ELEVEN
I BURST INTO THE Guard Station like Lucifer himself was on my tail. The thick-walled building was low and square, like a fort, with a high, narrow tower jutting from its center. It looked deserted from the outside, but no fewer than four Guards met me in the entryway, barring my path.
I held up Malachi’s scimitar and rattled it at them. “Malachi’s been bitten by a Mazikin. He needs Raphael,” I panted, grasping my hip, which had started bleeding again.
One of the Guards laughed. “It’s obviously too late, love. If you’ve got his blade, it means he’s dead. That’s the only way you’d be able to get it from him.”
I shook my head as I tried to catch my breath. “He’s in an apartment building about twenty blocks from here, but he’s in bad shape. I can take you to him. Is Raphael here?”
The Guard I recognized as Hani stepped forward, looking at me closely. “You left with a Mazikin. How do we know you’re not one of them?”
Why hadn’t I thought of that? It was probably why Malachi hadn’t wanted me to come without him. But he wouldn’t have given me directions if he’d thought it was a hopeless mission. I stood my ground and chose my words carefully, though I felt like running for my afterlife. “If you know Malachi, you know someone like me wouldn’t have his sword unless he gave it to me,” I ventured. “Please. He’s weak. He needs help.”
“Maybe you should come in,” said Hani in a friendly voice, but I saw right through him. Bad acting was kind of an epidemic in hell.
“There’s not much time. Malachi is going to die. He was barely conscious when I left him. If you just get Raphael, we can go now.”
He advanced and curled his thick fingers around my arm. “I said, maybe you should come in.”
I tried to wrench my arm free. “What is wrong with you people? Why aren’t you mobilizing, or whatever you folks do around here?”
Some of the Guards had the grace to look a little ashamed, but a few laughed nastily. Why weren’t they rushing to help him? Why weren’t they calling Raphael? Hani started to drag me down the hall toward the holding cells as another Guard yanked Malachi’s scimitar from my clenched fist. I remembered enough about my last visit to know I didn’t want to go farther. But as I looked behind me, I could see that the Guards had the exit covered. No going back—which left only one option: causing a scene.
I kicked Hani in the shins, and as he flinched in surprise I shot a hard punch to his groin. I wouldn’t have thought such a large man could make such a high-pitched noise, but it did the trick: he let me go.
I sprinted past him down the hall, shouting for Raphael and banging on every door I passed. Heavy huffs of breath and pounding footsteps filled my ears as at least one of the Guards pursued me. Ah, crap. This was going to hurt. In the next second, I ran into the barrier of my own enormous tent shirt as it pulled tight. A Guard had grabbed my collar. Then the asshole got a handful of my hair.
I struggled frantically as his meaty arms wrapped around me. One coiled across my body, one pressed over my face, blinding me, suffocating me. All I could see were the muddled images in my head. I tried to remember why I had come here and what I was supposed to be doing, but it just slipped through my fingers as I screamed.
A calm voice cut through the chaos. “Let her go.”
The Guard obeyed immediately. I fell to the floor on my hands and knees. It felt like my right leg was about to fall off. My pants were soaked with blood. I couldn’t stop shaking. I pressed my forehead to the stone floor, my thoughts churning.
“What have you done to her now?” chided the voice gently. “I just fixed her up last night.”
I threw my head back and caught sight of…the most ordinary man I’d ever seen. Huh. For some reason, I’d expected someone a little more impressive looking. He appeared to be only a few inches taller than I was, with curly brown hair, gray eyes, and freckles. He had a blindingly beautiful smile, though my perception of it in that moment might have had something to do with the fact that I was sure this was Raphael.
It all rushed out of me in a breathless flow. “Malachi is sick. He’s nearby in an apartment building, and he’s been bitten. He was having trouble breathing. He said you could heal him. I can take you there.”
One of the Guards grunted with contempt. “She brought his blade. The Captain would never give it up. How do we know she’s not leading you into a trap, Raphael?”
Without looking in the Guard’s direction, I shot him the finger. Why were we wasting so much freaking time?
Raphael looked down at me speculatively. “You’re hurt.” He held out his hand. “Why don’t you come to my quarters so I can heal you?”
Shrieking rage boiled up inside me, and I gulped in one long breath to stop it, to try one more time. If I lost it and gave up now, Malachi would die for sure. I hadn’t gotten to thank him for saving me. I hadn’t gotten to apologize for making it necessary in the first place. I blew out the breath in a long stream.
“I. Am. Fine. This is nothing,” I said very calmly and slowly, gesturing at my torn hip, “and I am going to say this one more time: Malachi is only a few blocks away, and he needs help. Do whatever you want to me. Put me in a cell, muzzle me, whatever. Go in force if you’re afraid of an ambush, or sneak in the back for all I care. But for God’s sake, go!” I roared the last word with all the air in my lungs.
Raphael took a step back.
He looked at the Guards. “She’s not a Mazikin, and it’s not a trap.”
Whoa. I guess I’d said the magic words.
In unison, the Guards stepped back and cleared the way. Raphael reached down and pulled me to my feet, and I didn’t fight him as he put his arm around me.
“He was right. You are tough,” he murmured as he briskly led me back down the hall and out of the Station.
Within a few minutes we were outside the door to the apartment.
“How are we going to get in?” I asked as Raphael came up behind me. “Malachi said that once an apartment was occupied, no one else could enter.”
Raphael reached around me and opened the door. “You originally entered under escort by a Guard member, so it won’t be a problem for you.” He stepped over the threshold. “And I have special privileges.”
I flew past him, terrified we’d taken too long. Raphael followed as I scrambled through the living room and bolted through the bedroom door. Malachi was lying right where I’d left him. He was sickly pale, which made the awful wound on his neck stand out all the more. He wasn’t moving. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing.
Raphael sighed as he looked down at Malachi. “Well, Lela, you weren’t kidding. Can you take off his bracers and greaves?”
“His what?”
“His armor. Can you take off the rest of his armor?”
“Oh, sure,” I mumbled. I knelt beside Malachi’s feet while Raphael leaned over to inspect the wound. For a few minutes I focused on unfastening the buckles that held the thick, molded leather to Malachi’s shins. I took off his boots, placing them next to the foot of the cot. I moved up to his arms, trying to ignore the fact that I hadn’t seen him take a breath since I’d returned.
Raphael hunched over Malachi’s head and neck, chanting to himself. It occurred to me to ask why he didn’t have any medical equipment with him, but at this point, the strangeness stretched to the horizon, and one more mile of random hellish weirdness wasn’t going to make a difference. As long as Raphael made Malachi better, that worked for me. I slipped the leather sleeve from Malachi’s arm and reached down impulsively to take his hand. It was calloused and rough. And cold. I squeezed it, and my chest ached when it did not squeeze back.
I reached over to Malachi’s other arm, not wanting to disturb Raphael, who seemed deeply focused on his task. I pulled the final piece of armor free and lined it up neatly with the rest. I smoothed his shirt, dark and damp with blood and sweat, cool in the chilled air of the apartment. I limped into the bathroom and rooted through the linen closet, finding a prize in the very back: an old green blanket that looked and smelled like it had been there for half a century.
When I made it back to the room, Raphael was sitting on his heels, a freckled hand on Malachi’s chest. “His heart still beats, but he’s weak. Tell me, was he in pain when you left him?”
Something in the way he worded the question made me cringe. “Uh, not much…. Actually, I think he was pretty numb. And maybe delirious.”
“Delirious?” he asked in this detached, clinical tone of voice. “Fascinating.”
“Fascinating? You make him sound like a science project,” I snapped. “Haven’t you seen this sort of injury before?”
“Of course. Countless times. Delirium is not usually one of the symptoms. So it makes me wonder what he said to make you think he was.”
My cheeks got very hot. He smiled and looked back at Malachi. “I’m glad he found you.”
I crept forward and spread the blanket over Malachi’s body, folding it across his chest. “I feel terrible. He got hurt because he tried to protect me,” I whispered. Nadia and Diane were the only people who had ever tried to protect me. No one but Malachi had ever actually risked anything for me. And he had risked everything.
“Don’t feel bad. I have no doubt he thought it was worth it. As young as he appears, Malachi knows how to make his own decisions.”
“Was it just me, or did the Guards at the Station seem less than eager to help him?” I wondered if it was because he’d come to rescue me after what I’d done.
Raphael somehow read my mind. “Don’t worry, it’s not you. Malachi is a controversial character among the Guard. He is their Captain, but he is not one of them. They were created to function as a unit, but he often operates alone or with Ana, who is human like him. He is the most merciless of them all but also the most principled. He has changed some policies for dealing with Mazikin in recent years, and the other Guards do not like it. He comes from a different place than they do, and his future is different from theirs. As it has been with all their human leaders, it is hard for the other Guards to understand him, and some of them don’t try.”
I took Malachi’s hand again, feeling an odd sort of kinship with him. I folded his long fingers over mine. “Is he going to be okay?”
“I don’t know yet. His wound is severe, and the venom has taken a firm grip on him.”
I flinched and looked away, absently stroking the blanket over Malachi’s chest. Raphael laid his warm hand over mine. “Let me heal you, Lela. If your clothes are anything to go by, whatever lies beneath has been torn pretty badly.” Again, his word choice made me cringe.
“How long will it take?”
“An hour or two.”
“Malachi needs you more. Make him better, and then you can work on me.”
Raphael didn’t argue. He bent over Malachi again. I leaned my head against the side of the cot, closed my eyes, and listened to Raphael’s hushed and ceaseless chanting until I drifted into darkness.
I jerked awake as Raphael lifted me. Before I could protest, he said, “You’re running a fever. I’m going to heal you before it gets worse. I’ve done as much as I can for Malachi right now. And I know him well. He would be very angry with me if he woke up and found you still injured.”
Unable to argue, barely able to keep my eyes open, I slumped against him. He carried me to the couch in the living room, then knelt by my hip and closed his eyes, recommencing his rapid muttering. It was rhythmic, like a cadence, and had an eerie, unrecognizable melody. My hip got warm, like he was bathing it in heated water. It felt good. I relaxed and floated, thoughts drifting. The water got hotter and then started to boil. Something was shrieking, maybe a teapot…. Nope, that was me.
Through my screams I heard Raphael say, “Sorry, should have put you to sleep first.”
Everything went black again.
I awoke in silence. As always, it was still dim and there was little indication of how much time had passed.
I lifted my leg experimentally, surprised and relieved to find that it felt fine. I stood up and examined my hip. A thin, white scar crossed its crest, the only indication I’d even been hurt. I shifted my weight from foot to foot and walked into the bedroom.
Raphael sat on the floor. Like before, his hand rested on Malachi’s chest. Malachi’s bloody shirt and pants were heaped in the corner, and his body was covered up to his waist with the blanket I’d found last night. I focused my eyes on the floor. “I need to get some clothes. How long have I been sleeping?”
“Not long,” said Raphael as he nodded to a dresser. “Try to find something that fits.”
I rolled my eyes and laughed. “Absolutely. My last outfit was seriously plus-sized.”
I finally found a pair of gray pants near enough to my size that they wouldn’t slow me down and a hideous green cotton shirt that was a bit small but reasonably comfortable. I even found a frayed ribbon in the top drawer, which I used to restrain my crazy hair. I turned back to Raphael, who observed me with detached curiosity. Like he was waiting for something.
My eyes flicked back over to the cot. Malachi was so still. “How is he?”
“He is better. Stable.”
I took a few steps closer. “Why isn’t he waking up?”
Raphael pivoted on his knees, his eyes resting on Malachi’s face. “Time will tell. Well,” he said briskly, rising to his feet. “I have to be going—patients to see.”
“What? How can you leave him alone if he’s not awake?”
“He’s not alone. You’re with him.”
“But…but…” But I should go.
“I’ll be back later. If you really feel you must leave, please go ahead. No one will stop you.” His gray eyes locked onto mine with a crystal clear, entirely unreadable gaze. Then he turned and walked away.
I was still stuttering like an idiot when the front door clicked shut.
I should go. Now.
Malachi might not allow me to leave if I stuck around until he woke up. He might toss me back in a cell. He might force me to go to the Sanctum. He might keep me from my whole purpose for being here. He might condemn Nadia to suffer here forever. Who said anything had changed?
But…how could I possibly leave him alone? How could I leave this guy who had risked his life for me even after my stupidity resulted in the death of one of his Guards? How could I leave him alone and helpless? What if he woke up, maybe weak, maybe in pain, and there was nobody here to care for him?
“Oh, you’ve placed me in a really difficult position, you big jerk. As soon as Raphael comes back, I’m gone.”
Until then, I’m here. I’m not leaving you.
Commitment made, at least until reinforcements arrived, I turned around to take my first really good look at him. His olive skin had regained some of its healthy color. His neck, so savaged the night before, was smooth but swirled with red and silver. He would probably bear the scar forever. Or however long people existed around here. My gaze drifted down to his shoulders and chest, his stomach…all streaked with blood. A long, thick scar sliced across his left shoulder—a souvenir from his fight with Ibram the sheik—but it didn’t hold my attention. Because Malachi had, hands down, the most impressive male physique I’d ever seen up close. Or on television, for that matter. I couldn’t stop staring. I guess running around a giant city hunting venomous animal people resulted in some pretty great definition.
“Gah. Look away, Lela. Focus,” I coached myself. “Captain, let’s get you cleaned up.”
A few minutes later, I carried a bowl filled with water and a washcloth into the bedroom. The water in the city smelled extremely strange, sour with a metallic tang. How people managed to keep themselves alive by drinking it—and eating the horrible food—was beyond me. I hadn’t eaten since I’d arrived, and…wait, that seemed really odd. I’d been in the city for at least two days, and I wasn’t hungry at all.
I dipped the washcloth into the bowl, wrung the extra water from it, and got down to business. I hummed to myself as I worked, scrubbing his skin clean, making sure not a smudge remained. I replaced the water in the bowl three times before I was through, wishing there was some decent soap in this place. What was in the bathroom looked gray and gross, and I couldn’t bear to inflict it on a defenseless, unconscious person.
I spent a little too much time and attention on his chest and stomach, but I didn’t get out of control. I let the blanket draped over his waist serve as my boundary marker. I’d never been able to touch a guy like that, and this seemed like the best way to do it—when he was helpless, unable to rise up and hurt me.
I began to wash his arms, and that’s when I saw it. He had been wearing long sleeves every time I’d seen him, usually with those leather cuffs over his forearms. It was so small I almost missed it. A tattoo on his left forearm.
A five-digit number with a small triangle beneath it.
I had paid attention in class. Most of the time. When I saw the tattoo, I had a memory, clear as day, from this video we’d watched in history class earlier in the year. Stick-thin people behind the fences of those concentration camps, hollow eyes beyond pleading. The Nazis tattooed their arms with numbers. Could he have been…?
I traced the tattoo with my fingers. “Where did you come from, Malachi? What’s your story?”
I finished washing him, dried him thoroughly, and pulled the blanket up to his shoulders as goose bumps erupted across his skin. I moved up to sit by his head. At rest, Malachi’s face didn’t have the same ferocity it carried when he was awake. It was softer. He looked younger, like he hadn’t been hurt yet. I knew it wasn’t true, but still, looking at his relaxed and peaceful expression, I could imagine something different for him.
I ran the palm of my hand over his neck, where the scar was warm and smooth under my fingers, and across the ridge of his collarbone to his chest. I let my hand rest there, over his heart, feeling it beat steadily, unwilling to give up the guilty pleasure of his skin. I did wonder how he’d feel if he knew, if he would push me away, if he would feel it as a violation. I certainly would if our positions had been reversed.
Something in the way he had looked at me made me think he wanted me to touch him, though. That didn’t make what I was doing right, but this was my chance, as shameful as it was. I wanted to know what it felt like when it was my choice. When I was in control.
I brought my face over his, stroking my fingers along his jaw. There were dusky circles beneath his closed eyes. I inhaled the leather scent of his skin. He looked so young up close, so exquisite. I leaned my forehead against his and looked down at his lips.
I was seventeen years old and had never kissed a boy. With everything I’d been through, I hadn’t let anyone get that close to me, especially not since Rick…
I gritted my teeth and shoved the memories away, not wanting them to spoil this moment. My moment. Unobserved, alone with him, I was so curious to know how it would feel. Was it as great as everyone made it out to be? What would it be like? What would it be like with Malachi?
On impulse, I brushed my lips across his mouth. My skin tingled where it touched his. I licked my lips and tried again, lingering for a moment, closing my eyes and pressing in as the boundaries between us dissolved.
Whoa. Stop. I pulled back, heart pounding, completely ashamed of myself.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Of all people, I knew how it felt not to have a choice, so why was I doing this to him?
“I’m sorry, Malachi,” I whispered, settling back from him. “Won’t happen again.”
I wish I could explain why it happened at all.
I took his hand, tracing the tattoo on his arm, and laid my head against the edge of the cot.
“Wake up, please. Just wake up. I need to thank you, and then I have to go.” I called to him, his hand in mine, for minutes, or hours, or days, until exhaustion claimed me once again.