The Book of Mayhem

by Melissa McShane

  The apartment was as still and silent as if I were the only one in it. I lay on my bed and stared blindly at the ceiling. I’d been too cavalier about all this. If Lucia found out, I was going to be in so much trouble I’d need an industrial backhoe to dig myself out. But I couldn’t help it. I believed in Malcolm, he needed my help, and I couldn’t not give it to him.

  I rolled onto my side and clutched my pillow to me, cuddling it for comfort. I didn’t see any good way out of this. Malcolm hadn’t said it, but he didn’t need to—even if he caught the killer, he’d still need to get his evidence in front of a tribunal, or at the very least to Lucia, and Brittany and the other Nicolliens were still out for his blood. I had no doubt Brittany, for one, wouldn’t hesitate to try to kill him no matter what Lucia said. The idea of Malcolm dying at Brittany’s hands made me clench my pillow tighter.

  Restlessly, I shifted position to my back and squeezed my eyes shut. I wasn’t going to fall asleep any time soon. I still didn’t have a book to read, but I was fairly certain I couldn’t focus on anything I might find on the shelves downstairs. Usually when I got this way, I turned on the television or an old movie, but I couldn’t do that with Malcolm occupying my living room.

  I groaned and sat up, thrusting my pillow aside. Maybe some tea would help, something hot and herbal. I’d just have to be quiet to avoid disturbing Malcolm, who might be asleep already, as tired as he was.

  12

  I opened my door quietly and tiptoed down the hall, avoiding the spots that creaked. The living room was dark, dark enough I couldn’t see Malcolm on the couch, though I knew he was there with a burning awareness that touched every part of me. I turned on the little light over the stove and set the kettle on to boil. One of my canisters, the kind that were supposed to hold flour and sugar, contained chamomile tea bags, and I fished one out and dropped it into a mug Judy had bought me for a gag last month that said WORLD’S BEST BOSS.

  “Can’t sleep?” Malcolm said, and I shrieked and spun around. He lounged in the doorway, wearing a tight-fitting black T-shirt that showed off his chest and some very wrinkled black boxer shorts. Malcolm Campbell, in my kitchen, in his underwear shot through my mind like the solution to a game of Erotic Clue, and I made myself stop staring.

  “Some nights are like this,” I said, hoping he couldn’t hear my heart hammering. “I can feel how tired my body is, but my mind won’t let me sleep.”

  “I understand. Any chance of me getting some of that tea?”

  I took out another mug, this one with a picture of a tiara and the words SELF-RESCUING PRINCESS that had been a gift from Viv. All my most interesting stuff had been given me by someone else. Why didn’t I do things like that for myself? For the briefest moment, I felt sorry for myself. Ruthlessly I pushed the feeling away. I was interesting. I just had even more interesting friends.

  Malcolm examined the mug and smiled, once again flashing the dimple. I wondered whether he knew just how devastating it was. “As opposed to all the princesses who have to be rescued?” he said.

  “I guess. Viv liked the sentiment. She said it was to remind me I don’t need to wait around for anyone to save me. I don’t know that I get into trouble all that often.”

  He glanced up from the mug. “There was the invader that tried to destroy Abernathy’s. And that magus kidnapped you and locked you in a warehouse to be killed by a swarm of monsters.”

  “Two times in twenty-two years. I think that qualifies as not very often.”

  “True. And you rescued yourself both times.”

  I smiled. “With some help from you. I would have died if you hadn’t been in the store that day, or if you hadn’t been captured with me.”

  “And vice versa.” He smiled back at me.

  “So we’re both self-rescuing princesses?” I said, laughing. The kettle whistled, and I filled both mugs.

  “Apparently.”

  I got out a spoon and poked my tea bag, watching ribbons of brown thread their way through the water. “I should let you get to sleep.”

  “Every time I close my eyes, I see Ms. Guittard’s astonished face as I stab her through the heart. I’d rather be awake.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you…does it always bother you, when you kill someone?”

  Malcolm laughed and set down his mug to clasp my hand, briefly but firmly. “Not counting my military service, I’ve only killed two people before this, and both of them were accidental deaths,” he said. “The look on your face, bravely trying to pretend it’s nothing that I’ve killed other humans…I’ve never seen anything so heartwarming.”

  “I told you, if you killed someone I know there had to be a reason.”

  Malcolm picked up his mug again and took a sip. “The first one truly was accidental. We were sparring, and she was careless, and so was I. I still have nightmares about it, the way she looked…anyway. The second was in the killing fields, in a duel, and I didn’t intend for him to do anything but suffer. I inadvertently struck an artery, and he bled out before anyone could save him. Amber Guittard is the first person I’ve killed intentionally, and I’m going to carry that memory to my grave.”

  “You all talk about the killing fields like it’s nothing. What are they?”

  “The official name is the Palaestra. It’s named for an ancient Greek wrestling school. We go there for weapons training and to resolve matters of honor that can’t be handled publicly. The killing fields is what we call it when we need a reminder that the Long War is deadly not just because of the enemy we fight, but for the challenges we pose each other. It used to be people were quicker to take their disagreements to the Palaestra. Mr. Parish, for one, dueled often and I know he took lives.”

  “That seems so wasteful, when both Ambrosites and Nicolliens are fighting the same war.”

  “It’s easy to forget the other side is human, and then it’s a short step to believing ‘not human’ means ‘enemy.’ I know for many years I hated Nicolliens for what they’ve done to my people.”

  I wanted to ask him what that was, but his face looked grim, looking back into dark memories, so instead I asked, “And now you don’t hate them? Why is that?”

  He focused on me. “I learned to see them through your eyes.”

  I wanted to turn away from his gaze, but felt pinned there like a captive butterfly. “You want to watch a movie?” I said, desperately reaching for equilibrium.

  He raised his eyebrows. “At this hour?”

  “It’s how I get to sleep when I feel this restless.”

  “All right. Did you have something in mind?”

  “I don’t know. Casablanca?”

  “Isn’t that a little heavy?”

  “I can’t bear watching something light and frivolous when everything around me is so dark. It just feels wrong.”

  “Then Casablanca it is.”

  I left Malcolm to figure out my DVD player and got out some microwave popcorn. Tradition was tradition, even if Malcolm was still in his underwear and acting like that was no big thing. Really, I couldn’t expect him to sleep in those filthy fatigues. So if it didn’t bother him, it wouldn’t bother me. I’d just have to ignore my burning awareness of him, of his lean, well-muscled body and his tousled hair and…

  I closed my eyes and gripped the edge of the counter just below the microwave until the sharp line cut into my palms. Just a friend.

  I heard the music of the title screen playing just as the microwave beeped. I poured the popcorn into a big bowl and went into the living room, where Malcolm was sitting on the couch with my pillow under one arm. I sat next to him—not too close, but close enough to share popcorn.

  “Why don’t you own digital copies of these movies?” he said. “It’s more convenient.”

  “I started collecting these before digital was a thing, and now it’s habit. Besides, if you own physical copies, you’re not at the mercy of the internet.”

  “Or you could lose all your DVDs in a fire.”

  I scowled at him. �
��Just start the movie, heathen.”

  I caught him smiling as he pushed Play. The Warner Bros. logo filled the screen, then faded to the familiar outline map of Africa. I couldn’t count how many times I’d seen this movie that I knew every detail.

  I took a handful of popcorn and nibbled it, wanting to make it last so I wouldn’t have to reach into the bowl again and possibly brush against Malcolm’s fingers, doing the same thing. I stealthily watched him out of the corner of my eye. He was leaning on the arm of the couch, which meant his body was angled away from mine, and despite myself, I felt a pang that he was so determined not to touch me, even by accident.

  I made myself focus on the film. It has a slow, measured pace to the first few minutes, laying the essential background, and I started relaxing even before the action picked up at Rick’s Café Américain. “I don’t know what it is about watching an old favorite,” I murmured. “You’d think I’d get bored of it, but I never do.”

  “I know,” Malcolm said. “There’s something comforting about it.”

  I yawned. “Excuse me. I feel…not better, exactly, but as if my troubles are at a distance. I know it’s probably not the same for you.”

  “No. But I’m better able to ignore my problems for an hour and a half than I was when I was lying here staring up at your ceiling.”

  “I’m glad.” I wanted to ask him what he was going to do next, but Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund had just walked into the night club, and that would have ruined the mood. I took some more popcorn and settled myself more comfortably on the couch. “As Time Goes By”…was it a melancholy tune all by itself, or just by association with Rick and Ilsa’s doomed love affair?

  “Sam’s not actually playing the piano,” I observed dreamily.

  “I noticed that. I doubt we’re supposed to be looking at his hands.”

  Malcolm’s last words were swallowed up in a yawn that triggered one of my own. I felt so relaxed my eyelids were drooping. I heard Humphrey Bogart’s voice coming from very far away, saying “Here’s looking at you, kid,” and then the Germans were marching on Paris. I was falling asleep. I ought to go to my own bed and leave Malcolm to his, even if his bed was just my couch with a couple of sheets on it, but I felt so comfortable I didn’t want to move.

  A clap of thunder, then an enormous rattle startled me out of sleep I didn’t remember entering. I was lying on something hard but yielding, and something heavy was draped over my shoulder. The scent of Malcolm’s woody aftershave, and the faint smell of masculine sweat, surrounded me. I blinked, and sat up. Malcolm reclined in the corner of my couch, deeply asleep, his head thrown back and his arm just coming to rest on his lap from where it had lain across my shoulders. I’d had my face pressed against his chest and could still feel the warmth of his body where I’d slept against him. Malcolm looked so peaceful in sleep, younger and more vulnerable than he did when he was awake, and looking at him made my heart ache with longing.

  I focused on the screen. There was the plane that would take Ilsa and Laszlo to Lisbon, taxiing across the runway. The propeller noise must have wakened me. Malcolm had to be truly exhausted not to have heard it.

  I shook his shoulder, gently, and said his name. He came awake in an instant, his expression hard and fierce, grabbing my wrist and twisting my arm so I cried out. As swiftly as he’d grabbed me, he let go, looking aghast. “Helena, I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was you.”

  “I’m not hurt,” I lied, rubbing my wrist.

  He took my arm, gently this time, and examined it. “A remnant of my time in the military,” he said. “I’m used to coming awake under attack.”

  I just as gently removed my arm from his hold. His touch reminded me once again of how close we were, how informally dressed, and the urge to snuggle back into his arms struck with such force I couldn’t breathe. “I’ll have to remember that,” I said, then blushed hotly at how I’d implied I might have reason to wake him in the future.

  He didn’t respond. On the screen, Ilsa and Rick were having their final scene together, and he was telling her she’d regret not leaving with her husband. “‘Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life,’” I murmured along with Bogie. I glanced at Malcolm to find he was looking not at the television, but at me, and the intensity of his dark gaze unnerved me. “Do you think he was right?” I stammered. “That Ilsa would have regretted leaving her husband, even for love?”

  “I suppose it depends on how important her duty was. Sometimes there are compensations, when you give up the possibility of love for your responsibilities.” Malcolm leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “What do you think?”

  I felt as if our conversation were happening on two levels at once, one on the surface and another flowing deep beneath the first. “I think duty is a cold companion,” I said.

  He smiled, the briefest twitch of his lips. “That’s almost poetry.”

  “A sad and terrible poetry. You don’t…stop caring about someone just because you can’t have him. Or her.”

  Malcolm nodded. “Even if that might be easier.”

  The music swelled with the closing credits, and the screen faded to black, leaving us in darkness lit only by the gray radiance of the television. Malcolm shifted his position, bringing him closer to me. “I’ll get the lights,” I said, and fumbled my way off the couch, brushing his leg as I went. I found the table lamp at the other end of the couch and turned it on, blinking in the sudden brightness, then turned to look back at Malcolm.

  He still had his eyes on me. As I turned, his lips curved in the faintest of smiles. It was an expression of pure and simple pleasure, and my heart ached at being on its receiving end. I sank down onto the couch next to him. “I…think I could sleep now,” I said, shyly, not sure if he could hear what I was asking.

  “I think we already have,” he said, his smile turning amused. “But a few more hours would be nice.”

  “Then I’ll leave you to it.” But I didn’t move.

  “Thank you again for giving me shelter,” Malcolm said. “I owe you a debt.”

  “I didn’t do it to be thanked. I…you needed help, and I couldn’t abandon you.”

  “If you knew the condition of the place I’d intended to spend the night, you’d understand how truly grateful I am.”

  “Worse than a couple of sheets on a couch?”

  “Much worse.” He shifted position. “And the company is much less pleasant.”

  He smiled at me, flashing the devastating dimple, and my heart did a little flip-flop. Without thinking, I scooted closer, took his face in my hands, and kissed him.

  It was like kissing a wall. Malcolm didn’t respond in the slightest to my kiss, not even to move away. He just sat there and…endured. I pulled away from him and searched his face for some clue as to how I’d misread him, some reaction, even if it was disgust. Nothing. I might as well have been shadow, or stone, something unimportant and easily ignored.

  Gently, Malcolm laid his hand on my shoulder. “Go to bed, Helena,” he said, completely expressionless.

  I snatched my arm away from his grasp and fled to my room without a word.

  Safely inside, I flung myself on my bed and let humiliation burn through me. How could I have been so stupid? Nothing had changed. We still couldn’t be together, and I’d made such a fool of myself. I’d never be able to face him again, ever. I was too embarrassed to cry. My brain insisted on replaying those few seconds, my lips pressed to his unresponsive ones, his voice telling me to go to bed, over and over until I wanted to stab myself in the ear with a carving fork to get it to shut up. Why had I believed things could be otherwise, no matter what I felt for him?

  Because I loved Malcolm Campbell. And duty was a poor substitute for that.

  I crawled under the covers and squeezed my eyes shut, curling into a ball, as if that would make the pain go away. I wished I could call Viv, tell her everything. What would Viv say? She’d tell me what she had two months ago when M
alcolm had revealed how he felt about me—

  Oh. Oh no. Jason.

  My humiliation was overridden by massive, crushing guilt. I had a boyfriend. I hadn’t thought about him this evening, not even as a reminder to stay away from Malcolm. I hadn’t thought about Jason at all, which made me the most selfish woman on the planet. I thought more about Malcolm than I did about him. Holding him at a distance, denying him access to my apartment…I’d been cheating on Jason emotionally the whole time we’d been dating and never realized it. I groaned into my pillow and punched it a few times. Despicable, selfish, stupid woman. I didn’t deserve someone as nice as Jason. Didn’t deserve anyone at all.

  I lay there berating myself for my stupidity until I jerked awake, only then realizing I’d been asleep. The world outside my window was light, and I checked my clock—9:22. Swearing, I rolled out of bed and hurried to the door, where I stopped, hand on the knob. Suppose Malcolm was still here? I couldn’t face him. No, he’d have to leave before dawn.

  I slowly opened the door and peered out. I couldn’t hear any noises of someone moving around. I tiptoed down the hall and peeked into the living room. The sheets and blanket were neatly folded on the couch, with the pillow balanced atop the stack. I walked to the couch and saw a small piece of paper atop the pillow. Thank you, it read in Malcolm’s elegant script. I clutched it and burst into noisy, irrational sobs.

  When my tears ran out, I went into the kitchen and made coffee, which was about all I felt I could stomach. Then I dressed and did my hair, brushing it until my scalp ached. My eyes were red-rimmed, and my cheeks had two blotches high on my cheekbones, but otherwise I didn’t look like a woman who’d had a crying fit. I put on makeup anyway. The bookstore would be full of Wardens today, and I didn’t want anyone thinking I’d had a moment’s weakness and helped a wanted fugitive.

  I checked my phone. 9:52. I still had things to do, and maybe they’d make me late, but the Nicolliens could wait a few minutes. I texted Viv, though I wasn’t sure what to say. In the end, I asked her to come by when she got off work. Immediately I got the response SATURDAY NO WORK 2DAY WHAT’S UP