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Chapter 13

Malcolm

H e had never felt so damned useless in his entire life.

He’d let a rheumy-eyed old man sneak up on him, get the jump on him, and thus take away Kostas’s ability to defend himself as well.

It was no wonder no one wanted him around. He was entirely fucking useless.

“If you let him go,” he muttered to the old man, and Kostas cut him off with a glare and a slash of his hand through the air.

“Stop that.” Instead of giving himself up as some kind of burnt offering, Kostas turned to the old man and offered him a serious, earnest expression. “I’m Kostas. My companion and I are trying to get away from some men who want to sell him into slavery.”

The old man cocked his head at Kostas, confused, and looked back over at Malcolm. Dubious, it seemed, because who would ever want to buy someone like Malcolm?

He shot the man a narrow-eyed glare but didn’t turn to look at him properly. He didn’t want to move too fast and get his head blown off.

“Thought that was a silly myth,” the old man said, and... what?

At that, Malcolm did turn to look at him. “You thought slavery was a myth?”

He took the bracing hand off his shotgun and waved dismissively. “No, not that. ’M not some kind of uneducated hill person. I meant kidnapping pretty little white boys and girls and sending them off to be sex slaves in foreign countries. Always sounded to me like the privileged wantin’ too hard to be oppressed.”

And Malcolm just couldn’t hold back the laughter that bubbled out of him. It was more than a little hysterical, sure, but... he couldn’t argue the point. He didn’t know the first thing about the subject, and he’d never for a moment considered it.

“This is a unique situation,” Kostas hedged, clearly not wanting to explain the truth to the man.

Malcolm, though... he was a lot of things, but he was not about to lie to this man, to push his way into his home. A man’s home was his, and he should have the right to allow—or deny—anyone entry, along with all the information necessary to make that choice.

“I’m an incubus,” Malcolm told him, meeting the man’s eye and letting his demonic nature manifest. His red eyes, the small curling black horns at his hairline, and the fangs that didn’t really show unless he was baring his teeth.

Oh, and the tail. Frightfully inconvenient, having a tail, especially when it manifested inside your pants.

Kostas sucked in a breath, and Malcolm could almost hear the lecture he wanted to give him. What a ridiculous choice it was, exposing himself to a stranger like that.

The old man’s eyes widened, and his finger tensed on the trigger. He stared at Malcolm for a long, silent moment, down the barrel of his shotgun. Malcolm was half convinced that if he tried to say another word, he’d end up with a face full of buckshot, so he kept his lips zipped.

In fact, he pulled back on his demonic aspect. He’d told the man, and that was enough. He’d done the right thing, but he didn’t have to keep presenting it, reminding the man with every second that he was a predator who, essentially, ate humans.

Instead of squeezing his finger, as Malcolm half expected, after a moment, the man dropped the gun to his side and gave a grin. “Well I’ll be. I’m Otis, and these woods ’round here are mine. I haven’t seen an incubus since I was a boy living in the city. Shahren and his brother... oh, what was that little asshole’s name? Elrith. Shah was a good guy, though. Should have known it when I saw you. Same pretty face. You related?”

Malcolm blinked, and for a moment, couldn’t form words. Shahren? Elrith had... a brother? He’d never mentioned one.

“Unfortunately for Malcolm, Elrith is his father,” Kostas explained to the man, who had turned his back to Malcolm and was headed for the door. The siren looked as bemused—or downright confused—as Malcolm felt, so at least he wasn’t alone. He was a dangerous predator, dammit. And if the old man knew Elrith, then he knew that.

The old man shook his head and tutted. “Figures that one would go around leaving spawn all over the place. Bet he didn’t even do the right thing and raise you, did he?”

Malcolm shook his head mutely and when the man motioned them into his home, he followed. “I take it my father hasn’t changed?” he asked, his voice coming out a pathetic, cracked whisper. But he couldn’t seem to do anything to change it. His usual haughty sneer just wouldn’t form.

The man shook his head. “Not unless he’s a decent person who’d raise a kid good now. You’re probably lucky he didn’t raise you.”

A broken, wet laugh escaped him, and he turned away from them. What the hell was wrong with him? A handful of words from a complete stranger, and he was incapable of speaking without bursting into tears like a helpless child abandoned at school at the end of the day.

Footsteps sounded behind him, almost like a quick scuffle, before the old man’s voice came again. “Why don’t you come help me in the kitchen, young man? I was about to make some venison stew, and our incubus friend looks like maybe he could use a little rest.”

They left, talking in quiet tones Malcolm couldn’t hear, but a moment later the old man was back, standing next to him, pressing something soft into his hands. “I know it ain’t up to no incubus standards, but you can’t go around in bloody, tore up pants. Just take this, and you can replace it with your pretty incubus clothes when you get home.”

For a moment, Malcolm couldn’t even look at the bundle shoved into his arms. All he could do was stare after the strange old man.

That was two. Two people in as many days who had been kind to him, had helped save him, for no reason. They didn’t know him. Hell, the siren thought he was an asshole.

He was an asshole.

But they were helping him, holding him up, giving him soft, warm clothes, feeding him, and resting when he couldn’t go any farther, even though Kostas could probably have run all the way back to Lyric by now.

He didn’t know how to act in the face of this random, purposeless... kindness.

So he slunk off to the bathroom, and changed into the worn, old, and oh so soft sweatpants and T-shirt. He thought they might be the nicest clothes he’d ever worn, and he did not fucking cry like a baby while he sat on the toilet and wondered what the hell was wrong with him.