by Liz Meldon
He just hadn’t counted on Ella still being here.
He should have.
In fact, deep down, a part of him had even hoped to see her again.
A very small part, mind you. Miniscule, even. For the rest of him knew what poison she was, a toxic blend that weakened his resolve—made him push his personal desires aside in favor of her needs.
Malachi could have had her that night.
Mind, body, and soul, he could have had her.
Drunk and pliant, desperate and bold, she had kissed him, touched him, ground her hips against him and whimpered his name against his lips…
And Malachi Saevitia, a chaos demon who bathed in the blood of his lessers, who plotted and schemed for the betterment of his family at the detriment of all others, whose footsteps wrought chaos and discord amongst humanity—had showed restraint.
He could have had her, yet he had played the hero. Cleaned her sick away with his shirt. Gave her water. Put her in the shower without so much as a leer at her supple curves. Fetched her fast food. Helped her into bed.
He had abandoned every principle, every instinct. He had suffered his inner demon’s ire, the chaos beast scalding him from the inside out—and he had done it for her.
Ella Thomas was a fucking plague.
A plague for which, apparently, there was no cure.
Tapping his crystal tumbler on the dark wood table, his gaze flitted from demon to witch to hybrid, pointedly avoiding the human in the mix. Over the laughter and the chatter and the crunch of tortilla chips, Malachi stood and drifted to Alaric’s fully stocked liquor bar beneath the staircase. The cork on the decades-old bourbon came off with a soft pop, and he filled his glass far fuller than necessary, intent on downing it in a single go.
“You’re quiet tonight.”
He stilled, Severus’s dark outline brooding in his periphery. “As are you, brother.”
Quiet on his feet, that is, materializing out of nowhere beside him, yet Malachi knew that wasn’t the quiet his little brother had in mind. The incubus had been highly aware of him, that much was clear, ever since his stiff reunion with Ella. He had prodded and pried, both at dinner last night and today while they had coffee at one of the shops and picked up treats for tonight’s affair, the rest of the household bundled up watching Halloween movies from the comfort of Alaric’s couch, no longer a bed come daylight for the visiting chaos demon.
Malachi had told him nothing. Not of the summit to which he had been summoned by Cassiel, head of the Farrow’s Hollow angel garrison, and not of his inner turmoil over a certain human. The former came from a desire to keep his brother out of trouble; the less Severus knew, the better. The latter—well, he’d never tell a soul of the latter.
All those unsettling feelings had come flooding back the moment he saw her last night, Ella Thomas, dancing about in her navy blue sweater and skintight jeans. He’d thought perhaps a year in Hell—and a bounty of beautiful demon lovers—would have quashed any lingering connection to the human, and yet at the sound of her laughter, the sway of her hips, it had become painfully clear that wasn’t the case.
So, Malachi had kept his distance. No jests, no witty banter. No innuendos to make her blush indignantly. No playing of any kind, lest he succumb to his previous weakness.
It was obvious. He knew that—the whole fucking house knew that.
Severus most of all.
“I’m not implying anything by it. Just a bit odd, the quiet,” Severus muttered, refilling his own glass with clear, acrid-smelling vodka. Malachi grunted noncommittally, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. How little his brother knew of the maelstrom swirling inside. He had been determined not to let her affect him, but now that he was here…
For Lucifer’s sake—why was it so difficult now?
The hairs on the back of his neck rose when, without so much as a backward glance, he picked Ella’s melodious laughter out over the rest. His inner demon stirred, intrigued, eager to turn those giggles into screams, and he downed all that expensive bourbon at once.
A detriment to his resolve, this fucking human. He had seen hundreds, thousands, of beautiful creatures in his very long lifetime—fucked most of them too—but her…
Poison.
“I’m fine,” he insisted thickly, pouring himself another drink. “A bit impatient, I suppose. This is a chaos demon’s night, after all. We’ve done a lot of sitting around.”
“Well, you’ve done a lot of sitting around.”
He shot his brother a dark look, to which the incubus merely smirked before sweeping him into the fray. Malachi settled atop a barstool next to his cousin, who wore a little black dress and stockings now, her raven locks in two thick braids.
He’d much preferred her previous costume. The bloodier, the better.
Still, there was no sense in being the resident black cloud, looming over all and spoiling the fun. After another two drinks, Malachi fell seamlessly into the conversation like he had always been there. He chuckled—and made others do the same. He sampled Ella’s nachos—cheesy, melt-in-your-mouth delicious. He drank and joked and teased. He played a human game called Beer Pong, which turned out to be rather similar to a game played in Hell, only the little ball that landed in your opponent’s cup was a skull, the cup was a cauldron, and players set one human soul from their opponent’s collection on fire rather than drinking lukewarm brew.
So. Perhaps not similar at all.
Malachi had only played the game once. He was far better at Beer Pong.
So good, in fact, that he and Severus emerged victorious, vanquishing Ella and Moira in the final round of the tournament. Alaric and Cordelia, meanwhile, had found each other’s mouths far more interesting than the game.
“Well, it’s not really fair, is it?” Ella said after finishing the last of her red cups, stacking it with all the others. She spoke confidently, self-assured as always, yet she had refused to meet his eye all evening. “I mean… How are we supposed to win against two guys with heightened abilities? I call shenanigans.”
“Perhaps you should have considered that before you challenged us,” Severus fired back, his brother’s lips quirking when Moira poked her tongue out at him. Ella merely rolled her eyes, then took a swing from the half-drunk bottle of Goldschläger at her side.
“Whatever. We…” Her phone chirped from the table, and her eyes lit up after tapping the screen. “We need to get going. Doors have officially been open at the Inferno for an hour.”
“You heard her, people,” Moira barked, snatching Ella’s hand and dragging her to the stairs. “Teeth brushed. Shoes on. We’re out the door in a tight two minutes.”
She and Ella clapped at a lip-locked Alaric and Cordelia in passing. The fallen angel hybrid merely waved them off, seated on the window ledge next to the front door, a cooing witch snuggled against him.
Even as she raced up the stairs, skirt flaring around her thighs, Ella’s scent lingered on the first floor. Her cloying perfume—some infernal blend of jasmine, vanilla, and plump, ripe wild berries—threatened to permanently fuse itself up Malachi’s nostrils, forever flooding his system with every breath. He rubbed at his nose, then picked up her discarded bottle, uncapping it and inhaling the pungent cinnamon schnapps like his life depended on it.
The tournament had lowered his guard, as had the conversation, the nachos, the bourbon. While she still wouldn’t meet his eye, Ella appeared more relaxed as the night wore on.
More relaxed—and drunk. Again.
Malachi cleared his throat when he caught Severus, Alaric, and Cordelia watching him with three near-identical frowns. Slowly recapping the Goldschläger, he stared back in open defiance, daring them to comment. When no one did, he considered the issue dropped.
Just as he did her. A drunk Ella only spelled trouble. As soon as they walked out the front door, Malachi would find a way to distance himself from her.
And he would snatch up a fetching beauty, a delectable distraction, at the nightclub up the st
reet as soon as possible.
There. Decided. No more perfume smelling and thigh ogling for him.
Not with Ella Thomas, anyway.
Precisely one minute and fifty-eight seconds later, the girls came thundering down the stairs, Ella a little unsteady on her socked feet. At Moira’s prompting, everyone drifted toward the front door, grabbing shoes from the closet and purses from the hooks next to the door. The most impressive outfit present was still the angel hybrid, her wings on full display, downy and soft, little gosling feathers that seemed to tickle Ella’s cheeks when she bent over to knot her laces.
There, a mere five feet from him, stood the most potent magic in all the realms. He had no clue if hybrid wings packed the same punch as a true angel’s feather, but Malachi was sure there were plenty of demons desperate for a definitive answer. Yet she wore them boldly, proudly, a perfect match to her monstrous costume.
Perhaps she did so with the knowledge that no demon in Farrow’s Hollow would dare touch her. She had proven her worth on the battlefield months ago, and Severus had informed him today that she had an ally in the garrison—that great hulking angel Zachariah. Beyond that, she had an incubus lover to watch her back. And the son of a former prince of Hell. And Cordelia, the most intimidating of the lot.
And, well… She had Malachi too. Should any demon fuck so much as glance at his brother’s beloved with a glimmer of want in their eyes, Malachi would gladly gouge them out.
“So, are we sure we still want to do the human side of the Inferno?” Alaric asked as the group bustled out the door, Malachi bringing up the rear. He had done so purposefully, keeping all those extras bodies between himself and Ella while the human led the charge. As he shut the front door behind him, she and Moira responded in near-perfect unison.
“Yes.”
Alaric huffed, lightly grasping Cordelia’s hand as they all crossed the street. “But—”
“The demon side is creepy as fuck,” Ella argued. “Once was enough for me.”
A prickle of something—something dark and unsettling and painful—seared up his chest, and his eyes snapped to black before he could stop them. Ella had visited the demon-only half of the Inferno? A rare occurrence for humans; if they weren’t escorted by a demon they shared some stunning, secret intimacies with, then they were there for entertainment.
To be used.
The very idea made that horrible feeling in his chest twist tighter, tighter, tighter. His inner demon snarled, equally unimpressed that this had happened without him.
“I second the fact that the demon side is creepy,” Moira added, she and Ella strolling along side by side, arms entwined. “Human side is where it’s at tonight.”
Malachi rolled his eyes. For Lucifer’s sake. A whole night of inebriated humans?
Actually. Perhaps that was precisely what he needed. Two floors of drunk, horny humans, violence humming in their veins—ripe little playthings for a chaos demon. He could all but taste his inner demon’s smile.
Farrow’s Hollow was truly alive tonight, the sidewalks crowded, various Halloween parties scheduled across the sprawling cityscape. While a few of the more upscale establishments might better suit Malachi’s tastes, the Inferno had never steered him wrong before. A thick, densely packed line of eager humans greeted them long before they reached the building, costumed creatures huddled together against the chill of the night. Curious eyes tracked the group as they passed; just for kicks, Malachi flashed a few his inner demon’s gaze, the black making them jump and gasp. Just a flicker, there one moment, gone the next, hopefully long enough to make them question their sanity.
And whether his little display frightened them or not, none would leave the line. Humans felt a draw toward the Inferno courtesy of the demon upper management. Moira had told him events were pushed hard at the university, young adult humans waiting hours to enter, rain or shine, seven nights a week. It wouldn’t surprise him if a few demonic dealers had set up shop inside, eager to trade favors for souls.
A part of him wouldn’t mind running a little club like this—but even Malachi didn’t dare compete with Alaric’s father. While he might have legally owned Farrow’s Hollow and its hell-gate, all topside demons deferred to Verrier on principle.
Or face the consequences.
Bypassing the line completely, Moira and Ella led the group straight to the front, right into the bouncers’ sphere of influence. The burly pair of demons—debt collectors, by the looks of it, pure muscle—gave them an assessing once-over, but their expressions shifted the moment Alaric stepped into view.
“Mr. Crowley,” the nearest black-shirted demon remarked, tapping his earpiece and moving forward to greet the hybrid. “Whatever can we do for you tonight?”
“We’ll be celebrating Hallows Eve here,” Alaric remarked, his voice carrying an unfamiliar gravitas that caught Malachi’s attention. Apparently as soon as his hybrid side emerged, that fallen angel finally breaching the surface, Alaric had stopped tending bar at the demonic half of the Inferno. He no longer needed a slew of bodyguards trailing him, and according to Severus, he had started working more closely with his father. On what was anyone’s guess, but Malachi had a few thoughts on the matter.
Thoughts that he’d never act on if he wanted to keep his head.
Alaric gestured to the group around him, Malachi looming over his shoulder, the hum of his chaotic being pulsing in time with the roaring music inside.
“My father is aware of our visit,” Alaric said dismissively. The second of the two bouncers spoke rapidly into his communications link, a wary eye on the hybrid. Without warning, Alaric’s gaze snapped to dark grey. “Ensure there’s a booth waiting for us on the second floor—and bottle service all night.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Crowley. Of course.”
In an instant, the black velvet rope barring the main entrance lifted, and the group approached the towering brick building with the protests of impatient humans on their heels. However, as soon as the doors opened, music and mayhem drowned out the rest of the city. Darkness loomed on all sides, bright yellow streetlamps long forgotten in favor of dozens upon dozens of dangling lights shaped like little pumpkins and ghouls, the interior warmed in orange and white light.
Compared to the demonic side, this was certainly much—more. Yes, the bowels of the building housed crowds of writhing, grinding demon bodies much like this, but this was different. Grander. Modern. Malachi counted six different bars on the first floor alone, all the black leather booths along the walls full, the dance floor in the middle packed. Sweat intertwined with colognes and perfumes, liquors and ales. Cigarette smoke wafted in from the nearby patio. Succubi waitresses confidently navigated the room like they weren’t outnumbered by humans ten to one.
Organized chaos. Malachi’s least preferable kind.
But as he trailed after the group, shoving inebriated humans aside should they teeter into Cordelia or Moira or Ella, Malachi decided that this place, these two glorious floors, had all the makings for the kind of chaos he loved.
In fact, with everyone in costumes, the lighting, the screaming, the drunken smiles and wanton glances, this could have easily been a party on some demon’s estate in Hell. Easily. Only in Hell, Ella Thomas wouldn’t be grinning and waving at random partygoers, stopping here and there to hug and squeal and cheek-kiss before Moira steered her toward the stairs.
There was that feeling again. Malachi swallowed hard, sensing even his inner demon’s confusion to the tightness.
Was it—jealousy?
No. Never. He wrinkled his nose as he navigated around a cluster of scantily clad humans, their fake glittery fairy wings crinkled. Malachi owned this city. He had no reason to envy the humans Ella pounced on, her smile warm, her laughter once more rising above all other sound until it was screaming between his ears.
The feeling dissipated when they stepped into the stairwell at the far-right corner of the first floor, Severus and Alaric at the front shoving their way through. Humans lit
tered every possible bit of floorspace in the building—save for the sprawling semicircular booth awaiting them upstairs.
Located on a raised platform at the helm of the second-floor dance floor, the quilted leather half-moon looked like it could comfortably seat a group thrice their size. It offered a spectacular view of the dance floor, above which hung a chandelier of carved pumpkins, their glowing faces reminiscent of tortured souls screaming in the pit.
Beyond that, a terrace overlooked the street and the sleek glossy buildings in the distance, the heart of the Farrow’s Hollow business district. A little closer to home, several bottles of champagne sat awaiting them, along with a smattering of other clear, strong liquids, one of which made Ella wrinkle her nose and shudder when she took a sniff. Pair that with a platter of appetizers, from chips to sushi to little tiny tartlets, and it was almost like the Inferno had been waiting for the arrival of the prince’s son all night.
As Malachi shuffled into the booth next to Severus, his cousin seated across from him and a delectable spread between them, he decided that perhaps tonight could be rather enjoyable. Despite the bland costumes, Hallows Eve certainly wasn’t wasted—not with all that was going on around him. So long as he kept his distance from Ella and focused on something—or someone—else, he’d be fucking golden.
The tower of tiny crystal shot glasses harkened his mind back to a trashy reality TV show he had devoured months ago while reacquainting himself with modern-day humans. Smirking, he grabbed the crowning glass and held it up, all eyes on him.
“Shots, anyone?”