Birthmarked

by Maria Violante

  “Are you serious? What the hell are you doing, just standing out there? And what are you, an elephant? Beethoven could have heard you coming.”

  I furrowed my brow, as if that would somehow help me with my confusion. “Because I was musical?”

  “Because he was deaf.” He snorted.

  Clearly, he had been working out. Sweat glistened from the hollow of his neck, in the crooks of his arms, at the base of his jaw. Normally, I find that kind of thing gross, but I’d have to say, judging from the way blood starting running to pretty much every part of me, this wasn’t exactly a normal situation.

  He leaned in. His eyebrows pulled together as he squinted, and his scent wafted up. It was musky, spicy, exotic, and yet, it was clear that he wore no cologne—in contrast to Luke, who sometimes smelled like he showered in cheap aftershave.

  Ashamed, I hazarded a tiny sniff, before my brain cut in. He hates you, remember? And you need him, so play nice and let bygones be bygones until you can figure out what in the hell you’re going to do with him.

  I cleared my throat, but my words were sticking like peanut butter to glass. Finally I forced out, “I’m sorry.”

  “About what?”

  “About . . . walking like an elephant?” Despite my best efforts, it had come out more question than answer.

  He snorted, and I floundered.

  “Well . . . I’m sure that such a . . . um . . . physical person . . . can teach someone like me . . . how to move better.” Great. Why don’t you just flat out tell him you’ve been imagining him naked?

  From the light flush that tinged his cheeks, I gathered he already knew. He cleared his throat. “Let’s just get this over with, okay?”

  He stepped back from the door, and I followed. Immediately, I registered that there was something different. I was trying to figure out exactly what when something hard smacked me in the chest. I fumbled for it as I doubled over. After a few seconds of Shawn snickering while I caught my breath, I opened my hands to examine the offending object.

  For all intents and purposes, it was a broomstick, sans broom.

  “I’m pretty sure that if I gave you a sword, even a training one, you’d figure out a way to kill yourself. Which I wouldn’t be entirely against, except that explaining that to Buckner would make my job hard, and I don’t feel like having him chew my ear off for another hour and a half. So we’ll start here with a cudgel, and I’ll just have to content myself with you beating yourself black and blue.”

  He smiled viciously, and I felt myself torn apart. It was a hateful smile. It was also a damn beautiful smile—the kind that stops your heart in your chest and makes you rue the fact it is so hateful in the first place. And what was it that so captivated me? I couldn’t tell you. I mean, it wasn’t like a model’s smile—he didn’t have perfect teeth or super-full, pouty lips, nothing like that—but I could see the potential it in, how smoldering and sexy the gesture would be if it just meant something besides poking fun at me.

  I sighed and let that train of thought go. “Don’t you guys have, oh, more sophisticated weapons than swords? Like, I don’t know, guns or something?”

  “Listen, little miss prissy-pants, I have an armory of guns that if you saw, you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night. But before I’m letting you lay your fingers on something like that, we have to work on your self-awareness, on your confidence, and on a whole bunch of other things, lest you shoot yourself in the foot. Clumsy girls have to crawl before they can walk.”

  Bastard. I bounced forward and jabbed the pole at him—

  And tripped over the uneven edge of the end of the mat. I face-planted, my cudgel somehow striking me in the ribs, stomach, and left cheek on the way down, effectively immobilizing me.

  I had just beat the crap out of myself.

  “Ungh. . ." I didn’t know which part of me hurt the worst, which part to grab first. Given how hard he was cracking up, I doubted Shawn was going to offer me any assistance. I gasped, and then I heard him gasp, and that stung.

  “That was . . . literally . . . the most awkward thing . . . I have ever seen.” He bent over and rested his hands on his legs before finally managing a few deep breaths. “You can’t . . . I mean . . . it’s a goddamned stick!”

  At that point, he actually fell over, inches away from me. He was so close I could smell him, I could almost feel the warmth of his skin. My heart pounding, I scrabbled my way into a seated position, and then up onto my feet. Still, I couldn’t think of anything good to shoot back with.

  He sighed from the floor, his laughing fit finally over. “Honestly, I don’t know what Jeff even sees in you.”

  “That’s it!” I threw my cudgel onto the ground. “If you hate me, that’s fine, but that doesn’t mean you get to stand there and tear into me as much as you want to. I’m a human being, for Christ’s sake—I have feelings! I’m willing to work harder than I ever have, and I can put up with all of the other crap, but I deserve better than for you to bully me.” My battle cry over, I waited, chest heaving, while one of Shawn’s brows inched higher . . . and higher . . . until it looked like it might just leap off of his forehead. His dark eyes glittered with an emotion I couldn’t read, and the barest hint of a flush returned to his cheeks. “Finally.”

  “Finally what?”

  “What do you think? Honestly, watching you roll over and take the beating—it made me kind of sick. You act like a kid whose puppy got run over.”

  “A puppy?” I debated controlling myself—screw that.

  Let the fire burn.

  “And who are you to judge me? Do you have any idea what I’ve gone through in the last couple of weeks?”

  His neck jumped with thick cords. “The last couple of weeks? Wow, what a pampered, ungrateful b—”

  “Pampered? Pampered? I’m goddamn truck driver, how pampered could I—”

  “Why, I bet you’ve never even watched somebody die before—”

  “Boyfriend dumped me and then you guys overturned my truck and held a gun to my head—”

  “And if you didn’t have Jeff to pick up the pieces and guide you around by the hand—”

  “Well, at least I can admit when I’m attracted to someone, instead of pulling her hair like a schoolyard bully—”

  “Enough!” His roar bounced off the walls of the large room, echoes upon echoes that shattered whatever thoughts I had been holding and whatever point I was trying to make. “Enough! Are you here to train or not?”

  We stood eye to eye, the tension vibrating in the air. His face was so close to mine I could see the tiny stippling of dark hair that covered his cheeks. From this distance, the smell was intoxicating, but I was determined not to let it get to me.

  I didn’t let go of my anger yet—and judging by the fire that roared through his face or the way his pulse twitched underneath his jaw, he didn’t either.

  Finally, I cleared my throat, my decision made. Before I relented, I was going to have my last piece. “You think you know me, but you don’t. I may not have grown up fighting bubblers or glitches—but maybe that’s because my father abandoned me before I could remember his face, leaving my mother to die from anger and bitterness.”

  His shoulders fell, and for a second, I saw his face flicker with an emotion that wasn’t hate—sympathy, maybe?—but it quickly disappeared.

  “What made you start driving a truck?”

  It was my turn to be surprised. Telling him even those few lines about me had been incredibly awkward, but his sudden interest and attention peeled back a little piece of my shell. It wasn’t often that people actually just paid attention to my pain.

  Still, it was awkward talking to him. He was my archenemy.

  My very sexy archenemy.

  “My ex got sick for a while. He had a lot of medical bills, and we couldn’t keep up. I went through the academy and sent him every dime I could, and then he decided at the last moment that he couldn’t come with me. I think it may have something to do with this waitress n
amed Lydia that he screwed a while back.”

  Would that even make sense to him? I mean, with no women in the Order, there were no relationships—or cheating, so how would he relate—

  Shawn let out a low whistle. “Ouch.” The corner of his lip curled up, and now that he wasn’t bent on making me hate him, the move was devastatingly sexy. I suddenly forgot how angry I was. I looked away before I got myself into trouble.

  I took a deep breath, imagining the wisps of air that came into my lungs filtering down into my whole body, invigorating my whole being. I could feel a spot of warmth at my collarbone—was it my birthmark? I cleared my throat, desperate to take the conversation down another path. “Right before I signed my life away, I got a phone call and found out that the closest thing I had ever known to a father was dead. His name was Jeff, too. I’ll never have the chance to say goodbye, to go to his funeral, or to visit his grave.”

  I took another breath and waited, but I was amazed at how much lighter I felt. It was the first time I had told anybody how much Jeff meant to me. It was painful and yet perfect, somehow clean, as if I was dumping out the dusty contents of my soul.

  “Kenneth . . . my brother . . . he was the victim of a shifter. He didn’t see the danger until it was too late—and to be honest, he was always something of a show-off, taking unnecessary risks, not sticking to protocol.” He shook his head. “Jeff should have warned him, kept him safe—but even so, it was Kenneth’s fault, too.”

  His voice broke, and I blinked back my alarm. Was he crying?

  Yet his face was blank and devoid of tears. He shook his head again and sighed.

  I waited, but it wasn’t long before I was so uncomfortable I had to break the silence. “So . . . about this training.”

  He cleared his throat and turned, the motion starting jerky and ending smooth, like a machine being started up after a long period of disuse. “Right. Well, the first thing is working on your senses of proprioception and spatial awareness.”

  I raised my hand. At his pointed stare, I eased it back down.

  “Don’t ever do that again. And what is it?”

  “Propio-whatnow?”

  Realization brightened his eyes, and his brows went up. “Really? I heard that real truckers were dumb but this is—”

  “Shut up, and tell me what it is, all right?”

  He grinned, his stunning smile flicking on and off with an ethereal blaze. When his face returned to normal, I wasn't even sure if it had been real or not.

  “It’s your body’s awareness of itself and its own position. Without looking down, what angle are your feet at?”

  I couldn’t help it. At his question, my jaw automatically started to tilt down.

  “Exactly. You have no sense of your body, of where it is in space, especially relative to itself. I’d wager that you also don’t really identify with the boundaries of your body and its movements. You’ve never used it as anything more than a vehicle to perform basic tasks, and you don’t know at all what it’s capable of.”

  He rubbed his chin. As ludicrous as it sounds, I could have sworn I could hear the scratching his fingers made across the dark stubble. “That combination is going to get you killed the first time you try to squeeze past a cluttered counter or a squeaky door that just may or may not be open wide enough. And your lack of conditioning is a huge challenge—do you really want pass out in your escape from a bubbler because you’re out of air? It’s going to be even worse if a monster takes a swipe at you, and you dive to evade—and wind up breaking a collarbone.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  He peeled back the collar of his shirt. I could see the scar, slight and silvery across his chest, ending right before his birthmark. “Is it?”

  Thoroughly mollified, I shut up.

  “So before we can teach you how to kill or how to even defend yourself, we’re going to have to work on how you move and how you perceive.”

  His eyes glittered again, and a brief whisper of excitement fluttered through me. I’ve always been that girl. You know the one—she looks for somewhere to sit at the lunchroom, and winds up tripping over her own feet. The one who vaults a fence to escape a dog and winds up tearing her pants to shreds and twisting her ankle. The one who can’t dance without being a danger to herself or others.

  Or, you know, the once who knocks herself into next Tuesday on the top bunk.

  I’d always just assumed it was permanent. What if I really could change that part of myself? Would that be worth all of the other crap I was going to go through?

  “Okay, I’m in. What do we do first?”

  I was again impressed by the wide palette of his smiles. This one was simple, honest, and somehow clean. “For the record, your being ‘in’ was mandatory. As to what we do next? It depends on the student. For you, we tumble.”

  I bent over so that my hands and knees were supporting my weight and tried to fight against the sudden wave of nausea tearing through me. I couldn’t catch my breath, my right side was run through with a swash of stabbing pain, and I was sweating so much it dripped down my neck and back.

  “I can’t . . . believe . . . this is so . . . hard.”

  Shawn’s impassive face revealed no sympathy. “Again.”

  I groaned and looked down at the other end of the floor. No way was I going to make it back there for another run. Much better to just lie down right here—

  “Let’s go, apprentice. Non-compliance is the same as refusal. It’s a disrespect to the master who is training you.”

  I turned, and with more an effort of will than muscle power, I started back toward the beginning of the course.

  “Pick up your feet, apprentice. Walking to reset is a sign of disrespect to the master who is training you.”

  “God. All right!” I kicked up a pathetic burst of speed. It felt like I was drawing the very life essence out of the bones and muscles. When I reached the beginning and stopped, just that simple change in velocity made me feel like I was going to keel over. “Again.”

  For the thirtieth time, I racked my brain for a reason, any reason that could delay another sprint. “Shouldn’t I be learning to, like, fall first or something?”

  “You’re not going to hurt yourself doing a forward roll. You’ll be sore tomorrow, and we’ll do our falling then. And talking back is a disrespect—”

  I took off like a drunk staggering into the street. My legs weren’t under my control, and I knew I didn’t have a whole lot left in me, but I’d be damned if I was going to listen to that crap again.

  I zig-zagged toward the tiny stack of cushions. Like a two-foot high tower of evil, they stood, menacing, daring me.

  Don’t think—don’t think—don’t think—

  My legs burned from the effort, but still I waited. The timing was the most crucial part. Too early, and I would face-plant into the mat. Too late, and I’d run into the cushions and fail to complete the roll.

  I threw my upper body forward and down, my arms taking the diagonal position Shawn had shown me. For one long, glorious second, my fear of having moved too late was supplanted with the elation that comes from coursing through the air, from springing forward like an animal over the field. I was liberated from the clutches of the earth underneath me. And then, my foot snagged on something I couldn’t see, and instead of completing the circle and landing in a squat, I face-planted onto the mat, the stack of cushions under my belly.

  Somehow, I had managed to screw it up both ways.

  Shawn exploded with laughter. Moving as quickly as the stars floating in my vision would allow, I scrambled forward, my nose filling with the pungent tang of my own sweat and deodorant mixing with the stale, gym-sock meets bleach odor of the mat. A little more scrambling, and I was flat on my stomach, the cushions behind me.

  Don't ask me to get up now. I swear to God, I'll do anything you want. Just don't ask me to get up now.

  “I think. . ."

  I flinched. No, please, I just want to lay here . . .
if you say “again,” I'll kill—

  “That we're done for today.”

  I let the air out in a long whoosh. Thank you, oh God, thank you.

  “I'm going to go down for a drink of water. I'll leave you here to clean the mats.”

  “What?”

  “What? Do you think the next guy should have to roll in your disgusting sweat? And by the way—I don't think I've seen a woman ever sweat that much in my life, and I've seen them do some pretty . . . athletic things.”

  If I had even a sliver more energy, his lusty inflection might have made me shiver. Instead, I just took in another sweet breath of air and relished the sensation of not moving. Too tired for horny. Sorry, imagination.

  “Well, the sink is around the hall. You will mop these mats, bleach them down with the spray in the closet, dry them, and set them up on the side. Don't lock up behind you.”

  I heard the gentle padding of his feet, and the door squeak open and shut, and then he was gone. It was as if the room had noticed his departure. Everything seemed a little colder, a little less colorful.

  I fought immediate unconsciousness for the better part of twenty minutes before I managed to fully rouse myself.

  The mats were heavier than I thought. I had to admit, though, that although my legs were quivering and my whole body hurt, cleaning up also felt kind of good—especially when I reached down and stretched out my hamstrings and back. Still, when I was finished, I barely made it all of the way back to my room.

  I think I was asleep before my head even hit the pillow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Oh God, I’ve gone blind!

  I froze and blinked rapidly, trying to think through the swish-swish-swish noise that was—

  Wait a minute.

  I reached up to my face and pulled. Off came a piece of paper that had been affixed with a tab of tape.

  I heard training went well. Proud of you, kiddo. Sorry I am not around, but I had some work to do last night, and I thought you needed your rest—and now I need mine!