My hand flew to my neck, pressing against the burning spot. I didn't have any tattoos. I'd never gotten any tattoos. The thought had always scared me. Just the pain from getting a piercing once at 16 was enough to prevent me from getting it.
I looked around frantically. A car was parked nearby with tinted windows. I could barely see my reflection in the glass.
I moved closer, angling myself so I could see the left side of my neck.
My breath caught.
There, at the base of my neck where it met my shoulder, was a mark. Not a tattoo exactly, but something that looked like one. It was dark, with strange lines that seemed to connect to my veins, as if someone had painted delicate swirls and patterns on my skin.
Only it wasn't paint; it was part of my skin, raised slightly like a scar or a brand.
I touched it gently and gasped. The moment my fingers made contact, a jolt went through me. It wasn't painful, it was just the opposite. It felt warm and strangely comforting.
