Chaos (15 page)

He fell back, sucking in deep, panicked breaths, his eyes glittering in the light of the guttering tallow candle. His whole body was shaking. He looked like he’d been spat from the mouth of a monster. And I knew that I’d brought it all back, the last thing I wanted to do. Finally, I understood how it felt to be the demon, how it felt to awaken a terrible memory in someone you loved. I knew why he’d recoiled that day on the mat in our Guard house, when he’d felt me tense beneath him, why he’d pulled away. I’d understood it before, but not like this, not from my gut. Not the shearing, twisting pain that came from being the hands of the enemy.

“I’m so sorry,” I said in a hoarse whisper. “I shouldn’t have done that.” Frustration and horror burned me. I’d wanted to heal him, and I’d done the opposite.

Malachi stared at the ceiling as his body slowly relaxed, and I waited, not wanting to make it harder for him. His eyes blinked open, and he held his hand out to me, still breathing hard. “Lela, give me your hand.”

I did as he said, slipping my shaking hand into his. He turned my palm and brought it to his mouth, planting a tender kiss right in the center of it, making me ache. And then, before I realized what he was doing, he pressed my palm against the wound in his chest. It throbbed hot and raw against my skin as he flattened his hand over mine. Malachi tensed again, throwing his head back, the fear and pain etched deeply into his features.

“What are you doing?” I tried to pull my hand away, but he held it there, his grip surprisingly strong.

“Stop fighting me. I can’t fight both of you,” he said, his voice cracking. Through the wound, his heart skipped erratically, weak and frantic, like a butterfly held between the paws of a cat. He kept his gaze rooted on the spotted cement ceiling above us. The veins on the back of his hand stood out as his fingers clamped over mine, keeping my palm pressed firmly over the sunken spot on his chest.

I can’t fight both of you.

The words danced in my head, their meaning just out of my reach as they tumbled with my own crazy worry for him. But as we passed the minutes, locked in that position, me trying to pull away and him refusing to allow it, his strength seemed to grow. Not like it had been, but an echo of it, swelling with every shuddering gasp, until it hit me—

He was fighting
her
. The Queen. His memories.

He was reclaiming his body.

He was refusing to let her have power over him.

He was using my touch as his weapon.

I stopped trying to pull away.

Slowly, very slowly, I rose up on my knees, leaning over him again, letting him have what he needed. My hope, my strength, but mostly, my love. His pupils were big black circles in his deep-brown eyes, and when he blinked, a tear streaked down the side of his face. He was there but not there, and I knew that feeling so well, that struggle between
now
and
then
, between the safety of
here
and the danger of
there
. I let the warmth of my skin do my talking, and I bowed my head and kissed his shoulder, drawing in the earth-and-sun scent of him, the smell that meant home to me now. His free hand rose from his side and caressed my hair, pulling me near, and in the muted silence of our prison cell, I heard him speak again, but this time it was a single word. He said my name, whispering it like a prayer, like a ward against the darkness, against all the things that had tried to destroy him.

When his voice faded to nothing, when the shaking stopped, when his breath evened out and his heart settled into a beat that only occasionally faltered, I looked up and found his gaze focused on me. And I said the only words that came to me. “I love you.”

He looked down at himself, at his clean skin, at the closing wounds, at his hand over mine, protecting his heart. His eyes met mine. “I know you do.”

FIFTEEN

I
AWOKE TO FINGERS
in my hair and discovered that Malachi had removed the tie from my braid and unraveled it. One of his hands was tangled in my curls, and the other was around my waist. Maybe minutes ago, maybe hours, I’d stretched out next to him, and he’d scooted over and let me sink onto him with a little sigh of pleasure. I’d settled into his arms and laid my head on his shoulder, and I’d let him guide my hands to the places that felt best. I’d sent my love through the connection of our bodies, hoping it would be what he needed.

Now he was asleep but holding me tightly as his eyes moved beneath his lids. I hoped his dreams were peaceful. The dwindling candle illuminated his profile, the harsh outline of his cheekbones, nose and brow, and his bod
y . . .
I raised my head. I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, but his wounds had, for the most part, healed completely. Scars, yes. Lots of scars, red-and-silver streaks and semicircles that would never allow him to forget what they’d done to him. But no open wounds, no more bleeding. I kissed his chest and laid my ear over his heart.

It didn’t sound the same.

It was beating, and that should have been enough. But I felt a shock of fear as I listened to it falter. Not on every beat, not by far. But every time I started to think it might have been my imagination, it skipped a beat or stopped completely. Whenever it did, Malachi shifted restlessly until it resumed its rhythm, the drumbeat that accompanied the faint wheezing sound of his breathing. What used to be a powerful, silent rush of air with every rise and fall of his chest was now labored and halting.
It just needs time. It’s only been a day. He’ll be fine.

I closed my eyes and focused on being in his arms again.

“Do you know how long we’ve been here?” he whispered.

“Did I wake you up?”

“I don’t mind.” He kissed the top of my head. “I thought I would never touch you again. I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

“But you need to rest.” I let out a breath as his lips brushed over my brow and tilted my head up, scratching my skin along his scraggly beard. The scars on the underside of his neck, where the chains had cut his flesh, were pink and tender. My fingers crept up, drawn to the vulnerable spots. They were hot to the touch, and he stiffened but didn’t pull away.

“Am I hurting you?” I asked. I was snugged up against his bare skin, which was still mending itself.

“Not as much as you would if you pulled away,” he said, giving me a sad half-smile and turning his face to mine, letting me see the vicious scarring on his right cheek, from his temple to his jaw, where the Queen had anchored her claws.

“Nothing could make me do that.”

His eyes skimmed over my face. “I believe you. If you were willing to come her
e . . .
” His skin paled as his expression fell. “Did Juri hurt you?” His gaze darted to my mouth. “Did you know it wasn’t me?”

I took his hand and traced his fingers along the silver crescent scar on my neck. “Not at first,” I said in a strained whisper.

Shards of hatred glinted in his eyes. “I want to destroy him.”

“Maybe we can. If he’s in the land of the living, his body’s still here, and I’m betting it’s near the portal, which Takeshi said would probably be in the Queen’s palace.” I turned toward the locked door of our concrete cell. “But first, we have to figure out how to get out of here. We were captured by a bunch of humans as soon as I unlocked your chains. They said they worked for someone called the Tanner.”

“Humans?”

I nodded. “I’m getting the sense the Mazikin aren’t in complete control. We stole the key to your chains from a guy called the Smith, and he seemed pretty masterless despite his loyalty to the Mazikin. And I don’t know where we are now, but I think that if the Mazikin had us, they wouldn’t have given us fresh water and clothes, or put us together.”

“I’ve seen the woman who captured us before,” Malachi said. “When I was in the square. The white-haired one with the dark cloak.”

“She said she was a servant of the Tanner. And I think she’d been following Takeshi, Ana, and me.”

Malachi wound one of my curls around his index finger. “I saw your mother, too, I think,” he said in a hushed voice. “For a moment, I thought it was you.” He closed his eyes, like it hurt him to remember.

“The Mazikin who possessed her took her as a pet. She and my mother were going to help us get you to safety.”

Malachi shifted slowly until we were chest to chest. Then he laid his hand on my face. “What was it like for you to see her again?”

“Weird.
I . . .
she’s like a stranger to me, but she looks at me like she knows me. Sometimes. Though most of the time, she seems completely lost in her own head.” I thought back to the moments in her arms. “Bu
t . . .
she still loves me. Somewhere in there, it’s real.”

His thumb stroked over my cheek. “I asked Raphael about her, after you nearly sacrificed your life to save the Mazikin that had taken her body.”

“And he actually gave you an answer? That’s got to be a first.”

He smiled. “I suppose he thought I needed to know. He knew you wouldn’t talk to me about it, because of what I’d done, how I’d pulled away from you.” His eyes met mine. “And he also knew I was so distracted by it that I couldn’t do my job.”

I ignored the little stab of pain at the memory of those weeks we’d spent barely speaking to each other. “Because you thought your Captain was losing her mind.”

“No,” he said quietly, “because the girl I love was in terrible pain.”

I leaned forward and he kissed my forehead. “I don’t know how to feel about her,” I said. “I have some memories of her, but they’re really fuzzy. And even though I know it wasn’t her fault, it’s kind of hard to get over being abandoned like that. I’m not sure I was better off without her. It’s not like there was someone else waiting to love m
e . . .
” My throat closed at the memory of what had happened instead.

His warmth seeped through my clothes, reaching all my cold places. He didn’t have to tell me it hurt him to think of what had happened to me—I
knew
it. And I trusted it. Which was nothing short of a miracle. He held me there, silently telling me he loved me now, wordlessly hoping it might be enough, and my body relaxed, letting him know it was. My hands skimmed up his back, tracing patterns that said I needed it, that it was the most precious thing in the world to me.

I raised my chin, and our lips collided. He moaned softly, a sound halfway between pain and pleasure, and as our kiss deepened, I tasted the iron-salt of his blood in his mouth. The heat of his skin burned me, and I didn’t know if it was fever or desire. His scarred, naked body was so close to mine, and most of me wanted to touch all of him, and let him touch all of me. My heart hammered, eager and scared, curious but too nervous to be steady. My fingers curled into his shoulder, and he flinched.

I pulled away from his mouth. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

He brushed a light kiss over my cheek. “Are you all right?”

I nodded, and he drew me close again, tucking my head into the hollow of his neck, filling me up with the scent of his skin and the growing strength in his hands as they smoothed my hair and stroked my face.

And that’s how Treasa found us when the steel door opened with a scraping clang.

I rolled off the bed and landed in a crouch in front of Malachi. My hands traveled automatically to my thighs, but, of course, they’d stripped me of my weapons and gloves before they’d thrown me in here.

Treasa watched my realization with a small smile. Her white-blond hair was in a tight ponytail secured at the base of her neck. She had a wide forehead, a narrow chin, and skin so pale that the only thing that kept me from deciding she was an albino was her blue eyes, which slipped past me and landed on Malachi. “You look better.
Much
better. Interesting.” Her gaze shifted to me with sharp curiosity.

The soft pat of Malachi’s bare soles on the cement floor told me he was sitting up. “Thank you. I feel better,” he said evenly. “Are you our host?”

Treasa gave us a tight grin. “Only the messenger. You are wanted by the Mazikin, Malachi.” When she saw me stiffen as she said his name, she said, “Don’t be stupid. You were screaming his name,
Lela
.”

I guessed Malachi had been shouting mine as well.

I tried to brush off the odd feeling of vulnerability that came with this woman knowing our names. “Awesome. S
o . . .
he’s wanted by the Mazikin. Can you tell us something we don’t know?”

“They are like a swarming hive at the moment. Right now, pictures of Malachi’s face are being painted in every district of the city. A trip through the portal is being promised to the Mazikin that turns you in—and a life of comfort is being promised to any human who does the same. We thought it would be safer to hide you here.”

I stood up. From the soft rustle behind me, I could tell Malachi was sliding on the pants that had been left for him. I really didn’t want Treasa to be able to look at all of him, and so I took a step to the side, blocking him from view. “And where, exactly, is here?”

Treasa shifted her weight, like she was bracing in case I attacked. She had one of those long, straight daggers tucked into the belt looped around her narrow waist, and her slender white fingers fluttered toward it. I wondered if she knew how to use it. Her eyes narrowed as she assessed me. “You are the guests of the Tanner.”

“Guests or prisoners?” I asked.

“We don’t take prisoners,” she replied in a flat voice.

I felt a solid, warm presence at my back a second before Malachi’s hands came to rest on my shoulders. “You were kind to leave clean water to tend my wounds,” he said to her. “And to provide clothing for me. Please convey our gratitude to the Tanner.”

“You can convey your gratitude to him yourself.” She raised a pale eyebrow as she looked him up and down, and scars or no scars, it was obvious she liked what she saw. “He has granted you an audience.”

Malachi’s grip was steely, a warning. “Wonderful.” He turned to grab the folded leather shirt from the foot of the bed, and I saw how he had to brace himself to keep from falling as he straightened again. I also heard the faintest wheeze as he inhaled, and noticed the anxiety that flashed in his eyes before he pulled the leather tunic shirt over his head, hiding that terrible scar. Protectiveness welled inside of me. I wanted to order him to lie back down. I wanted to tell Treasa where she could shove the Tanner’s invitation.

But I followed Malachi’s lead and even smiled at her as she held the door wide and gestured for us to follow her. I took Malachi’s hand in mine, needing the connection—and the silent means of communication. She led us along a low concrete corridor, past a number of closed steel doors. The way was lit by flickering, primitive bulbs.

Treasa gave me a sidelong glance. “You are nicely recovered from your encounter with the Smith,” she said in an amused voice. “I did not expect to see you walking, let alone fighting, anytime soon.”

“How do you even know about that?”

“It’s my job to know.”

“Were you following us?” I remembered that cloak disappearing behind a corner just before the Smith’s men ambushed us. Takeshi had gone after the person, and I’d never found out what happened.

“Most people stabbed through the gut aren’t killing Mazikin in the square less than a day later,” she said, blithely ignoring my question.

Malachi’s eyes went wide, and I gave him an apologetic look. “I’ve always been a quick healer,” I said.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course you are.” She shoved open a steel door and we entered a huge cave-like chamber. Although I was sure the building, like every other in the city, was made of concrete, it felt like I’d crawled into the stenchy embrace of an animal. It smelled like pee and rotten eggs and burned meat. Bile rose in my throat.

Every surface was covered with animal hides. A furry patchwork beneath our feet. Spotted yet smooth irregular shapes covered the walls, stitched together in an unending tapestry of flesh. On either side of us were long tables, crowded with men and women whose attention was riveted to a stage where at least a dozen barely clothed humans were undulating to a low beat played by two others crouched on the floor, pounding on an assortment of drums.

Malachi tugged me a little closer to him. Treasa walked noiselessly to the front of the room, toward a raised platform upon which sat what looked every bit like a throne. It was a wide chair with a high back that extended at least six feet above the seat, upholstered with cream-colored leather. Metal and bone tools—some sort of pliers studded with wicked sharp spikes, knives with barbed tips, and something that looked like an ice pick—were arrayed around the edge of the throne in a kind of deadly frill.

On the throne sat a man. He had dark-blond hair and a beard that was brown around his mouth but lighter where it grew in matted curls around his face. His eyes were blackish brown, as fathomless as Malachi’s. As he watched us approach, his lips, an intense shade of red, curled into an amused smile. “Welcome,
Captain
,” he said to Malachi in a gravelly voice. His accent told me he was British, or had been at one time. “I’m the Tanner. Do you have any idea how badly the Mazikin want you back?”

“I do,” said Malachi. “Are you going to let them have me?” His voice was steady, but his hand trembled in mine, and now it was my turn to squeeze.

The Tanner chuckled, a thick, phlegmy sound. “That greatly depends on whether our interests are aligned.” His gaze shifted to me. “I heard you caused quite a commotion in the Smith’s yard. There’s buzz all over the city about it.”

I shrugged. “He stabbed me. I don’t like being stabbed.”

The Tanner laughed raucously, and then started to cough, a deep rattle that made me wince. “I’m glad to hear that. And I was even more glad to hear that you decimated that selfish bastard. About time.”

“The Smith is human, like you,” I said. “I’d think you would be allies.”