Captive: A Guard's Tale from Malachi's Perspective

by Sarah Fine

  Lutfi scowled at Sil as the Mazikin continued to cackle. “They’re not usually so cheerful once we’ve captured them,” he commented.

  Malachi shrugged. “Maybe he’ll tell you why if you sit here long enough. I’m going to find Bilal — he was supposed to be on watch here, yes?”

  Lutfi looked conflicted, probably because he knew Bilal was in trouble for abandoning his post. Sil clutched his stomach and laughed even harder. “Bilal couldn’t bear to listen!” he hooted.

  Malachi felt the muscle in his jaw start to jump, as it always did when his frustration boiled beneath the surface. “I can’t say I blame him,” he snapped. “You are by far the most annoying Mazikin I’ve ever encountered.”

  Sil wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “Oh, Captain, you are so stupid.”

  Across the hall, a deep bellow came from the interrogation room, and then someone pounded hard on the closed door. Malachi looked toward it as the piercing, terrified scream rang out. “Help me!” a girl shrieked from inside. “He—” A heavy thunk against the door cut her off.

  Malachi’s eyes went wide as Sil’s screeching laughter echoed off the walls of the holding cell. “The best part,” he panted between peals of laughter. “The best part is — she’s not a Mazikin!”

  Malachi whirled around, already reaching for the door of the interrogation room. What had happened? The Guards weren’t supposed to interrogate anyone. As his fingers closed around the door, he had a suspicion. The Guards were so restless lately, so angry that the Mazikin had gotten to them. They were out for blood.

  He wrenched at the door, but it was locked from the inside. His heart lurched as the girl screamed again, a sound that reached deep inside him and twisted within his chest. He raised his foot and shot a hard kick at the wood just below the handle. Two more and it splintered; he ripped the door open, almost off its hinges. Amid had a girl pressed up against the cinder-block wall. Her arms, which looked so fragile and small beneath the Guard’s enormous body, waved frantically as he crushed her with his massive weight.

  “No!” Malachi shouted.

  Amid ignored him, too buried in bloodlust to even register the voice of his Captain. Malachi drew his baton and extended it as the girl made a heartbreaking, childlike noise, the most lost sound in the world, a choked sob that ended in a helpless whimper. It tore through Malachi even as his staff arced through the air, slamming into the side of Amid’s head.

  The Guard staggered back, his face a rigid mask of rage. Blood poured from his nose and from a wound in his gut. Malachi couldn’t imagine how a young, unarmed girl could do such damage to one of his Guards. Amid blinked stupidly, but then charged the girl again, like Malachi wasn’t even there. Malachi rained blow after blow on the enraged Guard, driving him away from the girl. “Stand down, Amid!” he yelled. “Stand. Down.”

  “She stabbed me! Twice!” Amid roared as his back hit the opposite wall. “She might be the one who killed Issam!”

  Malachi kept his staff raised, ready to knock Amid into unconsciousness if he needed to. “Do you know for sure she’s a Mazikin?”

  Amid grimaced. “How could she be anything else?” He gestured at his face. “You think one of the suicides would have done this?” His eyes wandered over to his baton, which lay discarded several feet away.

  Malachi stared at it. The girl had used Amid’s baton and his knife against him? “I’ll deal with her. You go to your quarters and wait for my orders.” He raised the staff higher as the surly Guard clenched his teeth, looking like he wanted to refuse. Malachi drew a deep breath through his nose. “Listen to me. If she is Mazikin, I will make her pay for what they did to Issam. Do you believe me?”

  Amid looked at the floor.

  “Do you believe me, Amid?” he said, a little louder.

  Amid nodded. “Yes, Captain,” he said, the anger still thick in his voice.

  Malachi lowered his staff as the Guard shoved off the wall and headed for the door, knocking it completely off the hinges as he barged past. Slowly, Malachi turned to look at the girl. She lay on her back, blood trickling from her nose and mouth. She blinked absently at the ceiling, her fingers twitching. He knelt next to her and inhaled. She didn’t smell like incense at all. She smelled… well, she smelled like blood. But she also smelled like the sea. Malachi knew that bright, wild scent; he still remembered it from his childhood, when his parents had taken them on holiday to the Adriatic.

  He slid his arm beneath her neck and the other beneath her knees, and then lifted her from the ground. She jerked against him, swinging her arms and arching. Her knee shot up and hit him in the side of the head, hard enough to make him stumble to keep his balance. A rasping, horrified sound flew from her throat. She was so afraid, and so badly hurt, but she was still fighting.

  “Shhhh,” Malachi said, trying to sound soothing. “It’s all right.”

  It might not be. He had no idea who this girl was. Based on what she’d done to Amid, she seemed more likely to be an enemy than an innocent. But for the moment, she wasn’t anything other than a girl who needed his help.

  She took a sudden, wheezing breath, and her gaze landed on his face. He looked down at her dazed expression, at her wide, helpless eyes, and felt something catch in his chest. Those eyes… flecks of deep brown surrounded by amber. Like fire… he blinked and tore his gaze from hers, trying to keep his head clear. He looked her over. She was in terrible shape. Her left arm, now folded over her belly, was bent at an odd angle. Ugly red and purple marks stood out against her light brown skin, striping her collarbones and dotting her neck. Amid’s fingerprints. Malachi clutched her tighter and walked toward the door, wishing he’d hit the Guard a few extra times, just for good measure.

  He strode down the hall toward the hospital room. Bilal and Hani stepped from the food room as he walked past. They both stared at the girl while the blood drained from their faces. “Captain…”

  “Fetch Raphael,” he snapped, shouldering by without further acknowledging them. It wouldn’t be good for them if he did. In his current mood, that acknowledgment might involve his fists.

  The girl had lost consciousness. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Her hair, a spiraling mass of thick, ebony curls, tickled his neck. Drops of her blood stained his leather breastplate. Malachi awkwardly maneuvered the hospital room door open and carried her to the cot, where he gently laid her down.

  “Who are you?” he whispered as he watched her dark hair spread across the white pillow. He sat back on his knees, listening to the weak, whistling sound of her breathing. Raphael would be here soon, but Malachi wondered if summoning him was a mistake. Perhaps he should allow this girl to slip away. She would most likely die from these injuries. From the slightly bluish cast to her lips, it might not take long. If she died, he wouldn’t have to risk her stabbing him in the back the first chance she got. He could already tell she was capable of it. Not just because of what she’d done to Amid. She was strongly built for a girl; he’d felt the supple yet firm curves of her body when she’d been in his arms. And there was something in those fiery eyes of hers, a kind of threat. He wasn’t even sure she’d seen him, as out of it as she’d been, but still, the promise was there: I will fight you until my body is broken, and even after that.

  She was dangerous. Even here, helpless like this, she had power. He could almost feel it bleeding from her, swirling across his skin, raising goose bumps, and making his heart speed.

  He should let her die.

  It would be safer for both of them.

  He looked at the door. He should call one of the Guards and tell them to cancel the summons to Raphael. Yes. He should do that and then return to the holding cells to interrogate Sil. That was his duty. That was what he was supposed to be doing…

  But he couldn’t force himself to get up, to call out. If she lived, he could solve the mystery of her. What if she knew something about the Mazikin escape plans? What if she was part of it? He knew there were other realms besides this one. Maybe s
he came from one of them — maybe she was helping the Mazikin?

  If that was true, would Sil have been so delighted that Amid was interrogating her? If she was the key to the Mazikin plan, it didn’t seem likely he’d be so pleased to hear her scream. Sil was diabolically clever, though, so it could very well have been an act, a ploy to get Malachi to rescue her. Or it might have simply been that the Mazikin enjoyed others’ pain.

  And she had been in pain. He’d heard it in her voice, seen it in her eyes. It was more than Amid, though. Malachi had read it in her expression, felt it in the tension of her body when he’d touched her. This girl had suffered. She’d been hurt. Badly. She’d been trying to protect herself, to keep it from happening again.

  He lifted a corner of the sheet and used it to wipe the blood from her face, gentle strokes over skin that was now losing its healthy color, turning pale as the wounds inside of her spilled blood into her empty spaces. He brushed the cloth beneath her nose, where the blood trickled lazily. She moaned and turned her head. She was out cold, but she was still trying to fight, to escape the unwanted touch. She was like a frightened animal, anticipating harm.

  And in spite of himself, his duty, his determination, he found himself desperately hoping he wouldn’t be the next one to hurt her.

  Chapter Three

  When he heard the knock, he sat back quickly, his cheeks heating, as though he’d been caught doing something wrong. Raphael stepped into the room. “Bilal told me you wished to see me,” he said as he took in the scene in front of him.

  “I want you to heal this girl,” Malachi replied.

  Raphael’s gaze skimmed over the girl’s body, lingering on the marks on her collarbone and neck. “She’s fairly far gone.”

  Something knotted in Malachi’s gut. “I know. Can you save her?”

  Raphael let out a quiet huff of laughter. “Are you certain that’s what I would be doing?”

  I’ve never been less certain about anything. “I want to question her.”

  “Very well.” Raphael knelt next to her. His pale fingers traveled to the buttons of her shirt, and he began to undo them, peeling the bloody garment away and revealing the horrible bruising across her ribs. Malachi nearly gasped as Raphael carefully removed the girl’s shirt, allowing him to see the mottled, broken skin and the misshapen, hollowed-yet-swollen spot at her side where Amid had either kneed or punched her hard enough to cave in her rib cage. Malachi closed his eyes and bowed his head, forcing himself to stay absolutely still. Amid’s life depended on it right now.

  “Do you really want to stay, Malachi?”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to explain to Raphael, of all people, that if he wasn’t here, he’d be somewhere else…killing someone. He knew Raphael was the Judge’s eyes and ears, and he didn’t think that would go over very well.

  Keeping his gaze away from the girl on the cot, Malachi stepped backward, lowering himself into the chair in the corner of the room. He watched as the girl’s clothes formed a stained pile of rags on the floor, listened as Raphael’s melodic chanting filled the room. He let it siphon his rage, drawing it out of him like the poison it was. In the past few years, it had become a little easier. He hadn’t been consumed by his anger for a long time. It had mostly been replaced by resignation, acceptance of his role. Acceptance of this sentence.

  Acceptance of the staggering loneliness that came with it.

  The loneliness had been the hardest. For years, he’d lain in his cot at night, listening to Takeshi and Ana through the wall that divided his quarters from his Captain’s. He’d been happy for Takeshi, really, because the man had burned for Ana for over a decade before she’d stopped pounding on him long enough to notice. And Ana…she’d needed Takeshi. He had reached her in a way that Malachi didn’t understand and frankly hadn’t been that interested in. He cared about Ana, but not like that. He admired her edge; she’d become an incredibly fierce warrior over the years, but she was so hard, so sharp…except when she looked at Takeshi. Only when she looked at him. It had been easy to be around them, since he cared about them both and wanted them to have the joy they’d found in each other. That didn’t mean it was easy to lie awake, hearing exactly how much joy they’d found.

  It had been worse when Takeshi died, though. Because then he’d lain awake, listening to Ana sobbing alone in Takeshi’s bed. Her cries had made his chest ache so badly he’d eventually moved his quarters to the other side of the Station, just to get away from her. He couldn’t survive her loneliness and grief on top of his. Now they’d lapsed into a casual professionalism, never confiding, never crossing that line into friendship. He couldn’t bear to lose her, too, and he suspected she felt the same way, though he also knew they’d never talk about it.

  He’d never ask for more from her, but sometimes he wished…Malachi rubbed a hand over his face. He had no right to wish for anything.

  “I’m finished,” Raphael said quietly. “She’ll sleep it off and be good as new.”

  Malachi raised his head, and his breath caught in his throat. The healthy color had returned to the girl’s skin, no longer ashen, now the color of a caramel; no longer bruised, now smooth and unbroken. Her full lips were slightly parted. Her chest rose and fell with every breath…her chest…Malachi swallowed hard and leaned over, pulling the sheet up from her waist to her shoulders.

  Raphael chuckled. “How gentlemanly of you. By the way, I brought something from Bilal. He wanted you to see it.”

  Malachi pulled his gaze from the girl, suddenly aware of how unsteady his breathing had become. “What?”

  Raphael held out a knife. “This is what she used to stab Amid when he tried to arrest her.”

  Malachi took the blade from Raphael and turned it over in his palm. It was one of their hunting knives, the kind each of them carried in an ankle sheath. He examined the hilt. An elaborate J had been carved into its base. “This is Jasim’s?”

  It was Jasim’s. He knew for sure, and shouldn’t have phrased it as a question. But…Jasim was a Gate Guard. He was posted at the Gates of the city, there to usher all the souls inside and to prevent anyone from trying to escape. Malachi looked up at Raphael, who was watching him with an amused expression. “Is Jasim accounted for?”

  Raphael nodded. “I made sure to ask. Jasim is alive and well. He’s rather embarrassed that someone was able to steal his knife without him noticing, though.”

  “How did she…did he leave his post today?”

  Raphael shook his head.

  “And he had this with him this morning?”

  Raphael smiled. “He did.”

  “She must have stolen it off him on her way into the city.” Malachi shook his head in disbelief. “Have you ever heard of something like this?”

  Raphael’s smile grew, lighting up his face, becoming so bright that Malachi had to look away. “As far as I know, this is a first.”

  “She’s very tough. Did you see what she did to Amid?”

  “I’ve just come from his quarters. Second time today I had to heal him.”

  Malachi handed the knife back to Raphael. “Give this back to Jasim. And tell him to pay more attention.”

  Raphael accepted the knife. “Anything else?”

  Malachi was already staring at the girl again. “No, that will be all, thank you,” he murmured.

  He barely registered the sound of the door shutting as Raphael made his exit. Slowly, he sank to the floor next to the cot, close enough that he could smell the sea breeze coming off the girl’s skin — a fresh, bright scent that crawled inside of him and hollowed him out, leaving him hungry in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. She smelled alive. But not in a tame, gentle kind of way. This girl made him think of an ocean that might rise up and crush him beneath its waves, one that could drag him under and drown him if he wasn’t careful.

  He should be careful.

  He should be very, very careful.

  Malachi stood up and unbuckled his vest. He stripped the leather brac
ers from his forearms and the greaves from his shins. He removed all the weapons from his belt, leaving himself with only the knife sheathed at the base of his spine, one that could be drawn quickly if needed, but couldn’t easily be reached by others. He went to the door and called down the hall, summoning one of the Guards to take his armor to his quarters. “Also, get me a set of clothes,” he instructed. “One large enough to fit a grown man. And when you come back, I want you to lock this door from the outside, and don’t open it until you hear me pound twice.”

  The Guard nodded and lumbered off down the hall. Malachi closed the door and stood there for a few moments with his palm on the doorframe, wondering if he was crazy. He spun around and faced the cot, leaning back against the solid wooden door. “She’s just a girl,” he whispered to himself.

  That was one of his problems, of course. She was a girl. Not the prettiest he’d ever seen, but there was something about her that made him want to stare for hours. Something mysterious and challenging. Something unbreakable and defiant. In the curve of her mouth, in the slope of her jaw, in the flex of her limbs as she stirred quietly in her sleep. When she did, a dark mark on her forearm caught his eye. He lifted her arm to see a tattoo of another girl’s face. A sister, maybe? No. The coloring was so different. A friend, perhaps, or a lover. Or a target, an intended victim. To have a face like this inked on her skin must mean that the person meant a lot to her, in one way or another. The blonde girl in the tattoo seemed vaguely familiar, though Malachi couldn’t recall ever seeing her. He laid the girl’s arm back at her side, wishing he could ignore the warmth of her skin, the soft feel of it under his fingers. She tensed under his grasp and weakly pulled away, whimpering and shifting restlessly. He looked at her face; her eyes were closed, but her expression was tight, laced with fear. He let her go, and she relaxed again, becoming still and loose.