Page 87 of Marked
Maybe he was up so early because he couldn’t sleep with what he’d done.
“Tell me about me and my brother.” I kept my voice steady and strong. "Tell me about the day we were dropped off at your doorstep.”
“Or what?” Marcus tilted his head. “You’ll kill me? Isn’t that why you’re here?”
It was.
As soon as I saw his face and the memories slammed into my mind, I’d reached a decision. Marcus wouldn’t live another day to hurt anyone else. How many had he already hurt since we left? How many could I have saved if I’d returned sooner?
“Yes,” I said.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers on the desk in front of him. “Then why have a conversation at all? Why not get on with it?”
“You’re dead no matter what,” I continued. “You get to choose how you leave this world—will your death be slow and painful, or will it be quick?”
He didn’t deserve the mercy, but I’d offer it anyway because I wasn’t into torture, and I wanted answers.
Marcus stiffened in his seat, his gaze shifting side to side as if looking for a way out, and his smile slipped away.
“I’m giving you more choice than you ever gave us.” I stepped closer. “And no one is going to save you. Even if they wanted to, which I doubt, how could they when you’ve locked them away?”
Marcus grunted, his mouth turning down in a sneer. “There’s no one left. It’s just me in this pustule of a building.”
“Then why are you here?” I asked.
“Waiting.”
“For what? Redemption?” That had fled long ago.
“Closure.” He pressed his lips together. “Maybe then I can escape this place.”
That made no sense, but I wasn’t here to figure out the inner mechanisms of Marcus’ mind and at least now I didn’t need to figure out what to do with a bunch of children. There was some justice in the world, it seemed. “Then start talking.”
“About you and Apollo?” Marcus leaned back in his chair. “There’s not much to say. You and your brother were trouble from day one and needed every ounce of the discipline you received.”
“We were kids. Children. We needed affection and a father figure, and you gave us stern words, coldness and if we misbehaved in any way, you gave us pain. There’s no point in trying to explain why that was so incredibly wrong or damaging. It won’t erase the memories or what you did.” I took a deep breath. “I don’t need to rehash any of that. I want to know more about when and how we arrived at the orphanage.”
Marcus studied my face for a moment as if contemplating whether to tell me the truth or not. Maybe I needed to remind him of what awaited him at the end of this conversation.
“We estimated you were a year old when you arrived on our doorstep,” Marcus said, finally breaking the silence. “You were both covered in wounds and wrapped in blankets soaked in blood.”
My heart thudded painfully at his words. “Wounds?”
“Cuts on your face, arms, legs. Even your ears,” Marcus continued. He perked up a little as if he enjoyed sharing this information. Knowing him, he probably did. Maybe I shouldn’t have offered him a choice after all. Maybe I should rethink my stance on torture.
“I don’t think there was any part of either of you left unscathed.” His blunt words hit me like a physical blow, but I refused to let him see how much they hurt.
“What happened to my parents?” I pressed on, needing to know the truth. “Do you know anything about them?”
“Your parents?” He chuckled hollowly. “I never met or saw them. The only evidence they existed besides you and Apollo was a scrap of paper they left with your names on it.”
“Scrap of paper?”
He nodded and opened his desk drawer, pulling out a ripped, yellowing piece of paper. He flapped it back and forth over the flickering flame. “Is it worth my life?”
“No.” Though the paper had been worth enough for Marcus to keep it readily available after all these years.
The paper was maybe half a hand in length and three fingers wide. Black ink marked our names in the centre—Artemis & Apollo. Nothing more, nothing less. But the slope of the letters and the style of the & symbol made a tight band of pain squeeze the air from my lungs.