CHAPTER 10 – Marks of an Angel
If Alex had been kind of quiet before, he was downright mute now. Kirsten wasn't doing so well herself.
Joanna had been gone for two weeks.
She didn't reply to anything. Pleading texts, frantic calls, nothing. Kirsten wondered if she still had her phone. Kirsten was furious. How could Joanna do this? Just get up and leave, with not so much as a goodbye for Kirsten?
And the entirely wrong kind of goodbye for Alex.
Kirsten's heart ached for him. She watched him suffer every day, and there was nothing she could do. She saw the dark circles under his eyes that spoke of long, sleepless nights, and whenever they split up, she'd always end up finding him in the school gym, working out.
His workouts scared her. She may have been furious, but the most she did was scream into her pillow a couple of times and throw a few things around her room. He punched and kicked the bag with such ferocity that it was frightening. In a strange way, it was also beautiful. He was fast and powerful, and as graceful as an angel. But if he were an angel, he was fallen, because the expression on his face was hardly angelic. He looked blank and focused, jaw set. She saw the pain in his eyes he was trying so hard to hide.
She winced when she walked into the fitness room yet again, listening to the dull thud of fists and feet.
"Alex?" she called tentatively. She dropped her bag and rounded the corner. Alex stood there, motionless, the bag swinging. His breathing was ragged, his t-shirt straining over his tight shoulders. His hands hung by his sides, and she could see the ugly purple bruises across his knuckles.
"Alex," she said again, her voice cracking. She stood there, behind him. His head was bowed and he didn't reply. She reached out hesitantly, touching his back, and all at once the tension rushed out of him. He turned and dropped to his knees, reaching for her. He clung to her like a child, pressing his face against her stomach. She wrapped her arms around him and stroked his hair, her own emotion welling up inside her. Tears ran down her cheeks as he shook in her arms.
It was a long moment before they broke apart.
Two week had gone by. It seemed impossible, but it was true. Joanna leaned out of the window, breathing in the ocean air. She remembered the day she'd pulled herself off the floor and dropped her phone down on the rocks below. Sever all contact. Protect them. Be strong.
There was a knock on the door. She turned and crossed her room, swinging the door open wide.
"It's time," Asher said in a gravely solemn voice.
"Oh, shut up," Joanna said, shoving his shoulder as he burst into a grin. He was teasing her. They'd fallen into a friendly rhythm, and surprisingly enough, it was nice.
He was referring to the night when she'd gotten her first Marks, a few days ago. Remington and Asher had packed years of training and classes into days and hours so she would be ready, even though they never said why she needed to learn everything so fast. She picked it up easily, like it was second nature, but she'd still been spectacularly nervous for her Marks.
There was a knock on her door. She stopped pacing and answered it, swallowing hard. Asher stood there, his face serious.
"It's time."
She followed him down the hall and into the church. The ceremonial robe she wore was black, dark as midnight and inscribed with runes. She felt bare, and clutched the silk tighter around her body. Of course, that's because she was naked underneath.
The church was illuminated by dozens of candles flickering in the shadowed corners. A great slab of marble lay across the alter. The Angel Raziel rose out Lake Lyn behind it, holding the Sword and the Cup. Asher left the room and she cast one last glance behind her as he closed the doors. She could have sworn he winked. She looked ahead again. Hooded figures stood in a semi-circle around the alter, parchment coloured robes brushing the floor, their faces obscured.
These were the Silent Brothers.
They drew back their hoods and Joanna stifled a gasp. Empty eye sockets and lips sewed shut, every head bald as a skull and decorated with black runes.
Joanna Devereau?
"Yes?" she replied, and she couldn't stop her voice from shaking slightly. Their voices spoke in her head, each with it own pitch and tone, but remained inflectionless.
You are called before us to receive your Marks as one of the Nephilim. Do you accept the call of Heaven to protect this Earth from the creatures of the Otherworld?
"I do."
Remove your robes and lie down.
She untied the robe and let it drop to the floor, shivering and blushing. They can't see me, she thought, to ease her embarrassment. But then how could they apply the Marks?
She climbed up onto the granite slab and lay down on her back, goosebumps prickling along her arms and legs. She stared at the ceiling, where a single skylight had been opened above her. She watched the glittering stars and the sliver of the full moon that she could see.
The Silent Brothers began chanting in a language she didn't recognize, but had learned to be ancient Latin. The sound was hair-raising, and her heart beat hard in her chest. One of the Brothers raised his arms, and in one hand he held a stele. His hands were cool and the stele was hot as it touched the skin of the back of her left hand. She drew in a quick breath and squeezed her eyes shut as the Brother drew.
She thought she'd gotten used to working through pain, from sparring daily with Asher, but this was a million times worse than anything she'd ever experienced. Slow, agonizing, burning pain as the stele slid across her skin in strong, delicate patterns. She screamed and writhed, struggling uselessly to get away as cool hands held her in an iron grip. The excruciating pain stole away her rationality; somewhere inside, Joanna knew she wanted her Marks, but oh God, it hurt so much…
It seared across the back of her left hand.
Sight.
Then again, gliding over the back of her right hand.
Skill.
Then on the curve of her leg.
Speed.
Then just under her ear.
Balance.
She was sobbing now, begging them to stop, it's too much, please… but the chanting only grew louder, stronger, echoing over her screams. Black spots dotted her vision as she felt cool hands turning her over. And then the stele again across her left shoulder blade, just before she passed out, scrawling right over her heart:
Strength.
She had drifted in and out of consciousness the day after, plagued by a fever that emulated the burning of the Marks. First it had been Asher by her bedside, then Remington, then Asher again… Her dreams had been so twisted that she hadn't been sure what was real and what her mind had conjured up.
But once she recovered, she felt invigorated. The Marks were smooth and black, permanently painted onto her skin, matrixes of swirling lines and elegant patterns. She could look at the runes now and see meaning. She just knew.
It made her feel almost like a true Shadowhunter. Almost because she hadn't killed a demon yet. Soon that would change. Asher had promised. Soon.
Hope you guys are enjoying this! Also, you may think I've forgotten a few things (Where's Jo's mom? Why was she kidnapped in the first place? etc) but don't worry, I have a plan! Just you wait...
:) Thanks SO MUCH for reading and reviewing!
- Cat