Marked

Chapter 7

When the first rays of sunlight streamed through the windows the next morning, Michael was already out of bed and rapping at Maxon’s door.

Opening the door after repeated impatient knocks, Maxon leaned against the doorframe, raising a sleepy eyebrow at Michael. “Good morning… it’s only dawn.” He yawned. “Too early to be up.”

Without any form of greeting to the still-groggy brunet, he cut straight to the chase. “I talked to Lemuel.”

That woke Maxon up as much as an icy-cold bucket of water would have. He straightened.

“What? When? It’s dangerous, Michael. He could have killed you. You—”

“I don’t care.” He looked away, his glare burning with pent-up anger and impatience.

“Why?”

“Do I look like I would care? That anyone would care? If I…” he paused, hesitating for a moment, “if I died there?”

The way Michael’s hands were fisted at his sides, his jaw set, shoulders hunched—Maxon noticed all of that. And he was shaking, Maxon realized.

“I care,” he replied, his voice loud, as if hoping that those words would, by some miracle, penetrate Michael’s mind and force him to see things the way Maxon saw them; and perhaps mask some of his acridness. He had no need to be so hard on himself. He had no need to hate himself so.

It did not matter what he was, and whether anyone even knew; because deep down, he was still a child—a pure, innocent one; with a beautiful, selfless heart; only burdened by nothing but his own self. He needed love and care just like any other, but he was just so unaccepting of all of it.

And he just wished Michael would see all of that.

That poor, stupid boy.

“And I know of many other people here who would care too,” he continued. “The Countess, Louis, Gwen, the other Plein people you saved from the Legions so bravely… and even that new girl—Sara.”

“Stop,” Michael interjected, a pained look on his face.

“No. You let me finish first.” Maxon was firm this time. “I was going to say- you should have let me come along. If you were going to look for death there, I would have gone with you.”

Michael reeled back as if he’d been shot. “How could I?”

“You’re the brother I never had. And I would die for you. To safeguard your life.”

“You can’t…” his voice sounded choked. “I wouldn’t let you.”

A burning tide of rage rose within Maxon. “Am I or am I not your brother?” he demanded, taking a step forward. He gripped Michael’s shoulder roughly, tightening his fingers so much that his entire hand shook with the force of it. “Answer me!”

Michael did not flinch, nor did his expression change. He merely remained silent and brooding, as though blocking any wave of his own anger with a solid dam.

In a fit of frustration, Maxon let go of Michael’s shoulder, gritting his teeth and pushing his arm forward with all his might, willing Michael to say something—anything.

Even then, Michael stayed unmoving, his entire body tense.

For what seemed like an eternity, the two stood locked in a face-off, the fire between them boiling and rampant, neither of them backing down. There was Maxon, solemn and fierce, with his face tilted up, his eyes fixed on the other boy.

Then there was Michael, a little taller than Maxon; vehement and unyielding, his jaw squared firmly. A tide of unrestrained emotions, threatening to explode.

Finally, Michael looked heavenward, shutting his eyes, his shoulders slumped.

Maxon shook his head in defeat, exhaling. “What did Lemuel tell you?”

“That he created me,” he replied, his voice hardening. “That he will destroy me, because he can.”

“What? Created? How?” Maxon echoed.

Michael only shook his head and shrugged, providing no further explanation.

“I… I don’t understand.” Maxon frowned.

“I don’t wish to explain it again.”

“You haven’t told me already, have you?” Maxon clarified, confused.

“No, I haven’t.”

“Then… you told someone else? The Countess?”

“The girl,” Michael replied.

“Who, Sara?” Maxon’s eyes widened in surprise. “When?”

Michael shrugged again. Maxon huffed, realizing he wasn’t going to get an answer.

“I’ll ask her then,” he conceded, narrowing his eyes. “And that’s why you have those Marks? But Lemuel is a Legion. He doesn’t have the same Marks you have.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

With a sharp intake of air, he cursed under his breath. “You’re right. He always has them covered. But if he does bear the same Marks, then he would know who you are. Which race you belong to.”

“There is no race I belong to. And if I were to be one of a kind with Lemuel,” he answered, “then I’d rather not know what I am.”

“Michael…”

“And to think that all I ever did want was to be normal. Just normal. Now… how am I different from all those clockwork robots that Lemuel keeps creating and sending over to us? How can I be sure I’m not one of them? A freak of nature, like those… those monsters?” There was a note of fear; of trepidation, despite the fury and disgust in his voice.

Maxon opened his mouth, about to retort, but the raven-haired male had already turned around, heading towards the spiral staircase.

“Save it. I don’t need your pity,” Michael threw back angrily. Then he paused, and in a quieter voice, said, “I’m going to the library, if you want to come along.”

Maxon grinned in triumph, and hurried to Michael’s side without a moment’s hesitation.