Careful not to be seen, he peeked out the window. He scanned the street, noticing a familiar white building on the corner. Ursulines. He was on Ursulines. Jim's shop was a dozen blocks from here. Malcolm glanced at the bedside clock. 7:21. Alpuente's opened at 8:00. He could make it before they did.
Avoiding the closet, Malcolm found a pair of jeans and a T-shirt in the laundry. He'd never worn Armani before. He knew they were the last pair of pants he'd ever wear, the jeans of a dead man. Unable to pull on the husband's tiny shoes, Malcolm settled on a pair of rubber flip-flops tucked under the bed. Scouring drawers and the wife's jewelry box yielded a slender silver ring set with a purple stone and a silver cross fashioned like a trio of fused nails.
In the office, Malcolm tore a thick page from a notepad and wrote,
Jim,
I am possessed with a werewolf. I have killed and will kill again unless you do exactly what I say.
Malcolm quickly jotted his instructions, including how to contact the Order. That complete, he folded the paper once and secured it to his shirt with a safety pin.
He eyed the now discarded pen. His fingerprints were on it. His prints were all over the house now. Not that it mattered. He'd be dead long before the police could catch him. No telling how many cops Atabei owned. Once word about the killings got out, she'd know it was him. She could tell them what to look for. She could point them to Alpuente's.
Standard procedure was to burn a kill site. Destroy any evidence and save the family the terrible truth as to how their loved ones had died. But the French Quarter was too populated. Too much risk of other houses catching and even more innocent deaths.
Malcolm wiped the pen with his shirt as well as the office door handle. He swabbed other obvious spots he'd touched as he made his way downstairs, and then wiped his bloody footprints off the kitchen floor. DNA tests would take too long to identify anything, if there was anything recoverable from the putrid mess he'd vomited outside. He'd just let the police draw their own conclusions from the paw prints.
Malcolm slipped on a baseball cap and a pair of sunglasses he'd found. He checked the clock. 7:42. Only one thing left.
The dainty ring could only fit onto his left little finger. Malcolm slipped it on then wrenched the joint back. It popped. Clenching his teeth, Malcolm held back a scream. Cheeks puffing with each breath, Malcolm clutched the spiked cross in his other hand. He closed his fist, pressing the point against his flesh and wrapped the black, cotton necklace around it. Not allowing time to think about it, he slammed his hand into his thigh, driving the nail into his palm. Malcolm yanked the necklace end with his teeth, cinching his fist closed. The werewolf couldn't fully form if silver penetrated him. Now, he just needed to get to Jim's.
Dizzy with pain, he opened the door and left, keeping his head low. The morning streets were mostly clear, and Malcolm hurried down the road. Eighteen minutes. Rounding the corner, he broke into a jog, the molded heel of the small flip-flops digging into his feet with each step.
Blood oozed between his clenched fingers. Pain shot through his hand with each movement, but Malcolm squeezed harder. He wove though tourists and pedestrians on their way to work.
The left flip-flop came free as Malcolm hurried across a street. He was halfway to the shop now. He kicked the other sandal off and ran.
"Hey, Doc!" someone yelled.
Malcolm looked back to see Julian, the bald street hustler, hand raised in greeting. Shit. He kept running. Four more blocks.
A sudden terror swirled in the back of his mind. Jim couldn't help him. Going back would only endanger them.
No. That was wrong. He had to get to Jim's.
The fear grew, his legs faltered, and he stumbled. The demon was fighting.
Fuck you. Malcolm pushed himself harder. He had to get to the shop. Concrete and ill-fitted paving stones tore at his soles. He turned a corner, nearly colliding with a woman. "Sorry." He ran past wrought-iron pillars and shop owners sweeping the night's partying from their curbs. One more block.
The silver ring bit into his swelling, broken finger. It throbbed with each pounding heartbeat. Malcolm reached the shop. Lights already burned in the cases behind the windows. He pulled the door with his unbroken fingers.
Locked.
Inside, Mister Alpuente shuffled behind the counter, setting out coin-laden trays.
Malcolm pounded on the door, searing pain with each impact. Scowling, the old man looked up then smiled. Malcolm shifted uncomfortably. His breath came in desperate gasps. The mask. Its gaze penetrated the glass, pressing his bones. Malcolm crouched below the window, shielding himself from its stare.
The door rattled and clicked. Another click, and it swung open, hitting Malcolm in the knee.
"Mal?" Alpuente asked. "What are you—wait!"
Malcolm scrambled through the open door, pushing past the old man's legs. The full force of the obsidian mask came down on him like a tidal wave, pushing every cell in his body away. He hissed, his teeth and eyes pressing against their sockets. He rolled into the corner beside the door, pinning himself.
"Mal?" Alpuente said reaching for him.
"Back!" Malcolm snarled, his voice strained and bestial. "The door! Lock the door!"
His ribs popped as if trying to crush inside him. Malcolm rolled and tightened into a ball. His flesh rippled in rolling waves, each crested with lengthening and shortening black hairs. The pressure mounted. His brain felt as it if might crush against the inside of his skull.
"Help me," he gasped. He tried to move his head, but instead, it whipped down in the gale, slamming against the floor. For an instant, the onslaught slowed. Then it mounted again with growing ferocity. It was if his very soul were a sail, threatening to rip and blow away. "Help me!"
Malcolm slammed his head into the floor again. His vision blurred, but the tormenting pain thinned. "Jim." He slammed it again. "Get him here now." Malcolm's balled knees creaked and popped as if the bones no longer knew how to fit. Malcolm slammed his head again, leaving blood. "Get Jim!"
He wasn't even sure if Alpuente was still there or had left. He just kept hitting his head, screaming Jim's name in those fleeting respites.
"Jim!"
Claws or hands grabbed at him. He swatted them back.
"Jim!"
"Malcolm," a distant voice shouted, barely audible above the whooshing in his ears.
"Jim!"
Blood ran into Malcolm's cinched eyes. "Ji…" Consciousness failed him before he could finish.
III
Insect song fills the warm night air. Moonlight shines through the trees, painting the ground in silver ribbons. Two more moons until the eclipse. Rajik's swelling has increased. The pups kick and stir within her, ever hungry. They have sapped her, draining her essence. Few of their kind survive birthing, and Gulmet wishes he could take her burden even if for a few short days. But Rajik is strong. She will endure. He has no doubt. Motherhood will command her respect in the Legion, ascend her above her birth status. Siring the brood will elevate Gulmet as well, but motherhood is sacred. Until then, he must protect her. She hungers.
Keeping to the shadows, he moves toward a clearing. High grass ripples in the breeze like ocean waves. The musky scent of his prey grows stronger. He raises his head, eyes watching across the meadow.
There. A herd of deer grazes at the far side.
His mouth moistens. Lowering, Gulmet stalks toward them, slow as to not disturb his cover.
He circles around, hoping to herd them into the fields when they break. The wind stills, and he crouches, muscles taut. His unsuspecting prey continue to eat.
The breeze begins anew, granting cover in the undulating grass. Gulmet lifts his head. They are near. He could take one easily, but Rajik's hunger is too great. He must get closer.
Keeping low, he creeps, his chest nearly brushing the ground. The air is thick with their scent. The grass thins, and Gulmet stops just behind the edge, his keen eyes watching.
A red doe tur
ns from her grazing. Her brown eyes scan the darkness, passing over where Gulmet waits. She takes a step closer and freezes, nostrils flaring. Muscles tighten.
Gulmet bursts from his cover then springs. His jaws catch the doe's neck as she turns to run. Hot blood gushes into his mouth as he rips into her.
The other deer scatter. Three dive into the cover of trees. Two more bound across the field.
Gulmet releases the dying deer and charges out after them. A male breaks left, and Gulmet follows. The stag weaves predictably, hoping to evade him. Centuries of hunting have taught him their patterns. Gulmet closes the distance. He leaps, landing on the deer's back. His jaws find its neck, and vertebrae crunch with a pop of sweet blood.
He rises, seeing the last deer near the tree line. He can't catch it in time. Two are sufficient.
Gulmet picks up the felled deer, still trembling as it dies, and throws it over his shoulder. Licking the blood from his muzzle, he returns to the doe and heaves it up onto the other side and carries them back from where he's come. No longer caring for stealth, he strides up the rocky slope and between the trees. A rabbit dashes away from the shadows, but Gulmet controls the urge to give chase.
Up the hill and beyond the trees, he comes to the empty cart. The mule, like the fat sows, a casualty of Rajik's hunger. The animal was needless. Gulmet has more than enough strength to pull the cart. He drops the dead deer into the back. Bones pop, and fur shrivels, returning Gulmet to human form. Colors and scents fade as touch and taste heighten. The doe's blood appears purple in the moonlight. He licks the dribble from his arm, savoring it, savoring the fear it had felt as it died. Rajik has not eaten today. He must be quick.
Naked, he stoops to lift the cart handles.
A faint yelp comes on the wind.
Gulmet cocks his head. A cry?
He turns and peers the direction the noise had come. There. Across a slope, a round head peers above an outcrop, its hair ruffling in the breeze. It is too far to make out the features, but it is human.
The head drops from sight. Could it have seen him at such a distance? He cannot risk it.
Gulmet leaps and runs down the slope, his body transforming as he bounds. He dashes between shrubs and sharp rocks. Pebbles roll and fall in miniature avalanches behind him. Reaching the bottom, he jumps a dried creek bed and bounds up the opposite rise. The slope is difficult. More pebbles loosen under his paws.
Gulmet's tongue lolls out as he nears the top. He bounds onto a boulder then jumps to where the human had been.
Gone.
He sniffs the grass, finding the scent. Male.
Gulmet circles, his nose to the grass until he locates the trail. He races along the ridge's spine until it dips toward a basin. He stops and scans the moonlit ground. Empty. The human couldn't have gone far. He runs down, following a runoff trail. It ends at flat, gray rock.
He sniffs again but can't find the scent. Anger mounting, he doubles back to the rise. He finds it again but can't tell where it leads. He circles, furiously searching, but the scent is lost. Anger welling, he snarls and howls in frustration, the sound echoing through the hills. Someone has seen him. Gulmet only hopes they couldn't recognize his body.
Chapter Fifteen
Malcolm awoke, his head pounding with each heartbeat. The light between his half-closed lids stabbed into his brain. He tried to bring his hands up to shield his eyes, but his wrists and waist tightened with a soft rattle. He looked down. A thick chain belted his waist, sealed with a padlock. It had about an eight-inch lead to a pair of antique handcuffs. He recognized them from the shop: 1920s, their patina of rust polished to a dull, brown shine. Strips of white tape held a fat gauze pad against his right palm. Plastic splints encased his left little finger.
Malcolm lay on a folded, multi-colored quilt against the back wall of Alpuente's storeroom. They'd cleared it out save a pair of chairs on one end, one supporting a white and blue baby monitor, and a copper chamber pot beside him. A pair of chains hung from the rings in the ceiling down to his neck. The weight of a metal collar pressed against his shoulders. Hunkering so he could reach, he felt along the rolled metal. Solid. Thick as ChapStick tube. He only hoped it was silver. His instructions to Jim had been very specific.
Groaning, he felt the bandages over his aching forehead. He winced as he touched the hard knot beneath them.
Should have seen the other guy. He tried to laugh at his own pitiful joke but couldn't force the humor.
The brilliance from the two bare ceiling bulbs burned like twin suns. Squinting, he looked around, hoping they'd left him a bottle of water or something for his dry throat. There wasn't one. He needed food. He hadn't eaten in… Images of the bloody vomit came to mind. He needed food. Real food.
"Hello?" His voice was much weaker then he'd expected. How long had he been here? Had Jim reached the Order?
Malcolm wondered where Hounacier was. Had she bonded to Atabei? Atabei, who had murdered Ulises and made him a monster? Not likely. The Order was going to come down on her like the fucking reaper. She'd pay. He wondered how long Hounacier would go before she found a new groom. He imagined her beneath glass, paraded through the museum circuit on one of Master Turgen's "recruiting tours." She was alone. Malcolm had failed her.
The door thumped, followed by a scrape. It swung open, and Jim stepped inside. Something red sloshed inside a milky Tupperware bowl in his hands. A strong whiff of citrus perfume proceeded Tasha behind him, the demon mask clutched backwards against her chest, arm positioned to flip it around.
"You're awake," Jim said. Fear tinged the corners of his eyes.
"Water?" Malcolm croaked.
Nodding, Jim set the bowl on one of the chair seats and left. A moment later, he returned, carrying a liter-sized water bottle and a push broom. "Here." He laid the bottle down and scooted it across the floor with the broom.
Malcolm took it. Gritty dust coated the cold condensation. Fighting the handcuffs, he unscrewed the lid and gulped the water down.
"Don't drink it too fast," Jim said.
Malcolm squeezed a final mouthful before coming up for air. Panting, he savored the coolness of his throat. A single drop ran down the corner of his mouth to his chin. "Thank you."
"You gave Dad a big scare."
"Sorry about that." He squinted up at the big priest. "I'm sorry." He met Tasha's eyes. Fear. Tears quivering at the corners. Malcolm looked away. He didn't want her to see him. "I'm so sorry."
"We got the blood up," Jim said. "Cut that ring off your finger. I'm pretty sure you got a concussion or something, banging your head like that. Thought about calling Maggie, but…decided against it."
Malcolm nodded, still not meeting their eyes. "Thanks."
"So you going to tell us what happened?" Jim asked.
"Atabei. We called the demon. She drew it out. Then she…she ambushed me. Took Hounacier. Put the demon inside me. I got away, but…I should have let her do it." His skull throbbed as Malcolm looked up. "She killed Ulises."
Jim's lips drew into a flat line. The muscles in Tasha's jaw flexed tight. Her tears still hadn't come, but she couldn't meet his eyes.
Jim drew a breath and removed the Tupperware's lid. "I talked to your friend Allan Havlock. Said you should eat this to help your wounds." He set it down and pushed it with the broom.
The smell of blood lit Malcolm's sinuses like a eucalyptus, opening wider to take more in. Soft cubes of raw meat filled the plastic bowl like hospital Jell-O. Malcolm's stomach lurched in disgust, but his mouth wetted. "Got a sandwich?"
"I'll bring you whatever you want. But your friend was real insistent you should eat that first."
The sweet, coppery scent grew stronger. Malcolm's gut rumbled, overpowering his revulsion. Almost without realizing it, he reached tentative fingers into the bowl. The meat squished at his touch, raw and room-temperature. Licking his lips, he slipped one into his mouth.
The sweet, salty flavor filled his mouth, seeming to course through his entire bo
dy as he slowly chewed. Tasha hissed a grimace, but Malcolm didn't care. He swallowed, savoring the sensation as it slid down his throat. The pain in his head and hands dulled. He took another and another, licking his lips to keep the bloody saliva from escaping.
He swallowed the last cube and sighed, feeling better than he'd have thought possible. Only a tingle remained of the pains. He eyed the blood at the bottom of the dish, fighting the urge to drink it like the sugar-sweetened milk left after a bowl of cereal.
"Feel better?" Jim asked.
"Yeah."
"I'll let him know it worked."
Malcolm nodded. After witnessing several possessed and what food they kept in their homes, Allan hypothesized that some demon-bound might heal with raw meat. Now, with an actual live specimen, he'd tried it. Malcolm's last contribution to the Order was being a guinea pig. Sickening anger boiled in the back of mind. Who for? Allan for suggesting it? Jim? Himself for getting into this? All three? He tried to push the anger away but couldn't.
Malcolm picked up the half-empty water bottle. "About that sandwich?"
Jim nodded. "Of course."
"How long was I out?" Malcolm asked as the priest turned.
"All day," Jim said. "It's Thursday."
Tasha met his eyes for only moment before looking away. "Mal, I…I'm sorry." Clutching the flipped mask to her chest, she backed through door. It creaked shut, followed by scraping and a thud.
Malcolm sat quiet, eyes unfocused on the plaster wall, its surface scuffed from decades of moving inventory. How long could they hold him? Until Matt got his ass up here from Chile? That smug bastard was probably itching to do it. He'd grown up on the road. Motel television had been his biggest education. The man had single-handedly ingested more TV than anyone Malcolm had ever met. Never gone to college. He had a high school equivalency and was now a Valducan Librarian. Shameful. Malcolm's lips curled. He should have killed that freak the moment they met.
Wait. What am I thinking? Matt was a little arrogant, but death? He'd proved himself time and time again. He was a brother. Where was this anger coming from? He thought of the hatred he'd felt about Allan's test, still boiling in his gut. It was wrong. He didn't feel that way.
Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) Page 19
