Jamyria: The Entering (The Jamyria Series Book 1)

by Madeline Meekins

  “Your eyes,” he breathes. Her head snaps up at the change of his tone only to see him staring oddly at her as he had last night. “Yes, just like that… Don’t hide them.”

  She can feel the heat flooding her cheeks but cannot look away from him. It isn’t that she finds pleasure in giving him what he wants, but the absurdity in his statement... “You don’t have to do that, you know…? I’m not desperate enough to crave that mushy stuff you read about in fairytales.” She squeezes her eyes tight to shake away her embarrassment before widening them again. Her jaw is set, tone firm. “They’re hazel. Ugly brown.”

  “No, not ‘ugly brown.’” Cameron brushes her bangs away from her forehead and matter-of-factly replies. “Your eyes are golden brown. But they also have flecks of darker browns in them — and sometimes green, too. Every time I see something new, like they change with your mood. For example,” he lightly touches her temple and then traces a half-moon under her eyes. “Why are you sad?”

  Her expression freezes. All the blood drains from her face; her fingertips tingle. Never has anyone so easily picked her apart like that. She is frightened, scared he will rip away her shell and expose every nasty truth buried within. How much of the truth has he already pieced together?

  “Don’t go,” he suddenly begs her. “No one is going to be upset with you if you don’t go. Or at least wait a few years...”

  She exhales loudly, thankful for the excuse to avoid everything going on in her life outside of this world. With a half-smile, Margo glances back at him as he watches her with concerned eyes. Unlike him, she is too embarrassed to voice her fascination in his eyes. They stare back at her like the clearest of oceans outlined in ink.

  She cannot speak, frightened another truth may poison her lips. There is one thing she is willing to admit, though, and without knowing what possesses her to act on it she suddenly finds herself pressed into his chest. He hesitates before slowing pulling closer. A hand slips behind her neck and cradles her head gently. He half lowers himself, half lifts her face toward his. Her heart pounds beneath her chest when his breath warms her skin. She shuts her eyes and parts her lips as they linger inches from his.

  A sudden pounding echoes like thunder throughout his house.

  For a second, the two can only stare at the door leading to his living room, unable to move from the bed or comprehend the interruption. Before they can recover, the brash banging starts again, staccato on a snare.

  “Nick wouldn’t…” Margo begins ask.

  “No, Nick never knocks. He lets himself in,” Cameron whispers back. He quickly grabs Margo by the hand, tugging her into the living room.

  “Resident of the Central City,” shouts a gruff voice on the other side of the front door. “By order of the Queen of Jamyria, we have come to search your premises.”

  Cameron freezes for a second time. Margo’s grip on his arm tightens. Her legs are numb and unresponsive as if cemented to the floor. The Queen has found her after just two nights.

  It only takes a half second for Cameron to expel his daze. He shuffles about the space silently, unsure of what to do at first. He grabs Margo’s bag in his sweep through the room, tossing it behind a basket of orange fruits.

  “Just a sec!” he calls.

  Standing motionless in the center of his room, Margo watches Cameron swipe up the extra blankets from the sofa and wad them out of sight. He circles the room again searching for any last shred of evidence of a houseguest, nervously running a fist through his hair.

  “Don’t have a second, resident. Open up.”

  He grabs Margo too roughly by the elbow, leading her toward the kitchen. “Come on. I’m just getting up,” he shouts over his shoulder. He does not look at her as he shoves her into the tiny kitchen pantry. The door slams shut. “Do you really have to make your rounds when the sun’s hardly even up?”

  With no more than a few inches to spare, Margo twists around until she faces the pantry door. A beam of light filters through a crack in the ancient wooden door, allowing her to peek through just as Cameron pulls open the front door and says, “What are you — hey!”

  Margo stifles a scream as the two men shove past, one of them pushing Cameron aside by his head; he flies toward the hearth of the fireplace barely dodging an impact with the corner of the mantle.

  The first one to step inside is shrouded by the hood of his black cloak; the only visible part of his face is the taut, unamused line of his mouth. He carries a club the length of his arm which he uses to immediately begin turning about items on the shelves, sending them clattering to the ground. The other stands a head taller than the first — a good two heads taller than Cameron — and is made of nothing but muscle. Though he wears a thick reddish-brown beard he has no hair atop his head. He, too, is clothed in heavy dark fabrics from throat to wrist, a belt with various knives secured to his waist. With his beefy arms crossed, he glowers down at Cameron and slowly approaches him.

  “How about asking before you invite yourself in?” Cameron spits as if he believes he is on equal grounds with them. The man towers over Cameron’s height, so where did he summon the courage to talk like this?

  “Name?” the taller of the two speaks over the ruckus the other is causing.

  Cameron sighs, mimicking the other by crossing his arms and leaning against his table. “Cameron Hunter.”

  “Length of residence?”

  “Entered nearly a year ago.”

  “Any marked acquaintances?”

  Margo freezes.

  “Yeah,” he says coolly. Margo’s stomach pinches. “The old man, Nick Thomas. He’s a friend of mine.”

  The man’s eyes narrow. “And how do you know this man?”

  “Ah, seriously?” Cameron exhales with a grunt, arm pulled up to scratch the back of his head. “He’s the First Man. Everybody knows him around here.” His eyes dart to the pantry suddenly.

  A dark shadow casts in front of the crack in the door. Margo instinctively pulls away from the man searching the area outside, her back connecting with the hanging cocoban. As each fruit meets the muscles of her back, the feeling of needles shoots through her skin. She braces herself for the coming clinking of their hardened skins, visualizing them crashing down simultaneously. But the fabric of her shirt muffles any sounds, and her tense back pins them to the wall.

  “Doesn’t make you any less of a threat.” The taller one retaliates. He crosses over to the back window and swings open a shutter. The sparse lands are as peaceful as ever and filled with grazing animals. “Quite a business you got going on here. Impressive for someone who’s only been here a mere year,” he says hardly hiding the skepticism in his voice.

  “Less than a year. And like I said, the old man’s a friend of mine.”

  “And he just...gave you all of this land? Without asking anything in return?” he challenges.

  Cameron raises an eyebrow. “He’s taken a shika or two.” They are practically nose to nose now, though Margo cannot determine what part of the conversation set the other off.

  “Let’s go,” calls the other after what feels like an eternity of hearing that club poke around the kitchen. He stomps out the front door. The taller one lingers, his gaze locked on Cameron, before eventually he follows suit.

  Margo exhales in relief and pulls away from the wall. The clatter of a dozen falling rocks stops the man in his tracks. The cocobans bounce around her feet like dropped soup cans echoing in the small space. Sticky liquid oozes beneath her toes, the sickly sweet smell overwhelming her nostrils. She curses, dumbfounded at her own stupidity. How could she act so carelessly after Cameron endured that interrogation? The clanging sound rings in her ears long after all is silent.

  She sees him through the crack in the door. The Crewman slowly turns to look over his shoulder at the pantry door.

  “Oy?!” he calls outside to the other. “You didn’t check behind the door? Idiot….” He pushes Cameron out the front door. “Keep an eye on this one for me.”

&nb
sp; The last thing Margo sees is him walking carefree in her direction; he’s clearly enjoying the show he is putting on. She drops to her knees, nearly slipping in the cocoban juice. Her hands reach out, colliding into the wall in front of her, to the side, directly behind...frantically searching for anything that will be of use. Anything to hide her marks. More objects fall from shelves. Surely Cameron keeps more than food and dust on them! A bin of vegetables. A sack of grain. Her hand comes upon a thick square of a textured material.

  The knob turns.

  She unfurls the fabric just as the pantry fills with light. Her legs are slick and coated in cocoban juice. She trembles beneath the cloth which covers her from neck to thigh. Marks well hidden.

  The man smirks. “Got a scared one here.” He belts out in laughter. The sound is not natural coming from him. “No wonder you took your time answering the door.” His cruel smile reaches Cameron, who for a split second looks like he is ready take this guy out.

  “Scared one?” calls the other.

  “Female.” His hand wraps around Margo’s elbow through the roughness of the fabric. She does not protest as he leads her to the front yard and tosses her to the ground.

  Cameron begins to shout but thinks better of it.

  “Humph! You got lucky, boy,” says the other. “If you were hiding a male, I’d say you looked pretty suspicious. I wouldn’t have left you enough time to make any sorry excuses.” He points the club at Cameron’s nose. “You’d be a corpse on the ground.” Each word is so harsh that Margo whimpers, which sends the red-bearded one into more spasms of laughter.

  But to Margo’s surprise, Cameron laughs with him. “Wouldn’t want to make your Queen mad, though, would you?” His voice turns mocking. “Can she really spare the lost bodies?”

  “Watch what you say about your Queen, kid!” the hooded one says leaning in and pulling something metallic from his jacket that glints in the sun when they are suddenly startled by a second pair of visitors.

  “Well, good morning, gentlemen!”

  “Yes, good morning!” The woman chimes, just as chipper as ever.

  Margo cranes her neck until she makes out the two familiar figures strolling casually up to Cameron’s house. The Crewman hovering over Cameron cautiously shoves the item back in his coat, making an agitated sound in the back of his throat. There is only silence as the two guests step lithely onto Cameron’s lot. The two Crewmen broaden their shoulders while Cameron seizes the opportunity to back up toward the house, toward Margo.

  Nick Thomas clings to his hat as a gust of wind nearly steals it in its flight, while Janie squeezes a paper-wrapped package in her arms. “My, my…” Nick speaks to only Janie, ignoring the four pairs of eyes on them. “Seems to be a party going on at the boy’s house.”

  “Yes,” she returns. “Unexpected guests from the Queen, herself!” The flattery falls short. “Why, I’d almost say that — oh my! Good heavens, Margo, put some clothes on!” Janie’s eyebrows tighten into a thin line as she fusses. She turns to the Crewmen. “How dare you interrupt her this early! Give a woman some time to put on her face.” She scrunches her nose up at them.

  The taller one stumbles over his words while the one with the club in hand keeps his cool. “Silence, resident! State your name, time of entrance, and list of marked acquaintances.”

  “Oh? Taking inventory on the women now, as well? You are aware that the New Mark is always male?” When the Crewmen don’t answer, she tosses up her hands in frustration and replies, “Janie Saunders, entered too many years ago to count, and as for marked acquaintances… Ahem!” She points with her eyes to the man whose hand is lightly touching the small of her back.

  The Crewman isn’t amused. “For a woman who can’t remember the length of time she’s spent in this world, I find it hard to believe this half-mark is the only one you know.”

  The other stifles a laugh.

  Janie shuts her eyes, nearly shaking as the blood beneath her cheeks boils. “Do not call him that. He may not be one of the Queen’s pets, like yourself, but you should still respect him as an original Mark. Have you any idea what this man has —”

  “Janie, dear.” Nick catches hold of her shoulder just as she bends her knees to lunge at the man. “You’re wrinkling poor Margo’s birthday present.” The sound of her name causes Margo to whimper again, cowering away from the scene. The quiet plea reaches Cameron, and he instinctively takes a couple steps toward her.

  A fist suddenly grabs a handful of his shirt, the other aims for his jaw. Margo sees it coming before it can happen — the coming pain, the blood spilling down his chin — but the reaction this man elicits catches her blindly. A lurching feeling bubbles within her, the nausea and tingling swirling her head, warping reality. Her focus blurs and brightens, the world around her blending into a mass of white like a photograph fading away after being left in sunlight for too long.

  The fist is flying toward his face, but all Margo can do is work through whatever sort of episode she is having.

  A hand reaches to her head, wrapping fingers through her hair and pulling till taut. She gags, fighting back bile. The fingers pull tighter as the tingling sensation overpowers her. It is coming, she can sense something unknown at its peak. An explosion. The brightness is coming to a close. The last bit of turquoise sky fades. One final peek at the dusty streets and everything is white.

  Boorish laughter erupts. “Half-mark!” the man barks, followed by more laughing.

  The white overlay disappears quickly, and Margo finds herself entangled in bounds of fabric still kneeling in front of Cameron’s house.

  The man tosses an unharmed Cameron aside and marches over to where Nick stands with his marked hand outstretched in front of him as if he is planning to attack. “You’re an embarrassment to all Marks,” he spits in Nick’s face. “Why can’t you just die already? Let’s go.” He signals for the other, who begrudgingly kicks over the pile of firewood kept out front.

  Once they are well down the road and out of sight, Cameron grabs Margo’s wrist and carefully untangles her fingers from her hair. “Margo,” he whispers. “I need you to carefully stand up and get inside. Quickly.”

  She doesn’t understand the urgency in his tone, or how her own hands were the one grasping her hair. At least her sudden panic attack has passed. He pulls her to her feet and cautiously guides her over to the sofa. Nick and Janie enter the room silently, shutting the door behind them.

  “My dear, are you alright?” Nick puts a hand to Margo’s cheek.

  “Great. Guess I’m not adjusting to Jamyrian stew as well as I’d thought.” She smiles weakly, placing a hand over her stomach. “And sorry to admit, this Mark may be more of a coward than expected.”

  The three of them stare down at her in silence, Janie with trembling fingers placed upon her lips.

  “But don’t worry,” Margo continues. “I’m not going to chicken out or anything. I will find a way to get us out of here.”

  “That was too close,” Cameron whispers.

  “Can you imagine what they would have done? I’ve only heard the rumors of the previous Mark’s death, and it was not pretty.” Janie shakes.

  “What are you talking about?” Margo demands.

  Cameron crosses the room and sits next to her. He takes her hands in his. “You nearly lost control of your power.”

  She blinks back in confusion.

  “Luckily those two dimwits didn’t notice, thanks to Nick’s diversion,” explains Cameron. Nick winks in the background. “Your marks were glowing under that tablecloth and everything.”

  “Strong emotions can trigger your power, my dear,” Nick repeats his lesson.

  “But that can’t be right. I just felt a little lightheaded.” Margo pulls the cloth tighter around her shoulders, its fibers scratching her skin. “And a little…scared.”

  “Scared enough to lose it, it would seem.” Nick sets a vase back in its upright position on a shelf, as if tidying the one item could right all of th
e others. “Perhaps she isn’t quite ready....” he muses.

  Margo starts to protest, but Janie’s trilling voice cuts her off. “Now you want her to stay in the Central City, Nick Thomas? Now that the Queen’s Crew have arrived? They’ll be back to sweep the town again and you know it.”

  “And so the tables have turned,” he mumbles, flitting the spine of a book he’d just replaced. “Continue with the plan. But we’ll wait a couple of hours so not to draw suspicion. And, Margo, are you certain you’re alright?”

  “Tired.” She leans back against the sofa. No one protests or speaks another word. It is too much to wrap her head around having seen firsthand the cruel men the Queen employs, and the doubt is beginning to build within her again. She hoped she’d simply be able to outwit her somehow, but if strength and nerves are to be involved, well then she is pretty much already dead.

  Nearly an hour later Margo wakes. The aftereffects of her mark linger like sore muscles after a run. She could have made a thousand pennies with the energy she’d spared.

  It takes no less than three minutes for Janie’s mindless chatter to commence. She worries of the new dangers in the Central City, and how everyone in town will be on high alert for the next few days and how she hopes the Crew will pass through quickly when their search comes to an end. How Margo will be long gone by then.

  Nick eventually clears his throat to interrupt her babbling. Janie’s worrisome smile — Margo has yet to understand how she can wear a fitting smile for every emotion — turns into one of excitement. “This is for you,” says Nick. He hands Margo the paper package that Janie had been carrying on her way there.

  “Nick, you didn’t have to —”

  “It’s more a practicality than a present.” His grin crinkles the corners of his eyes. “I do hope you like it, though.”

  Margo’s cheeks warm as she accepts, carefully untying the twine that holds it together. She is partially embarrassed by his generosity. They hardly know each other, and she hadn’t thought to provide a parting gift.

  The brown paper wrappings unfurl in layers that fall to the floor. Neatly folded within is an article of clothing crafted from caramel leather. She holds the beautiful jacket lined in gray fur out in front of her so it may fall open. An intricate pattern of stitching down its front creates a textured leaf pattern; its buttons are of carved bone. It is collarless much like a modern-day motorcycle jacket while elegantly capturing vintage charm. She wonders how someone who’s been out of touch with reality for over a century could have hit her style spot on.