Marked for Darkness
Chapter 3- Harlow

“You better text me every ten minutes,” Lenae said, cocking a hip to the side, bottom lip sticking out in a faux pout.

Harlow nodded, grinning. “I’ll totally bug the crap out of you.”

Lenae smiled, her eyes glassy. Before Harlow could comment, her friend pulled her into a tight hug. “Be safe.”

“I will.”

“This isn’t goodbye,” Lenae said, as though she were trying to convince herself of that fact as much as Harlow.

She nodded. “I’ll see you soon.” Her voice cracked and Lenae waved her away before either of them burst into tears.

She’d met Lenae in her sophomore year of college, and though Lenae was two years older, they’d become instant friends. After graduation, when all of Harlow’s other friends had dispersed, they’d promised to keep in contact and never did. Lenae had continued to get her master’s, and they’d been roommates until Harlow had graduated.

In the queue for security Harlow turned to wave but Lenae was already gone. It wasn’t surprising. She hated crying in front of other people.

When Harlow arrived at her gate, boarding had already begun, and Harlow took her place in line. Just as she got to the kiosk and held out her ticket to be scanned, the machine beeped and flashed red.

“Oh, it looks like you’ve been upgraded to first class, Ms. Marks,” the middle-aged woman said, as if that news were the highlight of her day.

“Really?” Harlow asked. “But I didn’t pay for first class.”

She woman squinted at the screen, double-checking its information. “Well someone did, anyhow. Row one, seat A,” she said, taking the ticket and scribbling the new seating information onto it, before handing it back to Harlow.

Her face heated as she mumbled her thanks and hurried down the tunnel to the idling plane. Had Lenae called and upgraded her ticket without telling her? It was possible, though improbable, Harlow thought.

There is one other person who might, Harlow considered. Then she shook the thought away. It was too crazy a thought to even entertain, and Harlow quickly took her seat before someone could chase after her and tell her there had been a mistake.

Long minutes passed as dozens of bored-looking faces shuffled past her seat, glancing longingly at the large armchairs while Harlow flicked through her email again. When there was nothing of interest, she quickly grew bored and turned it off, then stuffed it into her pocket.

The line of people began to thin, and Harlow wondered if the seat next to hers would remain empty.

When the door to the plane was closed, she realized with glee that she didn’t have to worry about sitting next to someone with terrible body odor, or someone who was unusually chatty.

The smiling, air stewardess made her rounds through first class for drink orders and brought Harlow a small cup filled with warm, strong coffee that she sipped. As the plane pushed back, a cord of nervousness snapped through her. She’d only flown once before. When she was fourteen, right after her parents had died. That time, she’d been with her sister, but as the jet tore down the runway, Harlow distinctly remembered why she wasn’t such a huge fan of flying.

The roaring engine was Harlow’s constant companion once they were airborne, and she stared out above the fluffy clouds, looking forward to starting this newest chapter of her life.

After an hour into the flight, Harlow pulled out a sketchpad and pencils and let her hand move over the paper. It started as a harmless sketch of an angular jaw, a pair of eyes filled with far more wisdom than a dozen lifespans. By the time she began to shade in the masculine form, the man began to look familiar.

She cocked her head side to side, trying to place the nagging sensation of familiarity as the air stewardess started down the aisle. Harlow could feel her gaze on the sketchpad in her lap as she paused.

“Wow, that’s really good,” the woman said. Her smile was kind, accentuating the fine lines beginning to form around her mouth and eyes. “Handsome man.”

Harlow’s cheeks heated. “Thanks,” she said, unsure of what to say to the last part.

“You an artist?” The woman’s blond curls were dull and stiff with too much hairspray. Pretty, with curves that no doubt still drew the eyes of many men, but Harlow noticed the exhaustion in her expression. In the slight curve of her shoulders.

Harlow nodded.

“Heading to New York to try your luck there?” she asked in an almost amused tone that grated on Harlow.

Still she smiled. “I grew up there.”

“Oh, how lovely.” Her eyes flicked back down to the drawing of the man wearing an expensive suit. As the stewardess walked away, Harlow wondered if she too noticed the cold, unfeeling stare she’d somehow captured, when in truth, it was not what she’d intended.

The fasten seatbelt sign dinged and Harlow shoved the sketchbook back into her bag, just as the captain announced their soon arrival into New York City.

When the wonder of the sprawling cityscape came into view, Harlow’s heart rate sped up and her lips spread in a wide smile.

Before her was an adventure with so much to explore. A fresh start with more art and rich architectural history than she could fathom. And it was now her home.

***

Harlow shivered as the cool spring air washed over her, blowing her hair from her face as she stepped through the sliding doors, and out onto bustling city street. Her luggage rattled on the pavement behind her as she hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of the hotel she had booked.

The car drove west toward Manhattan and Harlow’s heart pounded. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling.

When the car stopped along the curb, the driver quickly jumped out to grab her suitcases from the back. Pushing the door open, she stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked around. The hotel before her was as nice as she could afford with grey stonework and small, wrought iron balconies on each floor.

“That’ll be fifty-two seventy, Miss,” the driver rasped.

Harlow’s heart leapt up in her throat. “Th-that much?” she said with a chuckle.

His wrinkled, pug-like face betrayed his annoyance while she fumbled through her bag for her wallet. She pulled out three twenties and handed them to the driver.

He stared at the bills as though expecting another twenty to appear with the others. When she only offered him a nervous smile, he shook his head. Lip curling in an ugly sneer, he spat at her feet and stormed back to the driver seat.

She stared, dumbfounded as the angry cab driver pulled away without a backward glance. All around her people passed, some talking on their phones, others not bothering to look up as they tapped their screens. Someone’s shoulder rammed into hers, spinning her around.

Not even a muffled apology followed.

“Watch it!” she shouted at the man wearing sunglasses who shot her a smirk to show he’d heard.

Fuming, she nearly chased after him so she could shout some more, but instead she grabbed her bags, suddenly defensive of every stranger on the street.

She struggled to roll them inside the revolving doors herself, as she knew she would when she’d decided to bring two big suitcases and her small carry-on.

The woman behind the counter didn’t look up as Harlow approached, feeling a bead of sweat trickle beneath her top, between her shoulder blades.

“Hi I have a booking,” she greeted the concierge.

The woman’s bored gaze lifted from the computer screen and took Harlow in—no doubt her hair was as frazzled as she felt. “Name?”

She sucked in a calming breath. “Harlow Marks.”

Wordlessly the woman began stabbing keys on the keyboard, loud enough to reverberate through the grand foyer.

Carved stone pillars accentuated the high walls, the decorative trim resembling lace. Prints of famous paintings decorated the walls with no theme or reason. It was a decent attempt at elegant, if a little disorganized.

The woman huffed as she slapped a keycard and pamphlet onto the counter. “Room 116.”

“Thanks,” she muttered before turning to look for a cart to carry her bags. She didn’t think the woman behind the counter would be of much help to her so she dragged her bags behind her, ready to shut herself in and have several seconds of quiet.

By the time she reached the correct door, a relieved sigh escaped her. She swiped the keycard through the slot, and pushed the door open. Pulling her bags behind her, she stepped into the narrow entryway, letting the door click shut behind her. Looking around, her stomach dropped. It was small. Really small. The pictures online had made the rooms look so much bigger.

“It’s okay,” she said to the room as though forming an agreement with it. “This is just temporary.”

The faded, worn armchair and stained carpet made her grimace, but at least the place looked clean. She peered into the door on her left, revealing the even smaller bathroom.

“I can make this work.” She worried her bottom lip. There was a small round table beneath the TV that was hardly big enough for one person to eat at, let alone setting up and easel and all of her art supplies.

Harlow dragged her bags to the twin bed and hefted them atop the gaudy brown and mauve duvet. She unzipped the one that contained her toiletries and grabbed everything for a quick shower.

After, feeling clean and refreshed, Harlow had food delivered to her door, then decided to get out what little painting supplies she’d brought with her, out and set up. She moved the tiny table near the window that looked out at the vibrant city life of New York City, and got to work. Brush in hand and a palette filled with paint, her eyes drifted to the bare, prepped canvas, and her focus shifted.

In an elegant room of jewels glittering too brightly and too colorful for Harlow’s eyes, sat a woman on a grand throne. Or, at least, Harlow thought it was a woman. She certainly wasn’t human. Her gown was dark forest green, pooling past the base of the throne, spilling over gleaming stone steps. The bodice cinched up her thin waist and the neckline swooped down low, though her chest was completely flat. The regal woman’s skin was the color of jade, her face thin with high, razor-sharp cheekbones. Her large eyes were so dark, they looked black. As for hair, a sweep of cerulean waves cascaded over one bony shoulder.

Long black claws curled from her thin, spidery fingers over the edge of the armrests. Terrifying. Powerful. Sensual.

And just beyond the flowing fabric of her dress, sat a massive beast with thick, grey skin and silver eyes. It looked like a cross between a huge bear and a greyhound as it sat sentinel beside its master. Protecting her. Yet, the more she looked, the more Harlow saw something cunning and cruel in the creature’s gaze. If an animal could smile, Harlow was sure it did.

Like that, the strange queen and her protective pet fled Harlow’s mind, and before her in a nearly dark room, was a canvas, delicately and beautifully capturing every detail. Though Harlow felt sure it was a muted version of what she’d seen. For all the world of shades and hues, they were nothing compared to the world her mind had conjured.

She smiled at it, and at the night sky. Like every painting she did where her mind took her other places, she’d been painting for hours, with no recollection of anything but the scene in which she painted.

Harlow rose from the chair and stretched her stiff muscles, unable to take her eyes off the creature that sat far below the strange woman, yet still its head came up to her shoulders. It was massive. The idea of keeping a pet two to three times her size was terrifying. But that wasn’t what drew Harlow’s attention.

It was the way it seemed to look directly at Harlow.

Like it knew her.

She shivered, deciding to check her phone. It was nine thirty. As if to punctuate that fact, her stomach rumbled. She could order in for dinner, but the urge to get out and explore now that the initial fright of the city had worn off, was too much to ignore.

Today was her twenty-fifth birthday. There was never a better opportunity for her to get out and try to interact with others.

Even if the very idea made her recoil.

This was her fresh start. She’d see what was in the area; maybe meet some people. The Starbucks by her apartment building back in California knew her by name.

She changed into a tight black dress that she saved for special occasions. Harlow grabbed enough money to last her the night and her keycard for the room and set out to find some way to occupy the rest of her birthday.

She didn’t glance back at the painting as she shut the door, but something heavy and ominous seemed to lodge itself in her chest. With a steadying breath, Harlow pushed the sensation away and headed out into the bustling night.

Despite the past eleven years spent in California, New York City was overwhelming, even at nearly ten o’clock at night. Everyone hurried this way and that, and she fought not to let herself get carried away with the flow.

She didn’t walk far before spying a less flashy spot that seemed exactly her pace with signs in black and white that read: Rex’s Bar & Grill. The lighting was warm and inviting, and before Harlow could think better of it, her feet were moving toward it.

Groups of people sat at tables outside, talking and laughing. More than a few pairs of eyes slid her way as she pulled the door open and stepped inside.

The aromas of pizza and beer greeted her, along with the familiar sound of AC/DC playing from the speakers.

Not overwhelming.

Comforting.

She shuffled inside, looked for an empty table and feeling her stomach drop when there were none. Several stools at the bar were vacant, but Harlow knew that would be inviting every male in the building’s attention. More and more people had begun to notice her, and her cheeks heated, forcing her to approach the bar and slide up onto a stool.

Three seats down to her left was another woman, likely in her forties judging by the creases near her eyes, and a man sat beside her staring up at one of the TV screens broadcasting some sports channel.

There were four empty seats to her right, and beyond that were three men in their thirties, wearing suits, their ties undone. And all three had fixed their eyes on her, but she ignored them.

Is there anyone working here? Her mood had already begun to sour. She hated feeling people’s eyes on her, and right now, there were at least twenty sets trained on her back. It wasn’t something she could explain, and not something she told people. For as long as she could remember, she could sense when someone watched her, and it never ceased to creep her out. The sensation was hot and stifling, like each glance was a hot blanket wrapped around her.

Several people in uniforms passed by the bar, heading into the back and emerging with plates of food, but still no one served the bar.

Harlow huffed as she began to slide off the stool as gracefully as one could in a short dress, when a man emerged from the back room. It took everything in her not to let her jaw drop.

The man was stunning, with short, wavy blond hair, and light, glacial blue eyes. His jaw was square—masculine—his chest broad, stretching his white t-shirt taut. Her eyes snagged on his impressive biceps on display and a trickle of warmth slid through her, heating her blood.

“Sorry, Penny, we don’t have any more of that whiskey but I’ll—” he stopped short, his eyes locking onto Harlow.

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