Nora nodded. “I'm good at hiding.”
Malcolm was about to agree with her when he heard footsteps on the staircase.
The girl's eyes widened. “Somebody's coming. They'll find me. They'll make me—”
He covered her mouth and scooped her up again, searching desperately for a hiding spot. But the room was sparse except for the bed and an armoire across the wall. He pulled up the bedspread and stuffed Nora under it. “Quiet. Don't move.” Before she could reply, Malcolm pulled down the covers and returned to the boxes.
“Everything all right in here, Morris?” Trig stepped through the doorway.
“Sure. Just unpacking.”
“Stop screwing around. No one needs to spend that much time on one box.”
“Sorry.” Malcolm tried to open another one, but his fingers were trembling too much. Trig hovered over his shoulder. The closer he watched the more Malcolm struggled… until the only thing left to do was stop trying and look back at him.
“I don't like you, Morris.”
“Okay...”
Trig lunged forward with a knife in his hand. It appeared from somewhere in his clothes, and now he pointed it at the soft part between Malcolm's ribs. Malcolm gritted his teeth when that blade flashed in front of him, readied his body to be slit open, watched for blood on the carpet…
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Yet no blood came.
And no pain either, other than the bump on his head when he crashed backwards into the armoire. Trig opened the moving box with a single, confident cut. Then his knife vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and he was laughing at him. “Relax, Morris. Just because I don't like you doesn't mean I'm going to slice you up. I have to put up with you as long as master and mistress say. Which probably won't be long.” He motioned for Malcolm to return to the center of the bedroom. “Now unload that stuff, and get back downstairs as soon as you're done. There's plenty more where that came from.”
“Yeah,” Malcolm said. “Okay.” He opened the box and pulled out some high heels, unable to ease his nauseous stomach. Trig stood at the door sniffing something in the air. Malcolm clutched the tallest heel he could find. Maybe he could send it through Trig's skull. If it came to that.
But the man only stood there sniffing. Their eyes locked for a moment. “This house stinks.” Then he turned his back and left. Malcolm sighed, collapsing onto the carpet while waves of relief washed over him.
“That was scary,” the girl whispered.
Malcolm slid across the floor, lifted the bedspread, and revealed Nora's blue eyes. “Are you okay?”
She nodded. “I'm okay. Are you?”
“Sure. But I can't stay much longer or he'll come back. We're going to get out of here, Nora. I promise. But I need you to do something for me. I need you to stay right there and wait.”
“Okay. But what if I need to go to the bathroom? I can't hold it much longer.”
“Don't worry. If you pee your pants, you pee your pants. I'll bring you more clothes as soon as I can. Food and water too. But you have to keep hiding or they'll find you. They can't find you, Nora. Do you understand?”
Doubt flickered on her face. She opened her mouth to say something, but shut it when Malcolm squeezed her hand. “I'll be back to visit as soon as I can.” He let go of her hand and pulled down the bedspread before her eyes could suck him back in. Next he unpacked Rebecca's shoes and added them to the ranks already in the closet before heading downstairs.
Trig was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. “Took you long enough, Morris. Here's some good news: it's break time. Let's go to the living room.”
Malcolm followed him through the kitchen with its maze of boxes and utensils and appliances. He'd cooked steaks in that kitchen once, after he and Paul raided the freezer and found a few choice cuts of ribeye. But that memory didn't seem real now. It belonged to another man living another life.
Now the living room looked more like a crowded train station than the cozy spot where he'd lounged on the couch. A different man sat on that couch—the only one seated in the room. Two of Maurice and Rebecca's minions, dumb-looking men with flat foreheads and bulging muscles, flanked him. Everyone else gathered around them, murmuring.
Trig pushed Malcolm through a group of women who'd been doing some of the unpacking in Malcolm's old bedroom. He pulled him to a halt next to Rebecca and Maurice. “Here he is. He's not the fastest one. I told him to come downstairs—”
Maurice cut him off with a flick of his hand. He didn't even bother to look at him. “You're a good man, Trig.”
“Thank you, master.”
Rebecca whirled and grabbed Malcolm by the wrist. “Come here. Don't be shy.” When she spoke, the scent of that golden liquid wafted into the air. Its cloying sweetness made his stomach churn, but it still called to him. Beckoned him down the greasy slide of his addiction. Rebecca smiled. “Are you nervous? That's adorable.” Then she jerked him forward, pulling with an incredible strength for her size.
“Something curious happened,” she said. “Our moving attracted some unwanted attention. Aldous and Hicks caught this man snooping on the grounds.”
“We hoped he was just a neighbor wanting to say hello,” said Maurice. “But he tried to run when Aldous and Hicks went after him. Strange.” He clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. He'd been drinking that golden stuff too—it emanated from his every pore. “Normally I wouldn't think twice about lopping his head off and turning him into fertilizer. But he says he knows you and your friends.”
Malcolm noticed Paul and Charlotte on the other side of Maurice, half a world away. Then he turned to the man on the couch. He wore jeans that had once been blue and a shirt that had once been white, but now they blended together in a brown the color of bacon grease. Stubble clung to his face, raced along its sharp chin and disappeared into the sunken spots near his ears.
The man stared back at him, defiance in his eyes.
Malcolm knew that look.
It was the same look he'd seen across the interrogation table in the Tattersall police station. That wolf's look.
“I told you I'd find you.”
Malcolm blinked, but the man was still sitting on the couch when he opened his eyes. “Broyles?” He spoke softly. Like if he said the name too loud the nightmare would become reality…
Except it already was reality, glaring up at him from the couch.
“So it is true,” Maurice said. “You know him?”
“Where's your friend?” Broyles said, leveling his eyes on Malcolm. “The little slut with the magic trick?”
Malcolm shook his head. Atlas was dead, and so were all the skins he'd worn. Now he was floating down the Rae River somewhere, thanks to Malcolm's insatiable itch for the gold. “How'd you find us?”
Broyles snorted. “You gave me the address, remember? It didn't take a genius detective like yourself to find the place.”
Malcolm's face went hot, then clammy.
Paul and Charlotte's eyes were on him.
“That was good,” Broyles continued. “That stunt with the boat. I gotta hand it to you. But they let me out once I made enough noise. Lucky I'm a good swimmer.”
“Is he really a lawman?” Rebecca said. “He told us he's a lawman.”
Malcolm nodded. “As crooked as they come, too.”
“That's… unfortunate,” said Maurice. “I hate lawmen.” He turned to Broyles. “That means we can't just let you leave. You and your yellow-bellied friends could cause us some serious trouble. We can't have that happening in our beautiful new home.”
“Why did you come here anyway?” said Rebecca.
“He wants the girl,” Charlotte said. “Nora. One of the ones you let go.”
Rebecca sneered. “I know who Nora is, you fool. I know all of my children. What I want to know is why?”
“They took her,” Broyles said. “They took her and everything else away from me.”
“Don't be ridiculous. She's fine. We said goodbye to her ju
st yesterday.”
Broyles leaned forward. “Said goodbye—where? Where'd she go? I need that girl.”
“Hush. She had her friend with her. It wasn't right to keep her any longer. Not now, when we have everything we need.”
Maurice put an arm around Rebecca's waist. “I'll take care of this.” He clapped his hands, and all around the room the servants straightened their backs to attention. “Suppertime, everyone. Julie and Marie have been working for hours getting everything ready for you louts. We'll dine out back.” Then he motioned to the hard men next to Broyles. “Bring him too. I'm not sure what I'm going to do with him yet.”
He led Rebecca out of the living room onto the sprawling back patio. The servants stood silent after they left, looking at one another to see who would make the first move. Then Trig screamed at them to hurry, and the natural order of things was restored. One by one they filed out of the living room. They stepped out onto the patio tentatively, testing the ground like it might have molten lava underneath. The sun had gone down, and two serving women scooted along in the starlight preparing a spread across several folding tables.
Maurice and Rebecca got in line first. They accepted a round of apologies—we didn't have much time, the kitchen isn't fully stocked yet—with their plates before Rebecca cut them off. “It looks lovely.”
She wasn't lying.
When Malcolm got to the front of the line he realized just how hungry he'd been. His stomach growled as he filled his plate with bread and beans, sausage and potato salad. The servants around him shot him dirty looks. Now wasn't the time to be greedy. But Malcolm ignored them and piled his plate high anyway. After he reached the end of the buffet line, he spotted Charlotte and Paul sitting in the corner of the massive patio and went over to them.
Their faces soured when he sat down.
“What do you want?” Paul said.
“Why in the world did you get so much food?” Charlotte said.
Malcolm shook his head. “She's here.”
“What?”
“She's here, dammit. Nora. She sneaked over here in one of the moving boxes.”
Paul dropped his fork and lowered his voice. “Are you serious?”
Malcolm nodded. Just when he started to tell them how he'd found her, Charlotte squeezed his arm and shook her head.
“What's going on over here?” a voice said.
Malcolm turned.
Trig. He sat down right in the middle of their little circle, cursing when some of Paul's beans splashed up from his plate and soaked his pants. He'd brought company with him: Broyles, and the two men who'd been guarding him on the couch. “What's going on? Tell me.”
“Nothing,” Charlotte said.
“You're pretty, but you're a bad liar.” He looked them over one at a time, staring right into their eyes. “No matter. You can enjoy all your escape fantasies now. That'll change after the whipping.”
Malcolm leaned forward. They all did.
“I'm sure you're wondering what I'm talking about,” Trig continued. “But I'll leave it up to master and mistress to fill you in. Demonstrations work the best, it seems.” He stood up with a groan, using the guards' shoulders to push himself up. “You two keep an eye on them. Let me know if you have a problem. Now if you'll excuse me. I have a seat at the head table.”
He smiled and turned away, doing a little jig as he left them.
“He's the craziest one of all,” Malcolm said. “A prisoner like us. Except he convinced himself he's free.”
The two men glared at him. “We aren't prisoners,” one of them said.
“We live to serve,” said the other.
“I'm sure you do,” Malcolm said. “But don't tell me you haven't wondered how it'd be if it was the other way around.”
Silence. Stupid expressions. They chewed their lips and rubbed their bald heads.
He sighed. “What if they were the ones serving you? If you could do whatever you wanted? Wouldn't you like that better?”
The men backed away from him like they'd been stung.
One said, “I don't know what you—”
“I don't know,” said the other, “and I don't like it.” He looked down at his fingers and curled them into fists.
“You don't have to do this,” Malcolm said. “Help us figure out how to get out of here, and we'll help you out of your bondage.”
Fists flew.
They sandwiched his face and sent Malcolm crumpling to the ground.
His face hit the patio with a slap.
Then they were kicking him, digging their boots into the soft spots between his ribs with the precision of trained killers. Broyles laughed as Malcolm flopped on the concrete, tried to flip over and face them. But it was all he could do to cover up and hope the beating would end soon.
Something told him it wouldn't—not until he was dead, at least—until Trig ran over and started screaming at them. “What are you doing? I leave you alone for two minutes, and look what happens!”
“He was making rude remarks, Triggy,” one of the men said. The other nodded, tapping his feet like he had better places to be. “He said he wanted to raise hands against master and mistress.”
Trig spat on the patio, narrowly missing Malcolm's cheek. “So? He's new here, you idiots. We'll learn him soon enough.” He shook his head. “Finish your supper. And don't make me come over here again. You're ruining the party.”
They sent him off with apologies and lofty promises. Malcolm clutched his swollen face. “Don't put yourselves out too much to help me.”
“Watch it,” Paul said. “You're the reason we're in this nightmare.”
Charlotte looked on. She squinted at Malcolm, tried to read his face like a language she couldn't understand. “You really gave him the address? I can't believe you—”
“No,” Broyles said, lurching to his feet and spilling his plate onto the patio. “This isn't happening. No way in hell this is happening.” He started to laugh and cut himself off when he couldn't put enough enthusiasm into it. He looked at them with wild eyes, a sailor lost at sea searching desperately for a lifeboat of reality to cling on to. “No. This isn't happening… is it?”
Malcolm sat up and started to probe his face with his fingertips. “Welcome to wonderland, Alice. It's a long way down the rabbit hole. You don't know much, but what I told you about the girl is true. She's fine. At least for now. Fielder took her. Before he—”
One of the men snorted. “Craig Babysnatcher? He was one of master and mistress’s favorite pets before we… lost him down in the chamber.”
“Shut up,” the other man said. “He's gone. And he's forbidden. If master or mistress hear you say that name, they'll turn your back into hamburger meat.”
The first man twitched and fell silent.
“I need to wake up,” Broyles said. “All of this is just a big misunderstanding.”
“Oh,” the second servant said. “You'll wake up, all right. And then you'll be whipped.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After dinner, Maurice had the serving women pass around bottles of liquor and wine.
This wasn't a normal thing, Trig assured Malcolm as he handed him a glass. But tonight warranted a celebration—the first meal of master and mistress's new life together. The servants drank like they hadn't seen alcohol for decades. Faces flushed and inhibitions erased, they laughed and sang together in the yard under a ribbon of stars.
Malcolm didn't drink a single drop. But Broyles emptied highball glasses of whiskey like they were shots, dispensing with ice and anything remotely resembling etiquette. He drank until his eyes crossed and he had to find refuge from his unstable world in a chair under a cabana.
Malcolm recognized the signs.
The man drank to forget.
It didn't work like he'd hoped it would, though. He just ended up pointing accusatory fingers at everyone who bothered to talk to him. His only words: “This isn't happening. This isn't real.” Over and over again. Shot after shot of Tenne
ssee's finest mash.
No closer to the end of his nightmare.
Except a nightmare for Broyles meant an opportunity for Malcolm. He went over and seized it before Charlotte or Paul could talk him out of it. Instead of telling Broyles to slow down, Malcolm refilled the man's glass and offered encouragement.
“All your fault,” Broyles said. “You and your stupid frie—oh, hell.” Then he took the glass and poured the whiskey down his throat. Burped. Snorted. Squeezed his forehead like it would help the world stop spinning.
“Want another one?”
Broyles laughed loudly enough to draw some of the revelers' attention. “Sonuvabitch. You know I wanna another.” He pounded the table. “This isn't happening. But I'm gonna kill you either way. When this is over.”
“Okay, Broyles.” Malcolm filled the man's glass again and slid it in front of him. This one would be the coup de grace...
But it wasn't even needed. Broyles was snoring now. He slept with his head lolled to the side, open-mouthed, dead to the world.
Malcolm took Broyles's drink for himself. Then he put his plan into action.
First he found Trig standing next to the special man and lady of the evening. “Hey. Broyles drank way too much. I'm going to take him inside. Where do you want him?”
Trig looked at his master and mistress and smiled. Not just smiled, but beamed like a proud father.
“You sure do train 'em well, Triggy,” said Maurice.
Rebecca laughed. “I just imagined what it would be like if we didn't have Trig around.” She passed the decanter of golden liquid back to her lover.
“Don't speak such blasphemy in this home, woman,” Maurice said. They laughed and shared a kiss. “Take him to one of the guest bedrooms. I don't care which one.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He doesn't deserve a bed, though,” Rebecca said. “The floor's just fine.”
Malcolm nodded. He took off before his courage left him. He pulled Paul away from Charlotte and convinced him—after spending way too much time doing it—to help. They dragged Broyles across the patio and through the middle of the party, drawing cheers and raucous laughter.
Into the mansion they went. It was empty and strange inside. Voices bubbled in the yard, and giant shadows cut across the living room whenever someone moved under the patio lights. But inside they were all alone.
Heretic (Demon Marked Book 2) (Demon Marked Saga) Page 12
