Malachai's Arc

Chapter 9 of 11

Three days before his thirty-fifth birthday, Malachai woke to a weight he had not felt in weeks. It sat behind his eyes and pushed. He knew it before he was fully awake. His master was back. Deborah slept against his shoulder in the cabin bed. The fire had burned down to coals. Outside the window, the pines held still. Malachai sat up slow so he would not wake her. He put his bare feet on the pine floor and waited. The voice came inside his skull, quiet and pleased. Diablo had counted. One thousand souls, delivered before the year closed. The master wanted his last gift. Malachai asked which one. Diablo told him. Her. Malachai did not answer at first. He looked at Deborah's hair spread on the pillow. He looked at the small scar under her jaw where a man had caught her with a ring. He had trained her. He had fed her hate the way a man feeds a fire. She had learned every lesson. She had killed for him without flinching. She had been the best work of his life. "No." The pressure grew. Diablo did not argue. Diablo waited. "She is mine," Malachai said. "Take another. Take me. I am dead in three days anyway." The pressure did not ease. The master had not asked. Deborah stirred. She opened her eyes and saw his face and sat up. "He's here." "Yes." "What does he want?" Malachai did not answer. He put his hand on her cheek. She leaned into it the way she always did. He bent and kissed her. He meant it as a goodbye he would not give. He meant to hold the line. His hand moved without him. It slid down from her cheek to her throat. His fingers closed. He tried to pull them back. They did not come back. Deborah's eyes went wide against his mouth. She did not fight. She never fought him. She held his wrist with both her hands, not to pry him off, but to keep him there. He felt the master laugh inside his chest. Her pulse slowed under his thumb. She looked at him with the same trust she had shown at every kill. He watched the light in her eyes go small and then go out. The soul left her and went where the others had gone. Not to him. To Diablo. One thousand. The pressure lifted. The voice in his head said, good boy, and went quiet again, satisfied, waiting. Malachai sat on the bed with her body across his lap. His hand still would not open for a long moment. When it did, the marks were already there on her skin. He did not move to close her eyes. He looked at the door of the cabin and understood that the count was full and that he had three days left and that his master would come for him next.