Fractured (Guards of the Shadowlands, Book Two) Page 12

  “The Department of Children, Youth and Families has custody of Lela, Diane, not you.” But Nancy had picked up her purse, and the detective had gotten to his feet.

  Diane nodded. “I’m well aware of that. So you get her social worker on the line, and you tell them that the police are trying to violate this young lady’s civil rights.”

  “Ms. Jeffries.” Detective DiNapoli was almost at the door, looking a little shaken. “Apologies for any inconvenience. We’ll arrange to talk with Lela at a different time.”

  Diane’s finger was still waving. “You do that.” She pointed at Nancy. “And you arrange for a lawyer if that’s what’s going to happen. She’s no throwaway, so don’t you treat her like one.” Her outrage shook her usual honey voice.

  I watched, stunned, as Nancy and DiNapoli retreated, probably planning to regroup and form a strategy for their counterattack. As soon as they pulled out of the drive, Diane sank into the chair across from mine. It squeaked under her weight. “I’m sorry, baby. I should have asked more questions before you even got home.”

  “Thank you.” I leaned across the table and took her hand. Her eyes grew wide as I squeezed her fingers. “I didn’t do anything to either of those guys, Diane, I swear.”

  She looked up at me and gave me a fierce return squeeze that might have cut off my circulation. “I know, baby. But even if you had, it would have been justified.” Her words were quiet but clear as crystal. “If someone ever tries to hurt or take advantage of you, you fight back, and don’t apologize for it. Don’t let them hurt you.”

  I stared into her chocolate-brown eyes. I’d never talked about what had happened to me, had never admitted why I’d nearly beaten the life out of my foster father, Rick, who had been using me as his personal chew toy for months before I’d snapped. But I think Diane had figured it out a long time ago. “I’ll try. But this—what are they going to do?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. We’ll sort it out. I’m going to call your social worker before Nancy does.”

  I wrapped my arms around myself. “Can I go to Malachi’s, please?” I needed to get back to work.

  She pursed her lips. “Baby—”

  “Please, Diane. I just—I need to see him.”

  She stood up and pulled her hand from mine. “You’ve only known him for a week.”

  I mentally kicked myself for not asking to go to Tegan’s, but I was still too scattered and panicked. “I know. But he’s important, and I feel safe with him.” And, oh yeah, he broke my heart, and now looking at his gorgeous face feels like crawling naked over broken glass, but whatever.

  Her expression softened. She was wavering. “Is Mr. Raphael at home?”

  “I’m sure he is—all the parents were notified about this morning. He’d want to make sure Malachi was all right.”

  She nodded. “Go ahead. But you be home for dinner.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I got up from the table and walked as slowly as I could back to my room. I closed the door behind me.

  “Lela,” greeted Raphael. He was sitting on my bed.

  “Shit!” I gasped out. “That is creepy. Couldn’t you have sat at my desk?”

  He raised an eyebrow in a way that told me he thought I was ridiculous. I took a deep breath and leaned against the door. “I was just thinking I needed to talk to you.”

  “That’s why I’m here. You summoned me.”

  “I did? All I had to do was think about you? Since when?”

  He smiled. “Special circumstances.” He pulled his buzzing phone from his pocket. “One moment, please.” He held his phone to his ear. “Hello? Ah, Ms. Jeffries. Yes, I’m home. Terrible tragedy, today. Malachi is extremely sad. He knew the boy who died. It would be such a help to him if he could see Lela.” His gray eyes rose to mine. “Thank you. I’ll be here if you’d like to talk, of course.” He hung up. “You are free to go.”

  I scooted over to my bed and looked under it. “I need you to take something for me. I can’t be seen with it.”

  He shifted his legs as I scrounged through my junk. “Are you looking for this?” He held up the belt and sheath. “We have no intention of allowing you to be tried for murder.” He nodded at my desk, upon which sat a receipt for the new phone.

  I sank into my desk chair. “Couldn’t you have spared me the tense moments back there?”

  His look sharpened. “We won’t control people, Lela, contrary to what you believe about us. I will intervene as necessary for you to do your job, but I will not interact directly with the Mazikin, and I will not interfere more than is absolutely necessary with the living. The judicial process will have to take its course. But there will not be sufficient evidence to press charges.”

  “You can’t stop them from questioning me, can you?”

  He looked entirely unconcerned. “What I can do and what I will do are sometimes two different things. I am not here to give you what you want. I am here to—”

  I held up my hands. “To give me what I need. I know. Fine.” I folded the phone receipt a few times. “Okay, then, I need a few things,” I said as a plan formed in my mind.

  He tilted his head. “I’m all ears.”

  “I need camping stuff. Used. Heavily used.”

  “What, exactly?”

  “One tent. Two backpacks. A sleeping bag or two. And a bunch of old clothes. Like stuff you would find in the dark city. But I could do without the … you know, stringy, slimy stuff?” I could only go so far in the line of duty.

  “Non-slimy but heavily used camping equipment and clothes.” He stood up. “They’ll be waiting for you at the Guard house.”

  I stood up, too, not willing to let him get away yet. “Hey, where’s Aden’s soul now? Can you tell me? Is he in the Mazikin realm, or is he somewhere else? How does that work?”

  For the slightest moment, the edges of Raphael blurred and glowed, and I tensed. He frowned. “As that police detective said, I am not at liberty to say.”

  “Why not?”

  The glow disappeared. “Need, Lela. Only things you need.” And then he disappeared, too.

  FOURTEEN

  THE MOMENT I PULLED into the driveway of the Guard house, Malachi was out the door and on the porch, striding forward to meet me. He looked like he was planning to rip the car door off its hinges and scoop me into his arms. His relief and desperation made my heart beat double-time.

  But then he stopped dead at the edge of the walkway, like he’d run into an invisible wall. As I got out of the car, his smile faded to nothing. “We’ve been waiting to hear from you, Captain.”

  I ground my teeth. “Sorry about that. It turned out to be a minor complication. I hope.” I slowly walked past him and up the steps. Grab me touch me tell me it was all a mistake. Tell me you want to be with me. Tell me you were worried sick and then kiss me and make me forget.

  He didn’t. He followed me, keeping a respectful distance as we entered the house. Jim and Henry were in the living room, sitting next to the computer. The empty chair in front of the keyboard was overturned. Malachi leaned over and set it upright. “We were trying to fulfill your orders to check Facebook. And I’ve called or spoken in person to all the individuals we sat with on Friday. All are accounted for and appear to be themselves.” He gave me a weird look. “Ian Moseley asked how you were doing.”

  “Huh? It was his best friend who died.”

  “Yes, but he said … because of Nadia. Her suicide.”

  I fiddled with the zipper on my jacket. “Yeah. That was … nice of him, considering what he’s been through today.”

  “Very nice,” he said in a hard voice, drawing my eyes back to him. His hair was messy, and some of it was standing on end. His jeans were low on his hips and his T-shirt was fitted enough to make me look away.

  I thought of what Tegan had said about Laney. “How many of the girls you called invited you over to comfort them?”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t think—”

  “Three,” sai
d Jim.

  My gaze slid to Malachi’s face. He was staring at Jim like he’d love a chance to rough him up in a dark alleyway.

  “It’s fine.” I motioned for Malachi to move and sat down at the computer. Instead of getting his own chair, he stepped behind me, close enough so that I could feel the heat of him.

  I combined some research with a lesson in computer literacy for Henry and Jim. We checked YouTube—two more videos of the Animal Guy, except it was obviously two different Mazikin, with different body types and hair color. One was in the cemetery near the burned-out nest, but it had been taken before the fire. The newest video had been taken beneath a highway overpass near the waterfront.

  “That’s one of the homeless camps,” I said, pointing to the tents in the background. “Henry, I think you were right about these being favorite spots for the Mazikin.”

  I got up and stretched. “Raphael left some equipment for me in the basement. I’m going to get the stuff ready before I have to get back to Diane’s. We’ll patrol tonight. Henry, you’ll be with me.”

  Henry nodded and silently walked toward the stairs.

  I glanced up at Malachi as I edged past him. “Like I said on the phone, you and Jim can go sniff around the emergency shelters.”

  His footsteps dogged mine as I hit the stairs to the basement. “What equipment did you request?”

  I entered the training room to find a pile in the middle of the floor. “Henry and I are going undercover,” I explained. “It’s supposed to be a little warmer tonight, and that video showed that there are people staying in that camp. We’re going to join them. I want to see if we can talk to a few people—and maybe be in the wrong place at the right time.”

  Malachi stared at the equipment on the floor, which closely resembled a mound of garbage. “You’re hoping to get attacked.”

  “I’m hoping to grab one of them to interrogate.” I picked up a checkered sleeping bag that smelled vaguely like canned dog food. “I figure if I layer up and cover my hair, they won’t recognize me. And Henry already looks like a street person, so it’ll be easy for him.”

  “Jim and I could set up a perimeter. I can keep watch—”

  “You can go to those other places like I told you to,” I said firmly. “There are only four of us, Malachi. We need to be in as many places as possible. We keep missing them, and it has to stop.”

  “Of course,” he said, keeping his gaze focused on the equipment. “It was only a suggestion.”

  I dropped the sleeping bag and picked up a knit cap. Ignoring the smell of all the unwashed heads that had come before, I jammed it over my hair. “See? Don’t I look like a vagrant?”

  Malachi’s lips twitched, which made my heart skip. “Hardly.” He blinked and turned his back. “What weapons will you carry?”

  “I don’t know. Care to advise me?”

  He straightened his shoulders. “Knives. You’ll want to stay light and agile.” He paced over to the pile of old clothes. “Choose your clothes, and put them on.” He began to paw through them.

  “Now? I have to get back to Diane’s by six.”

  “That’s enough time for us to outfit you and practice. Your plan may be to capture instead of kill, but surely you do not intend to enter enemy territory unprepared.” He looked up at me and arched an eyebrow, his expression full of challenge.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I grumbled.

  He tossed me a thermal shirt with heavily stained pits. “Tight on the bottom, loose over the top.”

  It took me several minutes to figure out my outfit, which ended up consisting of two sets of long thermal underwear beneath a pair of holey jeans, which Malachi made sure would stay up by fastening a belt around my waist, where he secured two horizontally sheathed knives. He kept chivalrously turning his back as I wiggled into the clothes, and patiently waiting until I gave the all clear to turn around and start helping me again. He strapped a holster around my shoulders and torso that held four more knives. When I protested that it was overkill, he leaned down and looked me in the eye. “Underestimating the danger is a mistake. Do not make this mistake.”

  “I’m afraid I’m going to end up stabbing myself.”

  He held up a thick blue-and-yellow flannel shirt, holding it for me like a jacket while I put it on. For a moment, I felt the brush of his chest against my shoulder blades. He was that close. So close. I took a step forward to keep myself from whirling around and wrapping my arms around him.

  “Now,” he said, “to avoid the self-stabbing issue.” His hand skimmed up under my flannel shirt, and I gasped. He briskly unsheathed one of my knives and dragged it along his palm. No blood welled on his skin. “These are for practice,” he explained, handing it back to me.

  He made me draw the knives from the sheaths and strike out. Standing. Sitting. Squatting. Lying down. On my hands and knees. With my eyes closed. After spinning me around in circles to make me dizzy. With all the lights turned off. He made me erect the tent and lie inside while he attacked from the outside.

  An hour later, the tent was destroyed. My flannel shirt was ripped. I had a swollen red spot on my cheekbone, courtesy of his elbow, and Malachi had a bump on his forehead, courtesy of my knee.

  “One more time?” he invited. A drop of sweat fell from his chin.

  “I have to go in a few minutes, but what the hell.”

  “Do you have a position you’d like to try?” he asked politely.

  “From behind, maybe? I need more practice with that.”

  We stared at each other. Heat suffused my cheeks as I considered the double meaning of our conversation. Was Malachi aware of it, too? Did he care?

  He didn’t give me any hints. “Good choice,” he finally said. “Remember, keep your arms close to your body. If they’re out to your sides, that’s an invitation for me to strip you of the weapon.”

  “I know,” I said, turning my back to him. “But thanks for the reminder.”

  The space behind me filled with predatory silence. I closed my eyes, focusing on my hands, my aching muscles, the hairs on the back of my neck, which would warn me of his movement. I strained to hear him breathing, to picture his body behind mine, closing in. I wondered if he was watching me now, and what he was thinking.

  And then I heard it, the tiniest plop of a drop of sweat on the mat that told me where he was—and that he was moving. I didn’t wait for him to attack me. I attacked him. I whirled around, dropping low, and plowed into his legs, drawing a knife and sliding it along the backs of his knees, hard enough to have sliced his tendons if my blade had been sharpened. And he knew it, because he let himself fall backward, but he caught me by the shoulders and dragged me down with him.

  My head bounced off the wall of his chest as he crashed into the floor, nearly making me bite my tongue in half. I ripped my arm back and jammed the knife against his side, satisfied by the whoosh of his breath at the impact. He elbowed me hard in the shoulder, numbing my arm and hand. The knife fell from my grip, and he reached for it, but I elbowed him in the upper thigh. He twisted instinctively to protect his soft spots, which put the knife momentarily out of his reach. With my still-tingling right hand, I knocked that knife away from his scrabbling fingers and braced myself as I arched over him and drove my knee into the back of his raised leg, keeping him off balance.

  My free left hand yanked a second knife from under my shirt as I threw myself on top of him. He grabbed my wrist with an iron grip and rolled with me, trying to pin me down. All I felt were his hard edges and my desperation to win. To prove to him that I could do this. That he didn’t have to worry about protecting me, that we could be together even though—I pushed that stupid thought out of my head and kicked my legs out and over. There was no way I was going to allow him to get on top of me again.

  As we twisted, I let him control my left hand and managed to draw a third knife with my right. The moment I felt gravity working for me, I shoved off with my foot and burst upward with all my strength.

&n
bsp; Malachi’s eyes were bright as his gaze darted down to my hand, which now held a blade against his throat. “You’ve killed me,” he whispered.

  The deep rise and fall of his chest carried me like a wave. I stared into his eyes, completely caught, storm-tossed and disoriented. Before I could think about it, the knife had fallen from my hand and my fingers were sliding greedily along his neck, up to his jaw. His hands tightened around my elbows while his eyes fluttered shut. His chin lifted, exposing his throat, where his pulse beat heavy and hard, where his skin was soft and smooth and waiting. I wanted to close my mouth around that pulse. I wanted to feel it tick against my tongue. I wanted to taste his skin and hear him moan. But … what if that tilt of his chin was to avoid my touch? What if the waiting was for me to get the hell away from him and stop invading his space?

  I rolled off him and stood up. “I think that’s a first,” I said, driving the tremble out of my voice with sheer volume.

  Malachi didn’t get up, nor did he open his eyes.

  I chuckled and nudged his hip with my toe, desperate to wrench this moment back from the abyss of awkward into which it had fallen. But also, wanting him to notice. I’d beaten him. I wasn’t helpless. He didn’t have to worry about me or protect me. “Are you playing dead?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I’m recovering.” His body was sprawled out, one leg straight, one bent, his arms out to his sides, palms upward, fingers curled. His chin was still raised, his throat vulnerable.

  I took a few steps back to keep myself from touching him again. “Not bad, right? You didn’t let me win, did you?”

  “No.”

  “So …” I bit my lip, hoping for some response. But he just lay there, completely still. “You gonna be okay down there?”

  “Eventually.” His lips were barely moving.

  I shuffled my feet as the moment stretched, leaving me more confused with every passing second. “Want me to help you up?”