by Lynne Ewing
Malcolm moved his tongue over the angry slash of red skin around his lips as if he were trying to speak again. His few remaining teeth were black with decay. His electrical aura, so strong only moments before, was diminishing rapidly. Sparks fluttered and died. Finally, his tongue curled back in his mouth and with a rasping voice, he whispered, “Help me.”
It was hard for Stanton to understand what Malcolm had said, not because he hadn’t heard him, but because his request was so unexpected. As Malcolm’s words penetrated his confusion, he realized that Malcolm wasn’t there to destroy him after all. Relief and bewilderment flooded through him.
“How can I help you?” Stanton asked, his heart beating even more rapidly than it had only moments before. This was unheard of—a Regulator coming to a Follower for help.
“Take me away from here.” The words rattled from deep inside Malcolm. “Some place where we can talk.”
Stanton nodded, then glanced at Malcolm’s body. His spine was bent at an impossible angle and his muscular legs were twisted painfully at the knees. Stanton didn’t think Malcolm would be able to walk anywhere.
“Why aren’t you concealing your appearance?” Stanton asked as he tried to shield Malcolm from the curious stares of the people who had gathered around them.
Malcolm heaved in air and let it out with a harsh burst of breath. “I can’t. I’m losing my strength.”
“Then why have you come to me?” Stanton asked nervously and glanced back at the growing crowd. They didn’t look afraid. Behind their masks and makeup they seemed to be staring at Malcolm in awe. “You should have gone to the Cincti. I’ll take you there.”
“No. You. I must see only you.” The words came out loud and urgent.
“I can’t do anything to help you,” Stanton cautioned. “I don’t have that kind of power.”
Malcolm cleared his throat. “I need to warn you.”
The words made Stanton wary. A warning—this troubled Stanton more than if Malcolm had come to destroy him. Regulators were like an internal police. They terminated Followers who rebelled against the Atrox or displeased it in any way. They never helped Followers, or warned them. What could be so bad that a Regulator would need to caution him?
“Warn me about what?” Stanton asked. “What do you need to say? Tell me now.”
Malcolm stared at him and tried to communicate telepathically, but his power had weakened too much. Instead of words, Stanton felt only a sluggish swirling in his brain.
“Sorry,” Malcolm said finally as he sensed his failure and pulled back.
Stanton’s apprehension deepened. He needed to know now, especially if the warning involved Serena. He slowly slid into Malcolm’s mind. The horrific memories of centuries gathered around him. There was no way he could find what Malcolm needed to say. His thoughts and feelings were as twisted as his body. He would have to wait and hear what Malcolm wanted to tell him. He untangled himself from Malcolm’s memories.
Immediately, a brilliant white light blinded him, followed quickly by another and another. Each flash made Malcolm shudder.
Stanton turned.
The boy in the pirate costume yelled, “Gotcha seven times.”
People were admiring what they thought was Malcolm’s costume. They still stood too far back to smell the foul odor coming from his body, but soon the more curious would step forward. Stanton had to take Malcolm somewhere quickly before the crowd became too bold.
“That’s great makeup,” the pirate-boy squealed. “Do you work for the studios?” He took a daring step forward, studying the way Malcolm’s body was contorted. The boy’s nose crinkled, but the smell didn’t stop him from edging closer. “How’d you make the body anyway? With pillows?” He poked at the exposed stomach. A strange look came over him.
Stanton knew the boy had touched what felt like warm, soft flesh. Stanton narrowed his eyes and sunk into the boy’s mind to silence the scream gathering in his throat. Don’t even think about it, he barked into the boy’s head.
The startled boy looked at Stanton. His mouth dropped open and the camera tumbled from his hands and hit the pavement. The flash snapped before the camera lens shattered. The boy turned and ran, the plastic parrot jogging on his shoulder.
Stanton lifted Malcolm against him. He wanted to leave before someone else dared to touch him. That’s when he noticed the cruel way Malcolm’s feet were misshapen, his toes curled at odd angles.
“Can you walk?” Stanton asked, wondering how Malcolm had made the journey to find him.
“I’ll try.” Malcolm leaned heavily on Stanton’s shoulder and breathed against his neck as Stanton pushed through the crowd.
“Hurry,” Malcolm urged. “Before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER FOUR
STANTON PRESSED HIS foot hard on the accelerator and drove down Hollywood Boulevard. When he swerved around a bus, Malcolm slid in the seat beside him, slumping lower. It had been difficult to pull him through the curious crowd, and when they had finally reached the car, Malcolm had been too shaken to speak. He kept staring at the shadows as if sensing a presence in the night, then he had begun trembling violently. The Atrox was always near and watchful, sending shadows to be its eyes.
The squat was only a block away. He honked twice to warn pedestrians out of the street, then zigzagged around them. Tires squealed as he slammed to a halt at the curb in front of what looked like an abandoned building. He jumped from the car, ran to the passenger side and eased Malcolm out to the curb as a gang of homeless punkers sauntered down the street. They dressed as though every day of the year were Halloween, and tonight alcohol made them brave.
“Trick or treat,” the leader said, smirking. He hesitated for a second when he saw Malcolm’s face, then stepped brazenly forward.
One of his friends circled near. “Yeah, what do you have for treats?” His face looked hollow in the white light from the security lamp overhead.
A third punker boldly reached for Stanton’s pocket. “You got any money in there?”
Stanton let go of Malcolm and turned with a suddenness that made them duck. The leader stumbled drunkenly and fell. He got up and started forward, his combat boots beating the sidewalk. “Let’s see what you got.”
Stanton stood protectively in front of Malcolm and sent the force of his mind spinning through the air. It hit the punker and slammed him against the wall. Then Stanton shot into the punker’s mind and pulled slumber from the back of his head.
“What?” the punker wheezed in confusion as a grin slipped across his face and his eyes closed in sleep.
The others looked at Stanton with fear in their eyes and inched back. They turned and ran, their footsteps echoing into the night as Stanton pulled Malcolm across his back and carried him into the alley. Stanton was strong, but Malcolm was heavy and all dead weight.
By the time he reached the door at the end of the alley, the muscles in his back and legs were burning. He kicked it hard. The wood protested with a loud crack and the door popped open.
He stepped inside. Normally the squat was filled with Followers, but tonight everyone was celebrating Halloween. Neon lights from outside shone through cracks in the boarded windows and cast thin bars of pink and blue across the floor. The only sound came from Malcolm’s breathing and a distant dripping faucet.
Stanton walked around inflated air mattresses and piles of blankets where the Initiates slept. Initiates were kids who had been led to the Atrox by Followers. They lived here now with the hope of someday being accepted into its congregation, but they needed to prove themselves worthy first.
The ones accepted by the Atrox, the Followers, slept on the second floor. All of them had been apprenticed to Stanton to perfect their evil. He taught them how to read minds, manipulate other people’s thoughts, and imprison people in their memories. He also showed them how to bring victims to the Atrox.
Stanton had crossed over so many kids now that it was impossible for him to recall exactly how many, but he hadn’t recrui
ted anyone recently. Not since meeting Serena. He didn’t think any of the Followers suspected. They seemed in awe of him. He was an Immortal after all, and none of the other Followers apprenticed to him had been granted that gift. But there was endless competition among the Followers to please the Atrox and gain favor. It made trust impossible. He had to be careful.
Stanton carried Malcolm up the stairs and into the room where he slept. He set Malcolm on a futon, then covered him with blankets. He went to the table in the corner and traced his fingers over the surface, touching a can opener, plastic forks, and a jar of instant coffee until he found a box of matches. He popped a match with the tip of his thumb. A flame flared; he lit three candles on the table and four more set on a wooden box on the floor. He knelt beside Malcolm.
“Shouldn’t I take you to the Cincti?” Stanton said quietly. “Maybe the Atrox could help.” He couldn’t imagine what had happened to Malcolm. Maybe he had battled some force and lost.
Malcolm shook his head slowly. His chest labored to pull in a breath. “I’m dying,” he muttered at last.
The words shocked Stanton. It couldn’t be true. “You’re an Immortal,” Stanton said. “How can you die?”
“I did the unthinkable.” Malcolm tried to twist his scarred lips into a smile, but failed.
Stanton’s heart started pounding against his chest. He glanced around the room. The twitching candle flames made shadows tremble on the wall. He leaned closer to Malcolm in spite of the smell. “What unthinkable thing did you do?”
Malcolm shook his head. “Later…” He tried to keep his eyes open but only the whites were showing now. “Caveas Lamp…” he whispered.
“Caveas Lamp? Beware of Lamp?” Stanton asked. The name meant nothing to him. “Who is Lamp?”
But instead of answering, Malcolm eyes fluttered open as he prayed, “Glorious Goddess of the dark moon, take my soul now and guide it through the night to the light…” His lips continued moving in silent prayer.
Stanton flinched. The prayer was treason. Over the centuries he had heard whispers about the ancient goddess who received the dead and guided them to rebirth, but he thought they were only stories. Why would Malcolm pray to her? The Atrox was his god.
He felt desperate to know. “Tell me what you did and what does it have to do with warning me about Lamp?”
Malcolm’s head fell to the side. The scarred skin on his face shriveled and tightened over his skull, then dried to brittle leather. His body continued to disintegrate until there was nothing left but yellow bone and dust.
Stanton pulled back and watched as a deadly chill inside him grew and he began to shudder. An Immortal couldn’t die. Impossible—yet Malcolm was gone.
A ring fell from a finger bone and rolled across the wood floor.
Stanton picked it up and studied the purple stone set in the clawed prongs in front of the candle flame. His heart beat wildly as he turned it back and forth. The gemstone gave off a dazzling fire. A kaleidoscope of color shot across the room.
He held it close to his face in awe. It was the ring that had disappeared the night he had been kidnapped from his home. He read the inscription, Protegas et deleas, on the inner band. Protect and destroy. It was the ring his father had given him centuries before to protect him from the Atrox.
He turned and looked down at what remained of Malcolm. Where had Malcolm found the ring? He wondered if it was connected to the warning. He tried to slip it onto his finger, but the metal band burned his skin. He quickly removed it, but already his flesh was singed. He studied the red blister and wondered how Malcolm had been able to wear it. As he placed the ring into his jeans pocket, a thought came to him with a terrifying jolt. He had helped a Regulator who had turned from the Atrox. He didn’t know what Malcolm had done, but whatever it was, it must have been unpardonable.
He needed to hide Malcolm’s remains before anyone saw and asked questions. He had started to fold the blanket around the bones and dust when the door slammed downstairs and the hardwood floor strained under someone’s footsteps.
CHAPTER FIVE
A CLAMMY COLD HAD crept in from the ocean and settled over the city by the time Stanton walked down the empty streets near the Catholic cemetery in East Los Angeles. Behind him traffic buzzed down the freeway.
Back at the squat, he had easily carried his bundle past the two Initiates who had come home early from their Halloween celebration. They had glanced at the blanket, but in the gloomy light they couldn’t have seen anything to make them wonder. Besides, no one would have thought he carried the remains of a Regulator.
He breathed deeply and stopped at the locked gates. He didn’t think the Atrox or the Regulators could enter this sacred ground. Malcolm’s remains would be safe from discovery here. It would be the same as inside a church. But would he be allowed inside? He tentatively touched the iron bars, expecting a jolt of lightning to deny him entry. When nothing happened, he smoothed his hand over the cold metal. He felt no threat, only soothing comfort. He slid his bundle through the iron bars and released his body to the shadows. He curled into the night, then became whole again on the other side of the fence, picked up the blanket, and began walking among the headstones.
A sudden light rolled over the markers, sweeping toward him. He pressed against a large tree before the headlights from a slow moving car beamed over him. He waited as a patrol car edged slowly by, its rotating beacon flashing red light over trees, stones, and concrete benches. It was private security, probably hired especially for Halloween to guard against vandalism.
When the car had passed and its taillights were only distant beads, Stanton continued on. He tiptoed through the overgrown grass behind a square, dank-smelling mausoleum, then cut across the lawn to the older tombstones. Granite angels dusted with fine cobwebs guarded the farthest end of the cemetery. He read weathered inscriptions and epitaphs as he looped around the graves.
Finally, he found a headstone whose inscription had been erased by time. He gently laid Malcolm’s bones on top of the grave. He wanted to say something important, but all that came to mind were words he had heard said too many times. Finally, he took the ring from his pocket and scratched PRIMUS APUD PECCATORES, PRIMUS APUD AFFLICTOS into the weathered stone. First among sinners, first among sufferers.
He wondered what Malcolm had needed to tell him. Instinct told him that it hadn’t been about Serena. He had considered that at first, but finally dismissed it. If Malcolm had known about their relationship, other Regulators would have also, and both he and Serena would have been terminated without warning. It had to have been a greater threat, but Stanton couldn’t imagine what could be worse.
“Unthinkable,” he whispered into the cool air. In his world of dark, nothing was unthinkable, but it was still difficult to imagine anything that could impel a Regulator to warn a Follower. A Regulator’s job was to destroy renegades, not aid them.
He was about to leave when he caught movement from the corner of his eye. The whisper of stealthy footsteps followed and a shadow glided across the gravestone.
CHAPTER SIX
A YOUNG GIRL STOOD behind him, not more than fourteen. She wore a velvet cape lined in red silk over a dress with lacing across the bodice that looked like something a vampiress might wear in a movie. She stared at him and brushed nervously at the blond hair held away from her face by a row of downy black feathers. She had painted a spiderweb around one blue eye.
“Aren’t you afraid to be out here alone?” she whispered in a haunting voice.
Stanton smiled at her attempt to play vampire on this night and wondered how she had gotten into the cemetery; she had probably squeezed between the bars. She looked small enough.
“Well?” she asked with more daring, and spread the edges of her cape wide like bat wings.
“Should I be afraid of you?” he asked.
She seemed upset that he wasn’t. She cocked her head and looked around him at the headstone. “Is that Spanish?”
“It’s
Latin.”
She laughed briefly. “No one knows Latin anymore. You just made it up.”
“It means ‘First among sinners, first among sufferers.’”
She giggled. “Yeah, but what does that mean?”
He studied her, alone, vulnerable. The thought of making her a Follower and showing her the darker mysteries of life excited him. The desire pulsed through him. He spoke softly, daring her to look in his eyes. “It means that if you sin, no matter how evil you are, you always suffer for it.”
She put her hands on her hips. “That’s an odd thing to write. Are you joking? I don’t get it.”
“Why would I joke about sin?” The urge to cross her over became a sweet and intense pain.
“Because you think it’s cool or something.” She glanced up at him and smiled, then caught his eyes and started as if she had finally seen the danger there.
He loved the fear he now saw on her face. He wanted to turn that fear into jagged terror.
“Sin and suffer,” he whispered and brushed her hair away from her neck, exposing the rapid pulse of vein.
She sucked in air and took a quick step backward, her hand smoothing her throat.
He wanted her to turn and run. Above all, he enjoyed the chase.
She eyed him oddly. Terror shimmered near the top of her mind, cool and inviting. Then he laughed at what he read there.
“No,” he said. “I’m not a vampire.”
“I knew you weren’t.” She tried to sound annoyed, but her feet betrayed her. She backed away until a wobbly headstone stopped her.
“There aren’t many legends about my kind,” he whispered, stepping toward her, breathing in her panic. The dark impulse had taken over. His desire to please the Atrox was no longer a want, but a physical need.
“The stories haven’t survived,” he continued.