Rise of the Fallen

by Donya Lynne

  She didn't have to love her job, though. She just had to do it well and endure it, for a few more years, anyway.

  Once she had shoveled in the last of her grapefruit and swiped away her tears, she tipped the bowl to her mouth and guzzled the juice then rinsed the bowl. After shutting off the kitchen light, she quickly checked her reflection in the bathroom mirror and teased her boy-short blond hair with her fingertips. Piecy. That's what the girl who cut her hair called it. Piecy. Pieces of hair stuck up and out in soft, fashionable peaks.

  Time to go. With a quick check to make sure her Beretta was in her bag, she grabbed her duffel and ran out the door.

  * * *

  "Hey, Pax?" Adam disconnected the call to Micah Black, one of Tristan's enforcers.

  "What's up, Probie?" Paxton, the senior dispatcher on duty, spun around and shoved himself across the width of the narrow room, his chair gliding over and ramming the counter next to Adam.

  "Micah Black. He's not answering his phone. Should I contact Tristan?" This was Adam's first sustained non-response since he had come on board at AKM two weeks ago. Micah hadn't answered his phone in several days and, according to the schedule, he hadn't checked in, either.

  "Nah, ignore it."

  "What? Ignore it?" Adam turned back to the call log on his computer screen. "But he hasn't answered in…" He counted up the check boxes, "Seven days. And according to the schedule, he's missed every shift in the past week. Shouldn't his commander be notified?"

  "The past week?" Pax laughed. "No wonder it's been so quiet around here."

  "What do you mean?"

  "You haven't met Micah, yet, have you, Probie."

  The other two in the room chuckled and Adam frowned. Was he missing the joke? "No. Why?"

  Pax wheeled himself over to his side of the room and leaned back in his chair. "Look, Micah does his own thing. You stay out of his way and he'll stay out of yours. Capiche?"

  "What's that got to do with protocol?" According to his training, a non-responsive agent was supposed to be reported to the agent's commanding officer, but Adam had to go through his supervisor since he was so new, and his supervisor was Paxton.

  Paxton and the other two laughed.

  "Protocol? Guys, when does Micah ever follow protocol?" Paxton looked at the other two dispatchers. Adam glanced around at them as they both shook their heads and chuckled.

  "Here's how it is, Probie," Paxton said, "There is no protocol with Micah. He's what we call the Lone Ranger, because he does what he wants, when he wants. He barely even follows Tristan's orders half the time."

  "But according to the log, he never misses a shift but has been MIA for a week. Isn't that odd?"

  "Fuck no. It's a blessing. Enjoy it, Probie. When he gets back you'll be wishing he'd stayed away." Paxton turned back to his monitor and dismissed the conversation. "Hey, guys, are the Blackhawks playing tonight?"

  One of the others piped up. "I'm not sure. I'll check."

  Adam frowned at his call log while the others shot the shit about hockey. He didn't feel right about this, but what could he do? If Paxton refused to report Micah's absence, then there wasn't a lot he could do but keep calling.

  He opened up a new line and dialed then adjusted his earpiece as he waited to see if Micah would pick up. At least he could leave another message if he didn't. He didn't know Micah, but he hoped the guy was okay.

  * * *

  As Micah wandered around his apartment wearing only a pair of black briefs, his thumb worked rhythmically over his sternum, massaging the ache that wouldn't go away, his face contorted in a mix of pain and despair. Only one thing could squelch the nauseating pain. More pain. It was like fighting fire with fire. Sometimes, to stop a bigger fire, several smaller ones had to be set. That's what Micah needed: Pain to end pain.

  It was another night and he needed to find something to ease his distress. He needed to find a fight. No, wait. He had already tried that last night and it hadn't been enough. Getting his ass kicked wasn't cutting it, anymore. Shit. Now what?

  His cell rang and vibrated against the kitchen counter for what had to be the third time in thirty minutes. Micah glanced at the caller I.D. as he walked past. AKM Dispatch. AKM. All the King's Men. He chuffed softly. He didn't feel very king-worthy right now. As with the previous calls, he didn't answer and let it go to voicemail. Let them leave a message. Maybe he would get back to them, maybe he wouldn't.

  In numb silence, Micah ambled to his bedroom and pulled on black nylon sweats and a black and grey camo muscle shirt. The shirt used to hug his body like a second skin, but now it hung like it was two sizes too large. After a week of not eating or feeding, he'd lost enough weight that his sweats slid down and hung low on his waist. But he still refused to eat. Food wasn't what he needed.

  Pain. Suffering. Agony.

  Those were the things his body craved now.

  Before turning off the light in the closet, he caught his reflection in the mirror. What stared back was a skull with skin. Empty shadows filled his sunken face. He looked like hell, but at least he looked how he felt. If anyone didn't like it, they could go fuck themselves.

  As he turned away, his gaze swept the collection of knives on his weapons shelf: Next to his two Sig Sauers and extra clips was a twelve-inch Bowie knife, a nine-and-a-half-inch Ka-Bar Big Brother knife, a black Tanto knife – what could he say, he had a thing for knives – and several more various blades. He was about to shut off the light when his gaze landed on his razor sharp, double-edged boot knife. He froze. Four inches of cold steel stared back at him like a seductive temptress.

  "Hello friend." He picked up the small but lethal knife and a tic twitched the corner of his mouth like he was an addict waiting for his dealer to hurry-up-and-give-him-the-stuff-already.

  He slowly turned the knife in his hands, mesmerized as he shut off the light in the closet and drifted back into his room. He didn't even realize he was standing in front of his dresser until he looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror. The stranger that glared back at him sneered.

  You're a loser. A waste. A burden. A burden who caused Jackson to leave. It's all your fault. You're worthless.

  Self-destructive thoughts pummeled him like Mike Tyson in his prime. Each thought was a body blow, hurting him more, bruising his heart, knocking the air out of him.

  Micah's breathing deepened and turned ragged. His eyes flitted in a panic. He was suddenly claustrophobic and felt like he was in a six-by-six box. His hands shook. Crazed panic shuddered his lungs. He needed to get out of the box. He couldn't be locked up like this.

  Suddenly, his eyes caught that magical, elegant blade once more, and his body calmed. His mind went silent. His breathing returned to normal and he felt a surge of peace.

  Aaahhhh, sweet pain waited for him in his hand. He didn't have to go in search of a fight, did he? The pain he needed was right here. It always had been.

  ‎With anticipation, he yanked off his shirt and tossed it to the floor. The knife was like a pen light in the hands of a hypnotist: You're getting sleepy. Very sleepy. Do as I say.

  Somehow he ended up in the bathroom without a clear memory of how he got there, his arm poised over the raised Spun Glass bowl of the sink. With the underside staring back at him like a sacrifice, his grin widened. The knife – his arm – the knife. His gaze darted back and forth between the two, and a perverse, lusty thrill came over him. He actually pulled a semi in his sweats, he was so excited.

  It was as if Micah was only an observer, and the tip of the knife was about to pierce someone else's arm, and he couldn't wait to see them bleed. But when the blade cut into flesh, it was his arm that bled.

  Sweet Pain.

  His eyes rolled back as he savored the sting, and a content sigh eased out of his throat. As a dom who no longer practiced, he had caused plenty of people pain for pleasure, but never once had he given that pleasure to himself. Mmm. So this was what his submissives had felt. He could see the allure.

&n
bsp; Pleasantly dazed, he opened his eyes and watched his blood travel down his arm and drip into the clear glass sink then slide down to the drain, where it pooled around the seam of the metal ring. Then he licked the wound, sealing it with his venom, and cut himself again. And again. And still again. Each time, Micah felt himself tumble further into the abyss of destruction, watching his blood flow like he was rubber-necking a bad traffic accident he couldn't rip his gaze from.

  Finally, he looked up at the mirror over the vanity.

  Who was that looking back at him? The person in the reflection was a stranger. The enemy. The one who had destroyed everything and chased Jackson away.

  Frowning, he growled at himself. "You're a fuck up. A fucking loser."

  The knife dug angrily into his flesh again and the face in the mirror winced. Micah smiled in triumph. That asshole looking back at him deserved it. But wait, the fucker was smiling. He was smiling at Micah, mocking him.

  "What are you smiling at?"

  You, asshole. The stranger laughed at him as if he was in on a joke Micah could only guess at. You're a loser. A no-good, washed up loser. Nobody wants you. Katarina died because of you. Jackson left you. You ruined their lives. You were never any good for them. Save everyone the trouble and just die.

  Micah grimaced. Who the hell was this asshole who knew him so well? "I hate you. I fucking hate you! SHUT UP!"

  The knife clanked into the sink, and Micah smashed his fist into the mirror. Shards of glass exploded outward and rained down to the tiled floor and into the sink as Micah snarled violently, feeling momentarily victorious for shutting up that asshole.

  Suddenly, Micah shook his head. What had just happened? He blinked hard, trying to focus. The broken glass, the blood, the knife, the stranger in the mirror.

  Stranger? God, what was he doing? What was he thinking? He was losing his mind. Going crazy. Fighting against himself. Enough sanity remained for him to realize he had just tried to kick his own ass.

  And what was with his arm? He raised it and backed away from the sink until his back met the wall, and he sank to the floor. He had cut himself, and blood coated his forearm and his hand. What was he doing?

  Then he noticed that the ache in his chest was gone. He huffed out a manic chuckle as he rubbed his palm over his sternum. The pain was gone. Whatever he had done had worked, but now his mind was scrambled like eggs in a hot skillet. None of that mattered, though. He had found the cure to his pain, at least for now. So what if the cost was his sanity?

  Hell and shadows invaded his mind as he stared at his bleeding arm. This was his life now. He'd better get used to it. And if he couldn't? There was always death.

  CHAPTER THREE

  One week later…

  Adam disconnected the phone and glanced at Paxton. Another week had passed and Micah still wasn't answering his phone and hadn't checked in. It had been two weeks and Micah was still MIA, and Paxton still wasn't concerned.

  Pursing his lips nervously, Adam brought up Tristan's schedule. Micah's commander had taken a medical leave the past two weeks, but it looked like he was finally back.

  As far as Adam was concerned, this matter should have been brought to Tristan's attention over a week ago, whether it meant interrupting him on his leave or not, but Paxton had sat on his ass and done nothing. Micah could be lying in a pile of sun-baked dust out there, or he could be dead in his home, and the longer they delayed, the harder it would be to figure out what had happened to him.

  Adam looked at Paxton again then made a decision. If this cost him his job, so be it. He printed Micah's schedule and a copy of the report showing all the no-reports and non-responses then quietly rolled them up in his hand.

  "I'm going for coffee," he said.

  No one even looked at him, so he got up and slipped out.

  * * *

  Tristan leaned back in his chair. Shit sure had piled up in the last two weeks while he had been gone. He needed to get through all this paperwork so he could meet with his team again. They usually met nightly before patrol, but after being gone so long, he was out of touch with what was going down.

  "Excuse me, sir?"

  Tristan looked up to see Adam from Dispatch standing just inside his door.

  "Yes, what is it, Adam? By the way, how are you getting on in Dispatch?" Tristan liked Adam. He was a smart kid, and from what Tristan could tell, he had the chops to be an enforcer someday. Adam was one to watch. And he was a day walker, too. About one-fourth of vampires were day walkers nowadays with all the mating that had gone on between humans and vampires through the centuries. The growing ranks at AKM reflected the ratio, too.

  "Um, I like it. I'm learning a lot." Adam fidgeted and looked over his shoulder.

  Tristan sensed the kid was nervous about something, and that made him curious. "Why don't you come in and have a seat?" He gestured to a chair.

  Adam offered a tight, respectful smile, his straight blond hair hanging down over his luminous eyes. After closing the door behind him, he took a seat.

  "What's on your mind?" Tristan said

  "Micah Black."

  Tristan's blood went cold. This couldn't be good. "What's he done now?"

  "Nothing, sir. That's just it. It's been two weeks since he last checked in."

  Two weeks!? "What?"

  Adam held out the report he had brought with him. Tristan flipped through the pages and scanned the call log and schedule sheets, noting all the no-shows and no answers by Micah's name.

  "Why wasn't I told earlier?" Tristan raked his fingers through his short, sandy blond hair, unable to comprehend what he was seeing and hearing.

  "My supervisor told me to ignore it, that Micah does his own thing." Adam fidgeted. "But after two weeks of non-response, I had to do something. Paxton wasn't doing anything about it, so here I am. If it gets me fired, it gets me fired, but I thought you needed to know."

  Tristan's anger rose. Someone might lose their job, but it wasn't going to be Adam. "Don't you worry about your job, Adam. In fact, you might just get a promotion if I have anything to say about it."

  "Sir?"

  "Nothing. Good work. You did the right thing by making me aware of the situation."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Call me Tristan, Adam. I can't stomach the formality."

  "Yes, sir—Tristan, I mean."

  "Okay, head on back. I'll take care of it from here."

  Adam nodded and smiled grimly then got up and left.

  Tristan grabbed his phone and dialed Dispatch.

  "Yes?" Paxton.

  "My office. Now."

  Dead air answered and Tristan imagined Paxton's face had just drained of all color.

  "U-uh, yes. Yes, sir. I'll be right there."

  Tristan slammed down his receiver and sprang from his chair. Fuck! What had happened to Micah?

  Twenty minutes later, and after chewing Paxton a new asshole and sending him back to Dispatch freshly skinned, Tristan sent orders to the members of his team to do some checking then pulled them together for a pow-wow. They were just as at fault for not keeping him informed about Micah's absence as Paxton and the other dispatch supervisors were. Someone should have made an effort to reach him while he had been taking care of Josie.

  Tristan tapped the butt-end of his pen against his desk. Tap-tap-tap-ratta-tat. It tittered like a tiny machine gun.

  His last phone conversation with Micah had been right after Jackson had split and right before he had gone on medical leave to take care of Josie. Micah had at least had the courtesy to call and tell him he was going to take a few days off:

  "I need some time off."

  "Yeah? What for?"

  "Jackson split."

  "Shit, man, you okay?"

  "Fine."

  "I'm sending someone to pick you up. You need to be in observation."

  "No."

  "Micah—"

  "I said no. I'm fine."

  "You sure?"

  "Fuck off."

 
; Micah had hung up on him and that was the last he'd talked to the guy, and then Josie had gotten morning sickness so bad that he had forgotten all about Micah. Now, no one knew where Micah was. Great! The team's loose cannon was fucking MIA, and if Tristan had thought Micah had been hard to control before, he could only imagine how messed up he was now, or what damage he was doing to the shaky truce between the vampires and drecks. Micah was the type who could single-handedly end the truce. His cannon really was that loose.

  Looking across his desk, his gaze darted from one pair of eyes to the next as he took in the other members of his team of enforcers.

  Malek sat directly across from Tristan, the light reflecting blue off his long, jet-black hair.

  "Anything?" Tristan asked him.

  Malek shook his head. "Not yet."

  Iobates chimed in, "Still won't answer his phone, either. And his dorm hasn't been touched."

  "Thanks for checking, Io." Tristan's aggravation grew. So, Micah wasn't home, hadn't used his dorm at the compound, wouldn't answer his phone, and hadn't checked in for two weeks.

  "Trace, did it even look like Micah had been at his house?"

  Traceon leaned against the far wall. He had come from the training center to attend the meeting, and rivulets of perspiration still trailed from the top of his shaved head down his neck, making his dark skin glisten. He stood with his arms crossed, a matchstick between his lips. With a shake of his head, he plucked the matchstick from his mouth. "The milk in his fridge was halfway to cheese and the mailbox was full. What do you think?"

  Trace was almost as indifferent and emotionally detached as Micah, but at least he followed orders and didn't ask for special favors.

  Case in point, after bonding to Jackson, Micah had talked Tristan into letting him have a second, private residence. No one at AKM knew where the two of them lived together, but at least Micah had spent half his nights at his known address for the past year. Now it looked like he had abandoned his house altogether and fallen off the face of the planet.

  Tristan should have known better than to let Micah have a private residence, but like everyone else, he gave Micah more latitude than the others. It was how shit had to be done with Micah. He did what he wanted, anyway, so why fight it? And sure, Micah was the private recluse of the bunch, but this disappearing act wasn't like him.