1 GENESIS
Wednesday is the best day to set my boyfriend on fire. That’s what his father says, anyway. And I get to watch. Lucky me.
Luke lays on his stomach, splayed atop a long wooden altar, his torso stripped bare. A rough hole cut into one end of the altar hides his face, so his head appears to be just a mess of tousled black hair. Despite the autumn chill in the air, beads of sweat shimmer on his copper skin. Behind him, an Outsider stokes the fire and drops in a thick rod topped with a large metal ball. It strikes the stone of the fire pit with a heavy clank, but Luke doesn’t flinch.
I wish I didn’t.
Our generation, all still marklings, pack the Temple of the Descendants, a wide, round clearing deep in the woods of northern Montana. Curious murmurs ripple through the crowd of Descendant kids, all between seven and sixteen years old. A year ago, I would’ve shared that excitement. Now I just want this night to be over.
“Hey, Genn,” my brother says in my ear. He plucks at the shirt I’m holding—Luke’s T-shirt—that has somehow wrapped itself around my fingers, tight enough to cut off circulation. “You finally realize he’s too weak to do this?”
“Shut up, Seth.” I unwind the shirt and blood rushes into my fingertips, stabbing like a thousand tiny pins.
He smirks and shakes his shaggy blond mane out of his eyes with a flip of his head. The cold has ripened his pale cheeks and nose to a bright, blotchy pink. “You’re totally freaking out.”
Thank you, Captain Obvious. “I am not freaking out.”
“You know, no one would blame you for doubting he can go through with this. Wouldn’t hurt him to fall down a few notches, or,” he shrugs, “off a cliff.”
“And it wouldn’t hurt you to be a decent human being for once in your life.”
“He’s going to fail,” he says in a sing-song voice, all his animosity for Luke clear on his face.
I open my mouth to tell him again to shut up, maybe with a little help from my fist, but a deep clanging freezes my tongue—the bell signaling the start of the ceremony. The elders, all seated at the back of the clearing, stand as one and draw up the hoods of their robes. High Elder Abrams, Luke’s father, steps from among them, toward the platform.
Before he’s taken three steps, the crowd settles into an overwhelming silence, magnifying the crunch of gravel beneath his feet. Abrams’ heavy robe swish-swishes with each sluggish step. A breeze stirs and flicks the torches lining the edge of the clearing.
I return my focus to Luke, to his back rising and falling as he breathes, slow and smooth, just like we practiced. He spent the last year preparing for this, but how could he ever truly prepare for the pain he’s about to endure? My fingers begin to tingle, and I unwind the shirt again. Abrams isn’t even halfway there.
Four eternities pass before he reaches the stairs leading up to the platform. He takes those just as slowly, the old wood creaking under his weight. A few more steps and he stops beside the altar. He stares down at the boy I love and brushes his fingers over Luke’s mark—a black hand gripping the area where his neck meets his shoulders—an exact replica of the mark all Descendants are born with, though Luke’s is the darkest I’ve ever seen. A wide smile splits Abrams’ face as he turns and steps to the front edge of the platform.
He pushes his hood back, revealing close-cut, sandy-blond hair and pasty, freckled skin. He sweeps his dark gaze over the crowd. Fading light filters through the trees, softening the harsh lines of his narrow face, making it almost bearable to look at. Almost. Good thing for Luke that he takes after his mother’s side of the family.
“Welcome.” Abrams’ deep voice bellows in the silence. “Today is my son’s seventeenth birthday. Tradition dictates that before he can become the Elder for your generation, he must prove himself three times. I am very pleased with Luke’s choice to be here.”
Some choice—accept tradition and risk his life to “prove his worth” or live like one of the Outsiders, tongue cut out and everything. I never should’ve convinced him to stay when he wanted to run away last year.
“Only the purest of our people can hold the title of Elder,” Abrams continues. “And only the purest can withstand these tests, the first of which is fire.” The man has an actual twinkle in his eye as he says this. “Three chances to prove the strength of his mark. If he endures the pain of removing his mark and his mark returns, he’ll advance to the next test…”
I tune him out. Other than Seth—the only markling besides Luke that these tests are a possibility for—this is the first time the other marklings have heard any of this, but it’s all Luke and I have talked about since his sixteenth birthday when his father first told him about the tests.
“Don’t worry,” Seth whispers in my ear. “He’ll fail long before any of this kills him.”
“Shut. Up,” I grit out and elbow him in the stomach.
He folds over with a grunt.
“Miss Harmon.”
I freeze. Did Abrams seriously just say my name? Certain my nerves are making me hear things, I turn my attention back to him. He’s staring right at me. And so is everyone else.
“Am I interrupting you?” he asks, eyebrows raised.
“Sorry, sir.” For Luke’s sake, I bow my head. Abrams making a spectacle of my interruption looks bad for me, but it can ruin everything for Luke. “My brother has a weak stomach. I was worried he might puke.”
A few snickers echo through the crowd. I can practically feel Seth’s glare boring into the back of my head, like two hot coals.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on whose side you’re on—Abrams doesn’t look like he buys my story. Not that I really expect him to. Only three days younger than Luke, and therefore, second in line for the title, Seth can do no wrong in the eyes of the glorious High Elder. Luke, on the other hand, can’t fail fast enough.
Abrams stares down his nose at me for a moment, then says, “See me after the ceremony.”
And that makes Luke flinch. Or maybe it’s more of a jolt. Judging by how white-knuckled his fists are getting, I’m not sure he won’t launch himself off the altar and pound his father’s face right here and now. Good thing Abrams has his back to him.
My stomach crawls into my throat as the High Elder turns and walks around the back of the altar, sliding on a pair of insulated fireproof gloves. He pulls the long rod from the fire. Several chunks of coal wiggle loose. One glowing ember tumbles out of the pit and lands on the Outsider’s sandaled foot. He twitches it off. Unintelligible whimpers pour from his throat.
Abrams glares at the Outsider until he quiets down. Then, gripping the rod with both hands, he dips the metal ball into a container of oil sitting on the end of the altar. Flames roar up and die back, but they still lick the metal as he lifts the ball again and holds it a few inches over Luke’s mark, creeping toward his exposed skin.
It hisses on contact and Luke’s back lifts as his chest expands. I brace myself, waiting for him to exhale, praying he doesn’t scream. He holds perfectly still, every muscle taut, but he doesn’t make a sound. The scent of cooked flesh permeates the air. I press Luke’s T-shirt to my face to block the barbecued-Luke smell before it permanently implants itself in my memory.
Abrams wears a tiny smile as he takes his time rolling the flaming chunk of metal over the base of Luke’s neck. Finally, he lifts the ball. Something goes with it. I shudder. Luke just lays there, still as stone.
A knot settles in my gut. Luke assured me over and over that he could and would survive this, but there are so many stories of Descendants whose marks are permanently removed. Those stories always end with the Descendant dead.
“Breathe, Luke,” I whisper into his shirt. “Don’t die. Please.”
Seconds pass—it feels like hours—before his fingers twitch, and slowly, his back lowers as his chest contracts. I let out a long breath, tears pricking my eyes as relief floods through me.
Luke pushes himself up off the altar, only a slight tremor visible in his arms, and slides down onto the platform. He shoots a tight, shaky smile in my direction before giving the other marklings his full attention. They wait in silence as he sweeps his sweaty mop of hair from his eyes.
“Well, it’s official,” he says, his tone deceptively light and confident. “I am smokin’.”
The crowd erupts in a combination of cheering and laughter. I hate that he has to pretend like none of this is a big deal, but I can’t stop smiling. He did it. He’s alive.
“Thanks for the support, everyone,” Luke says. “See you all here again next week.”
Sure. Join us again next week for the Let’s See if We Can Kill Luke Show. It’ll be fan-freaking-tastic.
Still with that forced smile, Luke jumps off the platform and saunters over to me. He takes hold of my face and firmly plants his lips on mine. All for show, of course, and the crowd reacts as I’m sure Luke hopes, whooping and hollering like we’re doing something worth cheering over.
After a moment, he moves his mouth to my ear and whispers, “There is no way I can do this again.”
I don’t know what to say, so I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. His body trembles against mine, his breathing erratic. There has to be a way out of this.
“Well done, son.” Abrams claps Luke on the shoulder. “You made me proud today.” He sounds pleased, but his eyes scream disappointed.
“Thank you,” Luke says, using the formal tone he reserves for his father. He moves so he’s standing beside me, his arm around my shoulders, but still leans on me enough that I have to push into him to keep from falling over. Somehow, he keeps his voice steady. “Given the occasion, you think you could give Genn a pass on interrupting the ceremony?”
Several of the marklings are close enough to hear their conversation. Abrams will look bad if he denies him now. And Luke will pay later for forcing him to let me off the hook.
“Sure.” Abrams nods, frowning. “You two go celebrate. I’ll see you at home.”
Luke manages to stand on his own without shaking. He takes my hand and tugs me toward the trees, in the opposite direction from his car. We walk in silence for at least half a mile. Well, I walk. Luke stumbles several times but won’t accept my help.
He all but collapses onto a fallen log and pulls me down beside him. We sit, not talking for several minutes. The edge of his burn, his skin raw and angry looking, is visible from where I sit. It has to hurt so much more than he’s letting on.
“Sorry if I made it harder for you,” I say, breaking the silence.
He starts, like he’s forgotten I’m beside him, but he gives me a half smile, raises my hand to his lips, and kisses my palm. “You’re what got me through it. If I’d given up, I never would’ve been able to convince my father to let you off. I need you with me tonight.”
“You shouldn’t have done that. It’s only going to make things worse with him.”
He tucks my hair behind my ear, runs his fingers along my jaw. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
I wish I could believe that, wish I could take the all-too-familiar look of pain from his face. He’s never given me any details about what his father does to him when they’re alone, but based on the many bruises he’s collected over the last few years, I have a few guesses. He drops his gaze to the ground and draws a circle in the dirt with his shoe.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He tenses. “Does what hurt?”
“The burn, dummy.” I nudge him with my shoulder. “C’mon, turn so I can see it. I brought some medicine for the pain.”
He slumps forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Medicine is against the rules.”
“Only medicine for healing.” I pull a small spray bottle from my pocket. “This’ll just numb it. My mom made it special for you.”
He makes a low, rumbling noise and peeks at me from the corner of his eye. “Your mom’s the best.”
“Yup.” I push his shirt into his hands and give his shoulder a gentle shove. “Now be a good boy…”
He holds up his misshapen, wrinkled shirt as he straddles the log with his back to me. “What did you do to this?”
“Took my frustrations out on it, instead of Seth’s face,” I say, but my focus is on Luke’s back. Stretched across his neck and shoulders, a good half a square foot of skin is burned down so far that muscle shows in places. I swallow the bile rising in my throat. “How are you even conscious?”
“That bad, huh?”
“Yeah, bad.” It looks excruciating. The skin is red and raw, charred black in places, but, even in the fading light, it’s clear there’s more black than that. New black. He’s healed enough that the basic shape of his mark is clear. “This is already starting to heal.”
“My father said the same thing happened to him. Only took his burn two days to heal completely.” He glances back at me, twisting as if he might be able to turn around enough to see the burn. “Must be why it itches so much.”
He groans as I spritz the milky ointment around the edges and work my way toward the center. As the medicine works its magic, his muscles relax. Soon, I’ve covered the whole thing and he turns to face me.
“Better?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He smiles and scoots closer, lifting my legs up over his. “Thanks.”
I force a smile in return, not looking at him as I tuck the tiny spray bottle into my pocket. “Which test is next?”
His grip tightens around my knee. “Acid.”
As in, pour-it-on-until-it-completely-eats-away-his-mark acid. Are we really living in the twenty-first century?
He trails his fingertips down my cheek, under my chin, and nudges upward until my gaze meets his. “I don’t want to talk about the tests.”
I don’t either. Still, I say, “We have to find a way out of it. Maybe running away—”
“Genn, I…” His gaze roves my face, like he’s gathering pieces of it, saving them for later. He leans in, brushes his lips over mine. “You know I love you, right?” His voice is so low I wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t so close. “No matter what happens, I will always love you.”
“I love you, too.” I lay my hand on his bare chest, over his heart. “I hate that they’re making you—”
“No tests,” he whispers. “Just us tonight. Please.”
“Okay,” I mumble, even though I want to tell him I will go anywhere, leave forever with him if it means he never has to endure that kind of pain again. “Just us.”
He lets out a soft groan and kisses me. And I let him because as much as I need him to know I’ll run away with him right now if he asks, I really don’t want to think about the tests. I just want to feel him, his hair tangled around my fingers, the soft texture of his lips and tongue, the pressure of his hands warm on my back.
I breathe him in, the scent that can only be described as Luke, pure and perfect, and press closer. He jerks back with a sharp intake of breath, like I hurt him. Trembling, I open my eyes and do a quick check of my hand placement, but I’m at least three inches from his burn and the ointment should protect it.
He straightens and looks past me, his eyes burning with anger. “Seriously, K?”
“Who’s K?” I ask. A quiet laugh sounds behind me and I start to turn, but something pinches my neck, quick and sharp, just below my ear. Then I’m on the ground, lying on my side, the forest tilting around me.
Luke crouches in front of me and brushes my hair from my face, the fury in his expression deepening. He stands and yells something, but his words are muffled, unintelligible, like I’m under water. I try to move, to push myself up, but my body refuses to cooperate. Even my eyes will only stare straight ahead. My heart is working, though, thundering in my ears.
An enormous pair of booted feet join Luke’s, and Luke backs up, out of view as the boots angle toward me.
Luke, I scream in my mind. Don’t leave me.
The largest man I’ve ever seen bends down and pushes his arms underneath me. He lifts me, cradling me in front of him, my face against his broad chest.
There’s a sound behind me, similar in tone to the laugh from earlier, and something pinches my neck again, the same sharp, quick sting.
Luke…
Within seconds, everything goes dark.
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