My head is swimming with the helpless sensation by the time I arrive at the end of the beach where a cluster of rocks blocks me from getting any further. I’m about to head back when I hear the soft sound of footsteps move up from behind me. I turn around and startle back when my flashlight highlights a very familiar face.

“Gemma?” I pause, shining the light into her strikingly beautiful eyes, feeling a wave of electricity rush over me from the connection we share. But whether it’s from the star or something else, though, I’m unsure.

I immediately sense there’s something off about her. It definitely looks like Gemma, but there’s something missing…. Something’s vanished from the last time I’ve seen her. She looks so hollow, and the sparks are merely a lull of warmth; nowhere near as intense as they usually are. It’s how I’ve imagined she looked when her soul was detached, and the thought of it sends a chill up my spine.

I reach out to grab her, but she quickly raises her arm, moving way faster than she normally does; the sparks suddenly going haywire. Before I can tell what’s happening, there’s a shovel in her hand, and seconds later, something smacks me in the head. Hard. With way more strength then Gemma has ever possessed before. The flashlight slips from my hands and I raise my arm as I stagger, the number of stars in the sky multiplying. She easily dodges my advances and swings the shovel back around, hitting me on the head again. I’ve taken a lot of beatings and know that I won’t go down without at least a few more hits, but I need to get my shit together.

I work to get my footing and blink my vision back into focus, then hurry away from her. I just need a few seconds to get the dizziness and the throbbing ache out of my head, and then I can concentrate. But she easily chases after me, her long legs moving quicker than I remember as she runs through the sand.

Shit.

I dodge to the side and then try to circle around her, but she matches my moves and we end up colliding. She drops the shovel as our legs tangle together as we both lose our balance and fall toward the sand. I instinctively grab onto her, wanting to protect her from the fall despite the fact that she has just hit me in the head with a shovel. She lands on top of me with a leg on each side, her breasts pressing against my chest, her lips inches from mine, and my fingers digging into her waist to support her weight. There’s a brief pause where I feel so turned on; not just by the feel of her, but from the pain, which is extremely fucked up. It’s not the first time it’s happened, either.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask as she pushes back and sits up on top of me.

She doesn’t say a word. She just lifts her arm above her, the glow of the moon hitting her hauntingly empty expression. That’s when I spot it; the triangular mark on her forearm. It feels like every part of me has died. My heart stops beating. My lungs stop working.

“No,” I whisper.

She simply smiles in response and I know what I have to do. I hate it, though I have no choice. It’s either do this or kill her. So I channel all my inner strength and flip us over so she’s lying on her back in the sand. She struggles, kicking and trying to knee me in the gut, but I restrain her by the shoulders, pinning her down.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you,” I say as she writhes her body beneath me. “I’m just going to make this a little easier on me.”

She pauses and then starts to laugh, her chest heaving, hot and feisty sparks seem to flow from her, and my skin feels like it’s on fire. “Oh, my God. You think you can hurt me.” Her laughter cuts off so quickly that it’s creepy. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Then she dips her head to the side and her teeth graze my skin.

I hate what I’m about to do—hate that I’m controlling her in any way, shape or form—but I still clear my head and prepare myself to take her energy away, making her exhausted. She doesn’t know that I can do this to people—make them disoriented—only because I’m afraid of what she’ll do if she finds out. She’s big on trust, which is understandable, and this is downright manipulation. I don’t do it very often, but it’s the only thing I can think of to do at the moment.

Taking a deep breath, I gradually start draining her strength, forcing her to become weak and drowsy, careful to only drain enough that she gets sluggish yet doesn’t pass out. Her eyes start to roll into her head, but then she manages to get one of her hands up and grabs ahold of my arm. She starts clawing at my skin, splitting it open over and over again. Blood pours out and trickles down my forearm. She starts laughing at the sight of it. It’s an annoying laugh that doesn’t belong to her and sounds more like it belongs to a hyena. Her head is tipped back in the sand, her hair surrounding her head, while she totally disregards me as if I couldn’t conquer her.

“You stupid, little boy,” she says, shaking my head. “You never can do anything right.”

And just like that, something snaps inside me. Breaks. Shatters. I see red as she utters the words my father used to say to me all the time.

%

“Fuck it,” I growl, and then quickly and callously drain all the energy out of her. Her eyes widen for a split second, however she has no time to react, and seconds later she blacks out.

She’s still breathing. Still alive. But she also still has the Mark of Evil branded on her.

After Gemma goes unconscious, lying dazedly in the sand below me, I hop off her and scoop her up, carrying her toward the house. Her arm with the Mark of Evil hangs lifelessly to the side and her head bobbles around with my movements. I feel vaguely bad for what I’ve done to her, but at the same time, there was no other choice. Do what you have to, no matter the cost. That’s what I was taught to do, and although sometimes I hate it, it’s times like these where I’m glad I don’t think twice.

When I get inside the house, I gently put her on the sofa in the living room. Aislin’s still gone, so I sit and wait for her while thinking of any possible way to fix this along with how the hell it has happened to begin with. The Mark of Malefiscus is only supposed to appear on those that are of evil descent, and Gemma can’t be; there’s no way.

So how did it get there? Did it appear like a normal mark does? Or did Nicholas have something to do with this? That damn Faerie seems to have some sick obsession with her. Or maybe it’s my father who put it on her. Is that where she disappeared to for the last few hours? Has he had her trapped while she’s been missing?

As she lies there, out of it on the sofa, I stroke her cheek softly. We used to be so close, but now it seems like we barely know each other anymore. It’s my own damn fault for letting everything get between us. A childhood friendship, one made of promises to be friends forever. Then, just because my father had said so, I’d let it go. And now I want it back. I want to tell her what we had… What I want… What do I want?

As I’m trying to figure that out, she starts to stir. I hold onto her arms, figuring I’ll let her come out of her daze before I put her back under so she can have a few minutes to recuperate. Suddenly, though, like the snap of a lightning bolt, her eyes shoot open and she springs upward onto the sofa. Our foreheads slam together like bricks smashing together. I fall off the edge of the sofa, blinking my eyes as my head starts to buzz, however Gemma doesn’t miss a beat. She jumps up and lands on top of me, crouched over me like a cave woman.

“I have to kill you,” she says in a numb voice, her hair hanging over her face, a rabid look in her eyes.

My fingers wrap around her wrists. “No, you don’t.” I know it’s probably useless to reason with her, but I have to try. “Just back off me and as soon as Aislin gets here, we’ll get you taken care of.” I hope.