My Uncle walks past me, almost brushing against me. I shuffle away so quickly he looks at me sideways.
Aunt Anne breezes through the door next. “Is everything okay?”
I can’t lie and say I’m fine, but I don’t know quite what to say. I understand Wesley more with every second that passes, and I pretty much know I’m Marked, whereas he didn’t believe he was. It’s easy to pretend everything’s fine when you don’t feel any different.
My cousin Rhonda jogs through the doorway and into the kitchen, and her twin, Job, follows closely after. He pulls the front door shut. Rhonda yanks off her bright red knit cap with the little golden puff ball on top that I made her for Christmas years ago. It’s uglier than a hairless cat, but she wears it faithfully. She tosses it onto the kitchen table, and her straight, golden hair cascades down her back and fans around her face. She pulls out a chair and swings it around so she can sit on it backward, her chin resting on the chair back. “I wanna hear the details, all of them. Did you finally kiss the guy, or what?”
“Kiss who?” Aunt Anne asks.
“Yeah, we all want to know.” Job plonks down in a chair across from Rhonda and kicks a leg up on the one next to it.
All eyes turn to me.
Rhonda’s eyes travel from my coat, to the two bags and then narrow suspiciously. “You extra cold for some reason? What’s with the luggage?”
“Well,” I say, “about that. There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Please tell me you aren’t eloping,” Uncle Dan says.
Aunt Anne rolls her eyes. “That’s not a thing anymore. There’s not even Vegas anymore.”
“Just let her talk,” Job says. “What’s up?”
“Are you changing Paths again?” Aunt Anne asks.
Rhonda snorts. “Why would she need a bag for that?”
“I don’t know,” Aunt Anne says, “but she’s obviously not a good fit in Sanitation.”
I cough. This is not going well.
We’re all ‘equal’ in the Unmarked community, but even so I’m the black sheep of the family because I can’t seem to find a place. Rhonda never tried anything other than Defense. She knew what she wanted from the start and advanced rapidly in the ranks of her chosen Path. Similarly, Job never wavered from Science. The presence of two prodigies in the family only highlights my inability to succeed at anything. Or even to fit anywhere at all.
Of course, they don’t know my shortcomings have become irrelevant. It won’t matter that I never quite fit in once I’m gone.
“Sanitation’s not a good fit for me, it’s true. I only tried it because I’d done everything else already.” I look down and examine my mittens. I need to spit it out already. “Actually, I think one good thing came from tonight.” I choke a bit and tears form in my eyes. “You won’t have to worry about me finding the right Path anymore.” A tear rolls down my right cheek, and I force my eyes up to meet Aunt Anne’s sky blue ones. She looks so much like my dad. His absence still stings at the strangest times.
Aunt Anne’s brows draw together in concern.
“I’m Marked,” I say.
Pandemonium ensues.
Everyone’s talking at the same time, so I can’t really tell what anyone’s saying. Job’s ranting about something to do with his research on the hormonal suppressant. My Aunt Anne yells back at him. They obviously disagree on some scientific fact. My uncle jumps out of his seat and checks the door and windows for some reason I can’t fathom, yelling about the teenagers and Marked raids.
Rhonda sits perfectly still, so still that she catches me by surprise when she jumps up and reaches for my face. I shove away from her so frantically that I knock my chair over backwards, my feet kicking up and away. My head slams into the floor, but I scrabble backward anyway, desperate to keep her away. My arms windmilling, and my legs kicking furiously. I thwart her efforts to touch my face, barely.
At least our scuffle shuts the other three up.
Job grabs Rhonda, a little belatedly in my opinion, and pulls her back. He glances my way. “You okay, Rubes?”
I sit up slowly, my head reeling, a sharp pain throbbing at the base of my skull.
His question strikes me as funny. I fell on the floor and struck my head, but I feel fine. Other than the fact that I’m doomed to die in the next three or so years, sure, I’m great.
I start laughing and can’t quite stop. “Sure,” I finally choke out. “I’m awesome.”
Job holds Rhonda against him in a bear hug, practically pinning her against the stairwell. They both stare at me in a frightening way, like they’re eyeing a rabid dog who could pounce at any moment. Job’s trying to protect her from me when Rhonda was the one acting like a nut. What was she thinking?
“I wasn’t going to touch you,” she whispers. “I just wanted to see your forehead. Has it appeared?”
“No,” I say. “I don’t think so, not yet. I only got Marked an hour ago, or a little more.”
She sags back in Job’s arms. “I was hoping it was some kind of prank. Some sick new Last Supper joke.” She starts to cry, great heaving sobs wracking her body. The last thing I can make out is, “How?”
They all look at me, clustered almost at the bottom of the stairs, and for the first time it hits me. I’m going to have to tell them I kissed Wesley. It’s a stupid thing to be embarrassed about, but I don’t want our last conversation at home to be about my first, and possibly last, kiss. I choke up and can’t speak, so I shake my head instead. Finally I say, “Does it matter?”
When no one else speaks, I lean over and grab my bag. I know they aren’t really my family. Aunts and uncles and cousins aren’t the same as moms and dads and siblings. I know that. I’ve always known that. Even so, I knew losing them would hurt. Nothing prepares me for feeling like I’ve been gutted when no one stops me from walking out the front door and into the night alone.
Chapter 4
My aunt and uncle’s house is on the eastern edge of town by the Wintergreen Cemetery on College Street. It’s a quick walk to Church Street, and then a few blocks to the old Claiborne County Courthouse. Of course, no one goes to court anymore. The Mayor adjudicates all disputes himself, as part of running the town.
Port Gibson isn’t very large, and has only one of everything, except cemeteries. Apparently, each religion needed its own cemetery Before, though I’m not quite sure anyone cares much once they’ve died. Dirt is dirt, after all. I think cemeteries are more for the living than the dead. One was even dedicated specifically for Jewish people. It’s the only original cemetery that still has space left. Pretty much everyone else, Christian or not, is buried outside of town in the New Graves Cemetery. Apparently Unmarked society doesn’t put much value on blessed dirt or creative names.
I consider walking off into the night to meet Wesley right now. There’s a certain thrill to the idea of bypassing quarantine entirely. Of course, that would leave my friends and family unable to come tell me goodbye. The three-day quarantine rule was developed as more of a safe way for loved ones to mourn than anything else. The thought of watching my friends and family pity me, reliving all the sadness over and over, and suffering through rounds of questions about how it happened makes me feel queasy. It’s the first time I’ve felt sick since seeing Wesley’s Mark.
My Aunt Anne catches me before I make a quick turn and walk out to Wesley, instead of heading up the steps to the Courthouse.
“We handled that poorly,” she says. “I’m sorry. We all are.”
“Thanks for coming to tell me that, but you don’t have to come with me to check in.” I meet her eyes.
Aunt Anne holds my gaze. “I do.” She does love me, after all. I want to hug her, but I don’t, obviously.
The Courthouse looms before us, two dozen steps to the front entry. I think the stately red brick building with raised steps leading up to the front door used to be some kind of church, but it was pretty enough that whoever was in charge of Port Gibson at the beginning claimed it
.
My aunt walks alongside me, matching me step for step on every stair. I raise my hand to push the door open, but Aunt Anne reaches the handle first and I jump back. I follow her through the entry and into the small office, where Barrett’s eyes widen and he leaps to his feet.
He’s been over to the house for dinner a few times, so I know him fairly well. He has dark hair and eyes, like both of his parents. Of course, I know all of the guards since my uncle has been Defense Chief in Port Gibson for the past three years.
Barrett shifts uneasily.
“I’ve been exposed to Tercera,” I say. “I need to go into quarantine.”
Barrett’s mouth turns down. “That’s awful. I’m so sorry.” He turns to Aunt Anne. “Unfortunately, you can’t stay while she’s processed.”
“She’s a minor,” Aunt Anne says.
Barrett crosses his arms, and pins my aunt with a forceful stare. His chocolate brown eyes don’t waver. “Talk to your husband. I only enforce his rules.”
She stands with her shoulders slumped by the entrance while I follow Barrett’s broad shoulders upstairs to my designated cell. There isn’t much that needs to be done at the Courthouse anymore, so the upstairs was outfitted as a prison. It hasn’t ever held any prisoners that I know of, but the cells double as quarantine rooms. Once I’m in my room and settled, Barrett opens the small window and looks at me through the Plexiglas that’s been installed for this purpose.
He asks me a lot of questions about how I got Marked and when.
I choose not to answer any.
What’s he going to do? We’re pretty sure you have to be touched to be Marked. We don’t know of any cases where someone has caught it through breathing the same air or occupying the same room, or even touching someone else’s belongings. It seems to require direct skin-to-skin contact.
No one’s too keen on taking any chances.
I lay down on the cot and close my eyes. I think about Wesley, shivering in the cold out under a tree. He should’ve come with me to quarantine. Of course, they might’ve punished him if he had. It’s a capital offense to Mark someone. I’d have argued against it, but I bet my uncle would be angry enough to push. Maybe it’s better he didn’t come. I try to sleep, but my thoughts return over and over to Wesley and our kiss. Not the first ghastly wreck, but the second one. Wesley’s Marked, and after two kisses, there’s pretty much no chance I’m not.
I’ve told my family. I checked in officially. I’ve done everything right. Why should Wesley have to wait outside for me in the cold for three days? I’ve told Aunt Anne and Uncle Dan, Rhonda and Job. They can’t hug me, and all they’ll do if they come is frown through the glass and maybe cry. I want to say goodbye to my friends, but not if it means Wesley dies three years early of exposure. I’m understanding more and more why he didn’t come here.
I hop up and glance through the glass. No one in the hallway, at least, not that I can see. I rummage around in my bag, hoping I have a hairpin inside. I don’t find a hairpin, but I do find a ballpoint pen. I twist the cap off and slide out the plastic guts. I poke the long skinny plastic tube into the hole in the doorknob and shove. It takes a moment, but I hear a pop.
Not the best security, but then, this isn’t a real prison. It’s a quarantine room. I grab my bag and poke my head out the door. No Barrett in sight. I tiptoe down the back hallway. Still not a soul around. I open the rear exit door and slide through. That’s when I collide with a brick wall wearing a tight black t-shirt and a black leather jacket.
My uncle’s Second in Command, Samuel Roth, reaches out and grabs both of my arms with black-gloved hands.
Well, crap.
“Ruby Behl.” Something about his low and raspy voice makes my stomach drop. “Where are you going?”
He’s the worst person who could possibly have caught me—no chance I’ll slip out of town now.
I’ve known Sam forever. He and his dad lived with us up in Nebraska for most of the time we were there, and we joined the Unmarked together. His dad ran Port Gibson for a while, but then he moved up in the Unmarked leadership and they moved away. Two years ago, when Sam chose Defense as his Path, he came back to town. He’s been working with Rhonda and for Uncle Dan ever since.
He’s a completely awesome fighter and my uncle keeps promoting him. He’s also probably the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen, with beefy enough arms to counterbalance his stupidly pretty face. He towers over everyone else in town, with his dark blond hair, and bright greenish gold eyes. I might have even had a killer crush on him when I was a little kid, for like, five minutes. But he never talked to me, and he’s quiet and almost dopey, so I moved on. At least him ignoring me wasn’t personal. He doesn’t say much to anyone.
He releases me. “You can follow me back to your cell.”
I wonder whether there’s any chance I could outrun him. Even with his bulk, it seems . . .unlikely.
“Your uncle called me in, but your forehead’s clear,” Sam says. “Why do you think you’re Marked?”
I frown. I wish Barrett would come back. He’s easier to ignore. “I had contact with someone who was recently Marked.”
“What kind of contact?” Sam walks to the back door, which locked behind me, and pulls out a key. He opens the door and gestures for me to follow him through, seemingly unconcerned that I might run. Or maybe he’s that confident he can catch me.
“Does it matter?” I walk through the door and start back up the stairs toward my cell, stomping as loudly as possible. “I’m Marked, okay? I’m positive.”
Barrett flies around the corner upstairs, his mouth dangling open, his eyes round as saucers. “How did you—”
“She escaped while you were on watch,” Sam says. “For now, you’re relieved of duty. We’ll talk later.”
Barrett flinches. “She presented voluntarily, and the door was locked.”
Sam’s voice barely rises higher than a whisper, “You observe and contain.”
Barrett salutes and practically runs downstairs.
When we reach the door to my cell, Sam opens it. He inclines his head as a silent order for me to go inside.
I toss my head. “I’m not a prisoner.”
He meets my eyes flatly. “You’re to be held in quarantine for three days. You know that.”
When I walk through, unlike Barrett, Sam doesn’t close and lock the door. He follows me inside.
“Marking someone intentionally is a capital offense,” he says. “Your uncle takes that seriously. Defense Path mostly acts as guards against outside threats to our community, but we also police internally as needed. Tell me who Marked you so we can deal with it.”
I visualize what will happen if I tell him. Sam tracks Wesley down like he would a deer, his eyes scanning boot prints in the dark, tossing leaves in the air and scenting him or something. Sam’s crazy like that. Then Sam catches him at the willow, and shoots him between the eyes.
No thanks.
“No one Marked me intentionally,” I say.
“I have to write a report, Ruby. I can’t write ‘unintentional marking’.”
“Why not? You’re concise.” That’s an understatement. He barely talks at all, and if I tell him, he’ll blame Wesley. I may be mad at Wes, but I don’t want him dead.
“Give me a name. I’ll be concise with it.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Ruby.” Sam leans against the doorframe. “Your uncle’s not going to let this go, so I can’t either. We don’t have any reports of anyone else in town who’s Marked. Surely you understand why this matters.”
“Not at this point,” I say. “It was someone from town who got Marked on accident on perimeter duty. He didn’t realize it, not until after he kissed me and I saw his Mark. You’ll find out soon enough, but I’m not telling you more.”
Wesley’s parents will be wondering where he is by morning. He’ll be waiting by the tree, instead of heading for Marked territory. Even without coming in for quarantine, he may ge
t shot for this.
“If he had contact with Tercera, why didn’t he immediately turn himself in?” Sam almost growls when he talks, and I stumble back. I never realized it before, but Sam’s kind of a scary guy.
“He didn’t realize he had contact.”
It feels strange to be defending Wesley, but I kind of understand how the whole thing happened. My Mark hasn’t shown up yet, and it feels surprisingly surreal. I don’t feel sick at all, which I guess is the point. No symptoms other than the rash until year two. No debilitating symptoms until year three.
“When did all this happen?” Sam asks.
“During the Last Supper.”
“Why Fairchild hasn’t abolished that absurd practice, I don’t know.” Sam starts to pace.
I drop my bag on the floor and sit on the edge of the cot.
He stops, suddenly. “I have records of which seventeen year olds had Perimeter Duty, but off the top of my head, I know Tom, Wesley and Robert did. Give me a name, Ruby, and I’ll leave you alone. We’ll know soon enough anyway.”
“I can’t do that,” I say. “I’m going to meet him outside town when my quarantine ends. If I give you a name and you go kill him, then I’ll be all alone until I die. Do you really want that?”
His jaw twitches. “Of course not, but we have to deter this kind of behavior.”
“A death sentence without possibility of reprieve isn’t enough of a deterrent?” I roll my eyes.
Sam says, “Some little jerk broke the rules and now”—he clenches his fists—“now you’re in here. He won’t have any symptoms for a year, and then he has a few skin sores. Minor. Two good years, and some decent time his third year, after breaking protocol and killing you? No, it’s not enough. But, if you tell me everything, I promise I’ll talk to your uncle and we’ll decide together when and how he needs to die.”
“Good talk, but still no.”
I flop backward on my cot and cross my arms. Sam asks more questions and even bangs on the wall once. The room shakes wildly and I worry the light on the ceiling will fall down and break, but it doesn’t. I force myself to ignore him until he finally leaves, slamming the door behind him. I don’t hear him lock it. I guess he knows that didn’t keep me inside last time anyway.
Marked (Sins of Our Ancestors Book 1) Page 4
