Sicarii 2

by Adrienne Wilder

  “And my father? Was Yvette telling the truth when she said he was…was like Jacob?”

  For the first time there was the barest change to the blank slate of Marcel’s expression. “Alexander was not like Jacob.”

  “But you were together. With my father, I mean.” Ben struggled not to cringe.

  “He carried my mark.”

  “Then he did belong to you like Jacob does.”

  “Alexander was mine, but I was also his.”

  "And that means?”

  “I loved him, I suppose.”

  “You suppose?”

  Marcel shrugged. “I loved him the only way I could. I do not know if it is like love others feel.”

  “Yvette said my mother betrayed her family.”

  “She married Yvette’s brother Ivan. A few years later she and Alexander became lovers.”

  “He cheated on you.”

  “I guess, perhaps. There were things I could not give him. Lorelle could. But the family Lorelle married into was not kind. They do not forgive. When Ivan found out the child Lorelle had was not his, she went into hiding. Otherwise, Ivan would have killed her and you.”

  Ben tried to swallow but his throat was too tight.

  “Why?”

  Marcel rolled a hand. “Power. Money. It makes a man think he is invincible. When Alexander helped her hide and refused to tell Ivan where, Ivan killed him.”

  “Just because he wouldn’t tell Ivan where my mother was?”

  "Yes.”

  “And you killed Ivan.”

  “I did.”

  This was insane, all of it insane.

  Ben rubbed his face, then stared at the man sitting across the room. This murderer.

  “Then why do it? Why do you kill people just because someone tells you to?”

  “Because I am given a greater gift than money. I am given their life.”

  Ben stared at Marcel for the longest time. His confusion warring with his revulsion, his sadness, and, most of all, his fear. It morphed his features, each emotion, each thought distinct.

  “Why me? Why not just kill you herself?”

  “There are Rules. These Rules must be followed. She can no more kill me than I can her. Not without breaking those Rules. And the first Rule is I only kill those my House instructs me to.”

  “And they only tell you to kill people who break the Rules.” Ben said it like the word tasted foul.

  “Me or another. But yes. They will be killed.”

  “So, there’s nothing I can do?” A tremor shook Ben. “She just gets to kill me?”

  Yvette would not kill Ben before she killed everyone around him. Any soul who knew his name she would burn to death. Then, if there was anything left of the man in front of Marcel, she would burn it too.

  But those were not details Marcel needed to tell Ben. The knowledge traveled on the waver in his voice, how he tightened his fists, his lip trembled, and his breath hitched.

  Yes, he knew.

  “My offer still stands. If you wear my mark, she cannot touch you without retribution.” Or she would find herself on her knees in front of the Justices.

  Ben’s face reddened. “You’ll help me if I have sex with you, but not for fifty thousand dollars?” He pushed himself to his feet.

  “Surrender is not about sex. I may fuck you. I may not.”

  “Surrender?”

  “Your life becomes mine.”

  “I’m what? Your slave?”

  “No. What I ask is far greater.”

  “It sounds like slavery to me.”

  It probably did. But Marcel had seen slaves. They were not treated what they were worth. And all lives were invaluable. “Someone who owns a slave only owns the flesh. What I ask, what I require, is for you to give me all. Your soul, maybe.” Marcel waved a hand. “If you believe in that sort of thing.”

  “Like a contract?” Ben sneered. “Like an agreement with the devil?”

  “I have never seen a devil. Nor have I seen an angel. I have seen only people. All kinds. From many countries. Wealthy, poor, black, brown, yellow, white, honest, dishonest, filled with kindness or cruelty. It does not matter. They are the same. They are all equal.”

  “And all you want is my surrender?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will I have to live in the motel? Heel when you call my name?”

  “When this is over, you can go back to your school. Your work. I may call you. Ask you to return. But I will not distract you from your lessons. Education is important.”

  There was so much doubt in Ben’s eyes. He looked at the duffle bag. “I don’t have any choice, do I?”

  “There is always a choice, Ben.”

  “Yeah, surrender to you or let that crazy bitch kill me. That’s not much of a choice to me.”

  “I said there is always a choice. I did not say the choice you make would be without consequence.”

  “Like I said. No choice.”

  If seeing it that way made Ben feel better, Marcel would let him. Maybe one day Ben would understand the difference. But it was unimportant for now.

  Ben opened and closed his hand. “That mark will protect me?”

  “It means you belong to me. Yvette will know that.”

  “You sure?”

  “I killed her brother for taking Alexander from me. So she knows.”

  Some of the color left Ben’s face. He cradled his hand against his chest. “Wha…what do I have to do?”

  Marcel picked up his cane and pushed himself up from the chair. “This way.” He went into the kitchen. In a small box on the counter, a silver brand, no more than a hand’s width in length. Engraved on the dime-sized end, a circle and dagger.

  Marcel turned on the stove. Blue flames curled up from the eye. He laid the brand close to the edge.

  “What are you doing?”

  Ben stood near the doorway of the kitchen.

  “I will make tea.” Marcel picked up the kettle.

  “I don’t want any.”

  “It will calm you.”

  Marcel filled the pot with water and put it on the stove. He took out two cups and two tea bags.

  “Really don’t want—”

  “You will drink the tea, Ben.”

  He sneered. “Because you will me to?”

  “No, because it would be rude if you do not.”

  Ben snorted, then his expression sobered. “So how do you—” He held up his hand. “—you know?”

  “Stand here.” Marcel indicated the space beside him. “Put your hand on counter.”

  Ben did.

  “Do you want cookies with your tea?”

  Ben started to pull his hand back.

  “Leave hand. You don’t need it to answer.”

  “No. No, thank you.”

  The metal of the brand glowed among the flames. Ben leaned back a little. “What’s that?”

  “You will see.” Marcel seized Ben by the wrist.

  “What are you do—”

  Marcel plucked the brand from its resting place and pressed it into the web of Ben’s hand. The flesh hissed.

  Ben’s mouth fell open, tears filled his eyes, a high-pitched keen crawled out of his chest. His fingers clenched, and he kicked the cabinet in his attempt to flee.

  Marcel rocked the metal end to make sure the symbol would be complete. He did not want to have to do this again.

  Flesh peeled leaving a bright pink angry mark as Marcel removed the brand. He let Ben go.

  He stumbled back, his hip hitting the fridge. “You motherfucker.” Ben looked at his hand, and his face twisted up with pain.

  “It will hurt more tomorrow, then it will be better.” Marcel turned on the faucet and ran the flat end under the stream of water. A small puff of steam lifted from the metal. He scraped off the skin with his thumbnail, dried the seal, then put it back in the box.

  Ben still glared at Marcel when he turned around.

  “You could have warned me.”

  “It w
ould have still hurt.” Marcel poured the hot water into the cups. He set one closer to Ben, near the end of the counter. “Your tea.”

  Seventh period. The day was almost over, and Sam could flee the teenage war-zone and go home. Then there would be four more days of walking the tightrope. Already his stomach was in knots.

  He shut his locker door.

  Karl stood near the end of the row of lockers, his cronies right beside him.

  If looks could kill… Yeah, well luckily, they couldn’t, or Sam would have been dead a long time ago.

  Sam headed to Mr. Homes’s class. Chemistry. At least they didn’t have a test today, and the week out had given him time to catch up. Although, as he got closer, it wasn’t the fear of a failing grade putting butterflies in Sam’s stomach, it was the fact Joe had this same class, and they were normally lab partners. Lab wasn’t until Friday, but still. He sat right next to him every day.

  Sam merged into a small group heading the same way, then ducked into the classroom. The tide of voices fell silent, and everyone looked at Sam.

  Were they all going to kill him?

  Then Henry Tuck, a skinny white kid with bottle cap glasses, beat his fist on his desk and chanted Sam’s name. Others joined in, then the chants morphed into applause.

  Lee Macaroy stood up from his seat. Tall, gangly with a bad case of acne. There was a bruise on his jaw. Probably from someone picking on him. When Sam thought about it, most of the kids in this class were members of the chess club, taking advanced classes, or in band.

  Lee walked up to Sam and stuck out his hand.

  Sam stared.

  Lee took Sam’s hand and shook it.

  “What was that for?”

  Lee grinned. “You beat the shit out of Todd Bowen, Karl, and Stan. That’s what.” Some of the kids stood up, more shouted Sam’s name. He had to wade through the high five’s and pats on the back to get to his desk.

  Some of the tension left Sam’s shoulders. Maybe he’d survive the day after all.

  Joe walked in, and all of Sam’s hopes withered. Joe didn’t look up as he pushed past students talking, and a few others still chanting Sam’s name. Joe stopped halfway down the aisle to his seat. His expression hardened.

  Sam opened his notebook and pretended to read. There was movement in his periphery, then a shuffle of fabric.

  Nicky Smith turned in her seat. Her bright pink braces matched her equally bright pink shirt. “Did you really break Todd’s knee?”

  A few other kids turned.

  One said, “I heard Stan was gonna have to get dentures.”

  God, Sam hoped not.

  “’Bout time someone beat the crap out of him.” Nicky grinned again before turning around.

  Mr. Homes walked in and, without missing a step, passed out test scores. Sam tucked his solid A test into his notebook. A few other kids compared results. Joe’s had a glaring red D on the front. He caught Sam looking and shoved the paper into his book bag.

  “Since there was a dismal number of passing scores—” Mr. Homes returned to his desk. “—I expect every one of you to be taking flawless notes.”

  Sam lost himself to the drone of Mr. Homes’s voice, and the constant scratch of pencils and pen on paper. Notebooks shuffled, pages turned, occasionally someone coughed. Sam even put aside what Marcel had said about only knowing how to kill. He was in the military, so it made sense. That was all he could have meant.

  Before Sam knew it, the bell rang, and students fled. He grabbed his bookbag and stood. His chest smacked into Joe’s and he shoved Sam hard enough to knock him into his desk.

  A couple kids stared. Joe shouldered his bag and walked up the aisle. He gave Sam one more seething look before slipping out the door. It could have been worse. Sam waited until most of the class was gone, except for a few who stood in line at Mr. Homes’s desk with test papers in hand. The man was always up for an argument over a score, but as far as Sam knew, no one had ever won said argument.

  Sam changed out books at his locker, taking only what he needed for homework, then headed down the steps. Joe appeared in the flow of student bodies. Sam stepped back around the corner. If Joe saw him, he didn’t act like it. He headed out the back. Looked like Sam was taking the long way home. He left the building, walked past the row of buses belching black exhaust and hauling away chaos and followed the sidewalk off school grounds and down the street.

  Sam stopped at the corner to cross the road. The Do Not Walk sign flashed. Karl and Stan headed down the sidewalk in Sam’s direction.

  And Karl carried a baseball bat.

  Oh, this was bad, really bad. Sam shot out into traffic. A car honked, another one barely managed to stop, almost clipping Sam in the side. His bookbag thumped against his back, knocking his breath loose. The weight pulling him down caused him to stumble. Another two blocks and his inhales burned with the exertion.

  Sam didn’t want to, but he knocked the straps off his shoulders and let it hit the ground. Both boys ran, ugly grins twisting up their faces. They were already way too close for comfort. Sam made it around the corner. His subdivision was just up ahead, but it was at least another mile to his house, and there was already a stitch tugging his side.

  Pounding feet grew louder, and Sam was shoved into the split rail fence edging the sidewalk. The wooden post snagged him in the shoulder, and fire lit down his arm. He tried to catch himself but wound up tripping. Concrete met his knees. All Sam could do was cover his head.

  “Gonna fucking kill you, faggot.” Karl swung the bat and there was only a loud smack. Sam cracked an eye.

  A lacquered cane blocked the bat’s fall, stopping it inches from Sam’s head.

  Marcel stood stock-still just a few feet away. Sam had no idea where he’d come from, but at the moment, he didn’t care.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Stan said. But both boys took a step back. Marcel planted his cane next to his leg and leaned on it. Nothing showed in his expression.

  “Messed up freak. This your boyfriend, faggot? You doin’ old men?” Karl and his companion laughed, but it didn’t last. They took another step back. Karl clutched the bat tighter, tilting it up.

  Marcel continued to watch.

  The two boys looked at each other, then they turned while spitting out curses. After a few steps, their walk turned into a run, and they were gone.

  Sam looked up at Marcel. “Thanks.”

  “I was on walk. It was no trouble.”

  Sam got to his feet. “You were on a walk?”

  “Yes. Doctor says it is good for my heart. Old man, old heart. Make it last longer. So they tell me.” Marcel waved his cane in the direction Sam had come from. “You walk with old man? Make sure I do not fall and break hip. Be like old lady on commercial. Except I do not have one of those little necklaces with special alarm to call for help.”

  Sam laughed. He had the strangest feeling Marcel could not only walk any distance with no problem, but the man could probably run most people down. Or maybe he’d just evaporate and reappear wherever he wanted. Sam sure as heck didn’t remember seeing him on the sidewalk when he was running for his life. But then he’d been busy running for his life. There could have been a gorilla on the street, and he would have probably missed it.

  “Walk?” Marcel nodded in the direction Sam’s attackers had fled.

  “Yeah, sure. I gotta go back and get my backpack anyhow. If someone hasn’t already pinched it.”

  “I have seen your backpack. It is very heavy. Too much trouble to steal.” Marcel walked, leaning on his cane, his gait uneven.

  Sam fell in beside him. “They’re gonna kill me, aren’t they?”

  A small smile crinkled the scars on Marcel’s face. “It is unlikely.”

  “If they hit me with a baseball bat, it’s not that unlikely. I mean, Karl plays for a youth team. He can hit home runs.”

  “Has your mother talked to principal?”

  “That’s the worst thing she could do. “

  Marc
el grunted and huffed his breath. “How so?”

  Sam slowed down. “Do you have any idea the flack I would get if she so much as showed up there?”

  “Has she spoken to the other boys’ parents?”

  “No. I don’t think that’ll do much good either. Nothing short of running them over with a car would stop them.” Sam remembered who he was talking to. “Not that I want them to get hit by a car.”

  “Do not worry. I will not kill them.”

  Sam stopped.

  After a couple more steps, so did Marcel.

  “’Cause you were in the Military. That’s why you killed people. ’Cause you went to war and you had to?”

  “No.”

  A cold chill settled in Sam’s stomach. “But you said you killed people.”

  Marcel grunted and began walking again. Against Sam’s better judgment, he caught up to him. Sam waited. He waited some more. Maybe he’d misunderstood. No, he was sure he hadn’t. Did that mean Marcel was a criminal? If he was, sure to God his mother would have found out when she did a background check on him. Unless, of course, he was never caught.

  “Who did you kill?” Sam was pretty sure he’d regret asking.

  “Only ones that needed to be killed.”

  “So, they were bad people?” Maybe he was CIA or something similar but from another country.

  “They were destructive.” Marcel stopped again. He waved his cane. “Your backpack.” It lay half a block away, intact and untouched. “I will wait here. Rest. You go.”

  Sam eyed the man in front of him, then jogged up the sidewalk. He retrieved his bag. Marcel had his attention on the cars as they passed. When Sam got back to him, he turned around and began walking back toward the subdivision. The constant thump of his cane against the sidewalk accented his heavy breathing.

  “What do you think I should do? About, you know—” Sam jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

  “There may not be anything you can do.”

  “Great.”

  “Talk to your mother. She is smart. Works for the police. She will know what to do.”

  “Yeah, have them arrested.”

  “Perhaps that is best.”

  “Only if I want to die an even more painful death.”

  “All death is painful.”