Malachi

eBooks are
not
transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

2932 Ross Clark Circle, #384

Dothan, AL 36301

Malachi

Copyright © 2006 by Shiloh Walker

Cover by Scott Carpenter

ISBN: 1-59998-125-4

www.samhainpublishing.com

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: May 2006

Malachi

By Shiloh Walker

Chapter One

Long after his memories of her face faded, Malachi could still remember the way his mother’s voice sounded as she sang him to sleep. Her voice had been magickal. It had soothed away countless nightmares, had sung silly songs that made him laugh, could heal almost any hurt.

Truly heal. Malachi’s mother had been magick. He was centuries old before he understood just exactly what she was, a witch—one with Healing powers.

Too bad she had not been able to heal herself.

Malachi had been hiding with the animals when it happened—he had seen it all. Watched as the big men took his older sisters, laughing and fighting off the furious efforts of their mother. Watched as she stopped trying to fight physically and resorted to the power nobody ever spoke of. Fire had struck one of the big men square in the chest.

But there were too many. Malachi could remember screaming as somebody stabbed his mother in the back, the bloodied end of the knife coming through the front of her chest.

They’d found him hiding then. But even if he had not screamed, they would have found him. The men had come to the small village looking for merchandise. Slaves. They’d chosen a good time—when most of the men were not there.

What men remained behind had been slaughtered. Any woman who fought too hard was slaughtered.

He had no idea how old he was when that happened. Time had no meaning for a child that young—and even less for a slave.

Malachi did not remember much, but he did remember her voice.

And as the whip came flying through the air, coming down on his back, he tried to focus on the memory of that voice. The pain from the lash was not immediate. It took a few seconds before it began to hurt, usually right as the whip came cracking down again.

Blood ran in rivulets down his back. He could smell it.

The whipping was worse this time. They got worse every time. The sadistic bastard who owned him would likely kill him.

All Malachi could do was hope it would happen soon.

* * * * *

But the death he prayed for did not come.

No longer the skinny boy he had been when the Master had first purchased him, Malachi had grown tall, much taller than other slaves, taller than most of the Master’s soldiers.

Deeply tanned from so much time spent laboring under the sun and heavy with muscle, he had caught the eye of many of the slave girls. It was a brief pleasure he found when one of them sought him out.

Yet the slaves were not the only ones who had noticed.

The Master’s pretty young wife began to notice.

“You better watch it, boy,” said Joshua, the slave in charge of the vineyards. It was a sunny day and Malachi had been sent to the vineyards to assist with heavy carrying.

Joshua’s face was lined and tanned from years spent under the bright sun, a harsh contrast with the shock of white hair on his head. His tired old eyes held a knowledge that made Malachi leery.

“Why?” he asked quietly, although he suspected he already knew. The Mistress was there. He could feel her eyes on him. She watched him far too often of late.

When Joshua’s pale brown eyes flicked the woman watching from afar, Malachi knew he had been right.

“She likes slave boys,” Joshua said softly. “No matter what you do when she sends for you, it will not go well for you. Not at all.”

“I do not wish to touch that lily white flesh.” Indeed, Malachi would rather use his fist than rut on one of
them
. The cruel, selfish people who beat the slaves for the smallest mistake. The Mistress had beaten one of the slave girls just a week ago. Ruth had been heavy with child and the beating had caused her to go into early labor. Both mother and child had died.

All because the Mistress had not been happy with her meal.

Ruth had simply brought her the meal. She had not prepared it. Had not even placed it on the trays she carried to the Mistress.

No. He had no desire to mount that woman.

“It does not matter if you wish to touch her or not,” Joshua said flatly. “If you do, sooner or later, the Master will learn of it. And he will beat you to death. If you do not…” The older man’s voice trailed off and he reached up, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “The last slave who tried to refuse her paid dearly. She told the Master that the boy had tried to rape her. The Master gutted him.”

* * * * *

It came to neither.

Just a few days later, Malachi was sold.

The Mistress had not been subtle in her study of Malachi. The Master had noticed. Malachi could remember hearing, “The one is worth too much. I will not throw away the money he could bring me.”

It all came down to the fact that Malachi was big and strong, good in the arena.

“He would bring a pretty bit of gold on the block,” the slave master had agreed.

So that was where he went.

Sold. Again.

But this time, Malachi actually looked upon it as a relief.

As much as he might wish for death, he did not wish to meet his own by having the slave master cut him open and spill his guts out. A slow, painful way to die.

* * * * *

It was not the first time he had been woken with a foot kicking him in the ribs. It would not be the last. As he rolled to his feet, Malachi imagined grabbing the bastard who had kicked him, knocking his legs out from under him, taking him to the ground and choking the life from him.

The Master was not a cruel owner, especially not compared to the last one who had the fondness for the whip. Still, Mal fantasized about killing him. About running away and living in freedom.

Enough time had passed since the last brutal whipping from his previous owner that the scars on his back had faded from angry red to pale white. None of the beatings he had received since had been as bad—they had not left any scars and none of them had been with one of those damned whips. But Malachi had not forgotten the pain.

And if anybody saw the look in his eyes just yet, he would most surely be beaten. So he kept his head bowed as he waited for the orders.

With this new Master, his life had become routine. Two days ago, he had fought in the arenas. He would not fight again for another five. So he was either needed for heavy lifting—or because it was time to lay with the Mistress again.

He sincerely hoped it was lifting.

The Mistress had a taste for pain that turned Malachi’s stomach. Even thinking of what she liked to do during sex made his skin crawl and his testicles shrivel.

He would almost rather step into the arena again. Almost. Since he had been bought by the new Master, he had stepped into the arena many times. He had won each bout.

But winning was not enough.

Taking the life of the fallen fighter had made him ill for days. But the man would have died anyway, and it would not have been anything as merciful as having his neck snapped.

The only good thing about the bouts was the knowledge he would have a respite after each win.

Malachi was wrong. He was not needed for lifting or for mounting the damned Mistress again. By mid-evening, he was face to face with the man in charge of preparing men for the arena. The man was small and dark with slanted eyes and an odd accent. He moved like nothing Mal had ever seen.

“Too slow. Too slow. You too big to ever move fast enough,” Yen said, shaking his head as he circled around Malachi. “You no business fighting tonight—still bruised.” He poked a slender finger into Malachi’s multi-colored rib cage and smiled when Malachi did not even flinch. “Last fight was close miss.”

Malachi did not bother saying anything. The man he had fought had moved in a manner oddly similar to Yen’s but had stood nearly as tall as Malachi. He had been deadly. A few times, Malachi had seen his life flash before his eyes.

And it had been a pathetic thing, too. Because there was very little in his life worth fighting to live for. All that kept him on his feet had been sheer stubbornness.

“You stiff. Moving slow.”

Malachi met Yen’s eyes briefly and said, “What do you expect?”

Yen scowled. “No business fighting so soon. Come—have medicine for bruise.”

Hours later, Malachi was once more lying on the small pallet that made up Yen’s bed. From the knee down, his legs were on the bare earth. The sharp scent of the weird herbs Yen used saturated the air. Thick cloths soaked in the herbs were wrapped around his torso. Malachi knew from experience—Yen’s odd concoctions would have his bruises feeling days old and he would be moving around normally in very little time.

But sadly, it was quite likely the rapid recovery would just end with Malachi back in the arena that much sooner.

That much sooner he would have to face down another man and kill him.

He had no idea how many men he had been forced to kill, but their faces haunted him. Many had been hardly more than boys.

There had been a time when Malachi had refused to deliver that final strike. But it had resulted in one outcome—the fallen were still killed, right in front of him, usually in a slow and painful manner. And Malachi was beaten.

He could handle the beatings. He had been raised a slave. Beatings were something he was used to. But the last time, he had watched as one of the centurions eviscerated his fallen opponent. Then castrated him. Those screams would haunt Malachi until the day he died.

How much longer…

* * * * *

Nearly a week passed before he was summoned again. He was left alone, left to heal, left to brood. Malachi was not summoned to the Mistress’ bed and he was not forced into the arena either.

When he was finally summoned, he was prepared for one or both duties.

Surprisingly though—it was neither. He was sent to the baths with hardly a word.

Before sunset, he had been sold.

Again.

* * * * *

“Oh, he is worth every single bit of gold you paid.”

The new Mistress was not a chore to look at, but the way she stared at him made Malachi feel dirty.

“If he does not please you, we can always use him in the arena,” the Master said, barely glancing at Malachi. “That is where I first saw him. I have watched him many times. Julius did not wish to sell him, but I knew you would enjoy him. I paid a heavy sum of gold for him. Julius did not wish to let his best fighter go. He fights as if he were born to do it.”

Big blue eyes sparkled as the Mistress ran her hands down Malachi’s chest, over his belly, then his naked genitals. Malachi stared steadfastly at the floor the entire time, even when somebody tugged on his hair to try to force him to raise his head. He had been beaten more than once because an owner had not liked the look in his eyes.

Defiance, they called it. Malachi was not completely certain what the word meant, and he cared little. But he tired of the beatings rather quickly and he would avoid them when he could.

The Mistress closed cool, pale fingers over his cock and worked him until he grew erect. She giggled like a child with a new toy and said, “I think there is something else he was born to do. I cannot wait to see just how well he does it.”

The Master waved a hand at them, smiling. “Take him, dearest. I have business to attend to.”

That business, Malachi learned quickly enough, was his own lover, a blond haired man who was nearly as pretty as the Mistress. The Master was content to let the Mistress do as she pleased with her new toy, provided an heir was produced.