Grace’s living room looked like a tornado had torn through it. The Arillia Times newspapers she’d fished from their recycling were spread across every available surface. Each opened to the obituaries, starting with the day she’d seen Elise and Corey die in Trenton. Correction. Killed. She’d seen them killed.
She looked for faces, patterns, then highlighted anyone who’d died from the “outbreak” in pink, jotting down the basics of who they were to consolidate the information. She would’ve searched for the guy from the alley, but he wouldn’t have made the news, not yet anyway. A rolling wave of guilt torqued her stomach. Had he even been found?
She didn’t have the cyclist's name, so the woman’s appearance was the only thing she could go by. The papers rustled when she opened them. Flipping the pages, she circled all the death announcements for women first, then backtracked to take a better look.
Opening her laptop, she selected a few news articles and rolled her eyes when she skimmed passed the society pages and business articles that gushed over Gideon. She cycled through the internet tabs, cross-referencing her respective results until she narrowed the selections down to one. That was her! It had to be—the woman’s facial structure, skin tone, hair color, and eyes were all familiar. She was thirty-five and survived by her parents, husband, two children, and three siblings.
“Alright, Sarah Stern.” She brought up a search engine and punched in the name. Multiple options surfaced and she scrolled through until she found an image of the woman associated with a social media profile. She held her breath when she clicked it, then released it in a burst. Thank you, Sarah, for absolutely no privacy settings!
They had that much in common.
She scrolled and scrolled and scrolled, heart sinking at the posted condolences. When she passed them, she found a picture of Sarah seated on her bike surrounded by several other smiling cyclists captioned “Arillia Triathlon, here we come!.” That was followed by a status from a few days before that tagged her location as Arillia Hospital. “In for a minor procedure. So stupid. Can’t wait until this is done.” The comments were all of the “hope you feel better soon” variety and too vague to figure out what that procedure might’ve been.
Grace’s bottom lip pushed out and she shoved the papers away. There weren’t any glaring religious references of note. She’d figured out who Sarah was but had no idea what good that did her.
She jumped when her phone rang and scowled at Noah’s face as it flashed across her screen. Snapping it up, she answered. “Hello.”
“Have you made it home yet? I got worried when you didn’t message.”
“I’m home.” Her shoulders sagged. “Sorry, I got sidetracked trying to research anyone that died and could’ve had the Mark.”
“Oh.” Silence, long and drawn, then, “The Nephilim really couldn’t see it?”
“They really couldn’t.”
“What about demon-boy?”
She chucked her highlighter onto the coffee table and thumped her head against the couch’s back. God, she was just so bone weary and tired. “I don’t know.”
His voice brightened. “You haven’t asked him yet?”
“I have not.”
“What if he can see it?” He gasped. “Oh! You should invite him over to discuss it in the name of research.” There was a proud, mischievous grin in his voice, and it made her want to reach through the phone and smack him.
“How many times do I have to remind you, I’m dating Ben.”
“First of all, you might be, but I’m not.”
She threw an arm up. “You’re dating Kyle!”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Second, you’re not Marked yet, which means you’re still allowed to ask him questions.”
“You just want me to see him again,” she scoffed.
“That’s beside the point.”
She stared up at the ceiling for patience. “That is the point.”
“I forget my point.”
“The point is finding out whatever I can about all of this.”
“By inviting demon-boy over?” He snickered and that urge to smack him again had her hand twitching. “Speaking of learning things, are you and this Jenna woman still planning on researching your mom?”
A rolling wave of anxiety hovered like a storm on the horizon of her heart. Because the potential truths that research might reveal was suffocating. She swallowed hard. “Yeah, tomorrow.”
* * *
An hour later, Grace lay on her back in bed, holding the picture of the Mark. She stared up at it like answers might magically appear. And stared. And stared.
The paper rattled as she rotated it in every conceivable direction and tried to unlock its mystery, to no avail. Her gaze flicked to her phone, back to the drawing, then back to her phone. Releasing a loud huff, she picked up the device, snapped a picture of the Mark, and texted it to Gideon accompanied by a message.
Grace: Does this mean anything to you?
She eyed the screen, awaiting a response. It rang and she flinched then fumbled until she dropped it on her face. Ow! Taking it firmly in hand, she answered, “Hello?”
“Good evening, Crys,” Gideon crooned.
“Good evening, Gideon.”
He rasped, smooth and low when next he spoke. “Before we begin, I’ll need you to do something for me.”
Heat flared across her body. “What’s that?”
“Get rid of that photo.”
Not what she’d expected.
“You don’t want Elijah finding out you sent it, so before this conversation goes any further, commit the drawing to memory, then destroy it and any evidence of the picture you texted.”
The level, deathly somber tone he used had every muscle in her chest snap taught, making it hard to breathe. She pulled the phone from her ear, deleted that portion of their text conversation along with the picture from her images and tore up the drawing.
“Done. Would he really be that upset?”
“Yes. Having it leaves it at risk for being discovered.”
“Would anyone even know what they were looking at?”
“It doesn’t matter. The chance exists. Elijah may seem flat, but he takes the rules seriously. Don’t ever let him catch you breaking them.”
She pulled her hair from the messy bun she’d styled it into. “And what happens if he does?”
“The punishments with our kind are severe. So, don’t let him.”
“You’ve had experience with this?”
“It’s something you only have to learn once.”
With the tips of her fingers, she massaged her forehead and temples. Her eyes pinched as she pushed back the headache that threatened to creep in. “Why do I get the feeling you required it more?”
He huffed a laugh. “Once, I promise you.”
She fell still, voice softening, “That bad?”
“Strange as it may be, Heaven and Hell make an effort to keep their people in line. Seeing as our blood determines our end, harsh discipline is their only recourse on this plane.”
A sheen of sweat rose across her skin. She put him on speaker and then scrolled through her previous text conversations with him, Ben, and Noah, ensuring there wasn’t anything problematic.
“What does that discipline entail?” she asked.
“There are three strata of punishment. The first for you as a Nephilim would be the soul-sword.”
The strata term was familiar. She was pretty sure Davis had used it when Gideon threw Absinthe and Hennessey through Hell’s Gate. But before she could dwell on that the weight of his words sank in… “Wait,” her head tilted, “soul-sword?”
“Indeed, because the sword does not strike the body, it strikes the soul.”
She really should’ve run when she’d had the chance. Words escaped her, but Gideon saved her the trouble of a response when he pushed on.
“Both the Nephilim and Elijah carry the Mark for it, them as their weapon in the end, he as a form of punishment for them.”
No wonder the others were so afraid of the Agent. She swallowed hard and forced her next words out from a throat that didn’t want to work. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“It’s above the elbow, away from the other Marks to prevent it from accidentally being triggered.”
His words hit her like a bolt of lightning and jolted her to her core. “Noah knows, Gideon. Is he in danger?”
“Who else have you told that he knows?”
“No one.”
“Keep it that way, make sure he does, too, and it’ll be fine.”
She released the tight grip of her muscles and let the bed take her weight. “He’d never betray that confidence. He’s my no-matter-what.”
There was a brief silence. “Your no-matter-what?”
“We’re there for each other, no-matter-what,” she replied as if the answer was obvious, because, frankly, it was.
His voice lowered and its deep rumble rolled across the phone. “Then you don’t have a problem.”
She flailed her hand in the air. “I do have a problem, Gideon. I have you.”
“I’m not a problem for you, Crys. And you don’t have me yet but say the word and I’m yours anytime you want,” he said, a smirk in his voice.
Her lips pressed into a thin line. She hated having to trust anyone with such a thing, but she was already beholden to him on that account, which meant whether she liked it or not, she had to. “So what are the other two strata of punishment?”
“Are you sure you want that answer, beauty?”
Not at all. While a morbid part of her was curious, the rest understood anything that followed the soul-sword had to be horrible. She shook her head. “No.” Steering the conversation back to the issue at hand, she said, “Did you recognize the Mark?”
“No.”
Dammit! She tapped her palm against her thigh. All that for nothing. “What about the Latin script?”
“It reads ‘Claimed.’”
“Does that mean anything to you?”
“It doesn’t, but if you’d like, I can come over and we can discuss it more thoroughly.”
“Ha! No.” Had he and Noah shared notes? They must’ve, otherwise they’d read out of the same playbook.
He laughed, rich and heavy. “Where did you find it?”
Twisting her hair around a finger, she considered her options on how best to answer that, then opted for the truth. “I saw it on four different people.”
“Their souls?”
“What magical powers of deduction you have, Mr. Ryczek.”
He coughed, then coughed again. When he regained himself, he said, “That tongue of yours is quite sharp.”
Damn her sass. Why couldn’t she control it around him? Mocking him while asking for his help likely wasn’t her best tactic. She shook her head. “Sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize, Crys. I quite like to taste its sting.”
Her lip slowly tipped up. “How do you make everything inappropriate?”
“It’s a skill.” The sound of leather creaking passed through the phone. “Where did you find these souls?”
Fluffing the pillow under her head, she tried to get comfortable. It didn’t work, so she beat it into submission. “The first two were in Trenton the night we met. The next was a woman at an accident scene I passed.”
“And the fourth?”
She rolled onto her side. “I spotted him down an alley I went into tonight.”
“As one does,” he quipped about said alley expedition.
“It was dark and there was no one around. I wasn’t seen.”
“Wonderful,” he said, tone dry. Before she could add anything, he continued, “Have you brought this to the others?”
“They were with me for the woman but couldn’t see it.” She released a frustrated exhale. “They don’t believe me.”
“They said that?” His voice hardened and if that anger had been directed at her, she might’ve cringed.
“They think I’m seeing something other than what I say I’m seeing.” Until the words were out, she hadn’t realized how much it’d bothered her. Actually, ticked her off was more accurate.
“The drawing you sent is pretty specific.” There was a shuffling, then another creak. “If we told anyone outside the Shepherds about our Sight, do you think they’d believe us?”
That’d been her fear since Jump Street. “No.”
“Indeed. Just because they can’t see it, doesn’t make it any less real. We have access to something they don’t. It’s possible you have access to something the others don’t. You didn’t develop the Sight until later in life, so you’re already different. That aside, I’ve known my fair share of dramatic women and you’re not one of them, Crys. So, if you say you see it, I believe you.”
She closed her eyes. At least someone did. The clamp that’d locked around her chest loosened a notch. “So, what should I do about it?”
“Fucked if I know.”
She coughed, trying to hide her laugh, and failed, which meant it came out as more of a choked-cackle.
“The Marks have power. Each portion, every line or symbol, has meaning. They can command, bind, control, anything. Whatever the Marksmen imagines, they can create it.”
Her face twisted. Whose crappy idea had that been? “Is there a way we can speak to one of them? Or research the symbols?”
“First, I’m quite fond of your use of ‘we’ in that sentence, but alas, there isn’t. They and their craft are too heavily guarded. Elijah would be the only facilitator for that access. Since you’ve been blooded Nephilim, Benjamin would have to make the request on your behalf.”
She reopened her eyes. “And if he doesn’t believe me?”
“Then he’s unlikely to help. Either way, leave it with me. I’ll see if I can learn anything.”
“I don’t want trouble, Gideon.”
“Oh, but, Crys, you are trouble in its greatest form. Don’t worry. Discretion is my middle name.”
“I can think of others I might use,” she mumbled, her fingers tingling where they held the phone.
“Would you like to hear my names for you?”
She sighed. “Doubtless they have something to do with yoga pants.”
“It’s like you can see into my soul.”
Shaking her head, she set it on her arm because the pillow was doing a terrible job. “I’ve been told a lot about you, Gideon. I worry about your motives. I’m just trying to take this all in. I still don’t know that I can trust you.”
“Have I lied to you so far?”
Her brow furrowed as her voice rose ridiculously high. “How would I know?”
“What did I tell you the first time we went out, Crys?”
God, he loved getting under her skin. “We didn’t ‘go out,’ Gideon.”
The laugh he released was low before he pushed on. “I told you to trust your instincts, and your instincts are something no one else can or should influence. Only you have the answer to how you feel. You just need to be willing to accept it, either way.”
She stabbed a finger in the air and pointed at nothing in particular. “See, that right there. That’s what worries me. The subtle influencing, the flattery and whispering sweet nothings in my ear to sway me.”
“If I whisper sweet nothings in your ear, you’ll know it. Besides, would you prefer my influencing be more overt?”
She ran her hand through her hair roughly. Yes, he’d said the right things, but at the end of the day, he was born of Hell. That blood ran through his veins. That had to change a man. It had to. Didn’t it?
“I’d prefer it if I could take everything at face value.”
“Not even among the unSighted can you do that.”
She made a garbled sound of agreement.
“I’d like to note, for someone who isn’t sure she trusts me, you did seek me out for these answers.”
She squirmed. Regardless of whether it was true, there was unequivocally no way she’d cop to that. No way in hell. “I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“I’m an enigma.”
“You’re something.” When it came to him, she didn’t know what to think. Regardless, he had her secrets in the palm of his hand, secrets that could destroy her in more ways than one. She stared down at the torn scraps of her drawing, and uttered, “Please don’t betray me, Gideon.”
“I would never,” he said, tone even before he finished in true Gideon fashion, “I swear on your yoga pants.”
She barked a laugh and sighed. “You never told me yours.”
“My what?”
“Your first strata of punishment.” His level answer made her blood run cold.
“Hellfire.” He cleared his throat. “And, Crys, next time you consider wandering down a dark alley by yourself at night, don’t.”