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

by Corey Pemberton

  Behind Rebecca appeared a glowing light. It blinded Malcolm to look at it straight on, but he tracked it around its edges. An orange lens of light sprouted from the hardwood flooring, rising a few feet off the ground before curving downward again. Its intensity faded, faded until Malcolm could make out the center. There, lights of different shades—copper and crimson, sunflower and sunrise—crisscrossed and blended together much like the filaments of the soul net. Except this wasn't a net but a gate, opening up to places unknown. Malcolm squinted his eyes to look through it, but all he saw was darkness. Then the gate started to waver before his eyes, become transparent and finally invisible.

  Malcolm looked down. Rebecca was gone. Either that gate had carried her through on its own, or something had pulled her through to the other side.

  “Out of my way,” Maurice yelled, pushing aside a pair of dumbfounded servants. He knelt down to look at Malcolm, cupped his hands, and started to collect golden liquid off the floor. He had Trig pry open Malcolm's mouth open so he could funnel the stuff straight down his throat.

  Talia snarled and spat as much out as she could. When she tried to lunge at Maurice, he grabbed Malcolm by the neck and slammed him to the ground. He held him there and scooped more liquid off the floor. Down the hatch it went. Except this time he covered Malcolm's mouth after, so there was nothing to do but swallow and suffer.

  Then there was pain—a twisting in his intestines.

  He kept still so he wouldn't brush against the soul net. But there were plenty more handfuls where that came from—so many the pain blended together into a single, endless mass. Finally Malcolm surrendered. He let Maurice pour the liquid down his throat until he was on the verge of unconsciousness. For a second that golden liquid almost tasted good again. He swallowed willingly now, a patient accepting his medicine.

  Talia whispered somewhere in the corner of his mind. She was still there, in him but not driving anymore. Now she lurked in the background, speaking in a strange tongue. Maurice gathered three more handfuls of the golden liquid—the floor was almost completely dry now—and turned to the waif holding the soul net.

  “Okay. I think she's had enough. Take off the net. Slowly. If she doesn't jump out of him as soon as you do, throw it back on or I'll kill you myself. Got it?”

  The woman nodded without a word. With trembling hands she lifted the net over his calves, his thighs, his torso. Next she freed his shoulders, until all that was left was maneuvering it over his head.

  Talia squirmed inside him, very much alive now. She sprang to the front of his consciousness the moment the serving woman removed the soul net. Then she turned to Maurice.

  He's next.

  That was Malcolm's only thought.

  The net was gone. A tremendous pressure in his stomach replaced it. It squirmed around inside him, building until every rib throbbed in agony. Then Talia burst out of his chest into the air. Malcolm writhed on the ground, feeling his shirt for a massive hole through which she came, but found none. He and the others watched that beautiful seductress float towards the living room ceiling.

  Maurice lunged for her, his face filled with rage. His hands went right through her.

  She flew in wide circles, flying faster as she tightened her course. Her clothes unraveled and fell to the floor as she circled the chandelier. Faster and faster she flew, until she was spinning so fast she looked more like a top than a murderer. The edges of her figure softened. She dissolved in the chandelier light, leaving behind a trail of dust.

  Then she was gone, vanished through the ceiling. The only evidence she left behind was a tiny whirlwind which kicked up chips and playing cards and tugged at their clothes.

  Malcolm lay motionless on the floor. Her visit had sapped everything he had. His energy. His will to live.

  Above him, Maurice and Richard were arguing. First they exchanged words while the servants watched. Then they exchanged fists. They scrapped for a bit, dancing for a dead woman's favor, before Richard wrapped Maurice in a headlock and pulled him to the ground.

  They landed next to Malcolm, who crawled away at the last second to avoid being smashed. Locked in combat, faces covered in sweat, the men pounded on each other. Their chests heaved as they grunted and hurled insults, each blaming the other for Rebecca's death.

  Malcolm crawled away from the scuffle and used a chair to pull himself up. Charlotte watched from the center of the room. She had Nora's face tucked against her leg. She stood there like a piece of furniture, still while everyone else in the room scurried around her. Malcolm staggered over to her—Talia had stolen his breath—and leaned against the wall, trying to refill his lungs.

  “Where's Paul?” he said.

  “He's upstairs somewhere.” Charlotte wrapped an arm around him when he fell away from the wall and nearly collapsed. “Not now, Malcolm. I need you with me until we get out of here.”

  Malcolm nodded. His vision tunneled into blackness, opened up, narrowed again. It felt like God or karma or fate was using his eyes as a camera and adjusting the aperture. In one of the wide shots Malcolm saw the servants moving.

  They charged towards the men on the ground still grappling for dominance. Men and women of all shapes and sizes—Broyles was in that pack too—who weren't injured too badly by Talia to heed their master's call. They reached for Richard and tried to separate him from Maurice, but he dissolved into vapor and slipped through their outstretched hands.

  “After him!” said Maurice, tracking the disturbance with an outstretched finger as it traveled along the floorboards. “Don't let him get away.” He shut his eyes, and a cracking sound filled the room. His loyal servants jerked this way and that, struck by his demonic whip before rushing after the vapor.

  Richard led them around the room in circles. Some servants crashed into each other. All of them screamed in frustration. Malcolm and Charlotte watched the vapor float around the room, materialize into a man inches away from Maurice's face, then land a punch right between his eyes before disappearing again.

  “Coward,” Maurice said, clutching his face. “Come out and fight me, coward. It's the least you can do now that you ruined everything.”

  “Fight you and your army?” Richard's voice. It drifted down from somewhere high in the rafters. “Who's the real coward, Maurice?” The servants stopped running and clustered together while the gatekeeper hovered above them.

  “What do you want us to do, master?” said Owen the airman.

  Maurice looked at him and flexed his fists. If he couldn't reach Richard, this idiot would do. He lunged for him, face twisted…

  And swatted nothing but thin air.

  Owen was gone.

  Maurice and the others scanned the room and found nothing. Then Richard appeared right in the middle of the cluster—in human form this time—and grabbed two servant women by their collars. He shoved them forward before any of the others could react. By the time they tried to grab him he was vapor again, and the group was down two more servants. Gone. Vanished right under the light of the chandelier.

  “What's happening?” Maurice said. The servants backed away and started to point fingers at one another, suddenly distrustful of anything their eyes showed them.

  Charlotte grabbed Malcolm's arm. “He's pushing them through the gate.”

  They watched a few more servants disappear. They didn't even have a chance to scream before the gate swallowed them. Out of this reality they flew with mouths open in slack-jawed confusion. The servants who remained fidgeted and hugged their chests, but Richard's fly-by kidnappings made making sense of the situation impossible.

  So they did the only thing left to do.

  They gave in to madness.

  Some servants—the smart ones—fled. Others huddled on the ground with their heads between their knees screaming for it to end. Maurice's scream overpowered all the others. He shouted so loud the floorboards vibrated beneath him as he charged.

  He dove for the vapor with his soul net outstretched, cast it th
rough the air, and succeeded only in wrapping up one of his servants instead. She screamed, writhing around with the net stuck to her like a predatory octopus sucking on her skin.

  “Damn,” Maurice said. He went to rip the net off…

  But the woman was gone.

  The gate had devoured her and taken the net with her. Maurice jerked backwards from its hazy orange maw, barely visible, before it swallowed him too. He yelled again as that circle of light darkened and vanished. He called for Richard to come out and fight him like a man.

  Richard just laughed. He flew around the room, ripping the chandelier off its mounting and sending it crashing down onto the floor. Two servants were crushed under the burnished brass. Exploding crystal sliced up some of others, casting rainbows in every direction as it fell.

  “We have to get out of here,” Malcolm said.

  Charlotte pushed the girl into his arms. “Take Nora and go. I have to find Paul. We'll catch up to you.”

  Malcolm opened his mouth to protest, but she closed it with a withering look.

  “Go. You can hardly walk—much less make it up the stairs. Go out the front. We'll find you.” She turned and ran straight for the staircase without waiting for him to reply.

  Malcolm grabbed Nora and threw her over his shoulder. They crossed crystal shards and poker chips and writhing limbs, weaving closer to the foyer. Some servants reached for him with spade marks pulsing on their bodies. Even though they were wounded—many of them on the verge of death—they faithfully carried out their master's commands.

  Nora screamed while Malcolm kicked them off. They staggered past the serving women and the fat piano player and other familiar faces. Felicia the glamorous with her flapper dress and feather boa. Aldous the business tycoon with his top hat and wool suit. Even Adeline, clawing at them from the floor in her nursing uniform.

  “Where the hell do you think you're going?”

  Maurice. He blocked the path into the foyer, holding the remaining soul net with the waifs Octavia and Anabella at his side. Trig towered behind them with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

  Malcolm wobbled. His vision was tunneling again. Nora slipped off his back and into a pool of blood. Shaking, she popped up and latched onto his leg. Still screaming. Still begging for answers when Malcolm had none.

  He looked around the room. The threshold to the kitchen was unguarded, but it lay across a wasteland of poker chips and screaming servants. They charged toward him when their eyes met. Twitching and bleeding they came, spurred on by the cracking whip in their master's mind.

  The waifs and Trig came for them while Maurice turned his attention back to the man abducting his servants. They walked slowly, with a quiet confidence where capture was inevitable. Nora was hitting his legs with her little fists. She begged for action, but Malcolm's body refused to listen.

  He looked at the chaos around the room. It was a fitting way to end things. A messy bow to wrap up the strangeness of his life. He told the girl to run for the back patio, closed his eyes when the waifs' hands landed on him.

  Then there were echoes on the staircase.

  He listened to footsteps pound down the steps as the waifs pulled his arms behind his back and Trig grabbed his legs.

  “It's destroyed!” someone screamed. “The whip is destroyed!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The grip on Malcolm's body loosened, and he turned to look with the others.

  Paul stood at the bottom of the stairs with Charlotte behind him. Panting, he held a lit candle against a charred strip of leather. The end of it was still burning, flames licking unraveled strands and dancing near his arm.

  He repeated himself and held it up for all to see.

  “Nonsense,” Maurice laughed, but he slipped on his poker player mask a moment too late. Fear filled his eyes. Malcolm watched them dance around in their sockets.

  Trig laughed too. Then he squeezed the back of Malcolm's neck.

  “Did you really think that was going to work?”

  The flames reached Paul's hand, forcing him to drop the whip. Richard appeared right next to him. He took off his tuxedo jacket and used it to fan the flames while everyone else watched the whip wriggle on the ground.

  “You've been his loyal servants,” said Richard, “but tonight you are free. The bond is broken.” He stepped onto the first stair and raised his voice. “You are the new masters now!”

  Maurice rushed forward. “Didn't you see what this man just did to m-my lovely Rebecca?” His voice wavered. “It's all his fault. Don't believe a thing he says.” He snatched a glass of water off the table and motioned for Trig to do the same.

  Malcolm grabbed a glass too, though his was filled with whiskey.

  “That whip is mine,” said Maurice. “It's all I have left.” He and Richard picked up their wrestling match right where they'd left off. Maurice tossed his water over Richard's shoulder. It landed on what was left of the whip, sizzled and nearly put out the fire. Trig emptied his glass too. Then he started raining down punches on Paul until all he could do was cover up and pick at the man's legs. Hicks handled Charlotte, grabbing her by the hair and slamming her against the bannister. She couldn't get away from him no matter how hard she tried. Not with that bangle around her arm.

  Malcolm staggered over to them while the other servants looked on. They let him pass untouched, all of their attention on the little flame until Maurice whipped them with his mind just as Malcolm reached the bottom of the stairs.

  They came forward. Spade marks pulsing. Moaning with their faces twisted in pain.

  Malcolm called to his friends, but none of them answered. Their faces were lost in the blood and sweat gathering at the bottom of the staircase. Whiskey glass in hand, he slipped into the mass of bodies. He dove forward.

  The burning whip was right there beneath them.

  Richard fought with it at his back while Maurice tried to rush forward and grab it. He dove between Richard's legs and started to beat the fire with his hand, screaming while he did it. His palm reddened and crisped, and Malcolm could smell flesh succumbing to the greedy flames.

  Then there were dozens of hands on him.

  A whole mass of servants heeding their master's call. They worked together to pull him away from the flame in a single collective heave…

  But not before Malcolm loosed the whiskey glass.

  It sloshed through the air like projectile vomit, covering the floor and everyone fighting above it. Some of it landed on the whip.

  The flames raged, chewing through the last few braids.

  “No,” Maurice screamed. His hand was still on it, burning with the leather. “No.”

  But what was in motion stayed in motion. The fire found the handle next. The leather strips came apart and shriveled until there was nothing left but a pile of ash.

  Without fuel the fire weakened. It wobbled on a drop of whiskey for a moment and, that gone, shrunk and went out.

  Maurice screamed again. He pulled his hand away from the ashes and looked at it. Charred flesh peeled off his bones in little strips. All that was left was a smoking stump.

  “It's done,” Richard gasped. “You're the masters now.”

  Maurice closed his eyes. He recited a prayer in a strange language. He was trying to whip them. Over and over he chanted, until tears ran down his face...

  And his servants stood motionless.

  “Kill them,” he said. “Kill them, you idiots. They ruined everyth—oh, God—look at my hand.”

  Richard turned into vapor, passed through the group of servants, and reappeared standing on the poker table. “You have your freedom now. Do with it as you please.”

  Paul and Charlotte sat side by side on a stair gathering their breaths. Their faces were battered, but the servants had stopped their onslaught. Now Trig looked at Maurice the same way those servants had looked at Richard when he yanked them through the gate. Here was a whole new world to explore—a free world that until now had only existed in hi
s imagination.

  Would he step over the precipice?

  “Is it… true, master? Are we free?”

  “Of course it's not true, you moron.” Maurice spat out the words rapid fire, glanced at his hand again, and steadied himself on the bannister. “You're mine. Always have been. Always will be.”

  “I don't know,” Trig said. “I'm not so sure.”

  “What?” He turned to face the others. “Kill them. What are you waiting for?”

  “Gladly.” Broyles stepped forward. Somehow he'd avoided harm in all the chaos. He reached for Malcolm.

  “Wait,” said Trig. He turned Broyles away with a shove. “No, master. We won't kill them.”

  “Are you disobeying my command?”

  Trig bit his lip. “Whip us, then. If you still can.”

  Maurice closed his eyes and squeezed his brow, mouthed the same strange words. His servants tensed in anticipation…

  But no blow came.

  A sigh passed through the group. Muscles relaxed. Some of the servants even grinned.

  Trig grinned the widest of them all.

  He reached out a hand and snapped his fingers around Maurice's wrist.

  Maurice wriggled against the grip. “How dare you raise your hand at your mas—”

  “No,” Trig said, twisting Maurice's wrist. “We're the masters now.” His words breathed life into the servants' vacant faces. All of a sudden they were moving again, a mass of flesh churning toward the staircase. One by one those eyes caught fire as the bloodlust spread like a virus. Their infection had lain dormant for decades…

  Now it came to the surface.

  Eager hands fought to grab Maurice, to inflict pain in this new world where fortunes had changed. Trig swatted them away for a while before he gave up and hurled his master into the air. The others caught him in uplifted hands. Maurice squirmed on top of that fleshy magic carpet ride, trying to escape, but the mob had other plans.