Page 5 of Marked By the Dark Lord
“Just go inside. I’ll handle this,” I said. “I can take it.”
Lily looked ready to protest again, but then she turned and went back inside. I went after her, moving slowly. My sprained ankle was swollen to hell and back and not responding properly. Maybe I’d broken it, too? I wasn’t sure. I would have thoughtthe swelling would be on the way down by then from a simple sprain.
“Finally,” Victor huffed as I went inside and got my broom, sweeping the detritus from the day before. “You’re late.”
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m beat.”
Victor didn’t understand or appreciate my humor. Then again, I wasn’t sure he knew what humor was. The baker was the grumpiest, most unsatisfied person I’d ever met. Nothing was ever good enough for him unless he did it his way. Any suggestions were met with yelling and shouts.
Or beatings.
I swept as fast as I could without missing anything. Victor would notice. As I moved, I felt lightheaded. Whether from the blood loss or something else, I wasn’t sure. It probably didn’t matter. I swayed on my feet, reaching out to steady myself on the side of an oven that was, thankfully, off.
The first drop slid down the inside of my nose and dripped free before I even realized what was happening. Then another. And another.
“Shit,” I cursed, holding a hand against my nose as it began to bleed.
Victor heard my curse and spun to look from where he was preparing whatever it was that baker’s prepared.
“You bleeding on my floor? In my bakery?” he shouted, instantly furious as he advanced on me. “Youdare?”
“I’m sorry! I’ll clean it!” I said, backing away. “I promise.”
“Outside. Now,” Victory snarled, holding up his rolling pin.
I ran for the door, dropping the broom. Victor kicked it, and it bounced off an oven leg before slamming back against his shin. He howled in irritation and followed me outside.
Crying out, I fell as he swung the rolling pin into my backside.
“Useless bitch!” he snarled. “You’re done. Don’t you dare set foot in my place again. I’ll kill you!”
He kicked me for good measure, then spat at me. If it hit, I didn’t notice.
A moment later, the door slammed behind me and locked.
Overhead, thunder rumbled, and the rain, which had stopped at some point, started up again. Weak and feeling defeated, I crawled back into my hovel.
A hovel I would have to leave behind. As I had so many others over the years since I’d run away from Mrs. Johnson’s “Home for Hurting Youth.” Nobody ever asked if the name was meant to be ironic.
“Fuck them,” I moaned as images of my tormentors flashed through my mind. “Fuck them all. I hate them! I hate themall. I wish they could live as I do. See what it’s like to be me. I wish they couldsuffer.”
A red glow filled the inside of my hovel. As I poured my hate, anger, frustration, and more into the interior, the red brightened and began to swirl.
Open me.
I looked around wildly for the source of the voice filling my mind.
Use me.
It was coming from under my sleeping bag.
Open me. Use me.
I pulled the sleeping bag out of the way.
Free me.
The room exploded with red light emanating from the old book.
