by Lynne, Donya
He was about to pick up the phone when it rang.
"Hello?"
"I need some time off." It was Micah.
"Yeah? What for?" Tristan drove his hand over his hair as he glanced back toward the bedroom. The last thing he needed was for Micah to take time off when he was leaving to tend to Josie.
"Jackson split."
Fuck. Tristan slammed his eyes shut. He'd been so concerned about Josie he'd forgotten all about Micah and his looming breakup. "Shit, man, you okay?"
"Fine."
Tristan didn't buy the nonchalance for a second, especially since this was Micah. "I'm sending someone to pick you up. You need to be in observation."
"No."
"Micah—"
"I said no. I'm fine."
Micah was clearly not fine. He sounded too calm for fine. But the last thing he needed to do was make things worse. If it was one thing he knew from spending a millennium with Micah, it was that once the guy made up his mind on something, no one would change it.
"You sure?" he said, afraid for Micah.
"Fuck off."
The line went dead, and Tristan held his phone away from his ear and scowled. He didn't care what Micah said, he would have Malek send someone over to check on him. He dialed in to administration and informed them he was taking a two-week leave, and then called Malek.
"Tristan, what's up?" Malek said.
"You're in charge," he said. "I'm taking some time off to be with Josie."
"Is she all right?"
He glanced over his shoulder as Josie groaned. "Morning sickness. It's bad. She's having a hard time keeping anything down."
"The doc'll have something to help with that," Malek said.
"Yeah, I know. I'm going to call him next."
"How long do you think you'll be out?"
Tristan shrugged. "I put in for two weeks, but we'll see how it goes. I'll play it by ear, but right now I just want to be here with her."
"I understand."
That was the good thing about Malek. He was straight and dependable. Maybe a little dry, and maybe even a bit too tame, but that was just how he handled his business. His mate had died, and Malek had somehow found a way to displace his sadness with a complete lack of emotion.
"One more thing," Tristan said. "Send someone to check on Micah."
"Why?"
"Jackson left him."
"When?"
"He didn't say." Tristan didn't like Micah being out there alone right now. "Just make sure someone goes over and checks on him. The address of his private residence is in his file."
Malek didn't say anything.
"Malek?"
"Yeah. Got it."
"Okay. Thanks. I'll be in touch. Call me if anything comes up I need to know about."
"Will do."
He disconnected and returned to Josie. Her face was pale, and she looked miserable.
"What's wrong with Micah?" she said.
Josie had always held a soft spot for Micah. She was probably the only one who could get through to him on his worst days.
"Ssshh." Tristan stroked her cheek. "You don't need to worry about Micah right now, baby."
She arched one brow at him. Even as sick as she was, she was still a demanding little fireball. "What's wrong with him?"
Tristan took a deep breath and bowed his head. "Jackson left him."
"Oh no." She placed her fingers over her lips. "Poor Micah."
"Poor Micah?" Tristan leaned down and kissed her forehead. "What about poor you?"
"I'll live." She patted his hand. "Micah might not."
"Malek is going to send someone over to check on him. If anything's wrong, he'll let me know. Now, I'm going to call the doctor about getting some anti-nausea medicine." He kissed her again, got up, and returned to the living room. He couldn't worry about Micah. Micah was Malek's responsibility now.
* * *
Malek stared at the phone. The time had come. He was about to lose his oldest and dearest friend, and as he'd promised, he would do whatever he could to protect Micah's final days so he could go out in solitude without dishonoring himself.
Being that his life had mirrored Micah's in almost every way since the day they'd met, Malek only hoped it meant his end was near, too. He was tired of holding up false pretenses and trudging through life as a wraith.
Please God, please. Let me be next.
But it wasn't to be tonight. Tonight he had a team meeting to run, and he had to announce that Tristan wouldn't be around for the next couple of weeks.
He grabbed his gear, locked up, climbed into his truck, and headed to AKM. Once there, he got situated at Tristan's desk and started reviewing the files.
"Where's Tris?" Ari said as he led Io in about thirty minutes later.
Malek looked up from his tablet. "Taking care of Josie."
The two nodded and sat down. "So, you're in charge now." Io sprawled in his chair, grinning. "How does it feel?"
"No different." To Malek, being in charge didn't feel much different from being a regular enforcer. Not that it should. He wasn't going to be in his new role permanently, so he wouldn't get used to it, and he had no desire for promotion.
A strange male with long, blond hair entered the office, stopped, frowned, backed up to read the nameplate by the door, and took a step back in. "Isn't this Tristan's office?"
Malek eyed him. "Yes. Who are you?"
"That's Severin," Ari said, waving the new guy in. "Come on in. Grab a seat."
Malek remembered Tristan mentioning a new addition to the team and recalled the file he'd read on the guy a few days ago. "Welcome to the team, Severin. Tristan's taking a short leave. His mate's pregnant." He waved his hand as if his explanation was all Sev needed to understand the situation.
Severin nodded, glanced at Ari, and then took a seat on the couch against the wall.
"While we wait on the others, why don't you tell us about yourself, Severin," Ari said.
"Yeah," Io chimed in. "What brings you to Chicago?"
Severin cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly as he shrugged. "I just needed a change of pace. There's not really that much to tell, to be honest." He looked at his hands.
Malek got the impression that Sev wasn't comfortable talking about himself.
"You'll have to come with us to Four Alarm later," Io said. "It's where we all hang out. Lots of action, if you know what I mean." He waggled his eyebrows.
Ari shook his head at Io as Sev's cheeks turned pink. "God, Io. Let the guy get settled before you bombard him with the meat market." Ari turned to Sev. "You'll have to excuse Io. He's kind of got a one-track mind."
Sev shrugged and gave Ari a crooked grin. "No problem."
"But you should still come hang out with us. Just ignore this guy." Ari gave Io a shove. "He'll just get you into trouble, anyway. But you can hang with me while he's off with the females."
"As long as you're not with me." Io shoved Ari back. "Which you usually are, I might add."
Ari huffed out an awkward chuckle then frowned and looked away.
Trace chose that moment to saunter into the office, black skull cap pulled over his head and a matchstick hanging from his bottom lip. "Who are you?" He chucked his chin toward Sev.
"Name's Severin. But everyone calls me Sev." He held out his hand.
"Sev's joining our team," Malek added, noting the nickname.
Trace regarded Sev's outstretched hand, but instead of shaking it, he formed a fist and bumped the back of Sev's knuckles with it. "Hey. Welcome."
"Thanks." Sev glanced curiously at his hand.
Trace parked at his usual place against the wall and crossed his arms. "Where's Micah?"
As nonchalantly as possible, Malek shrugged. "You know Micah. Maybe he'll be here, maybe he won't." He met Trace's gaze for a split second, and Trace's eyes narrowed. "Let's get started."
* * *
Something wasn't right.
Trace watched Malek closely, and it was clea
r he knew something was up with Micah, so why was he keeping it such a big secret?
Damn. This wasn't good. Trace needed to get out of there and go make sure Micah was okay.
Seconds ticked by at a snail's pace, and even though the meeting took all of five minutes, it felt like an hour. When Malek dismissed them, Trace beelined for an SUV, and then raced toward Micah's apartment. On the sidewalk across the street from The Sentinel, he gazed up to the eighteenth floor, where the blackness of pain and agony ripped the air like invisible lightning without the thunder.
It didn't take a physicist to realize Jackson had broken up with Micah. Motherfucker. That fucking little asswipe of a weasel. Trace had known this day was coming. He had bumped into Jackson at a bar a couple of months ago. He'd been bragging about his time with Micah and how he'd gotten Micah to flog him. "See, told you I could pull him out of retirement." The fucktard had no real feelings for Micah. He was just using him for bragging rights with his friends…as if Micah had been nothing but a bet. A goddamn bet!
Everyone knew the reputation Micah had as one of the most masterful Doms in the Chicago area. And not just a Master, but a Lord, no less. It was a title Micah had never entirely took ownership of, but one that, from what Trace had learned, fit Micah perfectly. Submissives still sought him, even though he'd been out of the leather scene for years. And even though Jackson wasn't a true submissive, he was what Trace called a leather whore. Someone who didn't live the life but enjoyed affiliating himself with those who did. The little bitch.
Trace snarled aloud before he could stop himself, and his right hand twitched. Shit, but he needed to get himself under control, and that male up there on the eighteenth floor was his ticket to make that happen. If Jackson had destroyed his only chance for peace of mind, Trace would hunt that little prick down and make him pay. Fucking hell, he would make that shit stain pay with his life, and he would take great pleasure in making Jackson suffer before squeezing the life from his heart.
* * *
Micah paced in his apartment, his heart aching. Jackson was gone. His life was over. He was a dead man walking.
As pain ripped through his soul, he slid the door open and stepped out onto the balcony. Cold wind whipped his hair over and away from his face, and snowflakes splattered his skin like tiny airborne missiles…stinging tears to match those that rolled down his cheeks.
The past few weeks had been building toward this moment, and he'd set everything into place. Malek would protect his privacy, and he had pushed everyone else away. No one would come to find him. No one would interfere with his demise. All he needed now was time, and then he would finally be at peace.
Peace. Something he hadn't felt in almost a thousand years. The new world had sprung up around him, technology had altered and reinvented life time after time, and the planet had become both a safer and a more dangerous place all at once. Land had eroded, rivers had dried into beds of dust, and the polar ice caps had shrunk. For all the metamorphosis the world had undergone, Micah had remained the same wounded soul he had been after Katarina's death. He seemed to be the one constant in a sea of change, but now was his time to erode. To wither into dust. To die.
Only a miracle would keep Micah alive, and Micah didn't believe in miracles.
It was time for him to say his final farewell. He was among the oldest vampires still alive, considered a young ancient. But as he stared over the lights of Chicago, closed his eyes, and listened to the city's heartbeat within the hum of traffic and rushed steps of pedestrians hurrying along the sidewalk, none of that mattered. He was lost. Utterly swept into darkness.
He had fallen into hell, and in hell he would remain until death stole him.
Soon, he would see his beloved Katarina again. To walk with her in the afterlife where their souls could spend the rest of eternity with one another. Would she be sad that he hadn't fulfilled his promise to survive, or would she be happy to see him again?
"I'll find out soon enough," he muttered into the night.
Yes, soon, for mighty Micah had finally fallen.
Thank you for reading All the King's Men - The Beginning. An excerpt of Rise of the Fallen, book one of the series, which tells the rest of Micah's story, follows. But first, if you enjoyed this novella, please take a moment to leave a review on the site where you bought it. More than ever, authors rely on reviews and feedback from their readers, even if only a sentence or two. I appreciate it.
Excerpt from Rise of the Fallen
Samantha shut the door to her dressing room and took off her mask then hung it on the wall. Another shift at the Black Garter was over. Thank God.
She wasn't wearing much, just red lace panties, which she quickly peeled off and threw in the laundry. Then she got dressed. Tips had been good tonight, and she was that much closer to being completely free. She grabbed her bag, opened the door, shut off the light, and waved to Ted and Jose, the bouncers, as she slipped out the back.
Sam's skin crawled as she left the gentlemen's club and crossed the parking lot. She just wanted to get home and shower, as she did after every shift. She didn't have sex with the men—only danced for them. But some still touched. The only way she could endure the degradation was to remind herself that she only needed to do this a couple more years and she would be able to buy herself a new identity and a new life.
Still, it didn't make the after-effects of every shift any easier.
Her keys jingled in her hands as she approached her car then suddenly she heard an outburst of laughter coming from inside the parking garage across the street. But this wasn't normal laughter. This was the raucous laughter of men doing bad things to someone.
Looking around to see if anyone else was near, she found herself alone. Of course, it was nearly four o'clock in the morning. Who would be out at this hour besides an exotic dancer and a group of thugs engaged in what sounded like one hell of a beat-down?
A voice in her head told her to just get in her car and leave—to forget what she heard and go. But the ex-military veteran who had been beaten by her husband for eight years cold-cocked that voice into silence and then gave her a shove as if to ask what in the hell she was waiting for. Before she knew what she was doing, she had grabbed her Beretta out of her bag, along with the extra clip, and rushed across the street.
Flat-backing herself against the wall with her gun held close, she peeked around the wall to see what was going on. Damn! Five men—well, she thought they were men, but they looked a bit…off—beating a sixth man. The sixth wasn't resisting, even though something about him made Sam think he could easily take all of them, despite his inferior size. Not that he was small. He just looked…well, he was too thin, like he was sick or hadn't eaten in a while. The five beating him had long, black hair and their skin had an odd bluish color. Something seemed strange about them, but maybe it was just the lighting.
"Hey!" She jumped into the open and pointed her gun at them. "Get away from him."
Five sets of eyes turned on her as the sixth man fell to his knees under one of the garage's overhead lights.
Not backing down an inch, Sam stepped closer, poised to open her own can of whoop-ass if they didn't walk away.
As one of the men started to approach her with a nightstick gripped in his fist, his eyes flashed red. What the fuck? Fear rattled her spine and she shot off a round.
"NO!" The sixth man held up one hand, trying to stop her as he crumpled in on himself.
Stop her? What the hell was going on here? Was this some kind of gang initiation?
"Like hell I will!" She stepped forward and fired again, hitting the one coming toward her in the shoulder.
He flew backward from the impact and threw his head back as an ear-splitting shriek broke the air. Was that him? Sam clamped her free hand over her ear and winced, shying away briefly before glancing back at the sixth man who now lay motionless on the pavement. She had to help him. Resisting the ear-splitting screech, Sam forced herself to stand her ground, her gun trained o
n the asshole doing a banshee impersonation.
Suddenly, the devil-man's scream stopped and his mouth snapped shut. He fixed Sam with an icy glare that looked abnormally blue, just like the rest of him, then the five attackers turned as one and fled, disappearing so fast Sam actually entertained the thought that she had only imagined them. Until she looked back and found the dark-haired man still lying face-up, deathly still. Shoving the Beretta into the waist of her jeans, she rushed toward him.
* * *
Micah lay on the ground, looking up at the light shining down like a mockery of the light he had hoped to see as he entered the afterlife and took his final walk into Heaven, or whatever awaited a vampire when he died.
Noooo…nooooo! He was still alive. Someone had saved him. Why? Why had someone interfered? All he wanted was to die. Just die and be done with his horrible, wretched life.
The scent of lilacs, subtle and feminine, wafted over him like angelic perfume as the woman who had saved his life against his will knelt beside him.
"Hey…hey, can you hear me? Can you move? What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"
Her intoxicating voice soothed him instantly, but Micah couldn't see her as he blinked against the bright light.
"Who are you?" He groaned, and his entire body protested his attempt to talk.
"I'm going to save you."
As she bent over him, the overhead light formed a halo around her head as it shone through her spiky blond hair and shadowed her face. The smell of lilacs grew even stronger, pleasing Micah's senses.
Whoever she was, she looked, smelled, and sounded like an angel.
About the Author
Donya Lynne is an award-winning author of paranormal, erotic, and contemporary romance. Making her home in a wooded suburb north of Indianapolis with her husband, Donya has lived in Indiana most of her life and knew at a young age that she was destined to be a writer. She started writing poetry in grade school and won her first writing contest in fourth grade. In junior high, she began writing romantic tales for her friends, and by her sophomore year, they had dubbed her Most Likely to Become a Romance Novelist. In 2012, she made that dream come true by publishing her first three books in the All the King's Men Series. She has several more stories planned for the series, as well as two sister series that are in development. She also has several stand-alone novels, novellas, and short stories, as well as more series planned for the future. Look for more from Donya in the years to come.