“If she comes,” said Paul, dropping a daisy into a hole he'd dug with a garden spade.
“She'll come. And when she does... just remember the whip.”
Paul nodded. He pressed loose soil around the daisy and started to dig another hole. “All of this fixer-upper stuff seems kind of pointless if you're right. Talia is going to tear this place apart without Atlas around to stop her.”
“That's what I'm hoping for.”
* * * *
Malcolm's hope still hadn't come to fruition when Maurice summoned them to the living room, where some of his servants had set up his precious poker table. But he sat as close to the man as he could all the same. Trig the dealer was the only buffer between them. If he got caught in the crossfire, well...
Paul and Charlotte sat on his other side, followed by the lucky servants Trig had chosen for their work during the day's chores. They sat with their arms crossed and their mouths closed, with about as much personality as the stern figures on Maurice's playing cards.
“Welcome, everybody. Welcome to the big show. Relax. We're all equals at this table.” He chuckled. “At least until I take all your chips.” They smiled at that, but the tension never left their bodies. Relaxation was physically impossible with their master around.
Maurice looked at Trig. “Let's get started.”
“Yes, sir.” Trig shuffled the cards again in a flurry of motion, had Malcolm cut the deck, and dealt.
Maurice bet big with a smile on his face. When no one called him on the turn, he whooped and added their chips to his stack. “That's what happens when you let me bully you around.”
One of the servants, a slight man with a mustache and patches of hair on the side of his head, shifted in his seat. “Master? What are the stakes?”
Maurice waved him off. “Let's not worry about stakes tonight. A real gambling man can enjoy the rush with just chips. Besides, I'm not sure there's anything else you could give me. I already have your souls.”
The servants looked at each other like they were deciding if it was okay to react. Then they all nodded. The bets started flying. Without stakes to worry about, the sooner they ran out of chips, the sooner they could leave the table and go to bed.
Malcolm and his companions took the opposite approach. They hemmed and hawed and bet conservatively to make every hand count. Malcolm let Maurice take the pots where he didn't have the cards on his side. He wasn't trying to play the odds or even play the man. He wasn't even playing poker.
He was playing a completely different game—one where you light a bomb with a fuse whose length you can't see and wait for it go off.
“Where's the fire, tonight?” Maurice said, looking right at Malcolm. “What happened to your aggression?”
Malcolm shrugged. “Lady luck, sir. She's fickle. I'm sure things will turn around.”
Maurice poured himself another shot of golden liquid and held it in the air. “Cheers to lady luck.”
Malcolm clinked an imaginary glass. “Cheers. And cheers to Mistress Rebecca too. What's she up to? Doesn't she like watching you play cards?”
Maurice leaned forward and slapped his cards onto the felt. “Rebecca? Where are you? Come on in here.”
He was just about to call her again when she shuffled down the stairs a few minutes later. Her hair was up in a bun, and she wore nothing but a white bathrobe with a silk sash tied loosely around the middle. Every step revealed some new part of her, some smooth flesh to intoxicate the senses.
Maurice leaped up from his chair. “Where are your clothes?”
She waved him off. “There's no time for that, honey. Look who I found.”
A little girl stepped out from behind her bathrobe, and Malcolm's heart sunk. He didn't even need to see her face to know for sure. That walk, those clothes—they belonged to the girl he'd once rescued. They belonged to the girl who he'd put back into this nightmare.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Nora shuffled forward, frail and pale. Maurice got down on one knee to greet her, but her eyes were elsewhere: latched onto the hardwood flooring.
“Nora,” he said, wrapping the little girl up in a hug. The way his skinny fingers landed on her back made Malcolm shudder. “How in the world did you find us?”
The girl looked up. She put on a brave face, but it fell apart under the scrutiny of everyone at the table. Her friends were up there, looking at her. Counting on her. “I'm sorry. I tried to hide. But I sneezed and mistress heard it.”
Maurice hugged her tighter, and Rebecca embraced her from behind. “That's all right, sweetie,” she said. “I know we said you had to leave. That's one of the hardest things I ever had to do. But it's okay. You were scared. You wanted to come home.”
Malcolm buried his head in his hands. The girl had gone from a stowaway to a prisoner again. He couldn't bear to see her shackled in their hugs and kisses.
Finally Maurice pulled away from her tear-soaked face. “I just don't understand how she got here.”
“Maybe she's a part of the prophecy Liliana spoke about.”
Nora's eyes drifted to her friends at the table. She started to cry again when she saw them. Then she shook her head and pulled her eyes away before sniffles turned into sobs.
“It doesn't matter anyway,” Rebecca said, rubbing the girl's back. “I love her.” She bent down and tousled her hair. “You always were my favorite, Nora. I just couldn't say that when the other children were around.”
Maurice nodded. Cards and chips forgotten, he smiled at the little girl. “So sweet and innocent. What's not to love?”
“Let her stay, honey. I know you wanted to send them all away. But we're in the Cloisters now. She has room to grow up here—to have a life.”
Maurice shook his head. “I don't know. As much as I'd like to—”
She lunged forward and kissed him on the lips, letting her tongue linger so she could lick up the remnants of the golden liquid. “Come on, honey. Just say yes. At least until we have a child of our own.”
He looked at her, then turned to Nora. “Fine. Let's get her washed up. Have Marie make her something to eat, too. She looks like she's been through the wringer.”
Rebecca squealed before jumping into his arms and delivering another kiss. She kissed the girl next and grabbed her by the hand. “Come on, sweetie. Let's get you cleaned up.” She led her out of the living room and back upstairs, half walking and half skipping across the hardwood flooring.
Malcolm glanced at Paul and Charlotte. He didn't reveal any emotion, but tears ran freely down her cheeks. That hope—that fire from their conversation on the dream cloud—had burned down to its last ember.
Would it burn out?
Then something else was burning, scorching Malcolm's stomach. He held it and felt the queasiness work its way to the bottom of his bowels.
“If you haven't noticed,” said Maurice, “I can't seem to say no to that woman. But can you really blame me?” He sat at the table and turned to Trig. “Where were we?”
“Your bet, sir.”
He smiled and tossed a few chips into the pile.
Malcolm paused, let his hand hover over his stack, and stood up and pushed the entire thing into the pot. “I'm all in.”
Maurice clapped his hands. “Bravo. There's those brass balls I saw a few nights ago.”
Malcolm nodded. The movement sent his stomach into endless spasms. It felt like someone was trying to pry open a stubborn door in his chest. A metal shiv, and a crowbar jiggling somewhere inside his intestines. Wrenching around, he slumped in his seat and groaned.
“Whoa, partner,” Maurice said. “You all right?”
Malcolm tried to lie, then tried to shake his head when no words came out. But nothing worked.
“Malcolm's fine,” Paul said. “His stomach's just a little upset from earlier.” He went all in too and quickly passed the bet to Charlotte. Wide-eyed, she pushed all her chips into the middle of the table.
“What an exciting hand. I'm sure mistr
ess would love to see it.”
“Great idea. Rebecca! Come in here and watch this hand.”
She came back in with a hairbrush and Nora following behind her. “What is it?” She found an empty seat next to Maurice and sat down, pulling the girl onto her lap.
“A big pot,” Maurice said. “This one's for all the marbles. Deal 'em, Trig.” But Trig didn't react. He was too busy staring at Charlotte and the men beside her, studying them with suspicious eyes.
“Trig.”
“Yes, sir.” He pulled his eyes away from the outsiders and back to the deck of cards in his hand. Out came the turn card: a queen of spades. Malcolm watched the image warp before his eyes. First there were two queens, then four, and then more than he could count. They multiplied until all he saw were their hideous faces, blighted by some sickness that made their skin the color of ash. He clutched the edge of the table while his world spun like a kaleidoscope.
“How about the river, Trig?”
Maurice. At least it sounded like Maurice, but now his voice came from some faraway place beyond the edge of Malcolm's vision.
Something thumped against the felt table. The sound filled his eardrums and made him jump out of his chair.
A joker lay there, grinning up at them in his painted motley costume.
“What the hell?” Maurice said. “What kind of dealer are you, Trig? Any idiot knows you don't use jokers in Hold'em.” He reached out and slapped him across his face. “Deal another one.”
Trig muttered an apology, his voice echoing inside Malcolm's head. The edge of the table was somewhere beneath him. His fingers clutched at it desperately, but he didn't dare look down or else he'd vomit.
“What's going on with you, Morris?” Maurice said.
Another card hitting the table distracted him after Malcolm didn't answer. He wouldn't—couldn't—answer even if he wanted to. The world shifted below him while the queens spun. Then the jester started moving too, dancing between them in a field of felt.
Something slipped.
And then his hands were off the table's edge. He tipped forward—at least it felt like forward—and opened his mouth to purge whatever poison was in his stomach. He closed his eyes just before his face hit the table, but not before a jet of hot vomit shot up his throat and out into the world.
Malcolm collapsed against the table, but no relief came. There, among a din of shouting and scraping chairs, his throat had just cleared the way for something else.
A scream.
Not his, though it came out of his mouth.
Malcolm tried to cover his ears, but his hands didn't belong to him anymore. The demon screamed through her mouthpiece of flesh and addiction, announcing her arrival.
Talia is here, Malcolm thought. She's—
I'm here. I'm here, love. Miss me?
Then Malcolm's thoughts dissolved and became her thoughts. He felt her inside him, stretching his limbs and flexing joints like an unfamiliar house guest trying to find their way around. Every movement was agony…
Until the demon opened his eyes and found the traitors.
Rebecca shrieked when she saw the burning embers in Malcolm's eyes. Her fear made those eyes burn brighter, until they'd consumed the pupils and the whites all around them. Two fires burning bright. Two fires to bury them.
Malcolm lunged for Rebecca first. He held his breath and jerked his body as hard as he could in the other direction, but it was no use. Talia was in charge, holding the reins tight and steering him exactly where she wanted to go.
Servants scattered around him in every direction. Some came to face him while others retreated into the corners. Paul and Charlotte were moving too. She ran towards the little girl still in Rebecca's arms, and he through the door deeper into the house.
Maurice screamed at his servants, but his words were lost in the uproar. He shut his eyes for a moment and started issuing thought commands instead. His servants snapped to attention and rushed forward, creating a human wall between Malcolm and Rebecca.
Talia hurled him right at it. She shoved him forward, occasionally stopping to grab someone by their clothes and throw them across the room. Malcolm watched as she turned his body into a weapon. She pulled her passenger through the crowd and used him to open cuts and shatter bones with his bare fists.
The wall of servants before them crumbled, not into dust, but screams and blood.
New faces churned forward to replace the ones that fell, but Talia was making progress. Rebecca cowered just out of arm's reach now. It was just a matter of slipping Malcolm's fingers through that screen of bone and flesh…
She burst through the wall with a scream.
A few of them grabbed at his ankles, but she kicked them away and moved on. One more man reared up in front of her, a pale man wearing a tuxedo. He screamed too, his face contorted into a picture of madness.
Richard.
Malcolm tried to tell the man to get out of the way…
But Talia put his mouth to other uses.
His teeth found something fleshy, and warm blood flooded into his mouth. The man screamed again and pulled away, holding his shoulder above the collarbone. Malcolm's mouth opened to spit out a chunk of muscle and skin. These pieces flew onto the ground right in front of him. Then Talia raised his eyes, and they squared off for a moment before the man charged.
This time she made Malcolm sidestep and caught Richard by the back of his pants as he passed. She used his momentum to send him hurtling across the dining room. His body slapped against a wall in a series of snapping sounds. He slid down the wall and rested there in an unconscious heap.
Rebecca backpedaled, still holding Nora in her arms, but Talia was faster. She erased the gap between them before the woman could even scream. Then another woman appeared, and there were three pairs of hands fighting for the little girl.
Charlotte elbowed Rebecca and reached for the child. “Come with me, Nora!”
Rebecca pulled back. “She's mine. I'll keep her safe.”
“No one's safe, you traitorous fool.” The mouthpiece was speaking again, and moving forward with his arms outstretched like a gargoyle.
They'd die if she had their way with them. Every single one.
Maurice stepped between them. “Run, love. I'll take care of this.” He held the decanter and pointed it at him. Then, in a trembling voice, “Get away. Get away or I'll throw it.”
Malcolm smiled and licked his lips while a battle waged inside. He smelled that liquid—saw its honey texture—and needed it. But the thing inside him only saw poison. He pushed forward as she pulled back, nearly ripping his body in two. He groaned. For a second her hold over him eased. Then he nearly fell over when she reasserted herself and jerked him back.
Maurice splashed them with the liquid. He mostly coated the floor, but a few drops burned Malcolm's arms and face. That liquid had a way of penetrating deep inside and making every part of his body throb, weaken. “Die!” Maurice said, throwing liquid as fast as it refilled in its decanter.
More burning. Skin sizzling. Malcolm screaming.
Then:
“No.”
Talia jerked him forward right at the gambler and his golden liquid. A big splash covered Malcolm's hair and back. He whimpered, begging for the torture to end, but Talia willed her passenger forward. She didn't stop until his clothes were soaked…
And Maurice was too close to throw that golden liquid.
His eyes had been defiant before, but fear filled them now. He backed away and tried to dump the bottle on Malcolm's head, nearly slipping in the golden puddles throughout the dining room.
Talia jerked him aside just as Maurice overturned the bottle, then right back into him.
Crash.
A sickening impact, and then a waterfall of shattering glass.
“No!”
That was all Maurice could say before he was thrown across the living room with his bottle shards. Malcolm tried to scream too. He watched the last of that golden liquid—his lo
ve, his life—disappear. But Talia made him smile instead. She herded him forward until he reached Rebecca.
She was easy prey, distracted by her lover. Charlotte had taken advantage too and pulled Nora away from her. Malcolm watched them run past Maurice into the corner just before his hands slipped around Rebecca's neck.
“No,” she said. Her fingers landed on his and began to claw. The demon inside him just laughed. What were a few scrapes if it meant giving a traitor her just desserts? He lifted her off the ground and tightened his grip. She screamed and squirmed, succeeded only in working herself deeper into Malcolm's grasp.
Things weren't supposed to go like this.
If Rebecca died instead of Maurice, then Richard wouldn't help them. If he were still alive himself. Malcolm gritted his teeth and hurled his body backwards, but his hands refused to loosen their grip. Rebecca came with him instead. They landed on the floor together in a searing puddle of gold.
She was on top of him now, writhing just like he was. His hands were still squeezing. Closing around her windpipe, tighter by the second. She loosed one more flurry of punches and kicks…
And then her face turned blue and dead.
Malcolm pushed her body off him and let it flop to the ground. He got up laughing, breathless in Talia's ecstasy.
“Traitors die traitor's deaths.”
He looked down at the woman—what used to be a woman—on the ground and smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Talia snapped his head around to find Maurice charging for them. He carried a soul net and held it high as one of the waifs watched him, empty-handed. The net flew over Malcolm's head before Talia could react. Shock waves followed, churning through his body in an endless wave. Every time she forced him to move, his skin crackled against those glowing filaments.
He collapsed next to the dead woman, in spasms like a hypothermia victim fresh out of a frozen lake. Talia ripped his mouth open and screamed. She kept his limbs thrashing too, but now there was less force behind her movements.
Finally that tug of war for Malcolm's mind changed momentum. It was Malcolm who was screaming now, resisting Talia's assault. She flung his body against the net in one final burst, and the resulting shock emptied the last strength out of her. They lay there on the ground together—the demon and the woman she'd killed—while servants crowded all around them.
Heretic (Demon Marked Book 2) (Demon Marked Saga) Page 17