Sanctum (Guards of the Shadowlands, Book 1) (24 page)

“What did my voice say to you in the tower? What did you hear?”

“You said you needed to see me again. It’s okay, I know it was just my imagination.”

“Maybe. I always hear my brother’s voice when I go through. Right when I need it, when I want to give up, I hear it. But this time the voice I heard was yours.”

“Really? What did I say?” I murmured.

“You said you needed to see me again, too.”

“Did it help?”

“More than you’ll ever know.”

I tightened my arm around his waist, wanting nothing more from the moment than what it was. I realized how unusual that was, considering the city and all its misery, considering you could have anything you wanted, but it would never be satisfying.

That simple moment, touching him, feeling him breathe, his hand stroking my hair—it was all I could have hoped for, all
I could have wanted. I was filled up with it, this warm, buzzing feeling in my chest, and it was
completely
satisfying.

I wondered if it might be what I needed after all.

I AWOKE IN SILENCE
. I’d been dreaming of comforting Malachi as he wept over the body of a Mazikin who looked a lot like me. In the dream, I’d realized that the dead Mazikin was my mother.

I kept my eyes closed, letting my awakening brain reconnect with my body. Malachi wasn’t with me; I was alone on the couch. I must have fallen asleep there, leaning against him, taking what I needed from him.

A musty, coarse blanket had been spread over me. Its worn edges tickled my cheek. I wondered if he’d covered me, if he’d thought I might get cold. Just the possibility made me feel warmer than the blanket ever could have.

I mulled over the past few days and the changes they had brought. In all my life, I couldn’t remember letting people make physical contact in any but the most necessary ways. I always braced whenever I thought someone might touch me, shied away when they tried, and lashed out, intentionally or not, when that touch hurt or reminded me of things I wanted to forget. It protected me, but it also kept me from getting close to other people, physically
and
emotionally.

I guess this was the damage Ana referred to.

Even people who cared about me, like Diane. Like Nadia. How many times had I flinched when they patted my back? How many hugs had I shrugged away? I hadn’t been able to stop myself, even when I saw the hurt looks on their faces.

I had thought I’d lost the ability to enjoy being touched. I thought maybe I’d never had it in the first place. I had believed that was the way it would be for the rest of my life.

With Malachi, something was different. All my instincts were still in place; they buzzed with alarm when he caught me off guard. But they were silent since my escape from the dark tower and my humiliating admission of what had happened to me. In fact, I had
wanted
Malachi to touch me. I had been sure it was the only thing that might help. It felt good. Amazingly good. Like the shape of him, the scent of him, his texture, his movement, his rhythm had been made for me.

Whatever I felt for him had hit me quickly and grown fast and uncontrollable over a matter of days. With every moment
I spent with him, every quiet, considerate action he’d shown, every cautious and gentle touch, I sank deeper into it. I had no idea how I was going to climb out.

It’s dangerous to fall in love in hell
. But was that what was happening? I didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. I loved Nadia, but that was a different thing, and it certainly didn’t feel like this. My feelings for Nadia were powerful. They made me determined and strong. My feelings for Malachi were fragile and hopeful, vulnerable and easily crushed. I wanted to be near him, to lean on him. I wanted him to put his arms around me. I wanted to comfort him, hold his hand. And last night I’d been sure I wanted to kiss him, although that felt a little frightening—too out of control. It all felt out of control.

I rubbed my face with my hands, knocking away the sleep.

Ana was right. This was not the place or the time to fall in love, or develop a mad crush, or whatever this was. Those feelings could only get in the way of what I really needed to do: find Nadia and get her out of here.

Malachi chose that moment to enter the apartment, looking gorgeous and strong…and bloody. I sat up and threw off the blanket. We were so far from the Station, from Raphael.

“What happened? Are you all right? Where’s Ana?”

Malachi looked amused at my rapid-fire questions and glanced at his arm, where his shirt was torn and edged with blood. “Take a breath, Lela. Ana is patrolling to the north. I went west and had to jam myself into some rafters in an old
warehouse to keep a small group of Mazikin from spotting me. I wanted to see where they were going, but I lost them. This,” he said, waving his elbow at me, “is nothing. Now—are you okay? You look a little pale.”

I rubbed my hands over my face again. “I’m fine. I was afraid you’d been bitten,” I muttered sheepishly.

“Well, thank you for your concern.” He sounded sincere enough for me to venture a glance at his face from between my fingers. “Hi,” he said when he saw me peeking at him. “Did you sleep well? Did you dream of Buffy?”

I shook my head and stretched. “No Buffy dreams. But I did sleep well. What’s our plan for today?”

He’d gone into the kitchen and was running water over the scratch on his arm. He pressed a towel to it as he came back into the living room. “Ana’s going to be a while, I think, so I was wondering if you wanted to train a bit. We’ll start our search when she gets back. This area is crawling with Mazikin, so I’d like you to be ready. You haven’t practiced fighting in your armor yet.”

“Ah, joy. Well, color me medieval. Give me a few minutes.”

I ran to the bathroom, groaning as I caught sight of my hair in the mirror. It looked like a hyena had draped itself over my head. I would have to ask Ana to rebraid it, but for now a ponytail would have to do. By the time I emerged, Malachi had laid out my armor and weapons. I eyed the buckles on the sides and sighed. In hell, Velcro was too much to ask.

Malachi clearly understood my expression. “Do you want some help?”

“If I thought you needed the comic relief, I’d say no. But if you want to actually be able to train before Ana returns, I think the answer is yes.”

He picked up the breastplate and helped me lower it over my head. He quickly fastened the buckles along my sides, then stuck his fingers under the shoulder openings and shook it a little. His eyes skimmed over my chest and slid up to my face. “Is that too tight? Can you take a deep breath without feeling restricted?”

I forced the words over my clumsy tongue, too distracted by the curve of his mouth, by the warmth in his gaze. “It’s…um…great.” His cheeks turned ruddy when he heard the breathless sound of my voice. He only gave me a moment to look, though, and then he was kneeling before me, fastening the greaves onto my shins. I looked down at the back of his neck, partially shielded by his collar, vulnerable and smooth skin edged by pure black hair. I was sure that skin would be deliciously warm if I touched it. My fingers twitched, and I clenched my fists.

Malachi reached over and grabbed my bracers. He got to his feet and fastened them to my arms. While he was absorbed in his task, I watched his face, the fringe of his lashes, the light shadow of stubble along his jaw, the soft upward curve of his lips. Oh, man. Dangerously beautiful.

Malachi looked at me and raised an eyebrow. “I assume you can manage the belt by yourself?”

I rolled my eyes at him. “Nope, that’s too complicated for me.”

I bent to retrieve it, but he was faster. With a mischievous smile, he knelt again, pulling the belt around my hips until it was snug, notching it securely and tucking the end into the belt loop. His fingers brushed against my belly and the feeling just about made me fall to the floor. I grabbed his hands and stepped back, pushing away from him.

His face changed instantly from playful to horror stricken. He stood up and backed away quickly. “I’m sorry, Lela. I didn’t mean to overstep—”

“No…no, you’re fine.” My mind raced as I tried to find a way to explain my reaction in a way that didn’t sound completely pathetic.
I just realized exactly how much I’d like to stand here and let you do that all day
. He needed some explanation, because he clearly believed he’d awakened some terrible memory for me.

“Malachi,” I soothed, reaching out to take his hand, willing to do anything to wipe that expression from his face. “You just startled me…. I don’t mind when you touch me.”
Please touch me again
.

He gave me a searching look, and then his thumb stroked over the back of my hand. “Okay,” he said, a slow, painfully sexy smile spreading across his face and making my heart race. But
then something flickered in his eyes—indecision, maybe. He let go of my hand and started to take off his own armor.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Aren’t we going to train?”

“Yes,” he said, eyes on the buckles at his shoulders, “but Mazikin don’t wear armor, so I won’t when I train you.” In less than a minute he was finished. “Come on, let’s go to the roof. We’ll have more room there and won’t risk destroying the fine china and antique furniture.”

I snorted and followed him, praying I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself yet again.

“This one’s not very well lit,” he said as he looked around, “but you’ve got to get used to fighting in the dark anyway. Excuse me for a moment.” He walked over to an elderly guy who was sitting in the middle of the gravel-covered roof clutching two nearly empty bottles of what appeared to be gin. I sniffed the air for any hint of rot or incense, but all I smelled was alcohol. Malachi leaned over so his face was in the man’s line of sight. “You will be more comfortable in your own apartment,” he said kindly.

“I am in my own apartment,” mumbled the guy. His eyes glinted as the bottles refilled themselves with scummy, cloudy liquid. He lifted a bottle to his lips, gulping desperately. He barely seemed to notice as Malachi picked him up from the ground, carried him to the stairwell, and deposited him gently on the top step.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Malachi was back to business, like he did that kind of thing all the time. “With Mazikin, your biggest concern is keeping their teeth away from you. It’s one of the reasons we wear the armor on our forearms and shins—it’s pretty effective if you want to block a bite. But don’t forget their fingernails—they’re nasty. Not venomous like their teeth, but if you get scratched, it will get infected, and it will be bad.”

I rubbed at the back of my hand where Sil had dug his fingernails in, grateful that Raphael had been around to heal me so quickly—especially when Malachi turned and lifted the back of his shirt. Four thick, jagged lines tracked diagonally from his ribs to the small of his back. I cringed. He looked over his shoulder and smiled grimly.

“Juri,” he said. “The one time he caught me without my vest on. He and I met many times before that night in the alley.”

“Same here.” I crossed my arms over my chest and squeezed.

Something fierce sparked in Malachi’s eyes. “He spoke to you. He said you—”

I held up my hands to silence him, not wanting to hear those words again. “Yeah. I guess he’d seen me when I was here before. As a ghost. He recognized me. And he seemed really glad to see me.”

In the flesh
, Juri had whispered.

I shuddered and turned away from Malachi. This was no way to be strong. I needed to pull myself together.

Malachi’s voice was tender as he said, “You saved me that night, you know. Thank you for depriving him of his final victory.”

I slowly turned around. “Ana said he likes to taunt you in your native language, that he steals the bodies of people who speak Slovak just so he can.”

Malachi shuffled backward, examining the surface of the roof, the footing and traction it offered. “Slovak’s not my native tongue, not really. It was the language spoken in the city where I lived.”

“Wait—how many languages do you speak?”

He bit his lip and looked off at an angle. I could tell he was trying to count them all. “I speak seven languages. And I know many, many obscene words in about twelve more, thanks to Michael.”

Suddenly, I felt very young and undereducated, but I pressed on, wanting to know more about him. “What’s your native tongue?”

“I have two, actually. Yiddish, from my father, and Romani, from my mother.” He laughed, and I could almost taste its bitterness. “You can only imagine what
that
was like, to be a Gypsy Jew when the Nazis came to Bratislava. Not that it was easy before that, but it only got harder.”

“What was Bratislava like when you were growing up?” I didn’t want to admit I didn’t even know what country it was in.

He tilted his head and looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Are you stalling, Lela?”

I took a step back at his expression. “No way. Just interested. Are you asking me to start kicking your ass now? You only had to say so.”

He crouched low, and I tensed to keep from backtracking again. My flinch drew that whimsical smile onto his face. “Stay relaxed. Just do what your instincts tell you.”

Then I’d be kissing you instead of fighting you
.

My civilized, grown-up brain gate-crashed the hormonal party and told me to control myself. This kicked off a loud mental argument that distracted me from his approach. He was on me in the next second, reaching out with clawed hands to mimic the attack of a Mazikin. Fortunately, I managed to duck under his arm, turn, and deliver a sharp kidney punch.

“Whoa,” he said, sounding pleased, rubbing his back. “That was lovely. Try that again.”

The next hour or so was tremendously fun. Exhausting, but fun. He gave me fewer instructions this time, sticking to some basic principles rather than telling me exactly what to do. He was merciless in the creativity of his attacks but gentle in their execution. He didn’t want to hurt me, but he did want me to fight back and make it dirty.