The *** and the Parliament
Lauren: The Plague
The mark of the demons. There was no mistaking it. I'd seen it a hundred times before, never through my own eyes, but through the memories of my ancestors, particularly one with whom I shared a first name. I remembered her entire life as though it were my own, which was part of our curse. When the newest generation was born, the oldest would die, but the new would adopt her name and all of her memories. That way, nothing could be forgotten, and we would always have ties to demons no matter how hard we tried to break them.
As if that wasn't odd enough, I was an eighth-generation, so my memories were more vivid, and I shared them with the mother of the first child to be affected by our curse. She grew up during a century of extreme demonic activity, and lost many loved ones to demons. She watched over them at midnight and did all she could for them, but it always ended the same way. Their blood spilled endlessly from the scars on their necks, their souls sucked from their bodies by an unseen force.
And the boy across from me, the boy I saved from Derik the previous night, had the very same scar.
Just as I was trying desperately to prove myself wrong, the bell rang, and simultaneously, the lights came on. My light-sensitive eyes snapped shut involuntarily. By the time they had adjusted, the boy with the scar had gone.
I raced out of the room after him and was surprised to have an arm wrap around me as I came out of the doorway.
I gasped and heard Derrik laugh. He let go of me and said, "Sorry, I didn't think you'd get so scared." When he noticed the look on my face, the grin on his faded away. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Why were you in such a hurry just now?"
I shook my head. "No reason," I said. There was no way I could tell him the truth—my mother had taught me that lesson the hard way—so I changed the subject. "Let's go before all the good food is gone."
"Sure," he laughed, taking my hand.
As we made our way to the cafeteria, I wondered why I had been running in the first place. This boy's problem had nothing to do with me, so what did I care what happened to him? Besides, what could I do for him? When his time came, he would die, whether I meddled in it or not. To try to help this mortal stranger would be futile and possibly dangerous.
Still, I knew somehow that there was more to it. The last instance of that mark occurred several centuries ago. For it to appear again now was bizarre to say the least, and I had to know the story. All logic aside, I knew that I was his only hope, and just as my ancestor watched over dozens of her own friends as they bled out from this plague, I would watch over this boy.
As if that wasn't odd enough, I was an eighth-generation, so my memories were more vivid, and I shared them with the mother of the first child to be affected by our curse. She grew up during a century of extreme demonic activity, and lost many loved ones to demons. She watched over them at midnight and did all she could for them, but it always ended the same way. Their blood spilled endlessly from the scars on their necks, their souls sucked from their bodies by an unseen force.
And the boy across from me, the boy I saved from Derik the previous night, had the very same scar.
Just as I was trying desperately to prove myself wrong, the bell rang, and simultaneously, the lights came on. My light-sensitive eyes snapped shut involuntarily. By the time they had adjusted, the boy with the scar had gone.
I raced out of the room after him and was surprised to have an arm wrap around me as I came out of the doorway.
I gasped and heard Derrik laugh. He let go of me and said, "Sorry, I didn't think you'd get so scared." When he noticed the look on my face, the grin on his faded away. "Are you all right?" he asked. "Why were you in such a hurry just now?"
I shook my head. "No reason," I said. There was no way I could tell him the truth—my mother had taught me that lesson the hard way—so I changed the subject. "Let's go before all the good food is gone."
"Sure," he laughed, taking my hand.
As we made our way to the cafeteria, I wondered why I had been running in the first place. This boy's problem had nothing to do with me, so what did I care what happened to him? Besides, what could I do for him? When his time came, he would die, whether I meddled in it or not. To try to help this mortal stranger would be futile and possibly dangerous.
Still, I knew somehow that there was more to it. The last instance of that mark occurred several centuries ago. For it to appear again now was bizarre to say the least, and I had to know the story. All logic aside, I knew that I was his only hope, and just as my ancestor watched over dozens of her own friends as they bled out from this plague, I would watch over this boy.
♠ ♠ ♠
Rewritten.