Heretic (Demon Marked Book 2) (Demon Marked Saga)

by Corey Pemberton

  “How are we supposed to get him upstairs?” Paul said.

  “I don't know. Drag him?”

  They settled on carrying him like a pig on a spit roast. Paul got Broyles's arms and led the way, charging up the stairs and telling Malcolm to hurry. He seemed to get immense satisfaction every time Broyles's torso bumped against a stair. For a moment the man moaned and thrashed his limbs.

  “Shut up,” Paul said.

  Then he was snoring again.

  “Where should we put him?” Malcolm said.

  Paul opened the door to the first bedroom they encountered and let Broyles fall just inside the doorway. “There. People will have to walk over him, but that's not my problem. Now can you show me where Nora is? If that wasn't a lie too.”

  Malcolm grabbed him by the shoulder. “Look. I know you're pissed. You wouldn't be in here if it weren't for me and that gold stuff. But the only way we're going to get out is if we work together.”

  Paul snorted. “There's no way out of here. This is it. You know some of those servants have been working for Rebecca and Maurice for over a century? That's exactly what'll happen to us—if we're lucky.” He jerked away from him and opened the door. “You sold us out, man. You really sold us out.”

  “I know. Let me try to make it right. You want to see Nora?”

  “Where is she? If this is a lie—”

  “It's not. She's under the bed in the master bedroom. She needs to eat. I'm sure she'd love to see you.”

  Paul shook his head. “Don't do me like that. You know Trig will be in here if we don't get outside in about thirty seconds.”

  Malcolm squeezed past him into the hallway. “I know. That's why I asked you to come in. Stay here. I'll be right back.”

  “Malcolm? Wait.”

  Malcolm didn't. He raced downstairs. After a quick look out onto the patio, he rummaged around the kitchen until he found the latest object of his obsession: the trash. The serving women had already cleaned everything up and rejoined the party. But they hadn't taken out the trash. Malcolm dug through it now, pulling out a plate and untouched pieces of bread and half-eaten sausages and potato salad remnants. He piled everything he salvaged onto the plate and was just about to fill an empty cup with water when the patio door opened.

  “Morris? What the hell are you doing?”

  Malcolm slid the plate behind the counter out of view. “Just getting some water for Broyles. All that booze didn't sit well with him. Paul's up there helping him at the toilet.”

  “Not master and mistress's toilet, I hope.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “He pretty much puked everything up already. I'm just going to bring him this water. Hopefully he's done for the night.” He stepped away from the counter with the cup in hand, glanced down to make sure he was still wearing clothes. The way Trig looked at him made Malcolm feel naked. He stared right through him, reading every little movement.

  “Fine,” he said. “Get back out here as soon as you're done.” He crinkled his nose. “You modern types are soft. So many men who can't even handle their alcohol.”

  “Sure.” Malcolm nodded and agreed until Trig was out of the house. Then he doubled back for the plate of food and ran upstairs. He found Paul kneeling on the floor in the master bedroom with Nora wrapped in his arms. She was smiling, and that smile widened when she saw Malcolm and the leftovers.

  “Malcolm! You remembered.”

  “Sorry there isn't more. This was all I could get.” He put the plate down, and Nora began to eat as soon as it touched the floor. She stuffed pieces of bread and sausage into her mouth without even bothering to use the fork. She didn't look up until half of the food had disappeared.

  Malcolm squeezed her shoulder. “I know you're hungry, but you should save some. I don't know next time we'll be back.”

  The girl looked at her plate, her face twisted in pain. Then she sighed and nodded. “Okay. I don't think I ever ate that much. I was just so hungry.”

  “She can't stay here,” Paul said. “They'll find her.”

  “Where's she supposed to go?”

  Paul picked Nora up and motioned for Malcolm to grab her plate. “How bout one of the storage closets? I don't know. Somewhere she'll be alone.”

  Nora looked at him. “But Malcolm told me to—”

  “Paul's right. We need to get you out of here.” He straightened the bedspread to make it look undisturbed and followed them into the hallway. They left Nora in a broom closet near the end of the hallway. It was a terrible option, but it was the only one at this point. Malcolm and Paul dropped her off with a few words of encouragement and many more words of warning. They made her promise to stay put—not to open the closet for anyone unless they whispered their name through the door.

  And if one of the servants decided to open it anyway? Well...

  They raced downstairs and through the living room before Trig came back to check on them. Outside, the party raged on just like they'd left it. Trig glared at them from across the patio, but quickly turned his attention to Rebecca as she told a story to some of her most faithful servants. Maurice waved at them and smiled, too deep in his golden cups to support his head. He rested it on one of the tables.

  Rebecca laughed when Trig pointed it out. Then she got up and held her glass in the air. “All right, everyone. Looks like Master Maurice decided to call it a night. Cheers to moving day.”

  “Cheers,” they said. They smiled when they clinked their glasses together, but they couldn't mask the disappointment in their faces right after. When would they be allowed to have fun again? Another hundred years? Yet they dutifully finished their drinks and said their goodbyes, filing into the house and disappearing into the bedrooms.

  Only then did Malcolm realize Rebecca hadn't said a word about all this. And she hadn't needed to. She cracked the slave-owner's whip not with her words, but with her mind. Whatever possession or enchantment she used to control them let her issue orders with the ease of a thought. Everyone with those pulsing marks received her messages in real time and carried them out moments later.

  Malcolm rolled up his sleeve and looked at his own arm. The pair of puckered lips wasn't as brilliant as before. Its pink edges almost blended into his skin, and it was cool to the touch. Quiet now… but for how long?

  “She'll be back, you know.” Malcolm looked up to find Charlotte standing with a martini glass in her hand. “Atlas's bottles are only a temporary cure.”

  Malcolm shrugged. “So I'm a ticking time bomb. I know. But what are we supposed to do about—”

  “There is no 'we,'” Charlotte said. She drained her glass. When she sucked an olive out of the bottom, the waif behind her cringed in disgust. “Not after you left us. Lied to us. Killed the only man who maybe could have helped.”

  Paul put a hand on her arm. “Charlotte.”

  She reared up, clutching the empty glass like a prison shiv. “What? After all this you're taking his side?”

  Paul shook his head. “That's not it. We just have more important stuff to worry about. Like figuring out how to get out of here.”

  “Don't forget Nora,” Malcolm said.

  “Yeah. Her too. We just saw her. Gave her some food and water.”

  Charlotte lunged forward, her face inches away from Paul's. “You saw her? He wasn't just spewing nonsense? Is she okay?”

  “Safe for now. She's upstairs—hiding in one of the closets.”

  “Really?” She gasped and covered her face. Too loud. Too noticeable. Too drunk.

  The waif stalked up behind her and flipped on the soul net.

  Charlotte groaned.

  “Come on,” Malcolm said. “We need to get upstairs before those bedrooms fill up.” He took the martini glass out of her hand, and they turned to go inside. Paul led the way. Charlotte went after him, still murmuring about the girl and reaching for his hand to steady herself. Malcolm trailed behind them.

  He wasn't the only one.

  Eyes.

  He felt them bori
ng into his back. They bounced up and down manically, skeptical and hot. He didn't need to turn around to know whom those eyes belonged to.

  Rebecca.

  She was studying her newest prisoners. A moth approaching a flame. Circling closer, closer, closer until she almost burned up under the weight of her own curiosity.

  “Looks like we have another pair of lovers in the house,” she slurred from behind them. “How cute.”

  Malcolm pretended he didn't hear her. He urged Charlotte into the house without turning around. The stairs were next. He had to get them up the stairs.

  “How cute,” Rebecca repeated. “How cute—to live and serve together when you're so in love.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They tried the bedroom where Carol had slept.

  Most of the floor was already taken. Three or four servants lay like packaged hot dogs on one of the twin beds. The obese piano player had claimed the other, his fat folds spilling over the edge. He snored loudly enough to drown out the others. No one stirred when Malcolm and Paul and Charlotte came in. The ones who were still awake watched them without the slightest hint of curiosity.

  They found an empty carpeted space by the door. Malcolm tried to shut it, but gave up when he saw there wouldn't be enough room to stretch his legs. Light poured in from the hallway—Trig insisted they leave it on—but none of the servants seemed to mind. They huddled together, bodies contorted into strange positions. This was just another night for them. But for Malcolm and the others?

  Maybe the first of an eternity to come...

  Malcolm propped up on his elbows and went to whisper in Paul's ear. “Hey.” He shook his head. “Not now. Too many listening.”

  Malcolm looked around the room. Pairs of nearby eyes watched them with interest now, ears bent for the slightest scrap of gossip.

  They wouldn't think twice before ratting them out to Trig or even Rebecca and Maurice themselves. Dissension—open dissension—meant leverage. Brownie points. Maybe even a pat on the head. To the eavesdroppers, that was worth more than anything money could buy.

  Malcolm sighed. “Fine. Tomorrow, then.”

  “If we make it that long...”

  Malcolm shut his eyes. Every muscle in his body demanded rest, but his mind wouldn't have it. The night crawled on in an endless series of aches and regrets. Malcolm stared at the ceiling and counted the tiles until the first traces of dawn crept in through the bedroom window.

  No one else was awake to notice.

  Even Charlotte and Paul slept, their bodies separated by the glowing soul net.

  Malcolm shut his eyes again, thinking of Nora. Wondering if she was sleeping. He resolved to lay perfectly still, either until he drifted off or Trig pulled him downstairs to work.

  Then, with the sun already peeking through the window, sleep took him.

  It pulled him out of his bedroom hell into a new one. In this hell, city lights blinked at him from below like splotches of a watercolor painting. Malcolm looked around and found himself surrounded by skyscrapers. He was on top of the Jadira Tower—the tallest building in all of Lemhaven. The wind howled up here. Gusts of it buffeted his body and turned his feet into wobbling, quivering mush. More wind. Slapping his face. Puffing up his clothes and hurling him too close to the edge.

  Malcolm flailed his limbs and tried to balance.

  He looked down.

  His feet were already over the edge.

  Glass windows rushed up at him like razorblades, blending together in the blinding lights. Indistinguishable hunks of metal separated into roofs and cars and construction equipment. Malcolm sailed through the air, tumbling and spinning until down was up and up was down.

  He heard sirens and jackhammers and screaming.

  Below him, a few teenagers stood on a street corner. They pointed up at him, frozen while hordes of foot traffic moved around them. Malcolm opened his mouth. He might have screamed...

  But the sounds of the city swallowed it up.

  Then there was concrete—a whole lot of it. Coming at him fast.

  Malcolm gritted his teeth and prepared for every bone in his body to turn to powder.

  Then the sidewalk greeted him, not with a smash, but with a sticky feeling like he'd rolled into a spider web.

  He hadn't fallen into the sidewalk.

  He'd fallen through it.

  Then there was darkness. Darkness upon darkness, thicker and heavier than anything he'd ever experienced except for the underworld beach where Charlotte had sent him to rescue Nora.

  Hello? Malcolm said.

  He couldn't speak with his mouth. The sensation of having a body had disappeared somewhere beneath the sidewalk's surface. He spoke with his thoughts instead.

  Hello?

  I'm here, someone replied. It rattled every nerve in his body… if he still had a body.

  Who are you? Malcolm said.

  A friend. Sorry to put you through that. Sometimes getting into this deep sleep state can be a bit... traumatic.

  You did this to me?

  Yes. Listen up. We only have a few minutes. I know about the little girl. The one you're hiding.

  Malcolm didn't respond. That voice would know if he was lying. He was sure of it.

  I want to help you get her out.

  Why? Malcolm said. How?

  That's up to you and your friends. But I'll play my part. All you have to do is call me when the time's right.

  How will we—

  Just whisper “Richard. Richard the Unwanted.” I'll be around.

  Malcolm searched for that voice's source and found nothing. Then the darkness began to ease, like some stagehand lifting the curtain which divided different scenes of a play. Daylight crept into the corners of his vision. There were faint voices, too. Surrounding him.

  Malcolm blinked.

  He was back in the bedroom with the others. He sat upright, clothes soaked with sweat. A few servants went around the room waking up the stragglers. They passed by Malcolm and turned to the piano player. It almost took flipping his mattress onto the ground before the man got going.

  Then something moved in the hallway.

  Malcolm squinted in the light, studying it.

  A hazy spot marred the perfect progression of pictures hanging on the wall. Malcolm watched it slip through the bedroom door and float up into the air. For a moment the sunlight hit it at just the right angle, revealing a faint outline of a man in a tuxedo. He looked down at Malcolm and nodded.

  Then the outline became a vapor, and the vapor became a mist. Thinning. Softening. Malcolm watched it unravel until there was nothing left but dust motes floating in the air.

  A hand slapped him on the shoulder.

  It was one of the waifs. She stared at him without a word, her soul net wrapped around a wiggling Charlotte. Next she woke Paul with a kick between his shoulder blades. Once she had everyone's attention, she beckoned for them to get moving.

  They joined the throng of servants already in the hallway. More filed in from the different rooms like they were driven by a single, silent whip. And Malcolm supposed they were. He watched that whip stroll right out from the master bedroom.

  Maurice and Rebecca.

  “Good morning,” they said. They sauntered through the hallway in bathrobes hand in hand. Between the servants they went, squeezing through the masses in their domestic bliss. The servants did what they did best. They stood up straight and smiled when their master and mistress passed. Maurice clapped his hands when he and Rebecca reached the top of the staircase. They descended the stairs without bothering to look back.

  Their servants followed after them.

  They climbed downstairs like docile cattle on the way to the slaughter.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  They whipped Sheriff Robbie after breakfast.

  The first lash made him grit his teeth, but by the last he was begging for mercy.

  Everyone gathered in the backyard to watch. The servants whooped and hollered, adding a carnival-
like atmosphere to the occasion. Between lashes they urged Maurice to hit the man harder. They complimented his technique after particularly brutal strikes.

  Malcolm, Charlotte, and Paul stood at the edge of that angry mob. It wasn't how Malcolm expected they'd spend the morning. There were more boxes to unpack, furniture to arrange…

  But the whipping came first.

  And so Malcolm found himself holding his churning stomach. The coffee he'd drank was on the verge of coming back up. Watching Broyles get his back torn open definitely didn't help.

  Crack went the whip. Crack crack crack.

  He couldn't look away.

  Maurice wielded it with precision, but no amount of lashes created the effect he and Rebecca were looking for. Broyles apologized, cried, and begged for mercy, but that did nothing to slow Maurice's strikes. The more Broyles pleaded the harder—and faster—he hit. He didn't rest until the sheriff's back turned into a bloody braid from all the lashes.

  Broyles tried to squirm away, but Trig and the others had tied him to a tree trunk with sturdy rope. The more he tried to dodge, the madder Maurice became. Malcolm looked away—he couldn't bear it anymore—and found Rebecca talking to a strange woman he'd never seen.

  She was tall and thin, watching the whipping with her arms crossed in a practiced pose of detachment. Pale skin. Pink lips. Dark hair flowing down to her waist in waves. She wore a strapless blue dress that stretched all the way down to her ankles. It left her shoulders free, beautiful and rippling with little muscles.

  If she were a servant, she carried herself like the most uppity one of the bunch.

  What happened next erased any doubt. She brushed past Rebecca, put a hand on Maurice's shoulder, and he stopped the whipping. She stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear. Maurice listened intently, eyes never wavering from the carnage on his prisoner's back. He nodded. The woman stepped away.

  Then he looked her square in the eye and handed her the whip.

  She let it fly with a scream.