Barbarian (Jericho’s Boys #3)

3. Mal

The moment the call went dead, Mal was on his feet, grabbing the jeans he’d abandoned on the floor at some point, shoving his legs inside. He snagged a black hoodie, shoving it over his head, then heading to the closet, rummaging along the top shelf before finding the lockbox and pulling it down. By the time he had his gun freed, Nico was dressed as well. In Mal’s jeans. In Mal’s hot pink hoodie. Mal’s gaze snagged on him for longer than necessary before handing him the other gun, watching as Nico did a check as well.

Mal made a quick phone call to Jericho, then they bolted down the stairs, flagging down a car. Jericho’s instructions had been very clear. Take a taxi, pay cash, say nothing in front of the driver.

It should have been easy.

Maybe it was…for anyone but Mal. His broken brain processed new information in a way most people would find confusing. He just found it maddening. The cab smelled like menthol cigarettes, mint gum, and some kind of cleaner that burned his nose and danced over his tongue whenever his lips parted. The city lights strobed outside the windows, distorted by the fog of condensation, making him flinch. Road noise and something vibrating within the vents of the air conditioning rubbed at his skin like sandpaper, painful as they ground against his nerves.

Mal’s head throbbed from the overstimulation, a migraine threatening to overpower him at any moment. He’d forgotten his headphones. They never gave him the silence he craved, but they brought the volume rattling his skull to a level that allowed him to remain functional and not be reduced to a useless lump, rocking and crying in the corner.

Without them, the voices of the hosts on the driver’s red pill podcast crawled over Mal’s skin like ants. The passing sirens and rumble of engines were shards of glass piercing his eardrums. He required something to focus on. Usually, that was Nico. Nico’s voice was always the balm to Mal’s crossed wires and oversensitive receptors. But they weren’t permitted to speak.

All Mal could do was find a single, non-grating sound and focus on it. That distraction came in the form of something unseen rolling and thunking rhythmically against the door panel. A water bottle? A forgotten soda can? It didn’t matter. What mattered was the pattern.

Mal focused on that sound, letting it become a beat in his head, imagining the way his body would move to that particular rhythm. He squeezed his eyes shut, beads of perspiration clinging to his forehead and upper lip as he concentrated.

Duh—duh—duh—dun-dun.

Duh—duh—duh—dun-dun.

As the car drove with far more aggression than Mal usually found comforting, he forced himself to get lost in the rhythm.

Duh—duh—duh—dun-dun.

Anything was better than thinking about Casey. Where she was. What might be happening to her. What might have already happened to her because Mal hadn’t moved fast enough. Fifteen minutes. That was how long the drive should take. Maybe less with their speed-demon driver. He just had to distract himself until they arrived. He could avoid thinking about Casey for fifteen minutes, ignore the fact that she was just thirteen years old. Ignore the scream that had distorted through his phone’s fragile speaker.

The scream still echoing in his ears.

No.

Duh—duh—duh—dun-dun.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Mal wished he was as insensitive as people believed. They teased him mercilessly about how he was a robot, how he countered emotions with random facts. They claimed he was no different than August Mulvaney, who was a full-blown psychopath. A genius, but a psychopath. Mal had feelings. Lots of them. But it was hard to articulate something he couldn’t grasp for any length of time.

Shiloh had said Mal’s brain was like a kaleidoscope, changing every time someone twisted him. It might have been the most accurate depiction he’d ever heard. His thoughts fell together and apart so quickly it was hard to pin them down long enough to examine them closely. And Mal didn’t like to speak capriciously.

Besides, other people’s feelings were a burden. Unrequited feelings were even worse. Grief was a burden. Sorrow was a burden. Why should Mal dump his thoughts—most of which were produced due to a chemical reaction in his neuro-receptors—on some poor, unsuspecting person? It seemed rude. And unnecessary. Like ruining someone else’s day just because his was bad.

That was why Nico was ideal. He didn’t want to talk about his feelings, didn’t feel this urgent need to make Mal try to explain himself. If he thought Mal was upset, he bought him snacks. If he thought he was tired, he suggested they watch anime in bed with the lights off. If Mal had a migraine, Nico would have Mal put his head in his lap, cover his eyes with a warm cloth, and rub his throbbing temples until it dissipated. Nico was fine just existing in a shared space in silence and that was why Mal loved him so much.

Focus. Fuck.

As they turned the corner, the pattern changed, the bottle having slid slightly farther away from the plastic door panel.

Duh—duh-duh

Duh—duh-duh.

Casey lived in the Pearl River Ward with her mother. Mal and Nico often went there on Friday afternoons for char siu or bao or whenever Felix made the trip over there to buy fabric. He loved their silks. The ward was known for its Chinese culture as well as their leather goods and textiles. Nico liked their museum and the outdoor botanical gardens that existed in the middle of the ward, kept up entirely by volunteers in the community.

Mal didn’t know much about Casey Ko. Five classes a day, each with twenty students, left little time to get to know any of them on a truly meaningful level. Not that Mal wanted that. He did know Casey’s mom worked as a street vendor of some kind in the indoor market and struggled to make ends meet.

Like many of his students, Casey attended Mal’s classes as part of the youth program covered by the city. She was loud and funny and kind of the class clown. She liked to be the center of attention. Her mother said it was a trait she shared with her father. Casey had rather bluntly told Mal her father had died while her mom was still pregnant with her.

Why hadn’t Mal bothered to learn more about her? What if she wasn’t there when they arrived? What if she’d been kidnapped? He wouldn’t have the first clue where to look for her. Where the fuck was her mother?

Focus. Just focus on the beat.

Duh—duh-duh.

It was no use. A sour taste flooded his mouth, dread hanging heavy on his shoulders as scenarios played out behind his eyelids like mini horror movies. Whoever broke into Casey’s apartment likely wasn’t there to rob the place. Not unless Casey’s mother had gotten mixed up in something illegal like drugs, but she hardly seemed the type.

He glanced at Nico, who sat with his knees knocked together, hands folded in his lap, chewing on his bottom lip as he stared at the back of the driver’s head, the city lights gleaming off his pretty blond curls and casting his face in light, then shadow, again and again. He looked so small, so fucking cute. Mal didn’t know how someone so larger than life could make himself appear so tiny when distressed.

People thought Mal was the enigma, but it was really Nico. He was ethereal like an angel, his features so delicate and fragile Mal often worried he might break him. But Mal had watched him put a bullet in a man’s head without blinking, he’d seen him bask in someone else’s much-deserved pain. He’d watched him go out of his way to torment a girl who’d made fun of sweet little Ever.

When it came to protecting his friends, Nico had a mean streak a mile wide. When it came to protecting himself, the only weapon necessary was his sharp tongue, his words often vicious and exacting.

But he was also clingy and needy. He pouted when he didn’t get his way, whined for cuddles when he was tired, demanded food or head scratches like an oversized puppy, and sobbed inconsolably over Setsuko’s death in Grave of the Fireflies every single time they watched it.

His nature was as dualistic as Mal’s. And they ebbed and flowed together, each complimenting the other. When Nico was weak, Mal was strong. When Mal woke feeling soft and feminine, Nico became protective and possessive, his hands rarely leaving him all day. And when Nico desired his ego stroked, Mal was there to reassure him.

They just…worked.

No sappy ‘feelings’ discussions or talk of ‘what are we?’ Mal knew what they were. Nothing. Well, he had known that…up until thirty minutes ago.

Mal slipped his hand into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie, wrapping his fingers around the gun’s grip reassuringly as he observed Nico’s silhouette. They were almost there. They had to be. They were in the ward now. Casey’s place couldn’t be much farther. She walked to the dance studio and it was two blocks south of the intersection they’d just passed.

Nico jerked his head towards him like he felt his heavy gaze on the side of his face. Mal reached out and tugged Nico’s lip from between his teeth, watching as it popped free, trying not to fixate on his swollen mouth. A mouth Mal had now tasted more than once.

They’d kissed.

Over and over again.

It seemed unreal. Another fantasy Mal created in his head when he jerked off in the shower. But it was real. Nico had let Mal kiss him, had let him grind against him and explore his mouth with his tongue. A shiver ran through him as he remembered the way he’d swallowed Nico’s desperate whines, the tiny shuddering breaths that escaped when Mal pressed against him just right.

Mal considered himself an expert in all things Nico. He knew he drooled in his sleep, knew he hated when things weren’t the right color or texture, knew his ADHD sometimes made him restless and frantic for any kind of tactile stimulation. He knew his favorite foods, favorite music, favorite movies and shows. And now…now, he knew how he tasted.

Mal couldn’t fathom how it had even happened. Four hours ago, Nico had gone out to fuck another guy. But he’d somehow ended up with Mal.

Nico—somehow—always ended up with Mal. Not that he was complaining. They were end game. Just because Nico couldn’t see past his childhood trauma didn’t make it any less true. Mal was patient.

Besides, Nico was already his in every way that mattered.

Sex was nice, amazing even when someone was willing to play his games with him, but it wasn’t necessary. Nico confided in him, cried in his arms, slept in his bed, watched TV curled around his body. Nico texted him all day, every day, sometimes not even words, just memes or emojis or happy hamster stickers. They were in a relationship. Their friends saw it. Strangers saw it. And clearly all those random would-be fuck buddies saw it, too.

Nico was the only one too stubborn to realize it.

Nico put his hand over Mal’s where he still cupped his face, threading their fingers together and lowering their hands to his lap. Mal stroked his thumb over the soft skin, something sparking deep in his belly when Nico trembled. He didn’t let go until the driver came to a stop outside a tall brick building.

Nico tugged his hand free, pulling cash from his pocket and shoving it into the driver’s hand with a rushed thank you . Outside the building, they ran into a new problem. The outside door was locked, and there was a call box with dozens of buttons on the wall beside it. The air outside was muggy, stagnant.

“What do we do?” Mal asked.

Nico shrugged, then ran a finger down each and every button, setting off a chain reaction of ringing phones. It only took about forty seconds for a buzzing sound to fill the air. Nico gave him a smug smile that quickly died, then jerked the glass door open. The lobby was a small square room with mailboxes on either side and a large staircase directly ahead. The ugly hunter green carpet was worn but in otherwise good condition.

They didn’t spare much time looking around, bolting up the stairs, Mal’s mouth dry and heart thudding hard enough to make him feel faint. They took the stairs two at a time, like they were in an endurance challenge, Mal hitting the landing for the fifth floor a split second before Nico, who collided with his back when he stopped short to decide which direction to go as the stairs bisected the two sides.

Nico grunted on impact, then pointed to a sign with chipped gold numbers that showed which apartments were to the left and which were to the right. Mal grabbed Nico’s wrist and dragged him down the hall, ignoring his indignant squawk. The once white walls were now a dingy yellow, and there was a peculiar musty smell that made Mal think of the underground tunnel that ran beneath their building.

Casey’s door was easy to spot. It sat crooked on its frame, sagging like it was tired, splintered wood showing where the assailant had hit the lock hard enough to pull the short screws right from the wood. That was why Jericho always made them replace the lock plates on their apartments with three-inch screws. It was much harder to kick in a door that way.

The hall was empty, the neighbors silent. It didn’t matter which ward they lived in—if it was to the left of the train tracks, two truths were universally acknowledged: If you saw something, no, you didn’t, and don’t bother calling the police. They don’t show up after dark, anyway. That was the real reason the cops never gave Jericho’s crew much fuss. They were doing their jobs for them.

Mal drew his gun. Nico did the same, wincing as the door hinges protested. Mal went in first, squeezing through the tight space and clearing the tiny living room, dining room, kitchen combination, then gestured for Nico to follow.

Once inside, Mal noted the two doors to the left and one to the right. He nodded towards the single door, then slowly moved to the two on the left. It was eerily quiet, but there were obvious signs of a struggle in the otherwise spotless apartment. A glass coffee table had fractured into a thousand pieces, each glinting in the dull light of a floor lamp in the corner. Someone had emptied several drawers from a credenza beneath the television and there was a plastic vase on the floor surrounded by wet flowers and a puddle of water.

“Casey?” Mal stage-whispered, hoping if the girl was still there, his words were loud enough for her to hear but soft enough not to scare her any more than she likely was already. “It’s Mal.”

The silence stretched like a wire pulled tight. Mal’s stomach churned. He and Nico exchanged one more look, hands on the doorknob for their respective rooms. When Mal nodded, they both threw open their doors, guns raised. Mal’s room was empty, the bed impeccably made, nothing out of place, no closet where someone might be lurking.

“Oh, fuck,” Nico muttered.

Mal crossed the room to his side, stopping short at the scene in front of him. It was a bathroom, decently sized for an apartment that small. A large square mirror sat over a laminate countertop discolored from age. On one side was a toilet, on the other a drawn shower curtain, and right in the center…was a dead body.

“Jesus.”

The large man sat half propped against the cabinets, his legs splayed out in front of him like he was a broken doll. There was blood everywhere, like some prop-master had gone too hard with the corn syrup, so much so, Mal might have laughed if he couldn’t smell the overwhelming copper scent that told him this was real and not just some haunted house. There was so much blood it had caused puddles to form on the vinyl tile.

What the hell had happened there?

Nico’s gaze jerked to the closed curtain hiding the tub, a whine forming at the back of his throat. A small scuffing sound came from behind the once pink curtain. Mal tensed, raising the gun once more, then nodded when Nico leaned in, careful not to set foot on the bloody floor. He whipped open the curtain, the hooks making a shrill sound of metal on metal as it flew along the rod.

Mal instantly dropped his gun. “Casey!”

The girl sat in the bathtub clutching a huge cutting knife, which looked even bigger in the little girl’s small hands. There was no part of her not painted red. Her sweats were crimson, her bare feet caked in rust-colored dried blood, her hair wet and clumpy in some places and dry and stuck together in others.

She was visibly shaking, clutching the handle of the knife to her body, blade out, like she hoped to impale any future attackers without moving from her hiding spot. She had her knees drawn to her chest and the handle in a death grip.

Mal knew he shouldn’t enter the bathroom—it was a crime scene—but the girl’s eyes were vacant, her breathing short and heavy. With one last look at Nico, he stepped inside and crouched down beside the bathtub. “Casey? It’s Mr. Mizrahi. Can you hear me?”

Casey stared at the man’s dead body, eyes wide, teeth chattering.

“Can—Can you tell me what happened here?” he tried again.

Mal spared a look at the body. The man was anywhere between early twenties to mid-thirties. He had inky black hair he’d pulled back in a partial ponytail that made him look like a party popper and wore black jeans and what Mal was certain used to be a white tank top. The man’s skin had a pallor to it that told Mal he’d clearly bled out, but only just recently.

Mal watched as Nico toed off his shoes. “I’m going to go secure the door until we figure out our next move.”

Mal nodded, scooting a bit closer to Casey, approaching her like he would a skittish animal. “Casey, sweetheart, can you look at me? It’s Mr. Miz—It’s Mal. You called me, remember?”

He didn’t want to have to touch her when she was clearly in shock, but she couldn’t stay in the bathtub. “Casey,” he barked sharply.

Her gaze snapped to his, and she blinked heavy lids in his direction, the fog of shock lifting. “Mr. Mizrahi…” She stared at him with terrified eyes. “Am I going to jail?”

Mal frowned. Jail? She looked at the dead body on her bathroom floor then back to him, her fear palpable.

“Of course not. This was self defense.”

Casey stared at him for another beat and then dissolved into tears. “I want my mom.”

Mal’s gears ground to a halt. He didn’t know what to do with tears. He didn’t know how to reassure someone, least of all a strange child. Did he placate her? Tell her it would all be okay? Tell her that her mom was okay? Mal grimaced as he kneeled, blood soaking the knees of his jeans. He carefully removed the knife from Casey’s hands, wincing when he saw the cuts along her palms and fingers, likely from the knife slipping once it was coated in her attacker’s blood.

“Let’s get you out of this bathroom.”

He grabbed her beneath her arms and lifted her with little effort, swinging her until her feet were on the ancient hardwood floors outside the bathroom door. Nico had managed to get the door shut just enough to keep any onlookers from peering inside, but that was about it. Mal left Casey with Nico in the kitchen, watching from the bathroom doorway as Nico gently took her hands and stuck them beneath running water to assess her injuries.

Mal returned to the bathroom and the body collapsed on the floor. He pushed it over to get to his wallet, pulling it from his pocket and checking his ID. Eric Zhang. Zhang was the second most common name in Pearl River and told him nothing about their assailant. He dropped the wallet on the floor and made to stand, stopping short when he saw the ink peeking out from the fabric of his tank top. An uneasy feeling settled in his gut as he crouched back down, pushing the soiled cloth away to show the tattoo.

“Fuck.”

Mal stared at the ink, thoughts swirling. Why would these guys attack a teenage girl?

Nico returned to the doorway. “What’s wrong?” Mal leaned out of the way for Nico to see the tattoo. “No fucking way.”

Mal nodded. “We’re gonna need backup.”

Nico gave a low groan. “We’ve got to get Casey out of here. She’s gonna need stitches. We need Freckles.”

“Do you want to call the bat-phone or do you want me to?” Mal asked.

Nico made a whiny sound in the back of his throat, but he was already pulling out his phone, dialing Jericho and putting it on speaker phone.

Jericho answered on the second ring. “How bad is it?”

“Casey’s alive. Her attacker…not so much,” Nico said, glaring daggers at the corpse collapsed on the ground.

“Good for her,” Jericho said. “How bad is it?” he repeated.

“We may require the service of a Mulvaney or two for clean-up, or maybe even one of Thomas’s special friends. This is too much for just the two of us,” Nico said before dropping his voice. “We’re also going to have to find a place to stash Casey.”

“You think they’ll come after her again?” Jericho asked.

Nico’s gaze dragged to the 49 tattooed on the dead man’s shoulder. “Yeah, I can all but guarantee it.”

Jericho hesitated, then gave a sigh. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Nico locked eyes with Mal, who gave him what he hoped was a reassuring nod. “Well, the guy she killed…her attacker? He’s got a 49 inked on his shoulder.”

“No fucking way.”

“Very much yes fucking way,” Nico said, then leaned down enough to snap a picture and send it to Jericho.

“Goddammit.”

“Maybe it’s fake?” Nico supplied reluctantly. “Maybe he’s some kind of poser who wants street cred.”

“Getting caught with a tattoo like that when you don’t belong is a death sentence,” Jericho said.

“Why the fuck would they come here?” Mal asked. “This can’t be another territory grab like Micah tried to do, right?”

“If it is, we’re screwed,” Nico said, once more gnawing on his lip, staring hard at the 49. “Even the Mulvaneys aren’t going to go up against the triad…right?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jericho muttered.

“It’s the fucking triad…here…in our city…” Nico muttered. “I don’t think it pays to lag behind.”

Mal stiffened when Casey’s voice softly asked, “What’s a triad?”