Chapter Thirty

 

 

 

The sky had begun to blush pink in the distance, light streaming through the east-facing windows, when footsteps finally echoed through the shop. “Nothing could be done for it?” Malachi huffed, peering at the cloth-covered body. “Pity.”

“Her.” Asher’s voice was rough with exhaustion.

“Pardon?”

“Her. Not it.” He cut his eyes away from his blood-stained hands. “Her name was Dorcas.”

As though taken aback by the revelation, Malachi shifted his weight, long strides giving way to a loose, liquid gait, as if the floor were not entirely steady beneath his feet. “Huh. I always called it…it. Thank you for that valuable piece of trivia. Were you able to find out anything useful?”

Only that my uncle wasn’t the man I thought he was.

The things Howard had done to Dorcas—and presumably the other maids—made Asher’s own transformation seem like child’s play. At least Asher had retained the full use of his faculties.

“Oh, don’t look so glum,” Malachi scoffed. “I’m sure you tried your best. Come to the house. I’ll have my man dispose of this and you and I can have a nice supper.”

“It’s almost dawn.”

“A nice breakfast, then.”

The offer was accompanied by the slide of a cold hand around Asher’s shoulders, Malachi smiling down at him like some trickster god. Under the desk, Asher fingered the trigger gauge on his one and only pistol. He wasn’t sure the bullet would fly cleanly through the wood. Silver alloy changed the simple aerodynamics of a lead-capped bullet. He wasn’t sure that squeezing off one round would be enough to end Malachi. If he missed, there would be hell to pay. If he didn’t, he’d be dead.

He fought a shudder as Malachi traced his jawline with a fingertip.

“How I would love to know what goes on in that head of yours… Oh, but I forget. I can.” His grin gave way to a snarl. Fangs dropping like razors behind his lush pink lips.

Malachi pounced.

It happened so fast. Asher fumbled his hold on the pistol. He would’ve fired it were he not wrenched out of his seat before he could do so, a hand in his hair and the other shoving him bodily into the wall.

The buttons fastened at the collar of his shirt gave way to a brutal yank. The back of his head slammed against wood.

His revolver clattered to the ground but mercifully did not fire. Asher clung to that tiny speck of relief as his flesh opened beneath Malachi’s fangs. Pain shot through him, radiating from the shelf of his clavicle. It spiraled outward, fiery-hot and debilitating.

And something else, too, far more distressing.

Like Halloran and Moreau before him, Malachi felt it. He pulled back laughing, blood smeared over his mouth and chin. “And to think my fool of a brother claimed you were nothing to write home about! No wonder Halloran’s been keeping you to himself…”

“Get,” Asher bit out, “get off—”

“Oh, you lovely thing. I very much intend to…”

“Malachi.”

His sense of timing could have used a little work, but Halloran’s entrance filled Asher with more relief than he wanted to admit.

Malachi’s smile sharped. “Shouldn’t you be herding cattle?”

“Thought I’d check on my property,” Halloran drawled. His eyes met Asher’s over Malachi’s thin shoulder. “He has a knack for getting himself into trouble.”

Asher really wished he hadn’t dropped that gun. Never mind shooting Malachi, who was responsible for the sting in his chest, he wanted to see Halloran’s smug face crumble into dust and viscera. A knack for getting himself in trouble? He hadn’t courted Malachi’s interest any more than he’d courted Halloran’s.

Outrage crammed too many retorts into his throat, reducing him to silence.

“That he does,” Malachi agreed, withdrawing fangs and hands alike. “But he tastes divine. And you neglected to mention that he happens to enjoy it.”

A muscle twitched in corner of Halloran’s eye, far too visible, despite the low brim of his hat, in the pink light of morning. “Didn’t know he was an interest of yours, Malachi.”

“He’s not. You, on the other hand…”

It was as if Asher was no longer in the room. Malachi paced a slow, deliberate circuit around the desk, grazing the unmoving form upon it with his fingertips before hooking them in Halloran’s belt. “Why don’t you both join me at the house, hmm? We could have so much fun together.”

“What about Dorcas?” Asher blurted, the lesser of all the questions he wanted answered. Did Nyle’s death mean nothing to Malachi? Surely he knew Halloran had shot him—and why.

Malachi turned. “Who? Oh, that…” He waved an indifferent hand. “You may salvage what you like and burn the rest. Later. For now, you’ll come along. Your master didn’t ride all this way to see me.”

You only wish he had. Envy would have been a mistake, so Asher decided the squirming in his gut was merely rage. He cocked an eyebrow at Halloran. Well, master? What do we do now? Dance to Malachi’s tune or tempt fate again? Neither option appealed.

“You’ll come along,” Halloran muttered after a beat, aligning himself with Malachi, as Asher had always known he would, as he should’ve expected even from a vampire who killed his own.

He toyed with the thought of trying to retrieve the pistol, but there was no time. Malachi could shatter his spine in the half second it would take Asher to crouch. Halloran could easily get caught in the crossfire. Asher’s skin prickled. He hated himself for considering that an impediment. He hated Halloran for making him weak.

Gears and pistons engaged as he made his feet follow the summons, the sensation unsettling but not without merit. Dorcas hadn’t been aware of her body as her heart beat its sluggish last and ignorance had done her little good.

All over Main Street, shadows stretched along the shuttered storefronts. The hour was too damn early for anyone to be out and about. That was something to be glad of, at least. There was no one to see Asher get marched up to the town hall, no one to watch him enter Ambrose’s home like a good little pet, a mindless automaton tethered to its master’s whims.

Halloran’s hand at the small of his back kept him from stumbling up the steps—or worse, bolting. Asher could’ve shaken it off. He didn’t.

 

* * * *

 

Asher’s insides twisted as the door closed behind him. He’d never been to Malachi’s wing. He had never cared to know whether it was more or less lavish than the guestroom he’d been offered for a time. He would’ve died quite happy without that information.

Malachi stripped off his pinstriped frock coat and jettisoned his cufflinks to a nearby table. His aim was as impeccable as the cut of his clothes. Asher had never seen him dressed down. If he’d stayed human, he might have hung on to a reputation as something of a dandy. No one in town would dare speak that way about a vampire. Not if they wanted to live out the day.

“Well, gentlemen?” Malachi rounded to face them.

“Well, what?”

The deep, low baritone of Halloran’s voice set the hairs on the back of Asher’s neck on end. He couldn’t help but be aware that he was suddenly trapped in a room with two creatures built for speed and agility, stronger than any boy he’d ever wrestled in play or genuine scuffle.

“Is this how you spend your time together? Quietly pretending not to look at each other? It’s very sweet,” Malachi simpered, “but we can dispense with the flirting. We’re all men here. Aren’t we, Asher?”

The pointed question seemed to conceal another. A shudder rippled down Asher’s spine. He didn’t know where this was going but he’d never had trouble using his imagination before. If he tried hard enough, he could scare himself into freezing where he stood, like some witless desert rat trapped in a hunter’s sights.

“Halloran don’t share.”

Malachi arched his brow. “He will, with me. Won’t you, darling?” His smile only widened when Halloran failed to correct him. “See? And if I were to suggest that he take your clothes off, I’m sure he’d do that too…”

Fists balled at his sides, it took everything Asher had not to flinch at Malachi’s approach. He’d felt naked under scrutiny before, and he’d had Halloran’s hands on him half a dozen times already. But not like this. In this ornate, Fabergé egg of a room with its thick draperies and large bed, he felt like an elastic band stretched to breaking point.

“I wonder,” Malachi went on, lodging a knuckle under Asher’s chin, “do you enjoy his mouth or the other way around?”

He and Asher were almost of a height. It wouldn’t have been an effort to meet his eyes or refrain from biting his tongue as Malachi traced his lower lip with a finger.

“Mm, yes. I think I’d like to see that. Get on your knees, lovely.”

“That’s enough,” Halloran barked.

“This is my father’s house. I decide what’s enough,” Malachi corrected sweetly, “and I say he takes off this blood-spattered shirt and shows me just what it is about him that’s got you cooped up at Willowbranch instead of coming here as you used to.”

The pressure of his touch left Asher with a Hobson’s choice to open his mouth to the intrusion of Malachi’s thumb and potentially loose a tooth. He tasted metal and honey, the sharp, piercing flavor of strong whiskey making him gag.

He didn’t see Halloran stride forward until he’d pried Malachi’s hand off and sent him staggering back a pace. “Leave us, Asher.”

Malachi caught himself easily, his laughter like the scrape of a blade against porcelain. He’d only been dislodged because he allowed it, this latest retreat as false as all others preceding it.

Asher understood why. Malachi’s gaze might as well have been glued to Halloran. Asher was only the bait, just as Halloran had claimed he’d been for Moreau.

“Asher.”

He snapped himself back from that train of thought.

Without letting Malachi out of his sight, Halloran nodded toward the door. The message was clear.

Asher clamped his mouth shut. The last he saw of Halloran and Malachi on the other side, they were facing each other like two fighting hounds about to lunge.