Chapter Twenty-One Marked
Briar
Th e bag that covered my face is snatched off unexpectedly, rough enough to make my neck hiss in distress. Drips of water struck me on the cheek. I bare my teeth, blinking a few times, making my eyes adapt to the shady lighting.
Everything felt cloudy, my memory included, as I tried to put together how I ended up here. The last thing I remembered was leaving the library just as the sun had set. I’d made it just outside of my dorm hall before everything became murky.
I taste metal on my tongue, sharper than copper, more bitter than just blood.
Fear of the unknown rolls around in my mouth as I take in my surroundings. My Converse on the concrete floor, mold decorating it in obtuse patterns, and I can smell the dry rot of the building I’m in. Candles light the area sporadically, enough to show me the rest of what’s inside.
The broken stained-glass windows, hollowed square spaces where caskets used to live, all these things tell me I’ve been here before.
The mausoleum where Lyra had dragged me to just moments before witnessing someone die.
Apparently, it was going to be my final resting place as well.
How fitting. I glanced around, seeing no sign of my roommate, hoping that my missing presence would cause her enough alarm to tell someone I was missing. If she wasn’t already captured herself.
I only hoped that help got here before they completed what had been started.
Alistair had officially grown bored with our back-and-forth games. I knew when they hadn’t approached us or done anything for the past two weeks that they had been plotting something serious.
Bringing together the epic finale of this Hell fest.
I gather all the fear in my mouth, refusing to die frightened. Especially not in front of these assholes. I’d given them enough of it since I’d gotten here.
Heaving forward, I spit on someone’s boot. And since Thatcher always wears Oxfords, Rook is partial to anything that makes him look like a playboy douche, and Silas who keeps it simple with sneakers, I know my saliva has struck the intended victim.
My least favorite member of their satanic cult shakes his boot a bit.
“I’ve killed people for less than that.” Thatcher’s polished voice cracks through the silence.
I grunt, and if looks could kill, Thatcher Pierson would be six feet beneath the ground. “Good thing I didn’t spit on yours then,” I reply. My throat feels itchy, and I’d give my left toe for water.
Alistair strides closer to me, stooping down so that my static eyes meet the black pits in his face.
Obsidian crystals that glow, sending crisis warnings to my soul.
I twist my face defiantly, forcing myself to stare at Silas leaning against the wall, my eyes focused on the tattoo on his inner wrist. Rook flanking his left, playing with his lighter.
Those two were eerie in their own right. I knew if I made either of them mad, they might roast me over a fire only to feed me to their pets after. I knew Thatcher’s reputation, and that solely was enough to warrant nightmares.
But as daunting as they were, as unnerving as they could be, they were still easier to look at.
All of them were so much easier to look at than him.
With heat in his touch, he sinks his fingers into my cheeks, puckering my lips together, forcing my head forward, demanding me with his hands to meet his gaze once again.
“Eyes on me, Little Thief.” He threatens with a tone so brisk it electrifies my skin. “Or have you forgotten that I own you?”
I hold his glare, not backing down for even a second. I let his ebony eyes pierce my own. The possessive nature of his grasp elevates my defiance.
He owns my fear. Not them. That’s what he’s saying with his eyes.
“Your fear ends and begins with me, only me.” He goes on, relishing in the power that comes from that statement. Alistair knows no matter what happens, his friends will never scare me the way he does.
They will never make my heart race or heat boil under my skin the way he can. They won’t ever control me, the way he has secured.
We both know he’s right, and it makes me fidgety admitting it, even internally. For such a tight-knit group of sociopaths, this one doesn’t share as well.
“Don’t.” I lean my face close to his, our breaths mixing like it did in the pool, “Flatter yourself.” I conclude, resting in the chair.
“You don’t own shit, Alistair. That’s your parent’s money. You have nothing without that last name.” I sneer, keeping my heart rate under control.
They were going to kill me anyway, right? I might as well go down telling them exactly what I think about every one of them.
“I don’t believe you’re in a place to be making cynical remarks, hick.” Thatcher defends his friend, arms crossed over his chest, his white button down, rolled up to his elbows.The veins in his forearms are an alarmingly cobalt blue.
“Oh, yeah?” I cut my eyes to him. “And what are you going to do about it, Norman Bates? Cut me up because your mommy and daddy didn’t love you?” I pout sarcastically.
When Lyra speaks about Thatcher, it’s always in a muffled manner. Like he’s a boogie man who's always listening beneath your bed. I’d yet to see that in action, so I never took him seriously. The way he waltzed around in his petty coats and turtlenecks.
To me, he was just a guy with raging mommy issues that needed to be treated urgently.
Until right now, when his mask of sophistication drops like an anchor to the sea floor, lugging me down with it. Vomit slides up my throat as he threatens me with eyes so void of any emotion, I’m not sure he even has a soul.
“Don’t.”
They know each other so well, that Alistair doesn’t even need to turn around to say it. He already knows Thatcher was going to do something hasty.
His hands drop to my thighs, crushing them securely. My stomach hurdles, my body melting. I jerk in my chair, bucking at him, wanting to get away from his touch. Only causing the zip ties to gouge into the tender skin of my wrist.
“If you’re gonna kill me then do it, just fucking do it! I’m tired of this!” I exclaim or try to, but with the lack of water in my throat, it just comes out cracked.
Rook laughs from the corner, like an explosion, loud and intrusive.
“Anyone gonna tell her what she’s won?” He rotates the zippo across his knuckles, like a domino.
I stopped moving, peering intently at each of them. Puzzled by what it was I had won.This felt like the very opposite of a prize.
“What is he talking about?” I direct my question at Alistair, looking down at him in front of me. The grip on my thighs becomes tighter, as he holds me there for another moment before releasing me.
He takes a step back, “We aren’t going to kill you.” Waltzing around my back while Thatcher rolls his eyes at me.
“The jury is still out on that.”Thatcher adds.
“Fuck you.” I hiss.
Alistair is now standing behind me making me anxious. I’m humming with anticipation as he bends at the waist behind me, his mouth lowering near my ear. Simmering air heats the sensitive skin of my neck, a chain reaction of goosebumps riddling my body.
Every time he is close it always feels like the warning signs before a tornado or thunderstorm. Sirens blasting in my head, keeping me on my toes.
“So what then? You’re gonna continue toying with me? What fucking pussies.” I growl, leaning my upper body away from him.
The tip of a knife rubs against my wrists, “We need your help.”
He must be fucking delusional. They had to have been dropped directly on their damn heads as children and cracked their fucking skulls wide the hell open. They could ask me till they were blue in the face and I’d still spit in their faces.
It’s so humorous, that they are asking, I start actually laughing.
“You’re joking. You have to be joking,” I cackle, “You crazy ass psychos, expect me to believe you’ve been doing all this just to get me to help you? Whoa, you sure know how to treat a lady!”
I feel the tension in my wrists release as the knife cuts through the plastic. If he thought I was going to just sit here and listen to this dumb shit, they were severely mistaken.
But Alistair is already prepared for me to retaliate, he clutches onto my shoulder, prodding into my muscle, keeping me glued to the chair.
Leaning down, his cheek pressed into the side of my head,
“How about you keep your sweet ass right there. Be a good girl, you’re gonna wanna hear what I have to say.”
I can’t exactly make a run for it. If my memory serves me well, the last time I ran from him, I was tackled to the ground and I ripped a hole in my favorite jeans. I pull my arms in front of me, as a shield rubbing my wrists soothingly.
My hands were sore, my shoulders throbbed painfully from the uncomfortable position they were in. I wiggle my fingers, stretching them out and catching a glimpse of something black on my right middle finger.
I squint my eyes bringing my hand closer to my face. On the top of my finger below my knuckle are the initials, A.C. about the size of a penny. I’m horrified, rapidly trying to rub off what I hope is a sharpie.
I’m not even paying attention to anything else, just trying to clean off my finger. My finger that has Alistair’s initials on it.
“It’s going to heal like shit if you keep rubbing it.” Alistair’s face is sporting a smug grin that I want to knock right the fuck off.
“You tattooed me?” I shriek, standing up and pressing my chest into his. I lift my chin up into his face, fuming. His dark eyes burn against mine, pieces of his dark hair falling in front of his face a bit, as he dips his head towards my lips,
“Can’t have you forgetting who you belong to. I told you Briar,” He breathes, “you’re mine.”
“I’m gonna rip that silver fucking spoon right out of your mouth just to feed you back all your territorial bullshit.”
“Little Thief, there is no spoon. I learned to lick wealth from knives.”