by Liz Meldon
As Alaric and Severus headed for the front door, grabbing keys and coats and boots, Moira hung back by her side, stubborn as ever, and Cordelia gave her cousin a quick hug.
“Stay inside, Mal,” she murmured, her voice low enough to suggest that it was only meant for his ears, but Ella heard just about everything these days if she paid enough attention. “It’s her best hope of surviving the night a free vampire. No one can break my wards.”
Ella bit the insides of her cheeks until she tasted the salty tang of her own blood. While everyone had her best interests at heart, along with the collective safety of Farrow’s Hollow, she just wished they would let her call at least some of the shots. Serafino may have singled her out, but she could ignore the bastard.
And with Malachi by her side, this didn’t seem like a fight she could lose.
But she said none of that, and they left her all the same. Moira hugged her goodbye at the door, the look in her eyes insisting she would stay behind if Ella asked. Ella loved her for it—for her loyalty, for her devotion to their bond. But Severus was right. They needed Moira to parlay with the angels; she could do more out there than inside some invisible house.
The door shut firmly behind her, leaving Ella and Malachi alone in a weighted silence. A quick glance back told her the chaos demon wasn’t thrilled about being left behind; perched at the edge of the table, he scowled at an indeterminate spot on the window, brows furrowed and jaw set. Obviously he wanted to be out there, cutting down anyone who dared threaten his city. The guy was probably hard just thinking about all the blood, the destruction, the chaos of a vampire uprising.
But he was here with her—babysitting—and she really did feel for him.
Because Ella wanted to be out there too, answering the rising bloodlust inside her, defending her home with all her new supernatural strength.
Fighting right alongside this chaos demon who made her feel so viscerally, watching him do what he did best—what he was born to do.
“This is such bullshit,” she said hoarsely, bloody tears stinging her eyes. Tears for the pain Serafino threatened to unleash on her home, on her friends. Tears for the fact that she was holding Malachi back. Tears—just because. Stupid human emotions.
Wiping at her face, she darted upstairs at vamp speed just as he started to say something, unable to listen to him insist that he was fine giving up chaos for her.
Unable to listen to him play the good guy—and lie straight to her face.
Chapter Fifteen
Trust Serafino Lutum to ruin his night an hour after going topside again.
Malachi had strolled out of the hell-gate with a strategic lead on the bastard, and now—now everything had gone to shit in a matter of minutes. With the rest of the household departed and Ella upstairs, clearly emotional, the evening had taken a turn for the worse. So much for hours of unbridled, bloody fucking to celebrate their reunion; he’d be fortunate if Ella hadn’t barricaded herself in her bedroom, locks and all, to ride out her master’s ridiculous stunt alone.
And that was all this was: a stunt.
Sure, knowing what Malachi now did about the vampire’s tactics, his ideology, the slavish devotion of his militant followers in Hell, perhaps an uprising on Earth truly was the endgame. But Serafino hadn’t a shot of seeing it through in a city with its own battalion of warrior angels. Really. Not only would the winged fucks at Seraphim Securities eliminate any and all dire threats facing humanity, but a former prince had made Farrow’s Hollow his home. The likelihood of Verrier just handing it all over to some Lutum vampire scum was so slim it was practically transparent.
Still, there was always the chance that the vampire paradise on Earth wasn’t the endgame. If the colony really had grown to the size that Alaric implied over dinner, then there could be over a hundred vampires on the streets tonight, breaking into homes and businesses to feed. And if the angels intended to stop them, they would have to do so in the presence of their charges.
The humans of Farrow’s Hollow were fucked, one way or another; their precious worldview would be shattered tonight, be it by angels or vampires—nothing would ever be the same.
It would be a gory, ferocious rebellion.
And Malachi had volunteered to sit it out.
Arms crossed, he checked the time on the little digital clock over the stove. Thirty-five minutes to an uprising. Hopefully his brother had located Moira’s angelic mentor by now; perhaps he wouldn’t miss a glorious battle destined for the history books. Perhaps it would all be over before it even started.
How dreadfully boring.
Even more boring when he considered the fact that someone else—someone with wings—would collect on Asmodeus’s bounty. Naturally, Cassiel and his boys would either lock Serafino away or kill him themselves, but Malachi would have liked to present the fucker’s head to the enforcers in Hell for a little extra credit. It certainly never hurt to be in Asmodeus’s favor, especially when one already had two strikes to one’s name.
Through no fault of one’s own, of course.
His inner demon grumbled. Well, all right, fine. Malachi had raised his fair share of, well, hell in Hell over the past few centuries. It was a miracle he had only been caught red-handed twice.
Despite the many layers of wood and concrete separating them, Malachi still heard a very distinct thump somewhere upstairs. Ella. None of this was fair for her, but then again, life was hardly fair. This was just another painful blow she’d have to brush off if she wanted to keep going, and from all he had learned about his favorite little vampire, it was that she desperately wanted to keep going. Ella wanted to live, and Serafino’s more personal demands would have shaken her. Because what was life without freedom?
As Malachi snatched her wineglass off the table and headed for the stairs, he vowed that she would keep her freedom—that he would die before she became Serafino’s newest toy.
His inner demon clawed at his chest, foaming at the mouth to get outside. The promise of blood and gore and destruction had gotten him all riled up; Malachi had been flying at half-mast since Ella shared the news with the household, and the chaos demon inside him was desperate for a bit of fun.
Each staircase climbed took him farther and farther from the action, and his inner demon made his discontent known, raking Malachi’s insides until he tasted blood. Still, his resolve was far stronger than the chaos storming within—that had always been the way. He loved it, every brutal second of it, but Malachi had acquired a spark of intelligence from his mother’s side. Thankfully, he hadn’t inherited his maternal line’s penchant for madness, unlike Cordelia, but his mind had always calculated risk and reward over unchecked chaos.
Tonight, he had vowed to stay with Ella—to protect her if need be. He was a demon of his word, and even if he’d rather be hacking vampires to bits and ridding Serafino of his head, he would stay by her side until the uprising passed.
Longer, if she so desired.
Much to his surprise, he didn’t find Ella in her room, its door unlocked, its bed unmade, the bathroom cast in shadow. Frowning, Malachi paused for a moment to listen to the settling of the house, breathing in her natural scent. It had changed from human to vampire, losing its faint vanilla warmth, opting instead for something floral—but the floral wasn’t sweet, hardly reminiscent of girlish blossoms and peaceful summer days.
No, when he filled his lungs with Ella Thomas as she was now, the florals reminded him of Hell’s raging blooms, the kind that would devour a demon whole should they venture too close.
And, to be honest, he much preferred that.
Malachi was met with the usual sounds of the house exhaling a long, settling breath. Nothing out of the ordinary here. No sniffling. No little feet pacing over floorboards.
Ella wasn’t inside the house.
Panic twisted in his gut, colliding with the visceral thrill of the hunt as he marched back to the staircase. However, rather than going down and out, Malachi went up, taking the last set of stair
s three at a time, all the way up to Severus and Moira’s fourth floor. Sure enough, there was the ladder sticking out of Severus’s closet; his little vampire had decided to seek solace on the roof.
Grinning, Malachi tossed the empty wineglass onto his brother’s meticulously made bed, then clambered up the creaking wood rungs and pushed through the uncomfortably narrow door in the closet ceiling. Winter’s bitter chill assaulted him immediately, and he hesitated, the wind nipping at any bits of exposed flesh it could find. Demons relished the heat of Hell with its scorched earth and deadly wastelands; Earth’s northern hemisphere was hardly a fitting place to call home.
But if Ella could withstand the frost, so could he.
A light dusting of rooftop snow whooshed into his face, his neck, his chest as he climbed through the opening. His skin prickled in response, and Malachi brushed the cold damp away before shutting the trapdoor behind him.
A quiet, muted night greeted him, the oppressive blanket of winter disrupted occasionally by the odd car horn in the distance. Ella sat where he had found her once before: right at the roof’s edge overlooking their street, legs dangling over the side, the breeze toying with her mass of curls. His fingers twitched, desperate to bury themselves in her mountain of unruly hair, right down to her scalp—preferably while he pounded into her, but never mind that.
She didn’t so much as glance back as he approached, and Malachi did nothing to disguise his presence. Clearing his throat, he swept the spot next to her clean with his foot, about two inches of snow trickling down to the sidewalk below. Naturally, that did nothing to get rid of the wet, which seeped right through the seat of his trousers as soon as he sat down. Perfect. Scowling, Malachi made himself as comfortable as possible on the flat, freezing stone, his thigh against hers, their legs swinging in tandem.
Without a word, he tugged up his sleeve and offered her the underside of his wrist, the same he had slit less than an hour ago so he could fill her glass again. His hand had mostly healed from Moira’s punishment, all pink and new and sensitive to the elements. Ella shook her head, flashing a quick smile as she patted his forearm, her skin just as chilly as the night air.
“Thanks,” she murmured, rolling down his sleeve for him. “I’m… not hungry.”
“Has he shut his ridiculous mouth yet?” Malachi inquired with a nod to her forehead. How infuriating, to have some bastard screeching inside your head. He understood the sensation, given all demons lived with a distinct entity inside while they were on Earth, their truest form separate from the humanoid shell crafted by the hell-gate. Still, his inner demon didn’t talk. There were no threats uttered, no ceaseless barrage of noise. Not that the slicing of claws up Malachi’s throat was much better, but he could withstand it because, technically, he was doing it to himself.
Ella had to cope with a stranger inside her mind, and it wouldn’t stop until someone cut the fucker’s head off.
“No, he’s still going,” she told him, toying with Malachi’s fingers. While she had rolled his sleeve down, neither had commented on the fact that his arm now splayed possessively across her thighs, his large hand the object of her attention as both of hers explored it. “I can tune him out though. I don’t… I don’t think I need your blood right now. I’d burst if I drank more.”
“Hmm.”
Below, a car crept by well under the speed limit. It wobbled along the snow-covered streets, brake lights flashing as the elderly driver battled for control.
“Kind of a déjà vu moment, eh?” Ella said with a quick glance his way. Her smile turned shy when their eyes met, and the best he could manage was a nod. Yes, they had been here before; the night Aeneas died, Ella had also retreated to the roof. He’d been able to smell the liquor weeping from her pores the second he opened the little trapdoor in Severus’s closet. They had sat like this as well, side by side, touching. She had tasted of whiskey and sorrow, and Malachi had no regrets about how he’d handled her; turning her down had been the right thing to do.
In fact, he had no regrets about any of their history—because it had led them to this moment, seated together before a tidal wave of blood slammed into their shores, her hands in his, her small frame tucked neatly against his side. He would have preferred it to be warmer, sure, but beyond that, Malachi would change absolutely nothing, not even Serafino.
“This feels like my fault,” Ella admitted after a few moments of easy silence. “Tonight, with him and the colony—”
“It isn’t your fault.” Malachi caught her chin and tilted it up so she could see the certainty in his eyes. “None of it.”
“I mean, logically I know that.” She blinked hard, then tugged her face out of his grasp to wipe under her eyes. “I hate sitting here, waiting for it to happen. I just… I want…”
“You want to fight.” He remembered her stubborn spirit the night of the raid on Seraphim Securities, strolling up with a gun on each hip, dressed in black and determined to do her part. That bouncy, glossy ponytail had haunted his dreams for weeks after. At the time, her presence had enraged him; a human didn’t belong in a battle of angels and demons. He had made it his mission that night, on top of rescuing his brother, to keep the foolish little thing safe—because there was no turning her away.
Now, however, she had the stamina for war. She had the body for battle, the mind for bloodshed. If she could resist her master, then Malachi saw no reason for her to sit home like a child while the others disappeared into the night to fix this problem. She belonged out there, in the streets.
By his side.
“I’m afraid I would have been outvoted had I spoken my mind,” he rumbled, his large hand settling over her thigh again, fingers digging in and staking his claim. She made no attempt to escape him, to shy away from his touch. Malachi’s hand drifted upward, his little finger a twitch away from her center. “I think you belong out there. This isn’t your fault, but it’s wrong to deny you the opportunity to confront him.”
Of course, Malachi wouldn’t send her out there alone, not as Serafino’s obsession with her became more and more apparent. Sure, she was stronger, faster, more durable now than she had been as a human, but that didn’t mean she innately understood combat, that she would know what to do, how to defend herself, should her master make a real move to take her. Moira had needed some guidance with hand-to-hand fighting, and Ella would be much the same.
Still, he had no doubt that if left to her own devices, the little vampire at his side could wreak havoc.
And he would enjoy every beautiful second of it.
“I appreciate that,” she said, her smile ridiculously infectious. Malachi shrugged, the cold burning his throat, his lungs, with every breath he took—a pain he could endure, easily, by her side.
“Well, you aren’t as breakable as you once were.” If she could blush, perhaps she might have. Instead, Ella averted her gaze, still smiling, and Malachi brushed a rogue curl back to join the rest. “Besides, who am I to deny anyone their right to tear an enemy asunder?”
Much to his surprise, she giggled, the sound paired with a roll of her eyes. “Uh-huh.”
Her laughter was paradise, an oasis in a bleak, black desert. Malachi racked his brain for something else to say, something to elicit that sound again, but before he could utter it, Ella dug his hand out from between her thighs. Rather than return it to his lap, she lifted it instead, snuggling under his arm and burrowing into his side, and he let her. Not necessarily one for cuddling, Malachi waited until she had stilled, then draped his arm around her diminutive frame. Somehow, this felt infinitely better than the warmth between her thighs, but he couldn’t fathom why.
“Do you think they’re okay?” she asked, the freezing tip of her nose brushing against his throat. He dragged her closer. A faint tremor plagued his limbs, the cold finally getting to him.
“They have plenty of time,” he mused. “I’m sure they’ll all be back before nine.” Farrow’s Hollow had a sprawling downtown, yes, but it wasn’t so large t
hat it would take them hours to reach the angel’s apartment. “Nothing to worry about.”
Ella nodded, her fingers walking the length of his thigh and back down again. “I guess it’s pretty quiet tonight.” She paused, her hand flat over his knee, his flesh tingling beneath her tentative touch. “But it’s always quiet before a storm, right?”
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “Always.”
And that quiet was always so dreadfully boring, boring, fucking boring. Malachi hated the calm before the storm, the escalation to madness. He much preferred the storm.
But lately he had come to consider the creature at his side a storm unto her own, and in the quiet of that night, amidst snow and darkness, peace and quiet, he found he didn’t mind this part. In fact, he could sit here for hours—or, at least until the cold finally defeated him. He trailed a finger up her arm, then looped a curl around it. Perhaps the inside of her mouth would offer some degree of warmth.
Perhaps the inside of her—
“Malachi?”
“Hmm?”
She brushed him away from her hair, sitting up and studying him with a frown. “Can you be serious for a second?”
The chaos demon smirked. “Sounds rather dull, dearest.”
This time, she didn’t smile, and so he gave her a begrudging nod, silently vowing to take whatever she had to say next in stride. Ella fiddled with her red and green talons briefly, then exhaled a deep breath he knew she didn’t need.
“Why me?”
Malachi swallowed his initial response, because she had asked him to be serious. There were a dozen different paths to take here, but he needn’t ask for clarification. He knew what she meant. He tasted the implications like a bitterly sweet summer wine.
His answer could break them, sever their bond for good, especially if he responded in a way that might just protect his hammering heart rather than expose it. Something flippant, possibly sexual, devoid of feeling and truth. The way she watched him, it was almost like that was what she expected.