Donnelly had formed an alliance with High Cliff over five years ago when the kings from both realms had joined fidelities with each other by marrying the High Cliff princess off to the Donnelly prince. It made sense that Donnelly would begin to adopt some of High Cliff’s ways, I suppose. Even if their ways were ridiculously idiotic.

  The queen had her arm hooked securely to the man at her side as she walked. That must be her husband, the last king’s bastard son. Except she seemed to be dragging him along against his will. When he stopped suddenly, resisting her pull and jarring her to a halt next to him, I frowned curiously and focused on his face.

  And I immediately pulled back with a gasp. He bore a High Cliff mark as well.

  His mark was a bit more shocking, though. It seemed less likely to me that a Far Shore man—like the king’s bastard—would take on such a richly High Cliff practice. But what did I know? What did it even matter? What I couldn’t get past the most was the disconcerting fact that he seemed to be looking straight at me.

  Or maybe I was wrong.

  He and the queen weren’t that close to me; they were nearly on the other side of the square, but his attention was definitely focused in this direction, and it felt as if he were peering inside me. Even the onion seller and fishmonger were sending me odd glances, as if they too thought he was staring at me and no one else.

  Okay, that couldn’t be good.

  I had no idea what this meant, but it made me distinctly uncomfortable. I didn’t want to be on anyone’s royal radar, not even if it was only Far Shore royalty.

  A second later, the prince consort spun away and stalked off, literally dragging the queen with him. She must’ve said something to get him to stop because he halted again a moment after that.

  When a new man approached them, I realized he’d been walking alongside the two the whole time, keeping to the opposite side of the queen as the other man. I just hadn’t paid him any attention until now.

  The new fellow said something to the queen, and she shook her head, appearing confused. So the man slapped the prince’s arm to gain his attention and jostle him from whatever daze had gripped him.

  The prince sliced him with a perturbed glower. Uncaring, the second man lifted his hands as if demanding an explanation for his behavior, and the prince turned away again, determined to ignore both the man and the queen as he ran his hands over his face in extreme agitation.

  The queen must’ve grown fed up with being left in the dark because she spoke to him with a flurry of flying hands and annoyed yet concerned expressions. But her husband only clutched his head in his hands and looked up toward the heavens as if seeking advice.

  The queen kept pestering him, hands on her hips now, like an
y typical beleaguered wife, until she said something that finally gained a response. He glared at her, spitting something back, and whatever he said caught her completely off guard.

  She turned to the other man, sharing a look with him. He seemed equally surprised by whatever the prince had told them. From that point on, the queen and the unknown man seemed to gang up on him with a flood of questions until the prince held up a finger to quiet them.

  The queen and the other man shared another look, and something familiar and cohesive passed between them. I frowned, beginning to wonder just who this second male was.

  That’s when I realized…

  Among the gossip I’d heard, a third person was mentioned quite often in relation to the new queen. She’d come to Far Shore with a bodyguard and personal protector, an ex-High Cliff soldier who she’d made captain and leader of her armies. He was rumored to be at her side as much as her husband was.

  I swallowed uneasily, realizing he must be the High Clifter. But when I scanned his features, I paused. He didn’t have a mark on his temple. Not like the queen and her hus—aw, shit.

  I’d had it backward. The High Cliff bodyguard must be the man the queen had dragged into the market by the arm, and her husband—the prince consort—must be this second guy I hadn’t noticed on her other side.

  Returning my gaze to the troubled man—the High Clifter—I fell back a step when I realized he was motioning distractedly in my direction. The queen and her husband immediately whirled and scanned the market until they too were looking at me.

  Yeah, this really wasn’t good.

  Why in God’s name was a High Clifter talking about me?

  Growing agitated, I checked my surroundings for the closest escape. Because it was past time to go. I seized loaves of bread by the armfuls and blindly shoved them back into my sack.