I mean, my shirt had already been ripped. Tearing the whole thing off was just gratuitous.
I heard a throat clear, and then Buckner’s voice rang out, loud and warm. “Council, Cronus, I know this is extremely unorthodox. None of us have ever heard of a female apprentice. At the same time, she has already been initiated—although by whom, we don’t know, either, and that disturbs me greatly. Somebody strayed from the rules of our order, enough to actually take a spouse or a partner in secret, and one not sworn to uphold the code. This is a grave issue.”
He paused, and there was the sound of something rubbing, like fabric swirling. “Still, we are forbidden by the same code to execute one who has been initiated, especially one who has shown abilities, save as a punishment for murder or treason. Additionally, aside from the weak connection of her gender, she shows no sign of being the Lily.”
The what? My scalp tingled. Was this something I was supposed to know?
It was the Cronus’s turn. “Markers, are there any who would speak against either candidate or mentor?”
“I speak out against both.”
Man, this guy really has a hard-on for me—and not in the good way. Why are all the hot ones crazy?
“Speak, Brother Fowler.”
“How could any not see her connection to the Lily?”
There was a heavy sigh—I think from the Cronus, because it was him that spoke next. “I am aware of the prophecies. I am also aware of how cryptic and convoluted they are, and how little they have to offer us in terms of clear wisdom.”
“Very well. I also object to Buckner taking any apprentice, in light of what happened to the last one.”
My ears burned. What happened to the last one? I gulped.
“Master Buckner was ruled free of any culpability in the death of Apprentice Gray.”
Someone else cleared his throat. The claustrophobia of my blindness pressed in on me, angry and unyielding. My path, for what could be the rest of my life, was being decided while I was bound and not allowed to speak.
And then it was like the room faded away. I barely noticed the mumbling, the rustles of fabric—is it cloaks? Please tell me they’re wearing cloaks. That would be too much, the kind of thing I’d have to phone Rhonda about.
I was still kneeling—alone, isolated, abandoned. I knew it wasn’t their fault that so many had left me—Luke, my mother, my father, Jeff—but at the same time, it left an aching hole in my breast.
And if they hadn’t? Would I still be here, in the midst of this craziness?
What did I really hope to discover, here?
The murmur of the crowd swirled back, louder than I remember, and I was in this moment again, brought back by another heavy thump and call for silence. “We have reached a decision.” The Cronus’s raw voice grew soft. “Charlie Kale, I pronounce you the conditional apprentice of Jeff Buckner. Welcome to the Markers.”
Instantly, I felt strong hands come around my wrists and my collarbone flared with a burning pain. I could smell hot iron and burning flesh. Tears came to my eyes as I screamed, but then the heat was gone, leaving in its place a sore, painful and ragged wound that throbbed with every beat of my heart.
I reached up to touch my collarbone, but something stopped my wrist. “Don’t. You can’t touch it, yet.” It was Jeff’s voice—in the confusion, I couldn’t remember, Malone or Buckner.
The blindfold was lifted off of my face, and I was looking into Buckner’s withered face. “You heard the man. Welcome to the Markers.”
That’s about when I passed out.
Chapter Eight
The knock at the door, tentative as it was, didn’t completely rouse me. Instead, half asleep, I heard it as if it had happened in two places at once, and I wasn’t sure if it was real in either.
By the third set of knocks, though, I had shifted fully into the world of the living. I think that may have had more to do with Diesel, who ran in crazy circles on the floor at the hint of a visitor, than my own interest in getting up.
My first instinct was to sit up—but judging by the massive bolt of pain, this was a mistake. I gasped and groaned at the little hurts that ran through my whole body. My muscles were sore, my joints ached, and the spot on my collarbone where they had—branded?—me was ugly and raw.
I tried to drop my jaw enough to see it, but that just hurt more.
Finally, I managed to shamble out of bed. Three unsteady steps toward the door, and then Diesel’s little fox body ran across my path, and I had to pivot to avoid him—nearly plastering myself into a wall.
I let out a breath. Given my current condition, that would have hurt.
A few more steps, and then I hesitated, my hand hovering over the doorknob. Should I open it? Was it safe? To be honest, I had no idea. Buckner had basically carried me back from the branding ceremony. I vaguely remembered him mumbling something about emotional and psychic exhaustion, and then I had passed out on a soft bed that felt like it had been spun from miracles and clouds, but on today’s inspection, looked kind of sparse and bare.
I glanced around. Actually, this whole room is like a nun’s quarters. Besides the bed, there wasn’t a single other stick of furniture in the room. The only thing on the wall was another doorknob that probably led into a closet. The entire affair was paneled with a dark grain that, while attractive, also made the whole thing seem claustrophobic and kind of gothic.
The door vibrated slightly with another set of knocks, barely louder than the last. I sighed and opened it.
The man who stared back at me—if I could call him that, because he seemed to be on the late end of adolescence, a fact compounded by what I suspected was an unusually strong case of “baby-face”—almost quaked under my best intimidating stare. I felt slightly better.
Then again, terrorizing people ten years younger than me was probably not something I should take that much joy in.
Plus, considering the events of the previous night—was it only last night that my trailer rolled over? Sheesh—I probably looked like a monster. On a normal morning, I’m not pretty. I don’t wake up with birds singing or my hair in a lustrous case of perfect bed-head. Add in some near-death experiences and a branding ceremony, and no wonder this kid was quaking in his boots.
“Can I help you?”
He gulped, his throat bobbing, and my guilt almost melted into a giggle. God, but he was cute. If I was, say, twelve years younger—
“I . . . ah, brought you your breakfast.”
My heart leaped, until pulled the tray off of his cart and held it up for my inspection. Two pieces of plain, brown toast, and a bowl of oatmeal, also plain. No wonder I hadn’t smelled it—or even noticed it. This was not food.
“That’s it?”
“Ah . . . the masters said . . . ah. . ." He glanced down at my frame, and I realized what he was getting at.
“They said I was a porker, eh?”
He instantly flushed from ears to chest. “No, no, just a little bit. . ." His gaze fell to his tray, and his brows creased in fierce concentration. Oatmeal must have suddenly become fascinating.
I sighed. Whoever this kid was, he was just a kid, and I was picking on him. I mean, show me the teenager who can talk about a woman’s body without putting his foot all of the way into his mouth. My mother would be ashamed. “Look, it’s okay. I get it. This stuff isn’t up to you. Just . . . can you do me a favor? A big one?”
“What’s that?” He directed the mumble straight into the oatmeal, but I caught it well enough.
“Can I have a little bit of butter and salt? I promise, it won’t be enough to make me any fatter.” Not compared to what I’ve been eating lately. And I guess a diet could be good for me.
He eyed me, as if unsure I was being truthful about the mysteries of the feminine body and its metabolism. I gave him my best poker face, until he shrugged and said, “Wait here, I’ll see what I can do.”
He left without closing the door, so I nudged it shut and settled onto the bed to cuddl
e with Diesel. “I should have asked for food for you. Guess I’ll have to share.” And then I wondered—can dogs eat oatmeal? I had no idea. Then again, I knew for a fact they could eat cat poop, thanks a horrible blind date in college. So oatmeal should be okay, right?
The door squeaked slightly. I looked up to find my new friend blushing and staring at the wall.
“Something wrong?”
“It’s . . . ah . . . you’re on. . ." He swallowed and squeaked out the next words as if someone might overhear us. “You’re on the bed.”
Oblivious, I looked down at the fabric under me. “Yep.”
He stared some more at the wall. “It’s the only furniture in the room. . ." He blushed deeper—all the way to the white skin on his neck. Finally, he mumbled, “It’s . . . not proper. . ."
I snorted. Proper? Was this kid serious? I thought about freezing him out, but I was hungry, and he seemed to be my only access to food. Maybe it would be better to play along.
With a sigh and an eye-roll, I sat up and scooted myself to the edge. “Is this okay?”
He glanced up and melted slightly, the tension leaving his body. “Yes. Thank you.” He thrust the tray out to me, and—did I detect a whiff of butter?
My mouth was instantly wet. How long had it been since I’d eaten? Since the Husky Scramble? Still, when he brought it up to me, it was the same sad toast and oatmeal, only this time, there was a tiny portion of butter on top of the oatmeal, along with a spoonful of jam and two shakers of salt and pepper.
“You can’t tell anyone, about the—” He pointed at the spoonful of jam.
It took every ounce of willpower in my body to suppress a snort. “Right. Jam contraband. Very hush-hush.”
I took the tray and eyeballed it. It wasn’t much of an improvement, but I was hungry, so I spread some jam on the toast and brought it up to my mouth for a bite. At the last second, my teeth barely grazing the bread, I felt something odd, and I glanced up. Babyface was staring at me with the intense gaze of a wife watching her husband eat her first home-cooked meal.
Or, you know, a poisoner.
“Something wrong?” My voice was muffled by the toast. I could almost taste the jam, a sweet strawberry that I knew would have just the right amount of tang. Whatever jam it was, this wasn’t some store-bought rubbish.
“No, it’s just . . . this is my first time on the breakfast duty. I wanted to see if I did okay.”
I took a bite and chewed it. At the kid’s incredibly intense stare, I couldn’t help but smile. “Mmmmmm,” I tried and swallowed. To be honest, it was a little dry. “Yummy.”
“Really?” His face lit up with a gigantic smile—just ten thousand watts, like the beam of the sun, and I realized that one day, he would be an absolutely stunning man. It was literally the most amazing smile I had ever seen.
“Yup.” I nodded and held out a hand. “I’m Charlie. Apprentice Charlie.”
He stared at it for a second, before slipping his hand into mine. “I’m Brother Chris. Chris Green.” He smiled again, another ten-thousand watts, and removed his hand. “I’d better, ah, get back to delivering the breakfasts. We will feed your familiar while you are in training.”
“My what?”
“The, ah. . ." He pointed at Diesel. “Canine.”
“Oh. Right.” I made a note to ask Buckner about this familiar business.
He reached inside of his shirt, and when he pulled it out, there was a piece of paper, folded into fourths. “This is from Master Jeff Buckner.”
And then, with another quick smile, he was gone.
Good Morning,
Eat up and get dressed. I’ll be there in an hour to brief you and take you on your first run. No better way to learn than doing. Right, kiddo?
Don’t worry, you won’t be doing much. We don’t let the newbie’s drive.
—Buckner
I stared at that last line. It was something my mother had said to me often—usually when she was cooking and wanted me to get out of the kitchen. I had always assumed she was referring to driving a car.
But what if she was just repeating something she had heard from somebody else? Like my father? And what if he . . .
I shook my head. That connection was thin, even for my hopeful eyes. So instead, I just tucked into my toast, but it didn’t last nearly as long.
I wasn’t sure what to do with the tray, so I just left it in the hall, outside of the door. Given how many people had already threatened to shoot me, I wasn’t too worried about the possible punishment. So far, I didn’t feel like I had been poisoned, so at least I knew I could trust Babyface—er, Brother Green.
I read the note again. Get dressed. Well, how, exactly, was I going to do that? The two-driver team torched most of my clothes in my truck—along with everything else I owned—ah jeez, don’t think about that. Was there an order form to fill out? Was I supposed to tell somebody about my size?
I was still wearing my clothes from last night, but something told me the ripped shirt and soot-stained pants weren’t going to work.
In my sage wisdom, I decided to try the closet. The door was a little dusty, and creaked in movie-theater style, but I hit pay dirt right away. It was packed from wall-to-wall with identical pairs of matching black pants and black shirts. I wasn’t sure what kind of fabric it was, although I could tell it was synthetic and made to be breathable. Probably sweat-wicking, too. In the corner was a small shelf on which were three folded pairs of black socks and four pairs of black boxers.
Great. Well, I guess they don’t stock panties.
Lining the floor were ten different sizes of black shoes with a low heel and a rounded toe, like martial arts shoes or old-school running shoes I could tell from the right-angle triangle they traced on the ground that they were lined up in order of size—which made me think everything in the closet would be too.
“I guess we’re going black today,” I mumbled to Diesel. His ears perked up for a second, and then he curled himself up into a ball on the bed.
Stupid dog. To be honest, I kind of felt like curling up myself. At least picking out what to wear will be easy.
The first pair of underwear I tried on fit perfectly, although I’m not exactly familiar with men’s boxers. I played with the hole in the front for a little bit, sticking my fingers out, before I realized that someone might be watching me.
I should probably get dressed as fast as I could, but . . . what was I going to do about . . .
I crossed my hands in front of my chest. Unlike my favorite teen heroes, slim tom-boys who climbed trees and occasionally got mistaken for boys, my boobs were . . . substantial. The extra weight I had put on in the last couple of weeks didn’t help, either.
I resolved to just wear my old bra. It was a little dirty, and I’d have to remind Buckner that women had certain needs—God, I’m going to have to talk to him about my boobs—and hope that we didn’t do any running.
I peeked into some of the pants, but they weren’t labeled, so I just grabbed the ones that seemed closest to my size. The first two tries gaped off of me comically, and the third was so tight that I couldn’t breathe. On the fourth try, I found a pair of pants that didn’t fall down and zipped up without cutting off my air. I repeated the method for the shirts, trying to find one that made me neither look frumpy nor like a whore. This proved harder than I expected, and I settled for a disgruntled frumpy.
Socks and shoes were easy enough, at least—and on the last pair on the left, I found a sports bra, a simple black affair that looked like my salvation, and a travel sized lady speed-stick. Perfect. The bra was a medium, which meant it fit more than a little snugly, but it would keep me from jiggling all over the place or popping out during training.
There wasn’t a hairbrush, so I had to fingertip brush everything and hope for the best, but I wasn’t overly concerned about that—I mean, my hair has always been kind of straight and easy to get along with, even if I used to wish it was blonde.
Still, I wished
I had a mirror.
It was an odd feeling—I mean, since I’d been on the road, I’d given little thought to the way I looked, except to stare at myself in truck stop showers and grimace. But I was wearing a new style, and I mean—wouldn’t you wanted to know how you looked? Black’s always been a pretty good color on my olive complexion, but as a curvy girl, I imagined an outfit mostly designed for men didn’t really flatter me.
Then again, who was I trying to impress?
By the time I was ready, what with the trying on all of the clothes and the dressing and undressing, I figured that close to an hour had passed. Sure enough, a gentle knock sounded at the door.
“Come in.”
I turned, ready to greet Buckner in my new spy-wear, but the face that stared back at me was one I definitely didn’t want to see.
Without making a sound, Shawn stepped in.
Oh crap. My pulse instantly went into full gear. “I swear, you move toward me, I’m screaming at the top of my lungs, and Buckner will be here any second.”
His eyebrow quirked up. “What?”
I assumed my best karate-chop pose. “I’m serious. You’ll never get away with it.”
He snorted and brushed his dark bangs away from matching eyes. “If I was here to kill you, you’d already be dead.”
“That’s not. . ." Actually, just from the way he moves, that’s probably true. Plus, although I had no reason to trust him, hearing him say that he wasn’t out for my blood still made me feel better. I let my stance relax a little. “Then . . . why are you here?”
“Because I have a message for you, and it’s important.”
I swallowed. “Okay?”
“You need to get out here. You should have never come in the first place, but you need to go now, because you’re running out of time.” He clenched his hands into fists over and over, as if he was trying to squeeze something out of the air. “There are things . . . your father—”
“My dad?” I grabbed him by the wrists. “What do you—?”
He pulled my arm up with his own and shushed me with a finger. His eyes went wide. “Tell no one I was here,” he snarled, and he bolted out the door.
Birthmarked Page 7
