Stolen Sign

Chapter 4

~ Jaxon ~

"Why'd you have to do that, Marcus?" I ask. "You know how dangerous a rumor can be, and that kid didn't deserve it."

My brother rolls his eyes.

"He was acting suspiciously. All I did was remind him where the power lies around here. And he's hardly a 'kid.' That was the elder Lovecraft brat."

The party's over, the guests gone. I'd found Marcus in the downstairs library, filching from our father's hidden stash of expensive liquor, and somehow, I'd ended up confronting him.

I guess I'm in the mood for a fight.

"Whatever. He had an invite, and as much right to be here as anyone."

I knew because I'd dug through the pile at the door and found it, and I toss the little black card at Marcus now.

"He was here as Joaquin Yorba's stand-in. Did you know that?"

Marcus laughs. "You give me too much credit, brother. I'm hardly so subtle. Besides, when I commit an act of sabotage, I'll aim for the king, not the court jester."

"Yorba's no joke," I counter, crossing my arms, "and he's hearing Aurelio's case next month. If he gets wind of this—"

"Relax." Marcus dismisses me with a wave of his hand. "You're right—Yorba knows Crafter law inside and out. He's also impartial. That's why father made sure Rel's case landed with him. Wild tales from a party won't affect his judgment. If it does, we can use it against him."

"It was reckless and unnecessary," I argue, unwilling to back down just yet. "The last thing we need right now is bad press."

Getting to his feet, Marcus walks towards me with his hands in his pockets and a dangerous smile on his lips. "We this, we that. Since when is it 'we,' Jax? And why do you care so much, anyway? Are you jealous I got to him first? I was just playing, you know. I've no desire to have my cock sucked by anyone who's got one."

He brushes past me, raises his glass of bourbon in a mocking salute, and saunters out the door.

I release my breath in a puff of frustration.

As kids, whenever we played 'Superheroes,' Marcus always wanted to be Thor. Really, though, he's more like Loki—mischievous, self-centered, and congenially traitorous. Unfortunately, he's also smart. Our parents had sent him overseas to the UK for his high-school and college years, and he'd come back with an attitude and an imitation accent, which he thought made him sound snarky and sophisticated, and which probably did. It drove me nuts.

I'm the one who's more like Thor. I can tell when Marcus is up to something, but I usually don't catch it in time, and then I'm forced to play cleanup using my own skill set, which includes brute force and an intimidating physique.

My Sign is no Mjölnir, though, but it's still weapon-like: a small, sharp, wood-working knife. I use it to carve protective amulets and figurines, mostly, though it has other uses.

When I'd seen how Marcus had homed in on his prey, I hadn't been able to stop myself from intervening. Now, of course, I'd shown Marcus my weakness—or what he'd see as weakness, anyway: my willingness to give a shit about someone else.

It was an impulse I'd managed to ignore most of my adult life—had, in fact, needed to ignore to survive.

Mercenaries who give a shit don't live long.

Deciding I need a drink of my own, I cross the room to the shelf of false books, behind which is my Dad's good booze, and reach for the hidden button that opens the compartment within.