Malcolm climbed the porch steps and opened the door. He found the girl carrying Broyles's unconscious body over her shoulder, traipsing through the hallway without the slightest strain. “Thanks for the help,” she said, swatting Malcolm's hand away when he reached for Broyles's legs. “I got him. You might want to run in there and get the rest of your things, though. I have a pretty good feeling you won't be coming back here.”
Malcolm nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
The girl squeezed past him, nearly sending one of Broyles's boots right into his jaw on her way out. She stepped through the front door with her cargo with about as much concern as someone taking a trash bag to a dumpster. Then she disappeared down the porch stairs, and the spell was broken. Malcolm went into his bedroom and stuffed the rest of the cash into his pockets. The pistol was still there waiting for him. He tucked it into his waistband, stopping to gather up stray bullets.
He left the duplex accompanied by the metallic jingle of bullets clinking together in his pockets. Across the porch and down into the yard he went. When he reached the red car—the car he'd stolen from a sheriff, no less—Broyles was gone. The girl sat in the passenger seat with the door closed, shaking her head at him and tapping on the dashboard.
Malcolm went around to the driver's side and opened it. “What'd you do with him?”
“Relax,” she said, smacking a piece of bubble gum. “I stuffed him in the trunk. At least there's a divider—so we don't have to listen to him if he wakes up on the way.”
“On the way where?”
The girl looked at him and cocked her head. “The Strand. Where else?” She pointed into the street and twirled her finger, motioning for Malcolm to drive. “You don't do this kind of stuff often, I guess.”
Malcolm sighed and put the car into drive. “No. Not when I can help it.”
The girl nodded, puckered her lips to produce a giant gum bubble that made Malcolm jump when it burst. “Easy. He can't shoot you from back there. I took his gun anyway.” She tapped on the glove box. “Besides, you don't look completely naive. How'd he get you into the car anyway?”
“He lied to me.” Malcolm steered around a roundabout and deeper into the heart of the city. “People have been doing that a lot lately.”
This rocked the girl forward in her seat. “Lied… to you?” She turned to him, burning his cheeks with the intensity of her stare. “You looked bad off, but this is worse than I expected. No one's supposed to lie to Malcolm Morris.”
Malcolm clipped a curb and sent a shower of sparks flying onto an empty sidewalk. “How do you know my name?”
“I know a lot of things.” She pounded the dashboard with a closed fist. “Damn. This changes everything. I wouldn't have called you if you weren't going to be any use.”
Malcolm opened his mouth to ask her a dozen different questions, but no words came out. He could only weave around traffic with his mouth hanging open. The voices, the way that man's skin had fallen off, the lawman—perfectly conscious now, and pounding on the inside of the trunk—was already too much to bear.
“I might be able to fix this,” the girl said, after they'd driven a few minutes in silence. “Let's just take care of Broyles first. Then we can have our tête-à-tête.”
“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “Whatever you say.” A new question joined the bundle of others in his mind: what kind of teenage girl uses the word tête-à-tête?
The girl smiled at him. A moment later she grabbed his arm. “Wait. What are you doing?”
“What?” said Malcolm. “I'm going to the Strand just like you said.”
“You can't go this way. This is Roach territory now.”
Malcolm looked out the window. A few weeks ago this area had been a pocket of commerce—one of the few left in Windmill Hill—but now there were only darkened store windows and empty parking lots. These weren't the kinds of places to close when the sun went down. These were liquor stores, bars, strip clubs. Places that fed on the night. They were all closed now, windows barred and doors boarded over as if in preparation for war. Ceded over to one of the gangs battling it out for control of Lemhaven.
Malcolm slowed the car, looking for a place to turn around. Orange cones popped up on both sides of the street and choked off lanes until all the traffic crawled into a single line. He tried to swerve out of it, but he clipped a few cones and the cars and city blocks closed in around him.
There was nowhere to go but forward.
People appeared alongside the road. They watched him from awnings and alleys and apartment windows, dogs sizing up these newcomers to the neighborhood. They pressed closer from every direction. Close, but not too close. Stopping just beyond the glare of his headlights. Close enough to show him who was boss in this part of Lemhaven.
CHAPTER SIX
“Shit,” Malcolm said, stopping the car in the sea of brake lights in front of them. “They want to stop and talk. Probably look in the car too.”
“That's not going to happen,” said a strange voice from the passenger seat. When Malcolm looked over, the girl was gone. A different woman had replaced her. She was busy flicking remnants of her previous incarnation onto the floorboard. This woman was older. Tattoos and sinewy muscle covered her frame. Her hair was the color of volcano ash with a few streaks of white mixed in. She twitched like a drug addict. Her eyes shifted from side to side. Criminal eyes.
She looked like she belonged in Roach territory. Maybe that was just the point.
“Go on,” she said, her voice raspy. “No use tryin' to turn back now. You just follow those cars sweetie and let me handle the rest. And take that stupid look off your face.”
Malcolm nodded, too busy trying to control his breathing to answer. This woman didn't just look different—she acted different too. At least her dress was the right color. Hopefully she had the right words to get them through this too.
The car in front of them turned sharply into an alleyway, and Malcolm's headlights landed on a makeshift barricade. The old road, funneling drivers into the city just a few weeks earlier, was deserted. A group of hard men stood in front of it in the Roaches' signature cobalt blues. Malcolm took the detour into the alley, where a pair of armed men and a third with a bucket were waiting.
“They just wanna toll,” said the new woman in the passenger seat. Her breath filled the car with the stench of cigarettes. “Go on. I'm sure we'll work something out.”
Malcolm drove forward. His foot felt heavy but his pockets felt light, anticipating how much lighter they'd be once they crossed the checkpoint. His suspicions were confirmed a moment later, when a man with what appeared to be tinfoil on his teeth pointed a sawed-off shotgun at him.
“Where you headed?” the man said.
“The Strand,” said the woman in the passenger seat. “What's it to you?”
The side of his face twitched, and his gun whirled to her side of the car. “You lose your needle or something, darlin'?”
“Maybe I did. No better place to find a new one than The Strand.”
“Not exactly a new one, but I take your point.” The man broke out into a laugh that sounded like the wheeze of an asthma victim. Then, when he caught his breath: “The Strand's a long way from here. It'll cost you a pretty penny.”
The woman spat into the windshield. “To pass through my own neighborhood—even when I'm wearing Roach cobalt? Maybe I'll have a talk with Mr. Woodward myself.”
The smile on the man's face evaporated. “Yeah? Good luck with that, lady, Mr. Woodward's a very busy man. But right now this car doesn't go any further unless some money hits that bucket real soon.”
The other man stepped forward and extended his bucket into the open window.
“Fine,” said Malcolm, reaching into his pockets. A wad of cash came out between his fingers. Its size made the toll collector's eyes light up. “Here.” He dropped a few bills into the bucket.
“Funny,” said the man with the shotgun. “It just so happens the toll went up.” He looked at the money
in Malcolm's hand and licked his lips.
Malcolm sighed and dropped in a few more bills.
“That's it,” he said. He gestured to the pair of pistols resting on the dashboard: Malcolm's and the one the strange passenger had taken from Broyles. “Those too.”
“Highway robbery,” the woman said, reaching over Malcolm to drop them in the bucket.
“No ma'am,” said the man with the bucket. “Just a little fundraising. Anything to support the cause.”
She snorted at that. Finally the men stepped aside and let them pass, but they kept their guns trained on the car until they reached the end of the alley and turned onto another street. “I can't believe the borders have shifted so much,” Malcolm said. “It's only been a few weeks since I've been down here.”
“A lot can change in a few weeks when it's a war zone you're talking about.”
Malcolm swerved around a pothole. “Yeah. And it's not like the cops will come down here and sort it out.”
The woman laughed. “They'd just make it worse.”
“Were you trying to piss that guy off?”
“Not exactly. You just can't afford to show weakness. If I didn't have the right colors on it wouldn't have mattered how I acted. They probably would have shot us dead on the spot.” She pointed at an empty alley. “Turn in there. I know a shortcut.”
* * * *
She led Malcolm to a cluster of docks at the north end of The Strand. They parked in the middle of an enormous parking lot, lost in rows of cars and pickup trucks belonging to the men who worked the docks. Around them, men came and left in an elaborate dance that was the late-night shift change. Some limped off holding their backs while others got out of pickup trucks with coffee mugs and a spring in their steps.
“What are you going to do with him?” said Malcolm, looking around at all the rugged faces.
“Only a little,” the woman said. “Once we set things into motion—wait. You sure you don't just wanna off this guy?”
“What? Hell no. He's still a cop. Are you crazy?”
The woman shrugged. “I'm not supposed to meddle in your business. But let's just say if you wanted to pop that trunk open and shoot him—who would I be to stand in your way?”
Malcolm shook his head. “No. Absolutely not.”
She sighed. “I tried. Guess it's heavy lifting then. Just give me a minute.” She opened the passenger door, and as she climbed out of the car she slipped into another skin. The woman peeled away and fell onto the pavement, all evidence of her scattered by a gust of wind. Now a man stood in the parking lot next to Broyles's car, short but with a barrel chest and a frame like a shipping container. “Pop the trunk,” he said. His voice sounded like crunching asphalt.
Malcolm did.
The man went behind the car and opened the trunk. There was a flash of movement in the side-view mirror, then a single moan. A few seconds later the man emerged from the blind spot with Broyles's body—unconscious again. He slipped into the shadows away from the men finishing their shifts, stalking closer to the water until he reached a stack of shipping containers where the docks began. He looked around before opening one and stuffing Broyles inside. Then he disappeared. Malcolm watched and waited. He was just about to drive off when the man reappeared among the shipping containers. He had a dolly now. He used it to load the shipping container and walk it along the docks.
He didn't stop until he reached a cargo ship. Up the ramp he went, disappearing into the hulk of floating metal. When the man came out the dolly and shipping container were gone. He strolled down the dock and back into the parking lot, whistling as he went.
Malcolm's jaw was still open when the man opened the car door.
“I can't believe you just did that. Where's that boat headed?”
The man shrugged. “Don't know. Don't care. Now that your troubles with the law are on hiatus, we have bigger issues to think about. Like why I called you here… and what we need to do to get your power back.”
Malcolm opened his mouth to reply—just in time for the man to cut him off with his whistling.
“Save the questions for later. Just drive. I'll tell you where to go.”
Malcolm's passenger led them north of the central business district—into the heart of Germ territory. He'd changed forms again, just as they'd changed gang borders. This time he looked almost exactly like Malcolm. His clothes were scarlet, and when they reached another checkpoint, he claimed they were brothers to get them through.
Now, this Malcolm lookalike led them to an abandoned warehouse. It was out of place here, overlooked among the rows of brick apartment buildings and vacant lots. But so were a lot of things in Lemhaven. They parked on the corner and went in a side entrance, triggering an automatic light that revealed empty shelves and loading docks. The man sighed at these, squinted his eyes against the light. He shuffled past those warehouse trappings like someone who'd inherited property far too big for his taste. Out came a key ring from one of his pockets, and into a little office they went.
This room was free from the harsh warehouse lights. Once the door closed behind Malcolm, a new kind of light showed them the way: flickering candles in wall sconces. “This place isn't much,” the man said, “but don't let that make you question the significance of your presence here. I've called you for months, Malcolm Morris. Now we finally meet. And not a moment too soon, I might add.” He turned his back to Malcolm and shed his latest identity with a quick spin.
A skinny old man remained where the dockworker had been. He stood perfectly straight. He looked distinguished in his formal pants and suit and thick spectacles. Intellectual—and a bit eccentric with how tufts of white hair shot out from the side of his head like feathers on a strange bird. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Morris. This is my truest form. At least my truest form as of now. All of the others are just illusions, though I suppose this one's just an illusion too.” He cocked his head, pondering it, and fell backwards into a leather hair. “Forgive me for sitting. It's been such a long day. My name's Brother Charles Atlas, though most people on the mortal plane just call me Charles.”
Malcolm stepped forward and shook the man's hand. It was silly, seeing as he'd just driven all over the city with this… whatever he was. But it still felt like the right thing to do. “Thanks for helping me out back there.”
“You should have killed him. That man's tenacious. It's not my place, but you should have killed him all the same. Now we'll see how good of a swimmer he is.” He smiled. “I shouldn't have done that. I've found myself doing a lot of things I'm not supposed to do lately.”
“What are you supposed to do?”
Atlas leaned forward in his chair. “Balance. Though my brothers and sisters and I have been having a hell of a time doing that these days.” He turned his eyes on Malcolm with a sudden, sickening intensity. Unblinking, tearing him apart with his gaze like a scientist dissecting an animal carcass on a lab table.
Malcolm shifted under the weight of that look. His eyes roamed the room for comfort, but he found none in its candles, books, and vials of strange liquids.
“Great,” Atlas said. “You're an addict too. The twitching. The shifting glances. As if losing your powers wasn't enough. This just keeps getting better and better.”
Malcolm shrugged. He collapsed into a wooden chair and supported his arms on a stack of books, weak from the man's stare. “What is this place?”
“A fulcrum. The center of the city. Where the worlds come together.”
Malcolm studied the vials in their racks along the wall. He saw reds and greens, browns and ambers. He squinted for those beautiful splotches of gold and found none.
“You have friends,” the old man said. “We've been watching you for weeks, trying to find an opportunity to get in touch. Kind of difficult with your legal troubles.”
Malcolm stood up, steadying himself when black spots danced around the room. “I didn't take that little girl. None of us did.”
The man smiled a little at th
at. “Don't worry, son. I know. Evil forces are at work here. You aren't exactly perfect, but you don't have it in you to do something like that.”
Malcolm saw Nora sleeping, smiling at him before he almost snatched her out of bed. He shuddered. “How do you know?”
“I can read your heart. But we won't get much further until we unsaddle you of your addiction. Now what is it? Pain pills? Cocaine? We have… remedies for those.”
Malcolm shook his head. “No. Not those. Those would make more sense. It's something I've never seen before. Not until we went to get the girl beneath the world.”
Atlas's eyes bulged. They were green, flecked with gold flakes. Almost the same color as that beautiful pond. “You went through a gate?”
Malcolm nodded. “My neighbor and I did. But that's where it happened. That's where I touched this… strange golden liquid.” He lowered his voice, as if saying the words too loud would only fuel the addiction. “Now there are voices. They've been driving me mad ever since.”
Atlas removed his glasses and looked at the lenses in his hands. He sighed, wiped them off on his shirtsleeve, and slid them back onto his face. “This is unexpected. You know about the Core?”
Malcolm felt his pulse pounding in his neck. “You've heard of it? You know where I can get some?”
Atlas withdrew into the folds of the chair. His posture was closed now, rigid. They were standing on some kind of conversational precipice, and he looked unsure if he wanted to take the leap. “Come back tomorrow,” he finally said. “I might be able to help you. Bring your friends.”
“You're saying you know where I can get some of that stuff?” He rose to his feet, filled with a sudden urge to rush the man and clamp down on his neck until he spilled his secrets. “I'm in hell, man. And you're telling me to wait until tomorrow? I can't do that. I can't leave until I get some of that—”
“You can,” said Atlas, “and you will.” He stood up and motioned to the door. “Either come back tomorrow night with your friends, or suffer in agony. It's up to you. But if you don't come back—if you don't help me with why I called you...” He shrugged. “The whole world will be in hell soon enough anyway.”
Heretic (Demon Marked Book 2) (Demon Marked Saga) Page 4
