Malevolent (The Puzzle Box Series Book 1)

by K. M. Carroll

  He smirked at me. "No thanks."

  Mom mixed a cup of cider and passed it to me, then removed Suki to the back yard.

  I sipped the cider. Delicious apple-cinnamon warmth streamed down my throat, and my stomach didn't cramp, for once.

  "I'm not going to be very good company. My new meds make me really sick." Translation: get lost, bozo.

  Robert didn't take the hint. He opened our fridge and dug around inside. I rolled my eyes at my mom as she returned, and she did the same. The instant I felt better, he and I were splitsville.

  Robert emerged from the fridge with a soda. "Why were you outside, anyway? It's forty measly degrees."

  "I drove out to see the bees." I didn't mention Malevolent. Robert got jealous when I talked to other guys.

  Robert snorted and opened the soda. Apparently bees were beneath his notice.

  Mom looked at the clock above the kitchen table. "You'd better go, Rob. You'll have to drive slow in this fog."

  He shrugged. "It doesn't bother me, but you're probably right." He shot me a grin. "Bye, Libby. I'll swing by this afternoon to see how you're doing."

  I grumbled inside and faked a smile. I couldn't bring myself to wish him good luck.

  He let himself out the front door. Mom and I snarled at each other in exasperation.

  "I want to get well so I can dump him. I just don't have the energy for the fight right now."

  "I wish you'd hurry up," Mom said. "He was in here begging twenty bucks for gas."

  I rolled my eyes and sipped my cider. Embarrassment curled through my insides--the kind of mortification that makes you want to barf. "Did you give it to him?"

  She sighed and nodded.

  "Mom, you're an enabler."

  Male voices shouted outside. We looked up. Mom said, "What in the world?"

  Living on a farm with hired laborers, fights happen sometimes. I shrugged and sipped my cider. "Maybe somebody keyed Robert's stupid Hummer."

  "Oh, don't say that," Mom said. "It's not the car's fault that it has an idiot for a driver."

  Glass shattered. Mom and I exchanged a horrified look. The fight was getting serious. She dashed for the front door, and I hobbled after her.

  Mal

  Befriend many. Serve some. Trust few. Love none.

  That is my life's creed. It had served me well over the years, keeping always at the forefront of my mind my damned state, and how I was cut off from other human beings, happiness, and God, himself.

  But life has its mundane annoyances. Such as running out of money. I was forced to take my precious bees on the road, to the almond orchards of California. Almonds can only be pollinated by bees, and the state produces the majority of the nation's crop. With honeybees dying of Colony Collapse, the desperate farmers solicited the services of private apiarists. I would have refused, but even I must eat sometimes.

  It was a long journey from Pennsylvania to New Mexico, and then on to California. Upon our arrival in the foggy valley, my exhaustion led to a lapse in judgment. I called upon my supernatural speed to finish moving the hives more quickly.

  And I was noticed.

  "Hi. Dad said you have orchard bees, too."

  Thus I met Libby Stockton--pretty, charming, and dying. When she shook my hand, the corruption inside her made me want to retch. I do not sicken easily, understand. I lost the capacity for empathy many years ago.

  But Libby surprised me. Even with her blood full of death, her bright questions nearly brought a smile to my face. Here was a fighter who had endured much suffering.

  "You are ill," I observed.

  "Yeah, Valley Fever. It's not contagious."

  Indeed not. I had to turn away for a moment and fumble with my gloves. The blackness swarmed about her skin like ants on a dead bird, and my draw tugged at it.

  She read my horror correctly, for she added, "I don't know which is worse--having my lungs full of spores, or the gruesome meds." She paused, and gave me a sidelong look--half suspicious, half mischievous. "How did you know? Can you smell my blood?"

  I smelled many odors, if smell it could be called. One of them was the devilishly familiar stench of my brother's breath. His foulness permeated her. She obviously knew the pop culture version of vampires and thus could not identify the real thing.

  I explained that I had merely overheard her father, and that she looked obviously unhealthy. As I spoke, I watched the black motes creep up her neck and into one ear. She had no idea it was happening.

  Robert had inflicted this on her.

  Even as we made a few jokes, words entered my head--For to him who has shown no mercy the judgment will be merciless, but mercy exults victoriously over judgment.

  With it came hope--hope such as I had not had in decades. Could I be free of this curse if I but showed mercy to this girl? Serve many ... It did not violate my creed.

  But even as I considered this, my draw pulled a little more life from her. She sensed it, retreated to her golf cart to rest.

  Blast it all. I had not fed in two days, and my draw upon nearby life was getting out of hand.

  She sat there far too long, watching me. Her breathing rasped in her chest, and the black motes swirled from her mouth with every breath. I approached her and bade her depart, then utilized my proximity to draw on the life of the nearby weeds. Sparkling golden life motes flowed through me and into her. The black motes thinned and their swarming slowed. In a day, the weeds would mysteriously die in a six-foot circle around the spot where I had stood. It would make her marginally better--but a few plants lack the amount of concentrated life required to cure such an entrenched infection.

  After she was safely away from me, I opened my trunk. It had been deposited among the hives, and none had noticed it because of the virtue I poured into its paint. It resembled another hive, until one touched it. Then it subtly shifted into a lidded box.

  Among the many useful things I had packed, there were three half-pint jars of honey from my bees. I opened one, scooped out a pale, waxy honeycomb, and chewed it slowly. Light and life streamed into my corrupted body. It reduced my draw to nothing, and instead of pulling, the tide within me began pushing outward. Not too strongly, mind you. Too much light and I would set myself afire. But it was enough to strengthen my weary muscles.

  I ran the words through my mind again. For to him who has shown no mercy the judgment will be merciless ... I deserved no mercy for what I am and what I've done. But for many years I had stared into the maw of oblivion with never a word from God or his gracious Spirit. I had assumed that I had been abandoned--damned to a walking Hell upon this globe. Yet now His voice whispered to my heart, and it was like balm to a fevered wound. By aiding this girl, could I escape the horrors of the judgement that awaited my kind?

  I was willing to try.

  In my trunk, I had packed a pair of specially constructed gloves. The cloth was black industrial-strength canvas, reinforced with a steel skeleton. At the end of each finger was a three-inch steel spike.

  I pulled them on and flexed my hands. I'd had them made after my last encounter with my brother. He had nearly succeeded in disemboweling me, and I was not eager to face him unarmed.

  Then I followed Libby's scent. To show her mercy, I must first cut off the source of her infection.

  Libby's trail led me out of the orchards to a nearby farmhouse. To the human eye, it was simply a house, nestled amidst mature trees and landscaping. It seemed to welcome everyone to approach and make themselves at home.

  To me, life radiated from its walls like sunbeams. I paused to gaze at it, as one might admire Christmas lights. Little wonder it attracted Robert, leech that he is.

  His latest vehicle stood in the driveway--a gas-guzzling luxury jeep in an obnoxious shade of yellow--and already it reeked of his rotten aura. It gave me a slight headache. He was inside the house? With Libby unable to breathe? Why was the moron feeding upon her so frequently?

  I tracked his scent to the front porch, and hesitated, flexing my
claws. Our confrontation must not take place inside this warm, living home. It would be like defiling a church. No, I would await his return to his revolting jeep.

  I positioned myself behind the vehicle and waited.

  Three minutes later, he emerged from the house, smiling and humming to himself. Strong. Sleek. Healthy. Although his draw was always weaker than mine, he emerged from the house with none at all.

  I flexed my claws and ground my teeth. Yes, he had fed upon her in her weakness. And probably upon the entire family's life pool, as well.

  I intercepted him as he reached his vehicle--by digging my claws into his arm and spinning him to face me. "Hello, Robert."

  He gasped and fell against the car. Recognition spread a smile across his wretched face. "Mal! It's been a long time."

  "Leave the girl alone." I slammed him against the car and grabbed his throat. "Understand?"

  He continued smiling, even with his head tilted back. "You're mad about Libby? Why, do you want her for yourself?"

  One of his knees struck my groin, which, despite my condition, is still sensitive. I gasped, and my hold weakened. He twisted away, and landed a punch to my jaw that knocked me down. I rolled sideways and avoided the kick intended for my stomach.

  I whipped to my feet and struck him two blows with my claws. Red lines scored down his face and through his jacket. He crashed into his vehicle. One elbow smashed a side window.

  It was a testament to the power within him that he did not become angry at damage to himself, but to his car.

  He bellowed and charged at me. I sidestepped his flailing hands, grabbed an arm and dashed him to the ground. Before he could rise, I twisted his arms behind him and placed a foot on his back. "Swear you will leave her alone or I shall tear your arms off."

  Unfortunately, the front door opened and a woman and a girl emerged. Libby and her mother.

  Well, this was awkward.

  Libby gaped at us and cried, "What are you doing?"

  Her mother produced a cellphone.

  I released Robert's arms and pulled him to his feet instead. "Sorry to alarm you. This is my brother. We were simply ... greeting one another."

  Robert bared his teeth at me, but forced a smile. "Yes. Just a friendly greeting."

  Libby's eyes traveled over the shattered car window and settled on the blood that stained Robert's chest. "Brothers. Okay..." She did not sound convinced. "Because it looks to me like you were assaulting my boyfriend."

  Her boyfriend? I glanced at Robert, who smirked and nodded.

  When people speak of their heart sinking, the actual physiological reaction is the blood draining from the stomach, leaving it as pale as their face. This is what happened to me at that moment.

  I had handled this dreadfully. But I drew a steadying breath and sought to control the waves of hate that rose inside me--I lacked all other emotion.

  "I was leaving, anyway." Robert turned his back on the women and snarled at me, where they couldn't see. "You'll regret this."

  I merely arched an eyebrow.

  Robert climbed into his vehicle and roared out of the driveway.

  "Nice gloves." Libby was painfully observant.

  I curled my fingers to conceal the claws. "Simply beekeeping equipment. I'm sorry we disturbed you."

  Libby's mother lowered the cellphone. "You're a beekeeper? What's your name?"

  "Malachi Seren."

  Libby mouthed, "Malevolent."

  Observant and sarcastic. I was beginning to like her.

  Her mother continued, "I'm going to speak to my husband about you. Brawling isn't tolerated at Blossom Ranch."

  I dipped my head. "I assure you, ma'am, it won't happen again."

  Unless my brother refused to halt his disgusting behavior.

  I excused myself and strode back into the orchard. The women stared after me.

  I thought I was incapable of emotion, but my sluggish heart beat faster, and warmth touched my cheeks. Assaulting Robert was the way of things--but I had never been scolded for it. Scolded! Like a common farmhand!

  Of course, they had no reason to perceive me otherwise.

  But the worst thing was that I had embarrassed myself in front of the girl I wished to heal. If he had been feeding on Libby, he would return. I had acted rashly.

  Perhaps there are more subtle ways to free a vampire's victim from his clutches. But was I attempting to aid Libby from altruistic motives--or had her spunk and laughter appealed to my broken spirit?

  Serve some--but love none. I am better off alone.

  I returned to my hives and sat among them. The bees sang their shiver song, which was how they warmed the hives in cold weather. It comforted me, and slowly the negative emotions drained away. This is important, for negativity consumes life motes and increases the power of black, hungry death motes.

  I leaned against Queen Victoria's hive and whispered, "Robert is here. Be alert."

  "We shall spread the word," the colony sang. "This is a good place. We feel the life in the air and ground."

  I nearly smiled. "It is a good place. Which is why it attracts predators."

  Chapter 2

  Libby

  I took my meds, then napped until late afternoon. I had weird dreams about guys with claws, and broken glass sparkling on the ground.

  When I woke up, the sun had broken through the fog, and had painted a golden square on the wall opposite my bed. I lay and looked at it for a while. My body seemed to sink into the mattress, with no strength to roll over. The morning's excitement had exhausted me--chilling myself in the orchard to see the bees and Mal, then Mal and Robert duking it out. I couldn't handle even that much excitement.

  Maybe I'm going to die.

  The thought passed through my brain like a ghost. My stomach clenched. Death--it gets everyone eventually. But I was only eighteen, for crying out loud! I wanted to go to college and get my agriculture degree. Heck, I wanted to visit Rome and Alaska and Australia. I couldn't do any of that if I kicked the bucket.

  But I couldn't get well. The knowledge sat on me like a big fat cat I couldn't dislodge. After months of meds and bed rest and doctors, I was sicker than ever. They'd started me on the inhaler a few weeks ago because my lungs had deteriorated.

  Like I'm slowly dying.

  God, I cried silently, am I?

  I grabbed my Bible from my nightstand and flipped it open. Naturally it fell open to Psalms, since that's right in the book's center. One of King David's rants leaped out at me.

  What, what would have become of me had I not believed that I would see the Lord's goodness in the land of the living!

  It was like a shot of adrenaline to my heart. I wasn't going to die--I would get well! There was God's private message to me, right there. I had to hold on and not give up.

  There were all kinds of stories about people with terminal cancer, who fought it and lived for years. And this wasn't even cancer--just a fungal infection. I could beat it if I kept fighting.

  Even with fresh hope, it was a while before I summoned the strength to get up and use the bathroom. My body was heavy and tired, but I was sick of sleeping. Maybe I'd get on my computer and--Wait a minute. I halted beside my dresser. A strange wooden box sat there with a note on top of it.

  I picked up both and climbed back in bed. The note was Robert's annoyingly perfect handwriting.

  "Sorry you're asleep, babe. Here's a present to keep you busy. It's a puzzle box. If you can open it, there's a surprise inside. Love, Robert."

  He had come in my room while I'd been asleep?

  It's amazing how quickly rage cuts through self-pity. I forgot I was dying, forgot my verse, forgot everything but how much I hated Robert. I found the strength to throw the puzzle box at the wall. Then I crumpled the note and threw it, too.

  He'd come in my room, probably leered at my sleeping body, then wrote that note. The box probably housed that ring he'd been talking about lately. It made my vision turn red around the edges.

 
What a stupid way to give me an engagement ring, and only stupid Robert would think of something so stupid. I punched my pillow, and began mentally drafting my Dear John letter.

  Dear Robert, Today I realized I just don't feel that way about you...

  I fumed for a long time, and the sunbeam on my wall slanted longer and more orange. Finally boredom set in. There's only so long a girl can stew on a topic before she does something about it.

  I'd have to break up with him now. Things had gone far enough, and no way was I going to keep enabling Robert for the rest of his stupid life. It'd have to be a spectacular breakup, too.

  If I opened that puzzle box, I could throw it and its contents at Robert's head. Maybe hide a video camera, then post the results on the Internet. Comedy gold.

  I retrieved the box from the floor and examined it. It was about the size of a shoe box, made of polished wood with inlaid silver scrollwork. It smelled clean, like pine or cedar.

  There were no buttons, but some interesting seams ran across it. I pushed, pulled and shook it, to no avail. Then I tried twisting the top. Part of it rotated ninety degrees. The box became an L shape.

  It exposed a new pattern in the scrollwork, and the corner of a piece of paper. It looked as if it had once been attached to the L part, but had slipped inside the box's workings. I picked at it with my fingernails, but I couldn't reach it. I even opened my knife and tried to ease the paper out with the blade, but it was stuck tight.

  It was probably another note from Robert, anyway. I growled and set the box down.

  But the idea that I couldn't reach the paper was an itch in my mind, like a scab I was trying not to pick.

  I was fooling with the box when Dad knocked on my open door.

  I smiled up at him. "Come in."

  He sat on the edge of my bed and smoothed back my hair. "How do you feel?"

  "Same old."

  My dad is tall and thin, and strong as a backhoe. He'd been growing a funny Amish beard along his jawline.

  I touched it. "Next you'll be giving up zippers and electricity."