Fractured (Guards of the Shadowlands, Book Two) Page 7

  Malachi stilled as my lips touched his, but only for a moment. Then, like a switch had been flipped, he crushed me to the ground and fisted a hand in my hair. His mouth on mine was merciless, tongue and teeth and total possession, like this had been building inside of him forever, and he’d just been waiting for permission to let it out. He kissed his way down my neck, nipping at my skin, drawing a choked moan from my throat and a low growl from his. It was like a boulder rolling downhill. An avalanche. I could not control what I had unleashed … and wasn’t sure I wanted to.

  The sensation of Malachi—the unyielding weight and smooth, hard contours of his body, the earthy scent—upended me completely, unlocking doors that had never been opened, shaking loose feelings that had been bolted down. Need and terror. Now and then. Every time we’d kissed in the past, he’d let me be in control, let me set the pace.

  Not this time.

  His hand stroked firmly down my arm and ribs, his thumb skimming the edge of my bra and sending bolts of pleasure through me while at the same time awakening old fears: I couldn’t stop him. He was too big. Too strong. Too—no. This was what I wanted. I arched up as he tugged the neckline of my T-shirt aside and ran his tongue along my collarbone. The searing heat of my desire for him made it easier to shove all my memories down a deep hole in my mind. This was my choice. This was mine.

  His fingers traveled down my hip and curled around my thigh, hungry and searching. I kept my arms around his neck and my hands in his hair, holding on for dear life as our need for each other took over. And just as I was reaching that equilibrium—that reassurance that this was all right, that I was safe, that Malachi would not hurt me—he shifted his hips and settled himself between my legs. I couldn’t contain the whimper.

  Malachi froze, his mouth locked on to the junction of my neck and shoulder. And then, quick as a viper, he scooted away from me, leaving me lying on my back, stunned.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he panted. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “Stop,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “Please.” I summoned all my courage and turned to look at him.

  Malachi had drawn his knees to his chest and had one hand over his mouth. He was staring at me like he’d just stabbed me. “I forgot myself,” he said. “I forgot that you—that … I forgot.”

  I covered my eyes with the heels of my palms and pressed hard, trying to scrub his expression from my memory banks. Because here it was, that look I’d never wanted to see. The one that said he thought I was broken. And inside me, the echoing fear that I actually was. I should have been thankful he was so sensitive. I’m sure a lot of other guys would have ignored that whimper. But instead it pissed me off, because I didn’t want to have to deal with it. I wanted to be normal. “Since you’re feeling forgetful, can we forget this happened?”

  “No,” he said in a hollow voice. “Please look at me.”

  I finally complied. He’d moved a bit closer and didn’t look as shell-shocked, but I had to wonder if it was just beneath the surface. “Okay. I’m looking at you.”

  And God, it felt wonderful and terrible at the same time. Everything I wanted was wrapped up in that moment, along with everything I couldn’t have because it had already been taken.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “for scaring you.”

  “You didn’t—”

  “Don’t lie to me, Lela. I heard you. I felt you. And—” He closed his eyes and raked his hand through his short hair. “I scared myself, too. Sometimes the things I feel for you are so … big. I’m not used to that. Over the past seventy years, I’ve become very good at feeling nothing at all.”

  “I don’t believe that,” I rasped. “You loved Takeshi. And Ana.”

  He nodded. “But this is different. You are different. And I don’t know how to do this. I’m trying very hard, but sometimes—”

  “I’m sorry I’m so complicated.”

  He let out a huff of laughter. “I’m sorry I’m so inept. Most of me wants to protect you. From everything. I hope you know that.”

  I took in the stark lines of his face while my heart beat triple time. “And what does the rest of you want?”

  He raised his head, and his eyes looked nearly black. With every muscle taut, he studied me. “The rest of me—”

  My phone buzzed, and Malachi’s mouth snapped shut. He rose to his feet as I pulled it from my pocket. Tegan, of course. Texting to find out if we’d bring her coffee.

  I looked up from the screen to see Malachi striding for the stairs. “Hey, wait!”

  He didn’t stop walking. Instead, he said over his shoulder, “I have to shower so that we can go. We can talk later?”

  “Okay,” I whispered, hating Tegan and her caffeine addiction with the fire of a thousand suns as I watched Malachi flee up the stairs.

  SEVEN

  THE SOUP KITCHEN WAS just north of that gas station where we’d chased the Mazikin. The streets were lined with duplexes—these enormous, dilapidated houses with big porches and balconies, all sagging wood and peeling paint. Decayed leaves had collected in piles at the bases of spindly trees. Wobbly chain-link fences enclosed tiny, cluttered yards full of children’s toys, the bright colors fading to pastels after a long winter of snow and thaw.

  For the umpteenth time since we’d picked her up, Tegan sighed from the passenger seat. I glanced over at her, forcing myself not to comment on her outfit of ripped jeans and an old flannel shirt that screamed trying too hard. From the neck up she looked expensive as always: flawless makeup, perfect highlights, tiny diamond studs in her ears.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s up?” I asked.

  “Aden’s not coming. He texted me this morning to say he’d been out late and was going to crash. It’s fine. I think I’m done with him.”

  I was relieved to hear Ian had gotten him home safely but realized that was probably not what Tegan wanted to hear. “That sucks. Are you all right about it?”

  She shrugged, tossing a glance at Malachi, who was sitting silently in the backseat, gazing out the window, searching for threats. “I was up and down with him even before … all this. It’s fine. We can talk about it later.”

  “Um. Sure,” I said, feeling a twinge of guilt as I thought about how much I’d rather spend time figuring things out with my boyfriend instead of talking to Tegan about hers. We pulled up outside the shelter. “We better get inside, right?”

  Tegan nodded as she stared at one of the more ramshackle houses on the block. She shuddered like a wet cat and got out of the car, clutching her donation envelope to her chest like she thought someone was going to pry it out of her hands.

  Rolling my eyes, I opened the trunk and braced myself to lift a big box of canned goods to carry in to the shelter.

  “I’ll take it,” Malachi said, stepping close and sliding his hands over the box. Over my hands, lighting me up with hope and a billion other things. Maybe he was over what had happened in the basement. He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a hesitant smile. “You can take the dry stuff.”

  He lifted the heavy box with ease and followed Tegan toward the shelter, leaving me trailing behind. A red SUV pulled up to the curb as I neared the front door, and Ian got out a second later, a worn baseball cap crammed over his messy hair. He smiled wearily at Tegan, who jumped up and down and clapped her hands when she saw him. “The guilt trip worked!”

  “I knew Aden wasn’t going to make it.” He shook his head as he stepped onto the sidewalk next to me. “He was kind of messed up last night.”

  Malachi tilted his head as he looked at Ian. After all the crap with Jim, I’d forgotten to tell him that I’d run into the star players of our baseball team while they hunted for the Mazikin with paintball guns.

  “But you got him home safely?” I asked.

  “Yeah. We actually picked up the asshat a few blocks away from here.” He whipped off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair before jamming it back on his head again. Then he gave me a nervou
s glance. “And sorry about the, um …” He gestured at the phone-shaped bulge in the pocket of my hoodie.

  “Sorry about the what?” Malachi turned sharply toward me, the contents of the box in his arms sloshing and clanking.

  Ian obviously sensed his back-the-eff-up vibe. “Aden ran off last night,” he said slowly, considering his words. “And I … um, knew that Lela is familiar with the area, so I texted her a few times. I thought she might have some idea where we could look.” He motioned at the entrance to the soup kitchen. “Anyway, I’m here, Teg. What do you want me to do?”

  He didn’t mention that we’d seen each other. And he didn’t mention Jim. He probably thought he was protecting me from Malachi’s jealousy. It wasn’t necessary, but it was kind of … nice. I gave him a quick smile as we entered the shelter, and he returned it with dimples.

  The shelter was already buzzing with activity. Waves of heat poured from the kitchen, where the volunteers were readying giant pots of soup and stacks of neatly wrapped sandwiches. A ruddy-faced woman in a hairnet waved a spoon at us. “Volunteers?”

  When we nodded, she gestured to a bunch of people standing by a long table. “Go sign up if you want credit for community service. And you,” she said, pointing at me. “Get your hair back or put on a hairnet.”

  I pulled my all-purpose elastic off my wrist and lashed my hair into a tight ponytail. We joined the group of volunteers, mostly other teenagers and a few parental-looking grown-ups. Henry was there, too, doing an excellent job of pretending he didn’t know us.

  We signed in and got a little tutorial on how much food to dish out and how to handle requests and complaints. As soon as the shelter worker was finished talking, a few people filed in from the street, wearing mismatched layers of clothes and wary expressions. Some looked like they’d just stopped in on the way to a day job, but others looked like this was their last chance. There were kids, too, with hollow eyes and solemn faces that reminded me of me, not too long ago. I looked away.

  Following the kitchen staff’s orders, Henry, Malachi, and Ian helped bring the pots of soup to the warmers while Tegan and I grabbed bowls and spoons. It didn’t take long for the room to get crowded. The long cafeteria tables that took up half the room were filled to capacity, and several people came in and asked for their food to go. A staff member told us to keep our pace up, that they served over seven hundred meals during every shift. It was barely controlled chaos.

  I glanced over at Malachi, who was scanning the mob, frowning. I knew what he was thinking: there were too many people here. And only three Guards when there should have been four. It would be hard to spot suspicious activity … and it would have been nice to have an extra pair of eyes.

  Even though frost glazed the windows and coated the grass outside, inside the shelter it was hot as hell and reeked of tomato soup, sweat, minestrone, rum, burnt toast, cigarettes, and unwashed bodies. When a garbage can next to me began to overflow with paper plates and plastic bowls, I seized the opportunity to get some air.

  “I’ll be right back,” I hollered to Tegan as I gathered the giant plastic bag and lugged it toward the back exit. She waved absently in my direction.

  A blast of frigid air greeted me as I swung open the door, and I inhaled it greedily.

  And immediately dropped my garbage bag.

  Was I imagining it? Was it some sort of weird hallucination after the crazy scent overload of the soup kitchen?

  No. As I stood in place and breathed, it was definitely real. The cloying, sick smell of incense. A scent I associated with only one thing: Mazikin.

  I took a few steps into the back lot, my breath fogging in front of my face. The scent was carried on the wind, beckoning me forward. I walked around to the front of the shelter, wondering if there might be Mazikin right here, trying to get a bowl of soup or lure new recruits. The line of hungry people was out the door, but the smell was definitely fainter, so I returned to the lot, which backed up to a row of houses. I skirted the Dumpster and followed a narrow lane between the houses that was littered with old tires, discarded ride-on toys, and garbage bins. The smell was getting stronger, and my heart beat faster each time I inhaled. I turned left and walked a block up the street before I realized the smell was fading, so I jogged back the way I had come.

  I was passing the lane that would take me back to the shelter when a guy with greasy, dark hair and a gaunt, stubbly face loped out from between two houses up ahead, not even twenty feet from me. He was wearing a padded flannel shirt and gloves with the fingers cut off, and I caught a glimpse of grimy, jagged fingernails just before he turned his back. Carrying an oil-spotted paper bag in his arms, he made his way briskly up the road away from me. I followed, sniffing at the air, probably looking a little crazy. Fortunately, the guy didn’t seem aware of me as I trailed him.

  I walked up the street, block after block, scanning every side yard and window for movement, looking for more suspicious characters. The scent only got stronger, so I knew I was heading in the right direction even if the guy I was following was just a regular human with really poor hygiene. The street finally dead-ended with an empty lot bounded by a chain-link fence. On the other side was a cemetery, which separated the neighborhood from a busy state highway. The incense smell was so heavy that it was making my head swim. Just as I was wondering if the guy was about to climb the fence and cut through the cemetery, he scrambled up the front steps of a huge old colonial next to the empty lot and ducked inside, closing the door softly behind him. I paused a few houses away, assessing. Boarded-up windows. Graffiti on the sidewalk. Abandoned? This whole street had that feel, like blight had eaten it away and chased families and normal residents elsewhere. Sure enough, there was an eviction notice taped to the front door.

  It could be a crack house. Or a meth lab. Or a hangout for a bunch of homeless people burning whatever they could find to keep warm. Or …

  It could be the nest.

  EIGHT

  WITH SHAKING FINGERS, I extracted my phone from my pocket and texted Malachi the address of the colonial. I was nearly ten blocks from the shelter, but maybe he could get Henry to drive him here, and then we could figure it out together.

  While I waited for a reply, I crept around back to get a sense of what we were dealing with. Though most of the windows were boarded, some of the plywood was rotting in places and sagging away from the sills. A few of the low basement windows hadn’t been covered. I lay down on the ground and peeked through an open frame that still held a few shards of glass. The white winter sun was high enough to give me some help, its beams revealing an open room full of boxes and junk of all types. Nothing moved inside. My hand drifted to my waist, where I’d clipped a knife before we’d left the Station, once again at Malachi’s quiet insistence.

  As I stood up, I heard it. A soft mewling sound from inside the house. Wishing my heart wasn’t beating so loudly in my ears, I skirted down an incline and around the back; then I crawled past the shattered windows of the walk-out basement to the other side. The whimpering was louder near the front of the house, wrenching sobs that penetrated the walls and dissipated like smoke in the chilly air. I squatted beneath the boarded window where the noise was loudest.

  “I said, shut up!” someone growled, deep and vicious.

  “Please please please,” cried the voice. It sounded male, but young. And so, so scared. “Please let me go. I won’t tell anyone!”

  Then he screamed, a sound that tore through me like a blade.

  “I’ll do it again if you don’t shut up,” said the boy’s snarling captor. “My brothers and sisters are trying to sleep up there. You wake them, I get in trouble.”

  I gritted my teeth and wrenched myself away from the window, pulling my phone from my pocket again while I jogged toward the back of the house. This time, I called Malachi. What was taking him so long? It rang until it went to voice mail. I called Henry. Same thing. I almost called Jim but then realized that even if he picked up, he either couldn’t or woul
dn’t help.

  I had a choice. I could try to get the boy out now, or I could go all the way back to the shelter and try to round up my Guards, who seemed unable to operate their cell phones. I could also call the police, but all that would do was clear out the Mazikin, who would be free to find a new home. We couldn’t exactly mow them down in front of the authorities. What we needed was for the Mazikin to stay put so that we could burn this place to the ground with them inside. The last people we wanted paying attention were the cops.

  The boy screamed again, and my decision was made.

  The Mazikin had said his brothers and sisters were sleeping “up there.” Since he was on the first floor, he must have meant they were on the upper floors. Maybe I could get in there and free the boy without alerting them to my presence. Maybe by the time I had, Malachi would have arrived.

  I texted Tegan: Tell Malachi to check his phone. Then I wiggled through a broken window at the rear of the house and let myself into the basement, my knife out and ready. The stale air reeked of mildew. I went over to the basement door and unlocked it, giving myself a quick escape route.

  The stairs to the first floor were rickety but passable, and my boots made no sound as I inched my way up. The door at the top of the steps was hanging open, and I kept low as I poked my head out, taking in the dim hallway, lit only by fingers of light from the few windows not covered with boards. The silence was broken only by the muffled sobs of the boy, and I stayed close to the wall as I passed by a living room jam-packed with ugly couches and ripped cushions, their fluffy guts exposed. Discarded clothes lay in piles along the edges of the room. Someone had barfed all over the carpet, and the stench almost overpowered the scent of incense and mildew.