Rise of the Fallen

by Donya Lynne

  "Trace, get your gear," Tristan said to the dark-skinned enforcer as he came down the hall.

  Trace was the other quiet one in the bunch, but unlike Micah, Trace took orders, even if his lack of discussion made you feel like at any moment he was going to blow you off.

  "What's up?" Trace said. He had what Tristan called a DJ voice. Deep and resonant, Trace had a way of enunciating that charmed both men and women alike. Tristan imagined that Trace never had trouble finding willing partners to feed from, or for anything else, but he kept his private life just that, private. No one knew what he did or with whom.

  "Follow him." Tristan nodded toward the door Micah had just walked through on his way out.

  Trace shrugged on his coat, already armed up. "Sure thing. I was just on my way out, anyway. What am I looking for?"

  This was what Tris liked about Trace. The guy never talked back. "Just follow him. I want to make sure he doesn't go hara-kiri again."

  With a nod, Trace pulled a black skullcap over his shaved head and went after Micah. Tristan trusted Trace to keep his distance and not get caught spying. Micah was good and still might realize he was being followed, but that was a risk Tristan was willing to take to ensure his best enforcer didn't do something stupid, like get himself killed.

  * * *

  With long strides, Micah ate up the sidewalk, deep in thought. Not only had it been too many days since he had seen the woman who consumed his thoughts, but now he had to worry about John Apostle. Micah had promised the dreck he hadn't been out to trick him and that he wanted him to wipe his ass off the face of the Earth, but then Wonder Woman had arrived on the scene and changed his fate.

  Surely, Apostle would be out for his blood now. Drecks didn't like any kind of reneging and took a broken promise personally, even if it had been out of Micah's control.

  Moreover, Apostle could have marked Sam, and that shit didn't fly. Micah would break all kinds of promises and peace treaties to keep Sam Garrett protected. Fuck Apostle and his bunch of rodents. If they made a move on Sam, he'd fuck up their world so righteously the galaxy would shift from the gravitational pull of his wrath.

  Even now, Micah's fists clenched at the thought of Apostle or his cronies hurting her. He already thought of Sam as his, and it was well-known in their world that if you touched anyone claimed by a vampire, you touched the vampire, too. So, best touch lightly, and even then it was best not to touch at all or risk retribution.

  As he turned a corner, the golden arches of McDonald's were a not-so-subtle subliminal message for his stomach, glowing like a gateway to gastronomical bliss while proverbial angels sang. His stomach was encouraged to rumble its approval: Feed me. Micah had been on eating autopilot since he had met Sam, his appetite roaring back to life like a pride of lions that hadn't eaten in a month and found themselves in the midst of a herd of zebras. Smorgasbord!

  Walking through the parking lot and stepping up to the entrance, he hesitated before opening the door for a young, pregnant woman trying to corral her two young, pajama-clad children.

  The woman's gaze lifted when she realized someone was holding the door for her. With a nervous start, she eyed him fearfully. "Oh, I'm sorry. Let me get out of your way." Her eyes took in his black attire and what must have been a scary-ass mug to make her look at him like he was Dracula.

  Frowning, Micah ran his tongue over his teeth, ensuring his fangs weren't bared. He normally had this effect on people, both men and women alike, but it was better to make sure he hadn't vamped out without realizing it. He had been off-kilter the last few days, after all.

  Averting his gaze, he stepped back and tried to say in his most congenial voice, "No hurry, ma'am. Take your time. Can I lend a hand?"

  "No." The word snapped out. She probably thought he had asked if he could help her so he could get her alone and have his way with her or some shit. Sometimes, being the scary-looking, bad-ass vampire with an attitude problem had major drawbacks. This was one of them. Why it suddenly mattered, though, was a mystery.

  "Have a good evening, ma'am," he said. She ushered her kids past him and out the door to the minivan in a nearby space.

  She ignored him and he sighed with disappointment as he entered and approached the counter. As the barely-twenty-something girl behind the counter shrank back, Micah mentally rolled his eyes. Shit. Couldn't he just enter a McDonald's and order some goddamn food without everyone he came in contact with thinking he was going to rape, beat, or rob them?

  "W-Welcome to McDonald's. C-Can I help you?"

  Forcing himself to smile because he knew that humans responded well to smiles, he stepped up and eyed the menu. "Yes, I'd like a Double Quarter Pounder with cheese meal, supersized, with a Coke, an order of McNuggets…" his eyes continued scanning the board. "How about a grilled chicken sandwich, too? Oh, and two apple pies."

  The girl responded well to his smile, smiling back and looking him over with new interest. "This all for you?" she said, flirting.

  It never ceased to amaze Micah how quickly a smile could transform someone's fear into attraction.

  "Yep." He grinned as he fished out his black leather wallet. He lowered his voice and leaned in like they were best friends. "Do you think it's too much? Think I'll get fat if I keep eating like that?"

  She giggled and shook her head. "I don't think you have anything to worry about there." A blush rouged her cheeks. Shyly avoiding eye contact with him, she gave his total then turned to gather his food.

  When she returned with a loaded tray, he paid and thanked her, then stepped into the empty dining area and found a table by the window where he could watch the goings-on outside. Taking off his bomber jacket, he sat down and dug in to his meal, his dark eyes scanning the streets. Tristan had to have sent someone to follow him. He knew his commander too well, but hell if he could get a bead on who it was.

  Which meant it had to be Traceon. That bastard was like a stealth bomber, flying undetected in the wide open spaces, finding ways to blend in to the milieu and shadows so that even Micah struggled to find him. It was those damn mutant powers of his. Fucking mixed-breed day walker.

  Micah hated being followed.

  He grabbed his cell phone and dialed Trace's number as he shoveled French fries into his mouth.

  "Fucker," Trace's voice said after one ring. Then Micah saw him step out of the shadows across the street.

  Micah chuckled and swallowed. "I knew it was you, asshole."

  "How?" Trace crossed the street and headed toward the entrance.

  "I may not talk much, but I know my teammates." Taking a bite of grilled chicken sandwich, Micah washed it down with Coke.

  Yes, Micah knew his teammates, because he usually kept his mouth shut and his eyes and ears open. He also had a habit of dipping into the minds of those around him. Not so much a habit, really. He just couldn't stop himself. Micah always just found himself wandering through the thoughts of others. Except for Trace. Trace's mind was guarded better than Guantanamo Bay. No one was getting inside his head.

  "Tris wants to make sure you don't get hurt."

  "Go back and tell Dad I'm fine, I will continue to be fine, and I don't need a babysitter. You catching my drift?"

  "You're not the boss, Micah," Traceon said, disconnecting and sitting down across from him.

  Micah didn't even look up, just kept eating like Trace wasn't even there as he hung up his phone and set it on the table. "Just go back and stop following me. You'll just piss me off if you don't."

  "What's new?"

  Glancing up, Micah arched an eyebrow. "You saying I'm moody?" He knew the stories. He wasn't given a long leash for being the most agreeable member of Tristan's team, after all.

  Trace clucked his tongue and looked out the window. Very little fazed the dark-skinned day walker. "I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

  Micah actually liked Traceon, at least as much as he liked anyone. Trace was a cool cat. He was quiet and kept mostly to himself, which worked o
ut fine with Micah's need for privacy. However, despite never causing waves, Micah sensed that Trace could wreak major havoc and unleash hell on earth if he wanted to. Why he kept his nose so clean and flew so close to the arrow was a mystery.

  But those were Trace's secrets to keep, and just as Micah didn't like anyone prying into his business, he wouldn't pry into Trace's.

  "Go on," Micah said. "Run along back to Daddy and let me have my privacy. I'm not going to hurt anyone."

  Trace's eyes narrowed on him. The guy looked like he knew more than he let on, but, as if he understood Micah the way Micah understood him, he nodded and stood up. "Just call me when you're ready to go back. That way I can show up after you do so it'll look like I did my job."

  So, Trace would dance with Micah as long as Micah scratched his back in return. Clever fellow. It was the first time Micah had known Traceon to be insubordinate. It made him wonder just how many times Trace had bucked orders that he didn't know about. Or was this the first?

  After thinking it over for a second, Micah nodded. "I can do that."

  Grabbing a fry, Traceon cleared his throat, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Don't get yourself killed or it'll be my ass, you got that? I'm trusting you."

  "I got it." Micah nodded.

  Whatever Trace's reasons for helping him, Micah was grateful that he was willing to cooperate and leave Micah alone. It meant he owed him one, but so what? He didn't mind owing Trace if it meant he could be alone.

  "Hey, Trace. Here." Micah turned and tossed him one of the apple pies.

  Trace caught it and looked like he might actually smile then didn't. "Thanks." Trace turned and walked toward the exit.

  As the other male walked out of the fast-food joint, Micah watched him march off and slip back into the shadows. Now he was truly alone. Now he could do what he wanted to do. Time to go see Sam.

  After killing the rest of his food and downing the Coke, Micah pocketed his phone, tossed out his trash, and gave the young, blushing girl behind the counter a wave as he left.

  Thankfully, the night was quiet. No dreck skirmishes kicked up that he had to break apart. Even the human thugs on the South Side were behaving tonight, not causing any drama that would require Micah's special kind of interference. He was free and clear to wander where his mind had been pushing him for two days: back to Sam's apartment.

  After arriving at the ramshackle townhome-turned-apartment building she lived in, he walked the perimeter out of habit, wanting to make sure nothing was amiss. He didn't like that Sam lived in this part of town. It was a rough neighborhood with a lot of crime, not to mention the amount of dreck activity that went on around here.

  His predatory senses tuned in to everyone and everything that had been here in the past 24 hours. Sam's lilac smell strengthened around her windows, but four other scents told him that four people lived in the building besides Sam. Then there was a dog, a stray cat, and someone who had the inky, papery smell of a mailman.

  He glanced around outside the entrance to the apartment building then entered the dingy foyer. His dark silhouette filled the small space as he inhaled deeply then jolted as the funk of drecks swept into his nostrils.

  Drecks had been here – the same ones from two nights ago. Well, two of them, but at least neither of which was John Apostle.

  Fuck! Sam! They had found her.

  He had been afraid Apostle had marked her, and he had been right. Apostle had been pissed not to get the kill Micah had promised him, and now he had Sam in his sights for taking it away.

  Darting for Sam's door, he found the lock picked and burst inside.

  "Sam!"

  He flew to the bathroom where her lilac scent was strongest then spun back toward the main room in frustration when he didn't find her. The apartment was only one room, so she had few places to hide. All he found were clothes and a few pairs of shoes when he checked the closet. Next, he dropped to the floor and looked under the bed. Just plastic sweater boxes filled with clothes.

  Panicked, Micah jumped back up and inhaled deeply again and again. Sweeping his gaze around the room, he picked up what he could of the odors in her home. Had she even been here when they broke in?

  Micah didn't sense the acrid smell of fear and there was no sign of a struggle, which meant there hadn't been any fighting. Relaxing only slightly, Micah sighed with relief. They hadn't taken her, at least not from here. The drecks had come for her, but she obviously hadn't been home when they broke in.

  But that didn't mean she was safe. As distant cousins to the vampires, drecks were excellent trackers and their senses were just as keen.

  So Apostle's lackeys had been here, but now were gone, which meant they had gone after Sam and had a head start on him.

  He had only just found Sam. She had saved his life in more ways than one, and even though he barely knew her, he knew enough that if he lost her, it would kill him. She was his. If those drecks touched her – if they took her from him – he would make sure every last one of them suffered through their last breath before he walked into the sun to take his own life.

  * * *

  From the shadows, Trace leaned against a cold, brick wall and plucked the matchstick from between his lips and tossed it to the pockmarked pavement. He hated that he had lied to Micah, but he was as worried about the guy as much as everyone else, and he actually liked the fucker. Plus, he needed him. Micah was his kind of people and he didn't want the asshole to do anything to get himself killed. Trace didn't have many friends, but he thought of Micah as one even though the two had never spent a night drinking and watching their pals troll for sex at Four Alarm, the local hangout where all the others on the team spent their off hours. Hell, the two of them had never even caught a Bears game together on Monday Night Football over pizza and Budweiser. Still, Trace felt a kindred spirit in Micah.

  Glancing up as the door to the apartment building opened, Trace frowned as Micah shot out and took off down the sidewalk like a man on a mission, grim panic in his step. The woman must have been gone, but why Micah had come back here was anyone's guess.

  With a curious glance back at the building, Trace pushed away from the wall and kept his distance as he followed. He had a feeling things were about to get interesting.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sam's trail, as well as that of the drecks, led Micah uptown to the Black Garter, a gentlemen's club with a high-end reputation. Why the hell would Sam come here? Micah bristled, not wanting to think the obvious, that she was one of the dancers. He didn't want to think of Sam dancing for men who lusted after her bare breasts and God only knew what else. Surely, she waitressed or just tended bar. No way was she a dancer.

  For any other woman, though, it would be a good gig. The dancers at the Black Garter were upper echelon women. Healthy and clean, the management took good care of them, especially the star, a dancer named Scarlet. Her act was amazing. Micah had caught it a couple times. She kept the big spenders coming back week after week with her mysterious, elaborate, contortionist-like shows. She was treated like royalty. That had been clear during Micah's previous visits.

  He had been a regular patron before meeting Jackson, his eye favoring women until Jack came along. Malek spent one night off a month here. 12 nights of lust per year was all that male allowed himself, even now, so long after losing his mate during the war.

  Still, Malek's coming here didn't make Micah feel all warm and fuzzy about Sam being inside. If anything, it made him want to punch Malek for even being near her, whether she was a waitress, a dancer, or just a lesbian here to watch the girls. Seven hells, Micah sure as hell hoped Sam had a good reason to be here. A reason that didn't include taking off her clothes while grinding a pole.

  Taking the steps to the entrance two-at-a-time, Micah stepped into the dimly lit foyer with its elegant furnishings and travertine floor to be greeted by a pair of breasts in a black push-up bustier. Cleavage that was hard to ignore bobbed toward him.

  "Welcome to the Black Garter."


  Micah pulled his gaze to the woman's face, trying to inhale beyond her to the bodies in the room on the other end of the long, dark hallway that led to the main floor. "Sam Garrett?" He asked.

  "Who, honey?" Her eyes danced down his black attire, narrowing as she saw the leather sheath of his Bowie knife. She was just about to wave for the guard behind her when Micah compelled them both, not in the mood to waste time.

  "You never saw me, I was never here."

  The two nodded with blank expressions, and he hurried down the hall. Dim wall sconces lit the way as he followed the sound of music then turned and exited into the main room, which was even darker. A woman spun on the pole on the main stage, the long fringe of her red velvet bra and panties whipping around as she unwound her legs from the pole and stepped down with clear-soled platform pumps that looked like they were made of glass.

  Small, red lamps sat in the middle of round tables big enough for only one person. The men who came here weren't known for big groups or jeering. This wasn't your standard strip club, and the clientele preferred to remain private.

  Touching was strictly forbidden during public performances, but the private performances were a bit more lenient. If a customer wanted to tip a specific girl – and many did – they could buy a private dance with her in one of the back rooms where they were allowed to touch all but her breasts and crotch, tuck money into her G-string, hold her hand, etc. As long as they didn't get rough or too hands-on, nobody got thrown out. Eight minutes cost $50, or twenty minutes for $100.

  Micah had paid for private dances a couple of times, but had never been able to get a round with Scarlet. At the time, the idea of touching hadn't bothered him, because he had wanted to touch Scarlet if he ever got a private performance from her. But now? Well, now was a different story, because if Sam was a dancer, the last thing he wanted to think about was her being touched by anyone other than him. In fact, Micah's trigger finger twitched at the thought of another man touching her.