Zealots had called it the balance, once upon a time. The Threads of the world were every emotion, every action, reaction, and thought. Demons fed on the threads of Sin. The balance was the force that held it all together.
“The Balance tries to equalize the world by calling a Hunter to do good after they have been touched by evil.” I clarified.
Davenport nodded. I tapped my chin, in thought.
Evil was relative. By definition, I was evil. I was a nightmare demon. I fed on the deep subconscious fears of Humans and Demons alike.
But I did not create those fears, I only exploited them.
Just as most Demons did not create or encourage Sin. They just fed on it.
“Why am I getting a play by play of the Hunter initiation rites?” I asked.
“Have you been touched by evil?” Davenport's voice was soft and coaxing.
“Pretty baby,” I cooed, reaching up to pat his chest. Unable to stop myself. “I’ve bathed in the stuff. If evil were a glitter bath bomb, I would have thrush and the complexion of a disco ball.”
Davenport's eyes widened, surprised, as he took in my words, trying to make sense of them. His lips tightened as if he struggled to hold back laughter. My admission was forgotten in the presence of graphic imagery and harmless joking.
“What I meant to imply, Sidhe, is that if you have been touched by Evil, you may be called to become a Hunter.” The commander said, once his mirth melted away.
I gaped. “Me? A Hunter?”
He shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”
Davenport had been presented with the evidence, but he had gone down the wrong garden path. It was just as well. Why did I continuously flirt with revealing my true nature? How did the male Hunters manage to delve past all my barriers?
“Coolio.” I backed away slowly. “Just drop the welcome packet off at my room, and I’ll let you know.” My hand fumbled for the door as I made my escape.
Davenport did not move. “You will know if you are 'called.'” His voice followed my retreating figure. “You will have to make a choice.”
Nervous laughter burst from my lips, “You’re Fruit-Loops, Big Guy!” I called out as I walked away.
Over the next few days, I avoided the guys. I ate in the Mess Hall, took painfully embarrassing physical training with the rest of the Hunter newbies, and thought about Hugo Sinclair's mark.
Soulbonds were rare.
So rare, in fact, that finding your true mate was a legend. I had never met anyone that had found their other half before.
You could Bond with someone through a ceremony. Which Demons rarely ever performed. The Bond allowed you to access the powers of your mate, read their intents and thoughts once it had solidified.
If you were to die, your Bonded would weaken. They may even wither and perish from the loss of the connection.
But a True Bond?
A Soulbond, a mark that had formed on its own? That kind of thing just didn’t happen.
Was Hugo Sinclair, my true mate? The mark on his chest certainly implied that he was.
My first reaction had been to run. To keep the bond a secret and hope that Hugo would live a full life without ever knowing that the universe had placed us together for its own nefarious idea of a joke.
Hugo was a Hunter. A half-demon, by blood, but he had been 'Called.'
My own mark was a single silver line across my collarbone. Over my left breast. If I focused my magic, pulling the threads of Sin towards me –in the same fashion as if I was aiming a mental blade at someone—then I could make the mark fade.
The scar on my chest was not the same elaborate Cyclian rune as Hugo's. It was only part of the word. A syllable grunted, but not the true meaning.
I had finished sparring and ducked out of the way when Riley Fisher had swanned up to me to strike a conversation that would no doubt dissolve into insults. I escaped down the path and found myself sitting on the fence surrounding the K9 enclosure. The dogs were all lined up and eating from their bowls. A few tails wagged excitedly. I found myself smiling. I swung my legs, content to watch them at a distance.
“What are you doing here?” Hart asked brusquely. I jumped, pressing my hand against my chest as I wobbled from my precarious seat on the fence.
Hart ducked forward, his orange eyes rolling at me as he gripped my shoulders and righted my balance.
There was too much saliva in my mouth. Human bodies were so weird.
Hart was looking at me strangely. I wondered why.
“Well?” He demanded.
Oh. I hadn’t answered Hart’s question.
“Bored.” I shrugged.
Hart crossed his arms over his chest. “Okay.”
My eyes narrowed. “Do you have a problem with me?”
His lips tightened. “No.”
“Is it because we kissed?”
Hart closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and whispered a soundless prayer to a Dead God. “Jesus, Frankie.”
“Is it?” I pressed. Mildly curious.
“You hate me.” Hart murmured. His orange eyes darted away. “After the Blood Sidhe incident in Queens, a year ago, I thought you wanted me to transfer from Team C.”
I didn’t want to ask what had happened. Blood Sidhe were ruthless bastards. They could rip someone’s blood from their bodies through their pores. Kind of like vampires, but they were Fae. They didn’t feed on the blood they stole from their victims. Their power came from the magic in the blood. Making amulets and potions from it. Blood Sidhe were the natural enemies of the Mimic Sidhe.
“That was ages ago.” I smiled gently. Affecting the most generic response that I could think of, I said, “Did we have something going on before...?”
Hart looked horrified. “No.”
“Sorry.” I shrugged and plastered a gentle but self-deprecating smile on my face. “The coma has left my memories kind of fuzzy.”
I had tried to reach into my host’s mind to extract what I needed, but there was a clear pool of nothing in the back of my mind. Frankie was still alive. At least, her body was. The coma had pressed her down into a locked box.
“It was my fault the Blood Sidhe attacked you and Daniel. It’s the reason he no longer goes on field missions.” Hart explained. His face creased as if it pained him to do so. “I ignored a direct order and entered their suspected lair and left the rest of the team behind. If I hadn't, you wouldn’t have been outgunned, outmanned...”
I quirked a brow. “I can fight my own battles, you know.”
“Snipers are best at a distance, and your brother is a doctor, not a fighter,” Hart growled. “I shouldn’t have left you behind.”
“But, I’m alive,” I stated blithely.
Hart blinked.
“So, I assume that the Blood Sidhe were taken care of?”
He nodded slowly.
I slapped my hands together and jumped from the fence, landing with my knees bent and arms outstretched. Perfect dismount. Olympics here I come.
“What’s fun around here?”
Hart was speechless.
“Are you glitching, Marmalade?” My nose scrunched.
He shook his head to free himself from his stupor. “Marmalade?”
I popped a hip and waved a hand. “Your eyes.”
Hart opened and closed his mouth a few times before he cleared his throat. “We could go to the range?” He suggested. Eying my face like I was some newly found creature.
“Not bad,” I said. “Let's do that.” I skipped forward and looping my arm through his. He stood stock-still for a few seconds looking down at where our arms linked. I shook him. Laughing—I realized that Hart was growing on me.