Marked for Vengeance (5 page)

She held them up
to her eyes and focused in on the man she had come there to see for the past
three months. He painted again, but because he placed his easel away from the
window, she was never able to see
what
he painted. This was of no
consequence to her, though. The only thing that interested her was him.

This man that
she watched, which she fondly referred to as her ‘painter man’, was her Marked.

When her superiors
sent her three years ago, part of her orders were to stakeout where he lived
and worked, so when or if the time came to capture him, she would have her
bearings. However, she was only to do this one time from a distance. Until then,
she would solely rely on the instinctual draw they were given to each of their
Marked to know where they were at all times, like a honing device located in
the center of her chest that served as a direct connection to his soul. At any
given moment, she knew what direction she needed to travel in to find him and exactly
how far away he was. She had become so used to that draw, like a muscle twitch
she was able to ignore, that she rarely felt it unless she thought about it –
until this lifetime.

Every lifetime
she had a new Marked assigned to her, and she would always do as ordered and
stakeout where they lived. That was nothing new to her this time around. What
she didn’t expect, was that during her simple, routine stakeout, the person on
the other end of the binoculars would captivate her. From the moment she laid
eyes on him, her soul responded with a resounding, unmet desire, which drew her
to him that much more. It was a separate draw, however. Apart from the innate
one placed inside of her during her creation. This one came from somewhere
separate, somewhere deep inside. Like nothing she had ever experienced.

She followed orders
for the first two and a half years and stayed away from the rooftop, but
occasionally the draw would tap on her conscience, and his face would appear in
her thoughts or dreams, reigniting the desire to which she would lock away
again. But three months ago that all changed. One lonely Saturday night at home
while she folded a basket of laundry, it called to her again, the tapping more
of a sturdy knock. Years of suppression allowed the longing to grow stronger,
relentless. She lay awake that night, wrestling with her conscience over what
to do with it. Should she lock it away again to be ignored? Was there something
she could do? She asked herself where that line was that couldn’t be crossed,
if there was a grey area among all of the black and white. Her grey area was
these rooftop visits.

When she gave in
to the persistent temptation that night, she followed her draw to his condo. The
perfect spot for her to spy had already been lined up from where she completed
her first stakeout. She had reasoned ever since that she wasn’t technically
giving herself away to him. There wasn’t a chance for him to know that she was
there. She had no plans to approach or meet him. Those orders
were
black
and white. Simply watching him wasn’t something that they told her she
couldn’t
do. Besides, the risk was worth it to her. It fed her need for him.

At first, it was
only once every two weeks, which then became once a week, and now, twice a week
on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Her desire began like a kitten, innocent and tame,
but as she fed and nurtured it, the kitten grew into a cunning feline, and eventually
into what it was now – a wild lion, ferocious and unruly. There wasn’t a day
that went by now that she didn’t think of him in some form, but knew it would
need to end one day and lock the lion away for good. But tonight wasn’t the
night.

She sighed when her
‘painter man’ put away his paint brushes. He must have started early. On
Saturdays, he would paint until midnight, at least, which gave her plenty of
time to watch him. She lowered her binoculars and shoved them back inside her
purse. Because she couldn’t do what she came there to do, she would sit on the
roof and take a moment for herself.

Part of the
enjoyment of these visits was to gaze at the stars and moon, soaking in every
last bit of this world that she could. Knowing this was her last time on Earth,
it wasn’t unusual for her to stop and stare at the horizon or admire the birds
as they flocked together through the sky. She would miss it here.

She sat on the
concrete with her knees bent to her chest, and the flickering of the street light
below stole her attention. Her head turned to study the scene. With her chin
buried into shoulder, she watched as the moths danced and wove around it,
bumping into the light and darting around one another with a clumsy
gracefulness. In that moment, a realization manifested – she wasn’t so
different from those moths.

Last week she
watched a special on the Nature Channel about moths and how they’re considered
‘positively photo tactic’, meaning that they’re drawn to light in an
instinctual way. The scientists theorized that this was because moths are
migratory insects and use the moon as a guide for navigational clues.

This ‘painter
man’ was
her
light -- an alluring glow that her soul migrated to. She
certainly felt lost in some ways, her place within the world a façade for a
higher calling. But he was the one place that was real and constant. The one
place that, despite her better judgment, that called to her, that she truly
connected to. And although these moths knew that this wasn’t their home and was
an artificial light source, they stayed there or continued coming back. When
they flew away from the light, it took their eyesight a lot longer to adjust to
the darkness so they migrated back out of instinct. She recognized a similarity
there, as well. Being away from the rooftop and in the real world didn’t have
the same appeal. Even Benjamin’s light didn’t burn bright enough to keep her
away. She always made her way back around to the rooftop, even if it meant that
she was possibly going in the wrong direction, which was, within her grey area.

A scant hour had
passed, but she wasn’t ready to go home just yet. Her attention directed itself
to the open sky. She lay back with her head rested inside her interlaced hands
to gaze at the stars, her body relaxed, although her spirit somewhat
ungratified.

She closed her
eyes, and the crisp air washed over her face as she fantasized about the man on
the other side of the lens; the soft angles of his face, the mystery in his
blue and green eyes, the way his tongue curled over his top lip as he
concentrated on his paintings. She drifted off and into his world, opening
herself up to let it consume her.

Her mind
wandered around what it would be like to be there with him; what his voice
sounded like, if he was funny, what the more intricate details of his face
were. She allowed herself to daydream about meeting this man, knowing she could
never cross that line, her contact forbidden. As that reality slapped her
across the face, her eyes reopened to perish the thought for good. That was
something she would never be able to consider. Ever.

The wind grew
stronger and whistled through the buildings, tossing plastic bags and aluminum
cans from between them and into the street. With the wind’s growing strength
came a bitter chill, leaching the warmth from her bones. She sat up and wrapped
her jacket tightly, glancing toward his window one last time before rocking
herself to her feet. The light no longer burned inside his home.
See you
again Wednesday, painter man
.

On her way down
the stairs, her stomach rumbled.
Moe’s Diner,
she thought as she licked
her lips. She had stopped there every night on the way home since her rooftop
visits began.

CHAPTER
3:

A
Rule of Physics

Alyx strolled
into her favorite diner on Fifth Street, nestled between a Spanish food market
and a pawn store, and ordered a cheeseburger with fries to go. The stop there
served two purposes that night; it allowed her to thaw, as well as get a bite
to satisfy her hunger. She rubbed her frozen hands together, blowing warm air into
them while cupping her nose whose tip had turned into a tiny icicle.

The diner’s décor
of orange, leather booths and retro light fixtures evoked the nostalgia of
nineteen sixties America, and every time Alyx visited, she observed a simpler
time in history that she had never been a part of. But the quaint ambiance
enchanted her just as much as the savory fare of hamburgers, crispy fries, and
over a dozen flavors of milkshakes.

While waiting
for her order at the counter, she overheard a German man in a corner booth
attempting to order some food. The waitress shook her head in confusion as he
repeated, “Pfannkuchen und eier, Pfannkuchen und eier.”

Alyx swiveled
around in her stool and made her way to the table. “Maybe I can help,” she
said, touching the woman’s shoulder. “He’s saying pancakes and eggs.” 

The waitress
hugged her neck. “Thank you so much! Pancakes and eggs coming up,” she repeated
back to the patron and left for the kitchen.

“Danke,” he said
to Alyx, his appreciative eyes creasing on the sides as he grinned.

“Du bist
willkommen,” she replied, which meant, “You are welcome”.

It had been a
long time since Alyx last accessed that part of her memory, but it appeared that
she still recalled the basics. She spent most of her time on Earth in Europe,
because her first Marked lived in Germany, and her second lived in England. In
preparation for every lifetime, her superiors instilled in them a fundamental knowledge
of their resident country’s native language, which Alyx worked to strengthen
every day. Relating to the people she lived amongst not only helped maintain
her cover, but allowed her to connect to them in such a way that she almost
forgot the true reason for her existence. Almost.

“Alyx, your order
is up!” the owner shouted.

“Thank you, Moe,”
she replied and went to the register to pay.

While she dug through
her purse for her wallet, Moe studied her with his bushy eyebrows drawn
together. “I didn’t know you spoke German.”

She handed him
the cash with a wink. “There are
a lot
of things you don’t know about
me, Moe. Keep the change.”

On her way back,
the chill of the night continued to cut through her. She turned the corner onto
Peachtree Street when a familiar, eerie feeling slinked its way back in. The
same one she had when the strange man followed them off the elevator yesterday
at work. She stilled for a moment before searching her surroundings, squinting
as she scanned through the dark, but didn’t see anything or anyone.
That’s
strange,
she thought with a shake of her head and continued with a hastened
step. She wasn’t fond of the feeling, as though she was being watched, and not
by someone who meant her well.

Catching her by
surprise, her scar tingled as it had the day before.
What in the world?

Her kind was
never given a tutorial on what this meant, or what to do about it. They weren’t
told much of anything except how to find their Marked and what to do with them
if the time came. Her only option was to follow her instincts and get home as
fast as her long legs would carry her.

Her brisk walk
elevated to a light jog, and as she rounded the next corner, she tripped over a
dark figure that sat on the ground, hunched against the wall. She screamed as
she hit the pavement with a smack and watched as her Styrofoam takeout
container and purse flew in front of her, her purse’s contents scattering over
the unlit sidewalk.

Shell-shocked, she
lay on the concrete when a figure’s unsteady footsteps staggered toward her
from behind, mumbling angry, incoherent words. She scrambled to her feet, and a
hand grabbed her by the shoulder. Her elbow instinctually raised high in the
air to swing it into their side, and a frantic voice cried out. “Stop!”

The man let go
and stumbled backward, landing on his backside.

When she spun
around, the elderly bum she had seen many times before on that block wailed in
a drunken stupor on the pavement. Her hands flew to her mouth. “I’m so sorry!”
she cried. “Are you alright?”

He didn’t
respond to her attempt at comfort, and she worried that the fall had injured
him. She extended her arms with her palms facing the sky. “Here, let me help
you up,” she said as she walked toward him. “I’m sorry.”

His only
response was more wailing as he rolled on the ground, his arms flailing like a
five year old child in the throes of a tantrum.

She sighed and turned
to examine the mess she had made. It would take forever to find everything that
had flown from her purse in the dark. Grabbing her cell phone first, she used
it as a light to find her belongings; lipstick, wallet, keys, binoculars, and
pens. She also remembered change clattering about, but it wasn’t important
enough to look for.

With her purse
and food container in hand, she turned to check on the bum again who now stood
with his right arm outstretched, her loose coins sitting in the palm of his
calloused hand, and her heart ached with compassion. “No,” she insisted and
placed her hand under his, curling his fingers over the coins, “you keep them.”
 

He shoved the
change inside his pocket, and his eyes drew down to the white container she
held in her hands. The smell of the freshly grilled hamburger patty teased his
hunger. Without hesitation, she held out her dinner for him to take it. It was
probably more food than he had eaten in a week.

She could tell
by the way he wrung his hands that he wrestled with his conscience over taking
a young woman’s food, but the hunger that reflected in his widened eyes
prevented him from contemplating too long. He gingerly took it from her hold
and bowed with gratitude.

In her eighty-four
years as a human, Alyx had witnessed what the coldness of a man’s heart could
inflict on another; pain, sorrow, destruction. She had also witnessed what the
kindness and warmth of one’s heart could accomplish; healing, joy, and
redemption. It only took but one small act of compassion to make a difference
in someone’s life, to change their outlook on the world, or to lift their
spirits for just a moment. And it was all worth it for her, to know that she
had helped someone in their time of need.

The old man
slumped against the wall while shoveling the food into his mouth, and she
grinned with satisfaction. She went on her way and noticed her scar’s tingling
had faded to a faint prickle, indicating that the looming danger had vanished.
For now.

When she made it
home, she closed and locked the door behind her. She vigorously rubbed her arms
to shake off the chill from the night air and turned the thermostat to seventy-eight
degrees. Even with the brief interruption of literally running into the bum, she
couldn’t quite shake the haunting fear of being followed, so she double checked
the locks on her windows, as well.

After all of the
excitement, hunger no longer churned inside her stomach, so she curled up on
the couch with a blanket to watch some mindless TV.

*
* *

Midnight came
swiftly, and as the next ‘flip your house for profit’ show came on, Alyx fought
against her heavy eyelids to keep them open. She clicked the power button on
the remote and slipped into her crisp, white sheets.

She drifted into
the darkness, and the dream from the night before replayed through her mind. The
elegant, Eighteenth-Century couple descended down the stairs and made their way
to the horse drawn carriage below. With the looking glass held to her eye, she
focused on the bearded man’s left hand that gripped his cane. A chunky gold
ring with a unique engraving of an eagle flying in front of a bare tree encircled
his ring finger.

She lowered the
looking glass and watched as he hobbled over the cobblestone walkway, extending
his hand to assist his date into the carriage. The dream faded into a quiet
slumber, and she didn’t wake until seven thirty the next morning.

*
* *

Sometime within
the darkest depths of night, a blood curdling scream rolled from Micah’s loft
upstairs. Isaac startled awake and was halfway up the metal staircase before he
realized it. By the time he reached the top, Micah lay flat against the wall,
staring wide-eyed into the center of the room.

Isaac ran to his
side. “It’s ok, buddy,” he said as he pulled him close, “what’s wrong?”

Micah clinched
his teeth to fight back a wail.

“Tell me what
happened. Did you have one of your dreams again?”
Please God
,
when
will he grow out of these?

His hands
covered his face, and the cry finally broke through.

“It’s alright. You’re
goin’ to be fine, down the stairs with you now.”

They walked side
by side down the staircase, and Isaac flipped the living room lights on. “Go
sit over there on my bed,” he said as he hurried toward the kitchen. “I’ll get
you a glass of water.”

Micah sat on the
edge of the sofa bed, wiping the tears from his face. Isaac placed a glass
under the running water. “You can sleep in my bed tonight if you want to,” he
said as he waited for the glass to fill. The sofa bed was actually too small
for them to share now because Micah had grown considerably within the past
year, but he didn’t mind being uncomfortable if it meant his son felt safe.

“I’m ok. I just…
I was really scared. It looked so
real
this time,” he sniffled. 

He turned the
faucet off and hustled carefully back to his son so not to spill. “Tis enough
of the cryin’,” he said and sat on the bed beside him while handing him the
drink. “I know it was scary.”

His son’s
unsteady hand shook the water in the glass as he brought it to his lips, his
troubled face admitting what his words would not – he
wasn’t
ok
.  
“What
did you see?” Isaac asked, concerned over what would frighten him so badly.

Micah swallowed
and sat the glass on his leg. “The same things I’d been seeing since I was
little. He was like a shadow man, but this one was a different. He was bigger
and angrier.”

“You know it was
just a dream, right?”

“I guess so,” he
replied and took another small sip. “But this one seemed a little different.
Usually, I’ll dream that I wake up, and they’re staring at me, like they expect
me to see them. This one was wandering the house. I followed him with my eyes
for what felt like forever when he made his way to my room, and when he did I
told him to get out, that he needed to go away.

The terror Micah
relived as he recalled his nightmare chilled Isaac to his bones. He hadn’t seen
him this frightened in a long time.

“When I
whispered for him to leave, he spun around and darted toward me,” he said, his
eyes widening again, “he swatted at me, like he was trying to hurt me. But he
couldn’t get to me, and that’s when I screamed!”

Isaac stared at
the floor to let it all sink in. Even in a dream, that would be terrifying.
Weird dreams definitely run in the family.
“At what point did you jump out
of the bed?” he asked, looking back at his son.

Micah rolled his
eyes. “When he tried to knock my head off, dad.”

“Ok, ok,” he
conceded and patted his son on the back. “Want me to walk you to your room or
do you want to sleep with your old man?”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Ok, I get it. You’re
getting too old for that now. Back to your room, then.”

His arms wrapped
around his dad’s neck. “Love you.”

“Love you too,
son.”

*
* *

Dawn broke over
the tops of the buildings, and Alyx stood on her patio to check the weather
with a fuzzy white robe wrapped snugly around her waist. During the night, the
wind brought with it a thick blanket of clouds and the promise for a dark,
dreary day.