Marked For the Kill (On Hold)

Chapter 3

Marked For the Kill

Chapter 3

At first, I feel only a slight tingling sensation. This is all that it takes to break me from the trance of the wolf's gaze. I scamper out from the bushes into the open night air.

The snow is heavier now, and it lays in a fine sheet on the frozen ground. The trees, stripped of their greenery, are like bone white claws. The only things visible by the moonlight is the trees and the wolf.  The Creature has a shining golden coat and piercing green eyes swirled with golden yellow.

My situation dawns on me. I have never seen one of the Creatures with my own eyes, and I know that there is only a single reason for anyone to see one of them on this night.  I am in the process of being Mark.  My breathing gets shallow and I can feel my heart hammering inside my chest.  I bite down a scream that threatens escape.

No, not me, I think on the verge of hysteria.  But then I snap back to my senses.  I am a fighter, a survivor. I will not be a player in their fun and games. I am going to return to my family, if I have to murder this Creature or die trying.

I look down to reach for the knife in my belt; if I can conjure up enough strength in my still sleepy limbs, I know that I can take out the beast in one clean shot.

But when I look back up with my glare of defiance already prepared, the beast is not there. A man, about eighteen, stands in front of me. He is dressed in jeans that been quickly thrown on, and his chest was bare, showing his golden-colored tan skin.

I can tell instantly that he is the wolf by his eyes. They are the same deep emeralds swirled with liquid gold that shine in the moon's light.  They are partly hidden behind stylishly messy golden hair that looks effortlessly good.

I tighten my grip on the handle of my knife, tensing my muscles to throw. This boy is strikingly handsome, but it does not matter. He will be dead in a matter of breaths. I will not be his player.

He lets out a small and careless laugh, smiling slightly and shaking his head like I am some child with my hand in a cookie jar and he has caught me in the act.

I stair at him in slight confusion then suddenly my fingers release their grip on the knife at a sudden burning, searing pain on the back of my right shoulder blade.  It burns like I have spilled a nasty chemical on me that is eating through layers of my skin.  I whip around like a wild animal trying to pat out the invisible fire in my skin.

It refuses to be extinguished.

The pain only intensifies, forcing me to drop to the cool ground in agony. I lay in the dirt for who knows how long, hours at least, clutching my shaking body and letting out moans of pain.

My very soul is being burned in my chest.

There are no breaks in the pain and no mercy, just a continuous burn. I grabbed my knife when I fell, and I now clutch it as if it can bring me through this and save me.

"Please," my voice comes out as little more than a whimper, "Please make it stop."

I can't even think clearly enough to chastise myself for sounding so weak, broken, and pathetic.

The boy does not say anything, but sits by me the whole time, gazing at me emotionlessly as I can not defend myself. I can only utter a whimper of defeat and anguish.

Why won't he make it stop?

...

The first rays of sun light begin to stream through the trees when the fire starts to slowly fade. It leaves me gasping at finally being able to breath without a wave of pain being sent through me.

My body is numb and cold from being submerged and slowly covered in snow all night and there is a dull throb in my shoulder, but I can bear it.

I attempt to stand which takes a few attempts due to the intense shaking in my limbs. I have to escape, even though in the back of my mind I know that it is unlikely since the boy is still watching me. I can't help but to try; I am a fighter.

My stomach larches when I look down though.  I see that I have been curled up in a pile of blood stained snow. I reach for the painful spot on my right shoulder blade and when I pull my fingers back and hold them in front of my face, I feel my knees give out.

My fingers are coated in fresh, slick, bright red blood. I am caught by strong arms before I can hit the ground. Wow, he is fast.

I am unable to resist as he scopes me up and carries me in a bridal style like a limp rag-doll. My head lulls into his chest, and I fight against my heavy eye lids. How easy I am to capture!

I gain some satisfaction that my fingers are locked in a death grip around the handle of my knife. If only I cad use it to defend myself!

My swimy mind is becoming foggy from the blood loss, and soon, I won't be able to fight the sweet pull of unconsciousness.

"Why do you do this?" I can barely whisper.

I see his lips move but darkness wraps itself around me before I can hear a sound.