“Are you okay?” Shiloh asked, gaze dropping to his brother’s bruised and bloodied knuckles. “I didn’t even ask. I just started babbling about me. A-Are they hurting you or anything?”
Mal’s cackle bordered on insane, echoing through the room, running straight down Shiloh’s spine. Even the guard looked startled. But Mal only looked at Shiloh, eyes glittering. “Oh, please, little brother. Who couldeverhurt me?”
Shiloh rolled his eyes. “You’re not invincible, Mal.”
Mal gave him a toothy grin. “Prove it.”
Shiloh couldn’t. If there was anyone who could somehow defy the laws of nature, it was Malachi. He wasn’t like other people. His brother’s behaviors and mannerisms were more cat than human; whether he behaved like a house cat or jungle cat depended entirely on the person he interacted with. Mal matched energy. What people gave was what they got. Often to their detriment.
Mal didn’t look crazy. Some days, he wasn’t. Other days…well, those days, it was just best to leave him be. Shiloh often struggled to describe Malachi to others. Even the way he looked seemed to shift based on his moods. Some days, Mal looked so delicate and feminine that people could mistake him for a girl. Other days, he looked dangerous, cap pulled low over dark brows, feline eyes so devoid of humanity, people crossed the street to get away from him.
Mal was an ever-spinning kaleidoscope of human behaviors, the pieces of his personality falling together into a different formation every time he woke. That scared most people, but not Shiloh. No matter what personality Mal donned in the morning, all of them loved Shiloh, all of them protected Shiloh.
Shiloh just wanted to return that gift.
“Are those bruises on your knuckles from fighting?” Shiloh finally asked, his tone stern.
Mal looked down at his hands, frowning at the scabs as if he’d forgotten they were there. He shook his head. “Nah, there’s a heavy bag in the gym. It’s a good distraction. Keeps me from doing anything…crazy. You know how I get without dance.”
Shiloh shivered. “Please, don’t hurt anybody. They’ll never let you out.”
Mal scoffed. “You worry about staying alive out there in the big, bad world. Me?” He twirled his hands with a flourish. “I always come out on top, bay-bee.”
Shiloh shook his head helplessly. “I know. That’s the problem. You’re going to kill someone and they’ll, like, throw you in solitary for a year or something and then I won’t even be able to come and visit.”
Mal shook his head, smiling. “You have a vivid imagination, doodlebug. Nobody messes with me here,” he promised, smile dropping. “At least, not more than once.”
“What if they gang up on you?” Shiloh asked, unable to stop blurting out all the worst case scenarios that played out in his head when he tried to sleep at night.
Mal tilted his head back, his hand going limp at the wrist, his smile soft and his voice wistful, suddenly heavy with a southern drawl. “Well, then whatever tragedy befalls them will be considered self-defense.”
Mal started to laugh once more, not the loud maniacal cackle from earlier but tiny little giggles, like he was picturing all the ways he might defend himself against these fictional attackers.
Holy fucking shit. Both his brothers were lunatics. He needed to get Mal out of there before he did something they’d all regret. He folded his arms on the table and rested his forehead on them. “What do I do, Mal?” he asked, voice muffled. “How do I get you out of here?”
Fingers threaded through Shiloh’s sweaty locks as Mal hummed a lullaby to him like he was a baby. Whenever things were bad, Shiloh would climb into Mal’s bed and he’d card his fingers through his hair and hum to him. It used to ease all his fears. Now, it felt like the second act of a horror movie.
“There, there,” Malachi said in a sing-song voice. “Don’t fret. It’ll all work out, doodlebug.”
Shiloh gave a low whine. “You’re crazy, Mal. You’re so fucking crazy.”
“No touching,” the guard shouted.
But Mal’s fingers never stopped. They never even slowed.
And neither did his giggles.
Levi locked the convenience store’s double doors, then pulled the metal awning down over them, securing that as well. He moved on auto-pilot, relying strictly on muscle memory, his mind too occupied with thoughts of his mother. Despite telling them he wasn’t interested in updates, they called every day.
Even when he didn’t answer, they left messages letting him know that she was still very sick, that her liver was shot, that they had extended her medical hold. That when she wasn’t sedated, she had to be in restraints to keep her from attacking the staff. He didn’t even know why he listened to the messages. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’twantto careanymore.
It seemed unfair. The woman had tormented him his whole life. She’d beaten him, starved him, sold him…she had no redeeming qualities. She wasn’t a person. She hadn’t been for years. She was a zombie, her organs pickled in beer. Yet, he couldn’t leave her to die. He just couldn’t. And he hated himself for it. He hated her, too. He was tired in his bones. In his soul. He just wanted to be free.
“Levi?”
He jumped at the hesitant cry, stopping in his tracks to look in the direction of the voice. There, slotted between the broken ice machine and the even more broken newspaper dispenser, sat a figure. They were curled up, like they were attempting to make themselves as small as possible. Their jean-clad legs were pulled to their chest, their arms hugging them tightly, chin resting on their knees.
At first, Levi thought it was a child. They wore a hoodie tugged up to shadow their face. Levi narrowed his gaze, trying to make out any features that might give him a clue who he looked at. The person finally lifted their head, dark curls falling over their forehead, eyes almost black in the dim light of the security bulbs overhead.
