Marked for Vengeance (Book One: The Alyx Rayer Chronicles)

by Pierce, SJ

  To her surprise, a light flickered through the darkness. Hoping it was him, she shot up from the roof and fumbled with the binoculars, but her cold, drunken hands made it nearly impossible to pick them up. By the time she positioned them in front of her face, his light quickly flickered off.

  Shit!

  She snatched the camera from her purse anyhow and zoomed in to the window to take a picture. She could just imagine him in there. It’s better that way.

  She took another pull from her near-empty wine bottle and swayed groggily from side to side. Perhaps she was so anxious to drown her feelings that her body didn’t have time to adjust to the bombardment of the dry wine. When she settled onto the concrete, the roof tilted around her as though she were on a wicked carousel. She sat the camera and wine bottle beside her and rested her head on her purse, placing her icy palm against her forehead in hopes of keeping the imminent headache away.

  * * *

  Isaac made his way to the flat with their newly laundered clothes. His fear of running into the man again almost prevented him from going back downstairs to put the clothes in the dryer, and to pick them back up, but he decided he better get over it. Otherwise, the clothes would either ruin, or end up in someone else’s home.

  He knocked on the door for Micah to let him in. He wasn’t taking any chances this time and had made sure the door locked behind him when he left. Micah answered with a pencil clinched between his teeth like a dog. “Finish your homework yet?” Isaac asked as he shut the door behind them.

  Micah flung the pencil on the end table. “Just did! Going to brush my teeth now.”

  Isaac nodded with approval. “That’s my boy.”

  When he sat the basket on the couch, he noticed the channel he had left it on played an old movie he watched as a boy with his father. His dad loved old American westerns, and Red River was his favorite. Speaking in his deep, lilting drawl, John Wayne ambled onto the screen with a bandana around his neck and a black cowboy hat perched high upon his head. The imagery conjured memories of Isaac sitting on his dad’s knee, drinking from a glass soda bottle with a straw.

  Two nights had gone by since he last called to check on him, so he picked up the home phone on the end table. The time was close to ten o’clock in Atlanta, which meant it was about two in the morning in Dublin, but his father’s sleep patterns allowed for him to be awake in the early morning hours. According to his nurses, late at night seemed to be the best time for Isaac to call.

  The phone rang a few times, and the receptionist answered. “Hi, Cathy,” he said as he rested on the edge of the ivory couch cushion, “it’s your favorite person again.”

  “Oh, Isaac!” she replied, bubbling with excitement, “have you decided to come visit us yet? We’d like to see you in person, you know”.

  “Well, that would have to be up to my dad now.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Hold on, then. I’ll send you through to his nurses’ station.”

  “Thank you kindly.”

  The phone rang two more times, and the head nurse answered. “Hi, Bridget. It’s Isaac. Again.”

  “Oh hi, deary. Pat isn’t havin’ a good night tonight, but he’s sleepin’ anyhow. Want me to tell him you called?”

  Isaac smothered the disappointed sigh that worked its way out. “If you don’t mind, I’d be much obliged,” he said flatly.

  “As soon as he wakes, I’ll tell him. Have a good evenin’ now.”

  “You as well,” he said and placed the phone on the charger.

  “Goodnight,” Micah said as he walked to his room, his trail leaving behind the scent of minty mouthwash. “Love you lots.”

  “Love you too, son.”

  As he listened to the creaks of Micah’s ascent up the metal staircase, he slid open the wooden drawer of the end table. Inside laid an envelope his father had mailed to him last month. Stuffed within it was a family heirloom, passed down through his bloodline to the first born male in the family. Because his father regrettably knocked on death’s door, he now wanted Isaac to have it.

  The doctors diagnosed Pat with stage four liver cancer during the summer, and the prognosis gave him a negligible three months to live, which meant he could go any day. Isaac hadn’t seen his father since last year when he came to the States to visit for Christmas, and when the doctors placed him in The Shady Tree Hospice in Dublin, Ireland two weeks ago, he made Isaac promise that they wouldn’t visit since his health rapidly deteriorated. He was adamant that he didn’t want this to be their last memory of him -- his body withering away in his own fluids. He did, however, allow him to call and get reports on his condition, and if he were well enough, would speak with him. But, unfortunately, that wasn’t the case tonight.

  Isaac peeled the flap open and shook the envelope. A heavy gold ring tumbled into the palm on his hand. The top of it had been hammered flat and personalized with an engraving of an eagle flying in front of a bare, twisted tree. He recalled seeing it on his father’s hand occasionally, but was as baffled as he over the adamancy for it to stay in the family. Nevertheless, he would still pass it on to Micah when the time came as his father asked.

  He slipped the bulky hunk of metal on his ring finger for the first time, which fit perfectly, and there it would stay in his father’s memory.

  He placed the envelope back in the drawer and snuck upstairs to check on Micah who lightly snored. He slid the covers around his shoulders and tucked them under his body. While making his way back to the living room, he glanced at the studio door. His body felt far from needing sleep, so he decided to continue with his newest painting.

  When he lifted the metal door, his line of sight made its way out the window and to the top of the old building.

  There it is. The shadowy figure practically waited for him.

  His former gumption to go see who it was had slightly faded since encountering the creepy man earlier that day, but his curiosity triumphed. He grabbed his jacket from the closet and double checked to make sure the lock and deadbolt fastened securely into place before he went on his way.

  As he strolled down the dark sidewalk, he second guessed his judgment call. This is crazy, he thought, but after weeks of wondering, he needed to go see.

  He just couldn’t explain why.

  * * *

  Alyx’s mind drifted somewhere between consciousness and a slumber when she roused to the noise of rustling leaves below. She flew to her feet and peered over the side of the building, bracing herself on the ledge to keep from falling. Her stomach stirred with terror. A figure below peered into the windows and jiggled the front door, searching for a way in.

  She scrambled to gather her belongings and shoved them into her purse, only leaving behind the empty wine bottle that she accidentally kicked as she took off. It clanged as it hit the cement ledge, and her heart sank. If whoever below didn’t know that someone occupied the roof before, they did now.

  She stumbled as fast as she could down the stairs while holding onto the railing. I never should have drank tonight, she thought as panic continued to trickle in, and her mind went frantic with who it could have been. What if the person was a crazed lunatic? Or a junkie? Visions flashed through her mind of being assaulted or brutally raped, and her hand flew to her mouth. She wanted to cry for help, but decided it was in her best interest to keep as quiet as possible.

  When she made it to the bottom of the stairs, she flattened her back against the wall next to the broken window. Her heart hammered against her breastbone as she peered into the dark. As best as she could tell, a figure didn’t hover near the window so she climbed back through. Halfway out, the person tromped around the corner through the litter, and she allowed herself fall to the ground to get through faster.

  Her shoulder hit the old, rusty paint can, and she shrieked in pain. She didn’t have the time to lay and writhe in agony, so she sprung to her feet and took off running, holding her injured arm as she stumbled over the uneven terrain.

  “Wait!” a strangled, mas
culine voice called, but it only caused her to sprint faster. She didn’t know who he was or what his intentions were, and she wasn’t sticking around to find out.

  He followed closely behind, but his efforts couldn’t compare to her seasoned pace. In spite of her drunken state, when she hit the asphalt she found her stride. Staying in shape the past three years had paid off.

  “Wait a minute!” he yelled as he slipped behind. “I just want to know why you keep lookin’ through my window.”

  Through his frantic, breathy plea, she recognized his velvety Irish voice from earlier that day. Isaac… HE KNOWS.

  Her reasoning told her to keep running, she had already been way too careless, but the thought of him there behind her caused her feet to slow to a walk as though they were made of lead. Her feet eventually thudded to a stop, and she lightly swayed back and forth.

  “I want- to know what- you’re doing up there,” he panted as he came to a stop, holding his cramped side. Red splotched his cheeks from a mixture of the cold night air and the exertion.

  No way could she tell him what she had been up to, but lying to him didn’t appeal to her either. Because her heavy feet rendered her legs immobile, her only choice was to avoid his questions. She slowly turned her head to the side. “What do you mean what am I doing up there?” she forced from her numb lips, surprised that she could speak through the shock.

  “I’ve seen you on the top of that buildin’ for weeks now,” he said pointing behind him, “I could see you through my window.”

  Her hand cradled her cheek. How could I have been so stupid? “What makes you assume that me being up there had anything to do with you?” she said sharply and flinched from the harshness in her own words.

  “Well, I-I thought-”

  “And you scared the crap out of me. I thought I was going to be murdered!” she hissed.

  Unaffected by her tone, he stepped around to get a better look at her face, and she instinctually flinched away from him. “What’s the matter?” he asked tenderly.

  “I’m a little freaked out, and I hurt myself climbing through the window.”

  “Let me look at it, at least. Maybe I can help. And your face… you cut your face.”

  With all the adrenaline pumping through her body, she hadn’t noticed, but with the mentioning of it, the sting surfaced and she felt the blood as it dribbled down her neck. She held out the hand she cupped her cheek with and the fingertips glistened with burnished red.

  She turned to face him and froze in place as another shock wave ran through her as it had at the bistro.

  They studied each other; her eyes wide and fearful, his head tilted to the side, his expression concerned.

  “I need to go,” she asserted and spun in the other direction. Their brief moment of gawking went on far too long.

  “But your head!” he called after her. “What’s your name? Who are you?”

  And with that, despite every fiber of her being pleading to stay behind with him, she took off into the night.

  * * *

  Stunned as though a freight train had crashed into him, Isaac had to pick his jaw up from the sidewalk as he stared into the void she had left when she ran off. He made the connection that she was the woman from the bistro, although, she looked different not dressed in her fancy work clothes, and she stood a good inch taller than him, but that was unmistakably her. Even as a complete mess with blood and dirt smudged across her smooth cheek, her distinctive beauty shone through.

  Alyx appeared to be such a well put-together, refined woman, and he couldn’t fathom what someone like her would be doing on the roof of an abandoned building by herself. He went through the images of her in his mind again, standing blood soaked and injured on the sidewalk, and his heart ached. I should have been more adamant to help her.

  His ears stung from the wind whipping around his head so he covered them with his hands and lumbered home. Standing there like a dumbfounded fool wouldn’t convince the dark to bring her back to him.

  On his walk home, he decided to go up to the rooftop to see what she could have possibly been looking at, if it wasn’t through his window as she so rudely insisted. He climbed through the broken window around the back and cringed from the stench inside. He made his way up the stairs and walked to the edge he had seen her on. She couldn’t be up here for the view, he determined. The building squatted in comparison to the others around it, and the only ‘view’ it could claim involved another dilapidated structure between this one and his complex to which he could see right inside his window.

  As he walked closer to the ledge, his foot inadvertently kicked an empty glass bottle. He knelt down to study it and held it to his nose to take a whiff. He could tell by the clean label it hadn’t been there long, and the wine remnants smelled fragrant and ripe. And now that he thought about it, he recalled the faint smell of wine whirling in the air around her when he stepped closer to examine her face. She was drinking?

  Still kneeling, he scanned over the other windows of his building. The only other person she could have been looking at was the lady on the floor below him, but the lights in her flat were off. I have a sexy stalker, he mused, and a grin lit up his face. He then remembered how she acted at the bistro, her blatant nervousness. Does that mean she knew who I was all along? That could be the only explanation, but why would she stalk him? He couldn’t determine if this knowledge flattered or frightened him, maybe both. All he knew for sure was that he wanted to see this dark haired girl from the bistro again.

  * * *

  Halfway home, Alyx slowed to a fast-paced walk. The way she had behaved the past three months, spying on her Marked, could only be described as idiotic. No wonder he eventually caught her. Hopefully he didn’t recognize me, she thought, horrified that she wasn’t able to make her legs continue running. If she had, he wouldn’t have had the chance to get as close as he did and get a good, long glimpse at her face. She wouldn’t be surprised if her superiors were to show up any minute and pull her from her mission, but because this was her last lifetime there, maybe they would show some mercy.

  Tears welled in her eyes. The shame weighed a lot heavier now than it had before. Before, she lived under the illusion that her actions weren’t harming anyone, her orders left uncompromised. But this grey area that she allowed herself to revel in for the past three months looked a lot more like the finite shades of black and white.

  The adrenaline compensated for her inebriation, and she made it home without injuring herself further. She slung the door open, threw her purse on the kitchen counter, and staggered to the bedroom to get stripped down. She unzipped her soiled hoodie and slid it deftly over of her injured arm. When she lifted her elbow to pull her t-shirt off, a throbbing pain shot from her shoulder and into her back. She clinched her teeth and lowered it to her side. Undressing herself would be impossible.

  Her first thought was to call Benjamin for help. Benjamin, she thought, and the shame grew to an unbearable size. Under its weight, she plopped onto the edge of the bed and pressed her eyes closed as tears streaked her face like a broken faucet. He would be furious if he knew about this. It looked bad, because it was bad. She had been stalking a man that she desired more than him.

  Even in her drunken haze, she discovered a certain, upsetting clarity about her relationship with Benjamin that she never expected – they were never going to work.

  It never mattered if she discontinued her trips to the rooftop. Her ceremonious ‘good bye’ was pointless. She would never be able to pry apart the bind between her desires and her draw, so the lion that she bred would remain. As long as Isaac lived, it would never work with him. Benjamin might have been her lover, but her soul undeniably belonged to Isaac. The recesses of her heart that her ‘painter man’ gave life to three years ago were entirely unreachable by Benjamin, they always had been. As vast as his love was, its arms weren’t long enough to touch her there. Poor Benjamin never stood a chance.

  Tears continued to pour as she realized
that her plans to be with him had finally crumbled. She had clung to it as best she could, and her intentions tonight in letting Isaac go were honorable, but there was no denying that, despite her best efforts, her grip on Benjamin had slipped for good.

  She looked down at her blood stained t-shirt. How am I going to get this thing off? she wondered to redirect her thoughts. She had mulled over everything as much as she could stand for one night and decided that she would reevaluate her feelings in the morning with a fresh mind. But first things first, she couldn’t go to bed with dirty clothes.

  She wiped her face with the sleeve of her good arm and staggered to the kitchen to fish a pair of scissors from the junk drawer. After gnawing her top off with the dull shears, she threw it in the trash and made her way to the bathroom to assess the damage in the mirror.

  Like a victim from a slasher-movie, the horrified woman in the reflection stared back at her with a mascara and blood-stained face, and grass and dirt littered her hair from the fall. Good God.

  She moved closer to see how serious the injuries actually were. There didn’t appear to be any large gashes on her skin, but the dried blood made it impossible to see anything in detail. She stepped into the shower and attempted to clean herself as best she could with one hand, and made her way into the living room without drying.