Chapter 1.3: Marked

Jace

I noticed her...or rather felt her before I saw her.

I know it sounds cliche, but if you think about it, vampires, be they turned or born this way, their bodies are different. I mean there are some clichés that are completely wrong. That whole coming back from the dead is just make-believe. Fairy tales. Once you're dead, you're dead. It's as simple as that. Being bitten by a vampire doesn't kill you unless that's the vampire's intent. No, quite to the contrary, the body just goes through a metamorphosis, and while you may appear back from the dead, the truth of the matter is, it's like a butterfly coming from a cocoon. I know, it's a bad analogy, digging yourself out of a grave is nothing like coming out of a cocoon, but you get the idea.

A vampire is more attuned to its environment. All of our senses, both physical and mental are so much stronger. I couldn't tell you what the difference is, because I was born this way, but I can tell you this, with one whiff, I could tell you your cologne, your hair products, laundry detergent, body soap, deodorant, toothpaste, whether or not you've taken your vitamins, what you had for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and whether or not you need to go to the bathroom. I know, it sounds a bit overwhelming, but as I said, I was born this way, so I don't know anything different. That's how other vampires notice other vampires. Has nothing to do with telepathy, but rather the scent. We can cover it up, to a degree, but the scent is so familiar, so innate to our very being, we can't help but notice it. It's almost tactile, palpable, that scent, almost makes it seem extrasensory.

She stood at the far end of the hallway, her eyes intent on me. It had only been a day since she had tried to mark Trystan and even from here I could smell the hormonal interaction lingering on her. I wondered if he had been turned on by her. She was beautiful. I could tell from where I stood, that she wasn't a born vampire but turned. The body of a turned vampire is not as efficient as that of a born vampire. Turned vampires have a stink, for lack of a better word, due to that inefficiency. The older the vampire is when it is turned, the more obvious the aroma. In a way, they smell almost human. She had been turned recently, probably within the last year.

I watched her as she walked towards me, something feral in her eyes. And in case you're wondering, no, the crowds in the hall, didn't open up to her, leaving her path clear, nor did she appear as if she were floating. Quite to the contrary, she was bumped twice, got a hip check from one of the meaner cheerleaders who probably expected the crowd to give way to her and then was momentarily diverted by Zachary Holt who was clearly enamored with her. I could see the frustration in her eyes as she listened to him go on and on, inviting her to his soccer game and to a party and if she wanted to go to the Frozen Toad for some ice cream. After a perfunctory yes, she disentangled herself and made her way to me.

"You marked him?" Her eyes held a bit of confusion, a bit of accusation.

"Yes."

"He doesn't know?"

"No. I'll have to tell him now, thanks to you." I glared

I marked him a long time ago. It was an accident really. As I mentioned, we've known each other since we were three. Have gone to school together since kindergarten and I certainly couldn't imagine my life without him. I didn't think I was in love with him, you know from the very beginning. I just knew that he was my best friend and I loved him as such.

#

We were climbing trees out in the woods, daring each other to go higher and higher. I think we were only in sixth grade. By then I knew it was more than just friendship that I felt, but I really didn't understand it. All I knew was watching him, wearing a tank top and basketball shorts, his chest and arms toned, his crotch showing a hint of a bulge, I was mesmerized. I couldn't help it. I guess that's why I slipped. I had a firm grasp on the branch above me but my feet dangled below as I bellowed for Trystan to help me. I tried swinging my feet back up to the branches and I almost did but then I saw Trystan plummeting from his own perch above mine past me and to the forest floor. I remember yelling as I saw him hit, his body bounced. That's when I let go and crashed through the branches, I could feel them scratching my face and bare arms and legs. I landed on my feet and at that moment, it didn't register what I had just done. All I could think of was getting to Trystan. The scent of Trystan was a cloud all around me. My every sense was attuned to him. I thought I could hear his heartbeat, his breathing which seemed impossible to my sixth-grade mind. One of his arms was underneath him, bent at a horrible angle. The other had a bloody gash the length of his bicep. His nose was bleeding. His tank top was torn and it looked like a branch was protruding from his ribs.

Like any sixth-grader, I yelled for help, yelled my throat raw. But no one came.

It was the first time I felt the bloodlust. In one way it's hard to describe, but in another, it's not at all. It's like being horny. To my sixth grade senses, just starting puberty, I really didn't have a full grasp of that overwhelming sensation. Getting the occasional boner out of the blue while sitting in math class didn't quite describe it. The bloodlust was all-encompassing, overpowering, transformative. Had it been anyone else, I probably would have killed him. I admit it, I tasted him. It scared the hell out of me. I scrambled back and stared at him lying there, his quick shallow breaths the only sound I heard outside the blood pounding in my ears.

The woods were closest to my house. After the initial shock of his fall and then my tasting him, I knew I had to get him home. He wasn't that much bigger than me, but I was just a kid. I didn't know how I was going to carry him, I just knew I had to before he died. He was much lighter than I had expected. He wasn't completely unconscious as he wrapped his arms around my neck. He grimaced as I trudged over the terrain as fast as I could, his grip tightening and slackening in turn.

Once we reached the clearing I yelled as loud as I could. My voice was already hoarse and raw, but my yell seemed to echo and reverberate all around me. My father was at the back door and then racing towards us. Without even slowing his stride he picked us both up and raced back to the house.

"What did you do?" My father was looking at me, concern in his eyes. We were in his office, me sitting in the big Lazy Boy, him sitting on the corner of his desk.

"He fell from the tree and..."

"No. What did you do? I need to know Jace."

"I don't know." And I didn't really. "One second I was checking to see if he was alright, and then I was tasting his blood. The big gash on his arm, there was so much blood. I don't know why..."

"It's alright Jace." My father pulled me to him in a hug and I wrapped my arms around him, my eyes closed tight.

"Is he gonna be alright?" The words were muffled in his shirt.

He pulled me back so he could look at me. "Yes. He's going to be just fine. More than fine. I can't explain right now, but you have to promise me, you will not tell anyone, not even Trystan what happened out there. He fell and you carried him home. That's all. Nothing else. Promise me, Jace."

"I don't understand."

I heard someone running. I looked at my father.

"Promise me."

I could only nod as Trystan came into the office, his cheeks flush, his eyes lit up. He jumped into my lap and planted mock kisses all over my face. "My hero!"

I pushed him out of my lap. "Get off me you 'tard." He landed on his ass but laughed anyway. I tried to laugh with him, but it sounded hollow. He held out his hand for me to help him up. The gash on his arm was gone, all that remained, a small pink scratch. I stood up and pulled him with me. I hugged him, awkwardly "I'm glad you're okay."

All of his other injuries were gone. No scratches, nothing was broken. I looked at my dad, over Trys' shoulder as I felt Trys wrap his arms around me.

"Promise Me."

I nodded again

Trystan's parents drove over and picked him up. His mother smothered me with hugs and thanked me so many times I lost count, all the while Trystan kept saying it wasn't so bad. "All I have is this one little scratch."

That one scratch wasn't the length of the gash in his arm, but rather the length of my lips, the length of my blood kiss.

That's what my father called it. After Trystan was gone, my father and mother had "the talk". Only this talk wasn't about puberty and sex and girls, but instead about vampires and bloodlust and about my blood kiss. That I had marked him as mine. Like puberty, sex and girls, I didn't really understand everything they were telling me. But the one thing I knew and understood completely was that Trystan Cole was mine.