Heretic (Demon Marked Book 2) (Demon Marked Saga)

by Corey Pemberton

Rebecca only sighed. The furrows in her brow said she didn't agree with it, but she let it go unchallenged. Maybe that's all she could do with this more beautiful, more confident woman around.

  “Great,” she said. “Thanks for the pie.” She rose to her feet and extended an arm for Malcolm to take. “Now if you'll take me to the front door? This is a terribly large place. I don't want to get lost in the labyrinth.”

  “Okay.” Her arm was warm and smooth in his own. They walked to the back patio in silence. Malcolm opened the door for her and ushered her through the kitchen. “Just up that way.”

  Liliana smiled, still clutching his arm. The longer she held it the more Malcolm's faculties left him. Their predicament faded away into a new world of smooth skin and laughter. “You know this place well.”

  “Yes, ma'am.” He'd have to remember that. Trig and the others would catch on quickly if he seemed too familiar with the house.

  She opened the front door and stepped onto the porch. Malcolm followed her out, but she didn't turn back to look at him. “Thanks. I'll be seeing you real soon.” Then she set off down the flower-lined walkway, stopping once in front of a cluster of rosebushes to pull out a little umbrella from her purse and open it. Under its shade she walked while the sun beat down on her. She walked fast, her skin so pale she was almost translucent in the summer light. Malcolm followed her with his eyes until she reached the end of the driveway, turned onto the quiet street, and kept walking until she disappeared behind a line of trees.

  He went back inside with fresh dread filling his chest.

  Something told him everything would be different now.

  “Liliana.”

  Her name tasted strange on his tongue when he whispered it. Foreign and forbidden. She'd come and gone, but she'd done much more than that.

  She'd changed the course of his destiny.

  * * * *

  Malcolm didn't get to talk with Paul or Charlotte the rest of the afternoon. They labored the day away in small groups, drone bees bound to serve the hive for eternity. Slowly but inexorably the home took shape before them. Trig was a master at redirecting them whenever they got a sip of idle time, funneling them back into the main rooms where he could watch them closer.

  Malcolm tried to avoid the study, and failed. It was open now—one of master's favorite rooms in the mansion. He started sweating whenever Trig ordered him into it with a box of books. Most of the furniture was different, but the oval mirror was still there, resting face down on that leather chair just like he'd left it. It begged him to pick it up and stare. To see if he could make it back to that golden pond all by himself.

  One decent thing happened: Malcolm was able to slip away for a second and give Nora the food he'd stolen. She smiled when he whispered her name and opened up the broom closet, but she looked weaker than the night before.

  “When can I get out?”

  “Soon,” he said, stuffing the biscuits in her hand. “Save some of these because I'm not sure when I'll be able to come back.”

  “I don't want biscuits. Charlotte gave me biscuits already. They're dry. I don't like them without jam.” She huddled near a mop bucket surrounded by cleaning supplies. “And my arms and legs are sore.”

  “I'm sorry.” He reached over and squeezed her cheek. “Soon, okay? I promise.” He was gone before she could reply. Someone was coming up the stairs.

  The rest of the day slipped by without incident. Malcolm tried to make smalltalk with some of the other servants out of sheer boredom, but they met his chatter with grunts or blank looks. Most of them were hungover, doing everything they could just to keep moving without having Trig yell at them.

  All of this, just so they could do it tomorrow and the day after that.

  Night fell when Malcolm was in the living room hanging picture frames on the wall. Rebecca and Maurice sat on the sofa with the decanter, lost in their own little world as it was built all around them. Every once in a while Trig would come by and tell him to move a picture left or right to make it level. Everyone else kept to themselves. Paul and Charlotte were upstairs somewhere, marooned on an island of half-full boxes.

  Richard. Richard the Unwanted.

  He tried calling once more—he'd already tried so many times he'd lost count—but no one answered. Malcolm swore under his breath. If he just had some of that golden liquid they were teasing him with he wouldn't have a problem. He'd hang gaudy picture frames and sing while he was at it if he could do it on that glorious high. Then, like they could read his thoughts, Maurice and Rebecca whisked the bottle out of the room and went outside. But Malcolm still had the hammer. He could hide it, stash it somewhere until the time was right then…

  Smash.

  He'd shatter that bottle into a thousand pieces.

  They'd whip him senseless. If he were lucky, maybe they'd even kill him. His blood boiled at the prospect. He'd go out like a junkie kamikaze. Then maybe the others could get away and take Nora with them. The hammer whipped forward in his hands and smashed a nail into the wall with a single strike. Malcolm hung a painting on it, savoring the reverberations in his forearms. All the paintings up, he climbed down the little ladder and folded it up.

  He packed up the nails and the level into the toolbox, leaving the hammer tucked away in his waistband.

  Bad move, my friend. You don't want to do that.

  Malcolm froze. His shirttail was already covering the hammer, but who had seen him? He looked around the living room. It was empty except for a pair of serving women. They were tidying up with their backs to him, facing the kitchen and the patio beyond. Then everything inside the room went askew, and it was all he could do to hold on to the wall to keep from falling over.

  Relax, a voice said inside his head. You called me, remember?

  A faint vapor swirled around the ladder, mingling with falling dust motes and blasting Malcolm with a cool draft of air. He looked up, down, side to side. “Richard?”

  That's right. Keep your voice down. You don't need it to speak with me. Better yet, don't even try. Just listen.

  Malcolm nodded. The vapor settled in the corner of the room along a bookcase, but the being inside it continued:

  Sorry I couldn't come when you called earlier. It's hard when Rebecca and her idiot boyfriend are around. He's gotten pretty good at spotting me. Now, what is it?

  Malcolm lowered his head and whispered, “I need your help. We have to get out of here. Us and the girl.”

  Use your thoughts, remember? We can all talk later tonight.

  How?

  The same way I talked to you last night. There are other gates besides the kind you crossed with your lady friend. Mind gates.

  Everyone needs to be there. So we can plan.

  What about the lawman?

  Malcolm sighed, considering it. We might be able to use him. But wouldn't he just rat us out to Maurice and Rebecca?

  No. I'm in charge when he dreams.

  Fine. And you can't forget the girl. Do you know where Nora—

  Of course I know. I won't. Until then, Malcolm Morris.

  “Wait.”

  But the vapor was already moving. Air spun together in a little whirlwind just off the floor, gathering itself, strengthening before whooshing right by Malcolm's face and out the room. He tried to grab it—to stop it and ask a hundred more questions—but that air passed right through his outstretched arm.

  And remember to put that hammer back, Morris. Don't do anything stupid.

  That was the last thing he heard before Richard the Unwanted disappeared. He looked around the living room, stashing the hammer in the toolbox once he'd checked to make sure there weren't any eyes on him.

  Once Trig announced supper, Malcolm left the living room to wash up. His heart pounded like it had whenever he looked too closely at that golden liquid. Delirious. That same terrible anticipation… without the reward. Richard said they'd meet tonight. But what would come of it?

  Dinner came and went without all the fanfare of the nig
ht before. They went through the same buffet line, but this time the serving women ladled stew instead of a barbecue feast. The servants ate quickly, silent except for the occasional slurp or a spoon scraping an empty bowl. There was no point of prolonging the meal without alcohol to lift their spirits.

  Malcolm ate with Charlotte, Paul, and the human tool that used to be Broyles. The hatred in his eyes—his vendetta to ruin their lives—had been ground down and replaced with empty space. Now there was only room for service. He dunked a piece of bread in his soup, swimming it around the bowl like he was eating with his hands for the first time. Malcolm stared at the spade mark on the sheriff's cheek. He'd been a dangerous creature before. But now he was just a shell.

  Maurice and Rebecca sat alone at a little table on the edge of the patio. They overlooked the yard, sharing laughter and golden liquid by candlelight. Malcolm watched them pass the bottle back and forth. Every time one of them drank, he felt a pang deep inside his chest.

  Finally Maurice got up and called Trig over. He nodded, then cupped his hands around his mouth to shout, “Supper's over! Let's get this cleaned up and start getting ready for bed.”

  Everyone went inside and left their plates with the washing women. After they showered and cleaned up, they returned in some kind of unspoken agreement to the same spots they'd slept the night before. Malcolm ran upstairs to claim a bed, but the piano man had beaten him. He lay there with his blubber stretching from edge to edge, humming that same damn tune he played from dawn to dusk.

  Other servants filed in after him, and soon the bedroom was full again. A few huddled together and talked in hushed voices. They shut their mouths when Trig made his rounds. Those thumping boots—those suspicious glances through the doorway—they meant business.

  They meant lights out.

  “He's coming,” Malcolm whispered after the man had passed.

  Paul rolled over next to him. “What?”

  “You'll see. He's coming tonight.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  This time sleep came quickly.

  It snatched Malcolm away as soon as he shut his eyes and sent him drifting into darkness. When he opened them, he looked around and found himself suspended above Lemhaven. All of those artificial lights were strung below him just like before. Except this time they were even smaller. The skyscraper on which he'd stood—the one that had made the city's inhabitants indistinguishable splotches—was now an indistinguishable splotch itself.

  Tonight he floated somewhere higher, suspended not on concrete, but on the edge of a cloud. Dream Malcolm sat cross-legged on this humid pillow. He didn't move. He didn't even breathe out of fear it would cause him to fall through and plummet to the ground below.

  Then there was a voice.

  “Morris? You with me?”

  He let out a long, slow breath. “I'm here.”

  The cloud billowed beside him, coughing up wisps of moisture. When its surface settled, a man sat next to him. He wore a tuxedo and a charming smile. His hair was dark and disheveled, like he'd just walked in front of a wind turbine.

  “Richard?”

  He nodded, stood up on the cloud and walked closer.

  “Hey. What are you—”

  The man's look silenced him. He offered an outstretched hand instead of an explanation. Malcolm shook it out of reflex. His palm was warm. Full of life.

  “Beautiful, isn't it?” His brown eyes settled on the cluster of skyscrapers jutting up from the earth, sleek and brilliant with their lights and sparkling glass.

  “Sure,” Malcolm said, still huddled with his legs crossed in front of him. “Where are the others?”

  “I'll be right back. Feel free to look around if you want. Don't fall over the edge.”

  “I'll keep that in mind.”

  Then Richard dove right off the side of the cloud, laughing.

  Malcolm jumped up and watched him fall. He tumbled headfirst towards the river for a few seconds before vanishing in a layer of clouds. Malcolm watched and waited, but the man didn't appear on the other side. Something had plucked him out of the air. Swallowed him up.

  He backed away from the edge, legs trembling.

  For a moment everything was quiet. And Richard was right—it really was beautiful down there. Distance had a way of erasing Lemhaven's imperfections. He was free up here where the city lights gleamed. Free from crime and corruption and eternal service.

  At least for now.

  “Malcolm.”

  He looked back. Paul was sitting on the cloud. He looked around with his eyes half open, fluttering between asleep and awake. They widened when he touched the surface beneath him, and they almost popped out of his head when he crawled to the edge and looked down.

  “Careful,” Malcolm said. “We're on a cloud.”

  “Yeah. No kidding. Is this what you were talking about?”

  “Hopefully. I saw him just a minute ago. He said he'd be right back.”

  “Charlotte told me about him. How he came in your dream. Maybe he has to put us under one at a time.”

  Charlotte came next, and then Broyles. She joined Malcolm and Paul, but he just hugged his knees in the fetal position. “This isn't happening,” he said. Over and over. Louder and louder, until he was screaming into the sky like a forgotten old god.

  “Why's he here?” Charlotte said, once the sheriff had tired out.

  “I think he can help,” said Malcolm. “He's got as much against Maurice and Rebecca as we do.”

  “Yeah,” said Paul, “except he's a marked man now. He doesn't have a choice.”

  “We all have a choice.”

  “I don't know about that.”

  Up came Richard before Malcolm could reply. He burst up through the middle of their cloud perch with Nora holding his hand. The cloud came back together just in time for them to land on it, and then they were rolling around and laughing.

  The girl noticed the others and screamed. Her hugs felt real enough. It was good to see her smile. Broyles was the only one she avoided. But he didn't seem to mind. He kept his eyes pointed to the sky, repeating his mantra about none of this being real.

  “There,” Richard said. “Now that we're all together we can get started.”

  “Is this a dream?” Nora said. “I can do anything I want? It feels so real.”

  Richard smiled. “It is a dream.”

  Broyles let out a maniacal laugh. “I knew it. I knew it wasn't happening.”

  “Don't be so sure of yourself. It's a dream, but it is really happening. There are real consequences at stake.”

  Paul said, “They can't be any worse than serving those demons forever.”

  Richard nodded. “That's why I wanted to talk. To get us out of there.”

  “I don't want to hide anymore,” Nora said. “I want to go home.”

  Charlotte grabbed her and pulled her onto her lap. “We'll figure it out, Nora.”

  Malcolm looked at the man in the tuxedo. “You came to me saying you could help. How?”

  Richard tugged at his bow tie, unsure of himself.

  “I know them. Their habits and their weaknesses. I'm not saying I have a plan. Just that I'm willing to… play a part if you truly do mean to escape.”

  Charlotte snorted. “What do you mean? Of course we want to escape.”

  “That's what they all say.” He pointed at Broyles. “And then they end up like that. Everything changes once they get marked.”

  “Then we can't let that happen,” Malcolm said.

  Nora began to cry. “Don't make me stay in that closet anymore. I can't.”

  “I don't blame you,” said Paul. “I can't do this anymore either.”

  Charlotte ran her fingers through the girl's hair. “We have to figure out what to do—a solution.”

  “Yes,” Richard said, nodding his head. “But we don't have much time to do it, I'm afraid. Rebecca and that fool she's in love with can sense it when one they've marked isn't where he's supposed to be.”

&n
bsp; “You mean Broyles,” Malcolm said. The man looked back at them with a vacant gaze.

  “Right. He'll have to leave if one of them wakes.”

  “How long do we have?” said Malcolm.

  “Hard to say, really. Time's funny in this place.”

  Malcolm stood up, caught a glimpse over the edge of the cloud, and his heart began to race. He'd forgotten where they were. He'd gotten used to pushing the boundaries of reality. But every once in a while something would grab him by the collar and shake him:

  See how strange it is? This world, where everything isn't as it seems?

  Malcolm shook his head, tried to center himself on this ethereal platform. “All right. We don't have much time. But I think I have a plan.”

  “An escape plan?” said Richard. “Or a plan to end this problem for good? Maurice and his servants are very good at finding people. Escape would only be a temporary reprieve, I'm afraid.”

  Paul shrugged. “Why? If they keep drinking that gold stuff like they are now, why would they even want to come after us? Atlas said it gets rid of the corruption. At least for a while”

  “You would be right,” Richard said, “if Rebecca and Maurice were still revenants. As you saw with Malcolm, the effects on mortals are much different. And that's exactly what they are”

  “How?” Charlotte said.

  Richard shook his head. “Liliana showed Maurice a way. Something beyond my understanding. Now that they have a decanter of the Core, they can keep sucking down that vitality and live up here forever.”

  “You're right, then. Getting rid of them for good is the only way. Anything else will just give us false hope.”

  Paul opened his mouth to fire back and settled for an eye roll instead.

  “You keep saying 'Maurice and his servants,'” said Malcolm. “What about Rebecca? She's the one who wanted to whip us to kingdom come.”

  Richard folded his hands in his lap, staring back at him. “Kingdom come. What a strange expression. I can't say I'm familiar with it, but it's fitting for our time. Except the kingdom of evil isn't coming. It's already here.”

  Malcolm held up a hand. “We're not concerned with any of—”

  “You should be.”