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

by Corey Pemberton

  Clamoring, they pulled him away from the staircase. They spoke to each other not in words, but grunts. Onto the poker table they placed him and held down his hands and feet.

  Malcolm watched them strip off his shirt, revealing a sunken chest covered in sweat. Trig and Broyles towered above the rest of the group, shamans guiding the faithful. The table was no longer a table. It was an altar, and Maurice was its sacrifice. No longer able to contain themselves, servants' hands shot out and found flesh. One woman dug her long fingernails into the meat of Maurice's arm, twisting, trying to separate skin from bone.

  Little by little they opened him up. His screams echoed through the living room. They grew louder and more frequent until the pauses between them completely disappeared.

  Someone grabbed his hand. “Come on!”

  Malcolm snapped out of his trance and found Charlotte next to him. She pulled him forward. Paul ran in front of her, scattering the ashes of the whip. They ran around the servants as they carried out their human sacrifice. Maurice was still very much alive—his screams were proof of it—but this time Malcolm didn't stop to look at him.

  Paul found Nora standing by the back patio with her eyes frozen on the madness unfolding on the table. She shivered while she watched, stopping only when Paul grabbed her hand and pulled her through the back door.

  They ran out into a blast of hot summer air with Malcolm and Charlotte right behind them. Malcolm stumbled over the threshold and fell onto the patio. Hands slipped under his armpits. They lifted him up, and he wrapped his hands around their shoulders. They dragged him away from that house, but not before Malcolm got one last look through the window.

  Maurice—what was left of that once unshakable man—lay on the table completely naked. He wasn't alone. Ripping hands and rows of teeth were up there with him. Tearing him apart. Eating him. Splotches of pale skin reddened under their mad artistry. Maurice screamed, and the new masters screamed to answer him. His head jerked up. For a moment their eyes met... until his faithful servants shoved him back down onto the table and began to fight for the choice parts of his face. He disappeared under a wave of gnashing teeth…

  And Charlotte and Paul pulled Malcolm forward.

  Maurice's screams spurred them on. Through the yard and over fences they went. Malcolm felt hungry eyes on him—faces drunk with sudden power. But he didn't dare look back. They dragged him along, going as fast as they could until somehow they passed through a clump of bushes onto an empty street.

  That's when exhaustion won.

  Malcolm's eyes closed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  He woke to the sound of footsteps. They were still moving, Charlotte and Paul pulling him along under the glare of a streetlight. Nora ran out in front of them. She turned around, and when she saw Malcolm's eyes fluttering she cried out.

  “Malcolm's awake! Are you okay?”

  They stopped for a moment on a winding sidewalk. Charlotte and Paul grunted, set Malcolm down on a clump of grass next to a mailbox. They leaned against it to grab the bricks and catch their breaths.

  Paul leaned down. “You all right?”

  Malcolm nodded. “Yeah. Sure.” The dew on which he sat sent a chill through him. He shivered, rubbed his arms, and shivered some more after he noticed the pair of lips on his upper arm.

  “Don't worry,” Charlotte said. “We're going to get that figured out.”

  “When?” said Malcolm. “If she comes back again I—I'm not sure I'll be able to make it out alive.”

  Paul and Charlotte huddled together and whispered to each other. The sidewalk sloped upward over their shoulders. Gates and ornate mailboxes dotted the landscape, the houses behind them tucked away among massive oak trees. Besides the cicadas and the occasional croak of a frog, there were no other signs of life. They were still in the Cloisters, working their way down the hill into the heart of Lemhaven.

  Malcolm squinted. At the top of the hill, he spotted the mansion where Rebecca and Maurice had taken up residence. It looked different in this strange stage of night where the moon and sun danced together, unsure of themselves. All of its lights were on. Its hallways were busy with movement. Floodlights in the yard cast shadows that unrolled from the house like burial shrouds. He couldn't believe they'd ever lived there willingly—ever found comfort in such a terrible place.

  Then, the sound of sirens.

  They were unusual in a city where gunshots and murder were the norm. But residents of the Cloisters still had a stubborn faith in the city's finest. Now those sirens screamed up the hill. They grew louder by the second, and when Malcolm looked down the road he saw headlights.

  “Get down,” Paul said. He picked up the girl and hid her behind the mailbox before pulling Malcolm and Charlotte into a clump of nearby bushes. Dogs barked somewhere behind them, and soon enough the entire neighborhood was filled with their howls.

  Paul pulled the bushes tight in front of them just as strobe lights painted the street. Red and blue and blinding yellow they came. Tires squealing, three sedans roared by up the hill. They watched them pass in silence, gathering their breaths, waiting until the sounds faded and the headlights joined the others at the house on the hill.

  Paul pulled them out, and then they set off. They hugged the fence line and watched the street closely, but no more police cars came. Malcolm forced his feet to churn forward, his body tense with every sound and rustling movement. He kept looking at the mansions they passed and waiting for lights to come on and their owners to come out wielding guns. But the residents of the Cloisters—those too stupid or stubborn to leave Lemhaven—huddled behind their walls and hedgerows. It was there they'd make their last stands in a city given over to crime and chaos.

  They crept down the hill one after another in single file. None of them spoke. Nora cried out once when gunshots started popping off at the top of the hill. Charlotte covered her mouth and told her they were just fireworks. When she removed her hand the girl didn't scream again, but her eyes were suspicious.

  Gone were the days of peace and persuasion. Now, violence was the only leverage. Even a child could see it.

  Malcolm's muscles ached as they descended. Talia had carved an empty space in him. She'd left him with nothing but fatigue and pain. Every few minutes his eyes would close and he'd slap himself to open them again. Baths and sofas and beds swirled around him as they walked. They disappeared every time he got close. They were nothing more than mirages—vapor—just like the gatekeeper in his tuxedo.

  A few moments later, two more police cars came. Their headlights sent the walkers scattering into a roadside ditch. They lay on their stomachs until they couldn't hear the engines anymore. Then they pulled themselves up and continued on with mud caked on their clothes and skin.

  The night dissolved into an endless tunnel of trees and shoes scraping pavement. Finally the sun peeked over the top of the hill and cast its warming rays on their backs. A few cars climbed up and down the hill now. Their drivers were tight lipped, and they sped up to avoid the band of vagrants on the side of the road.

  They didn't bother with secrecy anymore. It took all of their attention just to put one foot in front of the other. Then, just before Malcolm asked where they were headed, something slapped on the pavement behind them. He looked left, then right, but there was nothing but abandoned houses and empty fields lined with barbed wire fences. There were no ditches here—no nooks and crannies to slip away. With nowhere to hide there was only one thing left to do:

  They turned around to face the noise.

  A man was charging down the hill. Not running, but floating just a few inches above the street. “Wait,” he called, raising his arms in the air. Splotches of trees and pavement appeared behind him as he moved. Either the light was playing tricks on him, or the man wasn't completely solid. The edges of his limbs looked real enough, but they thinned as they approached the center.

  Paul held his hands at his side, ready to let them fly.

  Charlotte grabbe
d him by the arm. “Wait.”

  They stood side by side on the road to face him, and when he got closer Malcolm noticed the man was wearing a tuxedo.

  “Richard?”

  He stopped in front of them, nearly slipping on the pavement. “Yes.” Doubled over. Gasping now. “I'm… glad I… caught you.”

  “Please,” Charlotte said. “We're sorry about what happened with Rebecca. We didn't mean for it go like that.”

  Richard shut his eyes and winced. When he opened them, tears settled into the lines of his face. “I know. It's just… now that Rebecca is… I don't have anywhere else to go, you see. There's nothing left for me here.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Charlotte. She looked at Nora. “The same thing almost happened to me as well.”

  “Let me come with you, then. I can't stand that woman Maurice dealt with up here, but she hasn't been wrong. You all have a bigger part to play in this puzzle.” He swept an arm to point at the city below them, a city just waking. “With whatever happens down there.”

  Malcolm looked at the others. None of them said a word. The man behind them shuffled his feet and played with his bow tie like an anxious teenager waiting on his prom date.

  “Please,” he said. “You might have use for me. You've already seen what I can do when you dream.”

  Nora stepped forward and attached herself to Malcolm's leg. “Let him come. I like him. He's nice, and he can take us up there.” She pointed at a line of clouds rolling across the sky.

  “Wait,” Malcolm said. “What happened at the house after we left?”

  Richard's face went pale. “I… don't think that's a good idea.”

  “Tell us.”

  He sighed. “The same thing that's happening down there in the city. When everyone wants to be the master, only the strongest and most ruthless win.” He looked over his shoulder up the hill and shuddered. “If you think what happened to Maurice was bad—it was bad, but well deserved, mind you—you can't even imagine what they were doing to each other. I left right when the police showed up. Hopefully they gunned down whoever was still standing. Mercy killings, if you ask me. Tear that whole house down and let it rot.”

  “Did you see what happened to Broyles?” said Paul.

  Richard shrugged. “He was still fighting when I left.”

  Malcolm looked at him and revealed the lip mark on his arm. “Maybe I should have stayed up there too.”

  Richard shook his head. “You might be an addict, but you aren't like them, twisted by decades of torture and corruption.” His eyes fell to the pavement. “I watched it happen. For decades I waited in the wings and helped it happen… all in hopes of winning over a woman who wanted nothing to do with me. If they were corrupt, what does that make me?”

  Malcolm opened his mouth, but he didn't have any answers for him.

  “Come on,” Paul said. “Let's get down this hill before the sun melts us. Maybe find some fresh clothes and a place to stay.”

  “He's right,” Charlotte said. “A bath would be nice.”

  Richard walked out in front of them and led the way down. “Thank you,” he said without turning around.

  “Don't thank us yet,” said Malcolm. “You don't have a clue what you're getting yourself into.”

  “I know one thing. We need to take care of your mark before that demon comes back. I've heard there are ways—not easy ones—but if we can get in touch with someone who has the old power—”

  “Atlas,” Paul said. “His people seem like a good place to start.”

  “Maybe they can help me get this cursed bracelet off too,” Charlotte said.

  “If they don't kill us first,” said Malcolm. “I'm sure they're wondering what happened to their brother.” An image of the balancer's corpse flashed before his eyes. He was a good man. He deserved better than that.

  “We have to try something,” Charlotte said. “Anything is better than just waiting for her to come back.”

  Malcolm smiled. “You could do something. You and Paul and Nora could take off down this hill and never tell me where you went. Hell, you go with them, Richard. I got us into this. You know, actions and consequences and all that. None of you owe me a thing.”

  “Maybe,” Paul said. “But you're in this now. Really in this. If we go down, we all go down together.” The others nodded and continued down the hill.

  The pavement leveled off, and they found themselves in that sparse no man's land between the Cloisters and the city's heart. Down the street they walked, battered but not broken, into one realm of servitude into another. They'd served Maurice and Rebecca before, but now Malcolm felt the whips of another master.

  Fate?

  Destiny?

  Random chance or divine indifference?

  No one could say for sure… but they were about to find out.

  TO BE CONTINUED…

  The Most Important Thing You Can Do to Spread the Word

  Thanks so much for reading my book.

  There are a million different things you could have done with your invaluable time and attention. So it means the world to me that you gave the Demon Marked saga a chance. You rock. Seriously.

  But I’d appreciate it if you could do just one more thing (it’ll only take a minute)…

  If you enjoyed my story, please leave a rating and a review today.

  WHY YOUR REVIEW MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE

  For centuries, publishers and booksellers determined which books saw the light of day. Not avid readers like you. You only got to experience a few stories—the ones that made it through all the gatekeepers.

  But as Bob Dylan says, “The Times They Are a Changin’.”

  Now you have all the power.

  Now readers like you and writers like me can cut through the red tape and interact directly.

  Now reviews separate books that get found and read from those that don’t.

  There are a ton of great writers out there publishing their own work. But it only takes something as simple as a two or three sentence review to help writers you enjoy separate themselves from the pack.

  That’s why your review is so important.

  I’m not wild about being so upfront and asking you for one (it makes me feel like I’m one of those dudes in a telethon), but as a new writer, getting discovered and reaching new people helps me do what I love most: keep writing.

  Ultimately, I’d continue whether I had millions of dear readers or if it were just me and my computer screen. The numbers aren’t as important as the itch—the drive to create characters and worlds. I’ve written for over 10 years now, knowing deep down it was what I was meant to do. So I’ll go on doing that in any way I can.

  But I’d much rather connect with you and others. That’s when something magic happens. I have so many stories to tell, and I want to keep telling them to you forever.

  Your reviews—even though they only take a few minutes—fuel my ability to go after my dreams. That’s how important they are. The more of them I get, the more stories I’m able to tell, the more time I can spend telling them, and the more experiences we can share together.

  WILL YOU JOIN MY ELITE ONE PERCENT?

  Do you know that only about 1 in 100 (1%) of people who read a book actually review it?

  It’s true.

  Some people don’t care about that stuff.

  Others don’t understand how important it is (especially to new self-published authors like me).

  Some people don’t leave them because they feel like they don’t know what to say.

  And everyone’s busy.

  So, if you can’t leave a review for whatever reason (or it you just don’t want to), I totally understand. The most important thing to me is that you gave me a chance—that you’re reading and spending time with the stories I created.

  But if you do want to step up to the plate and leave a review, understand you’re joining a very special group of readers making a huge difference in my life. You’re helping me get noticed an
d reach new people. You’re helping me follow my dream.

  The toughest thing for indie authors is finding an audience. Word-of-mouth and reviews at places like Amazon, Apple, Barnes & Noble, and Goodreads can make all the difference whether a new reader will find me.

  If you have a few minutes, you’ll make a BIG difference in how my story as a new indie writer unfolds. This is a story we can write together!

  Your review doesn’t need to be long, dramatic, or flowery.

  Just honest.

  A few sentences why you liked the book is all it takes. I’ll consider it a personal thank-you.

  Thank you for reading,

  Corey Pemberton

  * * * *

  About the Author

  Corey Pemberton is a freelance copywriter and storyteller who finally worked up the courage to share something he wrote. He’s been writing in his spare time for over 10 years now, filling up desk drawers and flash drives with short stories, novels, and plenty of bits and pieces. Heretic is the second installment in the Demon Marked saga, his first foray into the wild (and wonderful) world of self publishing. The journey has just begun, but it’s already been an unforgettable ride!

  Corey loves dark, character-driven fiction where the real and the fantastic collide. Some of his favorite authors are Stephen King, Chuck Palahniuk, Raymond Chandler, Robert E. Howard, and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  When he isn’t pounding his keyboard, Corey is reading, doing something outdoors, or sweating his butt off at his Brazilian Jiu Jitsu gym. He lives in Austin, Texas with his beautiful wife, Alejandra. And he appreciates your support more than you know.

  Connect with Corey and stay in the loop about upcoming stories here:

  http://coreypemberton.net

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