I wash the wounds carefully, wincing at every touch.They’re not deep enough for stitches, but they’re bad.And they’recold.Even under the hot water, they feel like ice against my skin.
I bandage them as best I can, then strip down completely for a shower.I need to wash off the blood, the fear, the feeling of those claws raking across my skin.
The hot water feels like heaven, and I stand under the spray until my skin turns pink and my muscles relax.I wash my hair, scrub my body, and try to convince myself I’m safe now.That, whatever was out there, can’t get to me in here.
That’s when I see it.
In the mirror, partially obscured by steam, something dark spreads across my shoulder blade.I wipe the glass clear and turn, craning my neck to see.
The mark.
It’s not the claw wounds, those are on my front shoulder.This is something else entirely.A pattern of black frost spreads across my skin like living ice, intricate and beautiful and terrifying.It matches the symbol on my porch.Exactly.
I touch it with trembling fingers, and it pulses under my skin, cold and alive.
“No,” I breathe.“No, no, no.”
But it’s there.Real.Undeniable.
Something has marked me.Claimed me.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
I didn’t sleep that night.
I sit on my couch, every light in the house burning, my baseball bat across my lap, and I watch the windows.Wait for the shadows to move.Listen for the hiss, the crack of ice, those heavy footsteps.
They don’t come.
But the mark on my shoulder burns with cold, and I know deep in my gut where instinct lives, this isn’t over.
Whatever found me tonight will be back.
And next time, I might not make it to my door.
I should go to the Kings.Should tell Blade, or Prophet, or...or Vex.They know about the supernatural.They’d understand.They might even be able to help.
But the thought of walking into that clubhouse, of asking for help from the very monsters I’ve been trying to avoid, makes my stomach turn.I came to Crystal Creek to escape.To be safe.To benormal.
And now I’m marked by something that shouldn’t exist, hunted by something I can’t see, bleeding from wounds made by claws of ice.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
I pull my knees to my chest, wrap my arms around them, and watch the darkness outside my windows.The mark pulses in time with my heartbeat.
By the time the sun rises, I’ve made a decision.
I’m not going to the Kings.
I don’t need them.Don’t need their protection, their rules, their world of monsters and violence.I’ll figure this out on my own.I’ll find a way to get rid of the mark, to make whatever’s hunting me lose interest.
I’ll be fine.
I have to be.
Because the alternative is becoming tangled up with the Kings of Anarchy, with vampires and werewolves and whatever else lurks in Crystal Creek’s shadows is unthinkable.
I’ll handle this myself.
