Chapter Two
When Malachi entered the room containing the holding cells, the first thing he noticed was that his Guards were not at their posts. The door to the central holding cell was open, and there was a smear of blood on the floor.
“She was a pretty one. Perfect, really. And her hair…” Sil had his muzzled face pressed between the bars of his cell. “She had all your Guards hot and bothered, Captain. Maybe you should talk to them about their manners.”
“You’re lecturing me about proper conduct?” Malachi rolled his eyes. He would talk to his Guards, but not about their manners. He was more interested in knowing why they thought it was acceptable to leave one of the most dangerous and crafty Mazikin in the city unattended. He walked to the door and leaned out. “Lutfi, Usman!” he shouted down the hall. The two Guards were stationed at the front entrance tonight. “One of you report to the holding cells immediately!”
The floor beneath his feet shuddered slightly as one of them began to jog down the corridor. Behind him, Sil was giggling again. Malachi turned to look at him.
“Do you want to know the funniest thing?” the Mazikin asked. “Truly, this is wonderful.”
Malachi closed his eyes and prayed for patience. He needed Sil to be cooperative. It would make things so much easier. “I’m listening.”
Sil shook his head. “I shouldn’t tell you, actually. It would be better if I didn’t.”
The tension crept through Malachi’s muscles, winding in a spiral up his spine. “Suit yourself. We’ll have a nice conversation later.” He nodded at Lutfi as the good-natured Guard strode through the door.
Lutfi scowled at Sil as the Mazikin continued to cackle. “They’re not usually so cheerful once we’ve captured them,” he commented.
Malachi shrugged. “Maybe he’ll tell you why if you sit here long enough. I’m going to find Bilal — he was supposed to be on watch here, yes?”
Lutfi looked conflicted, probably because he knew Bilal was in trouble for abandoning his post. Sil clutched his stomach and laughed even harder. “Bilal couldn’t bear to listen!” he hooted.
Malachi felt the muscle in his jaw start to jump, as it always did when his frustration boiled beneath the surface. “I can’t say I blame him,” he snapped. “You are by far the most annoying Mazikin I’ve ever encountered.”
Sil wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “Oh, Captain, you are so stupid.”
Across the hall, a deep bellow came from the interrogation room, and then someone pounded hard on the closed door. Malachi looked toward it as the piercing, terrified scream rang out. “Help me!” a girl shrieked from inside. “He—” A heavy thunk against the door cut her off.
Malachi’s eyes went wide as Sil’s screeching laughter echoed off the walls of the holding cell. “The best part,” he panted between peals of laughter. “The best part is — she’s not a Mazikin!”
Malachi whirled around, already reaching for the door of the interrogation room. What had happened? The Guards weren’t supposed to interrogate anyone. As his fingers closed around the door, he had a suspicion. The Guards were so restless lately, so angry that the Mazikin had gotten to them. They were out for blood.
He wrenched at the door, but it was locked from the inside. His heart lurched as the girl screamed again, a sound that reached deep inside him and twisted within his chest. He raised his foot and shot a hard kick at the wood just below the handle. Two more and it splintered; he ripped the door open, almost off its hinges. Amid had a girl pressed up against the cinder-block wall. Her arms, which looked so fragile and small beneath the Guard’s enormous body, waved frantically as he crushed her with his massive weight.
“No!” Malachi shouted.
Amid ignored him, too buried in bloodlust to even register the voice of his Captain. Malachi drew his baton and extended it as the girl made a heartbreaking, childlike noise, the most lost sound in the world, a choked sob that ended in a helpless whimper. It tore through Malachi even as his staff arced through the air, slamming into the side of Amid’s head.
The Guard staggered back, his face a rigid mask of rage. Blood poured from his nose and from a wound in his gut. Malachi couldn’t imagine how a young, unarmed girl could do such damage to one of his Guards. Amid blinked stupidly, but then charged the girl again, like Malachi wasn’t even there. Malachi rained blow after blow on the enraged Guard, driving him away from the girl. “Stand down, Amid!” he yelled. “Stand. Down.”
“She stabbed me! Twice!” Amid roared as his back hit the opposite wall. “She might be the one who killed Issam!”
Malachi kept his staff raised, ready to knock Amid into unconsciousness if he needed to. “Do you know for sure she’s a Mazikin?”
Amid grimaced. “How could she be anything else?” He gestured at his face. “You think one of the suicides would have done this?” His eyes wandered over to his baton, which lay discarded several feet away.
Malachi stared at it. The girl had used Amid’s baton and his knife against him? “I’ll deal with her. You go to your quarters and wait for my orders.” He raised the staff higher as the surly Guard clenched his teeth, looking like he wanted to refuse. Malachi drew a deep breath through his nose. “Listen to me. If she is Mazikin, I will make her pay for what they did to Issam. Do you believe me?”
Amid looked at the floor.
“Do you believe me, Amid?” he said, a little louder.
Amid nodded. “Yes, Captain,” he said, the anger still thick in his voice.
Malachi lowered his staff as the Guard shoved off the wall and headed for the door, knocking it completely off the hinges as he barged past. Slowly, Malachi turned to look at the girl. She lay on her back, blood trickling from her nose and mouth. She blinked absently at the ceiling, her fingers twitching. He knelt next to her and inhaled. She didn’t smell like incense at all. She smelled… well, she smelled like blood. But she also smelled like the sea. Malachi knew that bright, wild scent; he still remembered it from his childhood, when his parents had taken them on holiday to the Adriatic.
He slid his arm beneath her neck and the other beneath her knees, and then lifted her from the ground. She jerked against him, swinging her arms and arching. Her knee shot up and hit him in the side of the head, hard enough to make him stumble to keep his balance. A rasping, horrified sound flew from her throat. She was so afraid, and so badly hurt, but she was still fighting.
“Shhhh,” Malachi said, trying to sound soothing. “It’s all right.”
It might not be. He had no idea who this girl was. Based on what she’d done to Amid, she seemed more likely to be an enemy than an innocent. But for the moment, she wasn’t anything other than a girl who needed his help.
She took a sudden, wheezing breath, and her gaze landed on his face. He looked down at her dazed expression, at her wide, helpless eyes, and felt something catch in his chest. Those eyes… flecks of deep brown surrounded by amber. Like fire… he blinked and tore his gaze from hers, trying to keep his head clear. He looked her over. She was in terrible shape. Her left arm, now folded over her belly, was bent at an odd angle. Ugly red and purple marks stood out against her light brown skin, striping her collarbones and dotting her neck. Amid’s fingerprints. Malachi clutched her tighter and walked toward the door, wishing he’d hit the Guard a few extra times, just for good measure.
He strode down the hall toward the hospital room. Bilal and Hani stepped from the food room as he walked past. They both stared at the girl while the blood drained from their faces. “Captain…”
“Fetch Raphael,” he snapped, shouldering by without further acknowledging them. It wouldn’t be good for them if he did. In his current mood, that acknowledgment might involve his fists.
The girl had lost consciousness. Her head lolled against his shoulder. Her hair, a spiraling mass of thick, ebony curls, tickled his neck. Drops of her blood stained his leather breastplate. Malachi awkwardly maneuvered the hospital room door open and carried her to the cot, where he gently laid her down.
“Who are you?” he whispered as he watched her dark hair spread across the white pillow. He sat back on his knees, listening to the weak, whistling sound of her breathing. Raphael would be here soon, but Malachi wondered if summoning him was a mistake. Perhaps he should allow this girl to slip away. She would most likely die from these injuries. From the slightly bluish cast to her lips, it might not take long. If she died, he wouldn’t have to risk her stabbing him in the back the first chance she got. He could already tell she was capable of it. Not just because of what she’d done to Amid. She was strongly built for a girl; he’d felt the supple yet firm curves of her body when she’d been in his arms. And there was something in those fiery eyes of hers, a kind of threat. He wasn’t even sure she’d seen him, as out of it as she’d been, but still, the promise was there: I will fight you until my body is broken, and even after that.
She was dangerous. Even here, helpless like this, she had power. He could almost feel it bleeding from her, swirling across his skin, raising goose bumps, and making his heart speed.
He should let her die.
It would be safer for both of them.
He looked at the door. He should call one of the Guards and tell them to cancel the summons to Raphael. Yes. He should do that and then return to the holding cells to interrogate Sil. That was his duty. That was what he was supposed to be doing…
But he couldn’t force himself to get up, to call out. If she lived, he could solve the mystery of her. What if she knew something about the Mazikin escape plans? What if she was part of it? He knew there were other realms besides this one. Maybe she came from one of them — maybe she was helping the Mazikin?
If that was true, would Sil have been so delighted that Amid was interrogating her? If she was the key to the Mazikin plan, it didn’t seem likely he’d be so pleased to hear her scream. Sil was diabolically clever, though, so it could very well have been an act, a ploy to get Malachi to rescue her. Or it might have simply been that the Mazikin enjoyed others’ pain.
And she had been in pain. He’d heard it in her voice, seen it in her eyes. It was more than Amid, though. Malachi had read it in her expression, felt it in the tension of her body when he’d touched her. This girl had suffered. She’d been hurt. Badly. She’d been trying to protect herself, to keep it from happening again.
He lifted a corner of the sheet and used it to wipe the blood from her face, gentle strokes over skin that was now losing its healthy color, turning pale as the wounds inside of her spilled blood into her empty spaces. He brushed the cloth beneath her nose, where the blood trickled lazily. She moaned and turned her head. She was out cold, but she was still trying to fight, to escape the unwanted touch. She was like a frightened animal, anticipating harm.
And in spite of himself, his duty, his determination, he found himself desperately hoping he wouldn’t be the next one to hurt her.