by V L Moon
He knew without doubt Darklon held what was most precious to him. The enclave was too well protected; Laziel’s guards to well trained to allow an outsider into their private domain. He needed a Nephilim. Given Darklon’s latest tactics, the bastards had to know where Darklon had chosen to hide out, where he may have taken Laziel. Loz. His subconscious corrected, drawing a snarl.
The fucking female manifestation of his angel refused to release her hold on their shared form. What the fuck was her agenda? In all of their time together, Loz never appeared for more than a night, and she’d never taken to his bed. He’d known something was wrong. She’d been too close to the surface for too long, but he hadn’t pushed. Except, he had. He’d demanded Laz the night before, all but begged for his male.
In the hours since he’d left Arial in the chapel, he’d beat at the cerebral wall separating him from Laziel. Every time he forced the bond he shared with the angel, he met the female’s aura. Each failed attempt ramped up his fury and only succeeded in draining his patience and gaining him a feral headache. He’d finally given up when his eyes felt as if they would splinter and blood leaked from his nose. The failure enraged him.
Kill. Rend. Feed. Blood. Death. Destruction.
The mantra screamed inside his skull. Fuck! A growl escaped his throat; his hands clenched into fists. Muscles bunched and nerve endings sang with energy. Yet, he stood stone still. Waiting. Hurting. Furious.
The rustle of wings from above him stalled the litany. The sour scent of Nephilim tickled his senses. They landed maybe twenty yards from him. A half dozen males, three of them winged and three without. The wingless were carried easily by their brethren. Malachi watched them through eyes red with rage as feathers disappeared. Matching white tee shirts were paired with jeans and hiking boots. A group of friends out for a night on the town. Except, he knew better.
Malachi stepped out of the shadows. “No need to go looking for a fight, boys. You landed in the middle of my party.” All six of them whirled at the sound of his voice. Two of the wingless ones went for blades. The sharp silver reflected the streetlight.
“Is that…Denali?” A panicked voice screeched. “We need to call for back-up.” Whispers and mutters hummed among the males until a raven haired, scarlet winged individual stepped forward.
“Shut up you fools. It’s our lucky night. We take out the king of the vampires, we’re friggin’ heroes.” The snick of a blade leaving leather brought an evil smile to Malachi’s face. A target for his aggression. He crouched slightly, but left his own weapons sheathed. Fangs, fists and a fuckload of anger was all he needed.
“Have you heard what they say about him?” Again, the young blond half-breed spoke, and Malachi heard the tremor of fear in his voice. It fed the beast inside.
“Who cares what they say. It’s six against one. It seems his guardian angel finally wised up and left his ass stranded on Earth,” tall, dark and idiotic sneered.
“I’d say you’re the ones outnumbered, numb nuts. I don’t need Laziel to dispose of a handful of Nephilim slime.” The male’s name on his lips nearly caused Malachi’s knees to buckle, but he forbade them to give. A savage smile curled the corners of his mouth. “Now, are you going stand there yapping, or are you going to make like lightening and strike?”
The loudmouth took the bait, and the others followed his lead. Malachi met the leading punch with a forearm block and plowed his fist into the braggart’s stomach. When he doubled over, Malachi spun around to face the next opponent. His world shrunk to punches, grunts and kicks. Knuckles met flesh. Blood flowed to fill the air with the sickly sweet taint of Nephilim. He weaved and dodged his way through the Nephilim taking blows he hardly felt to his ribs, stomach and jaw, but his training served him well. Bastards one, two and three, the ones without wings, fell easily as they had no way to counter his vampire strength and speed.
As they bled out on the grungy alley floor, Malachi glanced up at the trio who hovered just out of arm’s length. “Well come on then, heroes don’t earn the title by running away. Aren’t you going to seek vengeance for your friends?” Viciously, Malachi kicked one of the injured Nephilim and glanced down when the male groaned. The young one, the scared one blinked pain filled eyes.
“Please don’t kill me. Please. They made me fight.” The faint words echoed with fear and sadness. A familiar face superimposed itself over the male, the same pain, the same sense of hopelessness. It gave Malachi pause and gave the winged ones an advantage. Or, so they thought.
The boot caught him on the left cheek, but he was already spinning away. He grabbed the ankle in his right hand and yanked, snatching the Nephilim out of the air. They rolled in the grime grappling for a handhold. The powerful down rush of air from beating wings stirred the trash and sent it spiraling wildly against the brick walls. Dirt blinded him, but Malachi didn’t need sight to grasp the male’s chin in one hand and the back of his head in the other. A loud crack resounded in the alley as his neck snapped. The displacement of air gave him warning of the next attack. Malachi ported and took form again on the opposite side of the alley. The two Nephilim circled, weapons drawn.
“Neat trick, vampire king, but you still can’t fly.” The self-appointed leader taunted.
“Maybe not asshat, but I was trained by an angel to fight you bastards, and I don’t need wings to snatch your ass out of the air.” He ported again. When he took form, he wrapped powerful thighs around the half-breed’s waist. Even as the bastard bucked, Malachi’s fingers dug into his wing mounts, and with a brutal tug; he ripped the wings from the male’s back. They tumbled from the air with the male screaming in agony. Blood fountained out of the holes in his back. It saturated Malachi’s clothes before he could port away. The harsh beat of wings told him the last combatant fled rather than face the same fate.
Back on the ground, Malachi faced the lone survivor; the scared Nephilim who begged for his life. Raspy breaths evidenced he still lived. Malachi knelt over him, placed his fingertips against the male’s forehead and plunged into his mind. Clariel. Malachi sucked in a breath. An unusual Nephilim, and young, only twenty-five in human years when his breed could live hundreds.
More interesting to Malachi, the male’s soul didn’t bear the taint of the other Nephilim. Fear and confusion ruled his thoughts. He’d been dragged into the training program, the source of his knowledge. Malachi rifled through the information, but breathed a sigh of relief at the holes in their intel. Unsurprisingly, it was Clariel’s first venture into the war.
Due to the lack of wings, the others had beaten him, ridiculed him. A familiar face drifted across the male’s thoughts, Gregori, and then another that drew a frown, Celix. Malachi pulled his hand back and contemplated the youth. Every instinct, every feral thought urged him to end the male where he lay. He slid a hand under Clariel’s head, grazed his chin with the opposite one. So easy, a quick twist and one more enemy gone.
“Please, I know you will kill me.” Malachi’s gaze flipped up to meet pain filled gray eyes. “They say when your eyes are red like that, it’s time to retreat.” His hand lifted and settled over the wound in his side. “I don’t think I’ll be able to outrun you,” he quipped and tried for a half-hearted smile.
“I know what he is, and I refuse to condemn him for it.” His own words to Laziel slipped through the savagery seething in his mind. Clarity returned slowly as coherent thoughts coalesced in his mind. Arial was fallen, yet Malachi sensed the goodness in him. Laziel’s teachings played on his barely there conscious; all life was sacred. Clariel’s soul radiated righteousness. Not the beautiful glow of his Laziel, but still a warmth that reminded him of the Seraphim.
Carefully, he slid his arms under the injured Nephilim and rose. “You will not die this day.” A startled gasp gurgled from the Nephilim’s throat.
“I don’t understand,” he babbled as Malachi started to walk. “You’re not going to…you won’t kill me?”
Malachi glanced down at the young one. “It seems I
have a fucking soft spot for angels with virtuous souls.” An incredulous look passed over the mixed breed’s face. “Don’t get all happy yet, kid. I’ll expect an oath of loyalty if you live, Clariel.” Wide eyes went even wider when his name slipped from Malachi’s lips. “And, whatever information you have on Darklon De Sangue.” And Celix, but he left that name unspoken for the moment.
An audible gulp followed his last statement, but if the Nephilim said anything Malachi didn’t hear it. He blurred through the streets until he came to the front doors of his enclave. The sweet and sour scent of the male’s blood wafted to his nose. He needed medical attention, but first, he had to swear allegiance.
“Once we enter here, there’s no going back. Just because I spared you today does not mean I won’t kill you if you betray me or my home.” He glanced down at the male he held so easily. “We clear?”
“Yes, I understand.” Clariel said.
“This is a bit informal, but do you swear your sword arm, your honor and your loyalty to me, Malachi Azarian Denali, King of the Vampire race, against all others, including those of your race?” Malachi questioned him.
“I do.” There was no hesitation in the response or in the male’s gaze as he boldly maintained eye contact.
“You were pretty quick to agree. I could be worse than the ones who sent you into battle.” Malachi felt the stares of other vampires as they moved in and out of the enclave, but none dared approach. All of his life, he’d worked toward a destiny that was laid out for him, one he’d never have chosen. He felt a kinship with Clariel, who was forced to fight because of the blood in his veins. “I can get treatment for you without taking you inside. You’ll be alone in there, no other Nephilim have or ever will, Creator willing, cross this threshold as free males.”
“You showed more compassion than any of my brethren.” A stricken look flashed across his face, but disappeared too quickly for Malachi to question. “You cannot be as savage as they portray you.” Malachi laughed grimly and shook his head.
“I can promise you. I’m far worse than they could ever imagine. There is nothing compassionate about me. My soul is blacker than the ashes in hell, and if there is a heart in there anywhere, it’s long since given up the flowery emotions.” He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t fool yourself about me, kid. Now, make your choice.”
“I am at your mercy, My King.” Clariel turned his face to the door. It opened at Malachi’s will and he strode through the common area straight to the crater that used to be his office. Ms. Stroner, wide eyed but wise enough to stay silent followed him into the destroyed room. He stopped; eyes narrowed. His gaze swept the room. The clutter was gone, broken furniture replaced, books returned to shelves, plaster and brick restored and his desk a serene island of neat and tidy.
“The doors…”
“Are being brought up as we speak,” Ms. Stroner interrupted. “The carpenter’s rushed the scrolled woodwork, but it still took a bit of time.”
He turned back to face her. “You are fuckin’ amazing,” he said. A large smile speared across her face and she flushed. Her hands fluttered. “But what the fuck are you doing here. I was told the jet left for the US hours ago,” he continued. The flush deepened and the smile disappeared.
“There’s too much here that needs my attention. Your office, and Loz,” she stammered.
“I gave you a direct order female, and you have never been defiant,” he said, placing the wounded male down on the torn, but functional sofa. He turned back to face her. “And, you don’t stutter. Cut the bullshit and tell me why the hell you aren’t on that plane.”
Her lips trembled and then firmed. He’d never spoken to her harshly, but the fucking world was falling down around his ears and be fucked if he had time to coddle her. “I didn’t want to go with Roman and Tobias. They don’t need me. You were only sending me to get me out of your hair,” she said, boldly holding his malevolent stare. “I can be of better service to our race here with you.”
Admiration for her courage warred with his conscious. Finally, he shrugged. “If you disobey one of my orders again, you will be replaced, you understand?” At her brisk nod, his lip curled, exposing his fangs. “Just remember, little female, when things get nasty, I tried to give you an out.” He turned back to the male lying supine on the couch. “Since you’re here, call the doctor. Clariel’s injured.”
“He’s mortal then?” He heard her draw her cell and start tapping the screen.
“Half-breed, actually,” Malachi said. “Nephilim if you get technical.” He spun as a crash sounded behind him. He leveled his gun at—Kimberly Stroner. Her phone lay at her feet. Her face white and her lips pursed together. She stared at Clariel with fierce hatred.
“He’s one of them?” Her eyes snapped to Malachi. “Why is he here? He doesn’t need a doctor. Kill him, before he kills us.” Each word rose in pitch. Hysteria swam in her beautiful brown eyes. Malachi rose slowly to his full height and tucked the gun back in its holster.
“Ms. Stroner, is there a problem?”
“I won’t call a doctor for him. He deserves to die, and painfully,” she spat. He reached for her, but she recoiled from his touch or maybe the blood on his hand. She bent and snatched the phone from the floor and scuttled backward.
“I can’t believe you brought him in here. We’ll never be safe again.” She whirled to leave, and Malachi reached out with his mind. At the forefront of her thoughts, he easily read the death of her father at the hands of the Nephilim, his valiant attempt to save his enclave, and her mother’s walk into the sun.
“So you judge a race by a few? Does that mean all of us are the same as Darklon? Do all of us deserve to die because of his atrocities against our own race?” His words stopped her flight. Her shoulders shook and then straightened. Yup, I’m a bastard female, I tried to warn you. He heard the tapping again.
“Dr. Vincenzo is still with the South American enclave. They say they’ll send someone as soon as possible.” A few more taps and she spoke again. “A Dr. De Rhys. I’ll send him in as soon as he gets here.” With exaggerated care, she walked from the room without looking back at him or the injured male.
“She has a history with us, the Nephilim?” Clariel asked; pain evident in his voice.
“Apparently, she does. I didn’t know.” Malachi knelt by the male’s side. “Let me see the wound.” After a bit of shifting and grunting and the scent of fresh blood, the wound gaped in front of him. An ugly slash from the lowest rib to his hip.
“Looks like you met the wrong end of something sharp, Clariel,” he stated quite unnecessarily. The male laughed softly.
“Yes it appears I was rather clumsy. And, it’s Clary, Sire. Easier on the tongue.”
Malachi tugged his cell from his pocket and hit speed dial. He growled in frustration when he got voice mail. “I have a present for you. Need your ass back at the enclave when you get a chance.” The second call went through.
“Saul, there’s a visitor in my office. I need him moved to the infirmary, with an armed guard.” Questions filled his ear in rapid fire succession. “SAUL! The visitor isn’t a threat. And since Laziel isn’t here, I don’t give a fuck what he would say. Get someone up here now.”
Within minutes, Saul himself appeared in the doorway followed closely by Lance Rossi, the guard from Malachi’s own chambers. Malachi knew the instant the males recognized the Nephilim’s scent. Both sets of eyes went flat and hard while muscles tensed.
“Clariel is here under my protection. We had a bit of a…disagreement, if you will, before he swore loyalty to me.” Malachi’s tone and his gaze dared them to object. Saul, never one to back down, crossed the room sporting a stern expression.
“You brought a Nephilim here? So soon after the massacre in South America? What the hell are you thinking?” The questions crashed into the room like shards of glass against a stone floor. A perfectly arched brow rose as Malachi quelled the snarling beast inside.
“Only Laziel dares question me wi
thout fear of reprisal,” he stated voice low. “Or, have you forgotten? Do you think to take his place as mentor and advisor?” Saul’s ruddy face paled immediately.
“No, Sire, but he’s…”
“Mine. That’s all you need to know at the moment.” Malachi’s stare swung to Lance. “You stay at his bedside. After the doctor has come and gone, do not let anyone near him except Arial.” Confusion colored Lance’s face. “You’ll know him. Big motherfucker with dark dreads. No one near him or you pay the consequences.”
“I will guard him with my life, Sire.” Lance moved to the couch and lifted the injured half breed into strong arms. If he felt any derision or animosity for his enemy, it didn’t show. The pair was soon gone, leaving him with Saul.
“If that’s all, Your Highness, I’ll return to my post.” Not by one twitch did Saul allow his anger to show, but it was there in his words. Malachi, Sire, even Denali when they trained, all terms Saul used to address him. The royal title was a passive aggressive slap that pissed Malachi right the fuck off. Did they all think he was completely stupid? That he would bring something dangerous into the belly of his home? The fury that had quieted as he’d dealt with Clariel returned full force.
“One more thing, Captain. Arial won’t be able to oversee the reconstruction at the South American enclave. Send Jaku and a battalion of the Guard. I want reports every morning.” Saul nodded. “Now, get out,” he muttered. The three words were sharper than any shout and Saul hastily complied, leaving the scent of his anger to stain the air.
With his office clear again, Malachi crossed to his desk and sank into the rich leather chair behind it. He dialed Arial’s number again and smothered a curse when it went back to voice mail. You sent him to Darklon. The though earned another, more feral curse. He hit the end button without leaving a second message and rested his head briefly against the back of the tall chair. His gaze zeroed in on the seat opposite where the angel usually reclined, shirtless and barefoot with a smirk on his face.