June’s baby blues went very wide. She coiled up, holding her clutch purse to her chest defensively. Her eyes shone in the light streaming from Hart Hall, but her tight little hiccup of surprise didn’t sound choked up for the right reasons.
“Oh,” June said, pulling her hand away. “That’s...that’s nice.”
“That’s nice?” His voice cracked embarrassingly in his struggle to get the words out. This was all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
“I need to go,” June squeaked, popping open the car door and fleeing. She slammed the door shut behind her.
It was very hard for Ernest to make himself move. If his father hadn’t been expecting him at the party, there was a good chance that he wouldn’t have been able to scrape together the courage to face the Bash. Imagining his dad’s disappointment— and reminding himself that Mal had told him that this would happen if he got tangled up with romance— Ernest forced himself to open the door and get out of the cab.
When the paparazzi cameras started clicking, flashbulbs burning dancing spots in his vision, Ernest remembered to smile. It was heavy and automatic, but he still managed.
°
“And then she said, ‘I’ve gotta go’, got out of the car, and bolted,” Ernest said, staring miserably at his reflection in his cup of punch. “And I haven’t seen her since. She went home, I think.”
“I did warn you,” Mal said, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. It was clear that Ernest was expecting something of him, and he couldn’t be sure what it was. He’d found his oldest friend in the balcony, the epitome of distressed. He hadn’t been able to just leave him like that, as tempting as the idea might have been.
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” Ernest said, kicking back his punch like he wished for something stronger. “I’m so stupid.”
“You’re nothing of the sort. Stop.”
“She must think I’m a big dumb jerk,” Ernest all but whimpered into his hands. “’Cause I am!”
“Again, no.” Mal said, realizing that his attempts at comfort were falling considerably short. “There’s nothing to be done for it now. I would suggest making the necessary social rounds. It will keep your mind off things.”
“Yeah,” Ernest said with a sniff that sounded dangerously close to tears again. It’d taken Mal close to twenty minutes to get him to stop blubbering. “’Cause there’s no cure for a broken heart than making small talk with wealthy old ladies.”
He was tempted to chastise him for being overly melodramatic, but it seemed that Ernest truly felt that his heart had been broken. He looked broken.
“If anyone is equipped to make you feel better about your romantic prospects, it is the predatory elderly women that want nothing more than to pinch you inappropriately.”
It’d been a joke. A poor attempt at one, apparently. Ernest didn’t so much as crack a smile. Mal debated finding Zipporah. She was not as close to Ernest, but she was much better at coddling.
“I thought the Bash would be better this year. I didn’t think that that it could be worse than usual.”
“Yes, well.” Mal patted Ernest’s back. It seemed like the sort of thing that Ernest would have done, if their situations were reversed. “If it’s any consolation, I’d hoped that this would work out for you. You— ”
He only caught a glimpse of the man as he cut through the crowd, but he recognized him instantly. Everything about him was worn in and worn out, from his shaggy mop of rusty hair to his cracked leather jacket and threadbare jeans. The man would have stuck out even if he hadn’t stood over the average partygoer. Everyone around him was wearing their glittering finest, so the man was like a scuffed work boot in a closet full of sleek Italian loafers and glass slippers.
Mal’s heart drummed like a hummingbird caught in his throat. Of all the places to see him, the Bash was the least likely. He frantically prayed that he had imagined him, because he couldn’t think of any scenario where the man’s presence didn’t spell impending disaster. He was a bad omen, a roll of thunder.
“I need to— need some air,” he murmured distractedly at Ernest, getting to his feet. It was the truth. Mal wiped perspiration from his forehead with the inside of his wrist.
The man had been moving toward the back doors, so Mal followed. It had started snowing again, but the flakes were large and lazy. The courtyard was heavy with snow already, the shapes of statues and benches filled out and softened.
He didn’t see anyone. The cold kept most of the partygoers inside the warm, dazzlingly bright hall, but Mal enjoyed it. It wasn’t as good as rain, but it was something other than dewy fog or mild sunlight.
Mal heard the man’s boots before he caught sight of him again. The snow crunched beneath his heavy steps, advertising his position in a way that bordered on cockiness.
“Well hey howdy, baby brother,” the man drawled, pulling his lips from his teeth in an almost-smile. “Don’t you look handsome.”
“Marshal,” Mal said, inclining his head in a slight nod of greeting.
“Oh, good,” Marshal said, sounding pleased. “You remember me.”
This was bad. Worse than he could have anticipated. Marshal had meant to be seen. He’d purposefully drawn him away from the party— away from witnesses.
“How could I forget?” Mal’s mouth had gone so dry, his tongue stuck to his teeth. His throat clicked as he tried to swallow. “You are my brother.”
“Half-brother.”
“A brother is a brother. Sharing half of the same blood doesn’t necessitate half a sibling relationship.”
“Awful big of you,” he said, his thumbs hooked in his front belt loops. His loose, easy posture was maddening.
His father had told Mal that there were three things that he absolutely had to remember if he ever ended up in his elder brother’s crosshairs. The first thing to remember was that Marshal was twice his age. He had been fighting crime for longer than Mal had been living, and it showed. The second thing to remember was that unless puberty pulled a hell of a Hail Mary— his father’s words, not his— Marshal would always be bigger than him. He was built solidly, and he knew how to use that size.
The third— and, as his father had stressed, the most important— thing to remember that once Marshal had gotten his teeth into something, he was a bulldog. He would not let go, he would not back down, and he would not bend. He would break before he compromised, and as of yet, he hadn’t so much as cracked. The Rook had taught him to be that way, encouraging his determination. In the end, it’d made them too alike.
“Why are you here?”
Mal found it enormously difficult to believe that an invitation had found its way to him in the mail. While Marshal was an Alpha, he was persona non grata among public heroes. In fact, if any of them had recognized him inside, they would have been obligated to bring him in. Either the world had forgotten that the first Little Bird hadn’t stayed sixteen forever, or they weren’t willing to challenge him.
Mal couldn’t say that he blamed anyone for not wanting to tangle with him. He’d seen his brother wreck their father in close quarters hand-to-hand combat, and that was no small feat.
Marshal wore no mask. He had no moniker. He was something that the system didn’t know how to control, because he stubbornly resisted any definitions other than his own. On the short list of people that Mal found intimidating, Marshal ranked in the top tier.
“I’m here for the food, obviously. Have you tried the cheese puffs? They’re tiny clouds plucked from a lactose heaven,” he said, almost insufferable in his arrogance. Had he not been so hesitant to make the first aggressive move, Mal would have been compelled to strike the grin off his face. It would not end in his favor, so he didn’t move.
“Marshal.”
“I came to chat. You’re not an easy kid to get a hold of, y’know? Living out in the boonies like you do, we don’t cross paths very often anymore. I wanted to catch up. It’s been a year now, after all.”
Just a f
ew days short of exactly one year, but he didn’t feel like correcting him. He knew, then, why his brother had come for him— what he wanted. He also knew that he couldn’t give him the answers he was looking for, and that Marshal didn’t take well to being denied.
For the first time in months, Mal was genuinely afraid. It slipped down his throat like snowmelt, freezing the air in his lungs.
“Tell me what happened to Dad,” Marshal said, punctuating each word with the crunch of his boots as he stepped closer. “What really happened.”
Mal had to fight the urge to take a step back.
“I can’t.”
Marshal regarded him with a look that others would give a small, stubborn kitten attempting to fluff itself up and hiss. The look was a mixture of amusement, exasperation, and mild patronization. It turned Mal’s stomach.
“Can’t?” He asked incredulously. He laughed, but it was harsh and hard as a gunshot.”Are you fucking for real? I deserve to know. Tell me.”
Mal felt dizzy. It was ridiculous, really. Everyone asked him the same questions. They demanded. They felt entitled. They never stopped asking, even though he hadn’t budged an inch since the first time he’d been interrogated. They asked again and again, not realizing that if Mal could have told them, he would have.
“No,” he repeated, some far-detached corner of his brain congratulating him on keeping the tremble of fear out of his voice.
“You had three years with him,” Marshal growled, still advancing. “Me? I had sixteen. I was his partner. His son. You were a disappointing little surprise. So be a lamb and tell me what the hell it was you did that got him killed.”
Mal debated trying to evade him, but what was the point? He was stronger. His reach was greater. He wouldn’t win. He’d survive, but he wouldn’t win.
“It— it wasn’t my fault!”
“Yeah?” Marshal grabbed him, fisting his big hands in the lapels of his suit jacket and jerking him up. Mal’s feet cleared the ground, dangling. “Then who’s to blame, baby brother? You were there. You saw. You know, and I deserve to know, too.”
Marshal smelled so strongly of lighter fluid, Mal gagged reflexively. His head spun. Why had he gone out alone? So, so stupid. Arrogant. It was shameful, but he knew that playing possum was his best course of action. Marshal resembled a redheaded grizzly more than anything, so he had to be handled like one.
“No,” Mal croaked thinly.
But unlike a four-legged predator, his brother didn’t hunt for the essentials. A bear would walk away from a limp victim because its goal was food. Marshal was a creature sharpened by vengeance. He’d come for answers, and, failing that, an outlet.
“TELL ME!” Marshal roared.
This time, Mal said nothing. He just glared at him wrathfully.
The last of his brother’s forced patience evaporated. It was as abrupt as a switch flipping over— fascinating, in a horrible way. All that loose swagger coiled up into power, muscles tightening. The first punch hit him square in the jaw, shattering it. Mal choked, coughed, and spat out two teeth. The ring that Marshal was wearing sliced his cheek open with the second hit.
Marshal didn’t stop there, but Mal drifted. He was good at disassociation. When he knew that he had no choice but to suffer through a beating, he pulled back and focused on something else.
It was those two teeth that he caught his attention, irrationally annoyed that he’d lost them— and that they were both molars, too. He glared at the worming pink threads of the roots. Cutting new teeth was one of Mal’s least favorite activities. It usually took his body a couple of days and a few meals to realize that the missing teeth needed replaced, and since it wasn’t a life-threatening injury, they were slow growing. Teething was terrible.
Unexpectedly, Marshal froze. He stared at him, then roughly wiped his palm over Mal’s cheek. It had already healed, of course. He’d wondered if his father had ever told him what he could do. The shock in Marshal’s eyes said that he had not.
His eyes had gone wide with horror, the whites showing. He let go of him, straightening and taking a couple of clumsy steps back. Mal tried to keep on his feet after his brother released him, but it was impossible. His legs buckled under his weight, and trying to catch himself made his body hit the ground at a poor angle. Electric jolts of agony lanced up his left arm, from fingertips to collarbone.
Marshal’s bloodied hands shook.
“The fuck are you— you’re not— ”
No, he hadn’t known.
And that made Mal angry. It was one thing to use him as a punching bag with the knowledge that he would walk away from the fight virtually unharmed, but another thing entirely if done under the assumption that it would break him. Aunt Roxanne had been correct. Intent made a world of difference.
Mal held onto that anger. It cleared his head.
“Yes, Marshal,” he said, popping his shoulder back into socket with a crunch that he both felt and heard. “You can keep hitting me indefinitely. If it makes you feel better, I welcome it. Anything to alleviate the guilt, yes?”
Goading him further was pure stupidity, but Mal was beyond caring. It was the only way he had to hurt him back. With the healing process came a rush of adrenaline and testosterone that spun him into an aggressive high.
“You and I both know that if you’d been there, he wouldn’t have died. You may have had sixteen years with Father, but it’s nearly been that long since you wanted to be his son.” Mal took a painful, laborious breath. It did very little for the burning in his chest. “I only had three years with him, but you were the disappointment.”
When Marshal cocked his fist back again, he resigned himself to it. He would have sighed, but his lungs were momentarily too full of fluid to expand like that.
The hit never came. A blur of gold and scarlet collided with Marshal’s side, slamming into him and then rebounding.
“LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BIG CREEP!”
The backup he had not even thought to expect had arrived.
“Zipporah— no— ” Mal gasped, trying to rein in his thundering heartbeat. His partner looked so distressingly small when compared to his older brother. Marshal had inherited the Rook’s size, so he towered over the little gold-band. She was quick, but Marshal could do incredible damage to her with only one successful hit.
But no one would have thought that, looking at her stance. She was so ferocious and so protective and so, so wildly outmatched. She stood her ground. He had never seen her so angry before. Odd, alarming, and warming that she only brought her fiercest self out when protecting someone.
When trying to protect him.
“I’ve got your back, boss,” she said, planting herself between him and his brother. “Don’t you forget it.”
“Well, who have we here?” Marshal said with a laugh. He brushed the wet snow from his clothes as he stood, back to being loose and calm. Given the speed that Zipporah had been traveling at, it was a miracle that he was able to get up at all. A miracle, or a testament to Marshal’s durability.
“I’m his partner!” Zipporah said, bristling. “You wanna hurt him, you gotta go through me first!”
“As precious as this little display of camaraderie is— and yes, it is precious— this is not what I signed up for. So Merry Christmas, kids.” Marshal jabbed a finger at Mal. “But I’m not done with you, sugar lumps. Not by a long shot. I’ll be in touch.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Mal said, and spat out a mouthful of saliva that stained the snow pink.
And then, Marshal turned and left. He put his hands in his pockets, blasé as ever, and calmly walked away. One would think that they really had been having a fraternal heart-to-heart— and not that he’d beaten his younger brother to an even pulp.
Zipporah tensed, looking to him for orders.
“I could get ‘im,” she whisper-hissed. She crouched slightly, lowering her center of gravity as though readying to leap into action.
“Let him go,” Mal told her in an under
tone. As much as it killed him to accept that he’d been bested, he wasn’t prepared for a second round. His Beta would need his help, and as it stood, he had to have at least three or four bones that were still broken. She would have no support, and he would rather suffer a bruised ego than watch his partner suffer.
As soon as Marshal was out of sight, she dropped to her knees beside him in the snow. Her green eyes were frantic.
“Mal?Are-you-okay-boss-please-be-okay-Idon’twantanotherpartnerandyou— ”
“I’m healing. I will be fine,” he wheezed. An uncomfortable, pinching pressure in his chest was the only warning he got before his ribs came back together with a sound like wet kindling snapping. He hissed, breathing through the pain. Like his injuries, it was only temporary.
“I’ll go tell the Commander and the Queen. You get cleaned up, okay?” She said, brushing his suit jacket off as best she could before she handed it back to him. “You’ll start a stampede if you go in the hall looking like this.”
“Yes. You do that,” Mal said, continuing to take deep, even breaths. Oxygen was a key component in his healing. The better he was at breathing through the process, the easier it was to handle. “Be sure to stress the fact that Marshal started the fight, not me.”
Zipporah lingered. He could tell that she was waiting for him to stand up and shake it off, but he could also tell that he wasn’t going to be able to do that for a few minutes more.
“You sure you don’t need help?”
“As much as I appreciate the gesture, we don’t need to be caught in the restroom together. Just tell Mother.”
Zipporah hugged him before she sped off. He bit down on his urge to yell as he felt his partially-healed ribs shift in a way that was nowhere near natural. She didn’t know how much it hurt, but it wasn’t anything he couldn’t bear. He appreciated that gesture, too.
The Posterchildren: Origins Page 37