He circled the room, putting out the candles one by one with his fingertips. Malcolm grabbed his arm when he passed, but Atlas threw it off with a wiry strength that belied his frail appearance. “Don't test me, Malcolm. I like you—I think you have some good to do for Lemhaven—but I'll end your life in an instant if you ever do that again.” He stepped through the doorway into the warehouse. “Now excuse me. I have work to do. Come back tomorrow night. Eight o'clock. Bring your friends.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Malcolm pulled into the garage just as the sun was coming up.
Paul and Charlotte were waiting for him. They swarmed him as soon as he stopped the car, Paul practically jerking him out of the driver's seat.
“Where the hell have you been, man?” he said. His eyes flashed, filled with anger. “Whose car is that? We were about to drive through the city looking for you.”
Malcolm brushed him aside. “Are the girls okay? Has anyone been here?”
“Everyone's fine,” said Charlotte. She watched the steam rise from the coffee mug in her hand. “Except for you, apparently. Look, Malcolm. I know you're dealing with something serious. I just want you to know I'm working on it. Just give me—”
“A little more time? That's not good enough. It's not going away, Charlotte. This isn't normal withdrawal. It's been weeks and it's just getting worse. I think I found someone who can help.”
“What?” said Charlotte. “Who?”
“She thought you were gone for good,” Paul said. “I knew you wouldn't do that, though. I told her you probably just went for a drive to clear your head.”
Malcolm nodded. “That's right.” It was a lie, and he was way too tired to make it a convincing one. It flopped out of his mouth without a hint of finesse, joining the oil splotches that marred the garage floor. “I went back to our place. I wanted to get my gun and a few things.”
“And decided to steal a car too?” said Paul.
Charlotte grabbed his arm. “Let's go inside. So we don't wake up the girls.”
They sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee while Malcolm told them about the night's strange events. He left out the parts about almost kidnapping Nora, how he'd originally planned to leave them for good and, worst of all, the information he'd given Broyles. Even with all his omissions, the sun was well above the horizon by the time he finished his tale.
Charlotte and Paul sat there looking at each other, shaking their heads.
“We need to get out of here,” Paul said.
Charlotte said, “We will. But can't we wait a few more days? Nora's grieving her mother and father. And you want to throw moving on top of that.”
“I want to keep the girls safe. That's impossible with Broyles sniffing around so close.”
Malcolm nodded. None of them were safe anymore. Not with enemies hunting them on the outside and in. Not with the sheriff and Carol standing at the gate and the voices ripping apart the inside of his skull.
“But he doesn't know exactly where we are,” said Charlotte. “Right, Malcolm?”
“Right,” Malcolm said. They'd leave if they knew the truth. Without them, Atlas would turn him away empty-handed. He'd never get his golden fix.
“Are you sure you saw him?” she said. “And what about this man—woman, whoever—who could change skins?”
Malcolm held his head in his hands. “That's Broyles's car in the garage. Where else would I have gotten it if I didn't bump into him?”
Charlotte touched his arm, and her voice was soft when she spoke. “I know. But sometimes when people are… going through these kinds of situations they imagine things. That's all.”
Malcolm stood up and slammed his hands on the table. “He was real. They both were.”
“Okay,” they both said. “We believe you.”
Their platitudes just ratcheted up the tension in his body even further. Then Malcolm exploded, sent the coffee cups smashing to the floor. “He's real, damn it! I need you to come to that warehouse with me tonight. Come see for yourself if you don't believe me.”
“We do believe you,” Charlotte said.
Paul nodded. Then he got up and walked Malcolm over to the couch. “We'll go tonight. I promise. Why don't you lie down and rest for a bit?”
Malcolm collapsed onto the couch. He was too tired to argue. The energy in his limbs was gone, burned out. But his eyes were still antsy, circling the room and crawling up and down the walls. He saw the girls come into the living room in their pajamas rubbing their eyes. They told him good morning, but he couldn't get his mouth working to reply.
Nora smiled at him.
Her face was covered in gold.
Malcolm blinked, but it was still there. Churning on her cheeks. Bubbling out of her mouth. Malcolm tried to reach for her and take some for himself, but his body remained firmly fixed on the couch.
His eyes flew around the room. Gold was oozing down the walls now, swallowing up the living room carpet like lava flow. Gold was everywhere except where he needed it to be. Then the voices took him. They sang a cruel lullaby and carried him off to sleep.
* * * *
Finally, an eternity later, the sun disappeared.
Malcolm had spent the entire day on the couch. Not eating. Not thinking. Not doing anything besides sleeping and twitching whenever the convulsions came. But his limbs were spry now. They were ready to meet the man who'd promised to deliver his salvation.
And so their strange family packed into another one of the luxury sedans and drove into the heart of Lemhaven. They brought the girls with them, convinced that they'd be safer if they all stayed together. They sat in the backseat with Charlotte, Nora whispering secrets and pointing out the window. Malcolm navigated while Paul drove them closer. Then, just when he was about to turn onto the street where Malcolm had been with Atlas the night before: “You can't go there. It's Germ territory now.”
“What?”
“Trust me. We have to find another way.”
“Just pull over here,” Charlotte said. “We'll take a walking trip. I know this city like the back of my hand.”
Paul hemmed and hawed for a moment before finally pulling over in front of an abandoned gas station. Its front door was wide open, hanging from its hinges. But the shelves inside were empty, the windows smashed. They left the car at one of the pumps and began to walk.
Charlotte led them through alleys and side streets, through apartment building courtyards and even the backyards of houses. Closer and closer they came to the warehouse, until Malcolm could almost taste the golden liquid on his lips. He saw the edge of the building several times, but whenever he tried to run for it Charlotte and Paul held him back.
There were more checkpoints to deal with. Overturned semi trucks. Barricades of metal and plywood and brick. Groups of armed men patrolling the streets shoulder to shoulder. This was Germ territory, and heavily guarded. They circled and probed for an opening until Malcolm lost all sense of direction. Charlotte led their maddening hunt, pulling the girls along by the hand.
Finally, once Malcolm's shirt was stuck to his back from all the sweat, they found an empty alley. Charlotte peeked around the corner then back at him.
“Are you sure that's it? That hunk of metal on the corner?”
Malcolm nodded. The voices sang in his head in their strange language, but he understood exactly what they meant. Don't give up now. You're close.
“Okay,” Charlotte said. She looked at Paul and nodded. “We'll have to make a run for it. That alley's empty now but—”
“Got it,” said Paul. “Can you do this, Malcolm?”
“Sure.” He sprinted around the corner, tennis shoes slapping against the pavement. There were puddles and potholes to navigate, but somehow his feet avoided them on their own. All he saw was that magical little doorway in front of him—the one leading to the man who could save him. He was vaguely aware of footsteps behind him, a girl's scream of pleasure like she was on a swing or some other playground toy. There were voices ab
ove him too. They spilled out of apartment windows, sailing curses over stairways and balcony railings.
Malcolm didn't look up to find them. His gaze never wandered from that door—not until it rushed up at him and he threw his hands up to keep from crashing into it. Lungs burning, he made a fist and was just about to knock when it swung open without a sound.
A man looked back at him. He looked nothing like the old man from the night before—this one was young and blonde, with a beard covering his face—but appearances didn't mean much around these parts. “Yes?” he said. His green eyes narrowed. Suspicious.
“Atlas,” Malcolm said, gasping for breath. “I'm here to see Charles Atlas.” He looked back and saw the others running up behind him. “I brought my friends.”
“Of course.” The man offered an apologetic bow. He wore a dark robe which flowed from his shoulders down to his ankles. The only thing interrupting it was a thin strip of leather cinched around his waist. There was a hood too, though he had it tucked over his shoulder. “Brother Charles told me he was expecting visitors. I'm Brother Darron, one of his apprentices. Please come in.” He opened the door wider and Malcolm rushed in, nearly bowling the man over. The others followed behind with their politeness still intact.
“Wow,” Nora said. “This place is huge.”
Darron smiled at that. “You think so?”
“Where's Atlas?” Malcolm said, sniffing inside the warehouse. His mouth, his eyes, his entire body was watering now. The bugs of addiction. Crawling all over him. Demanding to be scratched.
The blonde-haired man pointed to the other side of the warehouse. “He's over at the altar with the others. I'll take you to him myself.”
They followed him across the warehouse. The harsh light and all the empty storage space were just how Malcolm remembered it, but there was something different in the corner past the little office. Men and women were milling around back there. They wore dark robes just like the blonde man did, clustered together in a single black mass like a centipede with all of its legs moving in different directions.
“Who are they?” Malcolm said.
“My brothers and sisters,” said Darron. “Balancers. The ones who balance.”
“No shit?” said Paul.
The apprentice gave him a stern look. “If you could refrain from swearing—”
“Sorry.”
“They're in mourning, is all. They're paying their respects.”
“That's silly,” Nora said. “It's nighttime. It's not morning.”
Charlotte squeezed her hand and whispered in her ear, and the girl went quiet.
Soon they'd made it over to the other side of the warehouse. There were about two dozen balancers of different ages, races, and genders, yet they all wore the same black robes as the man who'd opened the door. No one paid the newcomers any attention. All of their focus was on the table around which they had gathered, where flickering candles surrounded a portrait of a young woman and a brass scale.
“Wait here,” Darron said when they were a few paces outside the circle. “I'll be right back.” He slipped into the middle of the group and extracted the old man with the wild hair sticking out from the sides of his head.
“Atlas,” Malcolm said. When he saw him his heart filled and almost burst. “I told you. I told you he was real.”
Charlotte grabbed his shoulder. “All right, Malcolm. Let's hear the man out.”
Atlas approached them in his flowing dark robes and shook all of their hands. Nora laughed at that, loud enough to pull a few eyes from the makeshift altar.
“Sorry,” Charlotte said after they'd introduced themselves. “She doesn't quite grasp what's going on, I'm afraid.”
“She's not the only one,” Paul said.
The old man waved them off. “Nonsense.” He looked them over. His eyes landed on Charlotte and lingered there, and the pleasant expression on his face vanished. “Come with me into the office. Let's not distract them.”
They followed him into the office—that homey room where he'd made all those sweet promises. Malcolm started to beg as soon as the door was shut. “You said you know about the gold stuff. You said you could help.”
“Ah, yes. The Core.” Atlas sat in his reading chair just like he'd done the night before. They watched him untie his shoes, casually flip them onto the floor, and cross one leg over the other like he had all the time in the world.
“Come on,” Malcolm said. “You said if I brought my friends you'd—”
“That's right. I did say that. But you didn't tell me one of your 'friends' was a gatekeeper.”
Charlotte's cheeks flushed. “What's that got to do with anything?”
“More than you think, woman. I don't remember your name, and I don't care to if I'm being perfectly frank. All of you are the same. Abominations.”
Charlotte stood taller and rested her hands on her hips. “Excuse me? Abominations?”
“That's right. I said it. There's no time for sensitivity, and there's no time to spare anyone's feelings. Without gatekeepers we wouldn't be in this mess. Sister Jana wouldn't be missing and we wouldn't be dropping like flies just to keep this wretched city in balance.”
Charlotte opened her mouth and shut it again. The impact of his words washed over her from head to toe, left her body quivering while everyone stared at her in silence. Then Nora hugged her leg, the anger fizzled, and the only thing left was sadness. “I can't help being who I am,” she whispered. “If I could, I would. Trust me.”
Atlas nodded in his chair. “You're right. Such is the way of things. We're all interconnected. If there weren't gates there wouldn't be imbalance. And if there wasn't imbalance… well, I'm not quite sure where my brothers and sisters and I would be.”
Then the room shifted. The floor became the ceiling and the ceiling became the floor while the walls rotated before Malcolm's eyes. His limbs shot out, but they didn't know which way to go to save him. He was falling. Crumpling to the floor. There was a bump when his body hit the ground, but it sounded like it was miles away. He didn't feel a thing.
“Malcolm!” they yelled, their voices blending together with the ones inside his head. Everyone gathered around him. They knelt down and surrounded him in a world of murmurs and shadows. “Are you all right?” someone said.
He reached for the silhouettes and used all of his effort to speak a single word: “Gold.” His eyelids shut as soon as he said it, but still the world spun in darkness.
“He's really bad off.” A man. Atlas? “He looked bad last night, but this is really something else.” Then came a zippering sound, and Malcolm listened to the others make way while the man approached. “I really shouldn't be doing this, but I don't see any other way at this point. Here.”
Malcolm opened his eyes.
What he saw made him begin to cry.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Above him, that golden liquid—the stuff that had hollowed out his mind and kept him awake all these nights—trembled in a small glass decanter.
He reached for it without thinking, uncoiling off the ground like a striking snake. For a moment his hands almost touched it. Then Atlas whisked it away and Malcolm crumpled to the ground, howling in frustration.
“Patience,” Atlas said. Then he reached for the stopper in the decanter and pulled it out. A sweet smell filled the office. Sugar. Honeysuckle. Unspoiled childhood memories. That scent was ever-changing as it worked its way up his nostrils. It was all the good things in this world. It was whatever he wanted it to be.
Atlas knelt next to him. Malcolm watched the decanter move closer, his eyes about to burst out of their sockets. “Tilt your head back,” Atlas said.
Malcolm did.
Then the edge of the decanter was on his lips, and the liquid followed. It warmed his throat on its way down. And it left a sticky coating too—something to remember it by. Malcolm gulped it down as fast as Atlas allowed. He swallowed greedily, like the liquid in the decanter would never run out. When he forced himsel
f to open his eyes he noticed the impossible: the decanter was refilling itself, fresh gold liquid appearing just as fast as he drained the old stuff.
He drank for a long time. He drank until the voices went away and life returned to his limbs. Finally, with a smile on his face and his body slack on the floor, he let Atlas take the decanter away. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”
“That should hold you over for a while,” the old man said. He stood up and retreated back to his reading chair. “I'm really not supposed to do that. Hopefully the effects won't be too—”
“They're wonderful,” Malcolm said. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift while his body vibrated. Gone were the fear and hatred and corruption. For a moment everything was perfect.
“Can you give some to me and the girls?” Paul said. “We were in those tanks too.”
Atlas frowned. They must have filled him in on what happened down there sometime during Malcolm's drunken revelry. “Just a few sips,” he said. “No more.” He motioned for them to come over, but the girls looked at the floor and shifted their feet.
“Go on,” Charlotte said, nudging them forward. “It'll help you feel better. Like medicine.”
Nora crinkled her nose. “I hate medicine.” But she moved forward anyway. Malcolm watched the man tilt their heads back and give them a taste.
“Better?” said Atlas.
“Wow,” Paul said.
“It tastes good.” It should have been Nora who said that, but the voice came out deeper. Carol looked at them and wiped the remnants from her lips.
Charlotte smiled. “Thank you. She hardly ever speaks. This is something… this is something else.”
Atlas put the stopper back on the decanter and reclined in his chair. “Don't get too exited just yet. Mortals aren't supposed to taste the Core. That's why I only gave them a little—I'm not sure of the long-term effects. If you agree to help me we can explore options for further treatment.”
Heretic (Demon Marked Book 2) (Demon Marked Saga) Page 5