King of the Wicked (The Banished Series Book 1)

by T. R. Hamby

  “And human skin isn’t,” he replied, nodding.

  “But then, why can I sense you?” she asked. “Isn’t that an Angel thing?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s more of an Immortal thing,” he said, looking at her. “This is all unprecedented. You’re the first human to ever become Immortal. All of this is just guessing.”

  She nodded. He was right, and the gravity of the whole thing made her shiver. She truly was Immortal--she could never die. Life was no longer finite, no longer a race against time. She would never grow old. The way her body was now, the way she looked, would never change.

  She frowned. “I wonder if I still need to eat.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  She paused. Her stomach did feel hollow--she hadn’t gotten to make that rigatoni. She nodded.

  “Well, you can’t starve to death,” he said as they turned the corner. “But I imagine it would be uncomfortable if you didn’t eat. Just like it would affect you if you stopped your medication.”

  They were quiet for a while, and Michael counted down the blocks as they closed in on Lastra Construction. She slid her hands up her waist, and along her arms, still getting used to the fact that her body was, essentially, invincible. It was incredible.

  She frowned again, thinking, and finally spoke.

  “Have you ever wondered why you can hear me Calling for you? When I’m not an Angel?”

  He frowned, looking at her. “I forgot about that,” he said. “I was surprised when it happened, though.”

  “Maybe...I don’t know...maybe I’m, like--special,” she offered, shrugging. “Not that special, obviously--but maybe there’s something about me that gives me the ability to Call you, and sense your Presence. Maybe there are humans out there that have Angelic qualities. Maybe that’s why Mel can love me.”

  She thought suddenly of Gilla, of what God had said about her--that she was one of his favorites, that she would be special one day. What did that mean?

  Michael was staring ahead, considering. “It’s an interesting theory,” he said slowly.

  She hesitated, then said slyly, “Maybe Gilla has those qualities.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Let’s focus on Patrizio.”

  They finally found the business, which was closed for the night. The building was a little shabby, and Michael couldn’t find any security cameras. They tried some windows, and found one that was unlocked. It only opened halfway.

  He looked at her. “You go in,” he said hesitantly. “See if you can find any employee records. Look for an address.”

  She nodded, determined. “Give me a boost.”

  He hesitated again, and she gave him a firm look. “I’ll be okay. Remember?”

  He still looked wary, but nodded, taking her by the waist and easily lifting her to the window. “Be careful.”

  She shimmied in, nearly toppling onto the floor. The building was small, and dark. She could make out a couple desks, and on the far wall, an array of tools hanging from hooks. On the left there was a walled office with glass windows. She went inside and rooted around, opening the drawers of a desk, and then a filing cabinet.

  Bingo. A drawer with files bearing names on each folder.

  A few minutes later she returned to the window, and Michael helped her clamber out.

  “Patrizio Beo. 203 Viale di Esposito,” she said, dusting herself off. “Numero 215.”

  “Good,” he said, nodding. “Let’s go.”

  “What are you going to do to him?” she whispered as they set off.

  He suddenly looked nervous. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I’ve never...I’ve never killed anyone myself.”

  She stared at him, stunned. “Never?”

  There was a dark look on his face, and he shook his head. “It’s always been Mel...or Agatha.”

  She had a sick feeling in her stomach. She had certainly never killed anyone. Was she ready for that? It wasn’t like this man deserved to live. And God had...well...ordained it. And after meeting him, she knew how hard it was to refuse his orders.

  She looked over at Michael, who also looked nauseous. She reached out and took his hand, and he looked at her, his lips twitching.

  “I wonder why he ran,” she said as they continued down the street. Viale di Esposito wasn’t far.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said he was going to let you find my body, and then kill you,” she explained. “But he must have run after he killed me.”

  Michael shrugged. “Coward.”

  She nodded, and they turned a corner. There was no one in sight, despite it still being relatively early in the night. They came across building 203, which was a small dilapidated apartment complex.

  “There might be cameras,” Michael said, pausing.

  “Look,” she said, nodding her head. “Fire escape.”

  It was about ten feet off the ground. Michael lifted her up, and she climbed the ladder onto the platform. He jumped, seizing the ladder, and climbed after her. There was a little door on the platform, and they went through, into a dusty hallway that smelled of mold. She took his hand again, feeling nervous, and together they walked down the corridor, passing door after door until they made it to 215.

  “You don’t leave fingerprints,” she whispered, and he shook his head.

  He grasped the handle and wrenched the door open, and the two hurried inside.

  Nora blinked. A lamp was on. The apartment was tiny, with a miniscule kitchen that didn’t even have an oven. There was a small couch in a living room the size of her closet. The carpet smelled, and there were cracks in the walls.

  She would have felt sorry for Patrizio if he wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer.

  He was lying on the couch, but bolted upright as they came in. His face was ashen, almost gray, and he was moving gingerly, holding his hands in his lap. He didn’t look surprised to see them.

  “What are you?” he breathed, his voice high-pitched and whining.

  He was staring at Nora. He didn’t seem shocked that she was alive.

  She frowned at him, and he held up his hands. She looked at them, and felt her insides sicken. His hands were covered in repulsive pustules, that were oozing and leaking yellow liquid; his sleeves were damp with it. His fingers were contracted so they looked claw-like, and his nails were gone. He was shaking, and there were tears on his cheeks.

  She understood now why he had run.

  “You did this to me,” he moaned. “What are you?”

  “That’s nothing compared to what you deserve,” Michael hissed.

  He didn’t seem to hear; he was still staring at Nora.

  “If I could hold my hammer,” he seethed, “I would smash your face in.”

  Nora felt a wave of fury. “You’ll never be able to hurt anyone again,” she breathed. “You’re a coward, and you’re useless.”

  He seemed almost diminished. He looked down at the table, and she followed his gaze: There was a pill bottle, and a glass of water.

  “I was going to take them when the police caught me,” he whispered. “But I’ll do it now...my hands are fucked...there’s nothing left to live for…”

  “Good,” Michael said, businesslike. “Get on with it, then.”

  Patrizio looked at the bottle, then at his hands. Michael swore under his breath, then strode forward, seizing the bottle and opening it. He looked disgusted as he helped him swallow every last pill, and then gulp down the glass of water. Then he retreated, wiping his hands on his shorts as if contaminated.

  Patrizio almost looked peaceful. He smiled slightly, his eyes glinting.

  “It was the loveliest feeling,” he said, his eyes settling on Nora. “Every blow...it made the most wonderful sound. The smell of blood was so rich; I could taste it in the air. I only wish I had been able to find a woman. I bet they sound different.”

  She was repulsed, but she didn’t break eye contact with him. Soon he would be in Hell, and he would suffer as his victims had suffered.<
br />
  It took about half an hour for him to become stuporous. Then he lied down. His breathing began to labor. It was a horrible sound.

  Then he was still.

  They stared at him. They hadn’t moved at all in the last hour or so. Michael stepped forward, placing two fingers on his neck. Then he straightened, repulsed, and looked at her.

  “He’s dead,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  He took her hand. “Step backward with me, and hold on.”

  Nora followed his lead and stepped backward, and suddenly she was tilting; she was falling, and the scene around her blurred, then reformed into her living room. She stumbled, and Michael caught her.

  They looked at each other. His face mirrored her own.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  She thought. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Are you okay?”

  He shrugged. “It was an easy death. Not what he deserved.”

  She shook her head. She had never seen anyone die before. She didn’t feel pity, and she didn’t exactly feel guilt. She felt disturbed.

  “You’ve never been around a person like that,” Michael said shrewdly. “You’re not used to it.”

  Nora remembered his hands around her throat, and a horrible chill went down her spine.

  “He killed me,” she breathed.

  He squeezed her arm. “You’re alive,” he said soothingly. “You’re alive, and he’s in Hell. He’ll suffer for the rest of eternity.”

  She nodded, although she didn’t feel much better. She supposed it would take some time.

  She looked at him. “I’m sorry you had to do that,” she said gently.

  He looked disgusted. He shook his head. “It had to be done. His hands were too fucked up. It’s over now.”

  She frowned. “Why did that happen to him?”

  Michael looked at her thoughtfully. “I think it was my Father,” he said quietly. “He cursed him--for some reason. Maybe to make it easier for us to kill him, without Mel or Agatha’s help. Or maybe because Patrizio had killed something as precious as you.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Nora,” he said, and he looked away awkwardly, clearing his throat. “I thought...for a moment...that you really were dead. And…”

  He trailed off. He didn’t seem able to finish his thought. Nora couldn’t tell if he was overcome with emotion, or just having trouble expressing it, but either way she was touched.

  She took his hand and squeezed. “You’re my brother now,” she whispered. “Always.”

  He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but his lips twitched into the ghost of a smile.

  “I need some of that bourbon,” he said, clearing his throat again. “And a shower. I don’t think I can take enough showers to get that off of me.”

  Nora was surprised to find she was hungry. She made rigatoni while Michael drank, and they talked about good things, about Mel and Gilla, and even about cars.

  “I’m going to get a place here,” Michael said in the middle of their dinner.

  Nora brightened. “That’s great! What about Berlin?”

  He shrugged. “Berlin’s over. There was never anything for me there--except cars. I have a life here now.”

  “You could get a job,” she teased. “Like Mel. Maybe sell cars?”

  He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

  “You know,” she said, playing with her fork, “we could make this...a tradition. Like, Sunday dinner? You, me and Gilla? And Mel, when he gets back?”

  He considered this, nodding. “It would be interesting with Mel in the picture.”

  “It would be good for the two of you,” she said, raising an eyebrow.

  He nodded again, sipping his bourbon. He frowned, and she looked at him.

  “What?”

  “I’m just wondering,” he said cautiously, “how he’s going to react when he hears everything that’s happened.”

  Gilla

  Ten Months Later

  “When is the trim being delivered?” Gilla called, pounding a wood plank until it was flush with the floor.

  She was in Michael’s condo, installing the new wood flooring. The two of them had been remodeling for a couple weeks now, taking out the wall in the middle bedroom to expand the living area. They had ripped up the old flooring, and they were also laying down new tile in the kitchen.

  “Tomorrow,” he called from the third bedroom. She hadn’t been exactly sure what he was doing in there, but it sounded like a remodel too.

  She smiled. He had been surprised when she had offered to help, and she had teased him for thinking her too delicate to know how to use a hammer. Her father had owned a home improvement business for most of her life, and she had helped him with many jobs over the years.

  Michael finally emerged, dusting off his hands. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts--his usual in the warm weather. She liked what she saw, and she eyed him, smiling. He caught her gaze and smirked.

  “What?” he teased, and she giggled. He sat beside her, slipping his arms around her and kissing her neck. She laughed, ticklish.

  “Stop it, silly,” she said, grinning. “I’m trying to work here.”

  He smiled, brushing at her cropped hair. “Take a break.”

  “Help me finish,” she replied, smirking, and he chuckled.

  “You’re relentless,” he said, scooting away and grabbing a wood plank.

  “You asked me to help you,” she shot back, handing him the mallet.

  “You asked if you could help me,” he said.

  “Aren’t you glad I did, though?” she replied, beaming. She knew he was--she didn’t think he had stopped smiling in the past couple weeks.

  Neither had she.

  They had been seeing each other for nearly a year now, and it had been wonderful. They had gone beyond simple dinners and trips to the movies now--they shopped together, went to the beach, to museums. They had even taken a weekend trip together, traveling to Berlin for a car show. Michael bought a Lamborghini, and took them to an abandoned lot, speeding the car around, making her shriek and laugh. He had been laughing too, and it had made her so happy.

  What they were, she didn’t know. She wasn’t sure she really cared. She knew they were happy, and that was enough for her. Her last relationship had been...monstrous. She had always been his girlfriend, his fiancee, his. With Michael she was free. She knew he would never force her to do anything. He would never hurt her, never try to control her. Never own her. He was the most gentle man she had ever met, the most patient.

  She knew he had problems of his own. There was a reservedness about him...perhaps a fearfulness, covered up by a stoic exterior. It had taken a while for him to open up, and he still hadn’t told her everything. She wondered sometimes what terrible thing he had done to his brother, and sometimes it chilled her, wondering what it could be. But she knew she had to trust him. He had done everything to deserve it.

  They finished the flooring, and ordered takeout. They sat on the floor, eating Thai out of the carton, talking. Gilla and Nora were in a production of Le Nozze di Figaro together, and were in the middle of rehearsals, and that was what they discussed for the majority of their meal.

  Then she stood up, shooting him a mischievous look.

  “Can I see what you’re doing in here?” she asked, glancing at the third bedroom.

  He smiled. “I guess so.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  He chuckled. He got up, taking her hand and leading her into the room.

  It smelled of sawdust and new furniture. The walls were lined with foam, and all six of his guitars--all of them vintage--were mounted. There was a couch, a record player, and a shelf bursting with records and CDs.

  Michael shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “I couldn’t play as much in my old place. The walls were too thin.”

  Gilla went to the middle of the room, looking around. It was a musician’s paradise in there. The only thing it needed was a piano.

  She turned to f
ace him, beaming. “It’s wonderful.”

  He smiled.

  She approached him, taking his hand and squeezing.

  “Promise me you’ll let me hear some of it,” she murmured. He had been very reserved about his playing, embarrassed for some reason. She supposed it was an emotional outlet for him, something difficult to share with others. He had played for her, though, a couple times, and it had been lovely.

  He stared down at their hands, frowning.

  “You know…” he began slowly. He glanced at her, then said, “if you want--you could live here.”

  She stared at him. She was suddenly very nervous, her heart racing.

  The last time she had lived with someone, he had done horrible things to her, things that still gave her nightmares.

  Michael must have caught the look on her face, because he squeezed her hands soothingly.

  “You don’t have to,” he said softly. “I won’t be mad.”

  She took a shaky breath. “Just give me a minute,” she whispered, stepping away and hugging herself. She turned around, facing his guitars, studying the vivid colors on their bodies.

  She took deep breaths. No, she was not going to let Will ruin what she had now. Michael had asked her to live with him, and there was nothing sinister about it, nothing malicious. They could see each other every day--sleep together every night. It sounded good. More than good. Was she ready for it?

  She turned to look at him, and she saw the caution on his face. She had been so scared for so long, afraid to get close to anyone, afraid to trust again. Afraid she would make another mistake, become trapped like she had with Will.

  But Michael wasn’t like that. She knew this. It had been a year and he had never once pushed her, never once hurt her. She wasn’t scared of him, wasn’t afraid to spend time with him. He was a second chance.

  She finally smiled, and nodded.

  She was going to live with him. They were really doing it.

  Michael grinned, and she laughed; she loved seeing him look so happy, and right now he looked happier than she had ever seen him before. She held his face in her hands and was surprised to find a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

  What troubles was he bringing too? But she didn’t care. She gave him a reassuring look, and he relaxed a little, his lips twitching. He kissed her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding him tight. He grabbed her waist and lifted her, and she shrieked, pretending to squirm as they headed for the bedroom.