Free 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