by Liz Meldon
“Well, cousin—is he to be your new father anytime soon?”
Given how much time she and the former prince had been spending together lately, plus her relationship with Alaric and the fact that she was exclusively contracted to provide paid spellwork for Verrier and Verrier alone, it wouldn’t surprise him if the pair had—what was the word?—carpooled together. His cousin’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she peered around him with a sigh.
“I should be so lucky,” she told him, tone a little too dreamy for his liking. “He’s such a dear.”
Malachi rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide it. Cordelia had been the type to cuddle the prickliest of Hell’s beasts as a child, drawn to danger and oddity like a moth to the flame; it didn’t surprise him that she thought a former prince of Hell, a creature who could rip them in half, literally, without breaking a sweat, was a dear.
Behind them, another batch of new arrivals strolled through the door without a hint of pomp or ceremony: a trio of willowy humanoid creatures, their waist-length locks pulled back to reveal sharply pointed ears.
“Elves,” Cordelia mused, studying the group with barely contained excitement. “Children of the old world—the old god. So rare these days.”
Although he knew of their existence and had the most basic understanding of their history, Malachi had never seen an elf with his own two eyes. Not in Hell, not on Earth—not in any supernatural realm, in fact. They had ruled the planet before humanity, before angels and demons, but their numbers had dwindled to near nonexistent. Had anyone asked him before today, Malachi would have thought them extinct.
Yet here they were, in Farrow’s Hollow—in his city. How extraordinary.
Pushing just shy of seven feet, the trio strolled around the table, so graceful that they all but floated, and settled before one of the massive windows. At no point did they address those around them, paying no mind to the light or dark. Two men, one woman. All three could be considered beautiful, though Malachi found them somewhat severe—alienesque even, despite their obvious similarities to mankind.
Perhaps they were the original template, phase one, for all that followed.
They couldn’t have lived in the city. There was no mistaking them; the stir just one might cause amongst the humans made integration near impossible. It seemed they preferred to leave their supernatural appearances unaltered.
“Must live in the forest,” Cordelia muttered, as though she’d read his mind. She shrugged when he glanced down at her, positively brimming with naked interest. “I think they’re fascinating.”
“Naturally.” But why the fuck were they here? Cassiel and his cronies seemed just as perplexed by their appearance, their mutterings hurried and foreign—Enochian, most likely. “This isn’t what I… expected.”
“Me neither, but then again, I’d no idea what to expect.”
“But you accepted the summons anyway?”
Cordelia shot him a barbed grin. “Same as you, cousin.”
The door whooshed open once more, revealing not another group of primordial beings, but a demon.
A lone demon.
Malachi stiffened, sensing the dead prickle of the creature’s aura.
A hell-born vampire.
One who had apparently missed the memo about dress codes. Sure, it hadn’t been on the summons, but surely one knew that ripped jeans, a black cotton T-shirt, and an old leather jacket was woefully inappropriate for the occasion. Black-eyed and smirking, the demonic vampire swept a hand through his raven waves, half a head shorter than Malachi, young and pale and handsome.
No wonder humans had such a fanatical pop culture surrounding the bastards. Little did all the squealing, swooning women realize just how low vampires sat in Hell’s hierarchy.
“Who is he?” Malachi growled, his inner demon snarling with instant dislike. Abandoning her study of the elves, Cordelia scrutinized the vampire briefly, her arms crossed, then shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t like that.”
“Nor do I.” Cordelia nudged him with her bony elbow. “But perhaps not quite for the same reason as you, cousin.”
She needn’t expand on that; he could see it in her eyes. Ella. As far as he knew, there were no demonic vampires operating in Farrow’s Hollow, and now one had emerged from the shadows mere weeks after Ella’s forced transition.
Coincidence or not, the very idea had him gnashing his teeth. The urge to march over there and rip the vampire’s fangs from his mouth only intensified when the bastard toasted Malachi and Cordelia with a black flask. Uncapping it released the metallic scent of human blood into the air, setting off the angel brigade in a way that Malachi’s arrival hadn’t. One even had the audacity to reveal his wings, the enormous white pair bursting from the back of his suit, but he settled after a few curt words from Cassiel.
The vampire didn’t seem to care about the effect he had on anyone in the room. With a noisy slurp, he strolled toward Verrier to greet him properly, bowing as low as Malachi had. The former prince simply stared back, his gaze hard, his mouth lifted in a barely concealed sneer.
Near the window, the trio of elves observed the interaction with bored expressions, yet as the clouds shifted and sunlight spilled into the conference room, they had an oddly ethereal quality about them. The vampire’s smugness faltered when the first beams of sun kissed his pale flesh, but as a hell-born vampire, he could withstand the UV rays to a degree. His human-turned children, however, weren’t quite as fortunate.
Ella would never see the sun again. Not on Earth, anyway.
His hand tightened to a fist, but Malachi only managed a few stiff steps toward the creature when the door opened once more, revealing a band of fae. Slighter in statute compared to the elves, their pink, purple, and blue hair was a dead giveaway, as was the entire fabric roll of tulle used to dress them from top to bottom. The group of five drifted into the room, all smiles as they digested the undeniably tense scene.
“My lords, my ladies, welcome,” the helm of the group greeted, a purple-haired fae with copper eyes and a dozen glittering piercings up one pointed ear.
Surely they hadn’t strolled through Farrow’s Hollow like that—multicolored wings on display, tattooed and stuck with glittering gemstones. After all, if fae and elves could look like this, then why the fuck did demons need the hell-gate’s magic to disguise themselves? He glanced at Cordelia, who seemed less impressed with the new arrivals than she had been with the elves. Apparently fae and their ilk were old news to his beloved cousin.
“Thank you for your punctuality. We appreciate you all responding to our summons, and extra thanks to the angels for submitting our request into Hell when we could not. Please, be seated,” the fae continued, her smile bright as the midmorning sun. She gestured to the conference table, and in an instant it filled to the brim with food and drinks. Sunlight glinted off the silver chalices and plates, each bedazzled with emeralds and sapphires. None of the colorful, supple fruit appeared familiar to Malachi, but the enormous whole pig roast in the center smelled exquisite. His stomach gurgled appreciatively at the enticing smells filling the space, smothering the lingering scent of human blood from the vampire’s flask.
Slowly, haltingly, the room drifted toward the table. Verrier settled at one end, unchallenged by Cassiel and his garrison. Cordelia sat at his right, Malachi beside her, and the trio of elves descended gracefully into the seats beside him. Across the table, the angels settled nearest to the seated fae, the food and drink untouched, and with two seats of space between, the vampire plopped down next to Verrier. Malachi’s eyes narrowed; was that dirt on the creature’s leather jacket? Had he not an ounce of dignity?
While Cordelia filled her plate with a selection of fruits, Malachi went straight for the bottles of fae wine. Similar in texture and taste to a very floral champagne, it bubbled in his chalice and tickled his nose when he brought it close to smell. The chaos demon hesitated before his first sip
, for he could still taste Ella on his tongue.
Well. No matter. If he had it his way, he would taste her again soon.
Immediately after he walked through the door, actually. He’d march upstairs, lock them in her bedroom, rip off the blankets, and settle between her thighs, that delicious cunt far sweeter than any fae wine. Given the turn of events, he had serious doubts Cassiel and his men would kill him.
Not today, at least. Today he would return to her—starving.
“Welcome,” the fae continued. “I am Aiwen, daughter of the high king of the Seelie Court.”
“One of many,” Cordelia muttered, tapping a sapphire on her chalice with one long nail as Malachi smirked. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Verrier shooting them both a slightly reproachful look. He cleared his throat and refocused. Aiwen stood at the head of the conference table, fingertips resting on the mahogany, her entourage of slightly less elegant fae fanned out behind her. Positively beaming, she went on to greet each creature by name. Cassiel. His trio of angel stooges. The elves, whose names seemed downright impossible to pronounce. Malachi Saevitia. Cordelia Atropa. Verrier.
Malachi sat up a touch straighter, like a hellhound straining against its chains, when the fairy princess finally came to the vampire.
“Serafino Lutum. Welcome, all.”
Serafino Lutum. A hell-born vampire without a clan—low-ranking enough to warrant the common name shared by all demons in the slums. Lutum. Dirt. Malachi sat back, sensing Cordelia’s confusion just as vividly as he felt his own. Why the fuck was he even here?
Yet that name…
There was familiarity to it, and not just because of the commonplace Lutum. It was the combination of the two, first and last, that triggered something in the dark recesses of his mind. In that moment, however, Malachi couldn’t place it—and it was driving him fucking mad.
“You are all the heads of your respective species in Farrow’s Hollow,” Aiwen continued warmly, her fond gaze touching each of them. “And we—”
“I wasn’t aware we had a vampire colony in Farrow’s Hollow,” Malachi mused, his tone light, conversational, yet his black gaze screamed infuriated subtext. Serafino smirked and propped his booted foot up on his knee, legs crossed, chair pushed back.
“What you aren’t aware of, Malachi Saevitia, could fill this whole bloody tower.”
Cordelia’s hand fell to his forearm when he lurched forward, ready and willing to leap across the table and cleave that low-born scum in two. He’d use one of these stupid sapphire-encrusted plates to do it—easily.
“We are aware of the colony’s presence,” Cassiel interjected smoothly from the far end of the table. “He is watched and monitored… as you all are.”
Serafino rolled a pair of bright green eyes, his black gaze gone, and uncapped his flask for another swig. Rage simmered under Malachi’s skin, crackling and hissing, his inner demon demanding destruction, but he swallowed every last drop of it. He reclined back in his chair with a small, unfazed grin. If the bastard wanted to play this game of nonchalance in front of the others, fine.
But should he be such an insolent little shit when they were alone, Malachi wouldn’t hesitate to paint the walls with his innards.
“All settled?” Aiwen kept her tone light and airy, glancing between Cassiel and Verrier as if silently asking them to muzzle their hounds. The angel gave a solemn nod, whereas Verrier merely took a long, luxurious sip from his chalice, eyes alight with mirth. She blinked at them both, waiting, then cleared her throat and smoothed a hand down the periwinkle-blue tulle adorning her slim figure, as if to collect herself. Pretty little thing, this princess. “We’ve called you all here today as representatives of the Farrow’s Hollow supernatural community because we would like to put our proposal to a vote.”
Malachi’s eyebrows shot up. A proposal? Please be something scandalous—
“We would like to open a Nocturna Resort and Spa right here in Farrow’s Hollow.”
Oh. Malachi refilled his drink, then downed it in a single gulp. How fucking anticlimactic.
Aiwen detailed her pitch with the assistance of visual aids, charted holograms hovering over the untouched roast pig in the middle of the table. Apparently the supernatural resort had fae roots, and the few they had opened across North America were so successful that they wanted to open a location in every city with a hell-gate. Throughout the presentation, Aiwen stressed that a local branch would lessen supernatural-on-human violence, allowing creatures like vampires and lust demons a private place to feed that was sanctioned, safe, and consensual.
“Communities with one of our resorts report higher supernatural satisfaction here on Earth than those without,” Aiwen remarked some thirty dreadfully boring minutes later. The hologram over the table shifted to yet another spreadsheet and graph display, and Malachi battled the urge to jam one of those gold forks in his eye. Cordelia, meanwhile, had finally helped herself to a pig leg while Serafino watched her from across the table. His lips curled with disgust as she bit into the pork, juices spilling down her gloved hands.
“Memberships are expensive, but we are willing to work with clans, families, and colonies to offer discounts to those who cannot afford our usual prices. Serafino, as head of your colony, should you become an elite member, your children will receive deep discounts on all applicable vampire services.”
The vampire grunted in a noncommittal sort of way that had Malachi rolling his eyes.
“We provide jobs and stability for supernatural communities, and with Farrow’s Hollow in flux after the, er, demonic purge earlier this year, we believe this is the perfect time to install an institution like Nocturna.”
“When will you break ground if approved?” Cassiel inquired, the angels around him studying Aiwen with rapt attention. No surprise that an establishment like this would appeal to them; anything to keep the darkness in check.
“In the spring,” Aiwen told him with a bubbly smile. “We have several locations in mind—”
“Enough of this.” Verrier pushed back from the table and stood, boredom all but weeping from his pores. “I lend my vote in support of the institution. I believe Farrow’s Hollow would be better for it and support the decision to build a Nocturna location. Should you wish to develop on my land, I implore you to contact my associates—not me directly.” The fallen angel drew up to his full height, snatching his walking stick from its place against the table as his eyes narrowed at the fairy princess. “In fact, I don’t believe this summit required my presence to begin with. A letter with a yea or nay checkbox and a mandatory blood signature would have sufficed.”
And with that, the former prince of Hell swept out of the room, accompanied by the clipped footfalls of Italian leather and the ominous clunk of onyx. The conference room fell silent until the door closed behind him, and, cheeks speckled pink, Aiwen cleared her throat and clapped her hands together.
“Right. Well. That’s one vote. What say you all?”
Much to Malachi’s surprise, the vote was unanimous in favor of building a Nocturna resort—which certainly changed things. After all, with a legal, regulated establishment in place to curb some of the more destructive demonic appetites, an obscenely bright spotlight would shine on all other seedy activity, even with the elite crime family model Malachi had in mind.
No matter. He could adapt. Corrupting humans required a subtle, insidious hand. That hadn’t changed. His vote of support showed that he was willing to play nice with the rest of the city’s substantial players. Beyond that, a resort that offered services for lust demons meant Severus would never have to escort again. He could pay a fee, fill up on human essence willingly given, and that was that. Moira would be thrilled.
With the votes tallied, the summit came to an abrupt end. While the angels busied themselves with Aiwen and her counterparts, the elves stood and drifted back to the window, whispering amongst themselves in a language so ancient it was lost to even Malachi.
“Shall we?” He
pulled out his cousin’s chair and helped her up, her figure weighed down by the ridiculous brocade bustle on the back of her dress. “I’ve sent for a car.”
“I want to stay,” Cordelia told him, her gloved hands spotless courtesy of whatever cleansing spell had made her nose bleed. Eyes fixed on the trio of elves overlooking the cityscape, she flashed a quick smile. “I’ve questions for the pointy-eared ones.”
“Of course you do.” Far more than they could handle, probably. He slipped his hands into his pockets, watching her toddle off to address the elves, sashaying right into the middle of their huddle like they were age old friends. Classic Cordelia.
With nothing else tethering him here—and unable to disembowel Serafino while in this building without breaking his blood oath—Malachi departed, carrying on down the corridor and tapping the elevator button. In an instant, the machine whirred to life, the numbers overhead racing by in rapid succession—only to pause halfway up the tower. Malachi huffed, checking his phone for the car’s estimated arrival time. Four minutes. Good.
“I know you have one of my children in that invisible house of yours.”
He flinched at Serafino’s sudden appearance at his side. Half a head shorter, the vampire stood studying the golden elevator doors, the pair’s warped reflections staring back. Malachi’s inner demon snarled, bubbling up his throat with such pungent heat that it ached. Had he no self-control, the hell-born vampire would have found himself without a head—for he had just admitted to attacking Ella.
Could the demon sense the shift in his aura? The buzzing, humming, violent chaos swirling around him?
Despite all that, Malachi held his tongue, savoring the fire raging within, waiting to unleash it at the opportune moment.
“I can sense her, you know,” Serafino continued, his tone light, casual, like they were accustomed to amicable conversations. “Ella Thomas. Exquisite creature. I’ve watched her for the better part of this year. Her beauty. Her intellect. Her mouth. Her ass.”