Splintered Energy (The Colors Book 1) (10 page)

Malcolm picked up the rowing machine with its green seat and pedals—and stifled his groan. The surprised inhale behind him told him he’d erred. Malcolm didn’t look back as he left the room.
Idiot
. He’d provided weird behavior upon demand. Beyond stupid, forgetting how strength-limited humans were.

Malcolm placed the machine in the truck, and huddled at the computer before the youth exited the hallway.

Evan put the paintings down by the front door and grasped the paint. “I’ll get started then.”

“Thanks.”

Curiosity burned into Malcolm’s back, and then Evan trudged down the hall.

The stock market didn’t require concentration. The financial grid was simplistic, almost effortless to manipulate. His exploitation of a young male member of the species at the top of the gross food chain took far more nerve. That sound would be the window opening to vent fumes. The can lid popped off. The music of brush against wall didn’t last long.

Evan’s footsteps slapped the wood floor with confidence, but why, oh why, did they approach? Malcolm hid his color and clamped down on his panic.

“Um, Malcolm? If I had a paint roller and a tray it’d go faster.”

The sweetly masculine tones, still carefree, reassured Malcolm. He had to address this intruder he’d invited in and get rid of him quickly. At least the pretty rug draped over Evan’s shoulder. “Please put the rug in your truck and try the garage. Wouldn’t that be where those things are kept?” Malcolm shivered and turned back to the keyboard.

First, Evan’s deep breath for courage, then words poured. “This is your house, isn’t it? I mean, don’t you know what’s in the garage? And if you don’t like yellow, why paint that color? That’s oak flooring in there. Sure you don’t care if I spill? Why give all this stuff away? You know how much a rowing machine costs? Jesus, I can’t believe you picked it up by yourself.”

So much for easy prey. Evan didn’t even pause for answers. Malcolm had underestimated him. He’d expected a sloppy job, a grab of the money, and a departure. Naïve, not a vibe of hardened manhood, yet no greed in this inquisitive youth. As if he meant more to Evan than a fast way to turn a profit.

“I’m expecting a visitor. This will make her happy.” Malcolm hid his gulp. “Don’t worry, the floor’s irrelevant. Please, just finish promptly. Thanks.” He ignored the other questions. He understood how humans had risen to dominance. The good-natured youth made one yearn to protect him. Malcolm never should have connived a less intelligent being into a despicable job he could have done himself.

“For a woman? Now it all makes sense.” Evan chuckled and headed for the front door.

Thirty minutes of uninterrupted computer time restored Malcolm’s stability. Unfortunately, his egocentric desires surged anew. He must be very careful.

“Hey, man, come and see,” Evan called out. “It sure is yellow in there.”

Malcolm turned to the tall youth carrying empty paint cans. “I’ll take your word for it. I forget—what color was the ceiling?” Yellow paint contaminated a jean-clad leg, a streak marred the dark hairs on a sturdy arm, and the faint adolescent scent of manual labor wasn’t unpleasant.

“This gets curiouser and curiouser. Some strange canary you’re trying to impress. The ceiling’s oak, like the floor. Seems a shame to ruin it, and there isn’t enough paint.”

Malcolm’s hope to avoid that room overwhelmed him. He held the strings, didn’t he? Exploit a little longer. Ignore the set of shoulders held too tight and Evan’s clutch on the paint can handles.

“The oak ceiling’s acceptable, but could you do a couple final things? Wrap those paintings in the sheets and bedspread, and place them in your truck. A package arrived, outside by the garage. Open it in that room, not out here. Put the new bedspread on the bed. Don’t forget to protect the paintings with both sheets. Put the clothes on top of the dresser, not in it, and remember to take that lamp, also.”

The inquisitive human stepped to peer at the monitor.
Oh my, oh damn
. Malcolm forced his fingers to slow on the keyboard.

“You some sort of stockbroker guy?”

“I’ll make profit from the market, trades concluded on Monday.”

Sweet brown eyes flashed with surprise. Perhaps short blue hair under the baseball cap had been noticed. Evan’s step back indicated to Malcolm, politeness overrode inquisitiveness. He had to get rid of this Evan still innocent, curious, and talking.

“That’s cool…um, any thing else you need help with?”

“No. Thank you for your labor and don’t tell anyone about me. I require privacy.”

“Sure. But take my cell number, and as long as you don’t want anything illegal or kinky, I’m your new help.”

Kinky?
Malcolm typed the memorized number in the computer address book. He tossed the wallet and turned back to the screen. If he ignored him, maybe he’d take the hint.

Evan shrugged, removed two twenties, and put the wallet down. “This is plenty. Sure you want to give me that bike? I’ll try to sell it for you. I hate to rip you off.”

“Rip me off? I don’t understand, but could you finish? Please.”

“You’re the boss.” Evan grinned and finally moved. Paintings, sheets, and bedspread made it to the truck. The rustle of the large parcel in that horrible room soothed Malcolm.

Twelve minutes later, Evan’s footsteps were not as confident.

“The bedroom’s ungodly. If it wasn’t for the blue curtains it’d be completely yellow and brown.”

Again, the man hovered too close. Stupid youth. Malcolm wanted the annoyance named Evan out of the door and into the light, within one minute. “Blue curtains?”

He miscalculated. It took three minutes, not one, before Evan was on his way to pick up a black window blind, sure to be thinking he’d met the most eccentric man in Cleveland.

And the exploitation continued. Evan’s pause informed Malcolm the agreeable youth needed a moment to realize who called his cell, requesting he pick up a package. Evan would update his thoughts, placing Malcolm as the strangest man in the world. CD’s, a mix of rock, jazz, classical, and one on the English language, along with the compact disc player in the bookstore bag would generate questions. Sixteen minutes later, Malcolm heard the skip in the truck’s engine carrying that interrogation to his door.

“Hey, Malcolm, want me to put the blind up? I got tools in my truck. When’s this weird chickadee arriving? How come she’s so into yellow? She foreign? Okay, sorry, I snooped. I noticed the language disc.”

Even without color issues, this Evan didn’t realize how suddenly existence could end. The man proved to be unpredictable. If Malcolm could survive until Monday, he’d have enough capital to operate with ease. He could locate a safer haven. But in the now, time ran out for the dead woman named Jane Doe.

“Yes, please put up the shade and remove the curtain. As you already know, there’s a CD player. Plug it in on the dresser where the lamp was. Set for continuous replay and start the language disc at a low volume. Leave the other discs on the dresser. Thank you. Finish and I’ll answer a few of those questions.”

The guileless cooperation of the man jogging down the hall sent ripples of pleasure through Malcolm. The purity of Evan’s smile remained, but how could he feel vindicated using this innocent? The binding of a servant to himself was insane.
Could I, will I, control my needs, very soon?

Control and Jane Doe’s lack of it remained a serious issue. If the brief police reports were accurate, she’d been exceptionally violent. Trapped inside the body of an unfortunate laborer, she’d reacted by brutally harming two humans before being tasered and shipped to the morgue.

How she’d respond to Malcolm was complicated to predict, but logic dictated her behavior would entail further hostility.

He needed a weapon. A stun gun with precise accuracy. Would they deliver such a device? It’d create another trace to him.
I’m an idiot
. He should have figured out a means to fax the morgue without giving away his location. He couldn’t continue to make such errors. A request to purchase any weapon would activate a nightmare of questions from Evan.

Given the options, he’d skip the weapon, eliminate his “servant,” and face the wretched Jane Doe under the assumption she’d be relieved to find another connected to her. At least the approaching Evan still shone with that fascinating sweetness of spirit. And such incorrigible curiosity.

“Now I’m starting to hate yellow, too. If she doesn’t speak English, can you speak her language? She comes from a yellow alternate universe?”

Oh my, what has he done? Because Malcolm James, predator, didn’t want to paint a certain hue?

Yet…the youth grinned. “Kiddin’, man. She arriving soon? What’s her story?”

“Thank you, Evan. Leave now. Don’t return without invite. The not returning unless I call is important. Understand?”

“I get that you’re trying to get rid of me. You said you’d, you know, answer some questions?” This persistent youth wasn’t completely daft. The body language and frown of an older male, who could lift a rowing machine with one hand, made Evan draw back, mumbling, “Call me and fill me in on yellow loving foreigners. You promise? She must be something for you to go to all this trouble.”

A polite nod, his back to the youth, and it was done.

“Okay, okay—I’m leaving. Thanks. See you later.” The door closed. Footsteps broke into a jog, the rusted creak of the truck door and finally, tires rolled down the driveway.

Malcolm turned from the sunlight slipping through the window cracks and surged back to beautiful.

Chapter Ten

The light tried to sneak through the ugly curtains. TUCSON 12 KM wasn’t flat like Phoenix. He’d seen the pretty, red-brown mountains that surrounded it. Very thin, ugly-green trees that weren’t trees grew everywhere, pointing up at the oppressive sky. Damon would like to punch those not-trees and climb those mountains. Annoying light—why had it returned? He yanked the blanket back over his face.

The girl on the floor had better not be as irritating as the luminosity outside this shelter. Her increasingly erratic airflow sounded like the others who’d faced him. She couldn’t have understood yet that he was an invincible demon. She hadn’t even seen that he was much larger than her. If this fear of him went on much longer, he’d give everyone reason to be afraid.

Finally, she dared to move—on top of him.

He ripped the blanket from his face and stared into eyes as intense and radiant as his own. Her face inches from his, she leaned on his chest, and he allowed her examination for a long minute. The angry noise came from deep within his throat. He grasped and flung her. She landed gracefully, and her nervous giggle escaped. It pleased him. A fun sound he’d like to hear again.

When she leapt back on his stomach, he didn’t move. Puzzled, she reached and he captured her wrist. He allowed her to wrench free and grunted while she touched his face and stroked his neck.

He sent her flying.

She bounced right back and poked him everywhere. Nimble fingers curled, twisting in his chest hair. She was stupid? He’d thrown her away two times. Would his fist—she moved. Very fast. And he missed his grasp for her throat. He lunged.

She skipped backward. He leapt and kicked, and the pleasure of making the bed smash into the wall almost made him not care about the mess. Once again, she moved from his grasp. He spun to snatch her, but she wasn’t there. Her laugh rang out in a musical burst.

Damon isn’t alone anymore!
Not only amusing, she wasn’t fragile. Her fingers grabbed hard, her speed like his. He’d never felt this comfort before. No crying, no yelling, no hiding demon-eyes, and most important, why hold back? Couldn’t break her if he couldn’t catch her.

Their bodies burned, swirled, and sparked in the darkened room. Every rush of pent up frustration disappeared as he tried to rip her head off, break arms, poke out ugly-orange eyes, smash her face, and missed.

The game continued until she twirled toward a death object on the table. Her velocity thrown off balance, he caught her. His aggravation returned as her thin face twisted in horror. He clamped her quiet. Without him telling it to, his mean noise burst free and she cringed, afraid of him again.

He threw her on the bed and commanded with his hand—stay. She sank down, picked up the black blanket and clutched it. Without taking her yelling gaze from him, she pointed at the death objects and began to hurt his head with high-pitched noises.

Almost as invincible as him, he’d clobber her if she didn’t listen about color that couldn’t take her. He grabbed her and shook her hard. Lips quivering, she closed her mouth, and he released her. Six heavy steps took him to the little shelter Jaylynn had named closet, and as expected the door handle broke.

A chunk of wall, trailing thin wires, went with it when he hurled the death object off the table and into the closet. The wall picture, lamp, every ugly thing followed.

He heard her cautious crawl to the edge of the bed to see where he’d gone. Seconds later, he flung paper, soap, and towels past her stupid, afraid eyes. They smashed nicely into the mess inside the closet.

Arms crossed, he stopped in the center of the room and fought his urge to pound sense into her. She huddled on the bed. He might as well teach her invincible.

No escape allowed, he cornered her and scooped her into his arms. She wasn’t at all fragile. A fun girl! He started to throw her into the closet.

Her face contorted, and her fist rose. He held her clamped with one arm, caught her wrist, and she learned unbreakable. Then, finally, she understood he still held her safe. If he, the demon, wanted to put her with the rest of the ugly mess, he would. And there was nothing she could do about it.

This time the low angry noise came from her, and he grinned. He lessened his grip. She pulled her arm free and punched him in the chest. It hurt.

Happy, he dropped her on the bed and spun to kick the closet closed, breaking the little door. He lunged, ripped the blanket from her, grabbed her up and tossed her. She landed in the middle of the room as he threw himself down on his back.

Every stealthy step she took echoed in his head, and he allowed her to grab the blanket from his face. His fist snaked to strike—he froze—she didn’t move.

No longer wanted to play? Still mad at him? Not easy, but he’d halted the blow. He stroked the delicate cheekbone he would have destroyed and sent shivers of heat through her face.

“Name is Damon. Leave Damon alone.” He pushed her off him.

“Name is Damon. Leave Damon alone,” she repeated.

She was confused. So was he. He saved her, found shelter, and didn’t smash her. Wasn’t that enough? Thoughts of that hospital made him shudder. There’d been hundreds of unhappy creatures, maybe most of them held prisoner. Many problems in this world. He had Mom to find, too. And now, there was one more bothering him for answers he didn’t know.

“Leave Damon alone or Damon break girl-arm.”

She leapt on him.

He gave up. No one listened to him. He forced her annoying head down and yanked the blanket over them, letting her curl over his chest.

After one long minute, he couldn’t take it anymore. He left her the blanket and approached the object facing the bed like it had importance.

A control knob cracked into a tiny mess in his careful hand. His foot broke the stupid floor. Why’d everything have to shatter? He’d hoped for a music teacher. Nothing cooperated. He’d smash—the girl moved beside him. She studied, and then pulled out what was left of the broken knob he’d twisted. The object lit and sounds blared out.

Without pause or thought, he reacted. His large hand grasped her arm, and he didn’t give her a choice. He didn’t like to step back or wait, but not alone anymore meant he had to protect.

Safe behind him, he released the girl. To his irritation, she stepped forward and clutched his arm. They stared at the talking girl-alien with awful yellow hair and ugly blue eyes—too much wrongness. He shook the orange girl off and struck. Images and noise stopped as glass shattered into a terrible mess.

Why couldn’t things stay fun? He learned happiness when he discovered the girl could move like him. He’d have liked to dance forever. She complained, so he cleaned up the color that couldn’t even harm her. Things broke when he barely touched them, and now he had no music, no teacher, and the girl held on to him. He pushed her away.

“Damon is thirsty. Damon wants to go back where Damon should be.”

“Thirsty?”

He stomped through shards of glass to the sink. The plastic cup crumpled in his hand. Jaylynn gave him a wonderful container of good water. But how? He slammed the cup without water down, and a wide crack hurt the counter. He glared at the girl coming toward him.

She pulled on the metal knobs, and then twisted—
happy poured out!

One jab from him and she stumbled aside. After drinking from cupped hands, he flung droplets at her, danced a short jig of joy, and drank again. Thirst quenched, he moved so she could drink, but she stared at the metal pipes.

She shrugged and entered the smaller room where water smelled wrong. Stupid girl. He wouldn’t let her drink from there. He tensed, but she bypassed the problem. With a sharp tug, she ripped the ugly curtain down and threw it at him. His feet hurt the floor on his path to the closet.

When he looked back, she turned the knobs the curtain hid. The little room filled with the scent and music of much falling water! Her laugh thrilled him. She jumped under the flow to drink with her mouth open. Her tiny body sparkled with droplets. Curved girl body, nice to touch.

Desire twisted within him. It was another new feeling, and he liked it. She couldn’t stop him. No one could. He knocked her aside.

The water poured over his bare chest, drenched his lower covering, and he learned clean for the first time. The feeling of happy soon fled when the girl thought she could push him away. With one hand on her wet head he applied pressure. Tiny toes struck him. It hurt. Repeatedly. He sighed. He wouldn’t break her legs—yet. He released her, allowing her to stand under the water splashing off his shoulders. Grudgingly, he stepped to share the clean she’d given him.

Side-by-side, they stayed still for the longest time, and the soon cold water brought a measure of tranquility to them both. Until the girl also heard the footsteps and stiffened.

Irritation grunted from him, and he left the cascade. He hid his demon eyes, and stood with his arms crossed facing the door. His lower covering clung to his legs, his long hair dripped, and his face and chest glistened with beautiful droplets. The door opened. Dull sunlight flooded the room.

A big alien with short, dark hair and safe upper clothing held a smooth piece of wood in its hands. Its ugly mouth fell open. “What have we here? Some kinda red-skinned freak? A hippie? Indian sort? Breakin’ and enterin’—a felony. Ya broke the damn door.”

Its hostile tones hurt Damon’s head. He had to teach everyone invincible? “Close damn door, or Damon break arm.”

“I’d like to see ya try, Red.” The creature stalked into the room. It looked at the bed smashed into the wall, the broken teacher, and raised the wood up and down in its hand. “You even trashed the TV? Goddamn, this is gonna cost ya. Big time.”

“Cost ya? Teach. Close damn door first.”

It moved so slowly, and Damon let it. Wood smashed down on his shoulder, splintered and the top section fell to the floor. The pain didn’t infuriate Damon as much as the flood of confusion radiating from the fragile thing. Was every creature in this miserable world impossible to communicate with? He groaned and lunged.

He bypassed the flinching creature he thought was…not an it, but a he, a man, and kicked the damn door closed. Adjusting so he didn’t break bones, he wrenched the broken wood from the man and tossed it. The fire-food smashed a large hole before falling with chunks of wall onto the bed.

His demon hand around the man’s neck, Damon lifted him. The effort to be careful made him shake, and he threw the man to join the mess on the bed.

The man rubbed his throat and struggled to his feet. He cringed as if Damon would kill him. It really made him want to.

“What the hell are ya? What-what do ya want?”

“Damn door closed.” Once again, Damon didn’t understand. What did this maybe-a-man want? Was keeping the wrong light out that much to ask?

“Well, okay, I-I’ll close the door behind me.” The man stumbled forward. A worried cringe over his shoulder, and his gaze locked on the wet girl now at Damon’s side—the man’s fear went away!

What was his problem? Jaylynn had screamed when Damon showed his demon eyes, but this man liked wrong ones? His dull eyes trailed from the girl’s ugly hair, up and down her thin girl-body. The man-annoyance wanted something. Wanted it so bad, he shook. The girl didn’t understand either. Damon could feel her waves of frustration.

“Aren’t ya a pretty thing? Sweet Jesus, any price ya want. What’s your name, sweetie? Creamsicle?” The man’s eyes bulged, and his tones vibrated with a strange longing.

Damon’s head began to throb as the loud pounding of the man’s airflow increased. To his rising fury, it got worse. A leering smile crossed the man’s face. He glanced at Damon and forced more throaty words out.

“Some sorta drug, a weird steroid or somethin’?” The man couldn’t control his stare. His attention roved, mesmerized by the ugly light from the girl’s eyes. Even more annoying, he gawked at the girl, but talked to Damon. “Pretty kinky stuff, Red. What’d ya say we talk a deal? Give me a taste of Creamsicle, and I’ll forget the damage.”

“Creamsicle? Deal? Damon doesn’t understand.”

“Yes, ya do, ya frickin’ freak. Give me an hour alone with Cream and all’s forgiven. What’d ya say? She’s wild. Gorgeous. How’d her eyes get like that? Jesus. Ya have ta share.”

“Her name’s Cream?” Damon softened his voice to Demon tones. “Want Cream in hospital?” One more answer. The wrong one meant he’d end this.

“Caream or Cream—she’s creamy, orange delicious. What hospital?” He moved around Damon. “What’s with her eyes? Some sorta laser contacts? How’d ya dye her skin so smooth? Even a half hour. Name your price. Anything!”

The strange creature didn’t seem to want the girl back in the psych unit, but he needed something. Why didn’t he ask her? Damon hoped to learn, not be questioned about things that didn’t make sense.

He lunged and took the man’s throat. “Why want Caream? Price? Damon doesn’t understand.”

Too stupid to remember Damon could rip his head off, the man tried to escape. Finally, he gave up, stared at Caream, but croaked at Damon, “Don’t strangle me. I have ta spell it out? Ya some sorta moron? What da ya expect with her standin’ there naked. Let go. I won’t take no for an answer. Tell me what ya want.”

Tighten Damon’s fingers, and the ugly head would break off. Pretty drops like on Jaylynn’s lip might escape. This—Ya-man—was afraid. Didn’t want to die. Wanted Caream. Damon released the man. He’d give a long minute to say why, or Damon would do what Damon wanted. “Teach naked. Or Damon break arm. Damon doesn’t like Ya-man.”