Malachai Read online

  Isabelle went back to staring into space. “If she became one of you, then I should be able to do the same thing.”

  He took a deep breath. “You can’t be one of us. You’re human.”

  “But the US military is after me. That makes me your ally.”

  He lowered his gaze to the floor. “You’re not an ally. You’re a liability.”

  She started to argue again when someone knocked on the door. Before Malachai could get out of his chair, the door opened and Alina peeked in. She waved a handheld phone at him. “Victor’s on the line for you.”

  She sauntered into the room. She leered at Isabelle handing Malachai the phone, but she didn’t leave. She just stood there until Malachai said, “Thank you, Alina.” You can go now.” She glared at him and let herself out.

  He held the phone to his ear. “What’s up?”

  Victor’s voice clipped down the line. “We’re still looking for them. Our last report places them crossing the expressway back toward the French Quarter.”

  “That doesn’t mean much. They saw me. They’ll know who took her.”

  “I know,” Victor replied. “We’re lining up another house for you. I’ll call you in the morning and give you the address. Do you think you can hold out until then? I know it’s asking a lot.”

  Malachai stole a peek at Isabelle. She hunched her shoulders and shivered into a ball. He resisted the urge to smile. “I think I can handle it. How’s your friend?”

  Victor let out a heavy sigh. “She’s fine. She got back last night.”

  “What about the other thing?”

  Victor’s voice bit harder. “Couldn’t find ‘em. They disappeared. The whole crew got back without seeing anybody. We’ll have to keep looking, but I don’t want you worrying about that. You keep track of our guest. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

  He hung up. When Malachai switched off the phone, Isabelle frowned. “What was that all about?”

  “Hold on a sec.” He got up and opened the apartment door. He passed the phone into the hall. “Here you go, Alina. You can go downstairs now.”

  She grumbled something inarticulate, plucked the handset out of his grasp, and trotted downstairs. Now that he didn’t have to worry about her eavesdropping, he locked the door and returned to his armchair. “Riley’s back in town.”

  Isabelle arched an eyebrow. “Was she gone?”

  Malachai nodded. “She went to track down a group of soldiers that was targeting mutants in the….in the bayou. We call it the Quag. She took a strike force out there to stop them, but apparently, they vanished. Now she’s home.” He passed his hand across his brow. “I’m relieved. I was worried.”

  Isabelle inclined her head the other way. “Were you worried about her or about them?”

  “I was worried about her and I was worried about us. No one needs another bunch of whoever trying to kill us. That’s the last thing we need and we definitely don’t need to lose her. She’s one of our greatest assets.”

  Isabelle narrowed her eyes at him. “She’s an asset and I’m a liability. That’s great.”

  He spun around and found her glaring at him. She burrowed into a fetal ball. Her hair quivered with her shaking. He scrutinized her before he understood. “Have you slept or eaten since last night?”

  She looked away and he let the tension drain out of his neck. She was exhausted and probably starving.

  He got to his feet and went to the kitchen. He searched the fridge and found a plastic container of cold jambalaya. He didn’t look at Isabelle while he heated it in the microwave.

  He portioned it into two bowls, stuck spoons into them and carried them to the couch. He sat down next to Isabelle and pretended not to notice when she shrank away from him.

  He passed the steaming bowl into her hands. “Eat this. My mom made it so you know it’s good.”

  He took a bite to show her it wasn’t poisoned. She watched him, but eventually, she gave in exactly the way he knew she would. He ate his dinner until she got halfway through hers. He brought her a glass of iced tea and set it on the table.

  He picked up his bowl and took another bite. “He didn’t say so, but I suspect it’s because of Riley that Victor gave me permission to bring you here. He couldn’t exactly let the military kill his wife’s best friend, now could he?”

  Her spoon clinked against her bowl. “You really respect Riley, don’t you?”

  “You bet. She’s a fighter. She’s thrown down and killed countless military personnel defending Anarock. No one is more loyal than Riley. Victor really cashed in when he married her. Everybody knows that.”

  From the corner of his eye, he saw her turn and examine his profile. “How is it possible that the military can invade New Orleans and have battles with dragons and all this shit without anybody noticing? Don’t you think people would see that? Wouldn’t it get reported on the news?”

  He shrugged. “People see what they want to see. Did you see Katrina in the bar downstairs?”

  She jerked back. “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “Katrina Betancourt. She’s one of Felix’s girls. She was standing right there next to the stairs when we came in.”

  She frowned. “I didn’t see anything but a bunch of regular girls.”

  “My point exactly. She has two of everything—two arms, two mouths, two…..two of everything. The guys pay twice as much to do her in pairs. You get the idea.”

  Isabelle winced. “I don’t want to know about that.”

  He turned around to lock his eyes on her. “You wanted to know about me. I’m a lot stranger than she is. You could ignore her. You couldn’t ignore me.”

  When he looked into her face like that, she lowered her gaze to her bowl. “I don’t want to know about that, either.”

  “You’re gonna know about it whether you want to or not. You got yourself into this and you won’t be getting out. The military will never let you forget it.”

  Her gaze crept around to regard him one more time. “Isn’t there any way you can….?”

  “Can what?”

  She gestured with her spoon. “I don’t know. Isn’t there any way to cure you? What if I took you back to the lab and…?”

  He thrust his spoon into his bowl harder than he intended to. He put the bowl down and it made a loud clatter on the coffee table. “No. There isn’t.”

  “Why not? There might be a way to reverse the immune mutations in your blood. Maybe we could do a transfusion of….”

  He rocketed off the couch and barged to the kitchen. “Just forget it, okay?”

  “Why?” she called after him. “Why should I forget it? I became a pathologist to cure people of…..”

  “Just forget it, okay?” He heard himself bellowing. He whipped around the corner from the kitchen and charged her before he managed to stop himself. “You can’t cure me and I don’t want you to.”

  She cowered before his explosive rage. “Sorry. I was just….”

  “I don’t want to be cured!” he thundered. “Don’t you get that? I was born this way. We all were. We’re normal. You’re the ones who are fucked up. We’re New Breed. You’re old news so shove your fucking cure up your ass!”

  He spun away and barged to the sink. He propped his hands against the counter and shut his eyes trying to get his temper under control. He never expected anyone to ever suggest he get cured of……Jesus fucking Christ, what did he get himself into agreeing to guard this stupid human bitch?

  He didn’t agree to anything. Victor did this to him. Isabelle didn’t even understand why her suggestion would be so insulting to a New Breed. She was one of those dope humans. She would never be anything else.

  He pushed himself upright. What could he do with her? He wouldn’t take responsibility for guarding her if this was the kind of shit she was gonna pull. He wouldn’t listen to her talk about fucking curing him.

  A strange silence came from the living room. He hoped like hell he offended her yelling at her like that. He ho
ped to High Heaven she never said another goddamned word to him after insulting him like this.

  He stormed a few paces back, but when he glanced into the living room, he stopped. She pivoted on the couch. While he watched, she stretched out on the cushions and rested her golden head on a pillow.

  His ire died in a blink. She really was exhausted. Tension strained her to the breaking point. She just walked into the world’s greatest disaster zone. Now she was in as much danger as the rest of them. She never asked for any of this.

  His heart went out to her. He went back in there, took a wool throw from the back of the armchair, and advanced on the couch with it. He spread it out and draped it over her body.

  She turned her poignant blue eyes to his face. A question clouded her brow, but she didn’t voice it.

  He tucked the blanket around her. “Go to sleep. It’s okay. You can sleep here.”

  She raised her gaze to his countenance. “Malachai?”

  “No more talking.” He let his hand trail down the contour of her arm. “Just sleep. I’ll make sure nothing happens.”

  He returned to his chair and sat down, but he couldn’t sleep. He watched her eyelids sink closed and her breathing lengthened. He didn’t bother to tell her to go to one of the bedrooms.

  He settled in to keep watch over her. She stumbled on a secret too big for her brain to comprehend. Not everybody got a chance to discover Anarock. What she did with that information was anybody’s guess.

  12

  The first thing Isabelle saw when she opened her eyes was the smoky dark outline of Malachai. He sat in the same chair staring at her with unwavering attention. A faint gleam of dawn came through the window, but she couldn’t make out his eyes in the gloom.

  Within seconds of her waking up, a faint knock vibrated the door. He stood up and opened it. A disembodied hand passed a phone through the opening. He held it to his ear and went through a muttered conversation with the person on the other end.

  “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay. Thanks.”

  He handed the phone back and shut the door. He crept to the couch and whispered low. “Get up. We’re moving.”

  Her breath caught in her throat and she found herself obeying without a word. He understood this curious world better than she did. So far, she still hadn’t seen any of it. She saw that kid appear and disappear. She saw some scales on Malachai’s leg. That was all.

  He picked up the gun case from the floor and put it back in the closet. He opened the apartment door and she slipped onto the landing. He locked the apartment. Would she ever see it again?

  She didn’t belong to the world anymore—not the human world, anyway. She was somewhere else and she didn’t even really know where.

  She tiptoed down the stairs behind Malachai, but the whorehouse slumbered in silence all around her. Not one person saw them leave. The bar was empty. She didn’t get another look at Katrina with the two arms and two mouths and two whatever elses.

  They glided out into the empty streets. New Orleans yawned silent as the grave. No one saw them leave and no one cared. They moved in a ghostly world between life and death.

  Malachai guided her a few blocks away to another large apartment building, but he didn’t enter it. He veered around the back to a small cottage perched in the corner of a wooden fence.

  He opened the door for her. It wasn’t locked. She entered a very normal house decorated in quaint French Colonial style. The furnishings and pictures made it look too nice for Central City, but when he closed the door, an illusion of luxury blocked the world outside.

  She studied oil paintings on the walls papered in velvet. Brocade upholstery, carved chairs, and glossy divans populated the parlor. She couldn’t get herself to accept she was still in Central City at all. “What is this place? Does this house belong to your family, too?”

  “It’s just a house.” He checked the closets and windows as though he expected someone to leap out and attack.

  She strolled from one marvel to the next. Every room contained magnificent furniture and decorations worthy of the finest hotel. She halted outside the modern kitchen gleaming with chrome. A large portrait of a handsome man hung above a Georgian side table. A vase full of flowers perched on top. “Whose house is this, anyway?”

  “It belongs to my father’s family.” He drew to a halt a few paces away. His gaze drifted to the portrait. “That’s him. He was killed by the military during the last invasion.”

  She peered up at the figure. Sandy hair surrounded the subject’s piercing black eyes. “You resemble him.”

  Malachai blushed bright red and looked down at the carpet. “Hardly.”

  “It’s true. Let me guess. Your mother has black hair. That must be where you get it. Other than that, you look just like him.”

  He turned away. “You’re the only person alive who thinks so. Most everyone says I look like my mother.”

  “That’s your coloring. Your eyes are just like his.”

  He stole a glimpse at her, but when she didn’t laugh, his eyes widened. “Do you really think so?”

  She nodded. “Your mouth, too. I bet you think like him, too. I can definitely see the similarity.”

  He turned all the way away. He turned his back on the picture. “Most people think my brother Bryce looks the most like him. No one thinks I think like him. That would be asking too much. Everybody thinks Victor thinks like him.”

  She tagged after him to the parlor. “Why don’t they think you think like him?”

  He answered over his shoulder. She got the impression he didn’t want her to see his face. “Because Victor’s in charge and Bryce…. Well, I’m the kid brother. I’m the last in line.”

  He leaned against the couch staring through the window at nothing. Daylight grew up outside to reveal the garden manicured to perfection.

  She hesitated to push this. Something in his manner suggested she was approaching a raw nerve. “I find that hard to believe. Everything you’ve ever told me tells me you’re his…. what? You’re his right-hand man.”

  He whipped around and glared at her. For a second, she thought she might have offended him again. Then he looked away. “I guess I am.”

  She found a seat for herself on the nearest divan. “What were you going to tell me about your brother Bryce? Does he work for Victor, too?”

  He snorted. “No. He’s our enemy.”

  “Then you’re it, aren’t you? You are his right-hand man.”

  He shrugged. “I guess I am. I just never thought I’d be like Pop. I always thought maybe I would never be good enough for anyone to think I was anything like him. I guess….” He glanced toward the picture. “I thought he’d haunt me for the rest of my life.”

  “And if anything happens to Victor, what happens? Do you take over?”

  His head shot up one more time. His eyes flashed inner fire. His features hardened into a wall of granite. “That depends on who challenges the Crest.”

  She leaned back and folded her hands in her lap. “I don’t understand that, but you do. There is the chance you could become the leader, isn’t there? You could take over after Victor. People around here respect you. I can see that. They would support you the way they support Victor. Am I right?”

  He blinked down at her. For a second, the invisible barrier holding them apart dissolved, but his voice came from far away. “Yeah. That’s right.”

  His stare made her uncomfortable. She couldn’t identify why. She could see he wasn’t mad at her. He was just shocked at what she said. She tried to diffuse the tension by changing the subject. “You didn’t sleep last night, did you? Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll stay awake and you can catch some shut-eye.”

  He blinked and snapped out of his trance. He shoved himself off the couch. “I can’t. I gotta….”

  At that moment, a phone rang somewhere. He hurried into the hall and tore open the drawer of a side table. He took out a cellphone and punched the screen. He held it to his ear. “Yeah.”
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  A tinny voice squeaked down the line. Malachai spun around and strode to the front window muttering, “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh,” into the device.

  Isabelle followed him waiting to find out what this was all about. He hung up and stuck the phone in his pocket like any ordinary guy. “That was Victor. He’s sending a few of his guys over later. We’ll put together a plan to either evacuate you out of town or put you under permanent protection.”

  Isabelle stiffened. “What does that depend on?”

  “How should I know? It’s up to Victor. He has all the information. I’m just a foot soldier. We all are.” He headed down the hall. “I’m hungry. Do you want something to eat?”

  She trailed him to the kitchen. He cracked the fridge and took out a box of eggs. She slouched against the counter while he whipped up an omelet for himself. He dumped it onto a plate and cut it up with a knife and fork. “Don’t tell me you’re not hungry.”

  “That jambalaya you gave me last night satiated my appetite for health. Now I need to drown my sorrows.” She opened the fridge, but nothing grabbed her attention. She popped the freezer. “Ah-ha! Perfect.”

  She took out a carton of pecan praline ice cream. Malachai groaned. “Oh, my fucking God! Not for breakfast! Jesus!”

  She chortled under her breath. “Oh, yeah. You know it.” She took out a spoon and dug in. “Sugar—good.”

  He almost choked on his eggs. “How do you stay in such good shape if you eat like that? It’s not fair.”

  She burst out laughing and almost shot melted ice cream through her nose. “I don’t eat like this all the time—only when I just discovered a secret mutant society living in the middle of a major metropolitan area. I wouldn’t dare otherwise. I only eat like this when I’m on the run for my life.”

  He nodded and stuck another forkful of eggs in his mouth. “Makes sense.”

  She scooped another spoonful out of the carton. “Anyway, I won’t have to worry about my figure in Anarock. I’ll never get a date around here.”