Demon's Mark (The Solomon Legacy: Book One)

Chapter One

I was marked for death on a pretty unremarkable Tuesday afternoon, sitting in the third to last seat on the Brattleboro-Bellows Falls commuter bus— just three months shy of my 18th birthday.

The bus smelled like old beer, a familiar fragrance for commuters on the days that five of Brattleboro's busiest probation officers held their weekly meetings. Times were tough in Bellows Falls, so they said. Ankle monitors were pretty much the hottest fashion trend for recent graduates of Bellows Falls Union High School and at least one in three had themselves a probation officer long before a college degree.

The late-day bus driver said the booze stench was from the morning run when I mentioned it, but I'm pretty sure at least three of the nine other people on the bus with me were remarkably buzzed or outright drunk on that ride into Bellows Falls.

There was a guy in his 20s a few rows up taking up the aisle seat that had on huge headphones and was furiously drumming with invisible drumsticks. The people in the seats closest to him had already moved a few stops back and now he enjoyed the entire middle section of the bus to himself. He had shaggy brown hair that was greasy and tangled in the back and he wore a ragged flannel shirt and shredded jeans. His sneakers were grimy and worn down on the soles. Both were untied. He attacked phantom cymbals with verve and flair and even managed an air stick twirl before he started in on his ghost drum kit again.

His antics made me laugh and I quickly covered the giggle with an awkward cough and a glance out the window beside me. Outside, the half-empty trees streaked by, their final remnants of orange and red leaves breaking up what we call "stick season" around here--that lull in Vermont tourism stuck between the height of foliage and the beginning of ski season. Stick season was dreary weather and naked, barren trees.

I snuck a glance up at the drummer boy over the top of my library book. His twitchy drum solo over, he slowly turned in his seat to look back at me. His skin was sallow with large gray circles under his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face and I lowered my face, breaking the stare.

Looking back up, his eyes were still on me but something had changed.

The lifeless brown eyes were now flecked with burning yellow triangles in the irises—cat-like eyes staring at me and where the sallow skin had been sort of lifeless before, now there were two huge black scars than ran in a giant X across his face.

Snapping my eyes shut, I rubbed them in an attempt to clear my obviously faulty vision. Peeking again through slitted eyelids, it didn't help. Drummer Boy still had the cat eyes and the giant scars on his face and his expression toward me had changed, too.

"You see me, don't you?" His voice was low and warbled. And loud. Too loud for the other riders on the bus to not notice, and yet nobody turned toward him as he spoke.

"What are you?" He continued, moving from his seat in a low crouch, keeping level with the bus seats. "One of Michael's?"

He cocked his head to the side and stringy brown hair fell across his eyes as he sniffed the air around him.

"You don't carry his stench. Who do you belong to?"

He crept closer, staying low as he passed other oblivious passengers until he was just two seats away. I gripped my backpack with both hands in front of me--a useless shield against this crackhead, but better than nothing.

"Dude," I said, my voice cracking. So much for projecting confidence. "You okay?"

He stopped in the middle of the aisle and cracked a smile that didn't quite reach those terrifying yellow eyes.

"Are you all alone, tiny kitten?" His voice was slurred and garbled, worse than before. "We love them when they're alone and unprotected. Their fear is delicious."

"Listen," I began, holding up a hand between us, but I didn't have the chance to finish.

Instantly, that contorted body, bent and twisted, straightened in a blink and he propelled himself over the short distance between us that remained. I didn't have time to get myself fully out of his way, but I did manage to at least get most of my body out of the seat.

We collided just as his feet became airborne and when we hit, all of the air rushed from my lungs as my chest took the brunt of the impact. I fell back onto the floor with the crazy bastard on top of me, holding me down.

In the struggle that followed, he made for my neck with giant, dripping teeth that I hadn't noticed before. They were filed to points and he snarled as he got a mouthful of my forearm instead. He tore at my flesh and as I screamed, I managed to get my knees in between us, followed by my right foot.

"You crazy bastard!" I shrieked as I kicked him off of me with all my strength and adrenaline I could muster.

The bus driver and my fellow passengers decided to wake up from their oblivion at that moment and the bus screeched to a halt, sending the crazy kid tumbling backwards again, just as he regained his footing and looked like he was returning for round two.

"Hey! What the hell do you think you're doing?" The driver put the bus in park and stood up. People turned in their seats and big brawny dude that usually gets off at the stone church on School Street stood up, making ready to help the driver.

The crackhead looked back toward the interested spectators and when he returned his face back to me, it'd changed again. He was back to being the greasy looking stoner kid with a sick, evil grin on his face. He even winked at me and pointed to my bloody arm.

"We'll finish what we started," he said as he turned, motioning to my bloody arm. "We'll find you, don't worry. You're marked now."

With that, he made a run for the front of the bus and crashed through the glass door, leaving behind him a bus full of afternoon riders in stunned silence.

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Author's Note: Thank you for starting this journey with me! Coralie is a super special heroine to me and I hope you continue on this journey with her.

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Happy reading!

--megan--