Malcolm laughed, his body convulsing on the floor. “Help you? You can become anyone you want to be. How can we beat that?”
“Perfect,” said Paul. “There's always a catch. Can't you just give them some more?” He put his hands around the girls' shoulders. “They're just kids, man. They didn't deserve what happened to them.”
Atlas shook his head. “No. Surely not. But whatever revenants drained their life force—and I'm certain they are revenants—are tiny in the grand scheme of things.”
“Revenants?” said Paul.
“It's an old word, Mr. Knox. I just mean spirits—like me and your friend here who don't pass on peacefully like they should. People you bury who refuse to stay dead. I'm sorry to be so callous. But if we don't get control of this situation soon, what happened to these girls is going to become the norm instead of the exception.”
“What situation?” said Paul. He told the girls to go play, and they began to explore the room and flip through all the old books.
“The war,” Atlas said.
“You mean out there? With the Roaches and the Germs? The police are doing everything they can. At least the ones who aren't on the take. I don't see how we can help. What do you want us to do? Strap on some body armor?”
Atlas shook his head. He leveled his eyes on Paul without saying a word. Then, after a long moment of silence: “No. You know better than that. You don't have the same abilities as your companions here. But you know people—you can sense their true character like others can't.” His eyes roamed up and down Paul's face like an engineer studying an incredible new invention. “Remarkable. It's been decades—maybe even a century—since I've encountered a mortal with such a gift.”
Paul held up his finger to make a point, but his words escaped him. He turned to Charlotte. All she could do was shrug.
“No, Mr. Knox. I don't need more foot soldiers in the turf war engulfing all of Lemhaven. You knew that too, seeing as you can judge my character just like I can judge your own. That was a silly question. What's going on out there is just a symptom of something much deeper. Something so important the fate of the entire world hangs in balance.”
“A spiritual war?” said Charlotte. “That's what you're trying to stop?”
Atlas nodded. “Me and my kind have been at it for hundreds of years. We've done a decent job keeping things contained—a few rough patches aside—but things are different now...” He lowered his head and mouthed a silent prayer. “Balancers like Jana, our sister they're mourning, have started to disappear. They go out to balance, but some aren't coming back. I haven't been able to figure out why.”
“What does the gang war have to do with it?” Paul said.
“Spiritual imbalance leads to physical imbalance. Disorder. Chaos, Mr. Knox. For hundreds of years an evil entity, Bune, has been gathering his strength, preparing to fulfill the prophecy set out by Lem the Builder.”
“The Line of Lem,” said Charlotte. “Lem and his followers founded this city because they wanted religious freedom—to build temples and worship their god as they pleased.”
“Yes,” Atlas said. “Lemhaven has always been a spiritual fulcrum. Almost all of the gates leading to the underworld—that strange place you traversed—are in this city. The Line of Lem, the chaos in the streets, how the city's being thrown into decay… it's all connected.”
Malcolm writhed on the floor. He tried to prop himself up on his elbow and collapsed when he couldn't get it to stay still. Those wonderful vibrations were still running through him. “None of this makes any se—hey. You should change into someone else, Atlas. Come on. Show them what you can do. What do you say?”
Atlas looked down at him. Every crease in his face was taut, stretched with calculated rage. “People are dying out there. Good people—like my sister Jana and others before her. There will be many others if things continue on their current course. But I guess none of that matters to you now that you've scratched your itch.”
Malcolm shook his head, face flopping against the floor. “That's not true.” He said it to convince himself as much as anyone else.
“The vanguard of the enemy's forces are already here,” Atlas said. “They came through the gates, and more are following every day.” He looked at Charlotte. “That's why I'm so sore on gatekeepers lately, lady. The newspaper reporters write about boredom and lack of economic opportunities and moral decay. But they don't get to the heart of the issue. This chaos is being manufactured, whipped up by Bune's loyal servants. They're already entangled in the highest positions of power. Politics. Media. Crime. And the more that come, the harder we have to work to keep things balanced.”
“Why don't you just find more balancers?” said Paul. “They have to be out there just like the gatekeepers are.”
“It isn't that simple. There just aren't that many of us, Mr. Knox. I was the first. One moment I was on my deathbed. A scourge had swept through our village—a sickness so widespread we took it as a message from an angry God. First it came for the elderly and the weak, both groups to which I belonged at the time.
“My wife and children tucked me away. They prayed outside my door for the sickness to pass on, or if God willed otherwise, to work quickly. One morning I closed my eyes and woke up here—it was just a tiny cabin at the time—with a pair of decanters in my hand and a mission in my heart. Others have joined me since, though someone only arrives once every twenty or thirty years. I always find them on the floor with their decanters. Fair people with good hearts and a keen sense of character—people like you.”
Paul shook his head. “Are you saying that after I die—”
“No one can say. And at the pace we're going? Once the energy here gets too imbalanced, Bune will come up from the underworld. According to Lem's prophecy, he'll return to his temple, take up residence there, and usher in his righteous rule. But I doubt his reign will be anything like his followers imagined when they founded Lemhaven.
“Why don't you kill his servants who are already here?” said Charlotte. “If what Malcolm says about your abilities is true, it's well within your power.”
Atlas shook his head. “That's a great idea in theory, but reality is too messy. This world and the mortals who inhabit it must be kept insulated from… beings like us. When you go around removing every spirit with darkness in its heart, the scale tilts too far the other way. The 'good' doesn't turn out to be so good after it becomes its own kind of tyranny. What's that saying? Absolute power corrupts absolutely? It's true. We put it to the test.
“That's why my brothers and sisters and I return to this world with two decanters: the golden Core and the black Hollow. We find the entities on this plane, read their hearts, and give them the right dose accordingly. Things drift over time, but when everything's balanced humans get to make choices entirely on their own—good or evil. I remembered reading about Atlas when I was a young boy. I thought it was an appropriate name considering my purpose here.”
Malcolm sat up, the effects of the liquid quickly diminishing now. The harder he tried to hold on to them the faster they slipped away. A hundred questions sprang to his mind. Atlas's story was interesting, but it hadn't scratched the surface of what really mattered.
What was their role in this battle?
And more importantly, when could he have some more of that golden liquid?
He was just about to ask that very question when someone knocked on the office door. “Come in,” Atlas said.
The blonde man who'd greeted them earlier poked his head in the doorway. “I'm sorry to interrupt, Brother Charles. The mourning ritual for Jana is done for the evening.”
Atlas nodded. “May she return tomorrow to balance again.”
The blonde man repeated him. Then: “We're off to balance, Brother Charles. Do you want me to lock the doors?”
“Yes. Thank you, Brother Darron. I'll be here when you all return. Stay sharp.”
The man nodded. His eyes drifted to the girls playing in the corner of the room
. He winked at them, and suddenly the blonde man was gone. His limbs fell like a log that had been split with an ax. Then, after a tornado of movement, a new man stood in the doorway. This man had long, greasy hair as white as Atlas's. He wore a plaid shirt which showed more skin than it covered up. A layer of soot covered him, so dark and heavy no amount of soap could scrub it away. He winked at the girls again, bowed, and left them with their mouths hanging open.
Atlas shook his head. “That's Darron for you. Always showing off. He's a good man. One of my first brothers. Now, where were we?”
* * * *
Atlas picked up right where he left off, unraveling his tale layer by layer like a master storyteller. Malcolm didn't hear a word the man said. A new idea had its claws in him. It wouldn't let go until he acted on it.
“Wait,” he said, holding a hand to his stomach. “Does this place have a restroom?”
Atlas arched an eyebrow. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I think I drank too much of that stuff.”
“That's what I was afraid of. We don't know the long-term effects. It's out the door on the left side. Past the pallets and lift trucks.”
Malcolm felt their eyes follow him out of the office. He shut the door and they disappeared behind it and the frosted glass windows. Finally he could breathe again. Atlas had given him directions, but Malcolm discarded them as soon as they touched his ears.
They weren't the directions he needed.
He followed his own compass now.
The last tingles of the golden liquid sent him past the makeshift altar of the missing balancer and out a side door. The warm summer night greeted him there—downtown Lemhaven in all of its humid, noisy glory. Malcolm let the door close behind him and choke off the fluorescent warehouse light.
He disappeared into the shadows, running as fast as his legs could carry him.
CHAPTER NINE
Malcolm ran wherever his feet took him.
Eyes open wide, nostrils leading the way along alleys and down city blocks. The gangsters who claimed this area would steal everything he had—and maybe his life too—for traveling here without their permission. But those dangers seemed abstract to him now that his instincts were running the show.
His golden fix was wearing off. It was time to secure another. It was time to make sure he'd never have to crawl around on his hands and knees begging ever again.
The balancers couldn't be far. They'd only had a few minutes head start. And the streets were practically empty here in the outskirts of Germ territory. Malcolm passed stray dogs and a group of teenagers walking like they had something to prove. Somewhere behind him, gunshots rang out in an alleyway. One scream followed—hideous—and faded away when the wind picked up.
No one paid him any mind.
He approached a few men in an intersection and pushed his legs to move faster. They murmured and pointed as he passed, but none of them tried to stop him. He wasn't worth the trouble—this twitching madman who'd somehow stumbled through a checkpoint at their border.
Malcolm kept running long after his lungs started to burn. His instincts told him the golden liquid was close. Down one alley and into another he went. Overturned dumpsters and trash cans barred the way here, as if the whole block had cut off their only escape path to fight the Germ invasion.
Malcolm hurdled a trash can, nearly slipping on a pile of soggy noodles and vegetable oil before catching his footing on the other side. This part of the block smelled like stagnant water and shit, but there was something sweet in that smell too:
A hint of gold—gold that would soon be his.
He pressed on further, until the streetlight over his shoulder shrunk to the size of a lit match and finally vanished. His shoes slapped into puddles, soaking his socks and calves, but still Malcolm refused to slow down. He ran deeper into the alley in this forgotten part of Lemhaven, blocked off and built over in more prosperous times.
The path before him narrowed. He turned sideways and shuffled forward. Shuffle, gasp, shuffle. Deep in the bowels of the city. Until his eyes started playing tricks on him and he swore he was moving backwards… or someone was pulling the path along in front of him.
And then he heard it.
The sweetest sound he'd ever heard in his life. Sweeter than a roaring river or snowfall or the soft moan of a lover:
The clink of glass.
It wasn't the blunt clink an alcoholic might make. This clink was subtle, barely audible. Malcolm crept forward, squinting into the darkness until he found its source: a spindly man in a business suit. That man tilted forward at the hips. His movements were rigid—nervous. All of his attention was on the darkness directly in front of him. Malcolm stopped for a moment and tried to slow his racing heart. He waited until he'd left the man a little padding before following after him.
They continued this strange dance for what felt like forever. Finally the man in the business suit stopped and leaned against the alley wall. He rustled around with his suit before flicking a cigarette lighter to examine something in his hand. He held it up and struck the lighter again, watching the sparks gather on its surface.
Malcolm looked at it too. It took everything in his power not to rush the man right there. The object of his obsession was right in front of him, teasing him to no end. But he couldn't risk anything but a sure victory. If that decanter broke…
No. Nothing else to do but trail him and wait for his opportunity. The man pulled himself off the alley wall and started walking again. Malcolm followed, stopped for a moment when something scuttled in the alley.
The game had changed. A new player appeared somewhere up ahead of them. The man in the business suit stalked them just as Malcolm stalked the man.
The man's pace quickened, and Malcolm moved faster to keep up. The sounds deep in the alley grew louder. An occasional thud turned into a rhythmic clip clop of high heels. Either she didn't care they were following her, or she was too oblivious to notice. Onward the two men crept, feeling their way along in the dark.
Click went the balancer's lighter, and the alley before him filled with light. In that flash Malcolm made out a woman. She was dark-haired and petite, with impossible curves for her size. Her red dress swished when she turned around and faced them. Her mouth fell open, beautiful full lips frozen in a snapshot of horror…
And then the light went out and the balancer was on her.
He lunged forward with sickening speed. The woman cried out before a crack muffled her. Malcolm rushed forward too, flailing blindly in the dark. Then the balancer flicked his lighter again. He stood inches away from the woman now, but there was no evidence she still lived and breathed. She faced him perfectly frozen, one heel stuck in mid air—the last trace of her escape attempt before it had been interrupted.
Something cracked again, and this time Malcolm saw what it was: the balancer snapping his fingers. He did it three times, loudly enough to echo in the alley. The woman's body went limp and he held her in his arms, tilted her head back and pressed a decanter against her lips. His back was turned, his attention was diverted.
Now was the time.
Malcolm ran for them. Arms out for the decanter. All of his focus on the golden liquid inside. It shifted as the balancer pressed it to the woman's lips and began to pour. A few seconds later it fell away, and she began to squirm in his arms.
The balancer turned just in time to see Malcolm make his final, desperate dive. For a moment their eyes met—three pairs of eyes—and the bottle balanced precariously between their hands. Then bone met bone when they collided, and the decanter fell.
Malcolm dove for it. Across the alley he lunged, adjusting his body just in time to slide a hip under the bottle before it hit the pavement. He held his breath as it caromed off his thigh. He watched it tumble on the ground, but somehow the glass remained intact.
He reached for it, but a pair of manicured hands was faster. The woman ripped the decanter away and held it over her head. In front of her, the balancer
was retreating into the alley from where he'd come. He'd been the hunter once. But now he was the prey, backpedaling with his hands held high. “My decanter,” he said.
“No,” the woman said, smiling. “My decanter.” She slammed a heel into the meat of Malcolm's back. “Got that?”
The balancer stiffened. He backed away from them quickly, pausing for half a second to shoot Malcolm an evil look. “This is all your fault. I knew I didn't trust the look of you. Just wait until Brother Charles hears about this.”
The woman laughed, quietly at first, then louder until the sound filled the alley. “Tell him. Please do. Tell him that's the last time he'll get the slip on Talia. He knows where to find me if he wants his precious golden liquid back.”
“No,” Malcolm said, struggling under her heel.
“Who's this?” Talia said.
“An interloper,” said the balancer. “He's your problem now.” He ran off after that. Malcolm squirmed on the ground under the woman's heel. She kept him pinned there, laughing. She laughed until the balancer's footsteps faded and finally fell silent.
“Are you ever going to stop?” she said. “As amusing as this is, I have places to be.”
Malcolm reached for her heel and pulled it as hard as he could. For an instant the woman lost her balance and he was free, lunging for the bottle. Then she slapped him across the face with her free hand. The force of the impact sent him crashing into the alley wall. When he turned to look at her, he found dozens of copies standing there, all smiling with their hands on their hips. Laughing at him. Holding the bottle before him.
“Poor baby,” Talia said. “You want some of this?”
Malcolm nodded. He crawled closer and stopped himself when she raised her hand again.
“You're kind of cute. In a flawed, pathetic, human kind of way.” She reached into the cleavage of her dress and pulled out a small flashlight. “Come with me. We'll have our fun and then you can have the stupid bottle for all I care.”
“Really?”
Heretic (Demon Marked Book 2) (Demon Marked Saga) Page 6
