Malcontent: The Puzzle Box Trilogy, #2

By K.M. Carroll

Six months after the events of MALEVOLENT, Mal and Libby are struggling with the side effects of having two souls combined in one body...and the uncomfortable intimacy it brings. 

When Mal captures a hive of killer bees, they inform him of a new threat from the Necromancer. Dark barriers and dangerous sigils are mounted around the valley. At the same time, Libby begins training with the Marchers, who will instruct her in the use of life and death motes. But the Marchers are on a relentless hunt for the Lich Prince and his hidden soul – which she now carries inside of her. 

Now Mal and Libby must find a way to extract Mal’s soul before they are caught by the Marchers - killed by the Necromancer - or destroyed by the slow subsumption of their souls. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: K.M. Carroll
• Release date: Feb 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386972235

Book preview

Chapter 1

Libby

You're going to have to tell your parents eventually, Libby, Mal said.

It was a hot August morning. The sky was a brassy white color, like the lid on a casserole dish. Mal gently wheeled a beehive on a dolly to its new position near the blueberry field. He'd poured so much smoke into the bees that they were comatose.

I leaned against a fence post and folded my arms. I know what's wrong with me. You know what's wrong with me. I don't need a psychiatric evaluation. I tried to sound defiant, but inside I was quivering with terror.

That's why you'll have to tell them, Mal grunted, wrestling with the heavy hive. He wouldn't let me help. I advised you to tell them as soon as it happened, remember.

His soul inside of me was like a cavern of alien feelings. I tried to keep myself separate from it, but when I got upset, he bled into me like milk into coffee. Right now, I could feel his pity and exasperation. It annoyed me.

How can you be so calm? I snapped. I'm going to have some doctor trying to figure out if I'm crazy or not!

Mal straightened, wiped his forehead, and looked at me. While he was as thin and vampire-looking as ever, the California sun had given him a healthy tan in place of his creepy paleness. His hazel eyes still seemed to change colors, though—probably a trick of the light. Right now they shone green.

It is the logical course of action after all you've been through. Your condition is ... unstable. He faced the hive and bowed his head a moment. A deep shame flowed from his soul into mine.

It's not your fault, I murmured. I'm the one who decided to grab your soul.

I was also forgetting things. And having memories that weren't mine. But it didn't mean I was crazy. Right?

He was silent a moment, then gave me a haggard look. I would say that I wish I had never gotten involved, but then you would be dead, or worse.

It was the or worse that still haunted me. I tried to think of something to say, drew a blank, and nodded instead. Then I checked the time on my smartphone. I'd better go.

He nodded and lifted a gloved hand in farewell. His shame persisted inside me as I walked the couple of acres back to the house.

Our farm was called Blossom Ranch, because when Dad bought the place, the almond orchards were in full bloom. We had several acres of them, and right now their plentiful green leaves held a bountiful crop of nuts. I had to hurry back from the doctor because today was the first day of harvest, and I didn't want to miss it.

The air conditioners droned outside our farmhouse, the music of summer in the Central Valley. It sounded like ice cream, corn on the cob, and swimming. I circled the yard and paused to look through the wooden fence at my border collie, Suki. She flattened her ears and smiled at me, pleading.

Sorry, girl, I told her, dogs aren't allowed at the doctor. You can ride with me later.

She whined, not placated.

In the driveway sat my new four-wheel drive pickup. Well, it was new to me, anyway. Its white paint was splattered with mud from where I'd taken it out in the fields on test drives. I'd blown my life savings on it back in June. Every dime I made around the farm went into the gas tank. Oh, the roar of the engine and the way it leaped free of the driveway onto the road was like clinging to the reins of a wild horse. It made the drive downtown to the doctor's almost fun.

Arvin is a little farming community in the south end of the San Joaquin valley. Community—no—more like a teeny town. Still, we had our shopping center and a movie theater, and we were only an hour or two from LA in one direction and Bakersfield in the other.

The psychiatrist's office was one of many in a nondescript complex. They must have kept the air conditioning on constantly, because my feet in my sandals began to freeze as I checked in. As I sat in the tiny waiting area, alone, my fingers and nose chilled, too. The blazing parking lot began to beckon with its promise of warmth.

Finally they called me in to see the doctor. I was expecting one of those half-couches, where I would sit and look at pictures of ink blots. Instead I entered an ordinary doctor's office with an examining table, a stethoscope hanging on the wall, and an ugly landscape painting.

The doctor was a sharp-faced woman with no makeup, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. She gave me an appraising look as she entered. I'm Dr. Wilson. I'll be assessing you today.

I forced a smile, even though my heart beat against my rib cage like a bumblebee in a jar. Hi.

She took my blood pressure and listened to my heartbeat. You're stressed, Elizabeth. What's the matter?

I've—I've never been to a shrink before. I swallowed. Are you going to zap me with tasers?

Dr. Wilson smiled, her fierce expression warming toward humanity. That sort of treatment has been out of date for decades. I'm only going to ask a few questions today, okay?

I nodded and squeezed my hands together in my lap. There was a lot of stuff I couldn't tell a doctor—or anyone.

Your records show that you spent the last school year sick with Valley Fever. How do you feel now?

It wasn't Valley Fever, but I couldn't tell her that. Fine. Those new meds worked great.

Mal's magic honey had worked better.

She wrote something on her clipboard. Have you been under any stress recently?

Other than carrying around Mal's soul, and waiting for the Necromancer to return?

Uh, a little. It's harvest time, and I've been looking at colleges for next year.

In this case, college was code for training under the Marchers. After spending six months in bed, I still wasn't back up to my old physical strength.

My parents had agreed to give me a year off school in order to get my health back, and I had opted to enroll in the Marchers' athletic program. That was how the Marchers taught people to use magic. Physical fitness and a use for my newfound powers? Yes please! The best thing was, my parents never had to know.

Do you suffer from any sort of depression or mood swings?

I considered. Not really. My mood jumped around near Mal because I felt whatever he felt. Far away, though, his soul was a quiet cavern inside me.

Any nightmares?

Yeah. The word slipped out before I could stop it.

How often?

Oh, a few every week. It was hard not to have nightmares when you kept seeing the Necromancer tear the soul out of your best friend. Often he would hold up a human skull as I tried not to look into the eye sockets. I'd twist my head away, eyes shut tight, and wake up gasping, fighting the blankets.

How severe?

They wake me up. I smiled and shrugged, like it was no big deal.

Dr. Wilson wrote for a long time. Extra dread sank into my stomach. She couldn't tell my parents anything—patient confidentiality and all that—but what if she decided I ought to be committed to a hospital?

Any changes in your appetite?

It seemed a harmless enough question. Since I got well, I like eating. I tugged at the waistband of my shorts. Look, I fit my clothes again. The skeletal look is popular with girls my age, but dieting was never my thing. You try skipping a meal after spending hours hoeing weeds in a blueberry field.

Dr. Wilson smiled and made a note. How is your memory?

Fine.

No blank spots, no forgetfulness?

I hesitated. I was forgetting things more and more—stupid stuff, like the ending to a movie I'd seen a jillion times, or the way to a friend's house. Sometimes I'd look around and feel like a stranger in an unknown place, whether it was my bedroom, the almond orchard, or a random street in town.

Kind of. I looked at my folded hands rather than at the doctor's face. I knew she was watching me. The memory thing was why my folks had insisted on this appointment.

Can you be more specific?

I drew a breath and gave her a defiant look. It's because we were playing Settlers of Catan, and I couldn't remember what resources I was getting from where. The board stopped making sense. Then when I said I wanted to quit, Mom asked why, and I said ...

I had said, Don't cross the salt, or you forfeit your soul, only I don't remember saying it.

...so, yeah, something's up with my memory.

Dr. Wilson wrote this down with the sort of poker face a person uses when they smell Starbucks at four in the afternoon and say no thank you, they're not hungry, but you know they're planning to ditch you for a double half-caf soy cappuccino.

Are you in a relationship right now?

My relationship with Mal wasn't what you'd call normal. I guess so, yeah.

She studied me, probably to see if I was lying. Are you physically involved?

Heck no. I'd kissed Mal once—after that, the soul problem made it too dangerous. At the most, we sometimes held hands. He's big into purity, and so am I.

She followed this up with a series of questions that made me squirm with embarrassment and answer, No, a lot.

After that, Dr. Wilson tucked her pen into the top of the clipboard. Well, Miss Stockton, you do seem fairly normal for someone barely recovered from Valley Fever. However, you do exhibit symptoms of trauma. I can prescribe some anti-anxiety medication, if you like.

I shook my head. No thanks. It's not that bad.

She turned a page on her clipboard. Disorientation is a side effect of the medication you were taking—are you aware of this?

Relief flooded me. Really?

She shrugged. It could be. If the problems persist or if you develop other issues, contact us immediately. The sooner we treat you, the sooner we can correct the symptoms. She gave me a searching look. Are you sure you have nothing else to add?

No way was she dragging a confession out of me. Nothing I can think of.

All right, then we're finished.

I escaped to the safety of my truck soon afterward, the blessed heat restoring my circulation at once. That wasn't so bad, I reflected as I roared toward home. I had a plausible excuse for the memory thing and had been otherwise pronounced normal.

Mal and I knew what was really wrong with me, but I'd struggle through somehow. As long as I didn't forget how to work the conditioner today, I'd be fine.

◊◊◊

Almond harvest is a fun time. Since we only have seven acres, Dad does all of it in one day. He borrows equipment from the Kennedy orchard down the road and one day is all they can spare. We work hard all day. Mom cooks a huge dinner with blueberry cobbler and homemade ice cream.

When I got home, the growl of engines echoed from the orchards in the distance. I ran inside to drop off my purse and change from sandals to sneakers. Mom was busy in the kitchen, which was perfumed with the delectable smell of baking turkey. I stopped to grab a water bottle from the fridge.

What'd the doctor say? she asked, stirring a pot at the stove.

Mom is a sturdy, comfortable woman, strong as a draft horse, with dark hair and a ready smile.

I opened my bottle and took a drink. She said that the medication I was on can cause side effects of forgetfulness.

Her eyebrows shot up in a relieved look. Really? That's all?

Yeah. If I get worse, I need to go back.

She nodded and exhaled. Thank God. I was afraid you had cancer or something.

Not cancer, just part of another person messing with my mind.

I'd better get busy, I said. How far are they?

I think the first acre is done already. Drive careful.

I will! I took off outside, freeing Suki from the back yard along the way. She bounded beside me with joyful barks as I hurried to the orchard.

A whole acre of trees had died back in the spring. We uprooted them and replanted, once the EPA confirmed that no poisons had been used. I still hadn't breathed a word to Dad of how Mal had killed those trees to save me. The weird thing was, all that death magic had created a kind of magical whirlpool, sucking in life from everywhere. The newly-planted saplings were growing like crazy and we could barely keep the weeds down. The dead trees had been converted to cords and cords of firewood. Dad had already sold most of it.

To harvest almonds, first someone, usually my dad, gets into this little tractor with a hydraulic arm on one side. It's called a shaker. It grabs a tree and gives it a nice hard shake, hopefully without damaging the trunk. The nuts shower off the tree, and he moves to the next one. Dad's good at it, and can shake a whole acre in an hour or two.

Next comes the sweeper, which is a tractor with a couple of huge spinning brushes. It sweeps the almonds into a long windrow in the middle of the orchard floor.

Then comes the conditioner, which is my job. It's a tractor with a trailer on the back full of machinery and a conveyor belt. It scoops up the windrow, separates the leaves, twigs and other junk that would keep the nuts from drying, and leaves a nice, clean pile of nuts behind.

In a few days, once the nuts are dry enough, we scoop everything up with the harvester and haul the crop to the factory for weighing and processing.

It doesn't sound like fun, but it is. Kind of like team juggling, except instead of burning torches, you're tossing around food.

The conditioner was parked between the rows, forsaken by the shaker and sweeper, waiting for me. I jumped into the cab, made room for Suki, shut the door, and got the engine and air conditioning running. It smelled like sweat and dust—the usual harvest odors. These tractors got stinkier every year. I drove to the first windrow and flipped on the conditioner machine in the trailer behind me. It roared to life, and we began the slow, careful process of driving straight down the windrow, cleaning as we went.

Mal and a couple other hired guys worked under the trees in the distance, raking up stray nuts that the sweeper had missed. I tried to ignore them, but snatches of Mal's mood touched me anyway—he was cheerful and focused.

Except for a lunch break, we worked the whole day. I'd prudently loaded my smartphone with music and kept it blasting in my earbuds.

As the sun went down, I fell into a daydream about dinner, dessert, and a long swim afterward. I crept after Dad in the shaker, and when he stopped, I did, too. Odd. Why had he stopped at the end of the row? There was only half an acre left, and the shadows were merging together into evening.

A lot of dark things flew through the air like blowing dust. Some of them landed on the windows of my cab—honeybees. They crawled up and down, stingers quivering. Hello, bees, I said. They didn't answer. More of them darkened the air, the hum of their wings loud and angry. Clusters of them clung to the shaker and sweeper. No wonder everybody was staying inside.

A lone figure in white walked down the access road toward us, pushing a wheelbarrow. I squinted. It was Mal in full beekeeper regalia. A fresh hive box filled the wheelbarrow. I put two and two together. There must be a swarm in one of the trees, and when Dad shook the tree, they got mad.

But that didn't make sense. A new swarm with a young queen would be docile as newborn puppies. I'd seen Mal stroke one with a bare hand. Maybe this swarm had settled in and begun building a hive.

I tapped the cave inside me where Mal's soul lived. It was too bad we couldn't actually talk telepathically, but feelings would have to do. Annoyance simmered alongside a sparkle of excitement. Why would he be so excited over a new-found swarm?

I